A Cowboy Christmas. Ann Major

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ