Big Sky, Loyal Heart

Chapter 1-3

Definitely Montana.

How in the world had she ended up here? Colonel Gibson still hadn’t explained the why either. He was such a “forthcoming” guy—never spoke two words where none would do. How had a man like that landed a woman like Captain Claudia Casperson? Simple, by being the very best there was. Truly exceptional would work for her as well—if she ever met one who was single. And her own age. And who never wanted to own a dog—ever. And…

Lauren had the answer to another question as she rinsed her own mug in the sink. One whole side of her clothes were lightly coated in drying mud as if she’d been cradled against someone’s chest—their muddy chest. On her jeans, a big dirt handprint curled around from the back of her thighs to confirm that she’d been held close by a man without hooks for his left hand.

The tall, lean klutz with the nice chest had carried her to the kitchen.

Patrick.

And alongside the handprint…a big paw print on her thigh.

Neither one would brush off when she tried.

It was such a warm day that Patrick just rinsed himself off at the horse trough. He dug a couple of hatfuls of water and sluiced them over himself. It did nothing to help cool him down.

Lauren had felt so fragile and helpless. She weighed almost nothing despite her height and it felt as if he could have carried her all day. Rip had been almost frantic with worry when she collapsed. He himself had jerked forward like a roped calf until he had her scooped up in his arms. By then Emily had appeared from her secure office in the barn and led the way to the house.

Her eyes had fluttered open a few times, but he didn’t think that she’d actually seen him.

When he’d tried to stay with her, Emily had shooed him—and everyone else—away like stray barn cats. As if. Of course, even Mark didn’t argue with Emily. The woman was a primal force.

Patrick had things to do. He knew he did.

“C’mon, Patrick, think,” he muttered to himself.

“Like that’s gonna happen any time soon,” Stan was watching him again. He had some kind of weird, built-in stealth mode despite being such a big guy. Probably came from being a Navy SEAL.

“That was my internal dialog, Stan. You’re barely in the cast, so you shouldn’t be able to hear it.”

“Film nerd,” Stan sneered, knowing Patrick’s obsession with movies. No point in arguing against the truth.

“Totally! But you’re not helping any more than my horse.” His bunkmate slouched against the fence where Minotaur was still grazing. Rip sat at his feet. “I see that your dog is back. Too bad he fell for another woman. Musta hurt.”

Stan grinned down at the dog. “Better her than some girly boy like you.”

Patrick couldn’t help but like the man. Stan had showed up on the ranch about the same time he had. Stan had technically arrived first, spending a Montana winter living in a remote fishing cabin for reasons he never explained. Of course, Patrick had never asked.

He himself had answered a ranch-hand job ad on a whim, trading in his aging Camaro on a used compact pickup to fit in better before driving across the country from Long Island. He’d been razzed endlessly about it by the other ranch hands. How was he supposed to know that his little Ford Ranger would be a reason for ridicule in the heart of Dodge Ram 1500 Crew Cab pickup country? Then there were the 3500s with rear duallies which made his truck look even more pitiful. He’d have been better off keeping the Camaro.

The timing of his and Stan’s arrival had made it natural for them to bunk together.

He’d never had a military friend before, never mind a retired SEAL. Yet somehow they’d hit it off—once Stan got over his role of being so taciturn that he rarely rose above a grunt. Even total guy-guys in film had more dialog and emotional range than Stan initially did in real life.

Rip, barely out of puppyhood, had liked Patrick right away and that had helped break down the walls. Good dog. Stan’s favorite dog, Bertram, had been slower on the uptake, but warmed to him over time.

Patrick had felt as if it was the beginning of one of those buddy movies: the Army vet and the man from the Big City.

“He did more than like that lady,” Patrick nodded down at Rip, looking for a way to redeem himself from Stan’s “girly boy” c***k.

“Yeah. Weird, huh?” Stan folded his arms—always an odd sight as his left one was mechanical all the way up to his biceps. Stan had gone Terminator rather than cosmetic in any way. I yam what I yam said Popeye the Sailor Man. And Stan’s remaining arm was muscled enough to play the role without any CGI.

Together they inspected Rip, who wasn’t saying a thing about his own behavior.

“It’s not like she was wrapped up in explosives,” Patrick kept digging.

“I know. Have to check that out some,” Stan rubbed the dog’s head with his good hand.

“Hey, you’re the dog trainer. If you keep your eye on him, maybe you’ll figure it out.” The last thing Patrick wanted was Stan keeping an eye on the pretty brunette. She was the best thing to hit the ranch since Julie Larson had ridden in from her family cattle ranch across the road this spring. The fact that she was marrying Patrick’s older brother next weekend was just the worst kind of unfair.

“I don’t know,” Stan scratched at his short beard with the rounded tips of his hooks. “Might have to look pretty careful at what’s going on there.”

Patrick had never known Stan to go after a woman on the ranch. Sometimes he wondered if Stan’s arm wasn’t the only thing blown off in Afghanistan, but there were some questions you didn’t ask a guy who could bench press you one-handed. Stan might be only six one, but he was powerfully built and square-jawed in a way that Patrick knew women liked.

Stan burst out laughing. “You should see your face, bro. You should absolutely get a mirror. Have at her and good luck. Woman looked like she had brains, which puts you out of the running.” He double-clicked his hooks and Rip popped to his feet and hovered in the “heel” position at Stan’s left side.

“Shithead,” Patrick put a laugh rather than any heat behind it. He headed over to gather Minotaur’s reins; maybe the horse would remember what they’d been doing before the helo brought… Damn it! He didn’t even know her name.

“Want my guess?” Stan called back as he walked back toward the dog kennels where the rest of the pack would be waiting to start the day’s training.

“No!”

“Way out of your league, bro. Classy dame. Damned classy.”

“You sound like you’re in a 1930s noir film.”

“You’d know, bro.” And Stan moved out of earshot.

Of course he’d know. He’d graduated from NYU’s renowned film school. Even worked on a couple of indies that, sadly, no one outside of immediate friends would ever see. He’d thought they’d been pretty good, but the speed at which they were rejected by film festivals he’d submitted them to had been alarming.

Then, thinking that being a Montana cowboy for a summer would give him some good creative grist, he’d come west. An incredibly visual land. The ranch manager had worked his ass off, and for some reason Patrick had loved the first hard work in his life. He’d stuck around after the season was over and the summer hands headed off to warmer pastures. Every single day working with the horses and fixing up the old ranch had felt more real than the thousands of hours he’d spent behind the camera or poring over some script.

Film school. Wow! Now that was a flash from the past. It felt like another Patrick entirely.

He swung into the saddle and looked up. The Big Sky shone—a brilliant blue bowl overhead stretching on forever. One side of it anchored by the infinite Great Plains and the other end skewered into place by the majestic Rockies. That sky had to be part of the reason to film here—it was like nothing he’d ever seen. He could feel himself settle more solidly into the saddle just by looking at the perfect, screen-test consistent blue.

“Hey, Pat.” Patrick looked down to see his older brother coming toward him.

“Hey, Nat.” Nathan had a pair of heavily loaded saddlebags slung over one of his broad shoulders.

“Got these for you.”

Patrick wasn’t sure why, but he helped Nathan set them over Minotaur’s hindquarters and secure them to the saddle.

“Looks like you’ve been swimming.”

“Looks like you’re a lovesick bull calf.” Howard Keel in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Now there was a good leading man’s role.

“Getting married to the most wonderful woman ever in seven days. That’s not lovesick, that’s lucky.”

“Turd,” was the best comeback he could find—not very Howard Keel at all.

Julie Larson, the hottest cowgirl in any parts, hadn’t even given him the time of day. Three weeks after meeting Nathan, they’d gotten engaged and been living together for almost six months up in one of the cabins. He liked those little cabins. Wasn’t hard to see himself in one with…somebody. As long as it wasn’t anytime soon.

“How did a lousy chef from New York land the leading lady of Montana? Can you explain that one?”

“Brains and personality, Pat. Brains and personality. And if you had any brains, you’d be getting your trail ride organized.”

“Trail ride?” Then he remembered. That’s where he’d been headed when the nameless woman had dropped out of the sky and into his arms. That’s what the saddlebags were filled with—lunch. Nathan had found his role as the ranch’s chef.

He spun Minotaur about, give him a light kick and a soft rein. His horse shifted from a standstill to a fast canter without any apparent transition—one of his tricks—almost leaving Patrick in the mud puddle once more.

His brother’s laugh followed him past the garage and most of the barn.

He rode into the corral just as Chelsea was helping the last of the ranch guests up onto their mounts. A quick glance. A dozen riders. Five obvious greenhorns (looking down in surprise at how far away the ground now appeared from atop their horses, even though they’d already done four days of corral riding), three overeager kids, and four who clearly thought they had it down now but didn’t know one thing about how to sit a saddle, much less hold the reins.

A beginner trail ride.

Worse, he remembered, an overnight one. Oh, man! No chance to see the brunette again.

“Hi, y’all!” He knew it was wrong as soon as he said it.

Chelsea smirked at him, piling her assessment of him on top of Stan’s sneer and Nathan’s smug superiority.

“You guys,” she corrected him in her typically cheery tone, “are in good hands now, even if Patrick showers with his clothes on.”

Patrick looked down. He was still damp from rinsing off the mud at the horse trough. A couple of the women were looking at him with particularly nice smiles. Maybe he should arrive wet a bit more often.

“Patrick knows some great places to ride. Remember, if you want to take a picture, be sure to stop your horse first and never completely let go of the reins. When you reach camp, the famous Henderson’s Ranch Chuck Wagon will be out to set up a real feed. Have a great time.”

Famous. The marketer in him thought it sounded ridiculous, but she wasn’t bragging. Big brother Nathan had been a top New York chef before bailing out. His chuck wagon had been written up in a half-dozen different foodie magazines—big ones with national circulation—further increasing the ranch’s reputation. Patrick was never disappointed with what Nathan sent out to trail ride camps. Which almost made him forgive his brother for snagging the hottest cowgirl in the entire Montana Front Range as his bride.

Patrick normally helped get everyone saddled, starting to know them in the process—when he wasn’t being distracted elsewhere.

“Thanks, Chelsea. Big hand for her!” He clapped his hands together. The others joined in, half of them dropping their reins on their horse’s withers to do so. The ranch hands had long since learned to tie the rein ends together for beginners for just that reason. Oh, this was going to be such a fun ride.

“Nice of you to show up,” she whispered merrily as she came over to check on the saddlebags that held the group’s trail lunch. He was just lucky that she didn’t have a mean bone in her body.

“Got delayed up ta the big house, little lady.”