B00DVWSNZ8 EBOK (7 page)

She settled into the overstuffed chair where she always read, but couldn't concentrate on the book. Seeing Brady Fallon, followed by learning who he was from Jake, then trying to extract information from Grandpa about Jake's father and her own stepmother—all of it had pushed into her thoughts and wouldn't relent.

She closed her eyes and rested her head against the chair's back, letting the past take over her mind. She had only shards of memory of those days following the car accident that had killed her uncle and stepmother. She had a vague image of Grandma Ella, Grandpa's wife, weeping and screaming. Grammy Pen had taken Jude into her room and made her put on a dress and black shoes and white socks with lace on them. Jude could still see her feet in those shoes and socks but had no recollection of the color of the dress.

Someone had taken her out of the house and given her cookies and sat with her on the back porch. All these years, she thought it had been Jake, but could it have been Brady Fallon?

Melancholy had hung in the house like a heavy black curtain. People came and went. There had been tears and woeful cries. A service in the church in town and the preacher talking forever. Grandpa weeping.

The clearest memory from those days was of a loud and fierce argument
Daddy had with Grandpa and Grandma Ella over where her Uncle Ike should be buried. In the end, he had been laid to rest in the family cemetery. To this day, Jude knew not what the alternate choice might have been.

Her stepmother had been buried somewhere in Abilene by her own family. Jude had never
been told where and she hadn’t bothered to try to find the location. Of course her father would know, but he had never said.

But perhaps th
ose grim memories were confused with those from a scant few months later. Grandma Ella, Grandpa’s wife had passed unexpectedly. Complications from gall bladder surgery. Another funeral, more weeping people and a lot of food.

Soon a
fter Ike's funeral, Jake and his mother faded away, almost as if they had never existed. Jude had lost touch with them until Jake returned to Lockett a few years ago. She was aware he had joined the army at a young age and later worked for the Dallas Police Department, but she knew little else about him.

Thinking of how unforeseen events altered life in dramatic ways and sent people on irreversible courses, she drifted to sleep.

The tempest arrived at midnight, rumbling and blowing and throwing rain against the windowpanes in great slaps. She loved storms, loved nature's display of power and might. She awoke with a start, crawled into bed and listened. She dozed, but the storm kept her adrift in a state of half wakefulness.

The next thing she knew, it was daylight. She had missed the end of the thunderstorm and had overslept. But that didn't mean she didn't have a plan for the day.

Expecting humidity along with the heat, she dressed in jeans and a camisole with spaghetti straps and went downstairs to the kitchen. Windy and Irene were already at work on the noon meal.

"Mornin', Judith Ann," Windy
didn’t look up from his task. With hands the size of hams and fingers that looked like sausages, he was doing something delicate with Jell-O. The creation under construction looked fragile.

Irene came to her, smiling and wiping her hands on a towel. "Buenos dias, Yu
-dee." She pronounced Jude's name as if it had two syllables, replacing the hard American J with a soft spanish Y."You want the breakfast?" Irene spread her arms wide as if encompassing the world. "Bien grande?"

Trying to speak English was Irene's attempt to be like other Americans. She had grown up in a non-English-speaking home, so what little English she knew had come from taking lessons at the church in town and working
alongside Windy. Since Windy probably hadn't gone past eighth grade and had been a ranch hand at the Circle C for more than forty years, his speech was mostly rural cowboy slang and a litany of cusswords. Exactly what Irene might be learning from him, Jude dared not guess.

She had great affection for
their Mexican help. In broken English, a Mexican housekeeper had explained menstruation to her. A different Mexican housekeeper had taught her to braid her hair. Her daily life was filled with small tasks she might not have learned to perform well, if at all, without the Mexican housekeepers who had always been employed by the ranch.

"No, thanks," she told Irene. "I'll just have a bowl of cereal." She prepared a bowl of corn flakes with milk and sugar and backed against the counter edge to eat it. "Who's coming to eat dinner?" she asked Windy. The noon meal had always been "dinner" and the evening meal had always been "supper" at the Circle C.

"Clary Harper and Doc Barrett got some AQHA folks coming down from Amarillo today."

Ah, politics and horse breeding
. Clarence Harper was the horse wrangler who took care of the remuda and Dr. John Barrett was the ranch's main vet. With someone from the American Quarter Horse Association present, the dinner meeting would be about quarter-horse breeding, thus artificial insemination and embryo transfer.

T
he Pitchfork had a couple of highbred mares they wanted Sandy Dandy to breed with. And by now, some of the other ranches with breeding programs might have ready mares, too. Sandy Dandy was the ranch's latest superstud. He was a powerful, award-winning stallion with a good disposition except when it came to the mares. With them, he was tough and dominant and brooked no rebellion.

Jude had mixed emotions about transferring embryos from impregnated mares into surrogate mothers. She appreciated the advancement of the science and the positive benefits, but the whole process flew so blatantly in the face of what nature intended that it made her uncomfortable.

And it made her even more uncomfortable knowing that, usually, the motive for doing it was making more money off some horse’s bloodline.

She often wondered if Thoroughbred horse owners were the ones who had the right idea, allowing highbred horses to be registered only if
they reproduced as a result of live cover.

Every time she had those thoughts, she accused herself of being as old-fashioned as Daddy and Grandpa. With live cover, bacteria and disease could more readily be introduced into a mare's reproductive tract. Stallions were aggressive and could be mean during copulation. If a mare resisted, live cover could turn into a violent event and cause injury to both stud and mare. Artificial insemination was safer all around.

Though the Circle C's breeding program had produced several famous horses, money wasn't what drove it. The primary purpose had always been to produce the best and strongest ranch horses possible and maintain the ranch's remuda at approximately a hundred head. Consequently, most of the male horses were gelded and the best of the fillies were added to the herd of broodmares.

But if a male foal had outstanding bloodlines or looked as if he might grow to be a superior animal, he was kept as a stud. The Circle C couldn't keep every horse that was born, so
Daddy ad Clary didn’t balk at selling a colt or a filly for racing or cutting or rodeo, or even pleasure.

After the breeding conversation, the men would sit at the table and smoke cigars and probably get into a more
detailed discussion of breeding Sandy Dandy to some particular mare. Several of his offspring had been doing well in various cutting competitions.

She told Windy to include her in lunch. No one had invited her specifically, but she lived here. She didn't need an invitation.

She finished her cereal and placed her dish in the sink. Just in case someone later wondered about her whereabouts, she told Windy, "In case anyone wants to know, I'm going to town to run some errands."

Twenty minutes later, she rumbled across the 6-0's
cattle guard.

Chapter 6

The old Wallace house had no attached garage, but Jude saw the new owner's pickup parked under a metal shed that was rusting from the ground up and the roof down. It was located across the driveway from the house. The battered metal roof looked as if it might collapse onto the truck at any minute. She parked her own pickup near the house's sagging front porch and slid out. Thumps and thuds and loud music came from behind the house. She recognized Gretchen Wilson's voice belting out
Redneck Woman.

"Hellooo? Anybody home?"

When no one answered, she walked through the weedy side yard toward the barn, her boots rustling through the springing grass. The morning sun warmed her bare shoulders. The month of June was a great time to be alive in West Texas.

Brady Fallon
was walking away from the barn, carrying several long, wide boards.

"Morning," she called out, stuffing her hands into her jeans' back pockets as she
ambled toward him.

Not stopping, he
continued a few more steps to a neat stack of long weathered boards similar to those he carried. He dropped his load on the ground, bent over and began to pick up the boards one at a time and lay them on the stack.

She stood in silence, unable to not watch him—the rawboned lankiness of his body, the ripple of powerful muscle under
his faded blue T-shirt, his taut efficiency and smooth agility as he worked. The whole package exuded the epitome of masculine energy and sent a shiver all the way to her toes. She appreciated physical perfection in all animals, including humans.

He straightened. "What's up?"

She sensed the same edginess in him she had detected yesterday. With his eyes shadowed by the bill of his cap, she couldn't seem them clearly, but somehow she knew they were focused on her like lasers. The thought left her speechless for a few seconds. "Nothing much,” she got around to saying. “I just came to talk a minute."

He pushed his cap back, yanked a red bandana from his back pocket and wiped his perspiring forehead. "About what?"

She removed her sunglasses and squinted up at him. "I sort of want to start over. When I came—"

"Hey, you've got brown eyes." He grinned as if he had discovered a secret.

"My whole family has brown eyes, except for Jake. Does it matter?"

"I wondered. You had on those sunglasses yesterday." He gave a nod toward the sunglasses in her hand.

He had wondered about her eye color? What else had he wondered about her? The question threw her off track again. "Uh, when I came by yesterday, I thought you were a burglar. I didn't know Mrs. Wallace had left her place to someone."

"What did you think would happen to it?" He
clapped his cap on and readjusted it, shadowing his eyes again.

"I don't know. I didn't think about it at all. I just saw the strange rig and..."

And what?
She was still distracted by his comment about her eye color and what it meant. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "Anyway, we're neighbors, so..." She shrugged again, the words she wanted to say still not coming to her. So she smiled. "And now I know who you are."

As he peeled off his leather gloves and stuffed them into his back pocket, his mouth eased into a near smile. "I have to admit, I didn't know who you were either, until you said your name. Guess I should apologize."

She laughed, though nothing was funny. "No need. I still didn't know you at all, even after you said your name. But Jake told me."

"Not your fault. It's been about twenty years since I was around your folks' place." He planted his hands on his hips. "You probably would've been what, six or seven the last time I saw you?"

She couldn't say why, but she liked him. Was drawn to him by some magnetic force. And it had nothing to do with his being the best-looking stranger who had shown up in Willard County in a while. Or maybe ever. "Yeah. Jake refreshed my memory about those days."

Brady nodded. "Good guy, Jake. Known him a long time."

Jude looked around, trying not to be obvious in her scrutiny of the place. From where she stood, she could see the need for so much work she wouldn't know where to start. No way could Brady Fallon—or anyone—cowboy five or six days a week for the Circle C and at the same time accomplish much on this old place. Even if he had the money, when would he find the time or energy? The Circle C hands worked long exhausting days, many of them horseback all day long. She agreed with Grandpa. Brady's situation looked hopeless.

A hole had appeared in the side of the barn since she had seen it yesterday. She gestured toward it. "Whatcha doing?"

He looked back over his shoulder toward the leaning barn. "I'm gonna replace some of the studs. Put up some new siding. Try to keep it from collapsing."

"You're a carpenter, huh? Jake told me you used to be in the construction business."

He turned to her again, but she still couldn't see his eyes. "Yeah, I was in the construction business. But I'm not a carpenter. I think I can fix this barn, though."

Okay, if he
had been in the construction business but wasn't a carpenter, he had to have been a management type. Daddy had said he had a BBA. She longed for him to mention his going to work as a cowhand at the Circle C. She did not want to be the one to bring it up.

"You, uh, need some help? On the barn siding, I mean."

"You volunteering?"

She lifted her arms and let them fall.
"Sure."

He didn't reply for a few seconds. He glanced away, then back at her. "Now, why would you do that? I'll bet you've never hammered a nail. Or done much work of any kind."

She bristled. Another person who thought her an empty shirt. She had done plenty of work around the ranch, but she didn't want to debate the issue.

"Look, before you just dismiss me, I can see you need help. I'm a capable person. And a fast learner. Besides, what have you got to lose? I don't see anyone else lined up to help you." She winced mentally at the tactless words.

He chuckled. "You got
that
right."

She
opened her palms. "So? Put me to work. I dare you."

"You're not dressed for work."

"This is what I wear all the time."

"You got any gloves? Got a long-sleeve shirt?"

"Not with me. You're not wearing a long-sleeve shirt yourself."

"But I'm tough."

She didn't doubt that.

He chewed on the inside of his jaw for a few beats, as if he were deciding what to do. "Okay. Be right back." He strode toward the house.

After only a short wait, he returned carrying a plaid shirt and a new pair of leather gloves. While she shrugged into the shirt, he said, "I'll tear off the siding. The boards that are fit to keep, you can carry 'em over and stack 'em, okay? That'll save me a few steps. The ones that are too far gone, just throw over on that burn pile." He pointed toward a pile of debris.

The shirt smelled of laundry soap and the hem fell to just above her knees. The cuffs covered her fingertips. She began rolling them up, past her wrists. "Great."

While he watched in silence, she finished the last cuff and pulled her hair from underneath the shirt collar. "Let's do it," she said, probably more brightly than necessary.

He continued to stare at her. "Yeah, let's do it," he said eventually. "Don't forget the gloves."

Hours passed. As the gap in the barn wall grew larger, the stack of salvable boards grew taller, the sun climbed higher and the temperature rose to blistering. Jude was close to melting. Her whole body was damp with sweat and her stomach had begun to growl.

She didn't know the time, but she could tell by the sun's position that it was near noon. She thought about dinner at the Circle C ranch house and wished she hadn't told Windy she would be there to eat. If he set a place for her and she didn't show up, Daddy and Grandpa would wonder where she was and what she might be doing, or worse yet, would fear she had run into some kind of trouble.
They loved her and had always taken care of her, but sometimes their attention could be suffocating.

Beyond that concern was her debate over whether she should continue helping Brady Fallon after dinner and on into the afternoon. Though she wanted to, she also wanted to hear the dinner conversation among Daddy and Grandpa, the Circle C's vet and the representatives from the AQHA. Because she had tracked and studied the genetic history of many of the Circle C's horses, the breeding program was of great interest to her. But all of that seemed less important now than it had been earlier today, so she continued to stack boards.

Soon, Brady came over, yanking off his gloves. A sheen of sweat showed on his face and in darker patches on his blue T-shirt. "You getting hungry?"

She straightened and pressed her own damp brow with her shirtsleeve. "
Well, kind of. All I had for breakfast was cereal."

"That's what I thought. You didn't leave home expecting to do any real work."

Her spine stiffened. There it was again. That mockery, that skepticism of her motives. But how could she expect anything different when she didn't even know her motives herself. "I didn't know if you'd welcome my help."

"I can make us a sandwich."

If she were facing a firing squad, she couldn't explain the mysterious allure that made her say, "Okay."

The dinner decision made just that simply, she removed the gloves. "I need to get my purse out of my pickup, okay?"

She didn't add that she also needed to call home.
As if I’m fifteen
, she grumbled mentally.

"Just come in the front door," he replied, and started for the back door, leaving the boom box
blasting. All morning, they had listened to a steady blare of country-western music, everything from Patsy Cline to Toby Keith.

"Would you like for me to turn off the radio?" she called to his back.

"Nah," he answered, and kept walking. "We're not gonna be gone that long."

She tramped to her pickup, pulled her cell phone from her purse and called the Circle C. The housekeeper, Lola Mendez, answered
. Jude told her she was tied up helping a friend in town and wouldn't be home for dinner after all. Daddy would assume she was helping Suzanne do something and wouldn't worry.

H
er interest in Brady Fallon had now caused her to uncharacteristically fib to her family for the second time. What was up with that?

She
walked across the old porch gingerly. As she stepped into the living room, a dull roar met her ear. The air was so cool against her heated body she shivered. She looked around and saw a swamp cooler in the window.

She had never been inside the Wallace house, but she had been in the homes of many of Willard County's citizens. The county and the town were less than prosperous, with many of the residents elderly or Hispanic
and living on incomes below the national poverty level. Most of the homes that weren't mobile homes were outdated and worn-out. Like the exterior, the interior of Marjorie Wallace's house was no different.

Brady's voice came from the adjoining room. "Hope you like baloney and cheese."

She walked toward the voice, into the kitchen. He was soaping and washing his hands in the sink. A bare window over the sink let light into the room and onto his face and hands.

"That's mostly what I eat these days," he said. "It's easy and it's cheap."

Conscience pinched her. She had never had to consider the cost of food. "That's fine," she said, although she couldn't remember the last time she had eaten bologna.

He went to a refrigerator that had to be forty years old and laid his cap on top of it beside a radio.
He opened the door and gathered a jar of mayonnaise and a jar of mustard, a package of cheese, a package of lunchmeat and a jar of pickles. He carried them to the counter in one load.

She thought of the meal Windy and Irene would be serving. With company there, it would probably be
grilled Circle C steaks and all the trimmings.

S
he had needed a stop in the bathroom for a while. "I, uh, need to wash up, too."

"Oh, sorry." He walked into the living room and pointed to his right. "This house just has one bathroom. It's up that hall."

He started back into the kitchen and she started into the living room. They nearly collided as they both tried to pass through the doorway at the same time. "Oh," she gasped, her shoulder brushing his chest as she dodged him.

"Oops." He stiffened, his back flat against the doorjamb.

"Sorry." For an instant, she felt the heat of his body and smelled his scent, a mix of sweat and something else. Not cologne, but more subtle, like body wash. In that same instant she thought of him standing in the shower. She became even more acutely aware of his big, solid body and she fought not to look down.

Instead, she willed herself to look up, her face no more than a foot from his. His eyes locked on hers. Uncertain what she saw in them, she ducked her chin and stared at the heartbeat steadily pulsing at the neckband of his T-shirt. "I'll be back in a minute," she said.