A Cowboy's Promise - Marin Thomas Men Made in America

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had no business bustin’ broncs. Amy swore he didn’t stick to nothin’, includin’ a saddle. When he wasn’t off chasin’ rodeo dreams he mostly sat on his one-spot. Never did figure out why Amy’s mama allowed her to hitch up with the lazy bum.”

      “Dig in.” Pearl set the world-famous meat loaf in front of Matt, and a Rueben sandwich next to Taylor before heading to the cash register to ring up the hippies.

      Matt studied the charred meat.

      “Pearl’s meat loaf tastes like rawhide.” Taylor bit into the sandwich. “Try the Reuben next time.”

      Blah. Matt’s displeasure must have shown on his face because the geezer chuckled and slid the ketchup bottle over.

      For a few minutes the men gave talking a rest. Matt’s thoughts drifted to the argument he’d had with his father before he’d loaded up his mares and left Oklahoma. His sister, Sam, had accidentally blurted out Matt’s plan to take a sabbatical from rodeoing at the supper table one evening and Matt had been forced to reveal his intent to breed his mares with SOS.

      The old man had acted as if Matt had betrayed him and the discussion had escalated into a shouting match followed by his father’s pledge to withhold Matt’s trust fund until he joined Cartwright Oil and forgot his dream of raising cutting horses. Matt had thumbed his nose at his father’s threat. After purchasing the three mares, he was slowly building his savings account up thanks to his winning streak on the rodeo circuit this past winter.

      Damn it all to hell. He hated to return to Oklahoma and face an I-told-you-so from the old man. “Anybody ever get close to SOS after he attacked Ben?” Matt asked.

      “Nope. Ain’t nobody crazy enough to try.”

      Maybe he was nuts for believing he might be able to work with the stallion. There were a million and one reasons horses snapped. Had Ben mistreated Son of Sunshine? Matt didn’t believe so. Ben had behaved with respect around rodeo stock the times Matt had observed him.

      “Gotta run.” Taylor retrieved his hat from the stool next to him and dropped it on his head. “Hope your business with the Broken Wheel gets resolved to your satisfaction.” He shook hands with Matt, then left a dollar tip by his plate and shuffled out the door.

      What to do now—load up his mares and head home? Or convince the widow Olson to allow him to judge for himself if SOS was dangerous or not?

      “Dessert, cowboy?” Pearl frowned at the half-eaten food on Matt’s plate.

      Afraid he’d offended the café owner, he assured, “It was great, Pearl. Guess I wasn’t hungry.” She rolled her eyes and slapped his meal ticket on the counter. “How’s that Sleep-Ezee Motel out by the highway?” He added a five-dollar tip to his tab.

      Pearl’s mood brightened. “Arlene keeps the sheets clean.”

      “Any critters on the loose in the rooms?”

      “Not that I ever heard of. Have a good one, cowboy,” she said.

      Now all Matt needed was a decent night’s rest and a few more minutes with Amy to salvage this road trip and hopefully ease his conscience at the same time.

      AMY STOOD ON THE PORCH Sunday morning watching the sunrise. Today she prayed the warm rays would lend her courage to face the handsome cowboy barreling up the drive.

      She had to give him credit—unlike her husband Matt Cartwright was an early riser. Amy suspected beneath his cowboy-calendar good looks, the man was hardworking and determined. She both admired and resented those qualities.

      Her single experience with rodeo cowboys had been her husband. Ben hadn’t liked to toil too hard at anything. He preferred to spend his time searching for a pot of gold at the end of someone else’s rainbow.

      The rig stopped next to the horse trailer and the cowboy marched her way. Today he wore work jeans—stonewashed and no discernable iron crease along the thigh like yesterday’s pair. His western shirt was a tad faded and wrinkled. When he reached the porch steps, he paused. No smile, but he did tap his fingertips against the brim of his hat.

      “Mornin’.” The husky greeting poured over her like warm, sticky honey.

      “Coffee?” Might as well be neighborly before she sent him and his mares packing.

      “Appreciate that.”

      “Comin’ right up.” She set her mug on the rail and disappeared inside. No sense cozying up at the kitchen table. Matt Cartwright possessed the kind of presence that wouldn’t fade after his body left the premises. The last thing she wanted in her home were reminders of the rodeo cowboy. She filled an extra-large mug with leaded brew and returned outside.

      “Thanks.” When he accepted the cup, his fingers nudged hers, setting off a series of explosive prickles along her nerve endings.

      She collapsed on the top step—he remained at the bottom. Eye-to-eye. And boy, was he an eyeful of wrangler perfection.

      Swaying sideways, he leaned against the handrail, then squinted into the steam rising from his mug. How often had she done that—stare into the brown liquid hoping the answers to life’s questions would float to the top?

      “I heard you board horses,” he said.

      “Not anymore. Thanks to that stud in the barn, folks are afraid to leave their animals on the property.”

      Matt focused on the mares in the corral and Amy took advantage of his preoccupation to study him. She began at his boots and worked her way north, making it as far as the faded-to-white patch of denim at his crotch when he asked, “Is it just you and the girls now that your husband’s gone?”

      She peeled her eyes from his jeans. This was her property—she had a right to peek at a man’s you-know-what if she wanted. “My folks are gone now. Ben’s mother lives in Kansas, but we never kept in touch with her.” Amy had called Wynona to inform her of Ben’s death, but all the old woman had to say was, “Don’t surprise me none.”

      “It’s not my place to pry—”

      “Then don’t.”

      He ignored her warning. “But it’s apparent you’ve had a run of bad luck.”

      Seven years to be exact. Her bad luck had begun the day she’d married Ben. “My problems are none of your concern, Mr. Cartwright.”

      “Matt. Call me Matt, Amy.”

      The intimate sound of her name rolling off his tongue twisted her stomach into a knot.

      “I’d like to strike a deal with you.” He cleared his throat. “Give me one week to work with Son of Sunshine and if—”

      “No.” Stupid man. “I buried one cowboy because of that horse. Don’t intend to bury another one.”

      Eyes flashing, he argued, “I’ve been around horses all my life—good ones and rotten-to-the-core ones. I’ll know after a few days if SOS is loco or not.”

      “The proof’s buried up the hill.” She nodded toward the cemetery.

      “Did anyone witness the horse attack your husband?”

      Amy shook her head. She had no idea how long Ben had lain dying or dead. When he hadn’t answered her calls for supper, she’d walked out to the barn and that’s when she’d found him.

      “There’s a chance it might have been an accident.”

      “His chest was caved in, Mr. Cartwright. Whether it was an accident or not, the horse can’t be trusted.”

      “My sister suffered a horse kick to the head when she was sixteen because the animal spooked while she was hosing it down. Something might have set SOS off and caught Ben unawares.”

      “Did your sister survive?”

      “She did.”

      Matt

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