Big Sky Cowboy
Autor:in
JoAnna Sims
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Prologue
“Sounds like we have company,” Charlotte Brand said to her mother, Rose. The driveway alarm mounted on the main gate chimed. Bowie, their five-year-old pit bull and rottweiler mix, leaped up out of his bed growling and raced to the door, where he barked and pawed to be let out.
“Were you—” Rose Brand had to pause to catch her breath before she continued in a wheezy voice “—expecting someone?”
“No,” Charlotte answered her mother and then said to Bowie calmly, “Quiet.”
The dog sat down, continued to growl in a low tone, his concerned eyes watching hers. Charlotte looked out the kitchen window and saw a gentleman pulling up to the house in an early-model faded green Ford truck.
“I don’t recognize him.” Charlotte pulled a small handgun out of the kitchen drawer, lifted up the tail of her T-shirt and slipped the gun into a waistband holster.
Their ranch was situated in a valley near the base of Lone Mountain; it was isolated. Folks didn’t just pop by unannounced.
“Could be,” her mother said teasingly with a weak smile, “Prince Charming.”
“Bite your tongue, Mama,” Charlotte retorted playfully, then asked, “Are you going to be okay?”
Rose had been battling her third bout of pneumonia since her diagnosis of emphysema, and she had just come through a nasty coughing spell.
“Quit...fussing.” Her mother said from her hospital bed that now took up much of the space in the small family room adjacent to the kitchen. “I’m...fine.”
Rose had lived her life strong and stoic, so even if she weren’t fine, she wouldn’t admit to it. Thinking that it would be short work to send this unwanted visitor packing, Charlotte headed toward the front door and gave Bowie a rewarding pat on the head for his patience before she shrugged into her late father’s tan and orange canvas Carhartt jacket. She zipped up the jacket and flipped the brown collar up to protect her neck from the cold.
Her hand on the door, Charlotte said, “I’ll be right back.”
Rose waved her hand and then, seemingly sapped of energy from the short exchange, she closed her eyes.
“Love ya, Mama,” she said out of habit.
“Love you.”
Charlotte opened the door and stepped outside into the wintery April air with Bowie at her heel. The melting snow on the porch made a crunching sound beneath her feet as she walked the short distance to the rough-hewn railing. Bowie sat down beside her, his hackles standing upright, and a low, consistent growl in his throat. Bowie had always been leery of strangers; between his strong muscular frame and his extensive training, Charlotte always felt protected with her dog by her side.
The man behind the wheel gave her a quick wave in greeting; she judged his age to be in the late forties or early fifties by the salt-and-pepper he had in his bushy goatee. The black Lab in his front-passenger seat, that also had some salt in his coat, was sticking his nose out of the cracked window, catching the scents of the ranch.
The man took a cowboy hat off the dashboard, put it on his head as he opened his door and said to the dog, “You stay put, Mick.”
“Howdy,” the man said after he shoved his creaky driver’s door shut.
“You lost?” she asked in a tone deliberately unfriendly.
The stranger was tall and lean; beneath his sheepskin denim jacket he wore a button-up checkered shirt tucked neatly into his faded jeans. There was a gray bandanna around his neck, and his pointy brown cowboy boots were scuffed from use. The chocolate brown hat was most likely a Stetson, and it looked new.
“Well, I don’t believe I’m lost.” He cracked a small smile, barely visible behind his unruly facial hair.
“Then, what are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for Charlie Brand.” He hooked his right thumb into his front pocket and cocked his hip in a relaxed stance. “Am I in the right spot?”
“Why are you looking for Charlie?”
“The name’s Wayne. I’m looking for work.” The man fished a piece of paper from the front pocket of his shirt. “I got this from the post office up in Gallatin Gateway.”
She had left an advertisement for ranch help, but that was quite a while back. For her, it seemed like a lifetime ago.
“We don’t have work now.” She said in a blunt tone, “A phone call would’ve saved you the trip.”
“I tried the number.” Wayne held the small piece of paper up between two fingers.
Charlotte worked to keep her expression neutral; she had changed her number last year in an attempt to slow down the collection calls.
“Well,” Wayne said, a ring of disappointment in his voice, “nothing ventured, nothing gained, I suppose.”
She gave the slightest of nods.
“Beautiful place you’ve got here.” He looked around, taking in the empty pastures and horse corrals covered in layers of undisturbed snow. “You folks selling?”
Her face and voice devoid of emotion, Charlotte said, “You can find your way out the same way you came in.”
“Well,” he said and gave her a nod, lifting up his hands a bit in surrender, “I apologize for the imposition.”
In her gut, she didn’t fear this man, but she still stood her ground at her post. Wayne turned on his heel to head back to his truck, and for the first time in his life, Bowie left her side, barreled down the steps and chased after the man.
“Bowie!” Charlotte shouted his name followed by the do-not-attack command. “Leave!”
Wayne spun around, his eyes trained on Bowie, and quick as a whip, a knife appeared in the man’s hand.
Charlotte pulled her gun, pointed it at the man, her hand steady, and yelled, “If you hurt my dog, mister, I’ll shoot you where you stand!”
“Then call him off!” Wayne barked back at her.
The air seemed to crackle with tension; her assertive voice mixed with the urgent, piercing sound of Wayne’s dog barking and scratching at the truck window made it difficult for her to keep her focus solely on Wayne. She gave the return command to Bowie, but instead of attacking or returning to her, he slid to a stop at Wayne’s feet, barked once, and then dropped onto the ground and rolled onto his back in the snow, his big, fat paws curled downward, his white, grayish-blue and light orange belly exposed. Bowie’s big tongue slid out of his mouth, and he seemed to smile at Wayne.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Wayne seemed as stunned as she felt. The cowboy chuckled, put away his knife and knelt down on one knee to give the dog a scratch on his belly. Then, Bowie rolled up to a sitting position, his back wet with crystalized snow, and licked Wayne’s goatee. Wayne petted Bowie’s large head and floppy ears. “Bark worse than your bite, big fella?”
Not amused, Charlotte holstered her gun and said, “Bowie. Come.”
Bowie looked over at her, gave a small, unhappy whine, but finally did as he was commanded and returned to his post by her side.
Wayne walked back to the driver’s side of his truck, but instead of getting behind the wheel, he leaned in, seemed to search for something and then emerged with a pen. Using the hood of his truck as a makeshift desk, he wrote something on the back of the slip of paper he had taken from her advertisement. When he was done, he stuck the pen in the front pocket of his shirt and then walked over to where she was standing. Bowie started wagging his tail again but didn’t move.
Wayne handed the piece of paper to Charlotte, and she took it.
“Please pass this on to Charlie for me.” He pushed the brim of his hat up and caught her eye. “Winter’s gonna break before we know it, and there might be work to be had here. I could surely use it.”
She nodded her head wordlessly. The man had the most intense blue deep-set eyes she had ever seen; in fact, for a split second she was actually distracted by them.
Wayne seemed reluctant to leave; he took one more look around, caught her eye again, rapped the knuckles of his right hand on the hood of his truck a couple of times, then climbed behind the wheel. He cranked the engine and revved it several times before backing up. Wayne gave her one last wave before he drove slowly down the long dirt driveway that would lead him back to the highway.
When her unexpected visitor disappeared from view, Charlotte looked down at Bowie and asked, “Seriously? I thought for a minute there you were going to go with him!”
Bowie seemed to smile back at her, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, his eyes loving and soft, as if he was convinced that he had done a very good job.
“All right. I love you anyway.” She couldn’t resist the sweet, eager look in Bowie’s oddly colored eyes—one blue and one brown. She petted him on the head affectionately as she balled up the piece of paper and stuffed it into the side pocket of her jacket.
She wiped her boots on the doormat before quickly entering followed by Bowie and then shut the door behind them to keep the warm air in.
“I hate to disappoint you,” she said to her mom as she shrugged out of her coat and hung it up on the horseshoe hook by the door. “Not Prince Charming after all. Just another broken-down cowboy looking for work.”
Instead of returning to his own bed, Bowie made a beeline for Rose; he started to whine and nuzzle Rose’s hand, which had slipped off the side of the bed.
“Bowie! No!” Charlotte whispered harshly. Her mother’s eyes were closed; she was resting peacefully and Charlotte didn’t want Bowie to awaken her.
She snapped her fingers and pointed to his bed. Still whining in a way she hadn’t heard before, Bowie went over and sat there but didn’t lie down, his eyes still trained on Rose. That’s when a warning light flashing in her brain and the question mark behind Bowie’s odd behavior sent her quickly to her mother’s side. She picked up her mother’s hand: it felt frail and limp. Rose’s rest seemed almost too peaceful.
“Mama?” She patted her mother’s hand, but Rose didn’t rouse. “Mama!”
Charlotte felt for a pulse and couldn’t find one. A sense of dread washed over her body, adrenaline pumping through her veins. Her hands were shaky when she dialed 9-1-1. She put the phone on Speaker and then began to perform CPR on her mother.
“Come on, Mama!” Charlotte screamed, tears rolling off her cheeks onto her mother’s flowered nightgown. “No, Mama! Please, God! No! Wake up, Mama!”
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?”
