The Bull Rider. Helen DePrima

“Don’t try to turn my head with compliments. I’ll run it by Dad and Shelby before I make up my mind. We could all get sucked into the project.”

      * * *

      THEY DROVE INTO Durango close to noon. Luke turned onto the main street. “Let’s grab lunch at the Queen,” he said. “Dad’s going to put us to work the minute we get home—we might as well fuel up first.”

      Tom had no objection; breakfast at the hotel buffet was a distant memory, and the ranch lay an hour’s drive farther west. Luke parked near the Victorian storefront of the Silver Queen Saloon and Dance Emporium. Most of the tables were occupied, but they found seats in the booth nearest the kitchen. Tom lowered himself into his seat a little stiffly; his back had cramped up again on the long ride from Albuquerque.

      “Well, look what the cat drug in.” Marge Bowman stood at Luke’s elbow and pulled a pencil from her white topknot. “What’s your pleasure, boys?”

      Luke circled her stout waist with one arm. “Sweetheart, you’re my pleasure. What’s today’s special?”

      “Anything you want, lover.” She lifted his hat and planted a smacking kiss on top of his head.

      “See why I can’t find a girl to suit me?” Luke said to Tom. “Marge has me spoiled for ordinary women.”

      “My heart about stopped when you hit that fence yesterday,” she said to Tom. “Would you please get that bull rode so you can stop picking him?”

      “I’m working on it,” Tom said. “Next time for sure.”

      “Chicken-fried steak for both of you? And I just took a peach pie out of the oven. It’ll be cool enough to cut by the time you finish your meal.”

      Luke clapped a hand over his heart. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven. Bring it on, darlin’.”

      Maybe Tom should be scornful of Luke’s glib tongue, but he secretly envied his brother’s gift of gab. If he agreed to Joanna Dace’s proposal, he’d likely end up playing a supporting role to Luke’s grandstanding. He’d always been the boring middle kid. No teacher had ever phoned his folks about his grades; the sheriff had never given him a warning for underage drinking. Luke had supplied enough drama for the two of them, and now his younger sister, Lucy, with her dreams of stardom, had picked up where Luke left off.

      His phone rang and he limped to the men’s room before answering. He checked the caller ID. “Hey, Shelby.”

      “Hey, yourself. You okay after yesterday?”

      “My back’s pretty sore, but nothing’s broken.” Shelby understood bumps and bruises, what was and wasn’t serious. She’d been thrown more than a few times by skittish Thoroughbreds and still took an occasional hit while green-breaking horses.

      “You want ice or heat when you get home?” she asked.

      “Heat first, I think,” he said.

      “Have you reached Durango yet?”

      “We’re having lunch at the Queen,” he said. “You need something from town?”

      “As long as you’re there, see if you can talk Marge out of a peach pie for your dad.”

      “Do my best,” he said, and then he keyed off. He stuck his phone in his pocket, thankful anew that Shelby had drifted into their lives a couple years after his mother’s death. She was as different from his mom as a prairie falcon is from a happy barnyard hen, but her arrival had glued them back together as a family.

      He returned to the table just as their food arrived, and they left after their meal with the remaining three-quarters of the pie Marge had cut for them.

      An hour later Luke steered below the ranch sign with Cameron’s Pride burned into a weathered plank. Luke braked in the least muddy spot near the back door of the rambling log house. A dog as tall as a weanling calf rose from a sunny spot by the barn and approached with a stiff gait.

      Tom climbed out of the car and rubbed the dog’s ears.

      “Looks like we’re both moving a little slow today, old buddy,” he said. Stranger was starting to show his age. The big dog had arrived a few years ago with Shelby as her protector and sole companion. The welcoming grin on his grizzled face would be sorely missed when he was gone.

      Luke grabbed his bag and Tom’s from the backseat as Shelby Cameron opened the kitchen door. Tom handed her the peach pie, struck as always by his dad’s rare good luck in his second marriage. Shelby’s long hair shone like a blackbird’s wing while her skin seemed to gather the winter sunlight.

      “I know Marge just fed you up,” she said, “but I made beignets this morning. Luke, come have a few before you ride out. Your dad found a section of fence down when he and Lucy checked the heifers this morning. I know they would appreciate your help.”

      She turned to Tom. “I’ve got the chair heated up. Sit—I’ll bring you coffee.”

      Luke rolled his eyes in mock disdain; although next time he might occupy the big recliner with its heat and massage after taking a beating from the bulls. He left the kitchen and returned a few minutes later dressed in faded jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt that had seen better days. “Here’s that article for Shelby,” he said and handed Tom the pages from Joanna Dace.

      “Take the rest of the beignets along,” Shelby said, handing him a paper bag. “And make sure a few get to your dad and your sister.”

      Luke grinned. “You’re a mean one, Stepmama.” He grabbed a flannel-lined Carhartt jacket and a billed cap with earflaps from a hook by the door on his way out.

      Tom relaxed and closed his eyes. He’d be pulling his weight by morning and ready to straddle another set of bulls next weekend, but just now he never wanted to move from the chair with its comforting heat penetrating his sore muscles.

      Shelby began chopping onions and green peppers for dirty rice, a favorite of both Tom and Luke’s. An hour passed and Tom levered the chair upright and stood, twisting his shoulders and back experimentally—still sore, but good enough for now.

      “I’ll get some of the barn work done before the others get back,” he said. “Is Dad behaving himself?”

      “As long as I’m watching him,” Shelby said. “I know he does more than he should as soon as he’s out of my sight, but Lucy helps me keep after him when she’s home.”

      “You mind if I ride Ghost this week? His gaits will be easiest on my back.”

      “I wish you would,” Shelby said. “I don’t work him as much as I should. I spent all day Saturday doing a 4-H workshop in Grand Junction, and I’ll have even less time when Lucy goes back to Boulder day after tomorrow.” She reached into a jar above the sink and handed Tom a few licorice drops. “Apologize to him for me.”

      Tom changed into rubber paddock boots and headed for the barn. Shelby’s gray stallion must have heard him coming or maybe smelled the licorice, his special treat. Ghost stuck his nose over the top rail of his corral and blew a loud breath. Even furred like a teddy bear in his winter coat, his fine legs and delicately shaped face hinted at his Barb ancestry. He’d already sired a nice string of foals that Shelby trained and sold for ranch work.

      Tom fed him the candy and scratched along the curve of his jaw. “You feel like working, buddy? We’ll check the south fence line tomorrow, maybe stop in for lunch at the Bucks’s.” He grinned in anticipation. Auntie Rose, a distant cousin, made the best fry bread in La Plata County.

      The sun was already sliding toward the western horizon—no sense for him to saddle up now to help the fence crew. He worked his way through the barn, mucking out Ghost’s stall and freshening his water bucket, finishing the repair on a partially mended cinch strap in the tack room and forking down fresh hay for the half dozen horses in the corral next to Ghost’s. A tall chestnut mare ambled over for special attention. Sadie had some age on her, but