How to Handle a Cowboy by Joanne Kennedy Read Free Book Online

all.” Ridge pointed a finger at the boy’s shirt, just below his chin. “What’s that on your shirt?”
    Josh looked down and the cowboy quickly brought up his finger to flick the boy’s nose. “Gotcha,” he said. “See? Sneaky. Now that you know it, I bet I won’t be able to fool you again.”
    Josh grinned, the trauma of breaking his promise forgotten. “Nope, you won’t fool me again.”
    â€œI’m going to try, though.”
    â€œNo way.” The kid shook his head so hard the glasses seemed in danger of flying off his face. “You won’t do it.”
    Sierra watched the boy and man walk side by side, the boy struggling to match the man’s long stride, the glow on his face making the usually somber child look as happy as she’d ever seen him. As they reached the junk shop, she heard the sound of boyish voices rising from behind the fence that obscured the backyard.
    They’d found them. The worst of the emergency was over. And Josh was smiling.
    Maybe the cowboy wasn’t so bad after all.

Chapter 8
    The junk shop was one of the last properties on the left as you headed east, a single-story shack with a sagging front porch. If the place had ever been painted, the Wyoming winds had sandblasted off every stroke of color, leaving the warped boards gray and parched by the sun. Old tools were nailed to the front wall: a rusted blade from a circular saw, an assortment of branding irons, and a few dented hubcaps. Standing guard over the collection was a whimsical, wide-eyed tin man welded together from car parts. In New York, they’d call him folk art. Here in Wynott, he was just another piece of redneck yard trash.
    Sierra looked up into the carburetor man’s glassy eyes and shivered. “Who lives here?”
    â€œShe doesn’t like people talking about her,” Ridge said.
    â€œIt’s a woman?” Sierra tried not to buy into gender stereotypes, but there was nothing feminine about this place.
    â€œWhy not?”
    Why not, indeed. She was starting to think the town had been aptly named.
    â€œWill she mind the kids being here?”
    Ridge shrugged. “I doubt it. She won’t be too happy about us coming around, though.”
    A high fence bordered the backyard, and Sierra started to reach for the complicated latch—another masterpiece of redneck engineering constructed of a claw hammer and a complex assortment of scrap metal. Whoever owned the junk shop was a whiz with a welder, but Sierra didn’t have time to appreciate that kind of skill. She just wanted her boys back, preferably undamaged by the jungle of rusty metal behind the fence.
    As she started to lift the latch, Ridge put his hand on top of hers.
    â€œWait.” He put a finger to his lips then touched his ear.
    She paused and heard the murmur of voices coming from behind the fence. One rang out higher than the others.
    â€œLookit me!” She recognized Frankie’s voice. “I’m goin’ to Vegas, baby!”
    Standing on tiptoe, she peeked over the fence and decided she’d have to check the records and make sure all the boys were up to date on their shots. There were eighteen potential puncture wounds and a dozen cases of tetanus back there, along with rusty cars, washing machines, industrial equipment, and piles of bald tires. Grass sprouted from empty engine cavities, and unidentifiable vines obscured stacks of miscellaneous machinery. Over it all ruled a monstrous Caterpillar tractor, its bright yellow paint nearly obliterated by rust, its long, crooked arm hoisting a toothed bucket from which sprouted more weeds.
    The boys had piled into a defunct Chevy Bel Air like a family setting out on vacation. Frankie was at the wheel, which was appropriate since he was always the ringleader when it came to getting into trouble. As always, he was wearing his favorite hat—an ancient fedora that had probably belonged to