A Cowboy's Love by J.M. Bronston

Author:J.M. Bronston [Bronston, J.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2016-10-03T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

He didn’t quite keep his promise. He held the big pickup down to about eighty-five, zipping straight-arrow past the Great Salt Lake and the Bonneville Salt Flats, stopping only at the state line at Wendover to get gas and call his mother to tell her he was on his way and to let her know to expect company. It was near sundown when they turned off the interstate highway onto the secondary road that took them to the Cameron spread. The sun was huge against the distant mountains, almost blinding them, when Cal turned the truck west again onto a dirt road, passing through the gate and under a wooden sign that marked the entrance to the ranch.

“This is it,” he said. “This is the C-Bar.”

In the glowing last warm rays, the change that came over Cal was visible; he was glad to be home. He settled comfortably back against the seat and pushed his hat back letting the wind blow against his face. Behind them, a cloud of dust rose high as the truck moved along the dry road, through the gray and silver-green of the sage, made rosy now by the approaching sunset. Ahead of them, high in the blue sky, a hawk was scanning the sparse foliage, lazily finishing off his day’s hunting, and to the north, along a slope of hill, a herd of elk grazed quietly, one or two of them lifting a casual head to examine the passing truck. On the flat, a rough air-strip had been laid out and a small Cessna was parked there. In that big country, the plane looked as small as a child’s toy, as though it were waiting to be picked up and put away in the toy box, now that the day was over.

“Helps cut the place down to size,” Cal said, waving airily at it.

Moments later they reached a compound of several buildings surrounded by a white-painted rail fence. They turned into the driveway and in front of them was the Cameron home, painted white like a Midwestern farmhouse and two stories tall under a gabled roof. It had a broad porch and a large, well-watered lawn all around, a tidy patch of green in the surrounding desert. Behind the main house were bunkhouses, a cook house, a slaughter house, and a tack room. Two enormous cottonwood trees shaded the southern side of the lawn and between the two trees, in a gazebo, a white lawn swing rocked back and forth, gently, lazily.

A small woman, slightly plump and light-haired, perhaps fifty years old, in jeans and plaid shirt, was in the swing, reading a book. She looked up as the truck arrived inside the fence in a cloud of dust, dropped her book on the seat beside her, and came quickly toward them, beaming. At the same time, the front door of the house opened and a man came out onto the porch, calling, “Hey, Christina, they’re here!”

“Let me get that door for you,” Cal said to Jamie, and he was quickly out of the truck and around to her side to let her out.

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