A Cowboy's Promise. Marin Thomas

to be him.

      Fingers drumming the steering wheel, he considered his options. His stomach gurgled with hunger, so he started the truck and merged onto the highway, heading north into town. Five minutes later he slowed to a stop at the sole intersection in Pebble Creek.

      The quaint map dot consisted of one city block of 1920’s brick-front businesses. Fake, old-fashioned hitching posts lined the sidewalk. A livestock tank overflowing with red and purple flowers sat by the door of a beauty shop called Snappy Scissors Hair Salon. Mendel’s Drug emporium offered a park bench for customers outside its store. Smith Tax Consultants was sandwiched between the beauty shop and drugstore. Farther down Wineball Realty had been painted in white lettering across a black awning. And at the end of the block sat United Savings and Loan.

      Situated across the street was a turn-of-the-century Victorian home that had been converted into a tavern. Joe’s was scrawled in red paint across the front window and a Michelob sign hung from the flagpole bracket mounted on the overhang of the porch. A pot of faded plastic daisies decorated the bottom porch step and two battered aluminum chairs graced either side of the front door. An orange tabby rested in a windowsill on the second floor.

      Roxie’s Rustic Treasures occupied the abandoned gas station on the corner. The treasures: iron headboards, broken furniture and an assortment of tools and dishes were scattered about the parking lot. Next to Roxie’s, a life-size horse statue pawed the air in front of Pebble Creek Feed & Tack.

      A sidewalk sign outside Pearl’s advertised, Parking in Rear, so Matt drove around the corner and swung into the lot behind the block of businesses. He left his hat on the front seat and entered through the back door of the diner, deciding he’d order a thick juicy burger.

      “We’re out of burger meat. Delivery truck jackknifed near Pocatello. Won’t get here till morning,” the waitress groused when she arrived to take his order at the lunch counter. The middle-aged woman with dyed blond hair scrutinized him through her mango-colored bifocals. “You’re not from around these parts, are you?”

      Matt read her name tag. “I’m from Oklahoma, Pearl.”

      “I met an Okie years ago. Didn’t impress me none.” She batted a set of false eyelashes.

      “Maybe I’ll change your mind.” Matt’s grin teased a twitch from the corner of the woman’s mouth. “What do you recommend for a hungry cowboy?” He read the offerings scratched in white chalk on the blackboard mounted to the wall behind the counter.

      “If you’ve a mind for home cooking try the meat loaf. Otherwise the Reuben ain’t bad.”

      Pearl’s World-Famous Meat Loaf…Matt shook his head. Every diner in America boasted a world-famous something. “Meat loaf it is and a cup of decaf.”

      “Sure thing.”

      After Pearl delivered his coffee, Matt forced his current dilemma to the far reaches of his mind and soaked up the atmosphere. Over the years he’d broken bread in plenty of small-town diners while traveling the circuit. After a while the mom-and-pop eateries blurred together. Pearl’s business possessed candy-apple-red tabletops. Worn seats made from cheap leather that sported their share of cracks and splits, allowing the yellowed foam cushion inside to poke through.

      Cigarette burns scarred the Formica lunch counter, which was the same red color as the booth tables. The wall facing the street displayed a collection of license plates from all corners of the United States—even Hawaii. Framed photographs hung near the door—famous people like the 1978 4-H Fair Queen and the 2007 school district spelling-bee champion. Instead of the custom jukebox in the corner wailing Gatlin Brothers’ songs, the local farm bureau report droned from a radio at the end of the counter.

      Snatches of conversation filtered into Matt’s ear. A group of elderly women gossiped about the local pastor and traded apple pie recipes. A couple of hippies in their fifties, wearing tie-dyed T-shirts and torn jeans, shared an animated conversation—probably reminiscing over a recent biker rally. A middle-aged couple in a corner booth sat stone-faced over cups of coffee. And a trio of anglers nearby complained about the new state-wide limit on chinook salmon.

      “Passin’ through to the next go-round?” The question came from two stools away. Friendly gray eyes smiled out of a chiseled face covered in white whiskers. “Noticed the buckle.” The geezer’s arthritic pointer finger crooked at an odd angle.

      “Here on business.” Matt swiveled his stool and shook hands. “Matt Cartwright by way of Tulsa.”

      “Jake Taylor. Foreman out at the Gateway Ranch.”

      “Horses?” Matt guessed.

      “Yes, sir. This here part of Idaho is horse country. What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

      “I’ve got business with the Broken Wheel.”

      “How much you givin’ Amy for the place?”

      Hadn’t Amy claimed her house and land weren’t for sale? Matt didn’t want to hear that Ben Olson’s death was forcing his wife to sell out. “I’m not interested in her farm.”

      “Hope your business ain’t with that stallion in the barn.”

      “It’s true then? The horse attacked Olson?”

      “Hard to say. Amy found Ben on the ground inside the stall with his chest caved in. Could be the stud went loco or could be it was a freak accident.”

      Matt winced as the scene played out in his mind. Most folks would refuse to take a chance on a stallion with volatile behavior, no matter how famous the stud. “I’m surprised she hasn’t put the horse down.”

      “I reckon she’s hopin’ to sell the animal so she can hang on to the place.” The old man slurped his coffee. “Amy ran a horse-boardin’ business, but her customers up and left. Can’t say I blame ’em. Wouldn’t want my animal in the same barn as SOS—Ben’s nickname for the stud.”

      “That’s too bad.” Matt had a weakness for underdogs, and the temptation to rescue the widow nagged him, but he doubted she’d appreciate his interference.

      “She’s a fighter, I’ll give her that,” Taylor continued. “But ain’t no way she’s gonna hang on to the farm without an income.”

      “Meat loaf should be up in a minute, cowboy,” Pearl informed Matt as she topped off the men’s mugs.

      Jake nodded his thanks, then said, “A damned shame Payton Scott over at the bank’s puttin’ the squeeze on Amy.”

      Matt hated to hear that the local banker had ganged up on the widow. Whatever happened to small-town folk caring for their own?

      “Heard tell,” Pearl whispered, inviting herself into the conversation, “that Payton offered Amy a teller position, but she snubbed her nose at the position.”

      Why would the widow refuse the job? Don’t ask. Matt remained silent, content to count the salt and pepper shakers lined up on the shelf behind the lunch counter.

      “The farm’s been in her mama’s family for generations,” Taylor grumbled.

      After Pearl walked away, Matt felt compelled to keep the conversation going. “I met Ben in Pocatello at the NFR this past December.”

      “Ben 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