Her Cowboy Soldier (13 page)

Share what it feels like in Hartland? Where would she begin? Her own emotions had been so up and down since she’d arrived. One moment she was convinced this was the most peaceful, safe place in the universe and the next she couldn’t wait to escape to someplace new and exciting and unfamiliar. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, sliding the list into her notebook. “But I’m not making any promises.”

Amy stopped by the grocery on the way home to pick up pork chops for dinner—something quick and easy that wouldn’t take a lot of concentration. She was worn out from the chaos of the day. To help her grandmother, she still needed to find out how much building a pen for the dog would cost, and who she could hire to do it.

When she pulled up to the house, she was surprised to find a familiar truck parked in her space in the drive. What was Josh doing here? A sick feeling washed over her. Had General escaped again? Was Chloe inside crying over her dead dog?

She scrambled out of the car and ran toward the house, but before she reached the front steps the door burst open and Chloe ran out. “Mommy! Mommy! Mr. Josh is building General his own little yard. And he’s going to have a door so he can go in and out of the house whenever he wants, and he won’t be able to get out and chase the cows and horses again.”

Amy faltered halfway up the steps, unsure she’d heard her daughter correctly. “Did Josh come back to talk to you more about the need for a fence?” she asked.

“Josh came back to
build
the fence.” This was from Bobbie, who stood in the doorway leaning on her cane. “Come through to the back and see for yourself.”

Stunned, she followed Bobbie and Chloe through the house to the back door. Josh had stretched string to mark a small, rectangular yard and was pounding in fence posts along this line with a heavy metal driver. He’d removed his shirt, and the muscles of his back bunched as he raised the driver high and slammed it down onto the post with jarring force. “Josh, what are you doing?” she called.

With the driver resting on top of the post, he pushed the straw Stetson back on his head and regarded her over his shoulder. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m building a fence.”

“But...why?”

“To keep your mutt away from my horses.” He moved on to the next post.

“Mr. Josh, when will you put the wire on the fence?” Chloe approached to within a few feet of the man and looked up at him, eyes wide.

He paused once more and regarded the little girl with an expression of surprising gentleness. “First, I drive in all the fence posts along this line from corner to corner.” He indicated the string stretched across the yard, and the corner posts already set in curing concrete. “When all that’s done, I stretch the wire.”

“And then the fence will be done?”

“Then the fence will be done. I’ll come back tomorrow to install the dog door.”

Amy wanted to protest that she could install the dog door, but of course, she had no idea how to do so, and no tools with which to do the job. “You’re going to a lot of trouble,” she said.

“My horses are worth it.”

“General is worth it,” Chloe said.

“Yes, I imagine he is.” Josh’s smile was directed at the girl, but Amy felt a flutter in her stomach in response. Josh angry had been intimidating, but this Josh—patient and kind and without his shirt—overwhelmed her even more.

“If you’re going to all this trouble, the least I can do is feed you dinner,” she said. “We’re having pork chops in about an hour.” Not waiting for an answer, she headed into the house, where she threw herself into preparing dinner as if her future depended upon it. Or her sanity.

But even as she floured chops, sliced tomatoes and boiled water for fresh corn, she couldn’t keep from glancing out the window to watch Josh work, scarcely slowing his pace as he answered the questions of the curious girl or sidestepped the gamboling puppy.

Brent never would have done something like this. He might have tried, or started to, but he’d have become impatient and left the job half-done. His restlessness made him a good traveler, someone always eager for the next adventure, but it didn’t make him well suited to domestic life. He’d never wanted a pet, either, because pets tied a person down.

Had he felt tied down by her and Chloe? Was that another reason he’d joined the army—to have an adventure without them?

Josh propped his sunglasses on the brim of his hat and when he bent to pick up the next fence post they fell to the ground. Chloe ran forward to retrieve them and he accepted them with a smile. He said something that made the girl giggle, and Amy felt that flutter in her stomach again. Chloe clearly adored the attention. She’d been so young when Brent went away—did she even remember him? She rarely asked about him anymore. When she was older, and around other children with fathers, would she feel cheated because she didn’t have one, too?

“He’s good with her, isn’t he?”

Bobbie spoke from behind her. Amy ducked her head and turned on the water and began rinsing the utensils she’d dirtied preparing the meal. “You know how much Chloe likes attention from new people, especially men. Look how she behaves with Neal.”

“Neal’s not the one who spent the afternoon building a fence so a little girl wouldn’t lose her puppy.”

“So you’re not even pretending anymore that the dog was for you.”

“Don’t be so stubborn, Amy Marshall. And don’t try to change the subject. It wouldn’t kill you to admit that Josh is a good man.”

“I never said he wasn’t.” She untied her apron. “Supper’s almost ready, if you want to set the table.”

She stepped into the powder room just off the kitchen and smoothed back her hair. Josh was a good man, and he was doing a good thing. So why was she so reluctant to admit it? Because doing so made her feel disloyal to Brent? Because seeing Josh as her friend made it too easy to wish for more?

She shook her head and went to the back door. “Supper’s ready,” she said. “Chloe, come in and wash your hands.”

“Mr. Josh has to wash his hands, too,” Chloe said.

“Yes, I do.” He picked up his discarded T-shirt from where it hung on one of the corner posts, removed the Stetson and pulled the shirt over his head. Amy looked away, heart pounding. Abruptly, she turned and walked back into the house, leaving the door standing open behind her.

Five minutes later they gathered around the table, Josh across from Amy. “Where did you learn to cook like this?” he asked, surveying the crowded table.

“Grandma taught me, summers when I visited,” she said.

“I taught you plain cooking,” Bobbie said. “I didn’t teach you to make those exotic dishes you like. What was that stuff we had the other night?”

“Masala chicken,” Amy said. “We had a cook in India who taught me to make that.”

“Mama’s a good cook,” Chloe said loyally.

“I can see that she is.” Josh helped himself to two chops from the platter in front of him, then accepted the bowl of corn Bobbie passed him.

They ate in silence, and Amy tried to focus on her plate, but she found herself stealing glances at Josh. He ate neatly, but heartily, his dark head bent over his plate, long fingers gripping the fork. How long had it been since she’d sat like this, across from a man? His presence lent a charged atmosphere to the meal.

He looked up and caught her watching him. A slow smile spread across his face that sent a wave of heat over her cheeks. “Supper is delicious,” he said. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“It was the least I could do, considering all you’re doing for us,” she said. “Will you let me pay you for the supplies?”

“It was all stuff we had lying around the ranch.”

She wasn’t sure if she believed that. Would they really have so many fence posts, not to mention sacks of concrete mix, simply sitting around? But it would be rude to argue with him, especially in front of her grandmother and Chloe. “Well, thank you, anyway. And I apologize if I was rude earlier. I was just...upset.”

“Apology accepted.”

Then why did she still feel so miserable?

She and Grandma washed the dishes while Josh pounded in the last of the fence posts, then unwrapped the roll of field fencing, the wires too close together for a pup to squeeze through. He opened the kitchen door and leaned in. “If you’re finished in the kitchen, you could help me stretch the wire,” he said.

“Of course.” She hurried to dry her hands on a dishrag and followed him across the yard to one corner of the fence.

“Do you have a pair of gloves?” he asked.

“Gardening gloves. And maybe rubber gloves.”

“You need leather or the fence wire will cut your hands. Use this. One is better than none.” He stripped off his own glove and handed it to her.

“But what about your hand?”

“It’s pretty tough from ranch work. I’ll be all right. Put that on. Even too big it will be better than nothing.”

She did as he instructed, sensing the warmth that lingered from his hand as she slid her fingers into the glove. The moment felt very intimate, as if his own fingers were wrapped around hers, instead of merely his gloves.

He clipped the fence stretcher onto the end of the wire and showed her how to hold it while he fastened the wire to the posts with metal clips. “Go ahead and lean back against it,” he said. “Use your weight to get a good stretch. That way you won’t hurt your back.”

As they worked, the setting sun painted the sky in pinks and oranges that faded to smudges of blue and gray. The porch light blinked on, and Amy glanced over to see Bobbie and Chloe watching from the window. Chloe waved, and Amy smiled at her daughter, but didn’t let go of the fence stretcher, sure if she did it would pop back to hit Josh, or her, or ensnare them both.

They worked in silence after a while, automatically moving together to stretch the wire and fasten the clips. “Since we’re in a hurry I’m only putting in half the clips on the stretches of wire between the corner posts,” he said. “I’ll leave you enough clips to finish the job. You see how they fasten with the pliers.”

“I think I can handle that.” Doing some of the work made her feel a little less guilty about his efforts on her behalf. Or on the behalf of his own livestock, she reminded herself. He wasn’t acting completely selflessly.

“Will I see you Saturday?” he asked.

“Saturday?”

“That’s the day we move the cattle.”

She had almost forgotten. “We plan to be there. Chloe will enjoy seeing the cows and horses,” she added.

“You might find it interesting, too.”

“I might.” She recalled Charla’s description of Josh astride a horse, in full cowboy mode, and was glad of the growing darkness to hide the blush that warmed her cheeks.

When they reached the far corner, he clipped the wire and wove the ends back on themselves. “That ought to hold the mutt,” he said.

“Thank you, again,” Amy said. “I was going to hire someone to do this.”

“Now you don’t have to. And you won’t have to worry about the dog in the meantime. Though keep an eye on him at first. If he starts to dig under or climb over you’ll have to try something else.”

“I hope not,” Amy said.

“Call me if you have any trouble.”

If she had trouble, he was the last person she’d call, but no sense pointing that out to him. She was trying to be on her best behavior around him—to show she could be as civil and forgiving as he was.

Chloe, now freshly bathed and dressed in pajamas, insisted on giving “Mr. Josh” a hug and a kiss goodbye. He kissed Bobbie, too, on the cheek, and Amy held her breath when he turned to her. “Good night, Amy,” he said. “Thanks for supper.”

“Thank you, Josh. For everything.”

He touched two fingers to the brim of his hat in a salute and stepped out the door. Amy stared after him, at his broad shoulders that seemed capable of bearing the weight of the world, his long strides eating up the distance between the steps and his truck.

“He built a good fence,” Bobbie said.

“Yes.” But in building the fence Josh had done more than fashion a pen to contain their wayward dog. Amy felt as if he’d constructed a bridge of sorts between them. One she wasn’t sure she knew how to cross.

CHAPTER NINE

J
OSH
WOULD
NOT
have wanted to be any other place Saturday morning than seated on the back of a horse, warming his hand around an old metal coffee cup, inhaling the aroma of the strong brew and watching the sun rise over the distant ridge of mountains. All around him, a symphony of sound began—the soft lowing of the cattle, the yip of the dogs as they bunched the cows and calves close, the creak of leather and jingle of spurs as the riders moved into their places. The yellow ball of the sun climbed higher in a sky so blue it looked like a polished gemstone, and he felt the first heat of it on his face, burning off the morning chill. Excitement charged the air like lightning, infecting both men and animals with a jittery restlessness.

“Better finish up that coffee.” His father guided his horse alongside Josh’s mount. He half turned in the saddle to survey the cattle and cowboys that filled the pasture behind them for as far as the eye could see. “Looks like we’re ready to go,” he said. “We’re just waiting on the all-clear from the sheriff.”

Sheriff’s deputies stationed north and south of the gates that opened onto the highway would close the road and hold traffic while the herd made its ponderous way up the pavement to the gate that led to the higher summer pastures. Twice a year the Bar S crew, aided by friends and neighbors, repeated this ritual with the precision of a military campaign.

Josh handed his empty cup to a neighbor, who was collecting many such cups from the mounted cowboys, piling them into a bus tub to be carried up to the ranch house for washing later. “Good weather for the move,” she commented.

“Great weather,” he agreed. Glancing up the road, he could see people lining the highway—friends, neighbors and visitors sitting on the hoods of cars or standing in the backs of pickups to watch the parade. They waved and called to each other, excited, but not half as excited as Josh.

He’d hardly slept the night before, impatient for this morning. Last year he’d still been too sick to participate, though he’d ridden in an ATV trailing the herd, chafing at being relegated to such a peripheral role. This year was different—this year he was back with the cowboys, leading the way.

“You remember what to do?” his father asked. Then, not waiting for an answer, he continued. “We have to go up the highway for almost a mile. Neal Kuchek will be waiting at the gate, then it’s another mile up to the pasture on a dirt track. Keep the cows bunched together and watch for signs that they’re getting spooked by all the people and the pavement under their feet. Let the dogs do most of the work, but be ready for trouble just in case.”

“I didn’t lose my memory in Iraq, too, Dad,” Josh said. He tried to keep his voice light, but some of the annoyance showed through.

“It’s been a while, and it doesn’t hurt to be reminded,” Mitch said gruffly.

The radio on Mitch’s hip crackled. “The road’s clear.”

Mitch snatched the silver-gray Stetson from his head and waved it high. “Move ’em out!”

The gate creaked open and men and animals moved forward. Three heelers, blurs of red-and-gray-and-white fur, wove among the animals, nipping at hocks and snapping at lowered noses, keeping the cows moving forward. Josh took his position on one flank of the herd, near the front, alert for the nervous cow or calf who might try to bolt or turn aside.

As the herd moved past, people clapped and cheered. Josh scanned the crowd and found Bobbie’s old green pickup. Amy stood in the back, holding tightly to Chloe as if she feared the girl might bolt, like a wayward calf. He lifted his hat and nodded in their direction. Chloe waved. Amy hesitated, then joined her. Then she handed Chloe off to Bobbie and picked up her camera. How much of that gesture was to capture the moment for posterity, and how much grew from a desire to hide behind the lens? Amy was always holding back, afraid of getting too close, as if making friends wasn’t safe. Maybe when you’d spent your whole life being uprooted, reaching out that way felt too dangerous.

He forced his attention back to the herd. The older cows had done this before; they plodded along, heads down, hooves making a hollow drumming on the asphalt. The calves were more skittish, constantly trying to move off the pavement to the grassy shoulders. Josh rode up beside one recalcitrant young steer and nudged its flank with his foot. It snorted and moved over. Josh smiled. Despite what his dad might think, Josh hadn’t forgotten how to do this.

He didn’t remember the first time he’d made this trip. Supposedly he’d been three, perched on the saddle in front of his dad. He did recall the first time he’d ridden on his own, mounted on a pony, his legs barely long enough for his feet to reach the stirrups. He’d felt every inch the cowboy in a new straw Stetson and the red leather boots his grandfather had given him for Christmas the year before. As the youngest cowboy, he’d been forced to ride drag, the dust of the herd filling his nose and mouth, but he didn’t care. He was a cowboy. Part of the team, and he knew his dad was proud of him, even if Mitch never said so.

He’d never missed the summer and fall moves from pasture to pasture until he shipped out to Iraq. Even in college he’d always made it home for an event that, though a routine part of ranch work, was something the whole community turned out to see and be a part of. The move took a good chunk of the day, and in the evening the Bar S hosted a big barbecue, which all their friends and neighbors attended.

In his teen years Josh had tried to impress the town girls with tales of his cowboy exploits—most of them fiction, but with enough truth embroidered in that no one could accuse him of outright lying.

Only once had he been tempted to sit out the day. His first summer home from college, he’d dared to suggest to his father that moving the cattle was an old-fashioned and outdated concept that put unnecessary stress on the animals. Why not use the winter pasturage to grow hay to feed the animals the rest of the year? His father had raged at him about having no respect for tradition, and had backed up this argument with a lecture on the importance of respecting the land and avoiding overgrazing—not to mention avoiding the expense of growing, harvesting and storing hay instead of allowing the cows to do what they did naturally and cut their own fodder on the spot.

The memory of that argument made Josh feel ashamed now. No wonder his dad had accused him of acting as if Mitch didn’t know anything. Josh had been the ignorant one.

The fight had been a bad one; father and son hadn’t spoken for days. But on the morning of the drive to summer pasture Josh had taken his place with the other cowboys. His father had nodded in silent acknowledgment that he was ready to put their harsh words behind them. If only they could have kept the unspoken promise of that morning, instead of continually repeating old arguments and grievances.

The first of the herd reached the open gate and turned, flowing into the dirt lane that climbed to the upper pastures. The cattle, as if glad to feel the dirt beneath their hooves once more, picked up their pace, and Josh urged his horse into a faster walk. As the sounds of the highway faded behind them, eventually swallowed up by distance and screened from view by hills and trees, he relaxed a little more in the saddle. As long as he stayed ahead of the ATVs, he could look out across the countryside and imagine that this was what it had been like when the first cattlemen settled the region.

His father, who had been leading the herd, turned and rode back to Josh. “That went well,” Josh said.

“We’re not done yet.” He adjusted his hat to better shade his eyes. Unlike the younger cowboys like Josh, Mitch refused to wear sunglasses, claiming they just got in his way. “It’s always good to get off the highway.”

“You think people would get tired of it, but there’s always a good turnout,” Josh said.

“Folks like to be reminded of where they’re from, even if most of ’em don’t have anything to do with ranching anymore.” Mitch glanced at his son. “How are you doing?”

“I’m good. It’s great to be a part of this again.”

They rode along in silence, but Josh sensed a tension in his father. “Something on your mind, Dad?”

“Does the hand bother you much—the one that’s not there?”

“Sometimes.” Why was his dad asking about his hand, after all this time?

“You ever think about getting one of those fancy bionic hands instead of a hook?”

“Once in a while. But they’re expensive and all that computerized stuff is delicate. This seems more practical to me.”

“You can do a lot more with it than I first thought. Pico doesn’t seem to mind.”

Josh regarded the placid brown horse between his knees. “Pico never lets anything upset him,” he said. “What about you, Dad?”

“What about me?”

“Do you mind that I have a hook instead of a hand? That I’m not whole anymore?”

“It’s still a shock sometimes, looking over and seeing that hook where your hand should be. But I’m just glad to have you back home and safe. To have you back for this. That year you weren’t here—nothing felt right.”

As if he feared he’d said too much, he dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and rode back toward the front of the herd. Josh stared after him, struggling to rein in his emotions. After all these years, his dad could still surprise him.

* * *

S
EEING
J
OSH
AT
the cattle drive, Amy decided he was a man who could never be summed up by first impressions. The day they’d met, she’d defined him as a wounded soldier, a man who had fought as Brent had fought, but who had somehow cheated death and wore the evidence of that—his metal hook—with defiant pride. The next time she’d seen him, he’d been a baseball coach, defensive about his qualifications and his team’s record. She’d encountered him in the roles of teacher and of community volunteer, and each time he’d revealed another facet of his personality.

Today’s persona, the cowboy, was the most difficult for her to figure out. Was he the guardian of cattle, who would threaten a family pet to protect his stock, or a proud descendent of pioneers, carrying on traditions? He looked more imposing on the back of a horse, his back straighter, his shoulders broader.

But even off the horse, he carried himself differently as he moved among the guests at his family’s barbecue. Right now he stood with his father, talking with a group of neighbors. Though Josh was the taller of the two, clearly he and his dad were carved from the same block, with the same strong features, slender builds and dark hair, the older man’s only lightly peppered with gray. Handsome men, with smiles that lightened the air around them.

A stout woman in a long apron beat on a large cowbell with a wooden spoon. “Soup’s on!” someone else shouted, and the guests lined up in front of buffet tables groaning with food. A local minister offered grace, then everyone began to fill their plates and fill the spaces at the trestle tables arranged in the shade of ancient oak trees.

Amy filled a plate for Bobbie, then transferred part of the bounty to a small dish for Chloe. But when she returned to the spot they’d staked out at a table, she found Bobbie already eating, a smiling Neal Kuchek beside her.

“I like sausage,” Chloe declared, and grabbed hold of the barbecued link Amy had selected for her.

“Everything looks good,” Amy said, and dug into the beans, ribs, chicken and various salads she’d piled onto the plate.

“Is this seat taken?”

She looked up to find Josh standing at her elbow. “No.” She scooted over, though he already had plenty of room.

“How’s General doing?” he asked.

“General likes his new yard and his door,” Chloe said. “Thank you for building them for him.”

“You’re very welcome, Chloe.”

“What are your dogs’ names?” Chloe asked. “The ones I saw with the cows?”

“The red one is Dusty. The black-and-white is Domino, and the gray-and-white one is Storm.”

“Did they get in trouble for chasing the cows?” Chloe asked.

“They weren’t chasing them, they were herding them. They’re trained to keep the cows moving in the right direction without hurting them.”

“Maybe General wants to herd cows.”

“Maybe so—but dogs have to be trained to do that.” He frowned, as if searching for the right way to explain this. “General would have to go to school to learn what to do. And you’d have to have cows for him to herd.”

“We’re not getting any cows,” Bobbie said. “No more animals of any kind. We have enough work to do with the greenhouses and orchards without adding livestock, too.”

“I was thinking chickens would be nice.” Amy winked at her grandmother. “Or maybe pigs to eat all the extra vegetables and fruit.”

“You wouldn’t think it was so funny if you were the one looking after them. I’m already worried about getting enough workers for the apple harvest in the fall.”

“You running afoul of those new visa restrictions?” Mitch had joined them, sitting across from Josh.

“Yes.” Bobbie stabbed a chunk of potato with her fork and scowled at it. “All this security stuff is well and good, but the feds have cut the number of seasonal work visas so much we can’t get the pickers we need from Chile and Mexico.”

“Couldn’t you hire local people for those jobs?” Amy asked.

“You can hire ’em, but after half a day, most of ’em don’t show up again,” Neal said. “Working in the fields is hard labor. Plus, the foreign workers who come every year have experience. They not only pick faster, but they can tell the difference between a good apple and one full of bugs, and they leave the green ones on the tree.”

“Exactly,” Bobbie said. “People who’ve never picked before are slow and put as much trash fruit in the bins as good apples. Slows everything way down.”

“So what are you going to do?” Amy asked. Suddenly, the food in her stomach felt heavy as she imagined apples rotting on the tree with no one to pick them—and Bobbie without the income from the apple harvest to see her through the winter.

“Don’t you all look like a glum bunch.” Charla, with one hand on the back of Amy’s chair and the other on Josh’s chair, leaned over to join the conversation. “What’s wrong?”