Page 8 of Cowboy Don't Go

She nodded. They’d known each other since the sixth grade and had become close as teammates on the middle school football team.

“His family is mostly Lakota, and we were talking one day about how the Sioux are losing their old language and how he didn’t really know it very well at all, so we looked up words on the internet to try to learn some. And I found the word kholá which means friendship, like a really strong friendship. Like the never-ever-betray-you kind of friendship.”

Shay’s throat tightened. “That’s a really good word.”

“Yeah. And I was thinking,” Ryan went on, “that if I gave the filly that name, maybe she’d start to trust me a little more. Maybe she’d live up to that name.”

“I like it. Kholá. It’s a pretty name for a pretty girl.”

“Yeah.” Ryan grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter. “Okay, later.”

“Okay.” But he was already gone. “Nice talk.” Mostly about Cooper. She slumped down onto a kitchen chair and took a sip of coffee as the man himself got in his truck and spit gravel down their driveway on the way out.

She sighed. Okay, so he was nice. And helpful and, fine . . . good-looking. He’d grown into his looks—a lot. No longer the boy who’d gone to school with her, the gangly kid whose passion was horses and math and getting into an Ivy League college. He was a man now, fully grown and prematurely gray at the temples with a few more lines around his eyes.

But none of that meant he belonged here on the Hard Eight. She was scared. Not only of what she imagined his reputation could do to their upcoming guest ranch. No, what scared her most was how she reacted to him—with knee-jerk judgment and close-mindedness. But if she was right, then woe be it to him that hurts her family.

Chapter Two

The next morning, Cooper leaned his backside against his old, blue Ford F-100 pickup truck outside the Shelby Montana Crossroads Correctional Center, waiting. He’d gotten here early but the nine a.m. scheduled release time had come and gone twenty minutes ago and there was still no sign of his father.

Behind the high, stark stone walls to his left, he could hear the hum of voices coming from where he remembered once seeing the exercise yard. There was little to no equipment in that yard now. Just grass, a few bleacher seats, a walking path and incarcerated men with nowhere to go. Cooper had often thought of him on that yard amongst those men—many of them violent—a place he didn’t belong or deserve. Five years ago, he’d forbidden Cooper to visit again. Told him to sell that ranch and forget about him.

Of course, he’d done neither.

Pulling his lone emergency cigarette from his shirt pocket, he stuck it between his lips, sucked in the taste for a moment before flicking on the red Bic lighter he also kept handy in case of moments such as this. The flame hissed near the cigarette tip for a long moment before Cooper swore and flicked the flame back out, crumbling the cigarette in his hand. The breeze scattered the dry tobacco across the cracked parking lot.

No good would come of taking up smoking again. It had taken too long to kick the habit five years ago. But if there was ever a moment to cave, this was that moment.

It had been half a decade since Cooper had seen him in person—the last time he’d been in Montana to visit him here. Five years, one month and four days to be exact, though every Sunday night, without fail, they’d spoken on the phone—the old man’s reluctant concession. Today, the nightmare of his incarceration was finally over. Though none of it was ever going to be really over. Not for either of them, he supposed.

Eight years here in this hole and all that time had gone by in a flash. At least for Cooper, who’d ended up on the Four Sixes in Texas for most of that time, as far away from judging eyes in Marietta as this old truck could take him. That, too, was over now. He’d quit that job to come back here and had managed to get hired on at the Hard Eight. Somehow, between the two of them, he and the old man would start again.

The heavy steel doors across the parking lot made a haunting sound when they opened, and Cooper saw a man walking toward him, head down.

He blinked. For a moment, he thought it must be someone else. Some other man’s much older father. But he was the only one waiting.

No, it was him. A diminished version of him, to be sure, much thinner than he was when he’d last seen him and walking with a strange gait. Limping almost. He didn’t look well.

Cooper pushed away from the truck and walked toward him, meeting him halfway across the parking lot. His father stopped short, shocked to see him. “Coop?”

“Dad.” He opened his arms to his father who stepped into them briefly, embracing him.

“What are you doing here? I told you to stay put in Texas.”

He clapped his father on the back before letting him go. “Like that was gonna happen. C’mon. I’m your ride.”

His eyes were still cornflower blue, but his skin had a gray cast to it that was concerning. His hair had turned salt-and-pepper gray. He reminded Cooper of a broken fence post, not the strong, healthy man who’d been confined to this place eight years ago.

“I could’ve taken the bus into town. You didn’t have to come.”

“Like hell you would.” Cooper opened the door for him with a rusty squeak. “And we’re not going to Shelby.” Which was the closest town to the prison.

Raymond Lane’s hand shook as he opened the bottle of water they’d given him on the way out, took a sip and turned to Cooper. “Where are you taking me?”

“Home. To Marietta.”

The old man frowned. “We’ve got no home in Marietta.”

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