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Sitting in the dirt, she pulled off her bloodstained glove. At least Ramón had taken her to a government clinic a few years ago and had her properly immunized, including a tetanus shot. But here she didn’t even have a bandage.
As her grandfather might have said, this was a metaphor for life. It kicked you onto your behind and made you bleed, and when it happened, all you could do was get up and keep going.
But sometimes it hurt. Sometimes it hurt a lot.
* * *
The drive from the Texas panhandle to Wyoming’s Wind River Mountains was long and grueling. But Tanner had learned that if he started early, paced himself, and took occasional rest breaks, he could make it in a single day. He drove with the windows down and the radio blaring whatever country music station he could tune in. Sometimes, when he felt himself flagging, he even sang along, loud and off-key.
But mostly he thought about Rose. In his mind, he could still see her, standing by the creek, alone and proud, trying to prove to him that she didn’t care. But he knew that she did care. He cared, too. And it wasn’t just because he’d made love to her or even that it had been wonderful. It was her honesty that got to him. She was truth, courage, tenderness, and compassion wrapped up in one feisty little package—and she deserved so much better than the hand that life had dealt her.
In two weeks he’d be going back to his job in Texas. He didn’t plan to see Rose—no future there except pain and regret. But he already wanted to. He wanted to see her, to touch her, and to sleep with her—so much it hurt.
At dusk he stopped for drive-up coffee, switched on his headlights, and turned the radio up full volume to keep him awake. It was after eleven when he took the freeway exit and almost midnight by the time he turned onto the dirt road by the sign that said MCCADE RANCH, 4 MILES. A doe and her fawn crossed the road in his headlights. Tanner braked to let them pass. A few minutes later he pulled up to his brother’s two-story log house.
The lights were off in the house, but Tanner had already planned to sleep in the small, empty bunkhouse that stood nearby. He shouldered his duffel and stepped out of the truck, his legs stiff from the long drive. The air that met his face and filled his lungs was cold and sweet, smelling of sagebrush, grass, and cattle. Wyoming air. It smelled like home.
The bunkhouse was unlocked, the bed made up and waiting for him. Exhausted, Tanner flung down his duffel, stripped off his clothes, and crawled between the sheets.
In the morning he would greet his brother’s big, noisy family and join them around the breakfast table. He would be cheerful, uncomplaining, and willing to shoulder more than his share of the work. With the calving season on, there would be plenty to do—tending the cows and calves, making sure the new little ones were healthy, warm, and nursing as they should be, along with taking care of the other animals.
He would visit the two lonely graves on the hilltop and try, again, to make peace with what had happened, or at least try to make some sense of it.
And he would try not to think about Rose.
But as he sank into sleep, the face he saw in his dreams had a striking crimson blaze down its left border.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Two weeks later
APRIL HAD RIPENED INTO EARLY MAY. SPRING RAINS HAD KISSED THE Rimrock with blazing color. The bluebonnets had faded, but patches of firewheel, Indian paintbrush, black foot daisies, and buttercups dotted the foothills and open flatlands. Bees hummed in the sunshine. Where horses and cattle stepped in the lush spring grass, butterflies rose in clouds.
Rose’s vegetable garden had sprouted. She guarded the small green plants as if they were her children, watering them each day inside the low border she’d covered with netting to keep out hungry birds and animals.
Jasper had helped her finish the fence, using salvaged metal posts to support the barbed wire. They’d even found the old iron gate her grandfather had erected years ago and put it in place.
Jasper was busy with his duties on the ranch, but he enjoyed coming by to visit when he could spare the time. Today he was helping Rose build a chicken coop. When it was finished, Bernice had promised her three young laying hens and a rooster.
“I was remembering that other coop we built on the Rimrock, when you were just a sprout,” Jasper said. “Let’s hope this one is just as sturdy and lasts just as long.”
“I plan to be here the whole time.” Rose held a nail for him to pound. “This is my home, and I’m putting down deep roots.”
“That’s all well and good,” Jasper said. “But you’re still a young woman. You could find yourself a good man, have a family to raise and carry on after you.”
“Some people were meant to be alone. Like you.” Rose placed another nail.
“Now me, that’s another story,” Jasper said. “If my Sally hadn’t died before our wedding, we’d have taken over her parents’ farm in the hill country, and I’d have had a whole different life. But she was my one true love, and I’ve never found another.”
“Well, since I’m not expecting my one true love to show up anytime soon, I’ll just soldier on. I don’t need a man to give me a good life. I can do that for myself.”
“Now, I don’t know about that,” Jasper said. “That nice TSCRA ranger who came by to make sure you’d be looked after seemed to have taken quite a shine to you.”
Rose felt the stab of memory like a deep pain, but she willed herself not to show it. “Tanner’s gone,” she said. “And anyway, he was still mourning his wife. He told me how she died in a fire with their little boy and unborn baby. Maybe he’ll be like you. Maybe she was his one true love.”
“Maybe. But I could tell he liked you a lot.” Jasper unfolded his lanky frame and went to fetch the roll of fine-gauge wire he’d stashed in the back of his truck. “Here, hold this at the end while I staple it to the
posts. I can’t stay much longer today, but we should be able to finish this coop the next time I come by.”
