A Cowboy's Plan. Mary Sullivan

an hour.” Gramps patted the boy’s leg with one gnarled hand.

      C.J. picked up his son. Liam rested boneless in his arms, as trusting as a newborn kitten. C.J. would do anything to have Liam trust him half as much when he was awake.

      Instead of carrying him straight up to bed, he sat on the sofa with his boy on his lap. These opportunities were so rare.

      He picked up one of Liam’s hands. It covered a fraction of C.J.’s callused palm. Every nail on every finger of the tiny hand was perfect. Dirty, but perfect. He kissed the pale smattering of freckles on Liam’s nose.

      He should wake him to wash and brush his teeth, but C.J. didn’t have the heart. He should get him settled into bed.

      In a minute.

      Gramps bent his head in the direction of the TV. “In the next couple of minutes, they’ll announce which pair’s being booted off the show. I think it’s gonna be Cloris Leachman. She’s a hell of a gal, but she can’t dance worth shit.”

      C.J. laughed. “Gramps, how did you raise a daughter who ended up marrying a minister?”

      “Don’t know.” Gramps looked at C.J. with brown eyes so like his own. C.J. definitely took after his mother’s side of the family. “He’s a good man, though. Does real good work with his church.”

      Yeah, he knew that.

      “I’m going to put Liam to bed.” He headed for the stairs, staring at the child limp in his arms.

      “How did you happen?” he whispered. “How did something so good come out of the craziness that was me and Vicki?”

      C.J. had missed the first two and a half years of his son’s life. If he had to fight with his last cent, he was never missing any again.

      He settled him into bed wearing his T-shirt and superhero underwear, then got a damp facecloth from the bathroom and wiped Liam’s face. A smear of something that looked like dried mustard and ketchup mixed together came off after scrubbing.

      Liam squirmed. Even in his sleep, he hated getting washed.

      Looked as if Gramps had made hot dogs for dinner again. The kid needed more variety in his diet than hot dogs every night. So did Gramps.

      In the next second, C.J. reminded himself that Liam had probably eaten better in the last eleven months with him and Gramps than he’d eaten in the prior two and a half years with his mother in Billings.

      C.J. trudged downstairs.

      Grabbing a bowl of cereal, he poured milk on it, wandered to the front of the house and stepped outside.

      A faint breeze drifted toward the veranda, carrying with it the chirp of crickets.

      Thinking of Liam, he leaned against the railing and ate his cereal. Now that he’d tasted fatherhood, he wanted more—a wife to share his burdens and his bed and to give Liam brothers and sisters.

      Seemed like all C.J. did these days was wait. Wait to sell the store to become a full-time rancher. Wait for Liam to finally accept him. Wait for the right woman to come along to start a family. Wait for that family, so Liam could have little brothers and sisters.

      Moonlight ran like pale butter over the land. In his imagination, C.J. caught a flash of little girls running in the fields with midnight dark hair and big black boots.

      Wacky. Weird.

      He shook his head to clear it of that crazy image.

      His cereal gone, he returned to the kitchen, rinsed his bowl and spoon then wandered to the back porch.

      “I hired Janey Wilson today. The girl who lives at the Sheltering Arms.”

      “The weird dresser?”

      “Yup.”

      “Hank mentioned her.” Gramps looked up at him. “You had any interest in the store? Any nibbles?”

      “Nope.” C.J. rubbed the back of his neck. “The sale sign’s up in the window. Has been all summer. All the tourists saw it. I’ve advertised in papers across the state. Haven’t had a single bite.”

      “Why not?” Gramps said.

      C.J. had wondered the same thing. “Don’t know.”

      Gramps shifted the leg resting on an old footstool.

      “How’s your leg?” C.J. asked.

      “Knee hurts like a bugger. Can’t wait for the operation.”

      “Anything new from the hospital?”

      “Nope. Still waiting for a spot.”

      C.J. grabbed a cushion from the sofa and put it under Gramps’s foot on the stool.

      “How’d the rodeo practice go tonight?” Gramps asked. “You do okay?”

      “Better than I expected.” Gramps was the only soul on earth who knew how terrified C.J. was of entering the rodeo and of being sucked into that vortex of wildness in his soul. “My back feels like it’s been rearranged into a pretzel.”

      Gramps huffed a laugh. “You riding broncs or bulls at the Sheltering Arms?”

      “Broncs,” C.J. answered. “Won’t get on a bull until the day of competition.”

      Gramps nodded, as if he already suspected that. “You’ll do good, son.” He swallowed the last of his tea. “You’ll win. Now that Amy won’t let Hank ride the bulls anymore, you’ve got no competition out there. You always were the best after Hank.”

      C.J. stood. If only Dad had that much faith in him. “You heading up now, Gramps?”

      “Naw, I’ll watch one more show and then drag my old bones to bed. You go on. Don’t worry about me.”

      C.J. headed for the door.

      “Son?”

      C.J. turned at the soft word.

      Gramps watched him with kinder, wiser brown eyes than the ones C.J. saw in his own mirror. “Glad to see you having fun again.”

      C.J. shrugged. “I just need the money.”

      “Sure.” Gramps’s voice was quiet, but there was an undercurrent in the softly spoken word that C.J. refused to heed.

      He climbed the stairs to the second floor, passing through the moonbeams cast through the small round window on the landing. Where else other than on this land could he find the security he needed for his son? No way was he dragging him back to the city to live in an apartment that smelled of rotting food and dirty clothes.

      His son would live a clean, healthy life if C.J. had to turn himself inside out to make it happen.

      He needed this land. Provided they didn’t lose it to the government for back taxes first.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      JANEY SHOWED UP at his door at nine the following morning and said “Hi,” with a wave of her fingers. Instead of her I-don’t-care-what-the-world-thinks-of-me belligerence of the day before, she seemed reserved. Self-possessed.

      She stood in front of him wearing a knee-length black skirt and a bright blue tank top she’d covered with a top made out of fish net, like she’d sewn a bunch of sexy lady’s stockings together into one top and had thrown it over herself. She didn’t seem to notice that it fell off one really white shoulder. All he could wonder was whether that skin felt as soft as it looked.