Chapter 13
New York Times bestselling author VICKI LEWIS THOMPSON’s love affair with cowboys started with the Lone Ranger, continued through Maverick and took a turn south of the border with Zorro. She views cowboys as the Western version of knights in shining armor—rugged men who value honor, honesty and hard work. Fortunately for her, she lives in the Arizona desert, where broad-shouldered, lean-hipped cowboys abound. Blessed with such an abundance of inspiration, she only hopes that she can do them justice. Visit her website, www.vickilewisthompson.com.
To the dedicated folks who devote endless hours and abandon creature comforts so that our precious wildlife is protected. Thank you!
July 3, 1984, Last Chance Ranch
ON PRINCIPLE, ARCHIBALD CHANCE approved of getting the ranch house gussied up for the Independence Day festivities. He was as patriotic as the next man. But the excitement of an impending party had transformed his usually well-behaved grandsons into wild things. From his position on a ladder at the far end of the porch, he could hear all three of them tearing around inside. He hoped to get the red, white and blue streamers tacked up before any of them came out.
That hope died as the screen door banged open and a bundle of two-year-old energy with a fistful of small flags raced down the porch toward him. The kid was more interested in who was coming after him than looking where he was going. A tornado in tiny cowboy boots.
“Nicky!” The screen door banged again as Sarah, Archie’s daughter-in-law, dashed after him.
Giggling, Nicky put his head down and ran as fast as his little legs would carry him. With no time to climb down, Archie dropped the bunting, tossed the nails into the coffee can and braced himself against the ladder as he shouted a warning.
Fortunately Sarah was quick. She scooped up both boy and flags a split second before he smashed into the ladder. “Those are for the table, young man.”
“I gots flags, Mommy!” the little boy crowed.
“Yes, and they have pointy ends. Don’t run with them, Nicholas.” Sarah glanced up at Archie. “Sorry about that.”
“Gabe gots flags, too!” Nicky announced.
Sarah wheeled around, and sure enough, there was little Gabe, not yet two, motoring toward them with a flag in each hand.
“I wager somebody’s supplying them with those,” Archie said.
“Yes, I wager you’re right. And his name is Jack. Excuse me, Archie. I have a five-year-old who needs a reminder about the dangers of giving pointy objects to little boys.” Confiscating the flags from both toddlers amid wails of distress, she herded them back inside.
“You’re doing a great job, Sarah!” Archie called after her. He never
