Heartsong. Sara Walter Ellwood

points to get into the NFR--” She’d given up barrel racing two years ago when her mother had become wheelchair bound and began needing almost constant care. She couldn’t ask Frankie to take on all the responsibility, so she retired after winning the Nationals Final Rodeo for the third time and asked Sam for a job. To her surprise, he’d made her his manager, saying he’d wanted more time for his family.

      “I can’t afford it. No, I won’t take your money. But if you really want to go back to racing, I won’t stop you. I know you miss it, and I’m so sorry you quit because of me.” Momma sniffed and slowly shook her head but didn’t meet Micki’s gaze.

      Damn, why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut about the rodeo? She took a deep breath, but before she could tell Momma how wrong she was, her mother’s hoarse, slurred speech resumed.

      “As soon as this place sells, we’ll have to move. My Social Security isn’t much, and we need a place big enough for Jesse.” Momma weakly squeezed Micki’s hand. “Mary told me she heard that Lemont is considering putting a bid on the ranch when it goes on the market Monday. You know if he does that we’ll have to leave sooner rather than later.”

      Micki’s heart fell out of the bottom of her gut and landed at her feet. “That son of a bitch.” Sam and Frankie would turn over in their graves if they knew Lemont bought their ranch. No way could they stay much longer. Bluebonnet Creek was a small community, and apartments or houses for rent were nearly nonexistent--especially one that was handicap accessible and affordable. She also had her horse and tack to consider. “I wish I could put a bid in.”

      Momma sighed and closed her eyes, as defeated as Micki. “You know around here a ranch this size would go for at least five million dollars.”

      She had a few thousand bucks, but not enough to buy the ranch. To keep the sob from escaping, she bit her lip. Crying in front of her mother wasn’t going to help. Micki had to be strong for all of them. Like she’d had to be when Momma’s illness started to affect her by stealing her strength. She’d been diagnosed with MS only two years after she and Lemont married.

      He divorced her because of it and took three-year-old Frankie and year-old Micki away from her. When he divorced her, Lemont trumped up a claim that Momma had cheated on him with a rodeo cowboy she’d grown up with. The accusation had been enough for the judge to deny her any alimony payments. She was homeless, sick, and penniless, until Gabe’s mother offered her the job of running the horse-training program on the Lazy M with her. They’d been friends from the days they’d been champion barrel racers.

      With the McKennas’ help, Momma fought him and gained custody of Micki when she was four. When Frankie turned twelve, she ran away from their father and Loretta took her in. Again with the McKennas’ help, they fought Lemont and the courts allowed Frankie to decide whom she wanted to live with. Life had never been easy for them as Loretta’s health deteriorated, but they’d had each other and they’d had love. Something Micki wasn’t sure her father was capable of.

      Squaring her shoulders, she stood, then kissed her mother’s forehead and gently squeezed her hand one more time. “We’ll think of something, Momma. We’ve been in rough spots before and we’ve made it through.”

      Her mother’s attempted smile fell flat. “I keep telling myself that, too. Now, you go back to sleep. Jesse’s an early riser.”

      Micki went back to her room as if she were walking through wet cement. She stopped to look again at the sweet boy in the room across the hall from hers and let the tears slip past the dam she’d constructed to keep them back.

      Gabe had said he’d help her, but she’d never ask him for it. How could she? He’d left her when she’d needed him the most and never looked back. Just like her father had left her and Momma.

      God, what will I do?

      * * * *

      Gabe lifted the bottle of water to his lips and stared out the French doors of the kitchen in his Nashville home. The late Wednesday morning sun sparkled on the pool in the center of his enclosed, professionally landscaped backyard. For a brief moment, he considered completing his morning workout by taking a dive into the heated, crystalline water. When was the last time he’d swam in the pool?

      He’d returned to Nashville four days ago and had gone to a meeting with several bigwigs from his record company. They were confident he would sweep the Country Music Awards in early November. His album was sitting on top of the charts, with the first three singles blasting to the top of the country charts within weeks of their releases. Sales of his first and third records were climbing into the double-platinum range. Even profits from his disastrous, self-produced second album were on the rise. His concerts were all sold out, and his agent was booking bigger venues next year.

      The executives wanted to put together a live version of his current album. Recording was to happen at his last two shows of the tour--Cheyenne, Wyoming, on Friday night and Dallas, Texas, in early October. Tomorrow morning he was flying out to Cheyenne.

      He lifted the bottle to his lips to drink again and made his way toward the front of his home into the great room. Why wasn’t he more excited? Just a couple of weeks ago this was what he worked and sweated for. Now all he could think about was the cornflower-blue eyes of a woman who’d broken his heart and the little brother he loved with all of his heart.

      He wanted to go west, but Wyoming wasn’t the place. Jesse was safe and happy with Michaela and her mother, but he was worried about him. Tom Fleming had secured temporary guardianship of Jesse for Michaela and him, but for how long wasn’t specified. Lemont hadn’t given up; that he was sure of. Leaving the little boy behind had been hard, but he couldn’t stay any longer.

      When his cell phone rang, he set his empty bottle on a marble-topped table next to a black leather couch and picked up the iPhone. He glanced at the ID, frowned, and connected the call. “Michaela?”

      “Gabe! They took him.” Micki’s voice was borderline hysterical.

      “Who took whom? Jesse?”

      “Yes! That witch in heels and pinstripes came here ten minutes ago and served me papers that said our guardianship of Jesse was revoked. Lemont petitioned the court and is going to adopt him.”

      “Fuck!” He stood straighter and tightened his hold on his phone. He had to work at unlocking his jaw to bite out, “Has Tom contacted you?”

      “Yes! He said DFPS sent you a letter.”

      He glanced at the pile of mail he’d put on the large table in the center of the dining area. The sleek chrome and glass table with its eight black leather captain chairs had never been used, except to be a place for the mail he collected every morning he arrived home after his five-mile run.

      He bounded up the step past a stone pillar supporting the loft above. When he reached the pile on the table, he started flipping through the junk and bills he’d brought in that morning. His assistant stopped by and collected the bills to pay every couple days and threw away the junk mail.

      “Gabe, are you still there?”

      “Yes. I’m checking to see if they sent me a letter.” His stomach ached when he finally found the letter from the Texas Department of Family Protective Services. “I have it.”

      “What’s it say? Don’t you know? How long have you had it?”

      He stiffened his spine and squared his shoulders at the accusation in her rapid-fire questions. Annoyed at himself more than he was at her, he glanced at the postmark. “It just came in this morning.” Thank God he hadn’t had it for longer. He ripped open the envelope and read the letter inside. “It’s from Judge Bentley Anderson and basically informs me and you of the rescinding of our guardianship of Jesse. That he will be put into the care of his maternal grandfather until a hearing on October eighth to determine temporary custody of Jesse. The official adoption proceedings are scheduled for early next year.”

      “It’s the same letter I got served this morning.”

      He