Читать книгу: «Lone Star Refuge»

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

STELLA JANE SCOUT slowly descended the stairs. She was going over the numbers again in her head, figuring on potential donors, and almost ran into her father who appeared at the bottom just as she reached it.

“Whoa there, Pretty! Raring to go to work?” He steadied himself against the door frame that led from the foot of the stairs into the dining room, which was rarely used. “I was just about to call you.”

“Mornin’, Pops.” She kissed his cheek. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Bacon and eggs. You need your protein this morning. You know, bacon and eggs stick with you.”

Stella suppressed a chuckle as she followed him into the kitchen. He was always cooking up things he thought would “stick with” her, with no regard whatsoever to their fat and cholesterol content.

She sat down at the breakfast table where they ate most meals, and laid her napkin across her lap. Buster poured coffee into the cup he’d already doctored with sugar and milk. As she sipped its rich smoothness, he set a plate in front of her with two fried eggs, three strips of bacon and a piece of whole wheat toast. Then, turning to the sound of a scratching noise on the porch, he went to the back door and let in two whirling dervishes of black-and-white.

“Mugsy! Mitzi!” Stella reached down to pet the Boston terriers that stood with their paws on her thigh. Their wiggling and wagging resulted in her napkin falling to the floor. Buster picked it up for her.

“Here you go, guys.” They followed Buster to a mat that held a stainless steel bowl full of water beside the refrigerator. Buster set down two bowls with equal portions of bacon and eggs in each one and the dogs started chowing down. Next, he made his own plate and sat down at the table across from Stella, slathering his toast in butter.

“What’s on your agenda today?”

“I’m going to meet with that feller who keeps pestering me about buying the north forty.” Buster focused his eyes intently on his toast.

“What? I thought you discontinued that ad.”

“I did, too, but apparently it still comes up on that stinkin’ internet. “Least that’s where he said he got our information.”

“Well, why didn’t you just tell him it’s not for sale?” The heat rose in her neck.

“I want to hear what he has to say. He’s a polo player, so he’s bound to have money, and if he wants that forty acres bad enough, well, it might help out with your new venture.”

Stella snorted. “A polo player? From Texas?” She rolled her eyes. “Pops, I don’t need help. Not that way, anyway. I know we’re strapped and I know it’s my fault—”

“Now, you just wait right there a minute. Our financial troubles are not your fault.” He reached across the table for her hand. “Don’t you ever say it’s your fault, Pretty.”

“Well, I am the one who persuaded you to quit the rodeo after Mom died, but I won’t apologize for it. You’re the only parent I’ve got left. We can blame it on the economy or whatever, but what it comes down to is that my riding school has drained you financially.”

Buster couldn’t argue with that.

“But I’m about to make that up to you. Just a little more time, a few more donors, and we’ll be up and running.” Stella placed her hand over his. The gnarled knuckles were rough beneath her palm. “You know I’m not in this to get rich, by any means. But I do hope we’ll be solvent again. The last thing I want is for you to have to sell part of this place. It’s our last connection to Moma.”

Stella saw a muscle twitch in her father’s jaw, even though it was covered with a shaggy salt-and-pepper beard. His bushy eyebrows furrowed into a near-scowl.

“Well, I’ll keep that under consideration, but I’m not canceling the meeting. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Buster rose, taking his plate to the sink. He tucked his shirt into his jeans as he wobbled bowlegged across the kitchen and back through the dining room. He paused in the foyer to grab his workaday Panama hat off the rack. Then he turned around and winked at her.

“Stubborn ox!” Stella called, clearing the rest of the table.

* * *

JOINER TEMPLE ROLLED OVER in the four-poster king-size bed and grabbed his phone off the rusted oil barrel Gillian, his brother Hunt’s wife, had rescued from a junkyard and reimagined as a nightstand for one of the rooms in her five-star resort, Temple Territory. Hunt and Gillian had offered him the “Mason-Dixon” suite, named after his notorious grandfather. They insisted on treating him to the lap of luxury in the thirty-eight-room mansion that was the heart of the resort until he found a place of his own to rent in Kilgore.

That task had been harder than he hoped it would be, but he had a meeting today with an old rodeo guy named Buster Scout. If Joiner could get Buster to agree to sell part of his 450-acre ranch for an affordable price, it might be the best option yet for Joiner to start over.

The clock on his phone read 7:00 a.m. He’d better get a move on or he was going to be late.

Joiner jumped out of bed and showered quickly in the shale-tiled shower Gillian had designed. He pulled on jeans, a clean white T-shirt and ran a brush through his dark, wavy hair. Forgoing a shave, which would take too long, he hoped a little stubble wouldn’t make a bad impression with Buster. Then he stepped into his favorite Justin boots, picked up his Stetson and, locking the door behind him, hurried down the hall and out the door.

His brother Hunt was coming up the steps of the mansion as Joiner was going down.

“Morning, bro!” Hunt flashed him the smile that had made him famous as the Cowboy Chef. “Did you have breakfast?”

“No time. I’ve got to go see about that forty acres. Supposed to be there at eight o’clock.”

“I can have someone feed Pistol for you.”

“I’ve got it.” Joiner reached out his fist and Hunt bumped it with his. “See you later.”

Joiner crossed the lawn, passing the guesthouse where Hunt and Gillian were staying while their new lodge, which would be their personal home, was under construction by the lake at the rear of the property. He headed to the lavishly remodeled barn where Pistol was boarded. Pistol looked up immediately when Joiner entered, as if he’d been waiting for him.

Man, he loved this horse. A carbon-black Argentine Thoroughbred, Pistol was the one dream Joiner had not left behind with the rest of his polo career. He filled a bucket with oats and brushed the horse till his coat shone in the soft morning light that filtered through the barn windows.

“I’ve got to go, but when I get back we’ll go for a ride.”

Pistol nuzzled him and Joiner rubbed the white star that blazed across the horse’s forehead. “Hopefully I’ll have us both a place where we can finally settle down.” Although, admittedly, Joiner didn’t know if he’d ever be happy settling down...

* * *

THE SILVER TRUCK kicked up so much dust that Buster could see it coming more than a mile down the driveway. He finished milking Violet and Minnie, the two goats, and took the pails inside for Stella to strain. He was already gathering the eggs when the truck came to a stop under Stella’s old basketball hoop. The truck wasn’t that new and wasn’t that shiny. A man got out and Buster sized him up as he strode toward the front door of the house. He was a good size, broad-shouldered, and what Buster’s mother would have described as too pretty to be a boy.

“Hey there!”

Joiner started at the sound of Buster’s voice from the chicken coop across the yard. He turned around.

“Mr. Scout?”

Buster ceremoniously wiped chicken poop off his hand and extended it toward Joiner. The young man hesitated only an instant before reaching out to take it. There was something like a dare in his violet eyes.

“Ha-ha! Gotcha!” Buster laughed, withdrawing his hand, and the young man laughed, too.

“You got me.”

“It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Temple.”

It was immediately obvious to Buster that this Temple boy was very different from Stella. And it might be nice for both of them to have him around...

* * *

“CALL ME JOINER. PLEASE.” He followed Buster around behind the house, where the older man set the pail of eggs down on the porch, and then pumped water from an old-fashioned spicket in order to wash his hands.

“Let’s sit up here on the porch. Do you like coffee?”

“Sure, thanks.” Joiner took a seat in one of the wooden rockers while Buster walked past him and into the house. He noticed that in the distance there was a ratty-looking RV parked under some trees.

Buster came back with two coffee mugs and two Boston terriers, who ran to surround his rocker. Joiner reached down to return their affection.

“I hope you like it black.”

Joiner nodded, although he preferred a little cream.

“Good. I never can stand a man who doctors his coffee. My daughter takes sugar and cream—all of that girly stuff. But a man should drink black coffee.” Buster plopped down in the other rocker. “It puts hair on your chest.”

Joiner had all of the hair he needed but he took a sip anyhow. The coffee tasted like tar. “Thanks,” he sputtered.

“This is Mugsy.” Buster pointed to the bigger of the two dogs. Mugsy was twenty-five pounds of solid muscle and all black except for his three-quarter-moon white face. Brown eyes sparkled over a smashed-in nose. The mutt grinned and displayed an under bite and crooked teeth. Joiner could almost imagine him smoking a cigar.

“And this little girl right here is Mitzi.” Buster’s voice crooned as if he was talking to a baby. She turned over by his feet and he reached down to rub her tummy, which was none too small, even though she was more petite than Mugsy. Mitzi had more of a terrier’s nose, and lots more white fur to go with the black. It was speckled with what looked like black freckles. Joiner immediately took to them both.

“So you’re interested in my north forty acres. What do you want it for?”

“Well, sir, I’m searching for a place to build a little horse-breeding operation. Nothing large-scale, but enough to get me by.”

“Aren’t you some kind of polo player?”

“I was. Started in college, and then I was drafted by a European team. I had some fun over there, but the truth is, I just can’t afford to make polo a career.” Joiner ran a hand through his hair. “I poured most of my inheritance into it before I figured that out. When people call polo ‘the sport of kings’ that’s because only kings have enough money to play it seriously.”

Buster squinted at Joiner, who hoped he was making some sense to the older man.

“How’d a Texas cowboy end up playing that sissy kind of sport, anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Joiner did mind. But he was used to it. Being a polo player was about as unconventional as a Texas cowboy could get. Still, the older man’s prejudices were starting to get on his nerves.

“It’s very competitive, and it requires a lot of skill of both the rider and the horse.” He was blunt.

“Well, don’t get your panties in a wad. I didn’t mean nothing. I’m just trying to understand it, that’s all.” Buster stroked his beard. “I used to rodeo. Sunk every dime I had into it, and spent all my time on the road. I loved it, but I have to admit I missed a lot of my daughter’s growing-up years and I regret that. It may be a good thing you’ve got the road out of your system before you settle down and have a family.”

Joiner blushed. “I have no plans for that, Mr. Scout.”

“Never knew many cowboys who did.”

The back door creaked open and a stunning young woman in jeans, a gingham shirt and red cowboy boots stomped through it. Some kind of silver necklace glinted on her neck when she bent to pick up the pail of eggs Buster had set on the steps. She started toward the door again, but Buster stopped her.

“Hey, Pretty, come here. I want you to meet Mr. Joiner Temple.”

The girl’s brown eyes looked Joiner up and down. The back of his neck prickled. Still, to be polite, he stood and offered her his hand. When she took it, her handshake was surprisingly firm.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, sounding as if it really wasn’t.

“You, too, Miss Scout.”

“It’s Stella.”

“Her name means star,” Buster explained. His chest puffed out and he gave her a little pat on the back.

Stella the Pretty Star tossed her short gold hair, turned on the heel of her boot and headed into the house, letting the screen door slam behind her.

CHAPTER TWO

“IGNORE HER,” BUSTER SAID, rubbing his hands together. “You want to go for a little ride out on the range?”

“Sure, sounds great.”

“You take these coffee cups in, if you don’t mind, and I’ll go get the pumpkin.”

Joiner wondered why in the world Buster would be getting a pumpkin and how it related to their ride on the property, but he did as he was told. He was disappointed that there was no sign of Stella in the house when he set the coffee cups in the kitchen sink.

Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t run into her again. She seemed to harbor some underlying hostility toward him, although he couldn’t imagine why. It was as if he reminded her of the high school boyfriend who left her to dance with another girl at the prom.

He was sitting on the porch steps when Buster roared up on an orange Kubota ATV with Mugsy and Mitzi sitting beside him.

“Pumpkin orange,” Joiner mused aloud as he took his seat beside Mugsy on the passenger’s side. It was the same color as his Texas Longhorns.

“Stella named it.”

Buster lurched forward and soon they were bumping at full throttle across a cattle guard and out into open pasture. There were groves of loblolly pines, pencil cedars and live oaks interspersed with vast acres of grass for grazing cattle. Joiner counted five ponds as they passed, one as big as a small lake—about twenty acres—and it was on the north-forty. It would work perfectly for Joiner’s plans, and he told Buster so. The older man just nodded.

After several minutes, Buster pulled up to the edge of the spring-fed creek and cut the motor of the Kubota. The dogs jumped out to get a drink. Buster leaned back, crossing his boots on the dashboard in front of him, just to the right of the steering wheel. He gazed out across the creek. He closed his eyes and slowly breathed in and out a few times. Joiner wondered if he was praying. Then Buster turned to look at Joiner.

“Son, I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time. I can’t sell this place. Not any part of it.”

After Buster’s tour and description of this part of the property, Joiner had begun to doubt he’d be able to afford it, but he’d wanted to make an offer anyway. It was perfect for him and Pistol, whatever they decided to do. He could train and board horses, breed Pistol, teach riding; the possibilities were endless. And that was something Joiner liked—keeping his options open.

“Why not? Why did you place the ad, then?”

Buster adjusted his cowboy hat. “I can answer both of your questions with one word—Love.”

“Something tells me there’s more to it than that.” Joiner leaned closer, prompting the older man to continue.

“Son, if you think love ain’t enough, you got a lot to learn.”

Joiner could only imagine his brothers’ responses when he recounted this story. It seemed straight out of a dime-store novel about some dying breed of cowboy-philosophers. The hooting and hollering among the Temple brothers would be abundant.

Still, in the short time he’d spent with Buster, Joiner had become somewhat impressed with the older man. No one could be more outwardly different from Joiner’s own father, who’d been a doctor, even though his dad and Buster would be about the same age if Dr. Temple had still been alive. But there was a quality there that felt familiar, a certain wisdom. Joiner wondered if there were ghosts that haunted Buster, as his grandfather’s tarnished reputation had haunted his father for years.

“Love?”

“I lost my wife—Stella’s mama—when she was thirty-six years old. She was a rodeo queen who became a hands-on mother after we had Stella. Then one day she got on a horse like she did every other day, only this time she fell off and died. It was a freak accident. She was gone from us, just like that.”

Joiner shook his head. “I’m so sorry.”

“Lily was also a naturalist, loved everything homegrown. She adored this place. It belonged to her family. She rode horses all over it, had her a garden. It was her sanctuary. I was gone all the time, but I like to think because of this land she wasn’t lonely.” Buster sighed. The water rolling over the rocks in front of them seemed to sigh with him.

“She taught Stella at home. Not for religious reasons, like a lot of people around here. With her it was more for personal freedom and what she called ‘independence of thought’.” Buster smiled as he made quotation marks in the air, and then continued, “They were always into these experiments and things Stella never would have done in public school. Lily, that’s my wife, she would take her to the creek here and they’d collect jars of water and come home and identify all of the little creatures under a microscope. They’d go on walks and look up wildflowers in a book to learn their names. They hung artwork all over the house, even painted constellations on the ceiling of Stella’s room. They milked goats and made their own cheese.”

“Wow. That’s neat. And I can vouch for the fact we did not do that kind of stuff at Kilgore High School.”

“Well, I’m not knocking the school. Stella ended up graduating from there and the teachers were good to her. She was only sixteen when her mother passed.”

Joiner felt a pang, remembering how painful it had been to lose his own parents at a young age. “Is that when you retired from the rodeo?”

“Yes. I was fifty, and twenty years past a bronc rider’s prime. It was time for me to hang it up, and Stella needed the stability of a home. I couldn’t take her riding around Texas with me in that RV.”

Joiner swallowed hard. The story was a lot to take in. Finally, he said, “But what about my second question? What did love have to do with putting the land up for sale?”

“Stella. She has this dream and I wanted to make it come true. But I’m not exactly high on funds.”

“What does she want to do?”

“She wants to open a place here where kids with problems can come be with horses. ‘Equestrian therapy’ she calls it.” Buster made quote marks in the air again. “I don’t know about the fancy name, but I am a firm believer that spending time with horses is good for you. I’ve had a couple horses I like better than most people.”

“I can relate to that.” Joiner laughed. “Right now Pistol is pretty much my guiding star. Well, he and my brothers. Since my polo funds dried up, I’m at a bit of a loss as to what to do with the rest of my life. I can’t say I’ll settle down in Kilgore for good, but I’d prefer to be near my brothers while I’m figuring out my next step. And one thing’s for sure—whatever I do next will involve Pistol. We’re a package deal.”

“I like that loyalty. You know, there’s an old Spanish proverb that says a man who does not love a horse cannot love a woman.” Buster sat up, planting his boots back on the floorboard of the pumpkin. “I guess we better head for the house.”

* * *

THEY WERE QUIET for the ride across Buster’s 450-acre kingdom. Mugsy and Mitzi ran along beside them till Buster deemed they were tired out, then he slowed down for them to jump into the pumpkin. When the house came into view, Buster pointed out a barn to the far right of it. Joiner had noticed it when he was driving up—a big horse barn painted red, with a white star above the doors. He saw now that there was a riding arena behind it.

“That’s Stella’s setup.”

Buster didn’t go any closer. Instead, he veered left toward the house, and Joiner noticed the old RV again under the trees.

“Was that your rodeo mansion?” He pointed to it. Surprisingly, Buster drove up close.

“That’s it. We use it as a guesthouse now. Wanna see inside?”

He turned off the motor of the pumpkin without waiting for Joiner to answer. Using a key to unlock the RV, Buster held the door open for Joiner to enter. Despite the dust, it was surprisingly well-kept inside. Kind of like a museum dedicated to the rodeo life of yesteryear.

“You know, since I can’t sell the land, I’d consider renting the guesthouse if you can think of anyone who might be interested. Especially someone with a strong back for work and horses they’d like to board.” Buster tugged at his whiskers. “I don’t want any riffraff, though.”

Joiner didn’t tell the older man what he was thinking, that “riffraff” were the only ones who would be interested in the setup. Except, maybe, for him.

“What about me?” Joiner couldn’t believe the words had come out of his mouth, but he didn’t try to retrieve them. He liked Buster. And something, though admittedly he couldn’t see what, was drawing him to the place.

“You? A pretty boy like you?”

“Mr. Scout, I need a place to live and board my horse, and you won’t sell me any land.” Joiner kicked a clod of dirt.

“Call me Buster.”

“Okay, Buster.”

“You serious?”

“I’m not afraid of hard work. If you’ll let me board Pistol and breed him out of here maybe I can save up the money to get my own place when the right one becomes available.” Joiner raised his eyebrows and grinned at the older man. “One that is actually for sale.”

“You’re a smart aleck, you know it?” Buster held out his hand for a shake. “But I don’t mind a little of that—and I might be able to make a real cowboy out of you. It’s a deal.”

Joiner shook his hand and they hopped back into the pumpkin. Buster sped the rest of the way to the house as if he was late for a party. Joiner liked the older man’s style.

“Stella!” Buster called, opening the back door. “Pretty? Stellllaaaa!”

An image of Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire flashed through Joiner’s mind. He followed Buster into the foyer, where Buster called her again, looking up the stairs.

“I guess she ain’t in here.”

“Well, sir, if you don’t mind, I’ll just get going. I’ll start moving in tomorrow, if that’s okay.”

“I wanted to let you and Stella do some talking. You’ll mostly be working for her, you know. Getting her business up and running.”

“Oh. Well.” Joiner reached out for the banister. This was a little more than he bargained for. A mixture of curiosity and acid from his lack of breakfast churned in his stomach, but he needed the arrangement to work. He was running out of money, and no other interesting options had popped up.

Joiner straightened himself up and grinned, offering his hand to Buster again. “You just tell her I am at her service.”

The front door opened, and Stella walked in on them.

“Well, now you can tell her yourself!” Buster clapped his hands together.

“Tell me what?” Stella demanded.

“Joiner is going to live in the RV and be our new ranch hand.”

Stella took this news as if she’d been punched in the face.

“What?”

“I decided not to sell the land, but he’s going to live here and help us out on the ranch for a while.”

Stella’s eyes widened as the news sank in.

“You’re not selling?” She smiled, but her smile was for Buster only.

“No.” Buster shook his head. “But we’ve made an arrangement where he can board his horse here and help with chores, and he’ll be help to you with the school. You won’t have to pay as much for a ranch hand, and he won’t have to fork over lots of money for lodging. It’s a win-win.”

She seemed to bristle at this idea.

Buster grabbed the front doorknob and turned it. “You two probably ought to talk a little bit among yourselves. I’ve got to go check my chickens.” He let the screen door slam behind him.

What a crafty old goat, Joiner thought, hoping he hadn’t made a big mistake in agreeing to live and work here.

Stella motioned to Joiner. “I guess we could sit on the porch?”

He followed her through the screen door and sat down in one of two rockers that flanked a small table. She took the porch swing, the farthest seat away.