Three Kids And A Cowboy

Prologue

Just where are you headed to, Brodie Sykes?"

Hell—if I don’t change my ways. Brodie checked the bit in his horse’s mouth as he answered his ranch house cook, Curtis Crispy Holloman.

As if they’d have you, the scrappy older man muttered. Besides, it ain’t your ways that need changin’—

It’s the company I keep, Brodie said. He hoped getting the first jab in would avert a lecture from the only man alive who’d dare to give him one.

Brodie Sykes ran a tight operation. He commanded the respect of every man jack who rode for his Circle S brand—every man but that damned ol’ ornery Crispy. Somehow, in the month since he hired the cantankerous cook, Crispy had gotten under Brodie’s barbed-wire disposition to befriend him.

Brodie drew in the smells of horse and saddle leather. Right now what I could really use is a change of scenery.

Yeah, and I know where you’re a-goin’—down to that creek on the edge of your property. But don’t see why you have to go all that far. You can brood and be generally disagreeable anywhere.

His horse snorted. Brodie couldn’t have given a better response himself, so he didn’t.

Crispy’s boots shifted, and the boards of the porch groaned. She’s gone, boy. You got to get on with your life.

Brodie ignored the fist-to-the-gut effect of that advice and tightened the cinch on his saddle. What Crispy couldn’t seem to get through his pigheaded skull was that even though he was only thirty-three, Brodie’s life wasn’t much worth living anymore. His wife’s leaving almost a year ago, had seen to that.

Dipping his hat to his cook, Brodie fit his boot into the stirrup and mounted his horse. I’m going out to ride awhile.

Crispy leaned against the post of the back porch. The summer breeze stirred the last few wisps of gray hair on the old man’s head. You know you bought this place from your in-laws nigh on to a month ago?

What’s that got to do with anything?

Well, I can count the number of times you’ve stayed in for supper since then on my right hand. And you know it’s missing two fingers—lost in the line of duty.

Brodie grimaced as he worked his own hands into the soft leather of his work gloves. Would you stop saying that? It makes it sound like you lopped off a couple fingers making beef stew or something, instead of losing them in an accident in the army.

The older man laughed—more of a cackle, really.

Brodie had to admit that having Crispy around certainly gave the ranch, if not the food, a distinctive flavor. He smoothed one hand back over his straight blond hair, then fit his hat tight on his head.

Now, I wouldn’t take note of your stayin’ away so much if you was keeping company with a lady friend, but…

That’s enough. Brodie took the reins in one hand and glared down at the wiry old man. I hired you to be a cook, not play Cupid.

"Seems you could use a touch of Cupid’s folly, young fellow.

Brodie’s throat tightened. His lips burned as they thinned against his bared teeth. Not interested, old man. Just forget it. Everything they say about me is true. The blood in my veins is as cold as any snake’s, and the only thing harder than this bullhead of mine is my heart.

Brodie thumped his fist once against his chest and finished in a voice as clean and deadly as a gleaming dagger’s blade. That’s the reason my wife left me. I ran her off.

Plain as that?

Plain as that, Brodie echoed flatly. Everybody in and around Lost River, Texas, knew that he and his brother had been orphaned young, then farmed out and around to various family members until they were old enough to fend for themselves. That was why he didn’t bother prefacing his explanation. I cut my teeth on the notion that family was everything, old man. Maybe only someone who had actually lost his family could understand this, but it meant the world to me to have children of my own.

And?

And— Brodie let out a long sigh —the doctors said Miranda couldn’t have children.

With one hand, Brodie rubbed his leather glove across his upper lip, then turned his gaze toward the sunset. The bright oranges and crimsons streaking the big Texas sky stung his eyes as he went on, But I wouldn’t let it go at that. I brought home books, found specialists, suggested she have operations. I pushed her to try everything.

What about adopting?

Sometimes adoptions don’t work out, you know. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d get to love a kid, only to see it taken away. Brodie ran one finger beneath the blue bandanna tied around his neck, freeing it from the collar of his chambray shirt. So, I wanted to try every possible avenue to have our own children first. I just kept pushing her until she had nowhere left to go but out of my life.

The bridle clinked quietly in the prickling air between them.

You still love the gal?

Love? Me? He swallowed hard, but couldn’t budge the weighty knot in the center of his chest. Haven’t you heard? This old cowboy ain’t capable of it.

Touching his hat brim to bid the old man goodbye, Brodie turned his horse’s head toward the open range. He gave a quick kick to the animal’s flanks, let out a holler and rode off.

As soon as he was out of view of his ranch, Brodie leaned back in the saddle and gazed out at the darkening clouds rippling toward the setting sun. This was what he did to relax at day’s end. He was as comfortable on a horse as some men his age were in an easy chair.

Without thinking much about it, he rode toward the peaceful, winding creek that sliced through the new land he had recently acquired. Kissing Creek, it had been called for as long as anyone could remember. But Brodie had more than memories of kissing under the sweeping leaves of the trees on it’s banks. What he most vividly remembered there was his wife—and all the time they had spent courting when the land belonged to her parents.

His in-laws, the Robbins, had built up the best ranch in this part of Texas, but then the time had come for them to retire. They’d leaped at the chance to sell to him, because they trusted him to care for the place. Guilt stabbed at him for just an instant when he admitted to himself that they also hoped that their daughter, Miranda, would someday come back to him and live in her family home.

Brodie never kidded himself into thinking that Miranda might return. Never.

He coughed uncomfortably into his fisted hand.

Brodie didn’t give a Yankee dime what others believed of him, but he’d always been brutally honest with himself. In truth, he had envisioned his wife in that home more times than he would have cared to recount. Every time he opened the front door, his heart stopped, he held his breath, and he searched the entryway for any trace that Miranda had come home.

He forced a sigh through the familiar aching in his chest and raised his face to the horizon. He lifted his hat, and cupped one hand back over his hair. A gust of light wind blew his hair into his eyes before he smoothed the strands back and shoved his hat low on his head.

Something was blowing in, and he didn’t belong out tonight. He clucked softly to his horse to turn him toward home, but a high-pitched screech, as harsh as fingernails on a blackboard, stopped him.

What the—

A metallic crunch came quick and hard, followed by several thuds, then nothing.

His heart contracted fiercely with every beat. He strained to hear. He scanned the dimming horizon, unable to make out any shapes against the deep blue-gray of dusk.

Then the ferocious wind picked up and sent a sound swirling across the plain to him. A frigid shudder rippled down his spine.

Desperately he searched the landscape for any sign to direct him to the child crying for help. Anything, he prayed silently. Then he saw the puff of red dust near the road running just south of his ranch.

H’yaw! He urged his horse to fly over the flat ground.

The moment he saw the faded beige station wagon, he knew it belonged to his longtime friends and nearest neighbors, Donna and Travis Stone.

To find the two of them in the wreckage would have been heartrending enough, but as Brodie rode faster and closer to the smoldering heap of an automobile, he recalled his last conversation with the couple. This was the day the Stones were bringing three siblings they hoped to adopt home for a trial visit.

Please let those kids be okay, Brodie whispered as he brought his horse to a halt beside the fence.

Dismounting, he thanked God that he still wore his heavy work gloves and could easily push open the barbed wire and get through. In a second, he was kneeling over the sobbing, battered woman and the wailing toddler at her side.

Donna? What—?

Oh, Brodie, I’m hurt real bad. I got Katie out, but I can’t seem to move now. Still, she grabbed his shirt with incredible strength. You’ve got to get the other two children before the fire spreads.

That was when Brodie smelled the smoke. A heavy chill sank to the pit of his stomach.

Hurry, Brodie. Donna choked out the word. It’s bad, real bad.

One look at the crumpled mass of metal and Brodie knew she was right. He held little hope of finding any survivors, yet he had to try. Gritting his teeth, he rushed to the wreck, hoping things were not as bad as they appeared from the outside,

Travis? Can you hear me? he called as he reached the driver’s side. Black smoke rolled from the front seat, burning Brodie’s eyes and filling his lungs with hot, suffocating thickness.

With one hard yank, he pulled the blue bandanna around his neck up over his mouth and nose before he tore open the only door accessible to him. He stretched into the back seat, feeling, more than looking, for the two other children.

His hand curved around one plump leg. A tiny hand struck out and snatched at his shirtsleeve. As gently as he could, he pulled a young child from the car.

I’m okay, the girl, who appeared to be about five, told him. It’s Bubba. He’s stuck in there.

She wriggled from his grasp, determined to go back in.

Brodie pulled her away. You have to get clear. I’ll get Bubba.

She stared at him for a moment, blood matted in her pale hair, gray ashes smudged on her pink cheeks.

He nudged her toward the safety of the ditch. Go. Now.

Gulping in fresh air, he plunged in to the car again to rescue the little boy. The heat and smoke from the front seat had grown more intense. Any second now there could be a burst of flames, and then there would be no helping anyone.

Brodie groped in the hazy, stifling air. Bubba? Can you hear me?

A muffled gurgle led him down, feeling his way along the floorboards until his fingertips brushed a mass of silky hair. Working blind, he quickly located the child’s trapped ankles.

His muscles tightened as he curled his fingers under the edge of the seat. It wouldn’t budge.

The child whimpered.

Brodie tightened his grip and pulled harder, bracing his legs on the floorboard for leverage.

Metal squawked. Brodie felt a hot, gouging pain in his thigh. He couldn’t see what was prodding him, but knew that neither he nor the child had much time left.

He drew in the fiery, filtered air and held it, disregarding the searing heat in his lungs. Grunting out his frustration, Brodie tried to remember not to swear. What he needed right now was a little help from the Almighty, not a string of words that would singe a demon’s ears. One last time, he tightened his grip and forced the seat upward.

The little boy cried out, but this time was able to wrench himself free. Brodie let the seat drop and scooped up the child. He dragged the small body to his chest to protect the boy from the heat and the jagged metal surrounding them.

Quickly but cautiously, Brodie backed from the car. In long strides that jarred him to the bone, he carried the boy to safety.

As Brodie knelt beside Donna once more, the children huddled together, seeking solace from one another.

Bubba, will everything be all right? The five-year-old turned to her brother, who looked to be a year or two older.

The boy rubbed a streak of blood from the bridge of his nose and turned his serious gaze to his younger sisters.

Brodie knew that look. Suddenly it seemed not so long ago that he had been the older brother thrust too soon into the role of caregiver. Even as the memory loomed in his mind, Brodie had to admit that this child wore the responsibility with poignant ease.

This wasn’t the first time this child had dealt with loss. As things stood, they were about to face it once again. The family they had hoped to find would never be now. These three small souls had only each other to cling to and count on.

Chapter One

Six Weeks Later

"Mom! Daddy? Time to kill the fatted calf. Your prodigal daughter is home." Miranda Robbins Sykes kicked open the front door of her parents’ farmhouse with one upraised knee. It swung fully open, cracking against the empty pegs of the coatrack on the entry wall—just as it always had when she came whooshing in from school as a child.

She shut her eyes and inhaled the musky scent of old wood and lavender. Smiling, she dropped her purse, and the one small suitcase she’d brought from her car. She shut her eyes and sighed. Home at last.

Miranda shook back her dark hair and caught a glimpse of movement just to her right. Mom?

Turning to face her own reflection in the hallway mirror, Miranda gasped in surprise. The long trip from Tulsa had certainly taken its toll on her. Who’d have guessed that road-weary face had once belonged to the former Cameron County pioneer princess, the Lost River Rodeo Roundup queen and the second runner up to Miss Texas?

Miranda batted her wispy bangs from her forehead with the back of her hand and wrinkled her nose