How to Handle a Cowboy (6 page)

Ridge sorted the mail on his way into the house. Bills, bills, and more bills. They were definitely paying out more than they were taking in at the Decker ranch these days. When all three brothers grew up and hit the rodeo road, Bill Decker had sold off the cattle. The only livestock he'd kept were a few old horses and his dogs. He'd leased enough pasture to keep the place going, but it wasn't generating any income.

Ridge knew he was lucky to have this family home. It would allow him to figure out what the hell he was going to do with his life now that a particularly high-bucking bronc had decided to roll over and kick around like a dying bug, grinding him into the dirt of the arena before righting itself and stomping him some more. When the dust had cleared that hot July afternoon, Ridge had managed to walk back to the chutes, but his riding arm had dangled from his shoulder like a dead fish hanging on a hook.

It turned out pretty much every bone in his hand was busted. There was something wrong with his neck that required a lot of hardware to fix, and he needed a titanium plate to hold his arm together. The doctors had done their best, but he'd never get his grip back—and no grip meant no rodeo. He could ride all right, same as ever, but he couldn't throw a lasso or hang on to a bronc rope.

Ridge's brother Shane was at the kitchen table, weaving long strands of rawhide together to create a lasso that would spring to life in some lucky cowboy's hands. Ridge, toeing off his boots, put his hand behind his back and tried to flex his fingers. He tested them twenty times a day, maybe more, but the end result never changed; he could barely bend them enough to grip a beach ball.

He slapped the envelopes on the kitchen counter harder than he'd intended. Shane looked up, his expression mild. It took more than a sudden noise to rattle Shane. A wild elephant could tear through the kitchen and he'd just watch it go.

“How was Phoenix House?” he asked.

Ridge shrugged and started to leave the room, but Shane hooked a chair with one foot and whipped it away from the table, blocking Ridge's route to the hallway.

“Sit,” Shane said. “We need to talk.”

Ignoring the chair, Ridge picked up the mail and rested a hip against the counter, pretending to be captivated by an offer for cheap car insurance.

“I said, we need to talk,” Shane said. “You know, that thing people do where you look at another person and speak.”

“Dee can do that.” Ridge glanced over at one of the Border collies sprawled on the rug by the woodstove. “Speak, Dee.”

The dog sat up and barked. Not to be outdone, her companion did the same.

“Dammit, sit.” Shane reached over and snatched the mail out of Ridge's hands.

Ridge sat while the dogs, already sitting, looked confused.

“Did you even go to Phoenix House?”

Ridge should have known he'd get the third degree the minute he got home. Once Shane got an idea in his head, he was like a terrier with a bone, and he was determined to help Ridge rise from the ashes of his rodeo career and spread his wounded wings—or something like that. Shane read too much, and it showed.

“Well, did you?” He talked too much too.

“Yeah, I went there.”

“Good.” Shane gave a sharp, satisfied nod. “So when are the kids coming?”

“They're not.”

“How come?”

Ridge turned away and tore open a utility bill. “The lady who runs the place doesn't think it's safe.”

“It's not up to her. The guy who owns the place approved it. It's a done deal, and it's her job to make it happen.” Shane narrowed his eyes. “You didn't even try to change her mind, did you?”

Busted.

“Look, I'm not ready for this.” Ridge tore open another bill, this one for the feedstore. “I'm still trying to figure out my future, still trying to get over Shelley.”

Dang, he sounded like one of the touchy-feely cowboys in the book Shelley had left behind—the one he'd been reading in the evenings. It was a Western, but the cowboy on the cover had his shirt off and was giving the viewer a slack-jawed stare that made Ridge wonder if he had sense enough to find the front end of a horse. There were some pretty sexy scenes in it, but everybody in it had
feelings
, and they spent a lot of time talking about them.

Ridge didn't see the point of digging too deeply into emotional stuff. If you ignored your feelings long enough, they'd eventually go away. Of course, so did your girlfriend. But in his case, that had been for the best. Shelley had loved him, supposedly, and he'd liked her just fine. But when he'd looked down inside himself for more, all he found was guilt and a grudging sense of duty.

“You were over Shelley before her boots hit the highway,” Shane said. “You just want to keep on sulking around here on your own, I guess.”

Ridge shrugged. “That's my choice.”

Shane shoved his chair back, clearly irritated. “What are you going to do with yourself, then? Rodeo's not an option. You need to move on. What's your plan B?”

“There is no plan B.” Ridge felt a fierce, hot anger well up inside him, a hot, flowing mass that threatened to spill over and burn everything in its path. “Plan A was to win a championship by the time I was thirty. I did that. Next, I was aiming for the all-around title. That was the
only
plan.”

“Well, it's not going to happen.” Shane strode to the sink and began rinsing dirty dishes and slotting them into the dishwasher. “Every rodeo cowboy needs a plan B. You get hurt, you get old—you can't do it all your life, you know? But for you, it's always been the one thing. You're a single-minded son of a bitch.”

“That's what it takes,” Ridge said. “If you want to win, you've got to give it all you've got, and damn the consequences. You can't think about losing when you need to stick on the back of a bull. You can't think about failing when the calf shoots out of the gate and you need your rope right there, right…”

He'd been gesturing subconsciously while he spoke, and now he raised his hand as if throwing a loop—but the hand wouldn't cooperate. He was just flailing at the air.

He dropped the hand in his lap and it lay there motionless. Human roadkill.

“Having a plan B means that deep down, you believe you might not win,” he said. “And that kind of belief makes it impossible to be the best. I've been shooting for the top of the standings since I was fourteen. Never thought I'd need another plan.”

Rage rose in his throat and harsh words tumbled out. “Who are you to talk about plans, anyway?” He jabbed a finger at Shane. “Was it your plan to have a kid before you graduated high school?” He knew every word spilling from his lips was a mistake, but he couldn't seem to stop. “Was it your plan for Amber to have to go through all the shame and the whispering? Was it your plan for her to take off with the baby on the first bus out of town? You haven't seen your son since he was a month old. Don't talk to me about plans.”

“I didn't say plans always work out.” Shane barely bothered to look up from the suds-filled sink. It was damn near impossible to get a rise out of him. “I'm just saying you need to come up with something. Otherwise, you'll end up being the Jack Daniel's champion of Wyoming.”

Shane had a point. Having his purpose whipped away overnight had left Ridge with an aching, empty spot inside, and lately he'd been filling it up with high-test whiskey.

“What are you going to do, Ridge?” Shane's tone was so gentle Ridge wanted to punch him.

“I can always train horses. I'll get Moonpie fixed up and ready to sell, maybe take in a few outside horses.”

Shane grinned. “You'll never fix that horse. And I'm not sure he's worth fixing.”

“You're wrong on that.”

Ridge pictured the big buckskin out in the corral, kicking up his heels and snorting, endlessly raging at the confines of his new life. The horse was the result of his recent fondness for Jack Daniel's and a random impulse to attend a Bureau of Land Management mustang sale. The whiskey had heightened his estimation of his own horse-training skills, and somehow he hadn't noticed the animal's obvious character defects. It was only when he went to load the animal into his trailer that he realized he'd taken on a kicking, biting bundle of nerves.

“I'll get him fixed up,” he said. “Get him so he can live in this world, at least.”

“Maybe you ought to try for a grown-up goal this time,” Shane said. “Something that does the world some good and goes a little beyond buckles and babes.”

Ridge shoved his chair back so he could face his brother, letting the legs screech on the wood floor.

“You think that's all it was about?”

Shane shrugged. “That's all it was about for me. Why? What was it about for you?”

Ridge opened his mouth to answer and realized he didn't know what the hell it had been about. Rodeo had always felt like the most important thing in the world, maybe because it was the one thing he excelled at. But damned if he could think what the point of it was.

Great. Not only had he had his livelihood ripped away, but now his brother had taken his purpose too. At this rate, he ought to go lie down in the corral so Moonpie could kick him in the head and put him out of his misery.

An uncomfortable silence filled the room, palpable and dense as cotton wool. Shane turned back to the sink and started on the pile of bowls and plates that were stacked on the counter, but it wasn't long before he shook off his wet hands and strode over to the door.

“Brady, get in here,” he hollered. “I'm tired of cleaning up your mess.”

Their younger brother wandered down from upstairs with his jeans half-zipped and his hair tousled from sleep. Instead of helping with the dishes, he started opening cupboards and drawers in his endless search for victuals. He was the baby of the family but calling him that was a sure way to earn a punch on the jaw. A rookie bronc rider, he had all the attitude of a seasoned rodeo veteran and the appetite of a grizzly bear fresh from hibernation. Finding a box of Cheerios, he poured some into a soup bowl.

“I'll get to the dishes, Shane,” he said. “I just need a bite to eat first.”

“Got a danged tapeworm,” Shane grumbled under his breath.

Brady opened the refrigerator door and grabbed a carton of milk. Gulping a long slug out of the carton, he eyed Ridge. “So it's a no go on Phoenix House?”

Ridge nodded. “You listening at doors now?”

“No. But I saw his face.” He aimed his thumb over his shoulder at Shane. “Figured you'd spoiled his plan.” Sidetracked from the cereal by the refrigerator's largesse, he peered into a plastic tub that contained what was left of the previous night's cowboy stew and sniffed. It must have smelled okay, because he set the container on the counter and removed the lid.

“So, Brady,” Ridge said. “Why do you do rodeo?”

Brady grinned. “Buckles and babes. Why? Is there some other reason?”

Ridge shook his head. He knew better than to seek worldly wisdom from his shallow little brother.

Brady shoved the lid toward the sink. “So you're not going after the hot chick that runs Phoenix House? Women need to be educated in the cowboy way, you know. The cowboy way of ridin', the cowboy way of livin', and most of all, the cowboy way of makin' love.”

He drew out the last word as he opened a drawer and fished out a spoon then grabbed another bowl from a cupboard. But by the time he got back to the stew, Shane had clapped the lid back on.

“That's dinner.”

“What, the chick?” Brady winked at Ridge. “That would be okay with me. If you're not interested, I might stop on over there and get acquainted.”

Ridge felt a hot churning in his gut. He might not be interested in Sierra Dunn, but he wouldn't let her become one of Brady's many casualties. The kid mowed through women like a McCormick reaper, leaving them flattened in his wake. Ridge might not be good at relationships, but at least he never deliberately hurt anyone.

Brady didn't either, he supposed. He just expected women to have the same attitude toward sex as he did. It was a recreational activity in his eyes, no more significant than a game of pickup basketball.

Ridge shoved his chair back and stalked over to the refrigerator to investigate the stew container while Brady doused the cereal with milk until it floated.

“Well, if you're not interested, she's up for grabs, right?”

Ridge slammed the refrigerator door and spun around, jostling Brady so that the cereal bowl flew from his hand. Cheerios and milk splatted onto the floor. Brady looked down at the mess and laughed.

“Guess you are interested.”

Ridge grabbed a roll of paper towels and handed it to Brady. “Clean up the mess,” he said. “And then you need to do those dishes. Shane and I are sick and tired of cleaning up after you.”

Brady knelt and began cleaning up the cereal, grinning the whole time. “I'm thinking you're the one who's a mess, big brother. There's finally a woman worth chasing in this town, and you've got all the time in the world to do it, but are you going to go after her? Nope. You'd rather go out there and play with that damned feebleminded horse.”

“Moonpie's not feebleminded. And what I do is my business,” Ridge said. “But Sierra's a nice girl. Way out of your league.”

He strode out of the room, surprised and relieved that Shane hadn't had anything more to say about the volunteering issue. But when he snuck a glance over his shoulder, his older brother's eyes were on him, dark and contemplative. Something was going on in his bossy big brother's scheming brain.

Ridge headed for his bedroom. The house hadn't changed much since they were kids, so he, Shane, and Brady still had their boyhood rooms. His was a festival of all things cowboy, including old rodeo photos signed by past stars like Jim Shoulders and Jim Charles; a rope and a riding glove hanging on the back of his desk chair; and a pine bedstead that looked like it was made from a wagon wheel.