Snowbound with the Cowboy Read online

  He had a dozen horses back in the barn, mostly two-year-olds he was starting under saddle in the indoor arena for Jess. Any one of them might have panicked and shied violently.

  But Blondie was a big solid three-year-old mare Jess had started late last year and she showed a fair level of common sense. If Tate had any plans to stick around, he’d want to keep her. But he wasn’t staying, and with her deep palomino color and pretty head, she would bring a good price at auction later this year...once he’d put more ranch work experience on her odometer.

  Over the next rise he again paused to study the fencing for downed or loose wire, noting several leaning fence posts that would need replacement after the spring thaw.

  Alarm rushed through him at the faint scent of wood smoke drifting on the crisp mountain air. Fire?

  There were no resorts up here, no year-around homes he could recall, that lay beyond this northern boundary of Langford-owned property and might be running a wood furnace. The moisture-laden ground meant there was minimal chance of wildfires this time of year. But still...

  From somewhere beyond the trees he heard a dog start to bark. Standing in his stirrups, he leaned forward and scanned the dense timber.

  When he reached the fence he could barely make out the frame of the old, abandoned cabin he remembered from years back, no more than fifty yards away and nearly obscured by trees and brush. He did a double-take at the gleaming dark green steel roof, and the smoke curling up from its chimney. It was inhabited now?

  The barking grew louder, then a small, shaggy dog bounded through the brush and headed straight for the fence. In a flash it was under Blondie’s hooves, yapping and racing in circles in the snow.

  The scared rabbit had been one thing, but a dog in attack mode—however small—was another. The mare reared and violently pivoted before Tate could stop her, slamming his knee against a tree and sending a lightning bolt of pain up his leg.

  She scrambled to regain her footing in the deep snow, her weight first pinning him, then scraping his leg against the rough bark.

  The dog backed a few yards away but continued its insane barking, sending Blondie dancing sideways.

  “Susie! Here, Susie!” From the vicinity of the cabin someone started whistling, then shouting again.

  A totally unexpected but all-too-familiar voice.

  A moment later, Sara stumbled through the brush and reached the fence, her red stocking cap askew and puffy red jacket unzipped.

  “I’m so, so sorry!” she called out as she eyed the fence, moved to a section where the barbwire sagged and carefully slipped between the strands to scoop up the little dog.

  Her eyes widened and her cheeks turned rosy when she finally looked up at him. “Tate? What are you doing way up here?”

  Blondie settled down now that the little beast was contained. He shook some slack in the reins. “Riding fence.”

  Sara eyed the snow that almost reached her knees in this pine-shaded area. “Now? This time of year?”

  “I’m just figuring out how much needs to be done.” He shifted in the saddle to ease his aching knee. “We’ll be moving cattle up here in the spring.”

  The dog wiggled in her arms, clearly ready to do battle again. Sara readjusted her grip. “How’s Lucy? Has she had her pups yet?”

  “Nope. But I fixed a whelping box for her in a quiet corner of the kitchen, where the pups will be warm enough. I think it’s going to be soon. I’m not sure the poor thing can get any bigger.”

  Sara grinned. “You know what signs to watch for, right? Did you print off that flyer on the website?”

  He nodded. “We also had a number of litters on the ranch. Dad raised blue heelers for years.”

  He lifted his gaze toward the cabin. “That place was empty, back when I was growing up. I didn’t know anyone was living way out there.”

  Her expression cooled. “You wouldn’t. You and I were away at college when your father stole my aunt and uncle’s ranch.”

  “I’m not sure stole is the right—” He’d instinctively started to defend Dad, but bit back the words. She was probably right.

  Dad had always been proud of the strings he pulled for his own benefit, and the deals he wrangled without regard for anyone who might be hurt. He’d often bragged about those “deals” over the supper table, affirming that this was the way a man succeeded in life.

  Did the locals now regret the return of his sons, assuming that all three had that same streak of avarice? Lack of compassion?

  “That cabin is the place my aunt and uncle bought after their foreclosure,” Sara continued. “It was in bad shape, but Warren is—or was—a skilled craftsman, and they both worked hard to make it livable again. Then his health started to fail, and they had no choice. They had to move into town. It’s been empty for over a year, but I’m living there now.”

  Tate surveyed the western horizon, where he could see the majestic snow-covered peaks of the Rockies through the pines. “They couldn’t find a buyer? This is a beautiful location.”

  “They should have,” she shot back, her voice trembling with emotion. “They needed the money then, and need it even more now. But they stubbornly held on to it. They know how much I love this part of the Rockies, and insisted they wanted it to be my legacy.”

  “Good people.” He regarded her somberly, wondering if his own father had ever done such a selfless thing in his life. Not likely.

  After Heather’s death at the age of four, Dad had readily placed the blame on his young sons’ carelessness, rather than own up to what he’d done to their sister. Accident or not, Dad had typically thought only to protect his own pride and reputation, with no regard for the emotional scars his fabrication caused his boys.

  By mutual, unspoken agreement, the brothers had never again discussed it—a scar had to be better than a raw, open wound.

  Had Jess and Devlin made peace with Dad over what happened? Forgiven him? Tate had no idea. But Dad had been especially hard on them, to the point of cruelty, and that was something Tate could never forgive.

  They hadn’t deserved to take the blame. He had. But at the age of six he’d been too scared to face his father’s rage, and the other two hadn’t let him try.

  “Warren and Millie have tried to refuse, but I’m gradually paying them every penny the property is worth, to build up their savings again,” Sara continued. “The minute I heard about the Pine Bend clinic coming up for sale, I knew my prayers had been answered. Now I live close enough to watch over them and help in any way I can.”

  In high school, Tate had imagined her to be a spoiled rich girl, as the only child of two physicians who worked at the clinic in town. Even when they dated during their senior year, she’d been carefully circumspect about her family life, while he’d been a callow, self-centered teen who didn’t think to ask.

  But now he wondered. Where had her parents been through all of the hardship Warren and Millie had endured? Had they not thought to help out? And why had this aunt and uncle practically raised Sara?

  But it wasn’t his business to ask, and he suspected the Langfords weren’t the only dysfunctional family in the county.

  “So...how do you like living way back here? It has to be sort of lonely, right?”

  Her blue eyes sparkled with humor. “Well...I’m not exactly alone.”

  His assumption and her vague reply left them with a long, awkward pause.

  He hadn’t given a thought to the fact that she was probably married, but of course she was—or she had someone in her life. A pretty gal like her with that shimmering waterfall of pale blond hair would turn heads wherever she went, and she was also smart and successful, with DVM behind her name.

  “I can introduce you to the ‘family,’ if that horse will tie.”

  He blinked, and felt his heart stumble. Family?

  There were certainly no emotiona
l connections left between them, after all these years, yet he found himself hesitating to meet whoever it was who had captured Sara’s heart. Did he even know how lucky he was?

  An excuse nearly tumbled from his lips. Sorry—too busy. I’ve got to get back to work.

  But he was his own boss. Sara knew full well that he didn’t punch a clock. And he’d left Blondie’s halter under the bridle when he saddled her this morning, in case he needed to stop somewhere and tie her, so he hardly had that excuse, either. “Uh...sure.”

  Gingerly dismounting to avoid too much weight on his throbbing knee, he grabbed the heavy cotton lead rope draped over the saddle horn, snapped it to the halter and tied the mare to a sturdy tree with a quick-release safety knot.

  He limped after Sara as she headed for the log cabin with the little dog in her arms. With a final glance back at Blondie, he followed her through the trees, past a small corral and shed, and up onto the covered porch, surprised at seeing an attached garage—obviously newer—at the far end of the cabin.

  Sara looked over her shoulder at him before pushing the door open. “What happened to your leg?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “No, really—you definitely weren’t limping when I stopped by to look at your gelding on Thursday. Wait—is that blood?”

  He glanced down at the long vertical tear at the side of his knee and a dark stain dampening the denim. “It’s nothing. I’ll take care of it later on.”

  She rolled her eyes at that. “I forgot. You’re a tough guy. You rodeoed for how many years? I suppose you were always limping home with one injury or another.”

  “Actually, it wasn’t all that often,” he said dryly. “The whole point was to stay aboard and not get hurt—or I would’ve quit years ago.”

  “Come on in. If you start to bleed more, I promise I can do something about it.” She tilted her head toward the interior of the house. “This might be a bit alarming at first, so just be prepared. I promise none of them bite.”

  None of them? He followed her through the door and paused, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. Something in here could bite?

  She flipped a wall switch, lighting a large antler chandelier hanging from the center of the high, pitched ceiling.

  Wings flapped.

  Something emitted an earsplitting screech. Several dogs growled.

  From across the room he felt the golden, glowing stare of what appeared to be a very large creature—possibly a pony—lurking in the shadows. A Newfoundland, he realized, when it took a wary move forward into the light.

  Before he could take a second step inside, he felt a river of five meowing cats winding around his ankles.

  “This is why I couldn’t bring a pregnant dog home with me.” Sara put Susie down and watched her scamper away. “I’ve got too many animals here already. The stress on Lucy and her pups would have been too much for them.”

  He blinked, taking it all in. “So...you’ve adopted them all?”

  “Goodness no. Every animal here is a hard-luck case of some kind. Injured, abandoned, strays or owner surrenders, and most need some degree of rehab. In a month or so they’ll be ready to go and will hopefully find good homes via the no-kill shelter in the next county.” She crossed the great room to the open-concept kitchen, where she began filling various sizes of stainless-steel food dishes. “But just like the day I happened to find Lucy, the need never really goes away.”

  On the railing of an open loft at the back of the cabin, something large moved in the shadows. It moved again and he realized it was an enormous bird perched in the darkness. It spread its wings, flapped them, then it marched sideways a few steps.

  Back, and forth.

  Back, and forth.

  An eerie, almost electronic voice began rapping out a familiar song.

  A parrot? Even from here, its massive beak and powerful claws appeared capable of decimating a two-by-four.

  He surveyed the rest of the animals, then looked up at the parrot again as his realization dawned. “So this is the family you mentioned?”

  Sara followed his gaze and nodded. “In a manner of speaking, anyway. That’s Theodore. I hope you liked the music from the Broadway show Hamilton.”

  “Huh?”

  “Theo’s owner had to go to a nursing home. She was the sweetest elderly lady, who loved what she called the peppy beat of the show’s rap songs. She played the CD all the time, and Theodore knows at least part of every song. Every. Last. Song. And I’m not kidding.”

  “He’s...exceptionally good.”

  “I actually love the music—I even got to see one of the shows in Chicago. But unfortunately, his proclivity for entertaining is going to make him difficult to rehome, unless I can find him a new owner with hearing loss or one who loves that show.”

  “Can’t you keep him?”

  “The hardest part of trying to rehab and rehome animals is giving them up. But if I didn’t—” she lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug “—then I would run out of room for the next ones in need.”

  Tate stepped farther into the great room, mindful of the cats underfoot. If Sara had told him about the number of furred and feathered residents in her cabin, he would have expected clutter and cages everywhere.

  But the cabin smelled faintly of lemon furniture polish and the bouquet of flowers on the round oak kitchen table, and everywhere he looked, the place was neat and clean. And now that he looked a little closer, he gave a long, low whistle.

  The kitchen had been fitted with high-end cabinetry that must have been custom-made. The burnished hickory wood flooring, with its light and dark tones, gave the place an airy feel, and three of the exterior walls were filled with large multipaned windows that seemed to make the surrounding forest a continuation of the living space. “This is beautiful,” he murmured as his gaze fell on the stone fireplace at one end of the great room. “I had no idea.”

  Sara laughed. “It was a shambles until Warren and Millie moved here. Roof half gone, rotted flooring. Home to chipmunks and squirrels, and I doubt even the creatures were impressed.”

  “How did they find the right craftsmen in these parts?”

  “Warren was a lifelong rancher, but one of his favorite TV channels is HGTV. Between YouTube, the internet and the library, he taught himself and he did it all—except the steel roof. He made the handcrafted cabinets, laid the wood floors, even did the stonework around the fireplace.”

  Tate whistled under his breath. “It must have been hard to leave this behind.”

  “It broke his heart, honestly, and Millie’s too. But after he had some small strokes, this place was just too remote for driving into town for doctors’ appointments and groceries—especially in bad weather.” Sara gestured toward one of several barstools lined up along the kitchen island. “Take a seat and let me look at your wound.”

  “No need. I really do need to get going.” The wound didn’t hurt much and it didn’t seem to be bleeding now, but the knee itself was starting to throb. The longer he lingered, the harder it would be to get back on Blondie and manage the nearly two-hour ride home. “I’ll take care of it later.”

  She gave him a stern look. “Just humor me, okay? It won’t take but a minute. Sit.”

  With a sigh he followed her directions and let her prop his injured leg on a step stool. The tear in the denim was maybe ten inches or so, allowing ample access. “Bled a little more than I realized,” he muttered, looking at the wide area of deep abrasion surrounding a long narrow gash. “But looks like it stopped. No worries.”

  She held up a forefinger. “Stay.”

  Amused, he did as he was told. This was definitely a woman who spent a lot of time talking to animals. And with that no-nonsense tone of hers, they probably instantly obeyed.

  She reached for a plastic storage box on the counter and withdrew disposable gloves, a package of four
-by-four sterile gauze squares, a tube of antibiotic cream and a stainless-steel bowl that she filled with warm water.

  “The laceration is long but shallow, and it isn’t gaping, so I don’t believe you need stitches,” she murmured as she began cleaning the wound with a series of fresh gauze squares soaked in water. “But go see your doc if you want a second opinion. My human first-aid info is all from a medical site on the internet.”

  “Nope. This isn’t much more than a scratch and a scrape.”

  She pinned him with a stern look. “You really need to go if you aren’t up to date on your tetanus vaccine. Do you remember the date of your last one?”

  “Six months.”

  “Good. When you get home you might want to take a long hot shower and rinse it again for a good five minutes, then re-dress the wound with antibiotic cream and cover with gauze.”

  “Thanks. Can you add this to my vet bill?”

  “I’d have a pretty hard time explaining it to my licensing board.” She laughed. “So that’s a no. You do know you shouldn’t use peroxide, Mercurochrome or alcohol on this, right? Not necessary, painful and they delay healing, from what I’ve read online about human injuries. But again—check with your doctor.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “This will get you home, at least, without your jeans abrading the wound and making it worse.”

  The moment was anything but intimate, yet he found himself transfixed by her intense concentration and the gentle touch of her fingertips as she deftly patted the wound dry with clean gauze squares and applied the antibiotic cream. She surveyed her handiwork, then covered the area with fresh gauze that she held in place with medical adhesive tape.

  “Best keep the area covered and moist with an antibiotic cream for a few days, then you could switch to something like Vaseline for a couple days if you want.” She glanced up at him, but her gaze abruptly veered away. A hint of pink touched her cheekbones. “Um...it’ll heal better if the wound doesn’t get too dry.”

  “Thanks.” He watched her finish, then looked up at her with a grin. “You sure have a good bedside manner. You would have been a fine doc—”