Free Cowboy on the Run by Devon McKay Page A

and according to Doyle, Taylor was starting to show real promise.
    After a brief hesitation, he swallowed his fears. “Yeah, ten boys would be perfect. And tell Sandy I’ve got plenty of work for them to do. For starters, I’ve got an old barn needing repair and about 200 acres of fence line. I hired a few guys from town to help around the ranch, but I’ve been focusing more on the sleeping quarters and my old man’s house. Both should be finished by tomorrow.” He drew in a shaky breath.
    “It’s a little overwhelming, huh, son? Leave all the worrying to Sandy. She’s good at it. You and me, we build things. Let’s see, I can be there by Friday. Three days. How’s that sound?” Doyle questioned. After a long pause, he continued, “I wouldn’t be steppin’ on your toes if I wanted to hang around for a week or two, would I?”
    Nate released his breath, unaware he’d been holding it. “I’d appreciate it. Yeah, I would like it if you stuck around for a bit. Did I mention there is a creek full of fat trout running through my land? I caught one yesterday, must have been at least a foot long—”
    “Like I said, I’ll see you in two days.”
    Nate smiled and stared at the receiver in his hand long after his friend hung up. The phone call had been bittersweet. It was good to talk to them again, but he hadn’t realized just how much he missed their company until this very moment. He would see Doyle in a few days. And Sandy, well, she was just a phone call away. The thought was reassuring.
    The sound of hammers caught his attention as his friend’s words echoed in his head. We build things. He was right. Time to start building.
    He dialed Mark Campbell’s number, and scheduled an appointment at his office later in the day.

Chapter 8
    Wednesday morning, Nate pushed himself back from the kitchen table and poured the rest of his coffee down the drain. Staring out the kitchen window, he was drawn to a rusty, brown pick-up coming up his drive.
    Walking outside, heat and humidity slammed into him like a brick wall, although neither sucked the oxygen out of the air like the confrontation headed his way.
    Thomas Calhoun.
    The older man got out of his truck, and Nate noted how long the act seemed to take. As Thomas approached, he couldn’t help but reflect on how much older and slower the man seemed. The years had taken a toll on him, aging Jessie’s father more than his sixty years.
    They sized one another up. He had always admired the man, even looked up to him as a role model. Today, however, he was taken aback, noticing several differences about Jessie’s dad. For starters, he balanced the majority of his weight on his right side, favoring his left.
    “What...are you doing here...Nate?” Thomas asked, his voice low as he stepped forward.
    “What am I doing here?” he returned, crossing his arms over his chest, an immediate reaction of his defiant past. “I live here.” The sharp retort sliced through the air like hardened steel. His jaw tightened, the heat of shame coloring his face. This was not the way he wanted to handle the situation. Softening his reproach, he asked, “What’s on your mind, Thomas?”
    His mentor appeared tired, as if time had not only sapped some of his vigor, but some of his will. The shell of a man standing before him was not who Nate remembered, a distinct opposite of the idol he had placed high upon a pedestal many years ago.
    “Did you come to catch up on old times?” He attempted to change direction of the conversation.
    There was an untrusting coldness in the older man’s eyes. “I came...to see what...”
    Thomas shifted his weight again, leaning heavily on his right leg and Nate’s attention centered on the man’s left arm hanging listless at his side.
    “...what your...intentions are...Nate,” Thomas continued, his words meticulous and drawn out.
    Before responding, he hesitated, sucking in a deep breath. It wasn’t even eight o’clock in the morning and the