Free Just a Cowboy and His Baby (Spikes & Spurs) by Carolyn Brown Page B

where someone threw a tarp over a couple of folding tables or else over the bed of their pickup truck. It was a permanent pavilion with rows and rows of fresh fruit plus souvenirs and homemade furniture.
    Trace pointed as they walked toward the building. “Hey, look at that picnic table.”
    “Howdy, folks,” the man behind the counter said.
    “Hello. You mind if we bring the dog in?” Trace asked.
    “Long as it stays on that leash or you carry it. Them little ones is meaner and faster than the big ones most of the time,” he said.
    Trace held up the leash and the man nodded.
    “Make you a good deal on one of them picnic tables. I’m trying to sell them before the new stuff gets here,” the man said.
    “They are beautiful, but I’m too far from home to buy one now,” Trace said.
    The man nodded.
    Trace looked over his shoulder at Gemma. “I see a Coke machine over there. Want something to drink?” Trace asked.
    “Cold root beer sounds pretty good.”
    He started for the machine and Sugar pulled against the leash to go outside. “I’ll have to get it later. She’s getting desperate. I’ll let her run in the grass out by the trucks and then come help you carry your bags out.”
    Gemma understood Sugar’s desperation. She looked around, saw a ladies room sign at the back of the place, and headed straight for it. It didn’t have a bit of air-conditioning and felt like a sweatbox inside, so she didn’t tarry to check her hair roots or her lipstick. When she went back out she found a small cart and pushed it straight to the watermelons. She thumped the ends of four before she found one that sounded right. Then she went on to the peaches, cantaloupe, green beans, onions, potatoes, and yellow squash. She was on her way to the counter when she looked up and saw a swinging sign advertising wind chimes at fifty percent off, so she made a turn and headed toward the back of the store.
    She picked up one made of old silver spoons and shook it to hear the tinkling sound as they brushed against each other. She felt a presence and, expecting it to be Trace, she turned slowly. But it was a woman wearing a bright orange and turquoise caftan, sandals, and a turquoise turban on her head.
    “I didn’t mean to startle you. You were so engrossed that you didn’t hear me.”
    Gemma held it up higher. “It is pretty, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, it is. I love wind chimes—and hair.” She touched the turban.
    Gemma raised an eyebrow.
    “Cancer, but I’m in remission so they’ve promised I’ll get it all back. I do like that wind chime. Are you buying it?” she said.
    “I don’t know. It reminds me of one that Momma has on the back porch, but the chimes are horseshoes. I have a construction paper horseshoe in my trailer out there. When I win at a rodeo bronc rider event I get to put a paper shamrock on it.” Gemma didn’t normally share personal things with strangers and suddenly wished she could take it all back.
    The woman smiled brightly. “I bought a horseshoe and hung it above my door. My ancestors were Irish. We’re a tough lot and I’m going to beat this cancer.”
    Gemma smiled. “Can I grow up and have your courage?”
    The lady patted her on the arm. “Sure you can, darlin’. Now which one of us is going home with that wind chime?”
    Gemma handed it to her. “You are. I’m going to buy that one with the shells because when I win the title in December, I’m taking a vacation to the beach.”
    “Now that is determination, planning, and ambition,” she said. “Is that your husband out there with the little dog?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Your feller then?”
    “I’m not sure what he is,” Gemma said honestly.
    “You know him, though, and you are traveling together, right?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “You got to be from Texas. Folks up here aren’t so quick to say ma’am.”
    “I’m from Ringgold, Texas. Little place right across the Red River from Oklahoma. I’m on the rodeo circuit and I’m