Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2) (3 page)

His research proposal to God’s ear had landed him with a chance to establish some baseline studies in changing habitats. He’d have preferred a less populated region than the Medicine Bow National Forest, but visibility was key when applying for funding. There was nothing quite so high profile as a career politician spreading largesse and bon homie in his legislative district.

Given the circumstances, it hadn’t worked out too badly for a twenty-eight-year-old, freshly minted PhD, with nothing more than a half dozen summer internships under his belt.

Wending his way through a small stack of boxes, Sonny headed back outside to sneak a peek at the place he’d call home for the foreseeable future. The ranch was a lot like him, fresh and raw, the buildings still carrying the scent of newly sawn wood. It was shiny and blatantly touristy, but he didn’t mind. Three Bars was midway between the Laramie office and the scenic byway bisecting the Snowy Range and the national forest.

As new as the guest ranch was, there were already quite a few amenities on offer: RV pads in a cluster off to the north of the property, a knot of small cabins spaced wide enough apart you got the illusion of privacy, a central lodge where you could take your meals and hang out after a long day filled with activities, and a series of barns and paddocks for visiting riders or for local residents needing to board their horses. The surrounding hills were riddled with pathways as antelope and Black Angus cattle shared grazing rights. A relatively flat section of the valley to the east had been set aside for hay and barley where the terrain was most suited to a wagon wheel irrigation system.

The boarding had sealed the deal for him. He didn’t mind living rough when it came to his own comfort, but for his mare and the ornery mule who was velcroed to her side, nothing but the best would do. What Sonny had seen so far suited his needs perfectly. As for his mounts, he hoped they’d settle in fast and be ready to rock ’n roll. Summer lasted about as long as a smoke in a gale in these parts. To meet his targets and do preliminary studies, he needed to get into the high country before he ran out of luck and reasonable weather.

“Is everything to your liking, Mr. Rydell?” The manager strolled toward him, his gait rolling and loose jointed. He looked like a cowboy should. Tall, lean and squinty-eyed. Sonny had been surprised to learn the man was a city boy from corporate offices in Nashville running a string of western B&Bs and guest ranches. Knowing that did nothing to detract from the image. From their frequent phone calls and emails, Sonny knew the man to be clever, resourceful and willing to listen to local wisdom when it came to fitting in.

Extending his hand, he said, “Sonny, please, Mr. Bowen. Nice to finally meet you.”

The man tipped his hat and shook the proffered hand. “Sonny, it is. You can call me Hank.” He grinned, flashing even, white teeth. “Actually it’s William, Billy Bob to those who knew me back when in Tennessee. The VP thought Hank sounded better on the letterhead.” The big man chuckled as he said, “I live to serve.”

Sonny scanned the horizon, admiring the view. He asked, “How long you been open, Hank?” He took a step toward the barn just downslope of his cabin, antsy to check on his mare again. His mom wasn’t a horse person and Gramps had begged off when he’d seen the steep drop so he’d had to satisfy himself with a quick look around and a pat on her nose.

Hank followed along, explaining, “We opened the lodge three years ago, testing the waters. Corporate thought we were nuts pushing to go live in the middle of winter. Turned out to be a banner year for snow, and the ski facility couldn’t handle the demand. That left us sitting pretty and raking in enough capital to move ahead with phase two.”

“Phase two?”

Hank nodded. “You’re making phase two your home. These cabins, the barns, and the paddocks came next. Earlier this year we put in a dozen RV pads and hook-ups.” He grimaced. “Don’t mind telling you that was a bitch of an experience.”

Sonny chuckled. “Let me guess. Environmental impact statements?”

“Out the whazoo. If I’d known we’d have our very own environmental specialist living on site, I’d have waited a year and let you take point.”

Chuckling, Sonny remarked, “Sewage systems aren’t my strong suit. I’m more a wetlands and timber specialist, but yeah. I know what you mean. Been studying the lingo for nearly six years now.”

“How long before you’re fluent?”

Sonny skidded down the bank and landed with a jolt and an expulsion of breath. Dusting himself off, he said, “Word in D.C. is that I won’t earn my translator wings until I’m at least forty.”

“They’ll have changed the rules by then, won’t they?”

“Bingo, Hank. I’m figuring it’s job security if nothing else.”

A soft nicker greeted them, followed by an ear-bleeding bray. Hank barked, “Jesus, where’d you find that thing? He looks like he was put together by a committee what never seen a mule.” Hank’s good ole boy drawl came through thick as molasses.

Amused, Sonny explained, “My best guess, looking at the solid bone and the coloring, is that the dam was an Appaloosa draft cross. That might explain the size, though he looks more pinto than Appy with the splotches of white.”

Hank bent down to give the mule a better look, shaking his head the whole time. “Where’d you find ’em?” He flicked a finger to include the little mare. “Kinda small for a big fella like you, ain’t she?” He dug in his shirt pocket and extracted a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and lifted an eyebrow. Sonny nodded yes, thankful his mom and grandpa weren’t around to remind him he needed to quit.

A niggling thought bumped shoulders with a vague promise. A trade actually. When he was out on trail, doing surveys, whatever... no smoking allowed. But in bars, with friends shooting the shit, yeah he was gonna indulge. You kept your sanity whatever way worked. This was his way until he found something a little more interesting to satisfy his cravings.

Like a boyfriend. Or a fuck buddy. Hell, even a casual hookup would do the trick...

Sighing with satisfaction Sonny inhaled, held it for a heartbeat and exhaled through his nose, the smoke drifting away in the light breeze.

Hank set a booted foot on the lowest rail of the paddock fence and confessed, “The missus would kick my ass six ways from Sunday.” He flicked the ash off the smoldering tip. “I hate sneaking around but...” He shrugged. “She’s a teetotaler, too. Makes it hard, ya know?”

Sonny did, in a way. His mom had a whole set of rules to live by. Most were good, healthful even. Good book kinda living. When his dad passed, she’d had to take on being mother and father to her three kids, despite having a tribe of women and Gramps to help her along the way. Maggie Rydell stepped up to the plate, as always, doing it her way. With discipline, respect, and a boatload of compromise. It had laid a good foundation for when he was ready to take the next step.

In answer to Hank’s question about the mare, Sonny said, “I picked them up at an auction over in Pennsy right before classes started at the university. They were in a holding pen, just the two of them. Skinny, bones and ribs sticking out. Feet hadn’t been trimmed in God only knows how long. That old mule, he wouldn’t leave the mare. Anyone could see he was hell bent on protecting her.” He scratched the mare’s muzzle and cooed a greeting. “The auction was done for the day, leaving them as the last two to be loaded onto the meat wagon. They didn’t want the mule, just the mare. He damn near kicked them into the next county when they tried herding her into the chute.”

The manager muttered, “Shit. I hate hearing that kind of thing.”

“Well, there was no way I was leaving either of them to that hell. I had fifty bucks in my pocket. The driver was the one who took it. Wished me luck.” Sonny shuddered, remembering that day as clear as if it had just happened yesterday.

Cocking his head, Hank said, “Let me guess. You never owned a horse before.”

“You got that in one. What I did own was a broke down stock trailer I picked up earlier that day. I was gonna use it to haul my shit across country, then maybe pick up a horse when I got settled. Funny how things work out.”

“How so?”

“Well, coupla nice ladies from a rescue organization helped me load them and gave me some phone numbers for a farrier and a place to get enough hay to last me for a bit. Got them home, put them in the back yard. Long story short, I used the stock trailer to bring them out here, and my two sisters drove the van with my Mom and grandpa riding caboose in the SUV. Made quite a sight with that caravan.”

Sonny smiled. Here it was, years later and they’d re-enacted that parade, down to his sisters driving a U-haul with his gramp’s worldly possessions bound for Vegas, and his mom dropping him off with his now aged mounts in tow. But this time he wasn’t a greenhorn kid with stars in his eyes.

They watched the sun sinking low against the backdrop of the foothills to the Snowys while Sonny told Hank about all the assistance he’d received from the rodeo folks who’d helped him find a place for the mule and the mare when he’d arrived in Laramie, all ready to begin his new life at the University. “The rodeo clown, man by the name of Mateo, informed me the mule was bridle wise. I didn’t have a clue what that meant until Mateo saddled him up, hoisted me on board and slapped the mule’s butt.”

Hank was chuckling so hard he started coughing. “Sorry, man, but that seems like a hard way to learn to ride.”

“Wasn’t the only thing I learned that day.” He grinned ruefully. “I’d always wondered why cowboys seemed to walk kinda funny. Now I get it.”

With a wide and knowing grin on his face, Hank stretched and checked his watch. “Getting late. It’ll be time for supper in an hour. Come on up when you’re ready. Cookie tells me we’re having meatloaf, mashed and peas. Her gravy is to die for.” He patted his belly. “In case you don’t know... Cookie is my wife.” He looked Sonny up and down. “Just a fair warning. She’s gonna want to fatten you up. You’d do well to clean your plate. Just saying.”

They bid each other farewell until dinner. Sonny took a few minutes to organize the small trunk holding his sad collection of used tack and equipment. Now that he was gainfully employed, maybe he could afford a few upgrades. Like an oversize ballpeen hammer to convince the Mule-with-no-name that the rider knows best. As for Peanut, the little mare got showered with all the affection he had to give.

He whispered in the mare’s ear, “Even if I find someone, kiddo, you’ll always be my best girl.” The problem with that was he’d taken to saying ‘if’ and not ‘when.’ And even ‘if’ was heading at breakneck speed toward unlikely.

****

S
tepping around the bustle sweeping alongside the rodeo holding pens was a lot like coming home for Sonny. He’d been on the team penning squad all through his junior and senior undergrad days, though he’d had to back off when he was accepted into the pathobiology graduate program. He’d kept his riding skills honed as an intern during the summer months, packing into the mountains, tracking and collaring cougar and whatever other wildlife his mentors were studying.

The mule, of course, didn’t give a flying fuck one way or the other. Ride him, don’t ride him... it was all the same to him. His only requirement was that Peanut came with. End. Of. Discussion. Sonny had discovered early on the little mare made the ideal pack horse. She was nimble and quick, much stronger than her fourteen hands would lead you to believe, and trail savvy. The three of them made a good team as long as everyone agreed on who was in charge.

Sonny wasn’t too proud to admit it wasn’t him.

The evening events were in full swing, the stands alive with shouting and hooting as the fans egged on their favorites. He’d missed the team penning, but that was on him for dawdling and talking with the ranch manager as long as he had. Now he needed a bird’s eye view of calf roping, if only he could find an open spot to join the group of jeans-clad cowboys lining the top rail.

Circling the perimeter, his eyes and attention skyward toward the huge floods illuminating the arena, he never saw the man coming until he connected with a mountain of solid muscle. At six-two Sonny was no light weight, but the shorter cowboy damn near bowled him over. Hands the size of dinner plates steadied him while gunmetal blue eyes raked him over with a fearsome scowl.

Sonny yelped, “Oh hey, man, I’m so sorry. Wasn’t looking where I was going.” He pointed toward the crowded top railing and shrugged. “Looks like I’m SOL.”

The man chewed his bottom lip, his face hidden in the shadows cast by his hat. He twisted his head and yelled, “Yo, Dolly. Come over here.”

A teen girl, built solid in an athletic way, came rushing out of the crowd, dragging a tall, skinny kid who looked like he’d blow away in a strong breeze. She smiled at the brick wall still clutching his hips in a hero worship way, exposing a chipped tooth.

“Take this fella...” He tilted his head up enough Sonny nearly swallowed his tongue when he got a good look at a wet dream of ruggedly handsome. “What’s your name?”

“Sonny.”

“Sonny. Okay. Dolly here will take you to the contestant’s area. Stay out of the way and you won’t get tromped on.”

Sonny muttered, “This ain’t my first rodeo.”

Ruggedly handsome smirked. The scowl was less intimidating. He could do the scowl, oh yes, he could. That wasn’t the only thing he could do...

Dolly had him by the elbow, ushering him through the chaos, the noise lessening as they dashed behind the shelter of the judges’ stands. He managed to mumble his thanks as the girl indicated a place where he could climb onto the top pole fence and watch the chute opening, releasing the calf into the arena.

The horse and rider were on the opposite side of the chute. He heard yelling, men complaining, cajoling, shouting and then a heartbeat of silence, followed by a clang and a detonation of sound—pounding hooves, screams, hoots and hollers. A chestnut the size of a tank exploded from the runway, muscles bunching as the hind end dug in. In a blur, horse and rider followed the calf who was bending in a line across the axis of the arena. The man was right-handed. The line was all wrong. He’d have to position the chestnut parallel to the calf in order to have a snowball’s chance in hell of actually making the catch.