by Gayle Wilson
He couldn’t see how a run-down sheep operation could have any connection with the Langworthy kidnapping, despite Senator Gettys having a share in the place and the strange atmosphere. And frankly, he was too exhausted to do any serious thinking about the question tonight. At least tomorrow wouldn’t be as hard physically.
He and Beaumont had been instructed to move the sheep they’d taken samples from today back up to higher pastures. It had been a while since he’d straddled a horse, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you forgot. Thankfully it would involve the use of a different set of muscles from those that ached so badly now despite the long, semi-hot shower he’d just taken.
Maybe away from the others, Nate would be more forthcoming. If there were something shady going on here, he’d stake his reputation the kid wasn’t involved in it.
And if he were wrong, then by trying to pick Nate’s brain about what he had seen during the months he’d worked here, Michael would be staking a whole lot more than that.
NICOLA CARSON leaned forward, letting the weak, tepid stream of water run over the back of her neck and bowed head. There wasn’t much she wouldn’t give to be able to take a really good shower. The kind she used to take for granted. Strong spray. Gallons of hot water. Lots of steam.
Actually, there was something she wouldn’t give. Which was why she was living here on the Half Spur in the first place.
Living. Despite the primitive conditions and the fact that she hadn’t seen her mother in more than eight months, she wasn’t ready to risk her life in order to leave.
Most of the time she’d felt safe here. The exception to that feeling of security was when someone new entered the picture. Someone like McAdams.
She reminded herself that she had had this same sense of impending doom every time a hand signed on. It had gradually faded as each was assimilated into the strange world in which she now existed.
Of course, none of the others had seemed as interested in that world as Mac did. His questions today had made her increasingly uncomfortable.
He was different from the drifters and misfits Quarrels normally hired. She had decided early on those choices were deliberate, which made his hiring of McAdams even more peculiar.
She turned, letting the water run down between her breasts. Unconsciously, she cupped her palms under them, turning from side to side to let the spray wash play over her chest.
It was only at times like these, in the privacy of the tiny shower inside her trailer, that she could afford to acknowledge her femininity. The rest of the day she tried to merge totally into the role she was playing. A role that had so far kept her alive.
That was the other thing that bothered her about McAdams. The way he made her feel. Like a woman—and that was something she couldn’t afford.
Maybe it was because he was undeniably attractive. Exactly the kind of man she had always been drawn to.
Or maybe, after months of being virtually ignored by everyone around her, it was the way he looked at her. Really looked. As if he were trying to see through her.
She opened her eyes at the thought, staring at the plastic laminate in front of her as the words echoed in her brain.
As if he were trying to see through her.
That’s exactly what he did. He watched her. He questioned her. He studied her. As if he were trying to figure out who and what she was.
Hand trembling, she reached out and shut off the flow of water. She forced her eyes to focus on her fingers, which were still gripping the knob. Assessing them.
Short, broken nails. Sunburned skin that always looked a little grimy. A few half-healed nicks and scrapes.
There was absolutely nothing feminine about them. Nothing to give her away.
And she had always had a deep voice for a woman. Everyone commented on it. A whiskey voice, her grandmother had called it. That huskiness was one of the things that had made her think she might be able to pull this off. And in the six months she’d lived here, no one had seemed to think twice about its timbre.
Her size, too, was in her favor. She was tall and thin enough to appear boyish, especially in the kind of shapeless garments she wore.
She hadn’t been able to do anything to disguise her features, other than keep her head down. She had done that today, her gaze focused on the task at hand. Last night, however…
Looking at him had been a mistake. She’d known it as soon as their eyes had made contact, but by then it had been too late to do anything about it.
Too late. Too late.
She doubled up her fists and slammed them against the wall of the shower. Closing her eyes, she leaned forward, laying her forehead against her clenched hands.
After several frozen seconds, she opened them, stretching her fingers flat against the stall. Then she pushed away from it, standing straight and tall. Fighting for control.
That kind of thinking was nothing but sheer, mindless paranoia. McAdams was a new hand. That’s all he was. There had been a dozen before him, and when he was gone, a dozen others would follow.
She couldn’t allow herself to become suspicious. That wariness would make her self-conscious. Inclined to say or do something stupid when he was around. She needed to go on acting exactly as she had been before he’d shown up here.
Just another drifter, she told herself, determined not to let that smothering sense of terror that had followed the attack at the Metro station take control of her again. He’s just a man. Just like all the others on the ranch.
Except he wasn’t.
The image of strange, blue-green eyes that seemed to see through her was suddenly in her head. Hands that moved with a completely masculine grace. Corded forearms, tanned and covered with a fuzz of gold. Far lighter than the hair that curled against the collar of his shirt. Maybe that was just a trick of the sunlight—
A trick of the sunlight.
The thought was terrifying. She reached out and grabbed the frayed, graying towel off the bar. She wrapped it around her body, sarong-style, and stepped hurriedly out of the enclosure.
The mirror over the sink was clouded with age and moisture. Almost afraid of what she might see in it, she fumbled for the hand towel on the rack and after a second’s hesitation, used it to wipe off the surface.
Then she leaned closer, lifting her bangs with her right hand. Along the scalp was a narrow line of blond. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d put the dye on, but obviously it had been too long ago.
She dropped the bangs, parting the hair on the top of her head with shaking fingers. Turning to catch the light from the bare bulb above the sink. Even in this dimness, the new growth was clearly visible, several shades lighter than the rest.
And she must have ducked her head a hundred times today. Hiding her face. Concealing, or so she thought, the one thing that might give her away. The one thing that might make him question. Wonder. Think about her at all.
And tomorrow she would be alone with him all day. Away from the safety of the pens and the public areas and other people. She could feel that mindless apprehension growing, tightening her chest and making it hard to breathe.
Drifter. He’s just a drifter. She fought against her panic, repeating the words like a litany. Determined to force their reality into her brain. He isn’t here because of you. You are no more to him than Quarrels or any of the others.
Long into the night, eyes open and staring in the darkness, she made herself say them over and over, trying desperately to believe that they might be true.
Chapter Five
They were halfway back to the ranch when Michael pulled up his gelding. He dismounted and then stooped, despite the protesting muscles in his back and thighs, to run his hands gently over the horse’s left front fetlock. The two border collies that had come with them trotted over, ears pricked, and stood near him.
“Something wrong?”
Nate Beaumont had reined in a little farther back on the trail, behind Michael. Eyes narrowed, he watched Michael from under the wide
brim of a battered straw hat.
“Seems a little lame.” As he offered the explanation, Michael lifted the gelding’s foot, pretending to examine the frog. “Got a pick?” he asked without looking up.
After a slight hesitation, Nate urged the mare forward, bringing her alongside the gelding. Michael put out his hand, palm upward, to receive the equestrian knife he was offered. As he unfolded the hoof pick from the multi-bladed instrument, he slanted a sideways look at the boy.
“Picked up a stone?” Nate asked.
“I don’t think it’s been there long enough to do any damage. He’s only been favoring it a minute or two.”
He bent over the gelding’s foot, his body shielding it from the boy’s view, and pretended to pry out the nonexistent obstruction. After a moment, he dropped the leg then ran a soothing hand over his mount’s neck. He turned to face Nate, folding the pick back into the knife before he held it up to him.
“I need to get one of these. You never know when a knife might come in handy. Especially out here.”
For a long moment Beaumont didn’t move. In contrast to their customary avoidance, the sapphire eyes locked on Michael’s face. He would have sworn that what he saw in them was raw fear.
“Your knife,” he prodded, moving it up and down to draw Nate’s attention. “Thanks for the loan.”
The boy swallowed, the movement strong enough to be visible down the column of his throat before it disappeared into the high collar of the thermal undershirt he wore. Michael’s eyes had followed the motion, and he felt again that nagging sensation that there was something important about what he’d just seen. Something he was missing and shouldn’t be.
Before he could figure it out, Nate’s hand closed over the knife, removing it from his grasp. “You probably should at that. They’re useful for all kinds of things.”
Maybe he thought it was strange Michael didn’t have a knife. After all, most cowboys carried them. He had when he’d worked on the Royal Flush.
His equipment requirements in the days since then had been very different. He had considered bringing the Glock up here, but the thought of acquiring a folding knife had never crossed his mind.
“How about a breather?” he suggested. “Give him a chance to figure out he’s not crippled.” Because he could see the resolution to refuse building in the kid’s eyes, he added, “I could stand one, too. Stretch my leg.”
Nate had never mentioned his limp. No one but Quarrels had commented on it. And although the knee had been stiff and painful this morning from the stooping he’d done yesterday, it hadn’t kept him from climbing on board the gelding. There was no way he would have let it, no matter how sore it had been.
Today’s assignment, however, hadn’t quite worked out as Michael had hoped. There had been no opportunity to ask Beaumont any questions. And maybe that had been deliberate on Nate’s part.
Going up to the high pasture, they had ridden on opposite sides of the flock, letting the Half Spur’s collies do the actual herding. During the ride back down, Nate had kept his distance, hanging behind Michael on the trail, letting the dogs run between.
That’s why Michael had come up with the story about the gelding’s lameness. And now he needed a reason to prolong this brief time alone with the boy. As he’d expected, the veiled reference to his disability worked like a charm.
Nate eased down off the mare, saddle creaking in the stillness of the mountain air. Once Michael saw he’d succeeded in getting Nate to dismount, he pretended to ignore the kid. He walked the gelding slowly around the small clearing as if assessing the injury, the dogs following behind him. As part of the act, he didn’t bother to try to hide his own aching muscles.
When he’d completed the circle and was returning to the starting point, he realized Nate had been watching the performance. Watching him, rather than the horse.
“You smoke?” he asked.
A lot of kids that age did, and it would provide another reason to prolong the break. Nate shook his head, his gaze now pointedly considering the trail down to the compound.
“Something bothering you?”
The kid turned, his eyes widened slightly. “What does that mean?”
“I’m just curious why you’re so damn skittish.”
“Skittish?”
“You keep to yourself. You keep your head down. You don’t talk. In my experience that means a man’s afraid of something or he’s hiding something. I just wondered which it was in your case.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about finding a good place to hide and then laying low. Trying to keep yourself off somebody’s radar screen,” Michael said, realizing that he had unconsciously repeated Colleen’s words about him. “I’ve done that a few times in my life.”
Nate shook his head. “I like working here. I like the country. The isolation.”
“So your family knows where you are.”
“I don’t have family. Not everybody does.”
“No family. No friends. No past.”
And no denial. The regard from those blue eyes was steady. Whatever fear Michael thought he’d seen in them before had been conquered or controlled.
“You about ready to head out?” the kid asked. “If we’re not back by six, there won’t be anything to eat until breakfast tomorrow.”
Since it was midafternoon, his excuse for leaving wasn’t terribly convincing. Given a chance to be on their own and without supervision, most cowboys would find a way to keep from going back before suppertime. It was almost expected.
“What’s the rush? Quarrels will just find something else for us to do. Relax.”
Nate’s lips flattened, but he didn’t argue. He led the mare over to an outcropping of rock and sat down. His mount began nibbling at the few patches of rough grass growing nearby. He signaled to the dogs and they lay down in a shady spot.
Michael made a pretense of walking the gelding for a few more minutes before he limped over to join Nate. Instead of sitting down beside him and taking a chance of scaring the kid off, he put his left foot up on the rock, resting his weight on his sound right leg. The position relieved some of the stress on the damaged knee.
“So how long you been here?”
“About six months.” The kid was ostensibly watching the two horses, which had begun ranging farther afield in search of more promising grazing.
“And the others? How long for them?”
“Less.” The admission was reluctantly made. “Nobody stays long.”
“Except you.”
“I told you. I like it here.”
Despite the determined front the kid was putting up, Michael’s conviction that he was on the run was still strong. There wasn’t much point in trying to push past this kind of stonewalling, however.
Maybe after he’d been here a while and earned Nate’s trust, the boy would be willing to confide in him. Until then, all he could do was keep an eye on Beaumont and at the same time do the job he’d been sent here for. Maybe if he couldn’t get Nate to talk about himself, he could get him to talk about the Half Spur.
“You like this place despite the weirdness?”
Nate turned his head, looking directly at him. His eyes were carefully blank.
“Those blood samples, for example,” Michael went on. “Nobody knows what they’re for or where they’re sent. You don’t think that’s weird? And Quarrels? Don’t tell me you don’t think there’s plenty strange about him.” No answer. By this time, of course, he wasn’t expecting one. “It makes me wonder what’s really going on here. And since you’ve been here a while…”
He let the sentence trail encouragingly. There was no response.
“Suit yourself,” he said after the silence stretched long and empty.
He pushed off the rock he’d been propped against, intending to admit defeat by going to round up the horses. As he put his left foot on the ground, the damaged knee buckled unexpectedly, throwing him off balanc
e. He put out his hand, grabbing for something solid to keep from falling.
His reaching fingers encountered Nate Beaumont’s shoulder, closing over it like a lifeline. With its support, he managed to right himself. As soon as he had, he loosened his grip on the kid.
Nate jumped to his feet, assuming a fighter’s crouch directly in front of him. In his right hand he held the equestrian knife he’d lent Michael minutes before, its short blade exposed.
Given the speed with which it had appeared, Michael realized belatedly that the boy must have already had the knife out. His hand had rested on the rock near his leg, the blade obviously hidden alongside it. Open and ready.
Michael straightened, leaning away from the weapon. He held up his hands, shoulder high, their palms toward the kid in a classically submissive posture.
“Whoa,” he said softly. “Take it easy.”
The boy’s eyes were feral, his entire body tensed and waiting. “Stay the hell away from me,” he said, his voice as menacing as the knife he held.
“Look, whatever you’re thinking—”
Michael had made the mistake of lowering his hands as he talked. The knife moved, threatening his gut.
“What I think is that you ask too many questions.”
“I thought I could help,” Michael said, his tone quiet and reasoned.
“I don’t need your help. Or your concern.”
“Okay. Whatever you say. Just put the knife down.”
“So we can talk?”
The tone of that mocking question was cynical and distrustful. And more bitter than the situation seemed to warrant.
Maybe he had pushed too hard, Michael acknowledged, but pulling a knife seemed an overreaction that needed some explanation.
“We don’t have to talk. Not if you don’t want to.”
“How’d you find me?”
Confused, Michael shook his head, keeping his eyes on the blade. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about how handy you thought a knife would be. How you ought to get one.”
Again Michael shook his head. “You’ve lost me. First of all, I didn’t find you, because I wasn’t looking for you. And what I said about the knife? That was just making conversation. It didn’t mean a thing.”
