Page 8 of The Cowboy Comes Home

“She was outside the school,” he answered, realizing they were both looking at him curiously.

He decided not to mention he’d made a wrong turn, ending up heading the wrong way on the Hickory Creek Spur and having to drive a while to find a wide enough spot with enough visibility in both directions to turn around.

Jackson’s brow was furrowed now. “What was she doing there?”

Tucker smiled. “Watching out for Jeremy. A couple of older kids were harassing him a bit. She and Lobo convinced them to abscond.” Jackson’s frown deepened, and Tucker hastened to add, “She said she’d be there when his class let out whenever she could. With the dog.”

“That sounds like her,” Nic said warmly. She leaned into Jackson, as if sensing the same tension Tucker had. “Give her a chance. If it keeps up, then we’ll step in with the school. Mom’s still got a lot of pull there. Using your name is the last ditch.”

Jackson let out a breath, and with it most of the disquiet. He gave a short nod. “It sometimes makes things worse, anyway,” he said with a grimace. Then he looked at Tucker. “Tris is going to come by for dinner, she’s anxious to see you. But now, come on,” he said, smiling. “Say hello to Sorry and Buck, then we’ll introduce you to the rest of the team.”

Tucker smiled back, both at the thought of seeing Jackson’s sister again, and at the chance to renew acquaintance with the two horses. The big buckskin Jackson had ridden in the show had refused to cooperate with anyone else, and when Tucker had let him know they were going to sell him, Jackson had jumped in and bought him, just as he’d expected. He knew his friend had the softest heart around when it came to horses. Sorry, the shy sorrel he’d also bought was proof of that. They’d been about to get rid of him, too, and maybe not in the best way. But Jackson often joked he owed his career to the spooky little gelding, because that video of him rescuing the horse from a deep, sucking mud flat had been what had inspired producer Miles Flint to insist Jackson was perfect for the starring role in their new modern-day western. And so Austin Holt had been born, andStonewallhad become the biggest thing going.

Until now.

He shook off the grim reality for the moment. Yeah, he was unemployed, but he wasn’t broke, and thanks to Jackson he had a place to think and figure out what he was going to do, outside of the chaos of Hollywood, where the repercussions of Jackson walking away were still reverberating.

And so he followed them into the obviously newly built small barn that housed the horses forThorpe’s Therapy Horses. The star among them was Sorry who, perhaps because he was a shy sort himself, seemed to bond well with the shaken, sad, sometimes devastated kids who came to have at least an hour of peace, with something to think about other than the loss that had destroyed life as they knew it.

Jackson was doing a good thing here. A really good thing. With Nic’s help, and that of her parents, who had donated the land for the project. Even Jackson’s sister Tris had restarted her life here. It seemed Last Stand was full of good people.

And he couldn’t help it that the image that shot into his mind then was that of Officer Emily Stratton.

Chapter Four

Emily lifted herfeet up to her coffee table, still looking at the frozen image on her laptop screen. Lobo’s head came up as she moved, but when no command came the dog went back to his rest. The night was quiet, as was her tidy little town house, but her emotions were still roiling a bit.

She hadn’t meant to spend over an hour digging into old history, but she hadn’t been able to resist. And so she’d just watched several videos in a row, all with only one thing in common. Tucker Culhane, at the height of his rodeo career. He rode not just with skill and coordination, he did it with flair, like a man doing what he loved most.

She had stopped the feed before it got to the next video, or rather the next half-dozen. All of that final ride. There was apparently a morbid fascination with it, and the site had collected video from every angle. And from what she’d read in the descriptions, also close-ups.

Like I want to watch someone nearly crushed to death, up close and personal.

Especially someone she had always thought pretty cute, the guy who was at least part of the reason she’d made it a habit to attend the finals every year since she’d turned sixteen. She’d never admitted it, mind you. Never wanted to be known as some kind of rodeo groupie. But Tucker Culhane had been her idea of a true cowboy, Texas born and bred, just as she was. And a good guy to boot, without the oversized ego so many developed at his level of success.

Now that she’d actually met him one-on-one, she was amazed to find she’d been right, back then. He really was a nice guy.

And darn it, way beyond pretty cute.

Of course, he was Jackson Thorpe’s stand-in. And there was enough resemblance there that he could carry it off in stunt-focused scenes. He might be a hair shorter—gee, only six feet to Thorpe’s six-one—but he had the same muscular build, same dark hair, and blue eyes although they were a lighter shade than Thorpe’s famous dark blue orbs.

Twice she stopped her finger from clicking on the last string of clips. But it was an urge she couldn’t seem to suppress, and finally she gave in. It started as the others had, slick, skilled, expert. Until the moment when the bull decided if he couldn’t throw the human off, he’d scrape him off.

She chickened out at the last moment. That moment when the huge, bucking animal went sideways instead of up. That moment when Tucker Culhane had been smashed between the proverbial raging bull and an unmoving fence post.

She got up, went to the kitchen, and made herself some hot chocolate. She figured with as chaotic as her thoughts were just now, it would take two mugs to settle her, so she made twice her usual amount. She waited for it to heat, trying not to let her mind back onto that path.

She didn’t succeed. Because that final video kept playing in her head. She didn’t have to watch the thing to remember. She’d been there. She’d been there, had heard the gasps of the crowd, had seen his limp body as he slid down into the dirt as the bull triumphantly went after the two clowns who had risked themselves to draw him off. She had seen the utter stillness of him, and the exclamations of those around her.

“Oh, my God!”

“He’s not moving!”

“He’s dead. I just know it!”

Tucker Culhane, dead? This brilliant light in the rodeo world, a champion at nineteen, and still a champion five years later? It wasn’t possible. Her brain had simply been unable to process the idea. But when they’d carried the still-unmoving rider out of the arena, she’d left, not wanting to see them go on with the show.

She’d gone home and locked herself in the small apartment she’d moved into a few months before, on her twenty-first birthday. She’d spent a couple of hours fighting the urge to glue herself to the news, to check the rodeo websites, which she knew would be buzzing. But if she gave in, she would know. She would know he was dead. If she didn’t, she could pretend, at least for a while longer, that he was okay, that it hadn’t been as bad as it had looked.

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