“Hey there!”
Joiner started at the sound of Buster’s voice from the chicken coop across the yard. He turned around.
“Mr. Scout?”
Buster ceremoniously wiped chicken poop off his hand and extended it toward Joiner. The young man hesitated only an instant before reaching out to take it. There was something like a dare in his violet eyes.
“Ha-ha! Gotcha!” Buster laughed, withdrawing his hand, and the young man laughed, too.
“You got me.”
“It’s nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Temple.”
It was immediately obvious to Buster that this Temple boy was very different from Stella. And it might be nice for both of them to have him around...
* * *
“CALL ME JOINER. PLEASE.” He followed Buster around behind the house, where the older man set the pail of eggs down on the porch, and then pumped water from an old-fashioned spicket in order to wash his hands.
“Let’s sit up here on the porch. Do you like coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.” Joiner took a seat in one of the wooden rockers while Buster walked past him and into the house. He noticed that in the distance there was a ratty-looking RV parked under some trees.
Buster came back with two coffee mugs and two Boston terriers, who ran to surround his rocker. Joiner reached down to return their affection.
“I hope you like it black.”
Joiner nodded, although he preferred a little cream.
“Good. I never can stand a man who doctors his coffee. My daughter takes sugar and cream—all of that girly stuff. But a man should drink black coffee.” Buster plopped down in the other rocker. “It puts hair on your chest.”
Joiner had all of the hair he needed but he took a sip anyhow. The coffee tasted like tar. “Thanks,” he sputtered.
“This is Mugsy.” Buster pointed to the bigger of the two dogs. Mugsy was twenty-five pounds of solid muscle and all black except for his three-quarter-moon white face. Brown eyes sparkled over a smashed-in nose. The mutt grinned and displayed an under bite and crooked teeth. Joiner could almost imagine him smoking a cigar.
“And this little girl right here is Mitzi.” Buster’s voice crooned as if he was talking to a baby. She turned over by his feet and he reached down to rub her tummy, which was none too small, even though she was more petite than Mugsy. Mitzi had more of a terrier’s nose, and lots more white fur to go with the black. It was speckled with what looked like black freckles. Joiner immediately took to them both.
“So you’re interested in my north forty acres. What do you want it for?”
“Well, sir, I’m searching for a place to build a little horse-breeding operation. Nothing large-scale, but enough to get me by.”
“Aren’t you some kind of polo player?”
“I was. Started in college, and then I was drafted by a European team. I had some fun over there, but the truth is, I just can’t afford to make polo a career.” Joiner ran a hand through his hair. “I poured most of my inheritance into it before I figured that out. When people call polo ‘the sport of kings’ that’s because only kings have enough money to play it seriously.”
Buster squinted at Joiner, who hoped he was making some sense to the older man.
“How’d a Texas cowboy end up playing that sissy kind of sport, anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Joiner did mind. But he was used to it. Being a polo player was about as unconventional as a Texas cowboy could get. Still, the older man’s prejudices were starting to get on his nerves.
“It’s very competitive, and it requires a lot of skill of both the rider and the horse.” He was blunt.
“Well, don’t get your panties in a wad. I didn’t mean nothing. I’m just trying to understand it, that’s all.” Buster stroked his beard. “I used to rodeo. Sunk every dime I had into it, and spent all my time on the road. I loved it, but I have to admit I missed a lot of my daughter’s growing-up years and I regret that. It may be a good thing you’ve got the road out of your system before you settle down and have a family.”
Joiner blushed. “I have no plans for that, Mr. Scout.”
“Never knew many cowboys who did.”
The back door creaked open and a stunning young woman in jeans, a gingham shirt and red cowboy boots stomped through it. Some kind of silver necklace glinted on her neck when she bent to pick up the pail of eggs Buster had set on the steps. She started toward the door again, but Buster stopped her.
“Hey, Pretty, come here. I want you to meet Mr. Joiner Temple.”
The girl’s brown eyes looked Joiner up and down. The back of his neck prickled. Still, to be polite, he stood and offered her his hand. When she took it, her handshake was surprisingly firm.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, sounding as if it really wasn’t.
“You, too, Miss Scout.”
“It’s Stella.”
“Her name means star,” Buster explained. His chest puffed out and he gave her a little pat on the back.
Stella the Pretty Star tossed her short gold hair, turned on the heel of her boot and headed into the house, letting the screen door slam behind her.
“IGNORE HER,” BUSTER SAID, rubbing his hands together. “You want to go for a little ride out on the range?”
“Sure, sounds great.”
“You take these coffee cups in, if you don’t mind, and I’ll go get the pumpkin.”
Joiner wondered why in the world Buster would be getting a pumpkin and how it related to their ride on the property, but he did as he was told. He was disappointed that there was no sign of Stella in the house when he set the coffee cups in the kitchen sink.
Maybe it was a good thing he didn’t run into her again. She seemed to harbor some underlying hostility toward him, although he couldn’t imagine why. It was as if he reminded her of the high school boyfriend who left her to dance with another girl at the prom.
He was sitting on the porch steps when Buster roared up on an orange Kubota ATV with Mugsy and Mitzi sitting beside him.
“Pumpkin orange,” Joiner mused aloud as he took his seat beside Mugsy on the passenger’s side. It was the same color as his Texas Longhorns.
“Stella named it.”
Buster lurched forward and soon they were bumping at full throttle across a cattle guard and out into open pasture. There were groves of loblolly pines, pencil cedars and live oaks interspersed with vast acres of grass for grazing cattle. Joiner counted five ponds as they passed, one as big as a small lake—about twenty acres—and it was on the north-forty. It would work perfectly for Joiner’s plans, and he told Buster so. The older man just nodded.
After several minutes, Buster pulled up to the edge of the spring-fed creek and cut the motor of the Kubota. The dogs jumped out to get a drink. Buster leaned back, crossing his boots on the dashboard in front of him, just to the right of the steering wheel. He gazed out across the creek. He closed his eyes and slowly breathed in and out a few times. Joiner wondered if he was praying. Then Buster turned to look at Joiner.
“Son, I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time. I can’t