The Cowboy by Joan Johnston Read Free Book Online Page B

come running. So what had gone wrong?
    Callie had never asked. Would never ask. And her mother had never volunteered to tell. But Callie couldn’t help wondering. Was rage over losing her mother the reason Blackjack seemed so determined to ruin them financially? Or was he merely carrying on the tradition begun by previous generations of Blackthornes and Creeds?
    In the end, her father was no match for the pleading look in her mother’s eyes. “All right, Ren,” he said. “I’ll let it go … and see about getting some flak jackets for my cows.”
    Her mother smiled. “Thank you, Jesse.”
    “Will you come to the auction at the Rafter S with me, Dad?” Callie asked. “I could use your help.” With everything at risk, she didn’t want to make a mistake.
    “Sure,” he said. “Count me in.”
    “Can I come, Mom?” Eli asked.
    “Can I come, Mom?” Hannah echoed.
    “We’ll see,” Callie said.
    “That means no,” Eli moaned. “Can I come, Grampa?”
    “We’ll see,” he said with a smile and a glance at Callie.
    Callie made a face at her father. Eli was more excited by a flashy-looking horse than one with the right bloodlines, but maybe she ought to take him along. It wasn’t too early for Eli to start learning what he needed to know. Someday he’d be helping Luke to manage the ranch.
    Assuming Blackjack didn’t figure out a way to swallow Three Oaks whole … and spit the Creeds back out.

Chapter 3
    “I’ VE FOUND A HORSE I THINK CAN WIN THAT bet for me,” Trace said. “He’s being auctioned here at the Rafter S this afternoon. I want your okay to buy him.”
    Blackjack thumbed away the condensation on the ice-cold bottle of Lone Star that sat on the red-checked tablecloth before him, then looked up and said, “You’re wasting your time.”
    “It’s my time.”
    “But my money,” Blackjack pointed out.
    Trace didn’t plead. He didn’t cajole. He didn’t demand. He kept his eyes shuttered, his body still, as though his father’s answer mattered not at all.
    “All right. Go ahead,” Blackjack said at last. “If you see anything else you like, help yourself. I’ve got deep pockets.”
    Trace forcibly held his tongue.
    “Hey, Boss!” a cowboy called.
    “What is it—”
    “What do you want—”
    Trace cut himself off, realizing he and Blackjack hadboth answered the summons. Trace tipped his head, conceding the role to his father.
    “What is it, Whitey?” Blackjack asked.
    “Uh … I was …” The cowboy took off his sweat-stained hat and swatted it against his jeans, raising a cloud of dust.
    “Spit it out,” Blackjack ordered.
    “Trace said I was to come and get him when the auctioneer got around to the cutting stock,” the cowboy answered.
    Trace felt his gut twist as an anguished look flickered briefly in his father’s eyes.
    “You’ve delivered your message,” Blackjack said, dismissing the cowboy. He took one last swallow of his beer, then, without another word, shoved his chair back and headed toward the corral where Dusty Simpson’s stock was being sold. Trace followed a respectful step behind him.
    Trace was more than willing to play the dutiful son for the benefit of their neighbors, not to mention the myriad strangers who’d shown up at the Rafter S wearing Larry Mahan hats, silver belt buckles, and ostrich boots. It seemed half the state of Texas was hoping to buy a small piece of Dusty Simpson’s life.
    The auction had the look of an upscale fair, with a striped food tent that offered the choice of free champagne, cold beer, or iced tea with the catered barbecue. A clown entertained the children with balloon tricks, and bleachers had been set up near the corral where several girls in tight jeans and white hats handed out printed four-color brochures giving details of the sale. The late August day was sunny and hot, with no threat of rain.
    “You two hold up there while I get your picture.”
    “Sure, Mom.” Trace waited for his father to sling an