The Rodeo Cowboy's Return
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Cathy McDavid
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CHAPTER ONE
THE RUSTED IRON gate stood open, inviting anyone who approached to enter. Some things, thought Everett Owens, never changed. And, unfortunately, some things did.
Ignoring the stab of guilt squeezing his heart, he drove his late-model cobalt blue pickup truck onto his grandfather’s ranch, the tires shooting plumes of dry red dust into the air. A few hundred yards later, the dirt road curved and pasture fences came into view. Three years ago, a herd of Arizona’s finest quarter horses would have galloped alongside the fence line, escorting Everett to the outbuildings. Today, the pastures sat empty.
A dozen broodmares and one stallion were all that remained of his grandfather’s once thriving horse breeding business. In the wake of the older man’s recent heart attack, Everett assumed that the horses would soon have a new owner. The ranch, too.
Help selling off. That must be why his grandfather had summoned him home. Only a few reasons could convince Everett to set foot in Wickenburg, Arizona. His grandfather’s health. The ranch and horses. A funeral.
Another funeral, Everett amended.
He shoved the sudden flood of unhappy memories aside and focused on what, according to his mom, might be required of him during this visit. Liquidating Pop’s few remaining business assets. Making any necessary repairs and then putting the ranch on the market. Eventually, overseeing the sale. Finding a suitable eldercare facility for his grandfather.
How long would all that take? Everett had no wish to prolong his stay or keep returning. He didn’t miss his hometown, and he was sure his hometown didn’t miss him.
The outbuildings came into view, shabbier than the last time he’d seen them and crying out for fresh paint. He counted at least a dozen missing roof shingles on the mare barn and stallion quarters. Doors hung crookedly on loose hinges. The hay shed housed at most thirty bales. Barely enough to feed a string of pregnant broodmares and a big, hardy stallion for a week.
Everett’s mom had either downplayed the situation or lacked a full understanding of it. She and Everett’s aunt Laurel would have been here if not for Pop’s objections. Everett was the only one his grandfather had summoned. According to him, a phone call wouldn’t suffice. The two of them needed to talk in person.
Aiming the truck in the direction of the house, Everett reduced his speed to a crawl. Pop must have been watching from the back window, for the kitchen door opened, and he shuffled onto the spacious back porch. Shuffled? What had happened to his robust stride? His worn work shirt billowed at the waist where it once strained against the buttons, and his formerly square shoulders now drooped.
Swallowing his shock, Everett parked in front of the freestanding garage behind the house and climbed out of his truck. His mom’s worry hadn’t been exaggerated.
“Hey, Pop,” he hollered and waved.
Most people in town called Winston Connelly by his nickname. If asked, he couldn’t remember how or when it started.
“Everett, my boy. Mighty good to see you.”
They met on the porch where Everett enveloped Pop in a fierce embrace. Feeling his grandfather’s slighter frame gave Everett another shock.
“Good to see you, too, Pop.” He fought the sudden tightness in his chest. “I’ve missed you.”
“Missed you something awful.” Pop clapped Everett on the back before releasing him. “You hungry? Thirsty? Can I make you a sandwich?”
It was too early for lunch. “Maybe later,” Everett said. “I’ll take a cold drink in the meantime.”
“You fetch your stuff from the truck and come on in. I’ll round us up a couple of root beers.”
Pop’s favorite beverage. That much was still the same.
Everett did as instructed and carried his duffel and laptop satchel into the house. He passed Pop at the kitchen counter, struggling to pry the lid off a bottle. Everett resisted offering to help—Pop was a proud and independent man—and headed down the hall instead. His cowboy boots echoed on the wooden floor only to be muted when they reached the carpeted guest bedroom.
The quilt that had won his late grandmother first place at the county fair two decades ago covered the bed. Like everything at the ranch, it had seen better days. After setting his duffel and satchel on an old chair in the corner to be unpacked later, he returned to the kitchen.
Midway down the hall, Everett came to a bone-jarring halt. How could he have forgotten about the photo, one of many in a vast collection that stretched from one end of the long wall to the other? Feeling like he’d been kicked in the gut, he stared at the image of his younger and happier self. He and his best friend, Brody, had their arms draped around each other in a congratulatory side hug. Their grinning faces spoke of a good day. A good rodeo. They’d both finished the weekend with first place wins, Everett in bulldogging and Brody in bareback bronc riding.
Eight months later, Brody had died, the result of a head-on collision. Everett’s fault. Because of him, the finest man to ever walk the face of the earth lay six feet beneath its surface. Worse, his beautiful wife became a widow, and his yet-to-be-born son was left to grow up fatherless.
Everett attempted to draw air into lungs that refused to function. He shouldn’t keep coming back, even as seldom as he did. Too much time had passed for him to make good on his broken promise.
A loud clatter jerked him from the dark hole he’d disappeared into, and he hurried to the kitchen.
“You okay, Pop?”
His grandfather stood over a bottle of root beer lying on its side and emptying its contents into a puddle on the floor. Pop’s wizened features twisted into a frustrated grimace.
“Dang blasted bottle slipped out of my hand.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Everett bent and retrieved the bottle, which he set in the sink. He then ripped a long length of paper towels off the roll and sopped up the mess, disposing the sodden paper towels in a trash bin beneath the counter.
“It’s my arthritis,” Pop said with a note of dejection.
“I’ll lend you this new ointment I’ve been using. Pretty good stuff.” Everett suffered his share of aches and pains. Rodeoing was a physically demanding way to earn a living.
Pop reached for the refrigerator door handle. “Let me grab you another soda. Then we can tour the stallion quarters and mare barn.”
Right to business. Okay.
With their drinks in hand, they walked from the house to the barn area at a more sedate pace than in days gone by.
“What did the doctor say at your last checkup?” Everett asked.
“I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“Pop, I’m serious.”
The older man’s chuckle lacked mirth. “I’m doing well enough for a man who almost kicked the bucket. Could’ve been a lot worse.”
“He’s satisfied with your progress, then?”
“She’s satisfied. And young enough to be your sister, iffin’ you had one. Says I’m recovering nicely. Then again, I should be. She’s got me taking more pills than a grizzly has teeth.” He snorted in disgust. “Insisted I give up all my favorite foods. Steak. Bacon. Fried potatoes. Salt, for Pete’s sake. Now I have broiled chicken breast and salad for dinner prit near every night.”
That accounted for some of the weight loss, though not all. Pop had the appearance of someone who’d been gravely ill for an extended time.
“You sure you’re allowed to have root beer?” Everett asked, only half-jokingly.
“Give a poor man a break, will you?”
He supposed they could bend the rules this once. “I won’t tell.”
As they neared the stallion quarters, a magnificent chestnut trotted out the stable door and into the paddock. Snorting and shaking his head, he came to a standstill at the paddock fence and emitted a shrill whinny that let everyone in earshot know he was king of his domain. With a well-defined head that might have been chiseled from marble, his heavily muscled form displayed a strength and athleticism inherited from the best quarter horse lines.
Pop reached out a gnarled hand to the horse, whose personality instantly changed from that of a lion to a lamb.
“How’s my good boy?” He ran his palm along the horse’s prominent jaw.
In turn, the horse pressed his nose into Pop’s shoulder and nickered with contentment. There was no doubt of the close bond the two shared. A chip in Everett’s carefully constructed armor fell away.
“Champ looks good,” he observed.
“He’s a beaut.”
Doc Bar None Better was the stallion’s registered name. After his first win—a halter competition as a yearling—Pop had started calling him Champ, and the nickname stuck.
“I’ve had help looking after him. And the place,” Pop added with a tilt of his chin.
“Your neighbors?”
“Them and some of the folks in town. They keep things clean and tidy for me.”
Everett was glad to hear that. Champ was a valuable asset. Selling him and the dozen mares would bring in a lot of money that could be put to good use. Such as nice accommodations in a reputable eldercare facility. A clean and tidy place would also help obtain a good sale price when they sold the ranch.
After Champ had his fill of being doted on, Everett and Pop made their way to the mare barn. Half the stalls were occupied. To Everett’s relief, he found the mare barn in the same well-kept condition. Even better, the pregnant residents appeared healthy and content. Pop was fortunate to have such kind neighbors and friends. No way could he care for this number of horses on his own. Cleaning the stalls alone would do him in. Not to mention hauling hay, watering and the countless other labor-intensive chores required with running a ranch. Even with a limited number of horses.
“I need to rest my feet a few minutes.”
Without waiting for a response, Pop eased himself down onto one of two worn wicker rocking chairs sitting just inside the barn’s wide entryway. Most likely, he needed to catch his breath rather than rest his feet.
Everett joined Pop, taking the other chair. They chatted while finishing their sodas. Everett caught Pop up on his parents’ doings and his rodeo career.
“I’m proud of you, sonny.”
“Thanks. That means a lot to me.”
Where they sat afforded them a clear view of the distant mountains, their gentle slopes a soft green gray typical of late summer. The hot afternoon sun bore down on the parched ground, trying its best to drive all manner of man and beast inside. No wonder Pop felt winded.
After a moment, he said, “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
Everett sat up straight. “Yeah?”
Finally, he thought, the reason Pop had summoned him home. Asking for help, admitting he was too aged and infirmed to keep up with the ranch, had to be hard for a proud man like his grandfather. Everett didn’t push and let Pop make the request in his own time and own way. It was the least he could do.
“I could use a hand with some things.”
“Sure, Pop.”
“As you can guess, this place is a lot of work, and my ticker ain’t what it used to be.”
“Whatever you need. You just have to ask.”
The older man relaxed. “All right.”
“I’ve got a job lined up. A youth rodeo coach. But that won’t start until January. I have to finish the year out first.” And qualify for the National Rodeo Finals in four months. If he did, he’d receive a nice signing bonus. “I told my buddy Rusty I’d rope with him at the Big Timber Rodeo later this month. In the meantime, I can carve out a week or ten days at the most. We’ll get this place in order and maybe even ready to put on the market. I can also reach out to a few breeders I know and see if they’re interested in Champ or the mares. If you can dig out their registration papers, I’ll take pictures with my phone and—”
“What in blue blazes are you talking about, sonny?” Pop drew back and stared at Everett. “I’m not putting the ranch on the market, and Champ isn’t going anywhere.”
“What are you talking about?”
“And as far as the mares go, they aren’t mine anymore. I sold them a while ago.”
“Sold them!”
“Didn’t have much choice. Property taxes and insurance were due. But I still own twenty percent of the foals they’re carrying. That was the deal I cut with the collective.”
Everett shook his head in confusion. “Collective?”
“I don’t want your help selling the ranch. I want you to manage it for me. In exchange for half ownership. Only fair your mom and aunt get the other half. Champ would be yours, however. You’d have to keep working with the collective and allow the mares to remain here. That’s part of the deal. My hope is you can rebuild the breeding business.”
“I don’t understand.” Everett pushed to his feet. “You’re not making any sense.”
“What’s not to understand? A horse collective bought the mares. I bred Champ to them in exchange for an ownership percentage of the foals. More’n that, they help me with the chores, and I let them keep the mares here. It’s a business arrangement.”
At that moment, a white pickup truck appeared and drove slowly to the barn, its tires making a crunching sound. Everett went still. He knew that truck. Four years ago, he’d been with Brody when his friend bought it brand-new off the lot in order to surprise his bride.
Not her, please.
“Well, lookie there,” Pop said with a happy grin. “We got us some company.”
“Why is she here?” Everett choked out the question.
“She drops by most days. She’s head of the collective.”
By then the truck had come to a stop. The driver’s side door opened, and a young woman wearing jeans, boots and a baseball cap emerged. Her long blond ponytail had been threaded through the hole in the back of the cap and swung jauntily when she turned to open the rear driver’s side door.
Macy. Brody’s wife. No, widow.
Everett felt the weight of his guilt, as if he’d been stomped on by a two-thousand-pound bull. That was nothing compared to the blow he suffered when she opened the rear door and lifted out a little boy with dark curly hair and who was the spitting image of his father. With an easy, natural grace, she hoisted the boy onto her hip.
Everett grabbed the rocking chair, feeling disoriented and unsteady from the force of being thrust back in time. When he and Macy had last spoken, they’d been at the cemetery, her pregnancy just starting to show in the somber black dress she’d worn.
She caught sight of him then and reached for the side of the truck, her reaction an exact mirror of his.
No, not exact. Everett’s expression was no doubt contorted into a mask of agony and grief. Macy, however, glared at him with undisguised anger.
Her mouth moved. From this distance, he couldn’t hear her words, but he could read her lips.
“What are you doing here?”
MACY SOMMERS REMINDED herself to breathe. Five counts in, seven counts out. The coping mechanism was one she’d learned during grief counseling sessions, and it usually worked to restore her calm. Today proved no exception.
Her blurted question to Everett had been purely a knee-jerk reaction. She’d known he would be here. Pop had informed her of Everett’s arrival days ago. Still, she’d been unprepared for the shock of seeing him in person after all this time.
Anger bloomed anew inside her. He’d been Brody’s best friend and rodeo partner. And then, he’d abandoned her, breaking his deathbed vow to be there for her and the baby. She’d forgiven him, hard as it was. But she didn’t trust him. Not for a minute.
“Put me down, Mommy.”
Her young son, Joey, kicked and squirmed and wouldn’t stop until he got his wish. Still, she held on, wanting to protect him from...from what? Everett? The past? Her own uncertainties?
“Now, Mommy. Please.”
Joey was strong for such a tiny human being. He’d wear her out before long, and the last thing she wanted was for him to throw a temper tantrum. Not in front of Everett.
She lowered her son to the ground, and he immediately took off running with the fearless confidence of a two-and-a-half-year-old.
“Pop. Pop.”
“Hello, there, youngin’.” The old man opened his arms.
Joey plowed into him. Pop hoisted the boy onto his lap and enveloped him in a fond hug.
“I want to ride a horse.”
“That depends on your mom.” He glanced at Macy and winked. “She’s in charge.”
“Not today, honey. We don’t have time.”
Macy sometimes led Joey around the ranch on one of the older broodmares. It was a treat for them both. Joey was a natural and would no doubt grow up to be an avid, talented horseman like his father. If she could just keep him from rodeoing. She couldn’t bear it if another person she loved left her behind for a life on the road.
She walked toward Everett, wishing she possessed a fraction of her son’s confidence.
“You made it,” she said when she neared.
Did he hear the challenge in her voice? Truth be told, she’d half expected him to bail on his grandfather. More than half. He’d bailed on her, after all.
He nodded. “Just got here. Pop was showing me around.”
“Don’t let me stop you.” She retreated a step. “Come on, Joey.”
He curled against Pop. “I want to stay.”
Her son had a stubborn streak that landed the two of them in frequent power struggles. He also melted her heart with his silly antics, charming personality and sweet bedtime kisses.
Pop chuckled. “I’m happy to watch him while you check on the mares.”
“I can’t keep imposing on you,” Macy insisted.
“He’ll only get underfoot.” Pop tweaked Joey’s nose. “Won’t you, youngin’?”
Joey burst into giggles. This was one of the many games he and Pop played, and reason why Macy adored their visits to the ranch. Joey had two sets of grandparents, but Pop filled the role of great-grandfather.
Glancing at Everett, she was struck by his expression, a mixture of tenderness and sorrow and grief. A far cry from his stoic, almost unreadable countenance on the day of Brody’s funeral.
Wait. Macy looked closer. Grief, yes, but also guilt shone in his ruggedly handsome features. Did he feel bad about breaking his promise to Brody and staying away? Did he miss his friend and feel like a chunk of his heart had been ripped out? She hoped so. She hoped, like her, he spent restless nights tormented by regrets.
As much as she wanted to, Macy couldn’t go back in time and change what she’d said to Brody that last fateful day. But it was different for Everett. He purposely chose not to honor his commitment to Brody by checking on her and Joey, and his actions hurt. She considered asking him why, only to clamp her mouth shut. This wasn’t the time or place.
“I have an idea.” Pop grinned in a way that had Macy convinced she wouldn’t like what he proposed. “I’ll keep an eye on Joey. That way, Everett can help you with the mares while you tell him about the collective. I was gettin’ ready to do that when you pulled up.”
Macy hesitated, absorbing this latest surprise. Everett didn’t know about the collective. She had to wonder what else Pop hadn’t mentioned.
Suddenly, she wanted to tell Everett everything. Not only about the collective but also her job and school and how well she’d managed these past three years—all without his assistance.
“Fine.” She spun and returned to her truck, refusing to give him a chance to object. From the floor of the back seat, she removed a heavy brown medical bag that resembled a suitcase. Carrying it by the handle, she returned to where Everett stood. “Ready?”
His hazel eyes had always been easy to read. He didn’t want to accompany her. Didn’t want to be alone with her. But as much, if not more, he wanted to learn about the collective. The latter won out.
He extended his hand. “Let me take that for you.”
She tugged the bag closer. “I’ve got it.” As an afterthought, she added, “Thanks.”
Assured that Joey was behaving for Pop, she made her way into the mare barn. Everett followed, his slower pace another indication of his reluctance.
“You got your vet tech certification?”
He’d known that was her ambition. “Not yet. I’m close. I’ll finish in the spring.”
“Good for you.”
She stopped at the third stall on the right. A chunky sorrel hung her head over the half door, her ears pricked forward inquisitively.
“Hello, Miss Roxie. How are you today?”
The mare snorted and blew out a gust of warm air that grazed Macy’s cheek.
“Better, I take it?”
Roxie swung her head around to nip at her neighbor, letting the well-pedigreed and too-nosy palomino know that her interference wasn’t appreciated.
“Quit squabbling, you two,” Macy warned as she bent to open the case and remove a stethoscope. When she straightened, Everett stood beside her. Unable to stop herself, she retreated a step. “Oh.”
“I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I’m not sta... It’s...” Five counts in, seven counts out. “I’ve had a stressful morning.” That was an understatement. “I’m preoccupied.”
“What’s wrong with the mare?”
Horse care. A safe topic. Macy slid open the latch and stepped inside the stall, closing the door behind her. “Roxie had a concerning case of colic yesterday.”
She ran her hand along the mare’s belly, feeling Everett’s gaze on her like the glow of a heat lamp. Roxie, along with most of the mares in the barn, was about four months along in her pregnancy. Horses generally carried eleven months. Sometimes less. A year or longer wasn’t uncommon. An ultrasound recently had confirmed Roxie’s baby was developing normally, but things could, and sometimes did, go wrong. Colic in horses was always concerning and could be quite dangerous for a pregnant mare.
Relieved that Roxie exhibited no signs of distress, Macy pressed the stethoscope’s diaphragm against Roxie’s belly and listened. Hearing only typical gut rumblings, she moved the diaphragm around, then repeated the process on Roxie’s other side. The mare amused herself by nuzzling Macy’s ball cap.
“Enough,” Macy chided affectionately and stepped away.
She gave Roxie a thorough visual examination, satisfied the mare appeared healthy. Next, she surveyed the stall. Roxie had eaten all of her breakfast, as evidenced by the empty feed trough, and done her business in the corner. Both good signs.
Still, she’d ask Dr. Beck his opinion at the clinic and stop by the ranch after work for another well check. Roxie was much more than a valuable broodmare and a key to her and her son’s financial future. Macy treated all the collective’s mares like they were her personal pets, spoiling and fretting over each one.
“You still work for Red Hills Veterinary Clinic?” Everett asked when she emerged from the stall.
She relatched the door and turned to face him. “I do. I manage the office. For now. Until I complete my certification.”
“How’s Dr. Beck?”
“Good. He’s very accommodating with my schedule. In fact, I’m on my lunch hour right now. My mom watches Joey when I’m at work. I picked him up on the way here and will drop him off on my way back.”
“They still live right down the road?”
“They talk about moving but haven’t yet.”
He’d been a regular at her parents’. Brody had brought him to the house often for birthday parties and cookouts.
A quick glance assured her Joey and Pop were doing fine. The older man was attempting to teach Joey the names of coins. Penny, nickel, dime and quarter. Which meant she couldn’t use her son as an excuse to escape Everett.
“You were going to tell me about the collective,” he prompted.
Okay. Business. That was fine with her. “Pop needed money to meet some of the ranch’s expenses.”
“He told me that much. Before you got here.”
“Did he also tell you he’d been selling off horses for years?”
“I was aware of that.”
“And you never asked why?” Her accusatory tone sounded harsh even to her.
“He said he was lightening his load. He wanted to retire.”
In Everett’s defense, Pop probably had said something along those lines. He’d refused to admit he was struggling to make ends meet.
“Your grandfather couldn’t keep up with the ranch on his own. At first, he hired part-time help. Then the supply chain crisis drove the price of hay sky-high, and he could no longer afford help. There were repairs and maintenance expenses. The heat pump on the house broke down. The transmission went out on his truck. Eventually, he couldn’t pay the back taxes and almost lost the ranch.” She noticed a spark of emotion flitter across Everett’s face and paused. “Look. It’s not my intention to lecture you.”
“It’s all right, Macy. I deserve a lecture.”
She’d heard him say her name a hundred times. Two hundred. She’d forgotten the way the syllables rumbled pleasantly in that low-timbered voice of his and how she used to love listening to him talk. They’d been so young that summer between their junior and senior years of high school.
Then Everett’s dad was transferred for work, and he and his family moved to Santa Fe. Time passed. Macy started dating Brody and fell in love. When she next saw Everett after graduation, they were just friends. Nothing more. Now, they were practically strangers.
Clearing her throat, she continued. “Everyone in town loves your grandfather. He’s lived here his entire life. Given to the community. Lent a helping hand to whoever needed one.”
“Not many like him,” Everett agreed.
“We, his friends, didn’t want to see him lose the ranch because of being unable to pay back taxes. But he refused the loan we offered him. So, we came up with another idea. We pooled our resources and formed a collective—I used some of the life insurance money I got—and we bought the remaining broodmares from him.”
“That must have cost...”
She could see Everett doing the math in his head.
“Yes. A lot. In addition, Pop retains a twenty percent ownership of the foals, which he’ll receive when they’re old enough to sell.”
“What about any future foals?”
“That will depend. Hopefully, the collective will have enough money after the sale of the foals to pay Pop outright for any stud fees. Or we’ll strike a similar agreement with him. Meanwhile, Pop allows the mares to remain here. In exchange, the collective members feed and tend the mares. We cover all their costs, including medical. We also keep up the mare barn and clean Champ’s stallion quarters, saving Pop the trouble.”
“Wow.” Everett pushed back his cowboy hat. “That’s something.”
“It’s a good arrangement for everyone. If all goes well, the collective will make a nice return on their investment and Pop, too, on his share of the foals.” At the slight downturn of Everett’s mouth, she asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You disapprove?”
“It’s not that.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Can I ask who else is in the collective?”
“There are five of us altogether. Me, Kinsley Karston, Sheriff Andy, Glynnis Pottinger, and the Hays family. They’re the new owners of Hayloft Feed and Tack Store and a valuable addition to the collective. They supply our feed at cost, which is a huge savings.”
“The local sheriff is a member?”
“No, no. Nothing like that.” Macy shook her head. “His real name is Roy Gleason, and he’s a retired real estate broker. But everyone calls him Sheriff Andy. You’ll see why when you meet him. He looks just like Andy Griffith from the old TV show.”
“Thank you,” Everett said, his demeanor changing. “For helping Pop. None of us realized how bad his finances had gotten.”
“You know your grandfather. He’s very private and not one to talk about his problems. The only reason any of us found out he owed back taxes is someone spotted a notice in the newspaper. If he hadn’t paid the back taxes, he’d have lost the ranch.”
Everett gave a start, the news clearly unexpected. “I wish he’d told me.”
“What would you have done?”
He hesitated. “I’m not sure.”
“That’s what I thought.” Returning the stethoscope to the case, she grabbed the handle and started to walk away.
Everett stopped her before she got two steps. “What does that mean?”
She stared down at where his large, strong fingers rested gently on her upper arm. He immediately let go.
“Sorry.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. Rather than feel threatening, his touch had evoked old memories from their brief period of dating she’d all but forgotten.
“I have to get going.” That was only half-true. Dr. Beck had given her extra time off in case Roxie was in distress. “I’ll be back around six.”
“I can keep watch on Roxie and save you a trip. I’ll call if there’s any change in her condition.”
She wanted to object. But Everett was experienced with horses and would recognize the signs of colic. “Thanks. Guess I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
“Is your number the same?”
“Yes.”
He hadn’t deleted her contact info. She’d saved his, too.
They walked to where Pop sat, bouncing Joey on his knee.
“Come on, honey.” Macy reached for Joey’s hand. “Time for us to leave.”
He pouted. “I want to stay.”
Pop lifted Joey from his lap and set him on the ground, then, with a low grunt, rose on unsteady legs. “I was hoping the three of us could have a chat.”
“About what?” Macy asked, suddenly wary.
Pop grinned. “Our new arrangement.”
“I don’t understand.” She glanced at Everett, who wore a puzzled expression.
“Let’s go inside where it’s not so hot,” the old man suggested.
“Pop.” Macy gave him the same warning stare she gave Joey when he was about to reach for something off-limits.
“What arrangement?” Everett asked.
“With you.” Pop turned to Macy, his grin widening. “Everett will be taking over management of the ranch and ownership of Champ. The collective will be working with him from now on.”
Macy didn’t believe her ears. “Is that true?”
She turned toward him, seeing the same shock she felt reflected on his face.
