Fatal Burn

by Roxanne Rustand

  Megan scanned the property, her gaze falling on the kennels and barns. “On the phone you mentioned wanting to run an animal shelter.”

  Kris shook off her melancholy thoughts. “I sent in the check yesterday, so the county should be sending me a provisional license pretty soon. It’ll be a way to generate income so I can continue to update the place.”

  Megan tilted her head, considering. “But you still plan to sell?”

  “At first, I figured on a few months for sprucing things up and selling it in the spring. Now, I’m hoping to operate a shelter here for the next year.”

  “Good girl. The county needs a place like this, believe me.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get back on the road. Are you going to be okay out here all alone?”

  Kris laughed at that. “Bailey lets me know if anything comes on the property. I have neighbors, too—a gal and her brother who’ve been over quite a bit to help me out. And now, since I got that note, a deputy comes up the lane every now and then just to take a look. Between all of them, the guy I hired to help me with repairs and the new security system in the house, I should be all set.”

  Megan frowned. “Still…be careful. You’re awfully isolated here. In our county, we’ve had an upswing in meth labs and drug transport through the area. With hundreds of thousands of acres to cover and few deputies, it’s hard to catch everything going on, and I know it’s the same over here. I just wish you were in my jurisdiction, but you’re not even close.”

  “You should go over and say hello,” Carrie said. “You haven’t been back for a whole week.”

  “I’ve sent my men over for a few hours every day, though.”

  “But you’re her neighbor. You should stop in, too.”

  Carrie’s intent, stern look was undoubtedly part of her teacher’s arsenal, and if it was half as effective on young teens as it was on him, she was probably given considerable respect by the kids at Battle Creek Middle School.

  He turned to the gelding he’d cross-tied in the aisle of the barn and settled a saddle blanket on its broad back. “I will…one of these days.”

  “Today, Trace. You’ve got time. That gelding could use the miles, in fact.”

  He made a noncommittal sound as he swung his saddle up and gently positioned it over the blanket.

  “I’m not asking you to take her on a date. I’m just asking you to be neighborly.”

  Hadn’t he been? He’d done what he could to help Kris clean up Thalia’s place. He’d made sure she met Polly. Anything more might be misconstrued as personal interest, and he sure wasn’t going there.

  There were a dozen reasons why he should keep his distance…and all of them were far, far more important than the fact that Kris was one of the most attractive and intriguing women he’d ever met.

  He reached under the horse to snag the cinch. When he straightened, Carrie was at his side. Her concern for him was palpable…and that was another area he didn’t want to deal with. “I’ll get over there…later today. Maybe tomorrow. Promise.”

  Carrie rested her hand on his arm. “You can’t let that accident change your life. Do you think Bill—”

  “Drop it, Carrie.”

  Being Carrie, she ignored him and shook her head. “It’s been a year. He was one of your best friends, and he would’ve wanted you to move on.”

  The past weighed on his chest like a horseshoer’s anvil—a cold, smothering weight that made it hard for his heart to beat.

  Without sparing her a glance, Trace finished saddling the colt, slipped a snaffle bit into its mouth, gently looped the headstall over its head, then led the colt into the harsh sunshine glaring off the mounds of fresh snow.

  Ignoring the old, aching pain in his left knee, he swung into the saddle and shook some slack into the reins, then headed out toward the five hundred acres of government land leased to the Rocking R.

  Carrie was wrong.

  During those last few moments in that rodeo arena—moments that had seemed like an eternity as Trace watched the disaster unfolding—he’d prayed like never before.

  But he hadn’t made it in time.

  Trace didn’t deserve Bill’s forgiveness…and his friend certainly hadn’t had the chance to grant it at any rate. Maybe he was riding the ranges of heaven in peaceful bliss, but he sure hadn’t deserved his violent death.

  He should’ve been here on earth until his hair turned gray, tending his own ranch. His wife. His two kids.

  And he would’ve been, if Trace hadn’t let him down.

  SIX

  The colt—a big, black three-year-old Trace had nicknamed Rowdy—lived up to his name for the first half hour. On the long, plowed lane out to the highway he danced sideways, his neck arched and chin tucked, mouthing the snaffle bit and shaking his head.

  He shied wildly at the rustle of an owl’s wings in a tree high overhead. Startled at a downed log that had no resemblance whatsoever to a four-footed predator. Snorted and spun into a lightning fast rollback toward home when a fearsome rabbit appeared a good twenty feet away.

  When they reached the highway, Trace made him stand quiet and still and, with a reassuring hand on the colt’s neck, waited for a few cars to pass by.

  At the first, Rowdy snorted and shied explosively, trying to spin and bolt for home. At the second and third, he blew noisily through his nostrils and pawed, then tried to back up. Each time Trace gently but persistently made him stay in place. It took another fifteen minutes for a fourth car to appear, but this time, Rowdy just watched, his muscles rock-hard with tension.

  “So you’re not gonna try to make a break for it this time? Good boy.” Trace laid a rein lightly against the colt’s neck, turning him toward a network of trails leading through the government land that lay between the Rocking R and Wind Hill Ranch to the south.

  Good, rugged land for working the kinks out of a bow-backed colt with little experience and too much energy…which was the only reason Trace had chosen to go that way. That they were still heading south long after the colt quieted and got down to business had nothing to do with the new neighbor, either.

  At least not much.

  Though when the snow got deeper and the hills grew steeper, Trace finally debated about turning for home. What was he thinking? Saddling a green colt on a cold, windy day could be akin to cinching a keg of dynamite, but turning up too often at Wind Hill had the potential for more trouble than that.

  He’d been all wrong, the first day they’d met. He’d thought Kris was “halfway attractive,” but each time he saw her he seemed to see something new.

  The way she set her chin when she was determined to get a job done and then just wouldn’t quit, even when she looked exhausted.

  The sparkle in those big green eyes…though they seemed to hold old ghosts, too, which made him wonder anew why a gal like her was here all alone and not settled down somewhere with a passel of kids and a white picket fence. Then again, maybe she already had someone patiently waiting for her, while she was taking care of her inheritance.

  Which made perfect sense, come to think of it—all the more reason that getting too close to her wasn’t a good idea. Not at all.

  Yet…he still found himself riding on, as the trail wound down through a deep ravine, then back up through the thick pines to a boulder-strewn rise overlooking Thalia’s place. The little pine-rimmed meadow was as pretty as a postcard, with that old log barn and cabin, and a backdrop of soaring mountain peaks. And though he’d half wished her SUV would be gone and he could just turn for home, it was there…and he could see her old dog out by the kennel.

  Up here, he’d seen some footprints in the fresh snow, so she’d probably found some time to go exploring this morning. If she’d gotten this far, and had seen this view, how could she not want to stay in Montana forever?

  “Since she’s home, I guess we oughta say howdy,” he murmured, stroking Rowdy’s neck as he urged the colt forward.

  “Just to make Carrie happy.”

  At
the bottom of the hill he positioned Rowdy next to the gate so he could open it and get into the meadow. Still green, the colt danced in place, balked, then crow-hopped when Trace leaned down again to shut the gate.

  The old retriever had taken up a position on the cabin porch but now he came barreling across the meadow, barking furiously in full watch-dog mode.

  Kris appeared at the door of the kennel. “Bailey! No!”

  The dog kept coming, bounding through the deep snow.

  Rowdy snorted, reared, scrambled to keep his footing on the icy slope, then crashed sideways into the fence, slamming Trace’s left leg against a post. Blinding pain rocketed through Trace’s bad knee and the world spun in an explosion of stars, then went dark.

  “Trace? Trace!” Kris’s voice came from far away.

  He swallowed back a wave of nausea.

  Blinked.

  And found himself looking up into her worried face. A soft hand cradled the side of his jaw.

  Startled, he blinked again and shook his head—and instantly regretted it. “I feel like I got hit with a sledgehammer,” he muttered when the throbbing pain faded. Alarm shot through him. “Where’s my horse?”

  “He seems fine.” She held up a hand holding Rowdy’s reins. “But I’m not so sure about you. He squashed your left leg against the fence. Then he slipped and went over backward, and slammed you against that tree next to the gate. It’s a wonder you’re not dead.” She held up a cell phone. “I was just going to call 911.”

  “Don’t.” The snow beneath him was wet and cold, but even so, he felt warmth creep up the back of his neck. “I’m fine.”

  “Right. After putting a dent in that poor tree with your head.”

  He knew she was kidding, but it hurt too much to smile.

  On any other day he would have bailed in time. He would’ve been in control of the situation. But he’d been caught unaware when Rowdy crashed into the post—probably undoing two years of healing and more physical therapy appointments than he could count.

  “I—I’ll just get on my horse and be on my way. Got chores to do.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  She leaned down to peer into his eyes and he caught the scent of her perfume…or maybe it was her shampoo. Light and lemony, reminding him of a spring day…

  “Pupils are equal. No blood I can see. But people die from blows to the head, and I’m not having that on my conscience. Can you stand up?”

  If it involved using his bad leg, maybe not…but he didn’t want to admit to weakness around her, either. Gritting his teeth, he levered himself out of the snow, then crouched for a second.

  She hooked an arm under his and helped him slowly rise to his feet. “Take it easy, cowboy.”

  She looked a little fuzzy, but maybe it was snowing. Was it snowing? “See? Fine. I’m just fine.”

  “I’m calling Carrie.”

  Alarm shot through him, and just like that, his brain cleared. If Carrie got wind of this, she’d be fluttering around him 24/7—just as she had after he’d come home from the hospital following the Denver rodeo, surgery and a month of rehab.

  “Look, I’ll just catch my breath for a few minutes, but nothing more than that—and don’t call Carrie.”

  Kris wavered, then her eyes narrowed. “In that case, I’ll take you to the house and keep an eye on you for a while. I’ve got empty box stalls in the barn, and thanks to you and Carrie, there’s even some hay in there. I can give your horse a few leaves of alfalfa to keep him happy.”

  He forced himself to match her pace without limping, even though the pain in his knee escalated with every stride. By the time they reached the porch, he was sweating like he’d done a marathon in midsummer.

  “Does Rowdy ground tie?” Her gaze flicked between the horse and her front door.

  “Nope.”

  “Can I tie him long enough to get you in the house?”

  “Probably. Know how to tie a quick-release knot?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Was I born in Montana?”

  He considered, realizing that there was a lot he didn’t know about her, and it now seemed like pretty fascinating stuff. “Guess I’m not sure.”

  “Well, I was, and I know how to tie a horse.” She swiftly tied a slipknot that could be released with a single tug of the free end, then ushered him into the kitchen and settled him in a chair. “Don’t even think about moving. I’ll be back in a flash.”

  The kitchen was warm, the pale yellow walls lit by winter sun streaming through the windows facing the back of the property. The rich scent of coffee filled the air, and he looked longingly at the coffeepot sitting on the counter.

  She followed his gaze. “Nope. Not just yet.”

  She was as bossy as Carrie and his former fiancée combined.

  Trace waited until she disappeared out the door, then used both hands to position his leg at a more tolerable angle. It was already starting to stiffen up, and as much as he hated to admit it, ending up in Kris’s kitchen seemed like a good alternative to being on Rowdy’s back right now.

  Minutes later footsteps clomped up the back porch, and she walked in with her dog at her heels, watching Trace intently as she peeled off her heavy down jacket and kicked off her snowboots, then released her long, sunstreaked hair from her navy stocking cap. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold.

  Bailey circled a few times and then curled up in front of the refrigerator. Kris poured a half cup of coffee and stood across the table from him, cradling it in her hands instead of handing it over. “You’re feeling okay?” When he nodded, she added, “You’re sure?”

  He cracked a smile, and dredged up his best country charm. “I’ll be good when I thaw out…and that coffee would sure help, ma’am.”

  She handed it over. “This whole thing is against my better judgment.”

  “I got bucked off of worse bulls and broncs in my day. One green colt is nothing.”

  “You rodeo?”

  Her voice held none of the awe he’d inspired in the cute little buckle bunnies who’d frequented the rodeo circuit. He gave her a wary look over the rim of his coffee cup. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about his rodeo career—or the end of it. “Uh…yeah. I did.”

  Resting a hip against the counter, she folded her arms. “Travel a lot?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “I’ll bet that was a hard transition.”

  He shrugged. “I cashed in my savings, bought a ranch, and came back to Montana.”

  “You didn’t grow up on the Rocking R?”

  “My dad had a ranch not too far from here. But his health failed early and with one thing or another, he had to sell out when I was barely in high school.”

  “So you turned to rodeo.”

  Trace gave a self-deprecating laugh. “To a kid living on a failing ranch, rodeo was filled with glamour and excitement. The adventure of the open road, prize money and all that.”

  “You must’ve done well, to buy a ranch.”

  He shrugged. “The first few years were hand-tomouth—sharing a truck and gas money with two other guys. Sleeping in back-lot stalls, living on fast food and dreams.”

  “Some of my friends dated rodeo cowboys, but they were bad news, with big dreams, then bad excuses for all the times they didn’t come back home when expected, or were out carousing. When one was photographed for a rodeo magazine with his arm around some little cowgirl, it nearly broke my friend’s heart. He was just like all of his wild pals.”

  The guy had been blind, if the girl had been anything like Kris. “Well, I wasn’t like that. And none of my buddies were, either.”

  She didn’t look convinced, and it shouldn’t matter what she thought. He was hardly here trying to wrangle himself a date. Yet at the doubt in her eyes, he found himself wanting to prove her wrong. “A lot of guys I know belong to a Christian rodeo cowboy association. Most of them are dead serious about success in the year-end standings, and for that you need the focus of an athlete.”

  Sh
e nodded. “It’s a hard life, I know.”

  If only she knew. “A body can take just so much before it starts catching up to you. So now I raise bucking stock, quarter horses and cattle.” He drained the last of his coffee, then glanced at his watch. “And speaking of that, I need to get on my way.”

  “Let me give you a ride home. You could get your horse later.”

  From outside came the sound of tires crunching through the snow. Glancing out the window, he could see a van stop by the kennel. A trio of little girls poured out of the side door the second it opened.

  “Looks like you’ve got business, anyway. How are things going?”

  She laughed. “Like a landslide. In the first forty-eight hours I had two litters of kittens and four stray dogs brought in. Since then, two cats and another dog, plus a guinea pig named Mittens who whistles at everyone who walks by. There’ve been three adoption forms filled out so far.” She hesitated. “The bad part is that I’ve gotten a couple of anonymous calls about someone running a puppy mill, but the caller didn’t give the guy’s name—just the name of a gravel road that crosses the entire county.”

  At the image of her facing down some irate man, he felt a distinct rush of unease. “The caller should’ve contacted the sheriff, not you. Don’t go checking on that place by yourself.”

  A faint tinge of pink darkened her cheeks. “I actually did go out looking, a couple times. I drove slowly, and covered maybe twenty miles of that road looking for anything suspicious. I’d like to give the sheriff’s office something more concrete than information from an anonymous caller.”

  Trace winced at the thought of her out there, all alone. “Some of those places are terrible, and the owners could be mighty defensive about someone snooping around.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t snooping, and I’m not careless. I reread the old procedure manual, then called the sheriff’s office. Apparently one of the deputies is supposed to go check it out, but I haven’t heard anything.”