Chapter Eight
The new Dodge Ram pickup bounced along the graveled drive that led to the Double G Ranch, where Matt Grimes intended to hole up until he recovered from his injury and could return to the rodeo circuit.
The afternoon sun’s glare was damn near blinding, so he reached for the visor, only to miss spotting another pothole, this one bigger than the last. Pain shot through his bum knee, and he swore under his breath. He’d have to convince Uncle George that it was finally time to pave the blasted road or they’d need an all-terrain vehicle to get to the house.
Matt hadn’t been home since the Christmas before last, so he probably should have called to let his uncle know he was coming, but he’d decided to surprise him.
He swerved to avoid another hole, a quick move that jarred his knee again, and he gritted his teeth in pain. The last bull he’d ridden, Grave Digger, had thrown him to the ground, stepping on him in the process. He hadn’t suffered a fracture, only tissue damage. But it hurt like hell, and the doctor seemed to think it would take a while for him to heal.
But come hell or high water, Matt was determined to compete in the Rocking Chair Rodeo, which would benefit two of his favorite charities—a local home for retired cowboys, as well as one for abused and neglected kids. On top of that, Esteban Enterprises had used Matt’s name to promote the rodeo, and all the ads and posters sported his photo and practically claimed Local Boy Makes Good. Hopefully, he’d heal quickly so he could live up to the hype.
When he pulled up to the small ranch house and parked, he remained behind the wheel for a while, rubbing the ache in his knee and stunned as he scanned the yard and noticed how different things were. Damn. His uncle had been busy. No wonder he hadn’t gotten around to fixing the road yet.
A lamb stood under a canopy covering part of a small pen near the barn. A new chicken coop had been built, too, with several hens clucking and pecking at the ground. A black-and-white Shetland pony was corralled near the house and an unfamiliar car was parked in the drive.
What in the hell was going on? Had Uncle George hired someone new? He had ranch hands who worked the cattle, but he’d never put a lot of effort into the yard.
Matt climbed out of the truck, wincing when he put weight on his right leg. As he reached for his cane, a mixed-breed dog wearing a red Western kerchief around its neck rushed at him, barking as if it had super-canine strength and planned to take on a pack of wolves.
Before Matt had to fend off the shepherd-mix with his cane, Uncle George stepped out onto the porch from inside the house, squinting at the glare caused by the sunlight hitting a metal wind chime—a fancy addition that hadn’t been there before.
George lifted his hand to shade his eyes and called off the stupid mutt. It obeyed the old man’s gruff tone, but it still eyed Matt as if it wasn’t yet convinced he wasn’t a burglar who’d come to rob the ranch at gunpoint.
“What’s going on?” Matt asked, his voice edged with irritation.
The screen door screeched open again, and out walked a little girl in pigtails wearing a white blouse with a green 4-H kerchief tied around her neck, blue jeans and sneakers. The dog took a look at her, wagged its tail and then began barking at Matt all over again.
The girl hurried to the mutt, dropped to her knees and hugged the dog’s neck. “Shush, Sweetie Pie. It’s okay.”
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Uncle George finally said. “My long-lost nephew. What’d you do? Lose your cell phone?”
“I’ve been busy.” While that was true, Matt still should have called. Maybe then he’d know who that little girl was. Had his uncle taken on a babysitting gig to supplement his Social Security? And what was with the menagerie—ponies, chickens, dogs and who knew what else?
A soft breeze kicked up, causing the wind chime to tinkle, while Matt tried to make sense of it all. Before he could prod his uncle for an explanation, the girl turned to the house and called out, “Mommy! Hurry up. We’re going to be late to the 4-H meeting.”
Matt leaned on his cane, confused. Dazed. He shot a glance at his uncle. The white-haired man still favored jeans and flannel shirts, like the red one he wore today. His clothes fit him much better. The tall, lanky man had filled out since the last time Matt had been home.
Apparently, “Mommy” was a good cook.
As Matt took a step toward his uncle, his bad knee nearly gave out, causing him to wince and wobble. He used his cane for balance and swore under his breath.
“You’d better sit down before you fall down,” George said. “What’d you do to yourself?”
“Crossed paths with the wrong bull.” Matt hobbled up the steps to the wraparound porch, which was adorned with pots of red geraniums and colorful pansies. He had no idea how long “Mommy” had been here, but long enough to make her mark.
“One day a bull is gonna break your neck instead of your leg,” Uncle George said. “I hope you learned your lesson this time and are finally giving up the rodeo. You’re getting too old for that crazy kid stuff.”
“It’s barely a scratch. I’ll be ready to ride again—or even have another run-in with Grave Digger—in a few weeks.” Matt glanced at the colorful heart-shaped welcome mat at the door. “Is my room available?”
His uncle gestured to one of the rockers on the porch. “Your room is always ready for you. I keep thinking you’ll finally come to your senses and move home where you belong.”
Matt limped to a chair. He didn’t really belong anywhere, a lesson he’d learned early on. He took a seat, rested his cane against the small wicker table and set his rocker in motion. His uncle sat in the chair next to his.
For a moment, he savored the familiar earthy scent of the only place that came close to being the home he could actually call his own. But now he wasn’t so sure about that. Apparently, a lot had changed in the past year and a half.
Matt lowered his voice and asked, “So what’s going on?”
His uncle shrugged a single shoulder,
