in lieu of the money he owes me.”
That surely wasn’t going to happen. Besides…“Most serious horse breeders prefer artificial insemination.”
His devilishly wicked grin revealed a perfect set of pearly whites. “Call me old-fashioned, but I believe a lady who’s been properly courted behaves better in the bedroom, er…stall, I mean.”
If she squeezed the doorknob any tighter, she’d bust the hardware. “I’m sorry about the gambling debt, but you can’t leave your horses here.” She attempted to slam the door in his face, but a size-thirteen Roper blocked the way. He held out a piece of paper.
No mistaking Ben’s handwriting. She scanned the contents. The message said exactly what Mr. Cartwright claimed—free stud service for three mares valued at thirty thousand dollars—except her husband was to have delivered Son of Sunshine over a month ago to the Lazy River Ranch outside Tulsa, Oklahoma. “Like I said…can’t help you.” When he made no move to take the note, she stuffed it into his shirt pocket, ignoring the hard wall of flesh that her knuckles nudged.
“Mrs. Olson, I’m not leaving until I speak with Ben.”
The resentment and frustration that had been damned up all these months burst free, sending a flood of anger rushing through her. “I’m afraid you’ll have yourself quite a long wait.”
His eyes narrowed, leaving only a slice of blue visible. “And why’s that?”
“Because Ben’s dead.”
The cowboy’s mouth dropped. “Dead…dead?”
Was there any other kind? “Dead as in buried over yonder.” She pointed to a grassy knoll a hundred yards beyond the barn—the family burial ground. Hard to miss her great-grandparents’ headstone standing ten feet high. She motioned to the horse trailer. “I apologize for any inconvenience Ben may have caused you. Good day, Mr. Cartwright.”
This time the door encountered no roadblock and closed with a bang!
DEAD?
Ben Olson couldn’t be dead. Matt had played cards with the bronc rider this past December at the Holt Arena on the campus of Idaho State University. Although they’d run into each other at rodeos through the years, Matt hadn’t known the man well, save for the fact that he had a reputation for gambling—and losing. The way Olson flirted with the rodeo groupies, Matt would never have believed the man had been married. And speaking of wives…
The widow sure hadn’t acted torn up over the loss of her husband. Unless…had he been duped by the couple?
He smashed his Stetson on his head and headed up the hill to the graveyard encased behind a three-foot wrought-iron fence, its rusted finials pointing heavenward. With long strides he covered the ground, spewing cuss words in sync with the gravel bits flying out from beneath his boot heels. He refused to entertain the possibility that his plan to retire from rodeo had encountered a roadblock he was unable to swerve around. He stopped outside the gate and scanned the handful of granite markers. Ben…Ben…Ben…
Oh, hell.
Benjamin Olson
Loving Husband and Father
Matt shifted his attention from the grave marker to the rolling green hills that butted up to the jagged peaks of the southern end of the Teton Mountain Range. His first thought—nice place to be buried. Second thought—now what? It had been evident by the daze on Amy Olson’s face that her husband had failed to mention he’d lost thirty thousand dollars in a poker game.
When Matt had discovered that Olson had recently purchased the famous American quarter horse Son of Sunshine, Matt had been consumed with the idea of breeding his mares with the stallion. At eight years of age the stud was regarded as one of the top-ten cutting horses in the country.
Blame it on karma, kismet or providence, but Matt believed running into Olson at the National Finals Rodeo had been a signal that the time was right for the career change Matt had contemplated for months—raising cutting horses. To begin his new venture with offspring sired by Son of Sunshine was an opportunity Matt hadn’t been able to pass up.
The cutting-horse operation was to be a turning point in Matt’s life, allowing him to retire from rodeo. He remained a contender—one of the top tie-down cowboys on the Prairie Circuit. But at the age of thirty-four he was tired of life on the road, sleeping in dingy motels and eating fast food day in and day out.
In truth, he’d been ready to walk away from the sport when he’d turned thirty. But back then he hadn’t known what he’d wanted to do with the rest of his life—except that he didn’t relish working for his father in the oil business. Matt preferred the smell of a rank barn to thick black crude.
His agreement with Olson had stated that the man was to deliver the stud to his father’s ranch in Oklahoma by the end of April. April had faded into May and no sign of the stud and no contact with Olson.
The clock had been ticking. The mares’ natural breeding season was May through September. When the first week of May had passed and Olson remained a no-show, Matt had taken matters into his own hands and hauled his horses to Idaho.
From his vantage point on the hill the old homestead left a lot to be desired. The shabby two-story white clapboard—most of the paint had peeled off over the years—listed to the left as if the steady Idaho winds were trying to shove it off its foundation. The shutters had faded from glossy black to dull charcoal, and one shutter was missing from a second-story window. Olson hadn’t put any money into upkeep. Not unusual. Most ranchers and horse breeders sunk their profits into their operations.
Next Matt eyed the horse barn—in slightly better condition than the house—and the empty paddocks. Dread settled like a hot road apple in the pit of his stomach. Had the widow sold off the prized stallion?
Guess he’d better find out. Matt returned to the house and stomped up the porch steps. The door opened unexpectedly and he had to yank his arm back to prevent his knuckles from rapping the widow’s forehead.
“Need more proof Ben’s dead, Mr. Cartwright?” Her nose wrinkled as if she’d caught a whiff of a foul odor—him.
Was her testy demeanor the result of her husband’s death or just her normal pleasing personality? First things first. He removed his hat. “My condolences on the loss of your husband.”
His apology sucked the hissy-fit out of her. Her brown eyes softened to the color of well-oiled saddle leather as she murmured, “Thank you.”
When they’d spoken earlier, he hadn’t paid attention to her face. She seemed too damned young to be a widow—clear skin, nondescriptive features and a cap of blondish bouncy curls that bobbed in every direction when she moved her head. She was average height—somewhere between five-five and five-six with curvy hips and plenty of eye-catching bosom. Not that he had any interest in her figure.
He shored up his defenses. He’d learned the hard way that the opposite sex usually possessed an agenda. He’d been burned once by a needy female and refused to walk that road again. And Amy Olson, her brown eyes brimming with bleakness, was the epitome of a woman in need.
“I’m hoping we can reach an agreement regarding your husband’s debt.”
“You must
