a bad impression with Buster. Then he stepped into his favorite Justin boots, picked up his Stetson and, locking the door behind him, hurried down the hall and out the door.
His brother Hunt was coming up the steps of the mansion as Joiner was going down.
“Morning, bro!” Hunt flashed him the smile that had made him famous as the Cowboy Chef. “Did you have breakfast?”
“No time. I’ve got to go see about that forty acres. Supposed to be there at eight o’clock.”
“I can have someone feed Pistol for you.”
“I’ve got it.” Joiner reached out his fist and Hunt bumped it with his. “See you later.”
Joiner crossed the lawn, passing the guesthouse where Hunt and Gillian were staying while their new lodge, which would be their personal home, was under construction by the lake at the rear of the property. He headed to the lavishly remodeled barn where Pistol was boarded. Pistol looked up immediately when Joiner entered, as if he’d been waiting for him.
Man, he loved this horse. A carbon-black Argentine Thoroughbred, Pistol was the one dream Joiner had not left behind with the rest of his polo career. He filled a bucket with oats and brushed the horse till his coat shone in the soft morning light that filtered through the barn windows.
“I’ve got to go, but when I get back we’ll go for a ride.”
Pistol nuzzled him and Joiner rubbed the white star that blazed across the horse’s forehead. “Hopefully I’ll have us both a place where we can finally settle down.” Although, admittedly, Joiner didn’t know if he’d ever be happy settling down...
* * *
THE SILVER TRUCK kicked up so much dust that Buster could see it coming more than a mile down the driveway. He finished milking Violet and Minnie, the two goats, and took the pails inside for Stella to strain. He was already gathering the eggs when the truck came to a stop under Stella’s old basketball hoop. The truck wasn’t that new and wasn’t that shiny. A man got out and Buster sized him up as he strode toward the front door of the house. He was a good size, broad-shouldered, and what Buster’s mother would have described as too pretty to be a boy.
“Hey there!”
Joiner started at the sound of Buster’s voice from the chicken coop across the yard. He turned around.
“Mr. Scout?”
Buster ceremoniously wiped chicken poop off his hand and extended it toward Joiner. The young man hesitated only an instant before reaching out to take it. There was something like a dare in his violet eyes.
“Ha-ha! Gotcha!” Buster laughed, withdrawing his hand, and the young man laughed, too.
“You got me.”
“It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Temple.”
It was immediately obvious to Buster that this Temple boy was very different from Stella. And it might be nice for both of them to have him around...
* * *
“CALL ME JOINER. PLEASE.” He followed Buster around behind the house, where the older man set the pail of eggs down on the porch, and then pumped water from an old-fashioned spicket in order to wash his hands.
“Let’s sit up here on the porch. Do you like coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.” Joiner took a seat in one of the wooden rockers while Buster walked past him and into the house. He noticed that in the distance there was a ratty-looking RV parked under some trees.
Buster came back with two coffee mugs and two Boston terriers, who ran to surround his rocker. Joiner reached down to return their affection.
“I hope you like it black.”
Joiner nodded, although he preferred a little cream.
“Good. I never can stand a man who doctors his coffee. My daughter takes sugar and cream—all of that girly stuff. But a man should drink black coffee.” Buster plopped down in the other rocker. “It puts hair on your chest.”
Joiner had all of the hair he needed but he took a sip anyhow. The coffee tasted like tar. “Thanks,” he sputtered.
“This is Mugsy.” Buster pointed to the bigger of the two dogs. Mugsy was twenty-five pounds of solid muscle and all black except for his three-quarter-moon white face. Brown eyes sparkled over a smashed-in nose. The mutt grinned and displayed an under bite and crooked teeth. Joiner could almost imagine him smoking a cigar.
“And this little girl right here is Mitzi.” Buster’s voice crooned as if he was talking to a baby. She turned over by his feet and he reached down to rub her tummy, which was none too small, even though she was more petite than Mugsy. Mitzi had more of a terrier’s nose, and lots more white fur to go with the black. It was speckled with what looked like black freckles. Joiner immediately took to them both.
“So you’re interested in my north forty acres. What do you want it for?”
“Well, sir, I’m searching for a place to build a little horse-breeding operation. Nothing large-scale, but enough to get me by.”
“Aren’t you some kind of polo player?”
“I was. Started in college, and then I was drafted by a European team. I had some fun over there, but the truth is, I just can’t afford to make polo a career.” Joiner ran a hand through his hair. “I poured most of my inheritance into it before I figured that out. When people call polo ‘the sport of kings’ that’s because only kings have enough money to play it seriously.”
Buster squinted at Joiner, who hoped he was making some sense to the older man.
“How’d a Texas cowboy end up playing that sissy kind of sport, anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Joiner did mind. But he was used to it. Being a polo player was about as unconventional as a Texas cowboy could get. Still, the older man’s prejudices were starting to get on his nerves.
“It’s very competitive, and it requires a lot of skill of both the rider and the horse.” He was blunt.
“Well, don’t get your panties in a wad. I didn’t mean nothing. I’m just trying to understand it, that’s all.” Buster stroked his beard. “I used to rodeo. Sunk every dime I had into it, and spent all my time on the road. I loved it, but I have to admit I missed a lot of my daughter’s growing-up years and I regret that. It may be a good thing you’ve got the road out of your system before you settle down and have a family.”
Joiner blushed. “I have no plans for that, Mr. Scout.”
“Never knew many cowboys who did.”
The back door creaked open and a stunning young woman in jeans, a gingham shirt and red cowboy boots stomped through it. Some kind of silver necklace glinted on her neck when she bent to pick up the pail of eggs Buster had set on the steps. She started toward the door again, but Buster stopped her.
“Hey, Pretty, come here. I want you to meet Mr. Joiner Temple.”
The
