not!” He looked offended. “I just—a ranch isn’t the cleanest place on earth, that’s all. I found some wolf tracks.”
“Wolf tracks!” Carly forgot about Hank’s jeans. “You’re sure?”
Hank pointed to the ground. “See for yourself.”
“Those look like dog tracks to me. Maybe Charlie was out here—”
“Charlie doesn’t leave the rug in the living room,” Hank told her. “No, this is a wolf, I’m sure.”
“The one we heard howling last night?”
“Maybe.”
“Those are awfully big tracks.”
“Which means we probably have an awfully big wolf in the neighborhood.”
Carly shivered. “Should we turn back?”
Hank weighed his options. Death at the jaws of a wild beast? Or death by humiliation if he returned to the ranch and had to show Carly what an amateur he really was?
He manufactured a cowboy drawl. “I reckon we’ll be safe enough.”
“Okay, but let’s stick together, all right?”
“Whatever you say.”
He climbed back into the saddle, thankful that Carly hadn’t seen the tumble he’d taken just moments earlier. His whole body ached despite his precaution of taking two aspirins before leaving the ranch. His good luck had held, too. Finding the wolf tracks when he landed in the dust had been nothing short of miraculous.
“Let’s head for those trees,” he said as he authoritatively set off in the lead. Buttercup plodded along as quietly as an old donkey who’d never dream of pitching off her rider, but her ears were alert for the next opportunity for mischief. Hank vowed to be more careful of Buttercup’s sly ways.
“Look!” Carly cried suddenly. “There’s a cow!”
Hank prayed she was seeing things. “Where?”
“There!” She stood in her stirrups and pointed excitedly. “That’s a stray, right?”
Sure enough, a white-faced Hereford wandered out from behind the line of trees about two hundred yards away. Hank stifled a groan. He had no desire to start chasing down half-wild cows. “Well, it could be one of the neighbor’s herd,” he cautioned. “We’ll have to check the brand.”
“How do we do that? Let’s go!”
There was no stopping her. She booted her horse into a lumbering gallop so that Hank had no choice but to follow her again. He clutched his saddle horn for dear life as Buttercup pounded after Carly’s horse. The tall grass whipped against Hank’s stirrups. He prayed there weren’t any gopher holes for Buttercup to step into.
“Yii—ha!” Carly cried.
The steer looked up from grazing, startled to have his morning snack interrupted. It took one look at Carly and snorted belligerently.
“Carly, wait!”
But she urged Laverne ahead, and the steer suddenly turned and made a surprisingly agile dash into the trees.
“Get your rope!” Carly yelled over her shoulder. “Don’t you have to lasso him?”
Actually, Hank had once been pretty good with a rope. When he’d been growing up, practicing with twenty-five feet of hemp had been a hell of a lot easier than helping with any ranch chores. But picking up his rope meant letting go of his stranglehold on the saddle horn.
“Come on!” Carly shouted. “He’s getting away!”
You’re out of options, pal, Hank thought.
He made a grab for his rope. Buttercup seemed to know what to do, and she dove excitedly into the brush after the Hereford. Hank hung on, struggled with the rope for an instant, then managed to make a loop—all the while plunging deeper and deeper into the thick bushes. Buttercup snorted and leaped a culvert. Hank held back a yelp.
Then, suddenly, there was the steer, and Hank’s rope was ready. He threw it instinctively, and a miracle occurred. The steer threw his head directly into the loop. Buttercup jolted to a stop, the steer kept running and the rope played out smoothly.
The steer reached the end of the line, Buttercup braced herself, and suddenly everything was perfect.
Except that Hank had forgotten to wrap his end of the rope around the
“Wolf tracks!” Carly forgot about Hank’s jeans. “You’re sure?”
Hank pointed to the ground. “See for yourself.”
“Those look like dog tracks to me. Maybe Charlie was out here—”
“Charlie doesn’t leave the rug in the living room,” Hank told her. “No, this is a wolf, I’m sure.”
“The one we heard howling last night?”
“Maybe.”
“Those are awfully big tracks.”
“Which means we probably have an awfully big wolf in the neighborhood.”
Carly shivered. “Should we turn back?”
Hank weighed his options. Death at the jaws of a wild beast? Or death by humiliation if he returned to the ranch and had to show Carly what an amateur he really was?
He manufactured a cowboy drawl. “I reckon we’ll be safe enough.”
“Okay, but let’s stick together, all right?”
“Whatever you say.”
He climbed back into the saddle, thankful that Carly hadn’t seen the tumble he’d taken just moments earlier. His whole body ached despite his precaution of taking two aspirins before leaving the ranch. His good luck had held, too. Finding the wolf tracks when he landed in the dust had been nothing short of miraculous.
“Let’s head for those trees,” he said as he authoritatively set off in the lead. Buttercup plodded along as quietly as an old donkey who’d never dream of pitching off her rider, but her ears were alert for the next opportunity for mischief. Hank vowed to be more careful of Buttercup’s sly ways.
“Look!” Carly cried suddenly. “There’s a cow!”
Hank prayed she was seeing things. “Where?”
“There!” She stood in her stirrups and pointed excitedly. “That’s a stray, right?”
Sure enough, a white-faced Hereford wandered out from behind the line of trees about two hundred yards away. Hank stifled a groan. He had no desire to start chasing down half-wild cows. “Well, it could be one of the neighbor’s herd,” he cautioned. “We’ll have to check the brand.”
“How do we do that? Let’s go!”
There was no stopping her. She booted her horse into a lumbering gallop so that Hank had no choice but to follow her again. He clutched his saddle horn for dear life as Buttercup pounded after Carly’s horse. The tall grass whipped against Hank’s stirrups. He prayed there weren’t any gopher holes for Buttercup to step into.
“Yii—ha!” Carly cried.
The steer looked up from grazing, startled to have his morning snack interrupted. It took one look at Carly and snorted belligerently.
“Carly, wait!”
But she urged Laverne ahead, and the steer suddenly turned and made a surprisingly agile dash into the trees.
“Get your rope!” Carly yelled over her shoulder. “Don’t you have to lasso him?”
Actually, Hank had once been pretty good with a rope. When he’d been growing up, practicing with twenty-five feet of hemp had been a hell of a lot easier than helping with any ranch chores. But picking up his rope meant letting go of his stranglehold on the saddle horn.
“Come on!” Carly shouted. “He’s getting away!”
You’re out of options, pal, Hank thought.
He made a grab for his rope. Buttercup seemed to know what to do, and she dove excitedly into the brush after the Hereford. Hank hung on, struggled with the rope for an instant, then managed to make a loop—all the while plunging deeper and deeper into the thick bushes. Buttercup snorted and leaped a culvert. Hank held back a yelp.
Then, suddenly, there was the steer, and Hank’s rope was ready. He threw it instinctively, and a miracle occurred. The steer threw his head directly into the loop. Buttercup jolted to a stop, the steer kept running and the rope played out smoothly.
The steer reached the end of the line, Buttercup braced herself, and suddenly everything was perfect.
Except that Hank had forgotten to wrap his end of the rope around the
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