The Trouble With Cowboys

by Melissa Cutler

  Desperate for her to know the whole truth, he tried again to explain. “I never asked my uncle to do that, and he won’t change his mind. You have to understand, I don’t want anything to do with Amarex. I’m not that guy. I’m a rancher.”

  She stopped walking at the edge of a pond, the sort of man-made watering hole for livestock to use as drinking water. She wound back and chucked the briefcase into the air like a Frisbee. With a splash, it landed in the middle of the pond.

  There wasn’t much in there that Kellan didn’t have extra copies of or couldn’t easily replace. He watched the briefcase bob, hoping the act had helped to alleviate her fury.

  He touched her shoulder. “Amy . . .”

  Quick as a whip, she whirled on him. Her hands were fists. Her eyes, fire. “I let you in to my life,” she hissed. “I told you family secrets. Things Amarex can hold against us.”

  “I would never . . .”

  Her hand sliced through the air. “I don’t want to hear your excuses.”

  Nodding, he shut up. She wasn’t going to listen to him tonight anyway. Anger was too great a barrier to hear through. He’d been in that place himself and knew it was a hell of a haul back to normal from an emotion that powerful.

  She kicked a rock into the water, then another. “Do you know why I had a breakdown on Ultimate Chef Showdown? ”

  It was his turn to blink. Where was she going with that kind of question? “Yes.”

  She nodded, still scowling at him. “Brock McKenna sauntered onto the set a bona fide cowboy, complete with a championship rodeo belt buckle and a new black Stetson. Called himself a cowboy cook from Texas, like he was really something special. He certainly had me going, that’s for sure.”

  Kellan knew all that. He’d seen it for himself, but no way was he going to interrupt her.

  “But it was a lie,” she continued. “He used me. I didn’t realize how deep his manipulations went until the show aired and I watched it happen, episode by episode. And you want to hear the real kicker? He wasn’t even a cowboy. He grew up in Portland. The rodeo thing was a shtick. And everybody knew it but me. Viewers laughed at me. Brock McKenna laughed at me. And the show’s producers laughed at me all the way to the bank. They milked my stupidity for everything it was worth.”

  She paused, as though expecting him to respond. But what could he say? What she went through must have been hell on earth. “I’m so sorry.”

  She seemed not to hear him. “I thought I’d learned my lesson. But I didn’t learn shit. Because, come to find out, you and your uncle and all his Amarex cronies have been laughing at me as you screwed me over too.”

  “Amy, no.”

  “When you drive onto my property, are you sizing it up for the day it belongs to you?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Are you going to raze the house and barn, give your cattle more acres to roam?”

  “No.”

  “Bullshit.” She huffed and flapped her arms out, shouting her words up to the stars. “All my rules, they haven’t done me a lick of good. I’m so stupid. I’m not even disciplined enough to follow my number one rule—stay away from cowboys. Why can’t I do that one thing right?”

  Kellan squared his chest and took it like a man. He deserved whatever cruelty Amy needed to dish out, now that she’d finally gotten around to yelling. Maybe it would help her heal.

  She turned to him again. “I thought it was bad enough that you didn’t feel the spark between us like I did. And, boy, I felt it with you. But no, you really did just want a casual screw. Hey, I told myself, at least he’s being honest. I’ve never had a cowboy be so honest with me before.” She swabbed a hand over her face, then burst forward, charging him, smacking him square on the chest with her fists. “You used me. You lied to me.”

  Kellan braced his feet on the ground and let her pummel him. The pain felt good. Necessary. Because he had used her, only not in the way she’d assumed. He’d used her because he loved the way he felt about himself when he was with her. He held himself within the circle of her warmth even though he knew it was wrong to get close to her.

  Stumbling, she wiped the tears from her cheek and seemed to run out of steam. “You let me believe you were different from all the other no-good, two-faced cowboys I’ve shared myself with. But you’re as rotten as the rest of them.”

  She was right. He was.

  “Get the hell off my land before I call the police.”

  It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, walking away without defending himself. He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until he tried to put the truck key in the ignition. With a quiet curse, he took a deep breath and tried again. This time, the key slid into place and he brought the truck to life. Then he drove away, his eyes on the rearview mirror, but Amy never walked into view.

  Chapter 13

  Kellan handed Vaughn a hammer from the tool kit balancing on the top of the stall. Vaughn secured Remington’s front foot on his thigh over his worn leather farrier apron and got to work. The horse complied, but snorted in annoyance. He always had been an ornery beast, by far the most opinionated of Kellan’s horses, but also his favorite to ride.

  He’d skipped church that morning. If Amy was there, he wanted her to be able to worship in peace, without his unwanted presence mucking up her day. After chores, he saddled Remington and spent the early afternoon riding his property line. On their journey home to prep for his friends’ arrival for football and barbecue, they’d crossed a pasture made muddy by melting snow and Remy’s front shoe came loose. Perfect timing because Kellan had something to discuss with Vaughn in private.

  After a heartbreaking loss by the Denver Broncos, Chris, Lisa, and their clan left, and he and Vaughn headed to the stable. Replacing a horseshoe was one of the few ranching skills Vaughn possessed. Inevitable, in his case, considering he grew up the son of farriers.

  Vaughn had worked his way through high school and college at his folks’ farrier and blacksmith shop, one of the few mom-and-pop operations of its type left in the area. With a self-deprecating twinkle in her eye, his mom loved to tell stories of how Vaughn broke their hearts when he confessed to them his dream of going into law enforcement instead of taking over the family business.

  Back when Kellan bought his first horses for Slipping Rock, it had been Vaughn’s folks who shoed them. One afternoon, Vaughn burst in with the news he’d been hired as a Quay County deputy sheriff. His father, Greg, took everyone in the vicinity out for a celebratory beer. And the rest, Vaughn might say, was history.

  As he had innumerable times before, Kellan acted as an assistant while Vaughn worked his horseshoe magic by the light of the fluorescent bulbs strung along the stable ceiling.

  When Vaughn had straightened the clinch of another shoe nail enough to clip it off, Kellan traded the hammer for a clinch cutter. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  He snipped the tip and took the hammer from Kellan to start on the next one. “Let me guess. Amy Sorentino?”

  “Sort of.”

  He glanced up, an eyebrow cocked in question, as he hammered. “All right. Talk away.”

  “My uncle contacted me last weekend.”

  “Lucky you, right? What a prick that guy is.”

  Kellan snickered. “Got that right. He sent a courier over with an Amarex file.”

  “One of those wayward youths he employs under the table?” Vaughn finished with the last nail and exchanged the clinch cutter for a nail-puller.

  Like I used to be. “Yep.”

  Vaughn repositioned the hoof between his legs. “Do the world a favor and call me next time. I’ll come by and arrest the punk for trespassing, maybe scare some sense into him about his chosen career path. Call it a community service.”

  “I took care of that with my .45. I don’t think the kid’ll make the same mistake again.”

  Remington gave another snort of protest as Vaughn tugged the first nail out. He made it look easy, but Kellan had tried it a few times a
nd knew how much muscle was involved in getting the nail to budge. “Nice. Why did Morton send you stuff from the company? He’s got to know you don’t want anything to do with Amarex.”

  Kellan had never shared with his friends that he slipped cases to his lawyer buddy, nor that Morton regularly forwarded files to him. “He does it when the contract involves Catcher Creek property, just to get under my skin. My guess is that he enjoys my reaction to finding out that his company’s screwing my neighbors.”

  “Like I said, a real prick. Which neighbor is the file on this time?”

  “Amarex is preparing to sue Amy’s family for breach of contract.”

  Vaughn paused midpull. “Breach of contract? Sorentino Farm is dry.”

  “That’s just it. The lines in the contract that the lawsuit cites are all about exploration privileges. Totally bogus. Amarex hasn’t explored this sector of Quay County in nearly a decade. There’s no new oil to find. So I paid Morton a visit to press for answers.”

  Vaughn went back to pulling nails. “He give you any?”

  Kellan shrugged. “He said he knows the property’s dry but he wants to buy it anyway.”

  “How would suing them accomplish that?”

  “There’s a clause written into the oil leasing rights contract Gerald Sorentino signed giving Amarex first right of purchase should the property be foreclosed on.”

  Vaughn shook his head. “That man never did one right thing by his women.”

  “I’m with you there.”

  With the final nail out, Vaughn took a puller from Kellan, adjusted his grip on the hoof, and put his back into a push that levered the shoe free. Remington tossed his head, impatient to be done. “Easy, big boy. You know I have a treat in my pocket for you when we’re done.” He released the hoof, handed the puller and shoe to Kellan, and rubbed the horse’s flank to settle him. “I know the sisters have had their share of financial trouble, but is their farm in imminent danger of foreclosure?”

  “Not imminent yet. Morton admitted he’s suing to push the Sorentinos into bankruptcy and force the sale.”

  “Whoa. He told you that? That’s so illegal I want to arrest you for talking about it.” After wiping his hands on a rag, he took up a rasp and claimed Remington’s foot again.

  “That’s why you and I are having this conversation.”

  The rasp moved rhythmically over the foot, smoothing out the jagged edges in preparation for a new shoe. “Does Amy know of your involvement with Amarex?”

  “She does as of last night.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “Not good. Didn’t help that her mom had a health scare yesterday. Bethany might not make it through this one.”

  “Aw, no. Are Amy and her sisters taking it hard?”

  “Hard enough. But I think they knew it was coming.” Kellan collected the pile of nails from the ground, glancing sideways at Vaughn. “Rachel seems to be handling it best. Nothing seems to get under her skin.” Except you.

  The rasp stopped. Vaughn’s lips were a thin line. He stared at the hoof for a few beats, then resumed his task, never meeting Kellan’s eyes. “If Amarex is suing the Sorentinos, you can’t have anything to do with Amy on a personal level. Honestly, I can’t believe you took her on a date Friday night. That’s wrong on so many levels—ethically, morally.”

  “I know, but—”

  Finally, Vaughn looked at him square, pointing the rasp at him. “But nothing. You’ve got to quit seeing her immediately and keep your distance until the Amarex business is sorted out. No more dates, no more looks at church. And whatever you do, don’t sleep with her again.”

  Kellan poked a shoe nail with the pad of his thumb, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to sting. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have. She hates me now, so there’s no danger of repeating the mistake.”

  “I don’t mean to be harsh, man, but you’ve got to understand. There’s a line you can’t cross.”

  “Yeah, I know. You can get off my back now.”

  Vaughn released Remington’s foot, tossed the rasp into the tool bin, and straightened. “I don’t think you get it, but okay. About this lawsuit. Morton’s confession would be enough to open a criminal investigation. FBI would need to be involved, since the situation crosses state lines, but I’ve got a contact there I could reach out to. Too bad you didn’t get it on tape.”

  “Actually, I did.”

  The car’s clock flipped to ten-thirty as Amy pulled in beside Rachel’s truck. Her day at the hospital had been draining, to say the least. Hours spent filling out paperwork and deliberating with doctors about Mom’s care options. The doctors and nurses were kind. They spoke in low, grave tones and gave Amy sympathetic looks. A few patted her arm and offered words of comfort.

  Mom was still unconscious, but stable. The surgery stopped the bleed in her brain, but how much damage had been done was a mystery. Amy sat at her bedside for as long as she could, holding her hand and babbling on about safe, happy topics. She outlined the Local Dish’s grand opening menu, recounted Tommy’s latest escapades, and read Psalms from the Bible she’d brought. Though she’d never needed its calming effect more, she’d missed church to be with her mom. A Sunday worship took place in the hospital’s chapel, and she’d planned to slip away from the stroke ward to attend, but Mom’s physician breezed into the room in time to dash her plan.

  Frustrating, that in the past two days she’d broken four out of her top five personal rules. From public crying to spewing a whole load of idiotic, verbal diarrhea. And, of course, the megarule failure—falling for Kellan Reed’s act. As for her other rule, saying sorry when she needed to, she’d avoid breaking it tomorrow when she sat her sisters down and apologized for bringing an Amarex spy into their private lives.

  She dragged her weary legs up the porch steps.

  “Hey.”

  Amy squeaked in surprise and slipped down a step. She grabbed the handrail and scanned the darkened porch. Rachel was sitting on the swing, holding a beer bottle. “Oh, my heart. I didn’t see you there.”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t sleep.”

  Amy crested the stairs. “Okay, but what are you doing outside? It’s freezing.”

  “House is too small.”

  It was an old saying of their dad’s. No house, not even a grand mansion, had enough breathing room for either him or Rachel. Only expansive vistas and endless desert valleys gave comfort to their restless spirits.

  With her hands on her chest, measuring her still-quickened heart rate, she flopped onto the bench next to Rachel. Her feet inadvertently sent two empty beer bottles rolling across the floor.

  She could count on one hand the times Rachel had taken to drinking. None of the situations had been in celebration, or even just because. “What’s wrong, Rach?”

  “Hmph.” She took a pull on the bottle in her hand. “How’s Mom?”

  Amy tsked, annoyed. Typical Rachel to avoid emotional exposure, even when asked a direct question. And how totally opposite from Amy. With a stoic foil like Rachel, no wonder Amy felt like a crazed lunatic since coming home. Blowing a strand of hair away from her eyes, she tossed her purse onto the side table. “She’s no better or worse than the last time I updated you over the phone. Not conscious, but not in pain, either. Which is a blessing.”

  “Doctors have any idea when she might wake up?”

  She snagged Rachel’s beer and took a long gulp. She wasn’t much of a beer drinker, but the stuff hit the spot tonight. “They’re not sure if she’ll ever wake up. Honestly? I don’t know if I want her to. She looks so peaceful, lying there in bed. It’s hard to pray for her to wake up when she might not want to. Her mind and body have been through a lot this year.”

  Rachel nodded. “We’ll pray for her to be in peace, then. Whatever that entails.”

  “That, I can manage.” She took another swig of Rachel’s beer. Maybe she could get her sister to open up about her troubles by approaching the subject from another angle. “Did you eat
dinner?”

  “Yes. Mr. Dixon made enchiladas. Pretty good, too.”

  Amy stretched her arms up and her legs out. Damn, she was tired. “Anything new around the farm?”

  Rachel kicked one of the toppled bottles and watched it roll to the edge of the porch. “We were served the Amarex lawsuit this morning.”

  “Oh, no.”

  Rachel leaned forward, hunching into the elbows she’d propped on her knees, the beer cradled between her hands. “Some muscle-headed moron came right up to me while I was reroofing the chicken coop. Asked if I was Rachel Sorentino and when I said I was, he handed me a manila envelope. He said, You’ve been served.” She huffed. “And here I thought they only said that on TV.”

  “No wonder you’re drinking.”

  She puffed her cheeks with air and let it out in a slow stream. “After this moron left, I was pissed. Couldn’t concentrate on the roofing project, so I took a walk to let off some steam. Know what I found?”

  “What?”

  “A briefcase floating in the pond.”

  Amy’s stomach lurched. So much for waiting until tomorrow to apologize.

  “I fished it out, laid the papers on the kitchen table to dry. They were Amarex documents. Our family name on every page. Including a duplicate of the papers I got served today. You know anything about how that briefcase came to rest in our pond?”

  Amy snatched the beer and downed the rest. “Yes, I do.”

  Headlights and a noisy diesel engine announced someone’s arrival.

  Vaughn was at Kellan’s kitchen sink, scrubbing his hands after finishing with Remington. At the table, Kellan was elbow deep in a bag of potato chips. They exchanged questioning looks.

  The clock on the oven read eleven-fifteen. Way past the good folks of Catcher Creek’s bedtime. Kellan shrugged. He had no idea who could be calling at his house so late at night. Abandoning the chips, he slunk to the window and looked through the slats of the closed blinds. Nothing. “Whoever’s here parked around the corner, out of view.”