Meet Tyler Ransome.
* * * * *
Tyler stepped into his tack room and grabbed
a bottle of water from his cooler. When he moved to southern California three
years ago, he was glad Fermino and Arizona were in his rearview mirror. Seeing
Bobby in Burbank a year ago surprised him. Finding out he was working out of
another trainer’s stable, as an assistant, shocked the hell out of him. Then he
got his own spread, under his name. Too quickly, in Tyler’s mind, but Bobby was
always working an angle.
That hadn’t changed.
Turning to step out of the tack room, his
boot struck something metallic, sending it rolling out the door. He picked it
up. It was a travel mug, but it wasn’t his. And none of his riders had been
here today.
An image came to mind, of the small brunette
with Emily—Willie? That was a weird name. She’d had a cup in her hands when she
walked up to him. He turned the mug around. There was a picture of a spaceship
on the side with the title “Full Tilt” in chaotic lettering. He chuckled. “Full
Tilt” was the long-running science fiction show starring Kirk T. Williams, one
of the generous benefactors of the center.
Figures, he thought, Willie would have a sci-fi travel mug. She looked like one of those
girls he knew in college. Bright women who hid their attractiveness behind
glasses and hunched shoulders. They were all sharp as tacks and scared the hell
out of him at the time. Now, they only intimidated him.
Willie’s shoulders were not hunched, but
Tyler could tell how much she discounted her beauty. Confident women stood
taller in his presence and looked him in the eye. They smiled, flirted. Emily’s
client kept her eyes to herself. Too bad she had to poke poor Belle and crow-hop
down the rail to him. It couldn’t have helped her self-esteem, even if she
didn’t fall off.
He was still staring at the mug and thinking
about the smile on Willie’s face as she loped Belle around, when a familiar
voice startled him back to the present.
“Trying to sound out the letters?”
Tyler’s head whipped up, his eyes wide. A
tall blonde stood in front of him, leggy in her tight blue jeans and showing
plenty of enhanced cleavage in a low-cut peasant blouse. She may have aged out
of the rodeo queen circuit, but she wasn’t surrendering her youth without a
fight. There were a few lines as her blue eyes sparkled and her full mouth
turned upward in a taunting smile.
“What are you doing here, Missy?” He forced
the words from his throat.
“Is that any way to greet your ex-wife?” Her
voice had a purring Texas drawl that tightened his jaw even further.
The marriage ended five years ago. Two years
of that consisted of fighting before the divorce finally took, banishing him
from Scottsdale. Melissa had gotten everything, including the ranch he bought
before they married, all his stock, and full custody of their son, Zac. Tyler
managed to keep his stud horse, Cats Blue Boy.
“Coming to see if there’s anything else you
can squeeze out of me?”
The smile never left her face, although her
eyes hardened. “Of course not. Daddy’s lookin’ for a new horse for me to show.
Got anything we might like?”
Missy had always been active in the Quarter
Horse Association, from her days as a youth rider, to her current status as an
amateur. During their marriage, Tyler realized how little she actually cared
about horses. With Missy, it was all about the status of riding the most
expensive horse while wearing the most expensive clothes. Every year, she went
to the World Invitational Show, and every year she had a two-page ad in the Quarter Horse Journal, extolling her
virtues.
“I wouldn’t sell you a stick horse.”
“Well, that’s a pity. You know how Daddy
loves a bargain, and I’m sure you don’t have anything that would break our
bank. Perhaps some of the larger trainers have something in our price range.”
She turned, then looked back over her shoulder. “I hear Bobby’s in town. Maybe
he’s got a horse for me.”
There were a number of things Tyler wanted to
say. Most of them were variations on how much he hated her. All of them
included profanity.
He bit his tongue until she left.
“God. Damned. Witch. From. Hell.” Each word
fell with a step as he strode down the barn aisle, gripping Willie’s coffee
mug. “I need a walk.”
As he marched around the corner, he thought
about his son. He hadn’t dared ask about him, although he was dying to know.
His heart ached, wanting to see Zac again. He’d be eleven now. He wondered if
he was walking again, or talking.
Every time Tyler thought about Zac slumped in
his wheelchair, he thought about that night—and wanted to dig his own grave and
climb in.
* * * * *
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