One Brave Cowboy by Kathleen Eagle

“Coffee?”
    â€œI haven’t started it yet. I was surprised to see Mark out here. He’s not supposed to leave the house without telling me. Did you…?”
    â€œNope. He came out to help. If I didn’t know better, I’d’ve thought he heard the racket.” He gave her an enigmatic look as he reached around her for the blue plastic mug he’d left sitting on the wheel housing of his trailer. “Thought maybe you were ignoring us. I made coffee. Want some?”
    â€œI’m sorry. I’ll get breakfast—”
    â€œSorry about what?” He gestured with his coffee toward the camper door. “We had Lucky Charms. There’s some left if you’re interested.”
    â€œSorry about the cold breakfast.”
    â€œIt wasn’t cold. It was just a little dry. But who needs milk when you’ve got Lucky Charms? Right, Mark?” It didn’t seem to matter to him that Mark didn’t look up. “This guy sure can swing a hammer.”
    â€œSo can I.” She glanced at the front end of the trailer. It would be interesting to find out how heliked his coffee. Even more interesting to see what was behind that door.
    But she pivoted on her heel and turned her attention to her business. “What can I help with?”
    â€œWe’re gonna need more nails.” He nodded toward a collection of building supplies he’d gathered on a makeshift workbench fashioned from a pair of saw-horses and part of an old Dutch door. “That was the only box I found in the barn. I looked around pretty good.”
    She brightened. She had just what he needed. “There’s a whole keg of them in the barn. An old wooden keg. It’s probably been out there for fifty years or more.”
    â€œA nail is a nail.” He nodded a come-on toward the trailer door. “What made you decide to buy a place like this?” he asked as he opened the door and gestured after you .
    â€œLike what?” Stepping up on the running board, she glanced over her shoulder. “Rustic? Don’t I strike you as the rustic type?”
    â€œYou don’t strike me as a type .” He smiled. “But you do strike me.”
    â€œAnd you do have coffee.” And a tidy little kitchen with a tiny stove, sink, refrigerator, microwave, miniature cabinets that might have been part of a down-market trailer or an upscale playhouse. There were three books stacked on the bench seat—the top one written by Logan Wolf Track—and an iPod dockhanging on the wall. Music and books, she thought. Good signs.
    â€œIt’s a good place.” He was standing in the doorway. “There’s another cup above the sink. But you’re pretty isolated.”
    â€œNot that far from Sinte, which is where I work, where Mark goes to school.” She poured her coffee. “Is it okay if I nuke this?”
    â€œBlast away. Sinte is pretty far from the beaten path,” he noted. “People come to a reservation for a job, it’s usually temporary. You buy a place like this, you’re putting down roots.”
    â€œThe price was right, and no one else wanted it.” She pressed a button and smiled when the light came on in the little box above the stove. So cute. “My roots were tired of pots. They wanted solid ground. They like it here.”
    There was more to it, of course. She’d needed a place that was off the beaten path, but not so far off that she couldn’t get Mark the help he needed. She thought she’d put the worst of her difficulties behind her. They could both sign the alphabet, even though Mark didn’t seem interested in using it. Give him time, the specialists advised. Mark was still a mystery. She’d been able to keep him insured, and the Mayo Clinic, where he’d been treated originally, had recommended a good therapist for him in Rapid City. She hadn’t expected Greg to follow her and insist on resuming his