The Maverick Returns. Roz Fox Denny

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       Then, luckily, he was able to hire on temporarily at a ranch outside Asherton. For three days he helped with branding, filling in for a cowboy who’d sprained his rope-throwing wrist. Branding was a hot, dirty, smelly business, but it earned Cooper some ready cash and a chance to shoot the breeze each evening with likeminded men, although most of this crew were Hispanic and only a few spoke English. The plus was that none of them seemed to have heard of Coop’s rodeo achievements. Or if they had, they didn’t put it together with the scruffy drifter who’d landed in their midst. And they sure didn’t connect him to the well-known Triple D Ranch.

       The first night after Coop had taken his turn in the shower and shaved, the youngest crew member joked that Coop looked too pretty to throw steers out of a chute and hold them down for branding. Coop just laughed. An older man, Alonzo, took out a harmonica as they sat watching the sun set, so Coop went to his pickup and got a guitar he used to play on the circuit to ease his nerves. For two evenings all the guys enjoyed playing universally popular tunes often used to quiet restless herds being driven to market. At the close of day three, Coop’s tenure on this ranch ended. He felt bad saying adios to his new friends. Also, he didn’t like this way of grabbing a few days of work here and there. He’d prefer a steady job.

       Several miles out of Carrizo Springs he pulled into a lay-by and sat there for the longest time, reconsidering whether or not to go home—supposing home was still the Triple D. He needed to decide if he wanted it to be.

       It was nine miles to Carrizo Springs according to his GPS. He could drive straight through the town, and take highway 83 to Uvalde. Then at the junction it would be a straight shot to Hondo and back to the Triple D. Jud Rayburn had told him that the house where he’d grown up sat empty. Sully and Blythe had built a new home on the vast acreage, nearer to Blythe’s clinic.

       Continuing to waffle about whether he was ready to let Sully become his boss, Coop left the lay-by. He stopped in Carrizo Springs for fuel, and for a bite to eat at a barbecue restaurant whose good smell enticed him from the gas station. It was a homey place, where the older waitress was friendly. She quickly spotted Coop for a stranger in town.

       In the course of serving up mouthwatering ribs, she wormed out of him that he was an out-of-work cowboy. The waitress—Janey, according to her uniform tag—refilled the cola Coop drained. “Kinda close to summer for spreads around here to be hiring,” she said. “But there’s a woman ranch owner near here who’s down on her luck. She has a young child. She could use a jack-of-all-trades.” Janey looked Coop over. “I guess you’ve got enough muscle, and calluses on your hands, to fit that bill. That is, if you don’t have monkey business on your mind.”

       “Monkey business, how?” Coop asked, as if he didn’t know what she meant.

       “She doesn’t put up with any hanky-panky.”

       “Gotcha,” Coop responded, but he rolled his eyes as he bit into a fat, juicy rib. He polished off his meal, paid the check and left Janey a good tip. At his pickup, he decided there was still enough daylight to take a run past the no-hanky-panky widow’s ranch. Just for a look-see, he told himself.

       Her ranch wasn’t large enough to have a name, but Janey had provided decent directions. Coop saw the house first. In the fading sunlight it looked more than weathered. The clapboard was in need of paint. The porch ran downhill. Coop guessed a section under one end had rotted out. The barn appeared to be in even worse condition if that was possible. Round water troughs, half-buried in the ground, lacked water. Thirsty cattle milled around.

       Coop slammed on his brakes. Several head of cattle had strayed through a broken section of wire fencing. In the distance he saw a skinny woman—a blonde, he thought—who had a small child hanging on to her jacket, attempting to shoo the animals back into the now-open enclosure.

       “Hold on,” Coop yelled after he set his brake and rolled down one window. “I’ll come give you a hand.”

       The woman’s head jerked around in surprise, as if she hadn’t heard his engine and had no idea anyone was on the road.

       Cooper swept up the straw cowboy hat he wore when working out in the sun, and leaped down from the cab. He began turning the closest cattle back into the would-be enclosure.

       The two of them eventually made headway. She from one side of the road, he from the other. At last the final stubborn steer in the group of maybe two dozen crossed over the squashed wire. Facing the woman, who stood closer to him now, Coop dragged his shirtsleeve across his brow to blot sweat he’d worked up. When he opened his eyes and took in the slender woman who’d yanked off her hat to fan her face, shock traveled from his suddenly tight jaw straight to his toes.

       Though a great deal thinner, and her sky-blue eyes far more lackluster than when he’d last seen her, the much-talked-about widow was none other than Cooper’s first love, Willow Courtland. Willow, who’d married his archenemy. Well, maybe calling Tate Walker his archenemy went a little far. But it had certainly been no secret around Hondo that Coop and Tate were bitter rivals. In school. In sports. And most assuredly for the affections of the woman staring at him now with total, abject shock on her face. Shock that mirrored the gut-twisting impact Cooper felt. Mouth dry, he couldn’t speak.

      Chapter Two

      Willow Walker tried to blink away her shock. Tried to blink away what surely had to be an illusion. Thoughts of Cooper Drummond had filled her head so often since he went off to rodeo, she’d undergone a flash of hope, soon coupled with disbelief, and yes— vulnerability. She didn’t want him to see her like this. Stringy hair. Grubby from chasing stupid steers. Down on her luck. Was she really close enough to reach out and touch the man she’d loved for more than half her life, the man she’d sent away and sworn to give up?

       Neither of them spoke a word, adding to the surreal atmosphere. Willow couldn’t have made a comment now if her life depended on it. There was a lump the size of Texas stuck in her throat. Suddenly she felt a tug on her limp hand, and Willow glanced down, cupping a sweaty palm reassuringly around her daughter’s curly hair.

       Tension continued to sing through the air as the cattle lowed and jostled one another for a spot circling the nearly empty, buried water barrel. Coop walked over to inspect it, and hung his hat on one of the surviving fence posts. Good sense screamed at him to hop back in his pickup and drive on down the road, code of the west be damned. He couldn’t help the anger bubbling up inside him. He had five years of needing to vent his spleen at Willow bottled up.

       Standing stiffly, allowing his gaze to slide over her from head to toe, what slammed Cooper in the chest was seeing her so thin, with an ever-growing wariness in dull blue eyes that used to sparkle all the time.

       Something else tugged at his conscience. The skittish child hiding behind Willow. Tate Walker’s kid. Coop’s stomach tumbled and spun. He found it harder to swallow. He gritted his teeth to hold on to the old memories that told how long he’d nursed a broken heart thanks to this woman. The longer he stood silently clenching and unclenching his hands, the more Coop realized that his feelings for Willow weren’t as dead as he’d like them to be. His earlier assessment of her home, her barn, her ranch and her appearance left him with a sharp concern for her well-being—a nagging worry about her immediate predicament. She was a widow.

       Finding his voice, he said in a rush, “Look, I heard via the grapevine that you’re in a bind here and could use some help. I didn’t know it was you, Willow. But for old times’ sake, I can lend a hand for a few days.”

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