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Authors: Debra Clopton
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sign. The ranch’s brand bracketed the name—a large number four with a narrow heart connected to the straight side of the number.
She’d learned through her research that Tru’s grandmother had actually been the designer of the brand.
It was . . . pretty . She thought that said something nice about Tru’s grandfather that he would let the slightly feminine logo stand. He must have cared for and valued his wife. That gesture spoke volumes to Maggie.
She wondered what it would feel like to have a man, a husband, who valued and cared for her. Maggie craved a loving husband and a house full of kids, but knew that the odds were against her ever having either.
Her family background, the emotional fears, and the subconscious scars she carried all too clearly made that seem like a hopeless dream. Though Maggie refused to let it define her. Her column was about holding out hope that one day those like herself, who were seeking true love and devotion would find it. “Gotta Have Hope” embodied the spirit of hope and believing that true love existed. That there was someone out there for everyone. Maggie just had no trust where men were concerned—she hoped she could open her heart up to the right man when he came along.
Her thoughts flew straight back to the moment in that interview when she’d felt . . . a connection between her and Tru, and she pushed that out of the way again. He was not that man.
Parking in front of the house, she pushed her door open—not giving herself time to even think about not getting out. She stepped out onto the red gravel. Her jogging shoes were much more suited to country life than the notorious red heels. Those were in her closet in Houston and would stay there, indefinitely.
She headed toward the front door. She could see a barn out behind the house and past that was a smaller house—a rambling single story of cedar and brick. The main house was white with a large front porch and a solid black door with a heavy brass knocker. The mournful cry of a dog echoed from inside. The wails grew more intense as she crossed the porch and knocked, turning into a frantic mixture of barks and very loud howls. What was going on? This was more than a hysterical pet announcing someone was at the door.
Maggie knocked again, harder. A crash sounded inside. Maggie stiffened. Okay, something was seriously wrong.
She was still trying to figure out what to do when she heard shuffling on the other side of the door and then it swung open and Maggie came face to face with a wide-eyed, lanky older man, in his early- to mid seventies. She hadn’t known what she was expecting but this was not it.
His angular face, thin and weathered, appeared very much the face of a cowboy. The resemblance to Tru was unmistakable, though this man’s dark brown hair was peppered with gray. Was this his grandfather? Was this “Pops” as Tru had called him affectionately? Not only did he resemble Tru, he was almost six feet tall and it was easy to see that he’d probably carried himself with the same straight-backed posture.
The dog, wherever it was, wailed louder and the older man’s eyes grew wider. There was a blankness—a confusion—in their depths heightened by his frantic, panicked expression.
When the dog let out another endless yowl, the man waved his hands for her to come inside. “Help my baby,” he said. “Help.”
Feeling frantic and scrambled herself, Maggie didn’t hesitate. “Is it your dog?” she asked, hurrying behind him as he led the way down a wide entrance hall, then cut left down a narrower hall.
“My puppy.”
They entered a room dominated by a gigantic wooden bed. The headboard was made of carved logs and the footboard was nearly as massive. It took up the entire room. The thin man eased to his knees, obviously stiff with age and probably abuse from years of cowboy’n. Not waiting to follow, Maggie plopped down onto the floor. The terrified sounds were so loud now that they were in the
She’d learned through her research that Tru’s grandmother had actually been the designer of the brand.
It was . . . pretty . She thought that said something nice about Tru’s grandfather that he would let the slightly feminine logo stand. He must have cared for and valued his wife. That gesture spoke volumes to Maggie.
She wondered what it would feel like to have a man, a husband, who valued and cared for her. Maggie craved a loving husband and a house full of kids, but knew that the odds were against her ever having either.
Her family background, the emotional fears, and the subconscious scars she carried all too clearly made that seem like a hopeless dream. Though Maggie refused to let it define her. Her column was about holding out hope that one day those like herself, who were seeking true love and devotion would find it. “Gotta Have Hope” embodied the spirit of hope and believing that true love existed. That there was someone out there for everyone. Maggie just had no trust where men were concerned—she hoped she could open her heart up to the right man when he came along.
Her thoughts flew straight back to the moment in that interview when she’d felt . . . a connection between her and Tru, and she pushed that out of the way again. He was not that man.
Parking in front of the house, she pushed her door open—not giving herself time to even think about not getting out. She stepped out onto the red gravel. Her jogging shoes were much more suited to country life than the notorious red heels. Those were in her closet in Houston and would stay there, indefinitely.
She headed toward the front door. She could see a barn out behind the house and past that was a smaller house—a rambling single story of cedar and brick. The main house was white with a large front porch and a solid black door with a heavy brass knocker. The mournful cry of a dog echoed from inside. The wails grew more intense as she crossed the porch and knocked, turning into a frantic mixture of barks and very loud howls. What was going on? This was more than a hysterical pet announcing someone was at the door.
Maggie knocked again, harder. A crash sounded inside. Maggie stiffened. Okay, something was seriously wrong.
She was still trying to figure out what to do when she heard shuffling on the other side of the door and then it swung open and Maggie came face to face with a wide-eyed, lanky older man, in his early- to mid seventies. She hadn’t known what she was expecting but this was not it.
His angular face, thin and weathered, appeared very much the face of a cowboy. The resemblance to Tru was unmistakable, though this man’s dark brown hair was peppered with gray. Was this his grandfather? Was this “Pops” as Tru had called him affectionately? Not only did he resemble Tru, he was almost six feet tall and it was easy to see that he’d probably carried himself with the same straight-backed posture.
The dog, wherever it was, wailed louder and the older man’s eyes grew wider. There was a blankness—a confusion—in their depths heightened by his frantic, panicked expression.
When the dog let out another endless yowl, the man waved his hands for her to come inside. “Help my baby,” he said. “Help.”
Feeling frantic and scrambled herself, Maggie didn’t hesitate. “Is it your dog?” she asked, hurrying behind him as he led the way down a wide entrance hall, then cut left down a narrower hall.
“My puppy.”
They entered a room dominated by a gigantic wooden bed. The headboard was made of carved logs and the footboard was nearly as massive. It took up the entire room. The thin man eased to his knees, obviously stiff with age and probably abuse from years of cowboy’n. Not waiting to follow, Maggie plopped down onto the floor. The terrified sounds were so loud now that they were in the
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