show his age. The big dog had arrived a few years ago with Shelby as her protector and sole companion. The welcoming grin on his grizzled face would be sorely missed when he was gone.
Luke grabbed his bag and Tom’s from the backseat as Shelby Cameron opened the kitchen door. Tom handed her the peach pie, struck as always by his dad’s rare good luck in his second marriage. Shelby’s long hair shone like a blackbird’s wing while her skin seemed to gather the winter sunlight.
“I know Marge just fed you up,” she said, “but I made beignets this morning. Luke, come have a few before you ride out. Your dad found a section of fence down when he and Lucy checked the heifers this morning. I know they would appreciate your help.”
She turned to Tom. “I’ve got the chair heated up. Sit—I’ll bring you coffee.”
Luke rolled his eyes in mock disdain; although next time he might occupy the big recliner with its heat and massage after taking a beating from the bulls. He left the kitchen and returned a few minutes later dressed in faded jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt that had seen better days. “Here’s that article for Shelby,” he said and handed Tom the pages from Joanna Dace.
“Take the rest of the beignets along,” Shelby said, handing him a paper bag. “And make sure a few get to your dad and your sister.”
Luke grinned. “You’re a mean one, Stepmama.” He grabbed a flannel-lined Carhartt jacket and a billed cap with earflaps from a hook by the door on his way out.
Tom relaxed and closed his eyes. He’d be pulling his weight by morning and ready to straddle another set of bulls next weekend, but just now he never wanted to move from the chair with its comforting heat penetrating his sore muscles.
Shelby began chopping onions and green peppers for dirty rice, a favorite of both Tom and Luke’s. An hour passed and Tom levered the chair upright and stood, twisting his shoulders and back experimentally—still sore, but good enough for now.
“I’ll get some of the barn work done before the others get back,” he said. “Is Dad behaving himself?”
“As long as I’m watching him,” Shelby said. “I know he does more than he should as soon as he’s out of my sight, but Lucy helps me keep after him when she’s home.”
“You mind if I ride Ghost this week? His gaits will be easiest on my back.”
“I wish you would,” Shelby said. “I don’t work him as much as I should. I spent all day Saturday doing a 4-H workshop in Grand Junction, and I’ll have even less time when Lucy goes back to Boulder day after tomorrow.” She reached into a jar above the sink and handed Tom a few licorice drops. “Apologize to him for me.”
Tom changed into rubber paddock boots and headed for the barn. Shelby’s gray stallion must have heard him coming or maybe smelled the licorice, his special treat. Ghost stuck his nose over the top rail of his corral and blew a loud breath. Even furred like a teddy bear in his winter coat, his fine legs and delicately shaped face hinted at his Barb ancestry. He’d already sired a nice string of foals that Shelby trained and sold for ranch work.
Tom fed him the candy and scratched along the curve of his jaw. “You feel like working, buddy? We’ll check the south fence line tomorrow, maybe stop in for lunch at the Bucks’s.” He grinned in anticipation. Auntie Rose, a distant cousin, made the best fry bread in La Plata County.
The sun was already sliding toward the western horizon—no sense for him to saddle up now to help the fence crew. He worked his way through the barn, mucking out Ghost’s stall and freshening his water bucket, finishing the repair on a partially mended cinch strap in the tack room and forking down fresh hay for the half dozen horses in the corral next to Ghost’s. A tall chestnut mare ambled over for special attention. Sadie had some age on her, but she was still everyone’s first choice for hunting; he’d shot over her head ever since he was old enough to handle a long gun.
He leaned on the gate, gazing out along tracks left in the snow by his dad’s and sister’s horses, followed by the hoofprints of Luke’s mount. A narrow path branched off to the knoll where the Camerons had laid their dead for more than a hundred years. He and Luke and Lucy had learned to read from the grave markers while their mom tended the flowers planted there, tracing the letters and numbers on the stones: Husband and Father, Beloved Wife, Infant Son; 1888, 1914, 1985... Memorials to Cameron men buried in France in 1918 and lost at Guadalcanal. His mother’s grave was the most recent one.
Ghost let out a brassy neigh; Lucy’s mare Goosie answered. Three horses emerged from the willows along the creek and crunched through the snow toward the barn. Tom swung the corral gate wide for them and took the horses’ reins as the riders dismounted.
“Nice to see you’re done goofing off,” Luke said. “Now that we’ve done all the work.”
“Timing is everything,” Tom said. “I plan to check the south fence line tomorrow.”
Lucy Cameron pulled off her knit cap, allowing red-gold curls to frame her face. “I really thought you were going to make the eight on Gunslinger this time.”
Tom pulled on one curl. “Next time, Red—I promise.”
“Don’t call me Red.” She slapped his hand away. “I’ll be so glad to get back to my dorm.”
“Heads up, Boulder,” Luke said. “Hurricane Lucy on the horizon!”
Jake Cameron pulled the saddle off Butch, his dun gelding. “Good event, son. I see you’re still leading in the national standings.”
Tom shrugged and tapped on the corral rail for luck. “Doesn’t mean much this early in the season.”
They finished unsaddling and turned the horses loose for their hay as the sun dipped below the horizon to the southwest. The aroma of Cajun spices greeted them from the kitchen when they entered the back door and kicked off their boots in the mudroom.
Shelby turned from the stove with a wooden spoon in her hand. “Supper in ten minutes,” she said.
“Yes, boss.” Jake swept her hair aside and dropped a kiss on the back of her neck; her hand curved around his cheek.
Lucy put together a salad while Tom set out plates and Luke carried roast chicken and a bowl with the dirty rice to the table. They ate mostly in silence until Shelby served bowls of bread pudding with bourbon sauce for dessert.
Tom handed around Joanna Dace’s features. “I’d like you guys to read these.”
Jake looked up after he’d finished both articles. “What’s this about, Tom?”
“She wants to write about a bull rider next.”
“Our Tom, to be exact,” Luke said.
Lucy clapped her hands like a five-year-old. “You’ll be famous!”
“Your brother’s already pretty well-known where he needs to be, Luce,” Jake said, “although I expect his sponsors would be pleased.” He turned to Tom. “Could you stay focused on your riding with this lady practically living in your back pocket?”
Tom spooned the last drops of sauce out of his dish before answering. “I don’t know. She’s a helluva writer—I’d kind of like to see how she puts her work
