The Maverick Returns. Roz Fox Denny

D.”

       Coop shook his head. “I doubt Sully still feels that way, Jud. He and I just had a run-in at Homer’s bar.” Coop flexed his right hand. “Sully’s got a rock-hard jaw and I guess you could say I have an equally hard head. This wasn’t our first argument.”

       “That’s too bad, son. Matt would’ve wanted you boys to share the running of a ranch he loved. When your mom died, and Matt had to bury her, you and Sully were all that kept him sane. Kept him working and building up the ranch so that one day you boys would raise your families on the Triple D.”

       Swallowing a hard lump that came into his throat, Coop said, “Yeah, well, that’s working out for Sullivan and Blythe. Me, I’m not ready to let one woman tie me down.”

       Jud Rayburn cocked a shaggy eyebrow as he peeled off several twenties from a money clip and handed the bills to Coop. “There’s a lot to be said for crawling into bed with the same woman every night, son. A woman who knows your weaknesses, but who only sees your strengths. When you land in Laredo, phone me with your address so if I haven’t paid you enough, I can send you a check after the Rocking R accountant tallies your time sheets.”

       “This more than makes us square, Jud. Anyway, I don’t want to make it easy for Sully to run me to ground.” Coop shook hands with the rancher who’d been his dad’s best friend. Crossing to the corral, he cut his two cow ponies out of the remuda, loaded them into his trailer and left.

       Coop drove until midnight, then booked into a motel outside Laredo. He didn’t sleep well. He was plagued all night by dreams of losing his mom when he was ten, then repeating the loss with his dad when he was in college. Coop had idolized Matthew Drummond. Tossing and turning, he punched his pillow into a ball. He wasn’t ready or willing to admit how much like their father Sully had become. A quiet solid man’s man. A good husband and dad, by all accounts. A hard worker. A pillar of the community.

       Throwing back the covers, Coop hit the shower. He’d squandered too much of his rodeo earnings on a truck, and on beer and women. Coop let the water sluice over his body until it ran cold. He was sure his dad wouldn’t be any happier with him at the moment than Sully was. Matt Drummond had been a peacemaker. Not liking the direction of his thoughts, Coop slapped off the faucets, dried quickly and dressed.

       The late-June sky was streaked purple, red and orange when he threw his duffel bag into the pickup’s cab and made his way out of Laredo to the McHenry spread. Summer heat would soon shimmer off the asphalt highway.

       Bob McHenry was a big, bald, tobacco-chewing guy, who spat twice before telling Cooper he was darned sorry, but he’d already hired a horse trainer.

       Coop thanked him and returned to his pickup after asking if he could water his horses at Bob’s nearby trough. The whole spread was a nice, well-kept ranch, staked out by white tri-rail fences. Coop was disappointed he’d shown up too late. He would’ve liked working here, he thought.

       “Hey, champ.” A gnarled cowboy with a booming voice called out as Cooper watered his horses. He glanced around and spotted a bowlegged man pulling off his gloves after he climbed over the fence.

       “Bob McHenry gave me permission,” Coop said, thinking the cowboy was worried that he was up to no good.

       Instead, the guy stuck out a hand. “Rafer James. You rode against my brother Lowell twice at the Mesquite rodeo. Beat him by seconds both times.”

       “Sure, I know Lowell. How is he? I quit the circuit myself after last season, but I don’t recall seeing Lowell at the finals.”

       “He met a gal from Montana, got married and then drew a bad hoss in an off-circuit rodeo. Crushed his hip against the chute. It never healed right. His wife wanted him to give up rodeoing, anyway. Her dad retired, so they took over running his feed store up near Bozeman.”

       Coop pursed his lips as Rafer asked him what he was doing in Laredo. “I saw the ad Bob placed for a horse trainer. He said he already hired someone, so I’ll get on up the road and see if anyone needs a hand for summer haying, or maybe moving cows to a summer range.”

       The other man stuffed a stick of chewing gum in his mouth. “Things are tight in this part of the country, what with the bad economy and all. I’ve heard of a widow with a little kid, a daughter, who lives outside Carrizo Springs. She can’t afford to pay scale, so she doesn’t keep a hand for long. Seems she’s barely hanging on since her husband died in a drunken brawl that ended in gunplay. Something else. The guys say she’s a looker.” The man nudged Coop’s arm. “Up to now she’s sent away any cowboy with ideas of getting into her bed. But, Champ, with your reputation on the circuit attracting buckle bunnies, I’ll bet you can score. Unless the low wage drives you off.”

       Not sure he liked that picture of himself, Coop gathered his horses. “Isn’t helping women in distress the unwritten code of the west?” he snapped.

       “Whoa, there. I guess you think all those wins puts you up on a pedestal. I meant no offense to the widow. I’m only passing along rumors. Take the tip or leave it, I gotta get back to seeding a field.”

       The cowboy hobbled off. Deep down his jab reminded Coop too much of Sully’s accusations, which made it rankle all the more. Perhaps guys like Rafer thought it was cool to have rodeo groupies always hanging around. It wasn’t all that great. Coop liked women, and had no doubt taken advantage of some who were available on the circuit. But the past couple of years that lifestyle had gotten old.

       Which was one reason Coop didn’t immediately strike out for Carrizo Springs. Meandering in that direction, because it was how the single-lane highway ran, he stopped at every ranch he passed to see if anyone was hiring.

       At two of those places the owners also mentioned the widow. Coop wasn’t sure he wanted to get tangled up with a needy woman. He liked women who were successful in their own right.

       One other thing about the network of drifter cowboys, news traveled quickly and efficiently. At a ranch near Artesia Wells, a ranch hand who’d recently been looking for work along the I-35 corridor told Coop the Triple D up near Hondo wanted to hire a part-time ranch manager. Just from now until Christmas.

       Coop felt guilty. Not enough to backtrack and go home, but enough to take a more direct route to Carrizo Springs. The widow remained his ace in the hole, so to speak.

       Then, luckily, he was able to hire on temporarily at a ranch outside Asherton. For three days he helped with branding, filling in for a cowboy who’d sprained his rope-throwing wrist. Branding was a hot, dirty, smelly business, but it earned Cooper some ready cash and a chance to shoot the breeze each evening with likeminded men, although most of this crew were Hispanic and only a few spoke English. The plus was that none of them seemed to have heard of Coop’s rodeo achievements. Or if they had, they didn’t put it together with the scruffy drifter who’d landed in their midst. And they sure didn’t connect him to the well-known Triple D Ranch.

       The first night after Coop had taken his turn in the shower and shaved, the youngest crew member joked that Coop looked too pretty to throw steers out of a chute and hold them down for branding. Coop just laughed. An older man, Alonzo, took out a harmonica as they sat watching the sun set, so Coop went to his pickup and got a guitar he used to play on the circuit to ease his nerves. For two evenings all the guys enjoyed playing universally popular tunes often used to quiet restless herds being driven to market. At the close of day three, Coop’s tenure on this ranch ended. He felt bad saying adios to his new friends. Also, he didn’t like this way of grabbing a few days of work here and there. He’d prefer a steady job.

       Several miles out of Carrizo Springs he pulled into a lay-by and sat there for the longest time, reconsidering whether or not to go home—supposing home was still the Triple D. He needed to decide if he wanted it to be.

       It was nine miles to Carrizo Springs according to his GPS. He could drive straight through the town, and take highway 83 to Uvalde. Then at the junction it would be a straight shot to Hondo and back to the Triple D. Jud Rayburn had told him that the house where he’d grown up sat empty. Sully and Blythe had built a new home