The Cowboy Takes a Bride (9 page)

“I’m not in a drinkin’ mood.”

“Well, honey, you did just walk into a bar.” Her jovial tone darkened. “Is something bothering you?”

He sank down on the bar stool. “I guess I’ll take a beer.”

She poured up a mug and pushed it in front of him. Joe took a swig. Clover went off to fix a whiskey sour for another customer, and then came back, bar towel slung over one shoulder. “So that pebble in your boot got anything to do with Dutch’s daughter?”

He took another sip of beer. “You know about her?”

“Saw her while I was on the way over to the Marin place this morning. She’s cute.”

“I suppose,” he said.

“You don’t like her?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know her.”

“But something’s got you upset.”

“She doesn’t even seem to be mourning him.” Joe rubbed the condensation off his mug with the pad of his thumb. “The man was her father and she doesn’t give a damn.”

“For one thing,” Clover said, “everyone grieves in their own way. For another thing, she barely knew him.”

“All the more reason to grieve. Knowing that you treated your own father like dirt and never had a chance to make amends.”

“That’s not like you, Joe,” Clover chided gently.

“What?”

“Making snap judgments about people.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes first impressions are the right ones.”

“What’s your impression of her?”

“Aloof. Cold.” He thought of her soft lips, her golden hair, and immediately scrubbed the image from his mind.

“That wasn’t the impression I had of her at all.”

“No?”

“No. I thought she seemed . . .” Clover paused as if searching for the right word. “Lost. Vulnerable.”

Joe snorted.

“Much like you.”

“What?” He glared at Clover.

“You’ve been lost since Becca died and now with Dutch gone, you’ve lost your last anchor. I know you don’t see it, Joe. Big tough cowboy can’t admit he’s fragile as peanut brittle, but you’re projecting your guilt and shame onto Mariah.”

“Projecting? Clover, have you been watching Dr. Phil?”

Clover straightened. “I saw a grief counselor after Carl died. I know things.”

“Did it help?”

“Not much,” she admitted. “You can talk about your feelings until you’re blue in the face, but it doesn’t change the fact the person you love is gone.”

“Nope, it don’t.”

They looked at each other, two lost souls connected by grief.

Then Clover burst out laughing. “You want another beer?”

“Why not,” Joe said joining her laughter. Sometimes things got so bad you just had to laugh or go insane.

Clover refilled his mug, then reached over and touched Joe’s hand. “Lighten up on Mariah, Joe. It’s not healthy to hold on to bad feelings. Try to make her feel welcome.”

“Hey, I promised to give her a ride back to the ranch after she turns in her rental car. That’s as neighborly as I’m gonna get.” Already he regretted making that promise. Why had he made that promise?

“Try to see past Mariah’s defenses. Yes, she’s got big-city ways, but she could use a good friend.”

“I’ll leave that to you, Clover,” he said, clinging to his resentment like a lifeline even though he really didn’t know why, other than being around her made him think of Becca and Dutch, and that made his heart hurt. Too much pain. He’d had enough of it to last a lifetime. “Dutch was my best friend in the world, and getting chummy with his estranged daughter feels too much like consorting with the enemy. I’m just biding my time until I can buy back my land and send her packing.”

T
he next morning, Joe followed Mariah into town. He barely spoke two words to her, just nodded and mumbled hello and then swung back into the cab of his pickup.

Fine. That was fine with her. She had nothing to say to him either.

She turned in the rental car. Joe led her to his pickup truck and opened up the passenger side door. Reluctantly, she climbed inside, not sure how to get out of this, equally unsure if she wanted to. Joe made her feel so mixed up inside on so many levels, she found it disconcerting. She found
him
disconcerting.

Tilting her head, she watched him scoot around the front of the truck. He was a commanding figure. Lean, hard-packed muscles poured into a pair of cowboy-cut denim jeans; broad, razor-sharp shoulders moving beneath a blue, yoke-style Western shirt. Although he stood six feet tall, there was a wiry compactness about him that was common to the limber men who wrangled horses and cattle for a living. Dutch had been built the same way.

“So,” she said after several minutes, unable to stand the silence any longer. “I’m really surprised to see Jubilee has a good-sized airport and so many motels and three car rental chains. What’s the draw? You’d think with Fort Worth being so close, everyone would just go there.”

“We’re the cutting horse capital of the world,” he said.

“Seriously? I thought that was just some exaggerated brag for the welcome sign.”

“Nope, it’s true. People fly here from all corners of the world to trade, breed, and show cutting horses. Lots of celebrities own and train cutting horses—Christie Brinkley, Tanya Tucker, Linda Blair, Barry Corbin, just to name a few. It’s a big deal. Plus, we host the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association rodeo every July. Jubilee might be small, but we’re influential,” Joe said, the pride in his voice compelling.

At last, she’d found something that got him talking. “Have you always lived in Jubilee?”

“Born and raised.”

That stopped the conversation, but luckily, they’d arrived at the law office of Art Bunting.

Bunting turned out to be fiftyish and slightly paunchy, and like most everyone in Jubilee, he wore Wranglers and cowboy boots to work. He had thick black eyebrows that belied his gray hair, and a pencil-thin mustache too small for his beefy face.

“I’m so sorry to hear about your father,” Bunting murmured to Mariah as he took her hand in both of his. “He’ll be sorely missed around here.”

“Thank you,” Mariah said. It felt weird to realize there were people who missed Dutch more than she did.

With a nod and a handshake to Joe as well, Bunting directed her to a chair. “Let’s get down to work.”

She sat and Joe stood at the back of the room, leaning against the wall with one shoulder, his hands tucked behind him.

Bunting took the chair opposite her, shuffled the papers on his desk, and cleared his throat. “I’m going to read to you what Dutch wrote. He was a cowboy through and through, so he didn’t have an official will. The man didn’t even keep a bank account. Talk about living off the grid. That was your dad. Anyway, he just wrote down his wishes on a piece of paper and brought them to me.”

“When did he do this?” Joe asked.

“Right after you two swapped Miracle for the land. He wanted to make sure that if anything happened to him, Mariah would be taken care of. Other than planning for futurities, I think it was the most planning Dutch ever did.”

Joe bowed his head. “Dutch was a true cowboy.”

Emotion tugged at Mariah’s chest but she couldn’t really name it. Sadness, sure. Loss, yes. But there was another layer there she hadn’t quite felt before. Her father had prepared a place for her. She had been on his mind. He did regret some of the choices he made in life.

“Would you like for me to read it to you?” Art offered.

Mariah nodded, knowing that if she were to read the letter, the tears she’d been holding back would start to fall, and the last thing she wanted was to break down in front of strangers. Destiny had taught her well. You couldn’t let people see how you were feeling. You couldn’t expose your tender underbelly if you didn’t want to get attacked. Of course, she’d never expected her boss to turn out to be her primary attacker. “I’d appreciate that.”

“ ‘Dear Art . . .’ ” Bunting began, then paused to editorialize. “I told you it was an informal letter.” He cleared his throat again, adjusted his reading glasses, and continued to read. “ ‘In case something happens to me, I want to make sure my girl, Mariah, is taken care of. I couldn’t take care of her in life. I didn’t have it in me to be a good daddy. Horses are in my blood and I’m ashamed to say they took over. I left her and her mama high and dry ’cause I knew they’d be better off without me. But Mariah is the best thing I’ve ever done, not that I can claim any credit for raising her. I’m leaving her everything I own—the chunk of land that Joe Daniels traded me for Some Kind of Miracle. Stuffy, the first trophy I ever won, and my Dodge Ram dually. I’m sorry the house is a shack. I should fix it up and hopefully I will before I kick the bucket. If I don’t then it won’t be much good to her the shape it’s in.’ ”

Art paused again, glanced at her to see how she was taking it. Mariah gave him a slight smile, nodded, encouraging him to continue. It was finally sinking in. Her father was dead. She’d never see him again. Never have a chance to reconcile. Unfair. The world was unfair. But she really had no one to blame but herself. She could have reached out to him, let go of her hurt feelings and resentment. But she hadn’t and now it was too late.

“ ‘She’ll probably sell the land,’ ” Art read. “ ‘I wouldn’t blame her. She’s grown up in the city, but part of me can’t help hopin’ she’ll find her way back home to her roots. Her mama’s feet are rooted as deep in Texas soil as mine are, even though Cassie would deny it. But that’s neither here nor there, just explaining a bit. If Mariah does decide to sell the land, I hope she’ll sell it back to Joe. If she doesn’t . . . well, I have a dream. It’s probably a stupid dream, but I can’t get it out of my mind, so here goes. I pray she’ll come back to Texas and that she and Joe will hook up to build an equine center for kids who ain’t got much. I want to make cutting available to kids from all walks of life, not just for those who got a few coins to rub together. Joe and I have talked about such a project and more than likely we’ll get around to it, but just in case something happens and we don’t, I sure hope Mariah or Joe will make my dreams come true. Anyway, that’s what I want, but I understand if Mariah can’t give me that. Thanks, Art, for being a good friend and not acting too much like a damn lawyer.’ ”

Art stopped reading, put down the letter, took off his glasses, and rubbed them against his shirt to clear them of smudges. His eyes were misty. “Your father was a good man. I hope you see your way to making his dreams come true.”

Mariah cast a glance over at Joe. His jaw was clenched as if he was trying to hold back his feelings.

So Dutch’s last wish was for her to go into business with Joe and make an equine facility for underprivileged kids?

Sure it sounded good to Art and Joe. They were cowboys, horsemen. But to Mariah it showed Dutch’s bone-deep selfishness. Everyone in town seemed to love and laud her father, but they didn’t know what it was like to be abandoned by the man who was supposed to love and protect you no matter what.

Dutch had loved horses more than he’d loved her. He all but admitted it in his letter. And yet, in the end, he wanted
her
to follow
his
dream. He hadn’t known her. Hadn’t known her at all. He’d had no real interest in her. In what she wanted. What
she
needed. There was that hurt again. She couldn’t escape it no matter which way she turned.

Mariah pushed back the chair, got to her feet. “Thank you, Mr. Bunting.”

“I suppose you need some time to think this all over, decide what you’re going to do.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t need any time at all. I already know what I want to do. I’m going to put the ranch up for sale. Rock-bottom price. I want out of Jubilee as fast as I can get out of here.”

S
teamed, Joe left the office ahead of Mariah. She had papers to sign, and he was so angry, he needed to walk it off before sharing the cab of his truck with her on the ride back to the ranch. Selfish, spoiled brat. Not even giving her dead father’s request a second thought.

Well fine, that was her prerogative. He didn’t care. He didn’t want her hanging around here anyway, reminding him far too much of Becca, reminding him of how much she’d hurt Dutch. All he wanted was his land back and if she was inclined to sell it to him cheap, then so much the better.

He paced the sidewalk off the town square, trying to figure out how to get his hands on the money to buy her off and send her packing back to Chicago.

Fifteen minutes later, she came out of the office looking . . . well . . . to be honest, she looked like she’d been stirrup-dragged through a cactus patch. Immediately, his anger ebbed.

“Do you mind if I go grocery shopping?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“If I’m going to be stuck here for a while, I need supplies, and on the drive over, I spotted a small grocery on the block behind this one.”

He wanted to say,
Hell no.
He didn’t want to do any favors for her. She pissed him off royally. But the woman needed groceries, so what else was he supposed to do?

She started walking in the direction of the grocery store, leaving him not much of an option but to follow her, although he sure didn’t care for looking like a lapdog. To keep from trailing behind, he took several long-legged steps and caught up with her.