Daisies in the Canyon(13)

“Mongrels mostly. Some Catahoula with some bluetick hound thrown in. Ezra said that their mama was a bluetick over on Lonesome Canyon. That one that you’re petting is Martha. The one with floppy ears beside the food pan is Vivien and that lazy old gal scratching her ribs is Polly,” Rusty said.

Abby quickly put her hand in her lap. “Are you shittin’ me? Tell me the other two aren’t named after Shiloh and Bonnie’s mamas.”

“He told me that he named them after his ex-wives and had them spayed before they had any puppies, because he figured all they’d throw would be more bitches. No offense meant. I’m just repeatin’ what he said.”

“How old are they?”

“Five or six years old, near as he could remember. Jackson offered to give away the mixed-breed pups and all that was left was females when Ezra got around to making a trip over to Lonesome Canyon to look at them. He took them all and he trained them himself. They’re fine cattle dogs and fair huntin’ critters.”

“Does Martha take up with everyone?”

“Pretty much. She’s the friendliest one of the lot, but she’s also the best cow dog of the three. I save her for the last if the other two can’t run a rangy old bull out of the mesquite,” Rusty said.

“Why?”

“She goes for the lip and she don’t let go. They know her, and when I turn her loose, believe me, they don’t want what she’s about to bring to the fight. If you’ve a mind to learn ranchin’, then you can start tomorrow. It’s Sunday, so all we’ll do is chores. Other than that Ezra always said it was a day that God made for restin’, so that’s what we do. I’ll be takin’ care of feedin’ chores and I’ll be leaving right after six from that barn out there.” He pointed to the south. “Good night, Abby.”

He was gone before she could say another word. Martha slipped her big head into Abby’s lap and whined. Abby rubbed the dog’s ears and said, “Next January, your name is changing to Spot or Jane or Fluff Butt, anything but my mother’s name. Ezra might have thought it was funny to name you dogs after his ex-wives, but I don’t see a damn thing amusing in it.”

Vivien and Polly ignored her, but Martha wagged her tail and whined for more petting. The door opened and Shiloh came out, sat down in a rocking chair, and propped her feet on the porch railing. Her slippers were those oversized things with Tweety Bird’s head on the toes. Martha eyed them for a few seconds before she decided that they weren’t dangerous, then she went straight to Shiloh. Fickle bitch. She didn’t deserve her name and it would be changed. Fluff Butt was looking better by the moment.

“Wonder what their names are.” Shiloh rubbed the dog from head to tail several times.

“Martha, Vivien, and Polly. Which one was your mother?” Abby gripped the arms of the rocker so hard that her knuckles ached. Shit fire! She hadn’t meant to ask questions. She didn’t want to get to know either of them.

“Polly is my mother. She’s still livin’ and you are shittin’ me, right?”

Abby shook her head. “Rusty just now told me and I don’t think he’d make that up. So your mama’s namesake is the one over there scratching her ears.”

“What about ears?” Bonnie stepped out on the porch. She wore a stained work coat over her mismatched pajama pants and flannel shirt and cowboy boots on her feet.

“Your mama is the bitch over there eating the last of the dog food,” Shiloh said.

“My mama might not be a saint, but you ain’t got no right to be callin’ her a bitch,” Bonnie said stiffly.

“I’m not. Ezra named his three dogs after our mothers. Mine is Polly. That would be the lazy old gal who’s now curling up on the rug in front of the door. Vivien is eating and this one who wants to be petted is Martha, Abby’s mama.”

“The old bastard.” Bonnie sucked in a lungful of air and went back into the house.

Abby followed her without saying another word and Martha tagged along behind her all the way into the bedroom, where she curled up in the recliner and went to sleep. Abby grabbed her bathroom gear with the intention of taking a shower, but the tub looked so good that she turned on the water and adjusted the temperature. She shucked her clothing, leaving them hanging on the nail beside the door, and slid into the warm, steamy water.

“Oh. My. God!” she muttered, leaning on the sloped back and sinking down until nothing but her head was sticking up. The only thing better would be a Jacuzzi in a hotel suite with a cowboy like Cooper.

She opened her eyes wide and focused on the water faucets. She was not going to think about Cooper anymore. She’d gone for a whole hour without letting him into her mind so it wouldn’t be that difficult.

She closed her eyes again, and as if on cue, a picture of him at the cemetery with that black hat pulled down over his eyes popped into her mind. She let her eyes drop to the way his butt filled out the jeans as he walked away from her in that sexy swagger. Mentally she brought him into the bathroom with her and watched him undress slowly, then slide into the bathtub with her.

She blinked several times and then swore when the visual refused to leave. “Dammit to hell on a rusty poker. I can control this. I can and I will.”

She banished every thought or picture from her mind and dozed, dreaming of a little girl peeking out of an upstairs window of a building. The child waved shyly a split second before the whole building went up in smoke and crumbled to the ground. Abby had given the command for the soldiers in her company to paint the building. The planes flying away had bombed it on her command and now that sweet little girl was dead. If she’d had a drop of parental instinct in her body, she would have sent someone inside to check for civilians, especially kids, before she gave the signal to light it up.