and closed with a bang!
DEAD?
Ben Olson couldn’t be dead. Matt had played cards with the bronc rider this past December at the Holt Arena on the campus of Idaho State University. Although they’d run into each other at rodeos through the years, Matt hadn’t known the man well, save for the fact that he had a reputation for gambling—and losing. The way Olson flirted with the rodeo groupies, Matt would never have believed the man had been married. And speaking of wives…
The widow sure hadn’t acted torn up over the loss of her husband. Unless…had he been duped by the couple?
He smashed his Stetson on his head and headed up the hill to the graveyard encased behind a three-foot wrought-iron fence, its rusted finials pointing heavenward. With long strides he covered the ground, spewing cuss words in sync with the gravel bits flying out from beneath his boot heels. He refused to entertain the possibility that his plan to retire from rodeo had encountered a roadblock he was unable to swerve around. He stopped outside the gate and scanned the handful of granite markers. Ben…Ben…Ben…
Oh, hell.
Benjamin Olson
Loving Husband and Father
Matt shifted his attention from the grave marker to the rolling green hills that butted up to the jagged peaks of the southern end of the Teton Mountain Range. His first thought—nice place to be buried. Second thought—now what? It had been evident by the daze on Amy Olson’s face that her husband had failed to mention he’d lost thirty thousand dollars in a poker game.
When Matt had discovered that Olson had recently purchased the famous American quarter horse Son of Sunshine, Matt had been consumed with the idea of breeding his mares with the stallion. At eight years of age the stud was regarded as one of the top-ten cutting horses in the country.
Blame it on karma, kismet or providence, but Matt believed running into Olson at the National Finals Rodeo had been a signal that the time was right for the career change Matt had contemplated for months—raising cutting horses. To begin his new venture with offspring sired by Son of Sunshine was an opportunity Matt hadn’t been able to pass up.
The cutting-horse operation was to be a turning point in Matt’s life, allowing him to retire from rodeo. He remained a contender—one of the top tie-down cowboys on the Prairie Circuit. But at the age of thirty-four he was tired of life on the road, sleeping in dingy motels and eating fast food day in and day out.
In truth, he’d been ready to walk away from the sport when he’d turned thirty. But back then he hadn’t known what he’d wanted to do with the rest of his life—except that he didn’t relish working for his father in the oil business. Matt preferred the smell of a rank barn to thick black crude.
His agreement with Olson had stated that the man was to deliver the stud to his father’s ranch in Oklahoma by the end of April. April had faded into May and no sign of the stud and no contact with Olson.
The clock had been ticking. The mares’ natural breeding season was May through September. When the first week of May had passed and Olson remained a no-show, Matt had taken matters into his own hands and hauled his horses to Idaho.
From his vantage point on the hill the old homestead left a lot to be desired. The shabby two-story white clapboard—most of the paint had peeled off over the years—listed to the left as if the steady Idaho winds were trying to shove it off its foundation. The shutters had faded from glossy black to dull charcoal, and one shutter was missing from a second-story window. Olson hadn’t put any money into upkeep. Not unusual. Most ranchers and horse breeders sunk their profits into their operations.
Next Matt eyed the horse barn—in slightly better condition than the house—and the empty paddocks. Dread settled like a hot road apple in the pit of his stomach. Had the widow sold off the prized stallion?
Guess he’d better find out. Matt returned to the house and stomped up the porch steps. The door opened unexpectedly and he had to yank his arm back to prevent his knuckles from rapping the widow’s forehead.
“Need more proof Ben’s dead, Mr. Cartwright?” Her nose wrinkled as if she’d caught a whiff of a foul odor—him.
Was her testy demeanor the result of her husband’s death or just her normal pleasing personality? First things first. He removed his hat. “My condolences on the loss of your husband.”
His apology sucked the hissy-fit out of her. Her brown eyes softened to the color of well-oiled saddle leather as she murmured, “Thank you.”
When they’d spoken earlier, he hadn’t paid attention to her face. She seemed too damned young to be a widow—clear skin, nondescriptive features and a cap of blondish bouncy curls that bobbed in every direction when she moved her head. She was average height—somewhere between five-five and five-six with curvy hips and plenty of eye-catching bosom. Not that he had any interest in her figure.
He shored up his defenses. He’d learned the hard way that the opposite sex usually possessed an agenda. He’d been burned once by a needy female and refused to walk that road again. And Amy Olson, her brown eyes brimming with bleakness, was the epitome of a woman in need.
“I’m hoping we can reach an agreement regarding your husband’s debt.”
“You must be joking.”
Molars clamped together he pulled in a deep breath through his nose. The oxygen shot straight to his brain, clearing his head. “The way I see it, you have two choices, ma’am.” He doubted she’d accept either one, but what the hell. “You pay me thirty thousand dollars or I leave my mares here and retrieve them at the end of the summer. Take your pick.”
Eyelashes fluttering like hummingbird wings, she protested. “I don’t have the means to care for your horses.”
“Fine. I’ll take a check.”
She swept her arm across her body. “Does it look like I have thirty grand lying around, Mr. Cartwright?”
Score one for the widow.
“Might I suggest you sell off a few assets to free up the money?”
Her fingers latched on to her throat and he wasn’t sure if she’d intended to halt the gasp that escaped her mouth or to choke herself to death. “I’ve got nothing left save the house and the land and that’s not for sale.”
Damn it all. Why didn’t Amy Olson just brand the words Help Me across her forehead?
“Mama?”
Matt peeked around the door and spotted a dark-haired child holding a toddler with a mop of tangled blond curls. The curly-headed kid grinned around the thumb in her mouth, and a gush of drool spilled down her chin.
“Rose, honey, go upstairs.”
The widow hadn’t taken her eyes off him. He guessed her wariness indicated no other men occupied the premises. Right then the baby whimpered, and held chubby arms out to her mother. Tending to a grumpy kid trumped dealing with him.
“I’m going to unload my horses and leave them in the corral. We’ll settle things in the morning.” He’d made it as far as the bottom porch step when her words lassoed him.
“Nothing left to settle, Mr. Cartwright. Might as well be on your way.”
“I’m not leaving the area until you pay off your husband’s debt or grant me stud service.” At her gasp, he clarified, “Stud service for my mares.”
His ears winced when the door slammed shut.
“HE’S STILL OUT THERE, MAMA,” Rose’s same words echoed two hours later as the little girl stood sentry again at the kitchen window while Amy fixed supper. Following a snack of Cheerios, Lily had succumbed to another nap in the playpen, allowing Amy a rare moment of peace and quiet.
The baby had caught a cold, and the little princess was fussier than usual. If Lily ended up with another