Chapter 2

The two ranch hands, Paul and Jet, lived in Brady Creek. They come and go as they please, do their jobs without any fuss, and seem to be two very reliable men with very little baggage, if any. Neither is married, and they keep to themselves and respect Pax.

Riding Ranch breeds and raises the most exquisite Palominos. Pax sells some as pets. Others go for rodeos. A few work. Sometimes the barn has up to twenty horses—Pax made sure it was big enough for his dreams. Each horse has its own stall—not that they all wantto be alone. Some prefer to be together, sort of like how I enjoy being with Pax Raulton, even if he isn’t my boyfriend or lover. 2: The Road to Recovery

At thirty-one years old, Pax William Raulton is the most handsome cowboy in Stockton County, Oklahoma—but that’s just my opinion. The man sports fern-green eyes, a full head of blond hair, and tractor-size shoulders on his six-two frame. He weighs about 200 and he’s chiseled from head to toe. His waist tapers at thirty-four inches and his chest is covered in blond fur. He has thick thighs, massive pecs with always-erect nipples, and a smile that just about melts me like white chocolate on a Midwestern summer’s day. The package between the stud’s legs is about five inches soft, and I imagine it grows into nine when it’s solid, and it’s probably cut, like most cocks in the region.

He’d bought Riding Ranch from his Uncle Grant when he was twenty-two. His uncle had died of a heart attack six months later. Family pictures show that Pax is the spitting image of his uncle, and they could have passed as father and son. Neither was married. Neither ever used women poorly, and they were always considered gentleman. Both were proud of the Raulton name and carried it nobly. According to Blake, when Uncle Grant passed away, Pax was broken for a few years. Depression got a hold of him and damaged him a touch. That was before I arrived at Riding Ranch. In truth, I couldn’t see Pax ever feeling broken, with his strong, masculine personality. Cowboys always have that tough image, though, don’t they?

I believe Pax occasionally visited a lady friend named Tracy in Tulsa. He sometimes left on a Thursday evening and returned on a Sunday afternoon. What the two of them did is none of my business. I’m simply a vet, and Pax’s employee. Asking him about his relationship with Tracy would surely get me fired, so I kept my trap shut about Tracy, and just did my job.

* * * *

In July, a drama at Riding Ranch drew the attention of folks at the surrounding ranches, including the sexy cowboys over at the Arched Q. Pax and I were in the barn, moving Hercules from one stall to another. The day was stunning, with a white-blue sky and no wind, and the temperature was a moderate eighty degrees with next to no humidity. Hercules, a golden horse with a blazing white tail, was having a bad day and kicked Pax in the head. Pax spent a week in Homeland Hospital in downtown Tulsa. He took thirty stitches along his forehead and he suffered a concussion—and more. Dr. Trent Hoss, a thirty-eight year old amnesia specialist, was called in when the hospital realized that the cowboy had amnesia. Pax couldn’t remember his name, where he lived, or his any of his staff. In short, Hoss, a Blake Shelton look-alike, sent Pax home to Riding Ranch under my care, instructing me how to work with him to get some of his memory back. Dr. Hoss came out to the ranch every week to work with Pax.

Hoss said that Pax would never recover all of his memory, but that he should get most of it back, in time. He suggested that Pax carry a BlackBerry with him at all times so that he could take notes and refer to them, and to be reminded to take his vitamins. Pax was on a strict diet and he wasn’t allowed to drink any alcohol, which might slow his memory recovery or increase his memory loss. Hoss told me that “People who are amnesiac suffer from inability to recover memories; changes in attention span, visual, and dimensional functioning; and are sometimes impulsive.”

“It’s all confusing to me,” I said. “I work with horses, not cowboys.”

“That’s why I’m here, Cal. No need to worry,” Hoss said, supporting Pax’s recovery for however long it took.

* * * *

A month passed, then six weeks. By the end of August, Pax still couldn’t remember a damn thing about his life, but he’d memorized the fact that his name was Pax Raulton and that he owned Riding Ranch.

A four-inch scar was pink against his left temple, semi-hidden by his blond curls and just about as hot as hell in my opinion. The scar made him look even more rugged than he already was, as sometimes happened with scars. The battle wound was Pax’s reminder that he’d once had a productive life with his Palominos, his crew of four, and that he was lucky to be alive.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t recollect that he drove an onyx-black Ram 1500, enjoyed John Sanford novels, took long walks on his 972 acres of land, and preferred vegetables over steak. Nor was he aware that he had vanished from the ranch for those three-day weekend trips to Tulsa to visit his lady friend Tracy. In truth, Pax’s recovery of his memory was going at a turtle’s pace, but both of us were exceptionally driven about keeping him on the road to recovery, and we had no intention of giving up on each other. Neither of us saw his condition as baggage. We had the will, and we’d find the way to Pax Raulton again.

Frankly, I promised myself that no matter how long the cowboy suffered from his amnesia, no matter how long he remained unsure about himself, I was going to stay at Riding Ranch and assist him. My reasons were simple, of course: my liking for the man was unfathomable, and I craved nothing less than to spend the rest of my life with him…through the good times and the bad times…as man-with-man. 3: Boyfriends and Memory

One of the strangest things that transpired during Pax’s slow healing time was that he couldn’t remember my name.

“Cal Hoke,” I shared with him almost every day. “I’ve worked for you for the last four years. I’m your on-site vet and take care of your sixteen horses.”

Pax was lying on his bed, showered and dressed, but he wasn’t wearing a shirt. His hairy blond chest was exposed for my approval, and I ogled his firm nipples and pumped pecs, always craving his skin. “Where do you live?”

I stood at the foot of his bed, checking in on him after a long day with the Palominos and the two ranch hands. “I live in the little cabin, a few hundred yards from this house.”

“Where are you parents?”

“Passed on. Like yours. Your mom and dad passed away in a plane accident in 1997. You were pretty young. You lived with your Uncle Grant. Do you remember him?”

“Who?” he asked, befuddled by my question, as usual.

“You bought this place from him when you turned twenty-two. He made you sign a promissory note. You lived up to your end of the bargain. Your Uncle Grant died six months later and willed the place to you.”

“How many acres again?”

I told him, and the size always surprised him. “Do you remember how many horses you have in the barn?”

“Of course not.”

“You have sixteen Palomino horses and two ranch hands. You remember any of this?”

Overcome by frustration, he shook his handsome head and confessed, “You’re a stranger to me. I don’t know you.”

“Not to worry, Pax. Your memory will be flooding back before you know it. I’m a pretty good guy, and I’m here to help you—as well as the horses,” I joked.