| Author: | Loretta Ellingsworth | ISBN: | 9781386966104 |
| Publisher: | Loretta Ellingsworth | Publication: | September 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Loretta Ellingsworth |
| ISBN: | 9781386966104 |
| Publisher: | Loretta Ellingsworth |
| Publication: | September 8, 2015 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
Stormy: I am here because there are cattle rustlers on the range and Aunt Quina and her foreman are in the hospital and, if they have good sense, are never coming home.
Someone had recognized several Unbroken Circle cows as they crossed the auction block and had anonymously tipped Aunt Quina to the presence of the rustlers. They might have been the last of the herd because I haven't seen one cow since I arrived.
I was here to round up and count the cows, get the housekeeping up to snuff, try to figure out if there was enough money in the bank for next month's grocery bill, and feed and house The Last Real Cowboy on Earth.
I might have been able to do everything without him except for the rain. It was raining when I arrived and it had rained frequently and persistently every day since in a part of the country famous for no rain. The Last Real Cowboy, that's who my cousin who should be here to save his inheritance for posterity, said he was sending. As soon as The Last Real Cowboy arrived roundup was no longer my problem it was his.
A flash of red slid between where the gates were hidden by the rain and slithered on the slick mud as it flew toward the house like a shot.
The Ferrari skidded into a right turn to park in the dooryard and slid three feet past the parking pad before it came to a halt. The driver reached for his hat, opened the door, stood, and pulled his hat on with both hands.
I blinked in disbelief. He was dressed like a television bull rider. Hat, neckerchief, vest, shirt, pants, chaps. Chaps! To drive a car. Furry chaps! Movie cowboy nonsense!
"Ma'am, I'm―"
I knew. The Last Real Cowboy.
Stormy: I am here because there are cattle rustlers on the range and Aunt Quina and her foreman are in the hospital and, if they have good sense, are never coming home.
Someone had recognized several Unbroken Circle cows as they crossed the auction block and had anonymously tipped Aunt Quina to the presence of the rustlers. They might have been the last of the herd because I haven't seen one cow since I arrived.
I was here to round up and count the cows, get the housekeeping up to snuff, try to figure out if there was enough money in the bank for next month's grocery bill, and feed and house The Last Real Cowboy on Earth.
I might have been able to do everything without him except for the rain. It was raining when I arrived and it had rained frequently and persistently every day since in a part of the country famous for no rain. The Last Real Cowboy, that's who my cousin who should be here to save his inheritance for posterity, said he was sending. As soon as The Last Real Cowboy arrived roundup was no longer my problem it was his.
A flash of red slid between where the gates were hidden by the rain and slithered on the slick mud as it flew toward the house like a shot.
The Ferrari skidded into a right turn to park in the dooryard and slid three feet past the parking pad before it came to a halt. The driver reached for his hat, opened the door, stood, and pulled his hat on with both hands.
I blinked in disbelief. He was dressed like a television bull rider. Hat, neckerchief, vest, shirt, pants, chaps. Chaps! To drive a car. Furry chaps! Movie cowboy nonsense!
"Ma'am, I'm―"
I knew. The Last Real Cowboy.
