Of Hoof Prints and Heartbeats

Chapter 2

2

Fell off the porch steps, my ass, Cole thought as his jean-clad legs and booted feet ate up the distance to the barn. Saddling his favorite horse and doing a day’s work on the ranch was the only thing he could think of to derail the confrontation he held on his tongue about the lies his mother muttered to explain her injuries. In the moments when he wasn’t spinning scenarios about what really happened to land her in the hospital, his mind turned, as it often did, to Samantha Tanner. And when he couldn’t reconcile that issue, he occupied himself with the ramifications of resigning from a premier legal firm in the Midwest, hence the reason for working cattle.

Slipping the halter over Hollywood’s nose, Cole secured the buckle and led the big bay out of his stall to the hitching post by the tack room. While he groomed and saddled his horse, one he had owned for twelve years and the first one he had purchased with his own savings, his thoughts shifted to the most immediate problem first.

The ranch hands might be uncomfortable with the son of the current owner riding out with them. Though he had returned home when Alice had been injured, it had been months since he had helped with the direct running of the ranch. Everyone knew their job, and they were likely to take offense to him inserting himself into their roles for the day.

Donald Masters, the ranch manager for the JAR-C, had started off as a seasonal employee. Jack Branson, Cole’s father, hired Donald full time when the ranch acquired more cattle, and Donald had arrived with enough knowledge to secure his employment. That was thirty years ago. Over six feet tall with a head of thick, brown hair, dark eyes, and despite the physical work Donald pushed himself to complete each day, an extra fifteen pounds had settled around his middle. He had never subscribed to the belief that Cole should be treated any differently than one of the hands just because he was heir to the JAR-C spread.

Cole found Donald at the end of the yard by the round pen. Today was the day they would be pushing cattle to the late-summer pasture. The fence line, a couple of miles in either direction of the gate, would be checked for loose posts and broken wire. The coming weeks would see the employees riding out to check on the cattle, taking ATVs to drop salt blocks off at the stock tanks, and using the miles of land and herds of cattle to train the young horses.

One of the three-year-olds was being worked in the round pen when Cole rode up and stopped Hollywood next to Donald’s horse.

“He’s coming along,” Cole said conversationally.

Donald nodded, keeping his gaze on the Palomino gelding trotting in circles, the cowboy on his back asking the horse to bend his neck and give to the bit. “He should be ready to ride out next week.”

When Cole didn’t move away, Donald shifted his eyes to the cowboy-turned-lawyer-turned-sometimes-ranch hand. He had always liked Cole. The younger man was quiet and steady when working with the stock, knew his way around all the jobs on a ranch of this size, and never thought he was too good to not get bucked off a green horse or get muddy when vaccinating cattle. Donald was the closest thing to a friend that Jack had before Robert’s accident, and more of a father to Cole than Jack had been when the terrible event happened to Samantha Tanner. He knew Cole was different after that. The boy didn’t come home much once he left to attend college, and Donald wondered if Cole would ever move back to Colorado. Jack had passed, Robert was a permanent patient at Crestview, and Alice had taken a terrible fall, or so she said. Good thing Cole has broad shoulders, Donald mused, as God seems determined to use them.

“You probably don’t need my help, but I would like to ride along today,” Cole said, his gaze holding Donald’s.

The ranch manager shrugged. “Could always use another hand. Ride drag with Jeremy and Mike,” he suggested with a tilt of his head to the two riders in the far corner of the stock pens.

Following the direction of the gesture with his eyes, Cole nodded. “Thanks.”

Donald pulled the radio from his belt and called to Jeremy. From this distance, they both could see Jeremy pick up his radio to answer, but not hear Donald’s voice over the device.

“Cole is going to keep you and Mike company. We have too many head to move for you and your partner to be playing one of your practical jokes. Keep it clean today.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeremy’s disembodied voice came over the airwaves.

As Cole moved away from the round pen, he saw Mike say something that caused Jeremy to laugh. Maybe keeping an eye out for a prank would help divert his mind from turning to other matters. He side-passed Hollywood to the gate, let himself into the stockyard, latched the gate, then slowly weaved his way through the cattle to join the employees who would be last to exit the stock pens. Their job would be to push the cattle and keep stragglers from straying too far behind. It wasn’t a job that was new to Cole. In fact, he was looking forward to being covered in sweat and dust and the stench of a thousand cow pies. Smiling to himself, he realized it wasn’t much different from a day at the office.

Sam lifted a heavy lid and looked at the clock beside her bed. Damn, she thought, then closed her eye. It was morning and time to face what she couldn’t solve last night. Matt had called the sheriff the day before to report Uncle Joe missing. The sheriff had done his duty and filed the report, made a cursory pass around Joe’s quarters to verify clothes and essentials weren’t missing, and had suggested that the employees keep their eyes open for signs of foul play as they rode the ranch.

As she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, the same one that filled her sleepless vision late the night before, she wondered where, in the two thousand acres, they would find evidence of ‘foul play’. If he was under the cover of trees, he would be protected from the elements, but it would also hinder his use of a radio, if he had one with him. Out in the open, they might have a better chance of locating him. Of course, she was basing all this on the supposition that he was injured or stuck somewhere. Her mind refused to conjure a worse alternative.

Flinging aside the comforter, she made her way to her bathroom. As much as a shower would wake her up, she would reserve the pleasure of scented soap and hot water until after she spent the day in the saddle moving cattle and locating Joe. Pulling on jeans and a long-sleeved, buttoned-down shirt, she tucked in the tails, then slid her belt through the loops and fastened the only trophy buckle she had ever won. She brushed and braided her hair, pulled on her boots, then grabbed a handkerchief and hat on her way out of her room. Down the hall in the kitchen, Matt had already made the coffee. She grabbed an apple and a breakfast bar, filled a mug with the hot brew, and headed out the door.

It was nearing the end of summer, so a morning chill to the air had arrived. Walking briskly to the barn to saddle Sunny, Sam alternated bites of her breakfast bar with sips of hot, strong coffee. A few of the employees were already saddled and in the stock pens. The closer she got to the action of horses, cows, and cowboys, the more the sounds, sights, and smells filled her senses, driving away the extraneous thoughts that would only serve as a distraction. Shouts of directions and jobs to be filled, continuous mooing from the cattle, and an occasional whinny from a barn mate being left behind added to the energy of the morning.

Sam tucked the wrapper into her pocket, then made quick work of her apple so Sunny could enjoy the core. He was already standing in the crossties when she entered the barn. Nearly bumping into Matt as he exited the tack room, she apologized and waited for her heart to move from her throat back to her chest.

“Thought I would give you a hand,” Matt explained, holding the saddle pad out to her.

Sam nodded her thanks, tucked the pad under her arm, and went back to where Sunny was standing. As the apple core was devoured between equine lips, she drained her coffee, set the pad on Sunny’s back, and turned around to see Matt holding her saddle.

“First day out. Tack room is busy,” he told her.

He knew about her time with Carl Rutgers, as did everyone in Durango, and understood her reluctance to be in a small room with a lot of people, especially boisterous cowboys.

“Thanks.” Sam accepted the saddle and went about finishing tacking up.

With Uncle Joe missing, a day that would usually be filled with laughter and enthusiastic riding was, instead, somber. In Joe’s absence, Matt was next in line for the ranch manager position. Not that she thought for a moment that Matt would consider hurting Joe, but rather the demands of the day, and running a ranch the size of Crystal Springs, fell to his capable hands.

Sam unhooked the crossties from Sunny’s halter, looped the lead line, and secured it with the pommel ties. Matt handed her a radio. It was one piece of technology that helped them to keep in touch when they were separated by distance and several hundred head of cattle. She clipped it on her belt, led Sunny outside, and noticed that everyone was in place and waited for her and Matt to give the word to open the stock gates. There would be four riders at the lead, combing the tall grass for a sign of Joe or Racer, and several fewer ‘yee-haws’ to get the cattle moving. She would ride at the left flank and maneuvered Sunny into position between the back of the barn and the stock pens. Matt lifted his red bandana and circled it over his head. The gates were opened, and the cattle pushed through.

Sunny pricked his ears forward and raised his head to watch the progression of the cows while Sam tied her own bandana over her nose and mouth. The dust wasn’t bad yet, but it would get so thick that she wouldn’t be able to see the far side of the stock pens by the time they were empty. The voices of the two cowboys who manned the gate crackled over the radio, alerting the flank riders they were to move out. Sam nudged Sunny with her heels and the big buckskin gelding moved off to urge the cows along.

They had cleared the backyard, the space behind the barn and the bunkhouse, closed that gate, and allowed the cows to slowly move through one pasture on their way to the southern portion of the ranch where they would spend the rest of the summer and first part of fall. Forty-five minutes later, she was using her cell phone to call the sheriff. They had found Uncle Joe in the tall summer grass, with two dark stains around the holes in the back of his shirt and maggots vying for the exposed skin.