Cowboy Swagger

by Joanna Wayne

  “Are we going to sit here all day, or are you going to drive?”

  Man, did he hate gorgeous, feisty redheads with svelte bodies and killer smiles. If he told himself that enough, he might even start to believe it sometime.

  About the time he believed that Texas was going to secede from the Union and bulls were really sweet-natured creatures who’d just gotten a bum rap.

  COLLETTE BUCKLED HER seat belt as Dylan shifted into Drive and gunned the accelerator. Fifty yards past the house, the ranch road became little more than tire grooves cut into the hard, dry earth. Overgrown pastures and broken fences stretched endlessly in front of them. They were totally alone.

  If she had any fear of Dylan, it would surely surface now. But there was none. She knew next to nothing about him yet she’d felt a connection with him almost from the moment he’d arrived at the ranch. She’d hoped he’d call, had been excited when she’d seen his truck parked in front of her house last night.

  Admittedly, he was cocky and a bit arrogant and even had a cowboy swagger about him, though his hands were too smooth to belong to a rancher. Yet he’d been protective and sensitive last night, supportive, but not overwhelming.

  Dylan lowered the driver’s window and propped his arm on the door. “It’s been five years since anyone’s run cattle out here and it shows.”

  “I didn’t realize anyone had been here since your father…”

  “Since he went to prison? You can say it, Collette. I won’t be offended by the truth.”

  “Sorry. It just seemed callous to put it so bluntly.”

  “No one’s lived in the house,” he explained, “but a man named Tom Hartwell rented the land. I’m assuming he used it for cattle. I don’t see any signs it’s been used for anything else.”

  “I know the Hartwells. His wife cuts hair at a salon on Main Street. Tom lost his arm in a hay-baling accident about five years ago. I heard he cut way back on his herd after that.”

  “I never heard that, but guess it explains why he quit renting the pastures of Willow Creek Ranch.”

  “Some people around here expected one of the Ledger sons to come back to run the ranch once you were grown.”

  “We talked about it,” Dylan admitted, “but neither my brothers nor I were excited about the prospect of living in Mustang Run.”

  “Does that mean you’re not staying?”

  “Don’t plan to, nor have I been invited. Now that my father’s out of prison, the ranch is his to run as he sees fit.”

  “Do you have a position to go back to?”

  “No. I joined the army right after I graduated from the university. When I was discharged six months ago, I gave working for my uncle’s advertising agency a shot. The job and I were not a fit. It required far too many hours shut up in an office.”

  Dylan turned to face her. She met his gaze and felt his penetrating stare vibrate though her. Even with all that had happened over the past few hours, she couldn’t escape the fact that he stirred something a bit primeval and feral in her.

  Dylan took a left that put them on a dirt road leading over a crest and then started downhill. “You seem calmer,” he said. “Now do you want to talk about what happened last night?”

  “I came here to let you know what my father is up to, not to rehash the attack.”

  “Your father is a smart man, Collette. He may not trust me, but he can’t manufacture a case against me. If he’s arrogant enough to try, Eleanor Baker will nullify the strategy as soon as she’s able to describe her real attacker.”

  “Assuming she got a good look at the man before he hit her over the head with the skillet.”

  “I say we go on that assumption until we find out differently. Better yet, let’s operate on the assumption that your father has a lead on your stalker by now. I’m sure he’s checking your phone records. It’s amazing how close they can pinpoint the origin of calls these days.”

  “If he has valid information, he hasn’t given me any of it.”

  “Have you had any more calls from the stalker?”

  “No.”

  “And there’s a good chance you won’t. He’s likely afraid to call now, for fear the sheriff already has a lead on identifying him.”

  Dylan stopped beneath an oak tree sporting its new cover of green leaves. A creek that was practically overflowing from the spring rains rushed past them.

  “Is this the ranch’s namesake?” Collette asked.

  “This is it. Willow Creek.”

  “I don’t see any willows.”

  “There are black willow trees along the northern edge of the creek. My brother Sean and I used to sit beneath them and fish for bream.” Dylan opened his door and climbed out of the truck. The scene in front of her was too tempting not to join him.

  She walked to the edge of the creek. “Did you ever swim in the creek?”

  “We had a better spot for swimming, though I’m not sure I can find it anymore, at least not by truck. None of us boys were driving then, so we went by horseback.”

  “Is it part of the creek?”

  “Better. It’s a spring-fed pool, cold year round, but the water felt great in July and August. I got in trouble more than once for sneaking off to swim before I’d finished my chores.”

  “And I’ll bet your brothers were right behind you.”

  “Wyatt was usually leading the way.”

  Dylan had known the life every Texas boy dreamed of and then he’d lost that and both parents. One to death. One to prison. It was difficult to believe that after all that, he’d become the confident, easygoing man he seemed today.

  “You must have missed life on the ranch terribly when you had to move away.”

  He shrugged. “For a while. I hated city life. Uncle Phil said I was a cowboy who fell out of the saddle and then lost the horse. At first it made me mad when he said that, but then I figured it was pretty much how things were.”

  “Who is Uncle Phil?”

  “My mom’s oldest brother, the one who owns the advertising agency. He and Aunt Sylvie were elected to take me in when my grandparents divvied us up.”

  That surprised her. “I just assumed you and your brothers went to live with your grandparents.”

  “Nope. They said five was too many for them to handle, so they shared the wealth. And don’t give me that look, Collette. I hate that look.”

  “What look?”

  “That oh-you-poor-dear look. So my life wasn’t ideal. Whose is? And that was all years ago.”

  “Point made.” She slipped out of her sandals and rolled up the legs of her jeans. Stepping cautiously to avoid sinking in a muddy spot, she made her way to the edge of the creek.

  Slowly she dipped a toe into the water. The cold slapped against her. She stumbled backward.

  Dylan’s arms wrapped around her and held her steady. Her breath held at the gentle pressure of his fingers on her stomach and the strong cushion of his chest at her back. She inhaled the musky, woodsy scent of him and something stirred deep inside her, an ache that was both sweet and painful at the same time.

  His arms tightened around her, and his lips touched the back of her neck. A tingle danced through her, leaving her weak.

  He exhaled slowly and released her. “Gotta watch those slippery slopes.”

  Too late. She was falling. And it had nothing to do with the water or the mud. She’d just have to make sure she didn’t fall so hard she couldn’t move on when Dylan left Mustang Run.

  Once out of the water, she wiped her damp feet on the thick carpet of grass and then slipped back into her sandals. Dylan waited and walked at her side as they started back to the truck. If the moment of closeness had gotten to him the way it had her, he showed no signs.

  Her cell phone rang. Part of her hoped the caller would be her stalker. She’d like to tell him that she knew he’d attacked Eleanor and that he would pay for it. Still, the dread stabbed at her composure as she took the phone from the leather holster attached to her low-riding jeans.


  The ID read Dad. The dread turned to fury. She didn’t bother with a hello. “Why did you call Melinda this morning and ask her to look up Eleanor’s articles on Troy Ledger?”

  “I’m working an investigation, Collette. The woman who was attacked is a reporter. I can’t rule out the fact that she pissed off somebody and they came after her.”

  “Not somebody, Dad. You asked about Dylan in particular. I told you this isn’t about Eleanor, and it’s definitely not about Dylan Ledger. Leave him out of this.”

  “Don’t start telling me how to do my job, Collette. What kind of crazy stunt do you think you’re pulling by going to the Ledger ranch?”

  “I figured someone should warn Dylan what you were up to.”

  “You did, did you?” Anger chipped at his words so that each syllable was sharp and spiked.

  “Yes. I’m with Dylan now, as a matter of fact.”

  “I’m not ruling out anyone and you can stop acting like Dylan’s attorney. You don’t even know the man you’re defending and cavorting with. I’m sending Brent to pick you up and drive you back to Bill’s.”

  “I’m not cavorting. And don’t bother sending Brent. I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

  “You’re as pigheaded as—”

  “You, Dad.” She broke the connection before he could say more. Her heart was pounding, but she knew what she had to do. Not for her but for Dylan. He’d been through enough in this town without her father shoveling more crap on top of him.

  Dylan opened the truck door for her. “I take it that was the sheriff.”

  “Yes, and as genial as he always is if someone dares to cross him.”

  “You don’t have to defend me to him, Collette. I fight my own battles, and I don’t want to come between you and your father.”

  “You’re way too late in the scheme of things to do that.”

  She considered her options on the drive back to the Ledger house. Staying with Bill and Alma wasn’t the answer. It would only disrupt their lives and Georgia’s.

  Staying alone in her house and thinking about Eleanor lying facedown in her blood every time she walked into the kitchen didn’t sound like a good idea, either.

  There was another choice. It would piss off her father, but he’d surely get the message that he couldn’t tell her whom she could befriend and whom she should reject.

  She shifted so she could face Dylan. “How do you think your father would feel about a houseguest his first week back in Mustang Run?”

  “So far, he’s not overly excited.”

  “You’re not a guest. You’re family.”

  He shot her a dubious look. “Am I missing something here?”

  “My father thinks I need a protector. I’m thinking you’d fit that bill to perfection. You have a big house. I’d stay out of the way. You’d hardly know I was there.”

  “Your father would go ballistic.”

  “That’s what makes this a win-win.”

  She’d just have to be careful on those sensual slippery slopes of attraction. Surely she could handle that.

  TROY HAD SPENT most of the morning driving aimlessly, down one blacktop road after the other, trying to come to grips with what it meant to be back in Mustang Run. He’d thought he could handle it, but eighteen years had done nothing to erase the pain of losing Helene.

  Every detail was still burned into his mind. The choking humidity that had slowed down his progress at setting a new row of fence posts and made him late getting home for lunch. The smell of burned peas. The voice of Mariah Carey singing about love on their old stereo system. Helene had loved Mariah Carey.

  He closed his eyes tight as the pictures slipped from their hiding places in his mind and returned to torture him. Helene’s beautiful body bloodied and nearly naked stretched out on the living-room floor. Her head was lying on the cold, hard stones of the hearth. Her long, dark hair was matted with her blood.

  Life had ended for him that day. He’d kept breathing and walking, going through the motions. But he’d stopped living. His attorney had accused him of not fighting hard enough to prove his innocence during the yearlong ordeal of questioning and trial. The truth was he hadn’t fought at all. Dead men had no fight left in them.

  He’d let down his sons. Helene would never forgive him that.

  He left the old farm-to-market road and turned into a section of town that had been ranch land the last time he’d seen it. Big houses of brick or stucco with two- and sometimes three-car garages filled every lot. Mostly commuters or retirees, he imagined. Mustang Run did not have the jobs to support that style of living.

  Leaving the suburbs behind him, he made his way to the old part of town. Main Street had become a strand of antiques shops and coffeehouses. The only establishment that bore any resemblance to a place he remembered was Abby’s Diner.

  Abby had been working at her father’s dry cleaners when Troy moved to Mustang Run to work as a wrangler for the Black Spur Ranch. He’d dated her a couple of times. They’d never clicked as a couple, but later, after Abby had opened the diner, she and Helene had become good friends.

  Troy had mostly roamed the rodeo circuit before settling in Mustang Run, working just enough to earn entrance fees. He’d found the wrangling job through a newspaper ad, and the New York owner of the Black Spur had hired him via a phone call. The guy had taken more interest in using the ranch for a tax write-off than making money.

  Troy made him money anyway and that’s when ranching had gotten into his blood.

  Impulsively, Troy pulled into a parking spot a few stores down and walked to the diner. The smell of coffee, cinnamon and spices greeted him when he stepped though the door.

  The chairs at the bar were mostly occupied by older guys, none of whom he recognized. Several looked up, though only one made eye contact. Troy nodded as the chatter in the small diner diminished into an uncomfortable hush.

  He made his way to a booth, slid in, removed his Western hat and set it on the seat beside him. The hat felt strange on his head, the same way his new boots and jeans felt, as if he were a pretender who should still be in a prison jumpsuit.

  A pretty, slim waitress with a nice smile and the whitest teeth Troy had ever seen stopped at his elbow. Her badge said her name was Jenny.

  “Just coffee?” Jenny asked, when he gave his order. “Abby makes the best biscuits and gravy in town.”

  So Abby was still around. At least something in this town had stayed the same, other than the arrogant sheriff. “I’ve already had breakfast,” he said. Even then his appetite had been dulled by the new developments with Dylan.

  He didn’t see the son he remembered when he looked at Dylan. The son he remembered was a scrawny kid who loved to watch cartoons on TV and hated homework. Dylan was a man now—with his mother’s eyes.

  That got to Troy, made him realize that his sons were all he had left of her. And they were strangers. None of the others had even bothered to contact him since he’d been released from prison. He understood why, but it didn’t make it any easier.

  “I wondered how long it would take you to face your adoring public.”

  Troy looked up as Abby wiped her hands on her white apron, slid into the booth across from him and pushed a mug of steaming coffee his way. Evidently, Jenny had reported they had an infamous celebrity in the house.

  The years hadn’t been nearly as hard on Abby as they’d been on him. If anything, she looked better than she had before. She’d picked up some weight. Her bones no longer poked at her skin.

  “My admirers don’t seem all that excited to see me,” he said.

  “Because they bought into the prosecutor’s lies. Your refusal to cooperate with your attorney didn’t leave them a lot of choice.”

  “Let’s not go back there.”

  “Whatever you say.” She reached over and straightened the envelopes of sweetener. “I heard Dylan came back to town to help you get settled in.”

  “Word gets around.”

&n
bsp; “You don’t need Facebook or Twitter to keep up with the gossip in Mustang Run.”

  “Good. I don’t even have a computer as yet.”

  “I’m glad Dylan came, Troy. The boys need to get to know you. They’re older now. They can make up their own minds about you and not have everything filtered through Helene’s family.”

  “I’m not expecting miracles.”

  “Maybe you should. You’re out of prison. That’s a miracle in itself.”

  “You could call it that.” And he wouldn’t waste the opportunity that provided him. He had a score to settle. He’d never rest easy until he did.

  Abby spread her hands palms down on the table. “Sheriff McGuire was in the other day.”

  “The man probably knows a good cup of coffee when he tastes it.”

  “You were the topic of his conversation. He’s not going to make your return easy on you.”

  “I wasn’t expecting him to throw a party.”

  “I’m serious, Troy. He said he planned to watch you like a hawk. Cross any line and he’ll come down on you like misery on Job.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Make sure you do.”

  The bell over the door rang and a middle-aged woman with frizzy brown hair and a rail-thin body stepped into the diner. A tall guy, muscled, with thinning hair and a tattoo on his left bicep, followed her in.

  The woman stared openly at Troy before sliding into a booth.

  Abby gave her a friendly wave and then leaned across the table. “Do you know who that is?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

  “Can’t say that I do.”

  “Edna Granger. You have to remember her. Five or six years younger than us. Wore her sweaters super tight. All the guys had the hots for her.”

  “I’m guessing I didn’t.”

  “I forgot. Once you met Helene, you didn’t know any other woman existed.”

  “Who’s the guy?” Troy asked, making conversation and pretending he cared.

  “I have no idea. I’ve never seen him before, but I can’t believe he’s a love interest. I’ve seen corpses that had more life in them than Edna.”

  “She looks like she’s had a tough life,” Troy agreed.