Page 2 of The Cowboy Comes Home

Tucker laughed at the reference to that part of his life that felt like ancient history these days. And suddenly that inner ache he’d been carrying flared to full life, and he knew what the cure for it was.

He needed to go home to Texas.

*

It was almostdisheartening to discover just how little he had to do to prepare for a trip halfway across the country. When had his life gotten so…simple? He knew there were people who clamored for a simpler life, but somehow he didn’t think they meant an apartment you could barely turn around in, a closet with color variations on one outfit—jeans, T-shirts and sweatshirts, plus one jacket he dragged out for the rare dressier occasion—and a refrigerator he didn’t even have to worry about emptying because there was so little in it to begin with. Maybe he was taking this frugal bit a little too far.

He shoved another pair of socks from his clean laundry pile into the duffel on the bed. That should be enough for the week he was planning, although Jackson had suggested he stay longer.

“You can stay in Nic’s old place, next to the main ranch house. As long as you want, buddy. Just be warned, Jeremy’s got this riding thing down now, and he’ll be ponying down there on Pie all the time to see you.”

Tucker had smiled at the thought. Jackson had sent him pictures of his son aboard the little black and white pinto. He’d stared at them for a long time, because it was like seeing a different child than the one who had left L.A. six months ago. And Tucker knew up close and personal what a miracle that was. He’d been about twice Jeremy’s age now when his father had been killed, and he remembered vividly how long it had taken him to even start to process the loss. The difference, he supposed, between having that parent for only five years as opposed to thirteen.

They had eventually agreed on playing it by ear, Tucker deciding not to assume these people he didn’t even know wouldn’t mind him moving in for who knows how long. No matter how nice Jackson said they were.

He’d gotten a flight out of Burbank into Austin, deciding the hour layover in Phoenix wasn’t bad, and made a heck of a lot more sense to him than flying nonstop to Dallas and then driving the five-plus hours Jackson said it was to Last Stand. Besides, next to Dallas was Fort Worth, and he didn’t want to get sucked sideways into revisiting the past. Not that it hadn’t been great most of the time, it had. He’d loved it, and besides, his days of rodeo fame had begun there.

And ended there, in a humiliating way. Smashed against a fence by a bull you’d already ridden to the buzzer twice, because you didn’t know he’d learned a new trick.

The nearly one-ton Charbray—half Brahman and half Charolais—had discovered the arena fence was a weapon, and proceeded to use it.

He shoved aside the old, worn thoughts, and managed not to move his hand to touch the scars over his ribs. Sparing only his usual moment to thank that particular doctor for being around to try the relatively new rib-fixation surgery, he went on with his packing, such as it was.

He was just zipping up the duffel bag when his phone rang. When he saw it was Jackson, his mouth quirked. He was probably going to nag him again about staying longer. And maybe he would. It all depended on how things went.

But the moment he heard his friend’s voice, he knew there was something else going on. There was a note of tension in it that reminded him of the old Jackson, on set and working.

“What’s up?” he asked, a little warily.

“Listen, I don’t know if you know yet, but…I got a call from Miles this morning.”

Miles Flint was one of the producers ofStonewall, the one Tucker had always thought of as the only really sane one, uninfected by the bluster and ego and phoniness that was Hollywood. He was also the only one Jackson would willingly deal with. Others he could tolerate, for brief periods. Except for Felix Swiff, of course, the arrogant jerk who thought he owned them all because he’d had the money to put into the show back in the beginning. Tucker had always suspected he pulled the wings off butterflies in his spare time.

Fortunately for him, as a mere stuntman he rarely had to deal with the upper echelon.

“Great,” Tucker muttered sourly, pretty sure he already knew what about. Ironic that it would be Jackson who’d tell him, long distance. Otherwise it would probably take hours if not a couple of days to filter down to his lowly level.

“I don’t know how to say this,” Jackson began.

He sighed and saved his friend the trouble. “Let me guess. We’re shut down.”

“Yeah, afraid so.”

He let out a long breath. “No surprise. I knew it was coming.”

There was a moment of silence before Jackson said, the ache in his voice obvious even to him, “I’m sorry, Tucker. I was hoping this wouldn’t be the final result, that maybe they’d figure out—”

“You had no choice, man. I know that. It was Jeremy or the show, and there’s no question the right person won that one.”

“But it hurt a lot of good people in the process. Including my best friend.”

“I don’t blame you. Given the circumstances, nobody blames you. Well, maybe except Swiffer,” he said, using the nickname most of them used for the particularly loathed money man. “But then, who cares what he thinks, other than himself?”

He heard Jackson chuckle and was glad. He didn’t want him blaming himself for this, even though it was the inevitable—in Tucker’s view, anyway—result of him walking away. He really had had no choice. And Tucker also knew Jackson had never quite believedStonewall’s survival depended solely on him. He just didn’t have that Hollywood-sized ego so many had. He’d started out working alongside Tucker and the rest of the horse crew, and he’d never forgotten that.

Which was also why Tucker considered him his best friend. Jackson had never, ever even hinted that he saw himself as above or more important than his friend, and had made it clear in words and actions that he would much rather spend his free time with the guys on Tucker’s level than Swiff’s.

“I’ll be there in Austin to pick you up,” Jackson promised.

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