"How the hell did your bull end up in my mud bog?"
Logan Taylor asked his best friend and neighbor, Fletcher
McFadden. Fletcher had called Logan a half hour ago
requesting help. Luckily Logan had his cell phone with him
in the barn where he'd been mucking out stalls.
"Danny left the gate open again." Danny was
Fletcher's seven-year-old son. The kid was a handful.
Logan didn't comment on the boy's carelessness.
Danny was going through a rough patch after Fletcher and the
boy's mother divorced. Come to think about it, all three
of them—Danny, Fletcher and himself—had seen better days.
"I brought a sling," Logan said. He'd also
loaded a few hay bales into the truck bed. He'd spread
the hay around the edge of the bog to help the bull gain its
footing after the animal was freed. He motioned to Fletcher
who stood knee-deep in muck. "What do you plan to
do—push the bull end over end until he rolls out of there?"
"Ha, ha. Hurry up, hoss. My feet are numb."
Logan tossed two ends of the sling through the air.
A warm spell had ushered in the first week of December, but
a chill hung in the early-morning air and white clouds
puffed from Fletcher's mouth as he struggled to work the
harness beneath the ten inches of space between the
bull's belly and the mud.
"You ever think about fixing this bog?" Fletcher
grunted.
Granted, Logan should have filled the mud hole long ago. The
problem was he didn't give a crap about much anymore.
After Bethany died everything had lost its urgency. He was
marking time. Waiting for something to change his life.
Waiting for… just waiting.
Although Fletcher had his share of troubles recovering from
a divorce and raising a son, he'd tried to drag Logan
back into the world of the living after Bethany's death.
Logan appreciated his friend's concern but preferred a
solitary existence.
"All set." Fletcher flung the ends of the harness
over the bull's body and Logan secured them to the
trailer hitch on his truck.
"I can't lose this bull to a broken leg,"
Fletcher warned.
The McFaddens raised some of the best breeding bulls in
Texas. "How much is he worth?" Logan asked.
"So much he ain't for sale."
Logan removed a pair of wire cutters from his pocket and
opened the bales in the truck bed. After tossing the hay
along the edge of the bog he hopped in his truck.
"Nice and easy!" Fletcher hollered.
Nice and easy was the only way to pull a
two-thousand-pound hunk of beef from a muddy hole. Logan
pressed the accelerator and the truck's tires dug into
the earth. He checked his side mirror. Fletcher had his
shoulder jammed against the bull's side, trying to coax
it to move its legs.
The animal slowly toppled onto its side. With steady
pressure on the gas pedal, Logan moved the truck a few feet
forward. For a second the bull sank beneath the mud, only
the whites of its eyes visible. Logan gave the truck a
little more gas and the animal's head emerged.
"Keep going," Fletcher said. "He's almost to
the edge."
The diesel truck engine groaned in protest, but finally the
bull reached solid ground. Logan dragged its body a few more
feet until the bull lay on the hay, then he cut the engine
and rushed to untie the harness from the hitch before the
animal became tangled.
The bull's sides heaved with exertion but after Logan
slapped its hind quarters, the animal scrambled to its feet,
slipping once but remaining upright. He trotted off,
bellowing in disgust.
"You coming out of there?"
"I can't feel my legs," Fletcher complained.
Logan grinned.
"Give me your hand."
"Sorry, buddy. No can do." Logan wasn't about to
risk falling into the bog. "Here." He threw one end
of the harness and Fletcher snatched it mid-air, then Logan
tied the other end to the trailer hitch.
"Take it easy. These are my favorite boots."
Not for long, buddy. Logan hopped into the front
seat and revved the engine. "Hang on!" As soon as
Fletcher tightened his grip, Logan pressed the gas— hard—and
the truck exploded forward. Fletcher flew through the air,
sans boots, and landed on his belly at the edge of the bog.
When he tried to stand, Logan hit the gas again and dragged
Fletcher through the hay.
"God damn it, Logan!" Fletcher released the ends of
the harness and attempted to stand. His feet slid out from
under him and he went down a second time.
"You look like the scarecrow from the Wizard of
Oz," Logan called out the truck window.
"Think that's funny, eh?"
Logan hopped out of the truck and went to help his friend
stand. Fletcher grasped Logan's wrist and yanked. Logan
stumbled forward, bumping Fletcher, and the two men toppled
over like felled trees into the muck.
From there things went downhill faster than a California
mudslide.
"You shithead." Fletcher flung a clump of mud at
Logan's chest.
"You would have done the same thing if it had been me
standing in that bog." Logan landed a mud ball against
the side of Fletcher's head.
A mud-slinging battle ensued until every inch of their
clothing was covered in smelly muck. "Enough!" Logan
hollered, collapsing on the embankment, sides heaving with
laughter.
Fletcher fell down next to him, chuckling. "Man, I
haven't heard you laugh like that in a hell of a long
time."
His friend's words sobered Logan. He struggled to catch
his breath. Now that the fun was over, his body felt chilled.
A long silence stretched between the men, then Fletcher spoke.
"You think I should have given Sandi a second chance—for
Danny's sake?"
The two men were thirty years old, their birthdays two weeks
apart in July. They'd been friends since kindergarten
and had stuck by each other through thick and thin. Through
divorce and death.
"Did Sandi want a second chance?" Logan asked.
"No."
"Did you want a second chance with her?" Logan asked.
"No." Fletcher released a loud gust of air from his
lungs. "If Bethany had cheated on you, would you have
divorced her?"
"I don't know." Logan wished Bethany had
cheated. Pretty damned difficult to work out marriage
troubles with a dead spouse. "Stop beating yourself up
over the divorce. Danny needs time to adjust is all."
"You're probably right." Fletcher punched Logan
in the arm. "I met a woman named Daisy on MySpace."
Fletcher had set up a MySpace page months ago and had tried
to persuade Logan to join in the fun. He'd refused.
"Daisy? What the hell kind of name is that?"
"Everyone uses fake names on MySpace," Fletcher said.
"What's your handle?"
"Leonard. Lenny for short." He grinned.
"Yeah, well, good luck with your little flower."
They crawled to their feet. "Thanks for helping with the
bull," Fletcher said.
"Anytime."
Hobbling sock-footed toward his truck, Fletcher said over
his shoulder. "I'm throwing steaks on the grill
tonight. You're welcome for supper."
"Think I'll pass."
"If you change your mind, we're eating at six."
Fletcher honked and drove off.
Logan watched the blue horizon swallow his friend's
truck. West Texas was flat and barren and not a tree in
sight. Most people considered this part of the Longhorn
State the ugliest but the vast emptiness matched the way he
felt on the inside.
Keeping to himself might be easier on the heart and mind,
but it sure was damned lonely on the soul.
Logan's foot itched like the dickens, which meant only
one thing—bad luck headed his way.
After helping Fletcher rescue the bull from the mud bog a
week ago Monday, there hadn't been much excitement in
Logan's day-to-day routine. The red Ford Focus hatchback
winding its way along the ribbon of ranch road was about to
change all that.
He slunk into the shadows inside the barn doors. He'd
rather go another round with a mud-bogged bull than face the
woman heading in his direction.
Three months had passed since he'd gone on a bender and
had himself a hog-killin' time at Billie's Roadhouse
ten miles south of Junket. When the local hairdresser had
strolled into the honky-tonk, Logan's boot heel had been
planted on the brass rail long enough to take root.
If Cassidy Ortiz hadn't left him a note the following
morning, he would have speculated the rest of his years
about who had worn the sultry scent that had clung to his
pillow. Until now he'd been successful in avoiding the
lady—not an easy task in a town the size of Junket, Texas.
Population two-hundred-sixty-nine.
The hatchback stopped next to his truck parked in front of
the house.
Turn around and leave. He slunk deeper into the
shadows.
The car door opened.
No. No.
A cowboy boot appeared, then a jean-clad leg. No need for a
jacket since the morning chill had worn off. A sweater would
do—like the tight one that hugged her breasts when she
reached across the front seat for… A dish?
Object in her hands forgotten, he zeroed in on her curves.
How did any man, even a drunk one, forget a body like
Cassidy's? A tightening below his belt buckle suggested
that certain parts of his anatomy had no trouble recalling her.
A wind gust blew her long midnight-colored hair against her
face, blocking his view of her high cheekbones and dark,
slanted eyes. She bumped the car door shut with her hip and
strolled along the sidewalk. The swish-sway of her fanny
reminded him that the stylist had nothing in common with
Bethany, who'd been a small-boned, frail blonde.
Cassidy knocked on the front door.
Nobody's home.
Another round of knocking. Then she crossed to the front
window by the porch swing and peered inside.
Persistent woman.
Right then Twister loped around the corner of the house.
Logan didn't know who was more surprised— the deaf
German shepherd when he spotted the visitor or Cassidy when
the dog snarled. Twister was all bark and no bite, so Logan
didn't intervene.
She tossed a piece of whatever was on the plate to the dog.
Twister caught the treat midair, then wagged his tail as if
it were a checkered flag at a stock car race. Cassidy inched
toward the porch steps, pausing every few feet to fling
another morsel at Twister.
If you don't go out there and speak with her,
she'll stop by again.
He'd lock the entrance gate off the main road.
She'll call.
He wouldn't answer the phone.
What if she's got something important to say?
If it was that important why had she waited all this time to
come around? Aw, hell. He might as well get this
over with. He made it halfway to the house before she
noticed him. Her smile knocked him sideways, but he
didn't break stride. "Cassidy."
"Hi, Logan. I was about to leave. I thought you
weren't home." Twister growled and she jumped.
Logan stomped his boot on the ground and the dog immediately
quieted. At Cassidy's raised eyebrow he explained.
"Twister's deaf. He wandered into the ranch yard a
few years ago after a tornado blew through." Logan
shrugged. "Vet thinks the noise from the storm ruptured
his eardrums."
"Oh, how sad."
"Is there a reason you stopped by?" Logan cleared
his throat and she flinched at his rudeness.
Damn. He hadn't meant to sound like an ass. His
social skills were rusty, considering he mostly kept to
himself—except for that night at Billie's Roadhouse.
He blamed his behavior that day on the stupid drugstore
window display in town. Who the hell put up Christmas
decorations in September? Logan had snapped when he'd
spotted the twinkling lights on the artificial tree and the
toy train that circled the base. The cozy scene had dredged
up memories he wanted no part of.
To run from the recollections of that fateful day just
before Christmas the previous year he'd headed to the
nearest honky-tonk. After three beers Bethany's memory
had remained as vivid as ever and he'd switched to
tequila shots. When Cassidy had strolled into the bar
he'd been too drunk to hit the ground with his hat in
three tries. No match for a pretty face and a sympathetic
ear, he'd hadn't objected when Cassidy had offered
to drive him home. Logan shook his head as he realized she
was staring at him.
"I made you—" she glanced at the plate covered in
green plastic wrap, then shoved it at him "—Christmas
cookies."
Cookies? They'd had sex. One time. Maybe two.
All that mattered was their relationship had lasted
less than twenty-four hours. He hadn't called her the
next day. Or the next. Or the next day after that. And
Cassidy hadn't contacted him, leading him to believe
that what had happened that night between them was over.
Finished. Terminated.
Done.
The plate nudged his chest like a big fat finger poking his
breastbone. There was only part of one cookie—a frosted
reindeer head complete with antlers and a red nose—left. He
gripped the dish. "Christmas is three weeks away."
And he intended to allow the day to pass without any fanfare.
"Mom and I got a head start on our holiday baking."
She laughed nervously, and her breasts jiggled. He resisted
the urge to rub his eyeballs, which suddenly felt too big
for their sockets.
"There were a dozen cookies—" she glanced at the
reindeer head "—but I gave the others to the dog, so he
wouldn't attack," she said.
"He acts mean, but he won't bite."
"If you say so." Cassidy flashed a quick smile,
showing off her pretty white teeth and full lower lip.
He really needed her to leave. When she didn't…
"I'm busy. If that's all you—"
"Wait!" She stepped in front of him, blocking his
getaway route. His damned foot itched again and a sense of
foreboding settled in his bones like a bad case of
rheumatism. He brushed past her and had almost escaped when…
"Logan, I'm pregnant."
The heel of his boot caught the edge of the step, sending
him sprawling onto the porch. The cookie plate flew from his
hand, bounced off the front door, then slid to a stop under
the swing. Twister vaulted over Logan's body and snarfed
up the broken reindeer head.
"Oh, my God. Are you all right?" Cassidy rushed to
his side.
Shrugging off her touch, he crawled to his feet. His shins
stung and his chin hurt like hell where he'd banged it
against the step. But the worst pain settled in his chest—a
tight squeezing pressure that threatened to suffocate him.
"Please listen, Logan."
His legs wouldn't move—his traitorous feet had frozen in
place.