LOVE OF A RODEO MAN (MODERN DAY COWBOYS) (9 page)

Frankie kept an apartment in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, as home base, but in the summer months when rodeo season was at its peak, she was on the go, traveling from one rodeo to the next.

“What was all that hollerin’ and cussin’ I heard from downstairs just after midnight?” Gram sat down beside Sara and raised a questioning eyebrow at Dave.

“Oh, just a couple of the young guys from the saloon got in an argument. I had to he
lp them out the door,” Dave explained with admirable understatement.

Jennie and Gram exchanged a telling glance, and Dave forked up a huge bite of breakfast, chewed and swallowed before he went on, “I know, you’ve both been telling me that it’s past time we mad
e a few changes here at Bitterroot, and I agree. I sure don’t want to spend my life wrestling young bucks half my age out of the tavern every Friday and Saturday night. Trouble is, at the moment the saloon earns us a fair chunk of the money that keeps this place operating, so we’ve got to be cautious about making drastic changes.”

“Wasn’t Bitterroot once a famous spa, Dave? Mom told me some of its history, and I remember she said it attracted people from all over the world at one time. Didn’t your grandfather build the whole thing himself?”

Dave nodded, and Sara listened closely as he filled in details for her.

Jennie had explained that the sprawling hundred-acre holding that comprised B
itterroot had been in the Hoffman family for years, consisting of ninety acres of timbered wilderness and ten acres of half-cleared, half-developed land surrounding the sturdy, spacious two-story log building.

The main floo
r consisted of the tavern, several bathrooms, the huge old-fashioned kitchen with wrap around enclosed porches, plus the combined living-dining room where they now sat, and there were bedrooms upstairs.

Outside were seven rustic little cabins scattered across the property, arranged more or less in a wide circle around the large central pool of naturally warm mineral water that formed the central core of the area.

“Grampa Hoffman was a surveyor for the railroad in the late 1800s,” Dave explained, settling back in his chair and lighting a pipe to enjoy with his coffee.

They’d all con
sumed so much food no one felt like moving.

“He heard about the mineral springs from an
old Indian. He came to have a look and fell in love with the place. The sparkling water flowed constantly, just as it still does, maintaining a steady eighty-six-degree temperature. Anyway, he right away saw the commercial potential of such a natural phenomenon, and he bought the land, dug out the original water hole and cemented in the swimming pool. He put up all the buildings and even built much of the furniture, and then he wrote letters to people he knew, craftily inviting them to come and spend a holiday, free of charge. He installed bathtubs in each of the upstairs bedrooms here, so the modest Victorian ladies could enjoy the mineral water in absolute privacy. He’d ingeniously and practically piped the hot water to each of the buildings for both heating and plumbing purposes.” Dave drew deeply on his pipe and expelled a cloud of fragrant smoke. “He was smart enough to hire the best cook he could find—prob’ly not as good as you, Adeline, but good enough so everybody who came raved about the food.”

Gram looked pleased as anything with the compliment, and Sara decided that Dave had inherited a great deal of his own grandfather’s cleverness. She looked around with new interest at the room they were sitting in. Like all the other rooms in the central lodge, its high-beamed log ceili
ngs and handmade furniture supplied an authentic rustic charm.

For years, Bitterroot enjoyed a popularity that made Dave’s grandfather a wealthy man. But ironically, that wealth turned his only son into a ne’er-do-wel
l, an irresponsible playboy who had no interest whatsoever in the prosperous resort where visitors from all over came to bathe and relax.

“When Grampa Hoffman died and my father took over,” Dave admitted with rueful candor, “he quickly leased the place out, moved to Seattle
and lived off the money. Without supervision and with the ever-dwindling profits going to pay his drinking and gambling debts, Bitterroot soon disintegrated.”

By the time the property passed to him, Dave had had to work day and night, fixing
roofs and drains and modernizing, generally making the place livable once more. But apart from the saloon trade, Bitterroot did little business. The tavern had become a wide-open, rip-snorting boozing center for the rowdy young cowboys and die-hard drinkers in the area, which successfully discouraged any family trade that might have resulted from renting the cabins.

“The first thing we ought to do,” Adeline announced firmly, “is start serving good home-cooked food. A lot of the men who drink in the t
avern would buy a plate of dinner if it was offered,” she insisted, “and with a square meal under their belts, they’d have lots less room for booze.”

Jennie nodded agreement, looking around the large room thoughtfully. She and Gram had already put up crisp white curtains on all the windows, and flowering plants in bright pots or wicker holders created splashes of color against the weathered old log walls.

“This used to be a public dining room,” she mused. “It wouldn’t take much to turn it into one again. All the tables and chairs are stacked out in a shed. D’you think people would start coming if we started a restaurant? What d’you think, Sara?”

“There’s nowhere young couples can go around here and have an evening out, with dinner and maybe dancin
g, unless they drive for hours and want to spend a fortune,” Sara said after a moment’s contemplation, thinking of Bill and Carol Forgie, or maybe herself and Mitch.

“It might take a while to
catch on, but I think a restaurant would be a great idea. I’ll bet people from farther away would start coming again for weekends, bringing their kids for a swim in the hot springs, if you got a reputation for good food, did some advertising.”

“That kitchen needs work, if we’re gonna start cooking for more than six or eight people,” Gram said practically. “The stove is older than I am and way more cantankerous and that’s goin’ some. But the place is plenty roomy, and the walk-in cooler works fine ”

For over an hour, excitement grew as ideas and plans evolved. The necessary changes would be expensive, but they didn’t all have to be done at once. Gram and Jennie would start serving meals on a small scale at first and gauge the rest from the response.

“We’ll have a limited menu, maybe a choice of two main dishes, and that way it won’t get too complicated,” Jennie was planning.

Gram snorted. “The heck with any choice. That’s what’s the matter with eating places today. A body gets worn-out just readin’ the dern menu, figurin’ out what in tarnation he wants. We’ll serve the kind of meals people used to eat back when I was a girl, good hearty dishes with plenty of homemade bread and greens, maybe give ’em a choice for dessert of pie or cake or pudding, if they need to make choices.”

Jennie and Adeline got into a heavy discussion about recipes at that point, and
Dave was busy making calculations on several paper napkins.

Sara got up
and began clearing the table. She was in the kitchen, putting dishes in the old enamel sink and covering them with hot soapy water when the telephone rang. Drying her hands on a towel, she picked up the receiver, resigned to the fact that it would be some veterinary emergency that would use up the rest of her Sunday.

“Sara?” The deep male voice was unmistakable. It was Mitch, and her heartbeat suddenly picked up speed. They went on for several minutes about what a nice day it was, and then Mitch cleared his throat and said nonchalantly, “I have to ride out to the west pasture this afternoon and check on some calves. I wondered if you’d care to come along? I’ll drive in and pick you up.”

“I’d like that, but why don’t I just drive out there and meet you? It’d be quicker that way.”

Mitch agreed, and Sara hurried in to tell her family where she was going.

“Why don’t you bring that young man home with you for supper tonight?” Gram was determined to check Mitch out, Sara knew.

“I’ll ask him, Gram. See you later.”

She was wearing fresh, faded jeans and a scoop-necked red T-shirt with short sleeves. She hurriedly pulled a brush through her curly hair, deciding to leave it loose on her neck. A touch of lipstick and mascara, and she hurried out to her car, a decidedly decrepit old Chevy.

The drive out to the Carter ranch passed quickly, and when she drove into the ya
rd, she could see Mitch, a saddled horse on either side of him, walking up from the barns.

Sara pulled to a stop and
swallowed hard, eyeing the animals Mitch was leading toward her.

When he’d suggested a ride, she’d assumed he meant in a truck. She knew the name and location of every single muscle and bone, every organ and sinew in a horse, and she loved working with the animals. She just didn’t enjoy getting up on their backs.

In fact, she’d only been on a horse twice in her entire life, and neither occasion was memorable.

Mitch, with a crooked smile that forced an answering smile from Sara, wrapped the reins around a post and came striding over to open the car door. The first thing he said was, “Where’re your hat and boots?”

Sara remembered the oversize gumboots in the trunk, considered them for all of a second and discarded the idea.

“I, umm, actually, I don’t have any real riding boots, Mitch. Won’t my sandals do?”

He studied the leather soles and the assorted stylish straps on her bare feet, pushed his hat back and slowly shook his head. “Nope,” he said.

Might as well get the wh
ole truth out at once, Sara decided. Maybe he’d decide they’d better take the truck after all. “I don’t own a cowboy hat, either,” she announced.

“No p
roblem,” he announced. “I think Ma’s got boots and a hat you can borrow.”

He reached out and took her arm, tugging her out of the car.

“C’mon,” he urged, laugh lines crinkling around his green eyes as he looked at her and caught the wary look she was giving the horses. “Ma’s been making us a lunch. We’ll just get you outfitted and be on our way. You do know how to ride, don’t you, Sara?”

She gave him a haughty look.

“Well, do you?” he insisted, one thick eyebrow tilted, and she felt a giggle bubbling up as she looked him straight in the eye and said “Me? Know how to ride? Absolutely... not.”

“But you’re a vet, you learned all about horses.”

Sara shrugged, spreading her hands as if to say, so what?

“Nobody thought of teaching me
how to
ride
them. Frankie tried once but she gave it up as a hopeless job.”

Mitch tilted his head back and started to laugh, and she laughed with him.

The old dog came out of the shed and started to bark, and one of the horses whinnied.

They were still laughing as they went in the kitchen door, and Ruth looked up from wrapping sandwiches and had to smile at them.

Half an hour later, Sara was on the back of a big, gentle gelding named Steamboat, doi
ng her best to steer the animal in the general direction of Mitch and his horse, a good fifty yards ahead of her.

She was feeling out of her element in general and a very long way from the ground in particular. She had Ruth’s well-worn brown Stetson on h
er head and a pair of Wilson’s worn cowboy boots on her feet because Ruth’s had been too small.

Sara felt wicked pleasure at wearing Wilson’s boots. All sorts of smart comments occurred to her about having no problem filling his shoes, none of which she’d probably ever get a chance to use on Mitch’s father. But it was nice to have a few things in reserve, she mused, doing her best to stay upright in the saddle.

Mitch had patiently unsaddled the sprightly filly he’d originally outfitted for Sara and saddled Steamboat, with the laconic comment that old Steamboat moved slowly, easily and had never shown the slightest sign of temperament.

Or speed, for that matter. In fact, Mitch said with a straight face, Steamboat had a tendency to go to sleep while being ridden.

That suited Sara just fine. If she was fated to break her neck, she’d just as soon not do it falling from the back of a horse, thank you.

“Hurry up, you two,” Mitch called over his shoulder, and Steamboat imperceptib
ly increased his measured gait to catch up to the other horse, making Sara feel even more insecure. She tightened her hold on the reins and Steamboat obligingly went back into slow motion.

Another ten minutes went by and now Mitch was sev
eral hundred yards ahead, reining his horse in constantly just to keep her in sight.

“Kick him in the ribs, Doc. Get him to move or this is going to take us all w
eek,” Mitch hollered impatiently, and Sara gave Steamboat the gentlest of nudges with the heels of Wilson’s boots.

Maybe, Sara thought
later, the complacent horse actually had fallen sound asleep and her halfhearted kick had given him a nasty start, because without any warning at all, Steamboat went into high gear. He accelerated from an amble to a gallop without any in-between, and Sara promptly dropped the reins and grabbed the saddle horn.