How to Kiss a Cowboy (13 page)

Brady steered his truck down the endless ramps of the hospital parking garage. He'd had to park at the top, which meant the cab was hot enough to bake biscuits, and he'd had to put his bronc saddle in the cab, so it smelled like horses, arena dirt, and sweat.

Following Shane's orders, he stopped at the ranch and picked up Ridge on the way to the rodeo grounds. The two of them hooked up a horse trailer and hit the road to rescue Suze's horse.

“So old Speedo gave you trouble?” Brady asked.

“Sure did.” Ridge shook his head. “That horse was riled up like a bronc in a chute. It was all I could do to get him into a stall. And that critter of Justin's?” He shook his head. “That horse needs psychotherapy. Bad. I hope Justin's picking him up himself.”

“He probably already did,” Brady said. “How'd you know to get 'em, anyway?”

“I didn't. Stan called and told me what happened, so I went to the rodeo grounds while Shane hit the hospital. He guessed right, I guess. By the time I got to the arena, you were gone, and Stan was trying to deal with two crazy horses. That guy doesn't know the front end of a horse from the back, does he?”

Brady almost laughed. “No, he doesn't.”

“Anyway, taking care of the horses seemed like the only way to help.”

“Well, it's a good thing. I was so worried about Suze I forgot all about 'em.” Brady drove along in silence for a while, his eyes on the road, his mind on Suze.

Ridge gave him a speculative glance. “You're beating yourself up about this, aren't you?”

“Wouldn't you?”

“Probably. But I'd be wrong. It wasn't your fault, little brother. From what I heard, the whole thing was Stan's idea. Suze can probably sue Lariat for everything they've got.”

Brady felt himself go pale. “It wasn't Stan's fault. Wasn't anybody's. We all agreed on what we'd do.”

“There.” Ridge sat back, satisfied as if he'd solved all the world's problems. “You said it yourself. It wasn't anybody's fault.”

“But I held on to the rope,” Brady said. “Booger blew up, and I forgot about the rope. I held on a second too long, and it pulled her out of the saddle.”

“Booger?”

“Justin's horse. His little sister's horse, actually. That was my first mistake. I never should have used that horse.”

Ridge didn't speak for the rest of the ride. He was always quiet, and not much for small talk, but Brady knew there was another reason for his silence. He probably hadn't heard the whole story until now. Now that he knew Brady really was at fault, he didn't know what to say.

The rodeo grounds stood empty in the summer sun, though Brady would have sworn he could hear the roar of past crowds riding the wind as they headed for the area where contestants kept their horses.

“Shoot.” Ridge rubbed the back of his neck, tilting his hat forward. “I could've sworn this was the stall.”

“Hope you didn't lose him,” Brady joked. “Hard to misplace a sixty-thousand-dollar horse.”

“He must be around the other side.”

They walked past the row of empty stalls and down the next row that backed up against them.

No Speedo.

They backtracked to the first row of stalls. Nothing had changed. No horses occupied the rough wooden enclosures.

Brady had never noticed how quiet a Wyoming summer day could be. A few grasshoppers clicked in the grass, and a few crows called in the distance, but other than that, it was him, his brother, and the wind.

“He's not here,” Ridge said.

Brady peered into the stall where Ridge said he'd left the horse and felt the bottom drop out of his already shattered world.

“Here's his saddle and blanket,” Ridge said. “His bridle. It's definitely the right stall.”

The two cowboys stood there in the hot sun, staring at the ground. After a while, Ridge bent over and traced a line in the gravel and dirt with one hand. “If I'm not mistaken, somebody let down a ramp right here.” He pointed to a spot just beyond it, where the gravel was heaped in random piles. “And there was a little set-to right there.” He stood, brushing the dirt off his hands on his thighs. “Somebody took him.”

Brady felt like someone had punched him in the gut. For a moment, he couldn't breathe.

Speedo. Gone. Stolen.

“You think Justin picked him up? Maybe he thought he was doing you a favor.”

“Justin's got a one-horse trailer,” Brady said. “There's no way he took him.” He looked hopelessly up and down the row of stalls, praying that Speedo would miraculously appear. “Why would anyone take him?”

“You said it yourself.” Ridge stroked his chin, staring into the empty stall. “That's a sixty-thousand-dollar horse. More, probably. We better hope it was Suze's dad that picked him up, though I don't know how that could've happened. You and me are the only ones that know he was here.”

“Apparently not,” Brady said. “Somebody else knew.” He looked down at the ground, where the signs of a struggle were obvious now that Ridge had pointed them out. “I sure hope it was a friend.”

Earl Carlyle took a slow sip of coffee and let out a satisfied sigh, then lifted his mug in a silent toast to his wife.

“Nothing like a good cuppa joe in the morning,” he said. “Isn't that right, Ellen?”

She smiled. She always smiled. She was trapped in a weird smiling limbo, frozen in photographs, forever young, forever happy, forever gone.

Suze's little dog trotted into the kitchen and sat down a few feet away. Earl could tell the dog was staring at him through his curtain of hair.

“Quit looking at me,” he said. “I know it's just a picture. But it doesn't hurt anybody for me to pretend a little, does it?”

The dog cocked his head as if he didn't understand.

“You wouldn't get it. You're not human.” Earl said. “So go 'way and leave me alone. Damn dog.” He turned back to the photo of Ellen he'd propped up in front of his plate. “I tell Suzanne every day how pretty you were. I tell her how smart you were, how successful. She still loves her mama.”

He couldn't stop a little bitterness from creeping into his tone. He'd never told his daughter everything about her mother.

There was no reason to. A girl needed a mother she could look up to.

“I did it for you, Ellen.” He lifted the cup in another silent toast to the framed photo. “You never asked for anything else.”

The truth was, Ellen hadn't needed anything else. She was the most self-possessed, independent person he'd ever known. Some women leaned on a man; some worked side by side in partnership. But Ellen ran on ahead, shouting, “Watch this!”

It had driven him crazy. Women were supposed to be fragile. They were supposed to
need
a man once in a while. But Ellen had never needed him, not a day in her life, until she'd gotten sick. Cancer had destroyed her, bit by bit, and watching her die had just about destroyed him.

He looked down at the dog, who was performing some sort of doggie maintenance on his hindquarters.

“Stop that,” Earl said. “Stop it, and tell me what I'm supposed to do about Suzanne.”

Dooley stood up, shook himself, and walked away, tossing Earl an aggrieved look. So much for animal wisdom.

Earl knew he'd almost lost his daughter yesterday. She was all he had in the world, and the doctors said she could have died from her head injury. Even now, they didn't know if she'd fully recover.

And yet he felt numb. He knew he ought to be beside her, but he couldn't bear to set foot in that hospital. Ellen had died there, surrounded by machinery, tended to by kind strangers with faces he couldn't recall.

Watch
this!

He'd watched her, all right. He'd watched her die, just as he'd watched her live. He was useless as ever while she lay there in that hospital bed.

He was sure Suze understood that he simply couldn't stand to go there. Too many memories.

A rap on the door jolted him out of his reverie. Dooley tore through the hallway and leaped at the door once, twice, three times. The damn dog was made of springs and rubber bands. Bouncing and yapping, yapping and bouncing. When nobody was home to watch him, he jumped up on the kitchen counters and ate anything he could find. Loaves of bread, bags of bagels, packages of Oreos—they all went down Dooley's gullet. And they all came back up later, usually on the furniture.

The dog continued to yap while Earl shoved his chair back from the table. Grunting with effort, he straightened his knees and got his feet working. “I'm coming, I'm coming,” he grumbled.

Who the hell came calling this early in the morning? A man didn't even have time for breakfast with his wife before the world came rushing in and ruined everything.

* * *

Brady stood on the doorstep, waiting for Suze's father to get around to answering the door. His teeth were clenched together so tightly it hurt, and a muscle was twitching in his jaw.

He'd spent hours the night before calling everyone he knew who'd ever had anything to do with the Grigsby rodeo. No one had seen Speedo. Then he tried local cowboys and cowgirls. No luck.

The horse was gone.

What the hell was he going to do? Suze's injuries were nothing compared with losing that horse.

All animals were important to people who cared about them. All of them had distinct personalities, idiosyncrasies, and, in Brady's opinion, souls. But some were more special than others. Speedo was one of those—the horse of a lifetime. For Suze, he was more than a pet, more than a partner. He was her soul mate. Half of her heart.

Somehow, Brady would have to find the horse. And somehow, he'd have to hide the problem from Suze until he did. He had a trusted team of cowboys and cowgirls in three counties looking for Speedo. With a distinctive heart-shaped blaze on his face, he'd be hard to hide.

Meanwhile, Brady wasn't leaving anything else to chance. Suze might want him to stay away, but he'd headed for the hospital next and discovered no one had been to see her since she'd thrown him out the previous afternoon. No one had been there to answer the doctors' questions about her past health issues. No one had sat by her bed, held her hand, soothed her pain, distracted her with jokes, or cared for her. No one had brought her magazines to read or clothes to wear. Nobody. She'd lain there, forgotten and abandoned and probably in pain, all night. Alone.

He knew her father had been notified. The old bastard just hadn't bothered to go.

Brady slammed his fist into the door again. Earl Carlyle would hurry if he knew what was good for him, because the longer Brady waited, the hotter his rage burned. When the door finally opened, he had to consciously take in a few slow breaths so he wouldn't use that same fist to smash in the man's face.

Looking at Earl Carlyle, he realized it wasn't worth it. The man looked like a plant that had gone too long without water. His posture was bent from arthritis and his face was lined by sorrow; his eyes drooped, and the corners of his mouth turned down in a permanent frown. His hair, still dark, was sparse, and his efforts to combat encroaching baldness with a comb-over were futile.

Maybe it wasn't water Earl needed; maybe it was fertilizer. Maybe he needed someone like Brady to give him some shit about how he treated his daughter.

Through clenched teeth, Brady asked, “What are you doing, Earl?”

“Having breakfast with my—having breakfast.” The old man lifted his chin, asserting some dignity. “Not that it's any of your business.”

Behind him, Suze's little dog was bouncing like a kid on a pogo stick. The old man started to swing the door shut, but Brady smacked his open palm against the wood and shot the man a look that would freeze a bird in midflight.

“You going to see your daughter after breakfast?”

“None of your business.”

Dooley rushed out the open door and circled Brady, yapping like he was possessed. Brady knelt and petted him, but nothing quieted the dog until he picked him up.

“You fed her horses yet?” Brady knew the answer to this one. If Earl had been out to the barn, he would have realized Speedo was missing, and he'd be in a panic—not because he cared about the animal, but because the horse was worth money.

“I'll feed 'em when I'm ready. And those are my horses much as hers, young man.”

Brady narrowed his eyes, but it was hard to look tough when you were holding a hairy little mutt in your arms. “When's the last time you had anything to do with 'em?”

Earl turned away, grumbling something about them reminding him of his wife. That was his answer for everything. Supposedly he'd been crazy in love with Suze's mother, but the way he shied away from anything that reminded him of her, you'd think the time he'd spent with her had been the worst years of his life, a trauma he couldn't bear to think of.

No doubt her illness and death had been just that—a trauma. But from what Brady had heard, Ellen Carlyle had only lived a few months after the diagnosis, so it wasn't as if she'd lingered for years. They'd had plenty of happy times on horseback, and you'd think he'd want to remember those.

“I've got Speedo at my place,” Brady said. The lie almost choked him, but it had to be told. Brady would get the police involved if the horse didn't turn up soon, but for now he was doing his own detective work. “Tell you what.” He stepped into the house past the old man without asking for permission, shedding his Carhartt jacket and hanging it on a hook beside the door. The rising sun was beginning to warm the Wyoming plains and gild the grass with gold, but that wasn't why he hung up his coat. He was staking his claim, letting Earl Carlyle know that he'd come to stay.

Glancing around the house, he saw chaos—dirty dishes stacked high in the sink; floors smudged and dirty; junk on the stairs that looked like it had been dropped midclimb. He knew Suze wasn't home much, and no wonder. He'd seen how neat she kept her trailer, and doubted she could stand to live in the pigpen her home had become.

It would have to be cleaned up before she came home, that was for sure. It would probably be a long time before she could climb stairs, but still, all those tripping hazards should be cleaned off the steps. And the dishes needed to be washed, and the floors mopped.

Looking at Earl, Brady had a sinking feeling he knew who was going to get stuck doing all that housework. He might as well buy an apron and a stock of Swiffer refills right now.

Maybe he could let the dog mop the floor. Dooley looked like a mop, after all. But he probably shed more hair than he picked up.

“You got a sister, Earl?”

“Nope. Only family I had was my wife,” Earl said.

“And your daughter.”

The old man didn't respond, just stared at Brady. “What do you want, son?”

“I'm not your son,” Brady said. “But I tell you what. I'll take care of the animals so you can go see your daughter.”

Earl looked at him from under heavy brows. He'd reached that point in old age where men's eyebrows went all wild and scraggly.

“Don't tell me what to do,” he said.

Brady felt a stab of compassion for Suze, even beyond what he'd felt at the hospital. How did she live with this day after day? Her injuries were a temporary condition, but she'd dealt with her father all her life. Surely there was some way to make the man see what he was doing to the one person he had left to love.

“You know what she's feeding the horses these days?”

“Hay, I s'pose.”

Brady wanted to wipe the smug smile off Earl's face. “Supplements? Grain? Anything?”

Earl shrugged. Disgusted, Brady left him standing in the hallway and headed for the barn, slamming the door behind him.

Once he'd entered the shadowy realm of the barn, Brady's anger faded. This was his world even more than the rodeo ring. He'd loved barns from the first day he'd arrived at Decker Ranch. The rough-hewn wood, the smudged windowpanes draped with cobwebs, the high hayloft where a boy could sit and dream in the sweet-scented dark—the barn at Decker Ranch was a cathedral to him, a symbol of the new life he'd been granted when the Deckers had found him and his brothers and given them a home. Somehow, all barns had taken on that same spirit for him. They calmed his soul.

He could hear Suze's backup horse, Bucket, stamping with impatience. Apparently the only thing that would calm
his
soul was breakfast.

He was probably lonesome too. Horses were herd animals, and they needed company. With Speedo gone, there was a good chance Bucket would go off his feed.

“Bucket.” He kept his voice low and soothing. “'Bout time to eat, isn't it, boy?”

He put a few flakes of hay in the horse's net, then rinsed and filled the water buckets at the outside tap. He noticed Earl Carlyle's car was still in the drive, and he could hear the squawk of a television drifting from the house. Breakfast was over, but there was no telling when visiting hours at the hospital would start. Or if they'd ever start for Earl.

Brady hung the water bucket back in Bucket's stall and found a well-stocked tack room at the back of the barn. It boasted an entire wall devoted to plastic bins that held grain and supplements, and above them was a whiteboard, the kind you saw in corporate boardrooms. Suze had inked each horse's proper ration under its name.

Now why couldn't Earl Carlyle have told him that? Did he not know? Did he
never
come out here?

Brady hung around until Bucket was finished with his breakfast, biding his time by restocking the stack of hay bales Suze kept near the horse's stalls. Tossing the big bales from the loft and lugging them into the alleyway helped him work up a healthy sweat—always a good way to start the day, in his opinion. As he took off his hat and wiped his brow, he admired the tidiness of the barn. He'd have to work hard to keep the place up to Suze's standards, but he was determined to do the job right.

He turned Bucket out into a small corral beside the barn and leaned on the gate for a while, chewing a green stalk of timothy and watching the horse relax in the morning sun. It was hard to think of Suze spending this blue-sky day trapped in the fake fluorescent lights of the hospital.

But maybe it would be a good day for her, in a way. Maybe once her father saw his only child there, so small and frail among the lifesaving machinery, he'd find the heart he'd mislaid when his wife had died. Maybe the two of them would talk—really talk. That could make this all worthwhile for Suze.

Aw, who was he kidding? That kind of thinking might make him feel better, but there was nothing good about the accident, and wishing wouldn't make it so.

Besides, Earl Carlyle's truck was still in the driveway.