One Brave Cowboy by Kathleen Eagle

the sea of grass. A single cottonwood tree beckoned from Tutan territory. “Where’s a good hole in the fence when you need one?”
    â€œYou’d trespass for one skinny tree?”
    â€œDamn tootin’.”
    Celia laughed. “What counts as a ‘kill’? If it’s the same as a coup, you could score two in one day.”
    â€œIt’s part of my nature to be satisfied with counting coups as kills, but in the army, a coup doesn’t earn you any feathers.” Cougar gave a tight smile. “Uncle Sam issues you an M16, a near miss gets you nothing but dead.”
    â€œYou’ve turned in your combat gear,” she reminded him.
    â€œYeah, but I was trained to trespass.” He stepped into the stirrup and swung into his saddle. “I’m still getting used to civilian rules. Transitioning, they call it.”
    Her saddle creaked as she pulled leather and hauled herself onto the big gray’s back. Cougar mentally whipped himself for not offering a leg-up. Civilian rules.
    â€œIs everything knotted up nice and tight?” She shaded her eyes with one hand and pointed to the next rolling hill with the other. “First one gets to the top without losing tools or lunch wins.”
    He grinned. “Say when.”
    The big gray beat the little buckskin with an easy, long-legged lope. Cougar called Celia the winner and counted himself a civilian gentleman, at least for one day. The draw below the hill not only offered better shade than the lone tree on the other side of the fence, but an end to their search. They could see a break in the fence at the top of the next hill.
    Celia’s canvas saddlebags yielded sandwiches, fruit, water and cookies, which she laid out on a faded blue bandanna-print tablecloth on the shady side of a thorny buffalo berry thicket. Cougar loosened the saddles and staked the horses in a shady spot. He plucked a few berries.
    â€œThey’re not ripe yet,” Celia said.
    â€œI know. I used to have to pick these for one of my grammas. It wasn’t my favorite chore, but it was worth it for her jelly. She made pemmican, too.”
    â€œMust be a lot of work. They’re so small.” She took off her boots and socks and settled cross-legged, showing off toenails painted the same color as the tablecloth. “They grow in Wyoming?”
    â€œUh-huh. Ever been to the western part of the state?”
    â€œI haven’t traveled much since I moved here from Iowa.” Grass crackled beneath the cloth as she patted an empty corner. “Come sit with me.”
    â€œMore sitting?” He chuckled as he squatted on his heels. He didn’t much like eating on the ground anymore, but he liked the way she phrased the invitation. “Why not? Indian style for you, and cowboy style for me.”
    â€œWhat makes that cowboy style?”
    â€œSaddle sores.” He raised a cautionary finger as she handed him a sandwich. “Never sit cowboy style with your spurs on.”
    â€œReally? Saddle sores?”
    He shook his head, laughing. “Not yet. Can’t find my spurs, and I haven’t ridden a lot lately, so who knows?” He nodded toward her feet. “Were you standing in your stirrups?”
    â€œMy toes need a breather. They hate shoes.”
    â€œShoes, yeah, but those are boots. They’re not even related.” He grinned. “Cute toes.”
    â€œYou like?” She wiggled all ten. “Mark painted them for me. Blue is his favorite color.”
    â€œKid’s got a future in, uh…”
    â€œCosmetology?” She offered Cougar a bottle of water. “He wants to fly airplanes. It’s been a while since he’s talked about it, of course, but he still cruises around the backyard with his arms outstretched.” She demonstrated with arms stiff, eyes closed, face lifted toward the sky. The tip of her nose and the high points of her cheeks were pink. “It could happen.