came, Pancho Villa fired on the main house.”
“By main house you mean the building with the lobby and dining room?”
He nodded. “You’ll see the cannonball embedded in the stucco wall when we go inside the building.”
She wandered closer to the bar and ran her hand over the horse-saddle seats. “Cute idea for stools.”
“There have been a lot of famous guests at this ranch over the years.”
“Politicians or actors?”
“A few of both. Author Margaret Mitchell wintered at the ranch and Zane Gray also wrote here.”
Beth found the information fascinating. “Any presidents?”
“Franklin Roosevelt and Lyndon B. Johnson. We’ve had a couple of ranch guests through the years report seeing an apparition in this room. You’ll let me know if you spot one, won’t you?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” she said. Seriously—she majored in business and math in college. She possessed an analytical brain. Logic, not emotion, ruled her actions and decisions, which was probably why she couldn’t put her night with Mack behind her. She’d acted out of character—normally she dealt with facts not feelings—but the country-western singer had broken down her barriers and reached a touchy-feely place inside her that she hadn’t known existed.
“We’re empty right now, but we’re full up on the weekend.” He walked to the door. “Be sure to take advantage of your stay and go horseback riding.”
“I’ve never been horseback riding.”
When they stepped outside, Dave said, “One of our trail hands will give you lessons.”
Beth couldn’t imagine herself riding a horse. Then again she’d never envisioned herself entering a motel room with a stranger.
There was a first time for everything.
* * *
“NEED HELP WITH THAT, HOSS?” Mack stepped into the barn late Sunday afternoon and caught the retired rodeo clown struggling with a wheelbarrow full of soiled hay.
“Best get out of my way unless you want a pile of road apples fallin’ on yer fancy boots.”
When Mack had taken the job at the dude ranch, the sixty-five-year-old Hoss had been the first employee his boss had introduced him to. The surly man had made it clear the barn was his domain.
Mack stopped in front of Speckles’s stall and rubbed the horse’s nose. Hoss had been granted the privilege of naming the trail horses—big mistake. The geezer had named the geldings after rodeo clowns—Bim Bom, Coco, Potato, Bubbles, Doink, Flunky, Pooter, Zig and Zag. The only decent name in the whole group was Warrior, and he’d come with the ranch when Dave Paxton had purchased the place ten years ago. “Anything exciting happen here this weekend?”
“Millie ran off.” Hoss pushed the wheelbarrow into another stall then took a break.
“What do you mean she ran off?”
“Just up ’n’ left.” Hoss sat on a hay bale and drank from the water bottle he pulled out of the back pocket of his sagging Wranglers. After guzzling half the liquid he belched. “Didn’t leave no note. Nothin’.”
Mack knew the feeling. He’d woken alone in bed the morning after at the El Rancho Motel. Beth had left while he’d been asleep—the scent of her perfume on the bed sheets the only evidence she’d been there.
“What’s the boss going to do?” Mack asked. “He’s got that group of businessmen coming in from New York on Friday.”
“He was givin’ a gal a tour of the place earlier.” Hoss shrugged. “Maybe she’s the new housekeeper.”
“Let’s hope.” Mack was willing to do a lot of things at the dude ranch, but he refused to change bedsheets. “How’s the boss taking it?” Everyone knew Dave and Millie were sleeping together.
“He doesn’t say much, but I figure he’s hurtin’.” Hoss spit tobacco juice at the ground. “Can’t never trust a woman. They ain’t ever who you think they are.”
Hoss was speaking from experience. His wife had left him years ago when Hoss was still rodeoing. Heartbroken, Hoss rode the circuit, leaving his sixteen-year-old son home alone to fend for himself. At eighteen his son had joined the military and Hoss hadn’t seen or heard from him since.
“Maybe Millie will return in a few days. Might have been a family thing.”
“Millie ain’t got no family.” Hoss stood, the old bones in his bowlegged hips creaking.
“Wait here.” Mack rolled the wheelbarrow out of the horse stall.
“Get yer hands off my damned horse shit.”
“Settle down, old man, before you work yourself into a heart attack.” Mack wheeled the ’barrow out a side door and dumped the soiled hay into a compost pile behind the barn. When he returned, he caught Hoss rubbing his twisted fingers and knobby knuckles—leftover souvenirs from his rodeo career.
Hoss grabbed the ’barrow. “You competin’ in the Rattlesnake Rodeo at the end of the month?”
The Rattlesnake Rodeo raised money for the only medical clinic in Rattlesnake, Arizona. The closest town with a hospital was four hours west in Tucson. The residents of Rattlesnake depended on the clinic for most of their medical needs. “Yeah, I’ll probably enter.”
“Yer brothers gonna ride, too?”
“Don’t know. Except for me and Porter, they’re all married now and busy with their families.”
“Might find a wife at the rodeo.” Hoss snorted as he pitched soiled hay into the barrow.
“Sorry, Hoss. No buckle bunnies for me.” When Mack married, he wanted a down-home girl. Beth’s face flashed before his eyes... Why did she have to be like the other women who came to his concerts and just wanted a piece of him? Mack had dreamed of being a musician all his life, but lately the warning be careful what you wish for rang through his brain far too often.
He was tired of loose women fawning over him. He was twenty-nine and he’d made a promise to himself that by his thirtieth birthday he’d have found his forever woman.
That wasn’t going to happen if he couldn’t forget his one-night stand with Just Beth.
An hour ago Dave had informed Mack that a guest—the daughter of a former college buddy—wanted a horseback-riding lesson. He checked his watch. She should be here any moment. Mack made sure the saddle on Speckles fit snug in case the horse decided to sprint after a desert jackrabbit. The mare’s spirited personality made her his favorite.
“You behave on the trail, you hear?” Speckles’s ears twitched and he rubbed the animal’s nose. “No showing off in front of Warrior.”
Speckles and Warrior had a love-hate relationship. Warrior developed a crush on Speckles the day she’d arrived at the ranch, but Speckles acted as if she couldn’t be bothered with the old gelding. Mack checked his watch again. “C’mon, lady. Where are you?”
“Right here.”
He spun, opening his mouth to apologize. The words evaporated on his tongue when the blood drained from the woman’s face, leaving her skin as white as Elmer’s school paste. Worried she’d faint, he stepped forward but she hastily retreated. If she toppled over, he hoped she hit her head on the edge of a hay bale and not the concrete floor.
Eyes wide, she gaped at him. He must remind her of someone—maybe a dead someone. Her lips parted then pressed closed as if her voice, along with her blood, had drained