Tate had five years to fill her head with lies about him. Cooper felt a stab of sadness for what might have been. A stab of sadness for what he’d let go. He fought against a deeper ache, because while everyone up in the valley knew there never was any love lost between him and Tate, they all knew how both of them had fallen head over heels for Willow Courtland. She had no reason to ever doubt the trueness of a heart Coop always wore on his sleeve. But she’d unwittingly played into his and Tate’s battle from junior high until after they’d gone to college at Texas A&M.
Instead of saying anything more, Coop backed his surefooted quarter horse Legend out of the trailer, then retrieved the sorrel he called Rusty. He led Rusty to a shade tree surrounded by patchy grass and looped his lead rope over a branch. About to comment on how cool it was beneath the old oak, Coop was surprised to discover that Willow had left and returned to the house. The screen door still quivered behind her.
He shook his head to clear it of memories reaching back to college days, when he and Willow had first made love, and then forward to the time he assumed he’d won the rivalry with Tate. It still galled him to think how easily Tate had stepped into his place when he’d taken off to rodeo. Tate had lost no time filling the void of Coop’s absence, and as a result, Tate had walked away with the top prize. She was the woman Cooper had fully expected to spend his life with—the woman he’d expected to have his children.
That kind of reminiscing held only negative implications and no positives. Jaw locked, he tossed a well-worn saddle on Legend, slid on a bridle and climbed aboard the horse. Coop swept off his hat and with a satisfying cowboy yell of “Hiya hi hi!” he sent Willow’s renegade steers trotting off in the direction of the pond.
* * *
WILLOW STOOD BY the living-room window, careful to stay in the shadows where Coop couldn’t possibly see her, and admired the efficiency with which he rounded up and drove the cattle out of her front yard. She should’ve kept the horse that Tate’s dad had given him when they moved to this ranch. But in the year since Tate’s death, she’d had to let go of several items and animals, whose sale became necessary for their daily survival. Her daughter, Lillybelle, needed expensive care that wasn’t readily available here.
Would it be so horrible if she accepted Cooper’s offer to help out with some of the harder chores around the ranch? So what if he learned how big a mess Tate had left her in? Darn, but she tried so hard to keep up, to hold her head high, and not let on how dire her straits were. It shocked her when Cooper said folks had gossiped about her. She couldn’t tell if he already knew Tate had died when she brought it up. Of course, the part-timers she’d hired probably had talked about her after they left. She’d backed a few of them off with an old unloaded shotgun, which she hated, although it served its purpose—deterring amorous cowboys on the prowl. Heaven only knew what hairy stories they told about her around the campfire. Some of the cowboys hadn’t wanted to take no for an answer.
And therein lay the problem with letting Cooper Drummond stay a few days. The concern might not come from him—he’d always been a gentleman. It would more likely come from her, and the risk that she’d reveal how often he’d wormed his way into her thoughts over the years. Perhaps because of that, Willow had mistakenly assumed he’d come to find her. But why would he?
If she did let him handle a few chores, the same rules that she set for all her hired help would have to apply to him, as well. No fraternization with the lady of the ranch. Zero. Nada. Zippo. Even as she voiced the words aloud, her heart gave a little jolt, and she tried to ward off memories of how comforted she’d always felt in Coop’s strong arms. As a boy who grew up tossing around hay bales and wrestling down steers for branding, he’d always had muscles. But now that he was a man, Willow could only imagine how years of keeping thousand-pound-plus bucking horses in check had honed Coop’s upper body.
Shuddering, she thrust aside that particular image.
She led Lily to the kitchen table, and boosted her up on a wooden box tied to a chair. Willow retrieved a box of graham crackers, relishing the flash of delight in her child’s eyes. She was less happy to see that the box was almost empty. So were her other cupboards, and her bank balance was severely strained. If Coop decided to stick around, he’d need to be fed. Working men, as she knew from having fed a few ranch hands of late, expected hearty meals. She scrimped, but she couldn’t cut back when it came to feeding her daughter or the workers. She’d come to resent the way Tate had spent so much money on booze, gambling and women in town. He’d stopped working on the ranch, and as a result, he’d gone to flab. She’d have left if he hadn’t sworn he’d have Lily taken away from her. That had scared her into staying.
Coop’s arrival brought to the fore so many regrets that Willow had repeatedly told herself should remain buried with Tate. As her mother had pointed out, she’d made the choice to marry him. Made her bed, so to speak, and now needed to tough it out. Lie in it and cry in it, alone all her livelong nights.
* * *
OUT ON THE RANGE, Coop rode along the flimsy fence and noted several spots in need of reinforcement. There were two fields that should be ripe with summer hay, but which had been trampled by a herd that was probably too big for the acres Willow had.
Climbing off Legend, he inspected some winter grass chewed down to the roots. It was a field where summer rye should have been reseeded. Straightening, Coop squinted into the sun as he let a handful of soil filter through his fingers and watched it blow off in the wind. He tried to gauge if Willow had the resources to save her herd long enough to fatten them up and truck them to the nearest stockyard. Maybe yes. Maybe no.
All the ranchers he’d visited in the south of Texas had complained about the extended drought. Perhaps Willow figured it was a waste money to replant fields that might not produce. Except she had the pond. Near as Coop could tell, it was partially fed by the stream she’d mentioned, but there also had to be underground artesian springs for the pond to be so full of sweet water—a lifeline for the cattle she did have.
The whole place seemed awfully run-down considering that Tate had only died a year ago. On the other hand, who was he to judge? Coop chided himself. He had let Sully struggle alone to keep the Triple D afloat. Willow was alone too—and she had a child.
If coming here and stumbling upon her again did nothing else, it made Coop realize that when he finished helping Willow, it was time he go home. How far in the future that would be depended on how much assistance Willow was willing to let him provide.
She’d posted the ranch for sale. She probably didn’t want to sink too much money into a ranch she didn’t intend to hang on to. Even a small investment would increase her chances for attracting a buyer, but it’d been patently obvious that money was an issue with her. Unless her problem was with hiring him. Coop had to accept that Willow may not have harbored the same warm feelings he’d recently rediscovered. Feelings that, for him, had lain dormant. They’d had some good times back in the old days, he thought. Well, not that old, as Willow had pointed out. So, her humorous side wasn’t totally gone.
* * *
WILLOW NEEDED TO clean Lilybelle after the graham crackers ended up all over her face and shirt. “Come on, girly. Shower time for us.”
She took a few extra minutes to wash and blow-dry her own hair, all the while insisting she wasn’t trying to improve her looks for Cooper.
“Don’t we look pretty,” she exclaimed, holding her daughter up to the dresser mirror as she brushed out the girl’s nut-brown curls, loving the way they fell in perfect ringlets around her pixie face. Willow’s own hair was straight as a stick and was so unremarkable she usually pulled it back in a ponytail.
