He watched the car until it disappeared from sight. It would serve the fool woman right if she slid off the road again. But it wasn’t his job to worry about her safety. He wasn’t a cop anymore.
By the time he’d checked the water storage tank and made sure no pipes were frozen, he was in serious pain. The hard fall hadn’t broken any bones, but he ached in every joint and muscle. He knew, without checking, that there was nothing in the medicine cabinet except toothpaste, dental floss, Band-Aids, and a flattened tube of antibiotic salve. If he wanted to make it through the rest of the week, he would need to pick up some ibuprofen and maybe some good old-fashioned liniment. That would mean driving to town—a trip he made no more often than necessary.
Chiseling the ice off the front and rear windshields of the truck took almost half an hour. The forecast for last night had been rain. If he’d known the rain was going to freeze, he would have covered the vehicle with a tarp or parked it in the barn. Live and learn. He’d arrived here late last winter and managed to survive. But the season had been mild, with only one big storm. Something told him this winter would be different.
The truck started on the first try. Travis was a decent mechanic. Last summer he’d managed to get the abandoned tractor running and used the old tiller, rake, and other rusty attachments to raise two crops of hay. The barn was piled high with rectangular bales that were just light enough for a man to lift. When Travis had started up the old hay baler, he’d forced himself to forget that this machine had cost his father one of his legs. That had been thirty years ago, when Travis was a small boy. His father still lived in Branding Iron. But Travis had bitter memories of the man. Now he wanted nothing to do with him.
As he backed out of the gate, which swung loose from the damaged post, he asked himself one more time whether he could really make a go of this ranch. There was so much to be done, and so little in the way of resources to do it with. Maybe he’d be better off selling the land, pulling up stakes, and starting over somewhere new.
Selling the hay to neighboring farms and ranches had given him enough money to live on—but he was barely getting by. He needed more income from the ranch. But buying even a few calves to raise and sell would require money he didn’t have, and no bank he’d ever talked to would grant a loan to an ex-convict.
He could look for a job. He hadn’t tried in Branding Iron. But facing another string of rejections was more than his pride could handle. A man with his record couldn’t be trusted to muck out a stable without stealing the horses.
Gloomy thoughts for a gloomy day. As he drove toward the highway, he made a mental shift to the memory of the woman who’d crashed into his gate that morning. She reminded him of somebody—some actress he’d seen on TV back in the day. He recalled little details, the way her dark red hair curled against her porcelain cheek; the way her emerald green scarf matched her eyes; and the cool, challenging look those eyes had given him. Classy and confident—those were the words that came to mind. Something told him the lady knew how to play hardball. But there was softness about her full lips and amply curved body. She hadn’t introduced herself. But that was just as well. He certainly didn’t plan on meeting her again—not even if she’d spun off down the road.
Coming up on his left was the home of his nearest neighbor. Jubal McFarland was in his front yard, clearing ice off the front walk. He waved as Travis drove past. Travis returned the greeting and drove on. Good people, the McFarlands. They’d invited him to dinner a couple of times, but knowing he couldn’t reciprocate, Travis had made his excuses.
He could almost envy what Jubal had—a prosperous ranch, a loving wife, and two children who’d make any man proud. But Travis knew better than to dwell on what he’d never have. Any hope of such a life had vanished with the thump of a judge’s gavel and the clang of a cell door.
Turning onto the highway, which had been salted to melt the ice, was a relief. As he passed Hank’s Hardware on his right, Travis noticed a crew of workers unloading cut Christmas trees from a big flatbed truck and stacking them in the store’s fenced side lot. Sweet racket, those trees. Hank had the only Christmas tree lot this side of Cottonwood Springs, and he charged top dollar for every one of them. Not that Travis cared. Damn sure, he wouldn’t be buying a tree this year, or any other year—especially from Hank.
He pulled into the Shop Mart parking lot and climbed out of the truck. His muscles had stiffened on the ride to town. Even walking hurt like blazes. He grabbed some liniment and some over-the-counter pain pills off the shelves and checked out through the express line. On the way back to the truck, he wrenched the lid off the ibuprofen and swallowed two capsules dry.
The cold wind was bitter through his coat. His rumbling belly reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since last night. By now, Buckaroo’s Café would be open. A cup of good, hot coffee and a slice of their flaky apple pie would hit the spot. The money would be better saved for necessities, but there were times, like this morning, when he needed something extra.
Travis climbed into the truck and headed downtown. He was hungry, discouraged, and felt like three-day-old roadkill.
So why did he have this strange sense that something was about to happen—something he would never have expected?
Chapter 2
Buckaroo’s, on Main Street, was the only restaurant in Branding Iron, except for the B and B, which just served breakfast. Tucked away between a barber shop and a small parking lot, it was mostly a burger and pizza place, but they served good coffee, and the pie, made and delivered by a woman in town, was first-rate.
The place had just opened when Travis walked in, but it was already filling up. The stools at the counter were occupied, as were the three booths. The only empty seat was in the corner, opposite an old man who lived at the far end of Travis’s road. The two had met and talked a few times. Abner—that was the old duffer’s name. Abner Jenkins.
“ ’Morning, Abner,” Travis greeted him. “Mind if I sit here?”
“Suit yourself.” The old man, usually amiable, didn’t even look up as Travis slid into the booth. He was gazing down at his fresh coffee like a death row inmate contemplating his last meal.
Travis had always believed in minding his own business. But something about the old fellow’s downcast expression roused his concern. “You don’t look so good, Abner,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Abner glanced up, as if noticing him for the first time. “Not unless you can take ten years off this old body. The doc’s convinced my kids that I mustn’t live alone on my farm. They’ve sold the place right out from under me. This week the new owners are movin’ in, and I’m goin’ to Denver to live with my daughter’s family.” A tear rolled down his plump, bewhiskered cheek.
“I’m sorry, Abner,” Travis said. “But you never know. It might be nice having family around you.” Travis paused to give his order for coffee and pie to the waitress. On second thought, he ordered a slice for Abner, too. The old fellow looked as if he could use it.
“Oh, it’s not me I’m worried about,” Abner said. “It’s my two old horses and my dog, Bucket. I can’t take ’em to the city with me, and the fancy new owners don’t want ’em.” Another tear plopped into his coffee. “The horses are old, and Bucket is goin’ on eight years. I know what happens to animals nobody wants. Bucket will get put to sleep. Patch and Chip will get sold for dog food, or glue, or whatever the hell they do with horses these days. Those critters are like family to me. Just thinkin’ about ’em makes me want to bawl like a baby.”
The waitress brought Travis’s coffee and two servings of pie. Travis slid one toward Abner. “This one’s for you,” he said.
“Thanks, that’s right neighborly of you.” Abner picked at the pie with his fork but didn’t seem to have much appetite.
“Can’t you find somebody to take your animals?” Travis asked. “Surely with all the farms and ranches around here, somebody would want them.”
“I put notices up in the post office and the library, but nobody’s called me. The trouble with Patch and Chip is that they’re draft horses. They’re gentle, and I’ve trained ’em good, but folks don’t want ’em for riding because they’re so big. And everybody’s got tractors these days. Folks don’t need horses for work anymore.
“Bucket, now, he’s a great dog, half border collie and smart as a whip. But people who’ve got dogs don’t want another one. Or if they do, they want a puppy.” Abner’s sad eyes brightened as he looked at Travis. “Say, what about you?”
Travis choked on his coffee. He took a sip of water to cool his throat. He should’ve seen this coming before he walked right into it.