Page 6 of The Cowboy’s Reckoning

She wasn’t facing a charging cow unarmed. Meg, likeminded, grabbed the only other weapon available, the long-handled dustpan.

“Maybe you should wait here,” she said to the older woman who, in response, dropped the handbag off her shoulder and wrapped the strap around her hand.

“I can handle myself,” she replied in a voice that spoke of years dealing with cattle. “My name is Sara, by the way.”

Before introductions could be completed, another shout went up from the parking lot and Lil took that as her cue to dart down the alley to block the entrance, with Meg close behind her.

“I’ll stay here,” Aubrey called. “You know, in case someone has to call 9-1-1.”

Lil and Meg were halfway to the parking lot entrance, Sara close behind them, when the lead cow recognized the opening to the alley as an escape route from the men who were harassing her. She charged into the narrow lane with her sisters on her heels, only to be confronted by three determined women, whooping, hollering, and waving pink handbags and cleaning equipment in wild arcs.

The startled cow dodged to the left, jumped the low barrier, and took off across the small park between the hotel and the river, the other cows close behind her. Two men appeared from the direction of the alley, cursing and stumbling as they followed their quarry through the park.

It was now too dark to see who was winning the man versus cow battle, but the receding sound of whoops and hollers followed by the hollow thuds of hooves on asphalt told Lil that the guys responsible for the escaped cows had managed to get them over the bridge and moving toward the corrals at the fairgrounds.

“Marietta is safe,” Meg said propping the dustpan’s handle on her shoulder.

“Let’s hope Aubrey is still with us,” Lil added, her heart pounding from the adrenaline rush. The night was taking some surprising turns. “Who on earth would let cattle out in town?”

“Idiots,” Sara replied tartly.

*

Trev caught up with Jordan on the fairgrounds side of the bridge. “I’m dying.” He gasped.

As well he should be after dodging through parked cars and trucks in a futile effort to turn the cattle.

Jordan shot Trev a look. “Do you have any idea who turned the cows in the alley?”

“Women, judging by the yelling.”

“We owe them a drink.”

“First we have to find them. I might be getting old, but I’m too tired to go looking.”

Jordan laughed. And agreed. He was coming off the adrenaline spike and just wanted to head home. He was getting old. This would have been the start of a good night during their rodeo days.

The cattle stopped running after crossing the bridge, and Burke was already driving them toward the corrals. As far as Jordan could tell, the guy hadn’t broken a sweat.

“Never drinking with Burke again.” Jordan pressed a hand to his side as he walked.

“Drinking wasn’t the problem.”

“No. it wasn’t.” Agreeing to help Burke had been the problem.

Fifteen minutes later, the cows were securely corralled in the slack pen.

Burke wiped his hands down the sides of his pants, then turned to Trev and Jordan, a serious look on his face. “I think I have some WD-40. If we can get that slider—”

Jordan held up a hand.

A lengthy pause followed.

“I understand.” Burke scowled at the ground, then looked up again, scowl erased. “Well, then, maybe we could get a drink at the Wolf Den.” He grinned. “You know. To celebrate.”

Jordan rolled his eyes, then looked at Trev who, after a few seconds of consideration, shrugged.

“You sure?”