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She paused at the gate to the ranch and got out to grab the mail from the mailbox. Her father still clung to his snail mail, and she didn’t mind having paper copies, since half the stuff that came electronically, she had to print out, anyway, for various records.
The Baylor ranch was not what it had been in its heyday, but then what was? The Raffertys, maybe. Especially now that they’d combined with the Roth family who owned the neighboring ranch, through the unexpected marriage of the youngest Rafferty with the Roth daughter. The two had been mortal enemies most of their lives, yet now they were married and living in a newly built house that straddled the property line, signifying the melding of the two ranches and families.
But there was nothing like that in the cards for the Baylors. They’d had to sell off a third of their property to cover Mom’s medical bills after her accident, and had only hung onto enough for Nic to keep her training business—which was thankfully flourishing—going, and for Dad to maintain his small purebred Black Angus herd. She told herself since Clark had been leaving, it was for the better. Not that she didn’t still miss the man who’d been a big part of her life growing up, the gruff old soul who somehow hadn’t minded when she showed up on the porch of his house on the far side of the largest pasture. And since they were only about two-thirds the size they used to be, they hadn’t replaced him, and the house had stood empty. She loved the place, and had thought about moving in there herself, butcouldn’t quite bring herself to be so far from Dad this soon after his heart attack.
But it had all been worth it. Mom was still here, and if not quite the woman physically that she’d once been, she’d made up for it in other ways, adapting amazingly. And mentally she was still Mom, sharp as a tack and with that kindness of heart that was a bit of a miracle in itself, after all she’d been through.
She headed for the house to drop off the mail and see Mom, who turned out to be taking a nap. She knew Dad would be out checking on the cattle, aboard his beloved Spike. Her father was very particular, and his declaration that the big bay quarter horse was the best-trained he’d ever ridden was something she treasured and always would. Especially since the horse had come to them as a problem child she’d picked up at auction for much less than his bloodlines were worth. It had taken nearly eight months of work, six days a week, to get the recalcitrant bay to behave, and then learn the basics of his new life.
She’d even had to consult with local blacksmith Logan Fox when he’d come to replace a shoe her own Sassafras had tossed. The tall, lean, taciturn man was the closest she’d ever seen to a horse whisperer, and he and Spike had had a long conversation. Watching from outside the corral, she’d have sworn the animal was answering the man as he literally whispered to him. The snorting and head bobbing certainly seemed like answers, anyway. And she couldn’t deny the animal was easier to deal with after three sessions with the man.
Fox himself was a mystery to her, and to most others in Last Stand. He lived a very quiet life in a cabin outside of town, was utterly reliable in his work, and was rarely seen outside of it. Even when he showed up at an area rodeo, it was because he’d been hired to be on standby.
The only other thing she knew about him was that he was an indefatigable reader. And she only knew that becauseshe’d overheard him discussing some scholarly tome with Slater Highwater at the Last Stand Saloon the last time she and Jessica joined several other women for what they called the girls’ night out, a monthly excursion to various voted-upon locations, but always ending back home in the saloon for a good-night drink. She’d meant to ask Joey Highwater if he was a regular at the library, but Joey had missed the next outing, having just found out she was pregnant, and after that joyous news, Nic had forgotten.
She picked her laptop up from the coffee table in the living room and carried it over to the kitchen counter. She turned it on and went for a bottle of water while it booted up. She needed to check the bank to be sure that last check had cleared, although this was for the third horse she’d trained for the Blakes, so she wasn’t really worried.
The bank website confirmed her expectation, and she smiled with a little touch of the relief she always felt when she knew she had a few months’ cushion in the account. In addition, she had two new horses coming in soon, which should buy them even more time. With Mom’s tutoring jobs—once a teacher, always a teacher was her favorite saying—and as prolific as it appeared Dad’s herd was going to be this spring, the outlook for the year was fairly solid. She was very thankful for that.
She was more thankful for the fact that she was able to contribute her part, doing what she loved most.
She decided to check the message boards before she shut down. She avoided the newbie group. She didn’t have time at the moment to indulge in the long, involved answers most of them needed. There were a couple of positive comments on the barrel racing board about another answer she’d given, which she acknowledged. One of the moderators of the group had asked her about the Last Stand rodeo, saying he was consideringcoming down from Ft. Worth this year, and she gave him a quick recap of what he could and shouldn’t expect.
She exited to the home page and was about to sign out when one of the groups she always ignored caught her eye—the group dedicated to discussing the representations of horses and their people in the entertainment media. And there was one topic with more posts than any other topic on the entire platform.
Stonewall.
She moved the pointer back to the sign-out icon. Hesitated. Reached again to click the button. Hesitated again.
With a muttered expression of disgust at herself, she went back and clicked the topic. Her screen exploded into what looked like dozens of different threads on every topic, from the storyline to the actors and, of course, to the horses.
I don’t have time for this.
She moved to sign out again. This time something unexpected caught her eye. A post from some time ago titled simply “In Last Stand?”
That she couldn’t resist and clicked.Click bait. That’s where the name comes from, and you just bit.
It turned out only to be someone asking if it was really true Jackson Thorpe’s sister—who apparently was a teacher, like Mom—lived in Last Stand. With several answers confirming it was. A couple of guys chimed in with opinions on her undeniable hotness, which the women countered with ratings of her brother on a scale of ten, with his final ranking a 9.8.
I couldn’t argue with that. If I ever paid attention to such silly discussions.
Which, she admitted wryly, she just had.
With a grimace, she closed out the browser and shut down the laptop.
Chapter Six
Jackson couldn’t rememberthe last time he’d spent so much time in a library. But just sitting there, watching Jeremy read so intently, was worth every minute.
And personally, he was enjoying the fact that no one was bothering him. He doubted even a library back in L.A. would have protected him from the constant approaches of fans, anti-fans, and the giddy types with their ever-present cell phone cameras now called social influencers.
The boy had been obviously captured by the history of this small Texas town, and Joey the librarian had been wonderful about finding him books to read at his age level and, as she’d told Jackson, a bit above, since he was obviously capable of comprehending them. Jackson had felt a little burst of pride at that confirmation of what he’d always known—that his son was smart.
He sat there with the other book Joey had shown him, the first book done by her brother-in-law’s wife who, she had mentioned, had worked for Child Protective Services before she’d had to leave because of the emotional cost of dealing with abused and damaged children. The picture book featured a comical, but clever, pony named Murphy, and was clearly aimed at very young children, but even as an adult, he could see the appeal.
“Why’re you reading that little kid’s book?”
Jackson looked up to see his son looking at him quizzically. He smiled. “Because Murphy’s pretty funny.”
