Page 19 of The Cowboy Who Worked Late

“Ah, I see.”

“This one’s name is Nevaeh. It’s heaven backward.”

Angel looked over to him, and Henry smiled, wondering what she saw on his face, wondering what ran through her head. The woman was an enigma, as she never let too much show. Infact, that was why Henry had been so alarmed when she’d buried her face in her hands and sobbed on his front porch. He’d never seen Angel do anything like that before. He’d never seen the woman cry. Anger, sure. Frustration, absolutely. Irritation—he seemed to irritate her just by being in her presence. Except for right now.

“Nevaeh,” she repeated. “I like that.”

Henry looked away, out into the yard, past the emerald grass to Bowman’s Breeds across the street, down to his aunt and uncle’s place. “I don’t hate it,” he said. “I’m not usually one for kitschy names.”

“Your horse is named Stormchaser,” she said.

“Yeah, it’s not kitschy,” he said. “She’s great. She chases storms, just like a storm cloud. Totally makes sense.”

“Well, Stormcloud would make more sense,” she quipped.

Henry could tease her about the horse names at Lone Star, but they usually came with their names as well. Angel had her own horse too, and she’d been named Starlight. Henry could probably make a joke about that, but he didn’t. And he kept his hands to himself too, though he really wanted to hold her hand.

The scent of bacon made his nose twitch and his stomach growl. “I’m gonna go see if Daddy needs any help.”

“Okay,” Angel said, making no move to get up and go with him.

Henry returned to the house and found his daddy tipping bacon out of the pan and onto a paper towel-covered plate. “Need any help?”

“Yes, you can warm up the syrup,” Daddy said.

Henry walked through the living room toward him, hoping all the awkward questions and conversations had been had. Then maybe he could enjoy today and tomorrow before heading back to work.

“I’ve got the griddle hot. When we put down the pancakes, we’ll want to be ready. Momma,” he called down the hall.

Daddy looked up and met Henry’s eyes. So much was said between them in that moment that Henry came to a stop. He’d been working so hard for his momma and daddy to be proud of him. They’d paid for a four-year college degree that Henry was never going to use, and guilt gutted him every time he thought about it. He’d paid his own way through farrier school, scrimping and saving to make ends meet, calling and texting and emailing anyone he had to for jobs.

His momma had sent him money over the years, but Henry wasn’t sure if Daddy knew about that or not.

Daddy was a questioner, and Henry hated answering his questions. Henry always wanted to have a good time growing up, and he had a lot of girlfriends. That made his parents worry. The older he got, the more he realized that they just wanted him to be safe. They wanted him to be kind. They wanted him to work hard.

They wanted him to be a good man. A good cowboy.

Henry got his feet moving again, and he picked up the stout syrup bottle and put it in the microwave. He set it for one minute, and turned to face his father, who’d gone back to whisking the pancake batter.

Momma hadn’t come back down the hall yet, and Henry should probably go get Angel from the porch. But instead, he moved to stand right next to his daddy. He leaned into him and said, “I love you, Daddy.”

His father stopped his breakfast prep, as he had many times over the years, to give Henry his full attention. “I love you too, son,” he said. “Momma and I are real proud of what you’re doin’ at Lone Star.”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

“What’s the next step for you?” Daddy asked.

“I don’t know. I’m a team lead there. My apprenticeship is up at the end of May. A lot of men stay on for another year or two. It’s a good place, with excellent master farriers.”

Daddy went back to the batter. “How much more do you think you can learn from them?”

“I don’t know,” Henry said again. “I mean, I don’t know what I don’t know, right?”

“Sure, right.” Daddy opened the drawer to get out a measuring cup. “Do you see yourself working for someone else your whole life? Shoeing their horses?”

“Yeah, Daddy. That’s what farriers do. They shoe someone else’s horses.”

“Yeah, you know what I’m asking,” Daddy said, a tight clip to his voice as he poured the first pancake onto the hot griddle. It sizzled, and Daddy was such an expert that he got twelve of them down before Henry could even say a word.

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