LITMIR.BIZ

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never get on a horse again.

      The old truck rattled across a speed bump as Boots turned it into the parking lot at the funeral home. He pulled into a parking space and shoved the transmission into Park. Neither of them moved. She did not want to get out and walk inside that building. With its white-washed stucco and blue shutters topped by a red-tiled roof, the place looked more like a Mexican restaurant than a funeral home. Part of her wanted to ask Boots to just drive away. The other part knew that if she turned tail and ran she’d regret it for the rest of her life.

      Cass sucked in a deep breath and held it. Letting the air hiss out slowly, she wiped her face and nose with the bandanna then stuck it in her pocket, just in case. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

      The doors on the old truck creaked as they opened. Buddy jumped out after Boots, and he scolded the dog.

      “Leave him be, Uncle Boots. He has as much right to say goodbye to Daddy as anyone.” She met him on the sidewalk and slipped her arm through his. “We can do this. Right?”

      Boots patted her hand where it rested on his forearm. “You know what your daddy always said, sugar.”

      “Yeah. Often and loudly.” She inhaled deeply again. “Cowgirls don’t cry, they just get back on and ride. I really hate that phrase, you know.”

      He chuckled and gave her hand another pat.

      Boots distracted the officious man who met them at the door while Cassie snuck past, Buddy at her heels. They were probably breaking some law but she didn’t care. Buddy needed this goodbye as much as she did.

      Alone in a private viewing room a few minutes later, Cass stared at what used to be her father. A sheet covered his body from shoulders to toes. There’d be no burying clothes or makeup on his face since he’d be cremated once she left. The funeral home had kept the body solely for her chance to say goodbye.

      His face had thinned with the years, as had his hair. And the crinkles around his eyes looked like they’d been etched in wax. This...thing wasn’t her father. He’d been full of life. Of laughter. And a few choice cuss words. She reached out as if to touch his hand but couldn’t follow through. The cancer had stolen his vitality. The thought of her skin touching that cold facsimile of her dad made her stomach roil.

      “Oh, Daddy.” The words clogged up her throat as sorrow surged. “God, I miss you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. Please forgive me?” She closed her eyes against the salty sting, and her throat ached from swallowing her sobs. With her arms pressed across her stomach, she swayed with the rhythm of her grief. Something warm leaned against her leg, and Buddy’s whine joined her choking sobs. She dropped one hand to rest on the dog’s head, her fingers burrowing into the soft fur. “You miss him, too, Buddy. I know. What the hell are we going to do now?”

      * * *

      Chance sat in the bank’s parking lot making notes as he talked to Cash on the phone. “So Ben Morgan has a daughter.” An heir complicated matters, but he could file enough paperwork to keep the estate tied up until he could get the loan called. Morgan had been desperate so there was a balloon payment—due and owing on a date certain. “Do you have a name?”

      “Cassidy. I’ve put a tracer on her. Oh, and speaking of, I have the information you wanted on that tag. Truck belongs to a guy named Baxter Thomas.”

      A memory nudged him again. “Where do I know that name from?”

      “Ya got me, Chance. Want me to run his financials?”

      “No. Just do a quick Google search. See what comes up.” He drummed his fingers on the leather-clad steering wheel as he listened to clicking keys through the cell phone.

      His brother’s low whistle caught his attention. “Now that’s interesting. Baxter Thomas is also Boots Thomas.”

      “The rodeo clown?” They weren’t called that anymore—now they were called bullfighters, which was more appropriate to what they did inside the arena. Boots Thomas was a legend and anyone who’d ever traveled the rodeo circuit knew his name.

      “That’s the one. And according to this article, he and Ben Morgan were partners in a rodeo stock company.” Cash whistled again. “And the plot thickens. Cassidy Morgan was a champion cowgirl back in the day, but she quit after winning the Denver Stock Show ten years ago. That’s the year you and Cord won the team roping up there.”

      “Well, damn.” Had he met her on the rodeo circuit? He couldn’t put a face with the name so probably not. His rodeo career pretty much ended after that night. He graduated from college that spring and started law school soon after. He didn’t have time to chase steers or cowgirls.

      “Chance? Are you listening?”

      He wasn’t. “What?”

      “There’s a memorial service for Morgan day after tomorrow at the Pleasant Hills Funeral Home. As near as I can figure, it’s a cremation. I suppose it’d be really uncool to serve her with the papers at the service.”

      “Ya think? Jeez, Cash, you’ve been hanging around the old man too long. What time is the memorial?”

      “Ten in the morning. Why? You aren’t thinking about actually showing up, are you?”

      He didn’t examine his motives very closely as he answered. “It might be a good idea to go. Just to get a feel for things.” Business. This was just business. But he could do business without being a jerk—even if his father wanted to steal a ranch out from under his enemy’s grieving daughter. He didn’t believe in coincidences, but the odds of his mystery girl being Cassidy Morgan just kept getting better.

      Armed with the information he needed, Chance started his car and headed home. He had plenty of time to get the legal papers filed. First, he wanted a shower and a change of clothes because he felt slimy all of a sudden. Like a royal SOB. He had plenty of time to get the legal papers filed.

      He was about to act the world’s biggest bully, all under the orders of the bastard who sired him. At a stoplight, he glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “You are a complete slimeball, you know that, right?” He didn’t blink at the accusation. He always told the truth, at least to himself.

      Lost in thought, the light turned green, but he didn’t notice until someone honked. He waved a hand hoping the car behind saw the gesture as an apology, and wondered why the hell that mattered. He was a Barron. If he wanted to sit through a whole light, he would. He accelerated through the intersection and put his thoughts on hold until he arrived at his condo. Thinking about stealing the ranch from Cassidy Morgan would only make things worse. He barked a wry laugh. As if. He wasn’t sure how they could get any worse.

      * * *

      Cassie wore black—suit jacket, matching skirt and heels—and felt out of place. Colorful Western clothes abounded, the room resembling a patchwork quilt—homey and warm, like the people who wore them. The small chapel was bursting at the seams with an array of folks—old rodeo hands, neighbors, the friends garnered from a lifetime of living. Death was just another part of all that living. Her dad once commented that suits were for marryin’ and buryin’, but nobody said they had to be black. She should have remembered that.

      The front of the room looked like a field of wildflowers. No fussy formal arrangements. She didn’t know the minister, but he seemed to know all about her dad. While short, his eulogy painted a vivid picture of the man. When he finished, he invited any who wished to share a few words or a memory.

      Near the back, a man cleared his throat. Chairs scraped and creaked on the wooden floor, followed by the sound of heavy boots marching up the aisle. A big bear of a man, with a scraggly beard, a paunch overhanging the huge rodeo buckle on his belt and a chaw of tobacco in his cheek stepped forward.

      “Ben Morgan saved my life some forty years ago. We were dang sure dumb back in our twenties. At the Fort Worth rodeo, I got hung up on a bull named Red Devil. Ol’ Boots here was working the arena as a clown, and Ben rode the pickup horse. While Boots

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