Page 4 of A Cowboy in the Streets

“Good.”

I pushed away from the fence and squinted at the sky. It was one of those gorgeous, late-spring Colorado mornings, all blue skies and sharp sunlight. But I wasn’t fooled by the beauty of it all. We had maybe an hour before the storms rolled in over the Rockies that rose, jagged and lethal, in the distance beyond our green fields. Rain and thunder were imminent. Possibly hail, too.

“I’m going to check on Ben,” I said. It was a Saturday, so he wasn’t at school. My son was old enough that he didn’t need constant supervision, but young enough that he still got into dumb shit if I looked away too long. Anyway, he’d want lunch right about now. “You know how to find me if you need me.”

I made my way past the stables, pausing to check in on the grooms and horses and make sure all was well, and up the driveway to the main house. Ben and I had shared a small two-bedroom cottage on the property for most of his life, but we had moved into the main house with Dad when Mom passed away two years ago. Dad had claimed it was so he could be available to help out with Ben, but in truth, I thought he was lonely in that big house all by himself.

“Ben?” I called as I stepped into the foyer. “Where are you?”

“He’s on the deck out back,” Dad answered. He poked his head out from the kitchen off the living room. “Come in here a minute. I’m making sandwiches.”

Of course he was. None of us were adept at cooking, so we ate a lot of spaghetti, burgers, and mac and cheese. None of that was great, but at least it was edible. My dad, though, was a genius at creating sandwiches. No PB and J for us.

Unless Ben requested it specifically, that is. Dad didn’t have the heart to say no to that kid. There was a kinship between them because they had the worst possible thing in common: cancer had claimed the most important woman from each of them. The difference being that Dad had lost the love of his life, his wife of thirty-six years, and Ben had lost his mom when he was only a year old.

I entered the kitchen to find the counter completely covered with Italian loafs of bread, cheese, meat, and condiments. Dad had a whole assembly line thing happening.

“What do we have here?” I asked.

“My best invention yet. Turkey, ham, provolone, pickles, shredded lettuce, onion, garlic mayo, and potato chips for crunch.” He pointed at each ingredient in turn with his knife. “I’m calling it the Good News Sub, because we got some today.” Dad always named his sandwich creations.

“Oh, yeah?” The last time Dad had good news it was that the new barista at the coffee shop was cute. Frankly, I was more interested in the sandwiches. My stomach rumbled.

“Yeah. I found us a new head trainer. Can’t say it was easy, either.” Dad gave me a pointed look, which I ignored. “Seems word has spread that you’re not the easiest man to work for. Got a reputation for firing trainers before they fully unpack their bags.”

I snorted. “Pretty sure if those trainers had done their damn job, they would have found me much more pleasant of a boss.”

“You gave them an impossible task, Adam. And we’ve been short-staffed for three months now. I need you to promise me you’re going to give this one a fair shot. Six months, not a day less.”

“Hm.” I made no promises. “Who’s the new hire?”

“James Campos. We got damn lucky.”

“James Campos, huh?” I rubbed my chin, noting the way the scruff scratched against my fingers. I had forgotten to shave…again. “I’ve seen his name around. Good reputation. I’m surprised he’d be willing to come on board such a small operation.” A flailing operation, I add silently.

“As I said, we got lucky.” Dad tilted his head, studying me. “Adam, you do know James is—”

“Hey.” I held up my hands to stop him. “You’re the HR department, not me. Not one person I’ve interviewed accepted the job. Whatever James is or isn’t, I trust you.” I reconsidered. “Mostly, anyway. Hell, we can’t do worse. We have done worse. He’s hired.”

“Right. But James is—”

“Dad, I know who James is.” I was exasperated now. I’d already agreed to the hire. Why were we still talking about this? “I might not live and breathe quarter horse statistics and trainer biographies like you do, but I pay attention. I know he’s trained some good winners, and he’s on his way up.”

Dad smirked at the sandwich he was currently layering with mayo. “Well. I guess you know everything, then,” he murmured.

“I know enough.”

“Okay, then.” Dad made a sound like he was swallowing a laugh. “But mind what I said. I have a good feeling about this one. Don’t ruin it. Six months. That’s all I’m asking.”

I wasn’t in the habit of making promises I couldn’t keep, so I shrugged and changed the subject. “Let’s eat outside.”

We loaded up three plates with subs and a side of baby carrots—the only vegetable Ben would eat. He wouldn’t even eat regular carrots, no matter how much we promised him that they were literally the same thing, just bigger.

“We’ve got lunch, kiddo,” Dad said, leading the way onto the deck that looks out over the pastures. Horses grazed contentedly, swatting flies with their long tails. Beyond the pastures, the Rockies rose up, majestic and brutal.

I had to admit, Dad couldn’t have chosen a more idyllic spot to build a ranch.

Ben was in one of the chairs, staring out at the horizon. No screen, no book, no distraction. He did this a lot. I had no idea if this was something to worry about, but of course I worried anyway.

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