Page 3 of The Soldier and the Cowboy

“Same old, same old.”

“How are Mom and Dad?”

“Good. They’re heading your way soon, I think.”

“They are?” Cam asked. His parents hadn’t visited him in forever.

“Maggie,” Cal explained.

“Ah,” Cam said. Maggie was a magnet, pulling people together, even his parents who hated to fly, apparently. “Are you okay?” Cam chanced.

“Me? Shoot, yeah. Busy, though. I could use some of your SEAL mojo down here. The drug smugglers are wearing a path through the south forty, and I’ve got rustlers pressing in from the north.”

Cam made sympathetic sounds of understanding. In recent years, south Texas had become like a war zone. Not that he was worried about Cal. His brother could take care of himself. Someone would have to be crazy to…He stood upright and clutched the phone as a new thought occurred. “Wait, did you say you need help?”

“Never thought you’d hear me admit it, huh? But, yeah, things are a bit dodgy down here. ‘Course I know you can’tactually come down here and help, but…”

“I might have someone who can. A soldier, recently discharged, looking for some action.”

“Shoot, we’ve got action and then some,” Cal said. “What’s the guy’s name?”

“Bailey,” Cam said, purposely omitting her gender. His brother was a good man, rock solid, but also an old-school misogynist. Things could go horribly wrong, but Cam was learning to let go of control, to delegate. The Colonel had said Bailey was like him. If that was the case, she’d likely find a way to prove herself to Cal. And if not, well, DC was a long, safe way from Texas.

Chapter 3

Bailey wasn’t fooled. She was being dispatched. No one knew her father as well as she did, probably because they were so much alike. He had called one of his contacts and asked him to find something for her to do because she was driving him crazy. Not that she blamed him—she was driving herself crazy. She was not built for inactivity, not cut out for civilian life, and leaving the marines had never been in her plan. She’d intended to go all the way, to rise through the ranks and shatter records. Instead she had been ignominiously, albeit honorably, discharged due to high blood pressure. She had begged, literally begged, her superiors to keep her. They had wanted to, but her body hadn’t cooperated. No matter what combination of medicine they gave her, her blood pressure soared higher and higher until she was in near constant danger of stroking out or dropping dead. And so at the age of thirty she was tasked with starting over, of finding a new way of life when the military was all she had ever known, all she had ever loved.What now?her mind kept saying, but so far she hadn’t been able to find any answers.

So now she found herself heading to south Texas to help a rancher, some distant connection of her father’s. It was a pityjob, one that forced her into an unknown place among strangers. But it was better than nothing. At least it was a way to fill the long hours and days until she got herself together and figured out what was next. And so far it was leaps and bounds ahead of being confined in the city. Bailey hated DC, or any large city, for that matter. She had grown up mainly in Africa and was used to wide open spaces, to plains and prairies. Except for the oppressive humidity, Texas looked much the same—flat, open, uninhabited. It would be boring with so little to do and nowhere to go, and so far Bailey loved it. She could already feel her blood pressure easing out of the stratosphere it routinely inhabited. Maybe getting away for a while—from home, from people, from buildings and noise and smog—would be enough to fix her, to remedy whatever was going wrong in her body. And if that happened, she could go back to the marines. That was her dream and her goal, to get healthy enough to go back.

She took a commercial flight to San Antonio where a ranch hand met her at the airport. His eyes had scanned the crowd over her head until she was the only one left. “Are you from Ridge Ranch?” she finally asked because he looked like a cowboy—kind of leathery and scrappy with thick boots and a big hat.

He blinked at her in confusion. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m Bailey,” she said, extending her hand.

His grip was tentative when he took it and shook. “You’re Bailey, ma’am?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and her grip was not tentative. It took him by surprise so that when he withdrew his fingers, he shook them out, wincing.

“Well,” he said. “Well. Doggone.” He remained staring at her in consternation a few beats.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, feigning ignorance. Of course there was a problem, and it was always the same problem. She was a woman when she was supposed to be a man, at least in the expectations of others. But Bailey had lived in the realm of men her entire life, and she was used to it, so she let his shock, confusion, and disappointment roll off her back.

“No, ma’am, I just…no ma’am. Let me grab your stuff.”

“I’ve got it, but thank you,” she said, tossing her duffle over her shoulder.

“That’s it, ma’am?” he asked, showing further surprise at her lone duffle.

“Yes, sir,” she said, maintaining eye contact until he looked away. She could tell him she traveled light because it was what years in the military had trained her to do. She could tell him she was low maintenance, only owning a few shirts, pants, and one change of shoes. But explaining and apologizing was a girly thing to do, and Bailey was no one’s idea of girly.

“Well, then, come along,” the cowboy said. He turned and began threading his way through the airport, Bailey keeping stride beside him. They reached the outside and Bailey sucked a breath, trying to adjust her body from the falsely conditioned air of the airport to the stifling humidity of outside. For her part, she preferred the humidity. Not having grown up with air conditioning, she had never grown accustomed to it. The cowboy reached for her door, intending to open it for her. Then he faced her, uncertain. She gave him a gentle smile. He opened the door for her and held out a hand to help her into the tall truck. She didn’t need the hand, but she took it nonetheless.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, tossing her duffle onto the seat behind.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, closing the door once she was safely inside.

Manners were nice, and Bailey was always glad for the reminder that chivalry wasn’t dead. She wasn’t the type of woman who needed help, but neither was she the type of woman to refuse it on principle.It’s nice to be nice,her mother often said, and Bailey agreed.

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