Rocky Mountain Cowboy

  Rocky Mountain Cowboy

  by

  S.A. Monk

  Copyright 2012 by S.A. Monk

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are a product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, and locales are entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except in brief review, without permission of the author.

  This book is dedicated to my three sons, all grown into fine, strong, handsome, successful men, who make me proud every day of my life, and to God, as always.

  CHAPTER 1

  With a two-fingered notch of his battered brown Stetson, John Red Hawk Larson tipped his head back and looked up at the darkening sky. Rain for sure by late afternoon. The impending storm suited his mood, but not the day’s events. If it was raining when Tom’s funeral moved from the church to the outdoor cemetery, all the mourners would need umbrellas. He hoped to God the mortuary supplied them, because he had no idea where he’d find even one for himself.

  On the covered porch that wrapped around the yellow, two-story, clapboard house, Hawk checked his wrist watch. He’d cut it a little close. Just enough time to shower and change. For the last couple of days, he’d been up at the line cabin, riding the herd. He’d needed the isolation to grieve.

  Tom’s daughter had arrived. He’d parked next to her racy red Corvette Stingray with its California plates. Very Hollywood. Very sleek. He wondered if that description fit her, too. Sleek, flashy, sophisticated, rich.

  She hadn’t sounded that way on the phone three days ago. She hadn’t looked that way in the photographs Tom had framed and hung around the house, either. He’d even seen a recent one of her on a horse, though there were more of her flanked by the stars she dressed in her movies.

  The news of Tom’s death had hit her hard. He’d heard the shock and anguish in her cry of dismay. Driving all the way out here hadn’t sounded too smart to him. He wasn’t sure why she hadn’t just flown.

  Hawk remembered her as a girl. He knew her as an adult only through the pictures hung around the room and from the stories told by a proud, loving father.

  Stepping through the front door, Hawk hung his hat and denim jacket on the antlered coat rack in the entryway. In the living room, he stopped and looked around. It was a cozy, welcoming room, with large multi-paned windows on two walls, hardwood floors with warm jewel-toned carpets, a vaulted rough wood beam ceiling, and a floor-to-ceiling river rock fireplace that visually dominated the room. Knotty pine wood tables topped with brass lamps, a long brown leather sofa with a colorful throw, two leather recliners, and two wide Adirondack style rocking chairs filled the room and faced the fireplace; solid comfortable furniture. A large flat-screen television sat in one corner. Normally on the weekends in the fall, Tom, Hawk, Hank, and Eli gathered in the room to watch football. It all looked so empty, it made Hawk’s heart ache.

  Tom loved sports— baseball, football, and rodeoing, and he’d shared his enthusiasm for all of them with a rebellious young teenager who’d had a huge chip on his shoulder, a penchant for getting into trouble, and no one to show him another path, until he’d met a young rancher at the local Boy’s Club eighteen years ago.

  Actually, their first meeting hadn’t been at the Boy’s Club, Hawk reminded himself. He’d met Tom Fletcher in a local convenience store, where he’d been trying to steal a six pack of beer and a pack of cigarettes. Tom had caught him before the clerk had, made him put the pilfered items back, and walked him outside. Before the tall cowboy could talk to him, Hawk had run off, but they’d met a few weeks later at the Boy’s Club.

  Hawk had gone there to learn how to box in order to defend himself in his new foster father’s weekly fight circle. It made him smile every time he remembered the look on Tom’s face when he recognized the teenager he’d caught stealing. But Tom Fletcher had never judged him. He had simply and persistently befriended him, then offered redirection onto other more character-building paths like football, baseball, and rodeoing.

  Hawk strode over to the window in the room that faced the covered front porch. Bracing one hand on the frame, he looked out at the ranch yard beyond. Tom had built the house, the bunkhouse, and the old barn, which was now the equipment shed, by himself. But they’d built the new barn together six years ago. It had been soon after Hawk had finally given up his professional rodeo career.

  With Tom’s coaching, he’d begun rodeoing in high school. By twenty, he’d become good enough to turn professional. Two years later, he’d gone to the National Finals and earned some big money in calf roping. Like most young daredevils, he’d also ridden the bulls occasionally, and it was that adrenaline-shot risk that had shortened his career. By twenty-six, his body had been broken in too many places too many times to endure much more.

  He’d returned to the ranch that had been his home since Tom Fletcher had taken him in at sixteen. All he’d wanted was a job, but Tom had offered him a partnership. With the money he’d saved from rodeoing, Hawk had been happy to invest in his friend’s ranch. Together, they’d had enough to build the new barn, make a few improvements, and purchase several prime bulls to improve the herd.

  As soon as they had signed the partnership papers, Tom had changed the brand and the name of the ranch, adding Hawk’s last initial so that it became the Bar F/Bar L. Hawk wondered what it would become now that Tom was dead. In his mind, it would always be the Fletcher ranch, the Bar F.

  Pushing away from the window, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. His head ached. His heart ached. His soul ached. Tom had been more than his partner and his friend. He had been the only father Hawk had never known, the father he’d loved; the single most important person in his life, next to his mother who had died too damn young.

  His birth father was just some faceless white man who had married his Cheyenne mother, gotten her pregnant, and left her to fend for herself. She’d died in a car accident when he was ten. With no family that he knew of to claim him, he had become a ward of the state, thrust into the foster care system until he’d been allowed to choose Tom as his guardian at sixteen.

  It had been a good and timely arrangement for both Hawk and Tom, who was bitterly lonely after the loss of his daughter.

  Hawk knew he had never replaced the daughter Tom had had taken from him, but he had helped his friend and mentor deal with the loss. Over the years, he’d filled a huge void in Tom’s life, and he owed Tom so much, he’d been happy to do whatever he could to help.

  Surrogate father, mentor, friend, partner. Tom Fletcher had been all those things to Hawk. He’d died too soon, too suddenly. No damn warning! He’d had no idea that Tom had heart trouble. Watching him die in that intensive care room was the worst thing he’d ever gone through. He hadn’t been able to do anything for Tom, except be there when he’d regained consciousness for a short while. He’d held his limp hand, listened to his weak-voiced last words, and promised Tom to take care of his daughter. At least he’d had a chance to say good bye. Unfortunately, that was more than Jennifer Fletcher had been given.

  The gut wrenching memory brought a burn to his eyes. In the three days since Tom had died, the pain was still as raw as those last moments in the hospital. It hurt like hell, and probably would for a long, long time. Pulling a handkerchief from his back pocket, Hawk wiped at his eyes and walked through the dining room, into the kitchen.

  Eli Banks was standing at the kitchen sink. The wiry old cowboy had been employed as a cook and a ranch hand on the Bar F ever since Tom had first bought the place. He was too old to work the cattle, but he helped in a hundred other small ways. Hawk considered him as much of a friend as Tom had. Hell, he was family
.

  “Better hustle,” Eli admonished, his usually gruff tone gentled as he gave the younger man a perceptive assessment. “Didn’t get much rest up there, huh?”

  “It was quiet.” It was all Hawk could say about the two days alone. From the refrigerator, he grabbed a bottle of water. “Been quiet down here?”

  “No problems.” Eli finished stacking the dishes into the dishwasher.

  “When did Tom’s daughter get in?”

  “Last night. She wanted to go to the funeral home, so I took her. They went over today’s schedule with her. She seemed pleased with the arrangements you made. She had them open the casket for her.”

  “Aw, Christ!” He could imagine how awful that must have been for her. “How is….”

  “Broken up pretty bad,” Eli advised him solemnly. “She’s a tough little thing, though. She’ll make it through the funeral services. Better keep a close eye on her, all the same.”

  “Planned to.” Hawk slugged down the rest of the water and tossed the empty bottle into the recycle bin. “You ridin’ with me to the services?”

  “Naw, I’m goin’ with Hank and Steve.”

  “Why’s he going?” Hawk inquired disgustedly, referring to the last hand named.

  “He wanted to since he works here.”

  “Not much longer if I catch him at what I think he’s been doin’.”

  Eli dried his hands on a dishtowel and unknotted the half-apron he wore in the kitchen. “Keep him on ‘til ya know for sure. We need the extra hands right now.”

  “His hands may not be the kind we need.”

  Eli waved him toward the living room and the stairs. “Go get changed ‘fore you make us all late.”

  Hawk was used to Eli’s bossy commands, and turned toward the door. “We’ve got the seats in front reserved at the church. Suggest Steve sit somewhere else.”

  “That’d be tactful,” Eli grumbled.

  “Like I give a shit about Walker’s feelings. Maybe the Caldwells will invite him to sit with them since I’ve no doubt they’ll make a goddamned appearance, too.”

  “Let it go today, son,” the old cowboy cautioned. “You got enough to cope with.”

  “Hell!” Hawk swore under his breath tiredly as he climbed the stairs.

  On the second floor, he headed toward his room, then remembered his suit was in the bedroom across the hall, hanging in the empty closet. Thick carpet muffled his booted footsteps, and the door opened on recently oiled hinges. The woman standing at the open window took him by surprise, though it shouldn’t have.

  Immobilized in the doorway, he stared without making a sound, at her back. She was bare-footed and bare-legged, her attention focused on the view before her. She was wearing a dark red silk kimono that came only to mid-thigh. Long slender legs went on and on forever. Beautiful. Perfectly shaped. Eye-catching. Though her hands were clasped over the window sill, her back was straight, her shoulders perfectly perpendicular to her spine, slim, strong.

  Long, dark, auburn-brown hair fell in thick loose curls to a belted, narrow waist. Below that, her hips flared provocatively. The soft red material outlined too much for a first face-to-face meeting. And he doubted she’d appreciate this silent perusal.

  Hawke lifted his eyes, silently admonishing himself for his brief indulgence.

  The sun slid out from behind an ominous cloud abruptly. Light caught and danced through her hair, igniting it into dark flame. Suddenly, he felt compelled to see her face.

  Clearing his throat, he alerted her to his presence. She spun around, clearly startled. He murmured a quick apology and immediately felt his heart kick into a faster beat. Tom’s photos of his daughter didn’t do her justice. She was— stunning; big chocolate brown eyes, thickly lashed below delicately arched brows; skin fair and slightly rose-tinted across her high cheekbones, probably now much too pale. Understandable under the circumstances. Her lips were well-shaped, a darker rose than her cheeks, not overly full as seemed to be the fashion. He could hardly believe this was the same gangly twelve-year-old girl he had last seen years and years ago.

  He stood before her unable to find a thing to say. Not only was she extraordinarily lovely, but she was also visibly grief-stricken. There was a fragility to her that touched him to the quick. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself like she was trying to hold the pieces together. Her face was tear-streaked, and those eyes.... God, they took his breath away! They were wet-lashed, liquid-brown pools of pain and anguish— so beautiful and so full of hurt.

  And yet, even as he stared into them, she took a deep breath and straightened her narrow shoulders in an attempt to mask the raw pain she didn’t want exposed.

  “Mr. Larson.” Her voice was husky and shaky.

  “John Red Hawk Larson.” He was relieved he didn’t sound as shell-shocked as he felt. “But just Hawk is fine.”

  Jennifer Michelle Fletcher. Home after sixteen years, only to bury her father. He didn’t need to ask what name she preferred. Tom had always called her Jenny.

  “Hmmm— ” She raised her hands and wiped them across her cheeks. Those incredible eyes met his directly as she pointed toward the bedroom door he’d just come through. “Did I miss your knock or did you?”

  Her acerbic tone made him smile. He noticed the faint tremor in her hands before she lowered them to her sides. “I thought the room was empty. Sorry, I’m not used to knocking.”

  “Obviously.”

  The woman definitely had some spunk, he thought with a quiet approval. She’d need it. “What are you doing in here? I thought Eli would have put you in Tom’s room, down the hall?”

  Pain flickered back to life. “This used to be my room.”

  Now Hawk understood why no one had used this room in all the years he had lived here. He should have figured out why Tom had deliberately left it empty and so obviously feminine. The four poster double bed was covered in a white eyelet ruffled bed skirt and a pale blue and rose comforter. Lace curtains covered the dormer window and the one on the side. An overstuffed rose pink armchair sat by the window. A suitcase was opened on top of it, and an assortment of teddy bears lounged against the ruffled pillows on the bed. The room itself was similar to his across the hall, minus the feminine accents.

  Jenny saw where his eyes wandered. “I guess Daddy saved a lot of my old things.” The break in her soft voice betrayed her pain again.

  Hawk nodded absently. “Eli said you got in last evening,” he stated on the way to the closet where he’d last left his suit. Pulling open the double louvered doors to the little walk-in room, he glanced back at her over his shoulder. “Was it a hard drive?” Inside, he noticed that she had hung up some of her clothes next to his. “Seems flying would have been easier.”

  When Hawk re-emerged, he was carrying a black three-piece suit and a highly polished pair of black cowboy boots. The suit had been recently returned from a dry cleaner and it was covered in a clear plastic bag, with a receipt still stapled at the top.

  Jenny finally realized he had asked her a very logical question, one she had already answered for Eli. She also realized that she was caught in one of those rare suspended moments in life when you’re thrown an unexpected curve ball. Well, maybe not so unexpected, after all. She had known that John Red Hawk Larson was a remarkably handsome man. He had been pretty darn good-looking as a teenager, and she’d been adolescent enough to notice it. Tall and well-built, dark-skinned by heredity and occupation, with chiseled features, and exceptionally noticeable blue eyes, he was a man any woman would stop and look at, probably more than once. Her father had shared many photos of the two of them together over the years, so she should have been prepared for his handsome-as-sin looks.

  “So why didn’t you fly?”

  She shook her head slightly, clearing it. “I needed time to think. And I want to stay awhile.” She caught his gaze and held it. “Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all.” He met the challenge in her eyes with a crooked half-smile. “Tom wante
d that. But aren’t you exhausted from the drive? Eli said it was straight through.”

  “I brought a friend. He drove more than half of the way.”

  He raised a dark eyebrow. “Musta been crowded in that fancy ‘Vette— suitcases an’ all.”

  His natural western drawl was so like her dad’s, she felt her lips curving into a faint smile. Cowboy talk; short and sweet, not too many words or complications. In her world, people talked too much, never saying anything very significant or very honest.

  He looked toward the door to the hallway, maybe expecting the friend to walk through it. “I told Eli to put Peter in Daddy’s room. I can’t go in there… yet.”

  Grief watered her eyes and turned her away, toward the bed. Hawk watched her sit down on the edge and demurely adjust the hem of her kimono over her thighs. He smiled to himself. Apparently, she didn’t flaunt that curvy figure, not like one woman in particular he knew he’d see later, at the funeral.

  “Any idea how long you’re stayin’?”

  She shrugged, not looking up. “Maybe just long enough to settle Daddy’s... Well, to take care of whatever needs taking care of.”

  Tom had created a will not too long ago and discussed with Hawk what he wanted for his daughter and his ranch. That recollection made Hawk wonder if Tom had known then of his bad heart and simply kept it to himself in order not to worry anyone. That would have been so like him. Hawk was pretty sure that Tom hadn’t told his daughter about the will. It would only have made her wonder if something was wrong. Regardless, he would do all he could to see Tom’s wishes fulfilled. How much of a challenge that would be remained to be seen.

  “About the services....”

  “Everything’s been taken of.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly, looking at him at last. “Be sure to let me know the expense.”

  “I paid all the medical and funeral expenses from our operational accounts. Don’t worry about them.”