by Janet Dailey
As he backed out of the gate, which swung loose from the damaged post, he asked himself one more time whether he could really make a go of this ranch. There was so much to be done, and so little in the way of resources to do it with. Maybe he’d be better off selling the land, pulling up stakes, and starting over somewhere new.
Selling the hay to neighboring farms and ranches had given him enough money to live on—but he was barely getting by. He needed more income from the ranch. But buying even a few calves to raise and sell would require money he didn’t have, and no bank he’d ever talked to would grant a loan to an ex-convict.
He could look for a job. He hadn’t tried in Branding Iron. But facing another string of rejections was more than his pride could handle. A man with his record couldn’t be trusted to muck out a stable without stealing the horses.
Gloomy thoughts for a gloomy day. As he drove toward the highway, he made a mental shift to the memory of the woman who’d crashed into his gate that morning. She reminded him of somebody—some actress he’d seen on TV back in the day. He recalled little details, the way her dark red hair curled against her porcelain cheek; the way her emerald green scarf matched her eyes; and the cool, challenging look those eyes had given him. Classy and confident—those were the words that came to mind. Something told him the lady knew how to play hardball. But there was softness about her full lips and amply curved body. She hadn’t introduced herself. But that was just as well. He certainly didn’t plan on meeting her again—not even if she’d spun off down the road.
Coming up on his left was the home of his nearest neighbor. Jubal McFarland was in his front yard, clearing ice off the front walk. He waved as Travis drove past. Travis returned the greeting and drove on. Good people, the McFarlands. They’d invited him to dinner a couple of times, but knowing he couldn’t reciprocate, Travis had made his excuses.
He could almost envy what Jubal had—a prosperous ranch, a loving wife, and two children who’d make any man proud. But Travis knew better than to dwell on what he’d never have. Any hope of such a life had vanished with the thump of a judge’s gavel and the clang of a cell door.
Turning onto the highway, which had been salted to melt the ice, was a relief. As he passed Hank’s Hardware on his right, Travis noticed a crew of workers unloading cut Christmas trees from a big flatbed truck and stacking them in the store’s fenced side lot. Sweet racket, those trees. Hank had the only Christmas tree lot this side of Cottonwood Springs, and he charged top dollar for every one of them. Not that Travis cared. Damn sure, he wouldn’t be buying a tree this year, or any other year—especially from Hank.
He pulled into the Shop Mart parking lot and climbed out of the truck. His muscles had stiffened on the ride to town. Even walking hurt like blazes. He grabbed some liniment and some over-the-counter pain pills off the shelves and checked out through the express line. On the way back to the truck, he wrenched the lid off the ibuprofen and swallowed two capsules dry.
The cold wind was bitter through his coat. His rumbling belly reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since last night. By now, Buckaroo’s Café would be open. A cup of good, hot coffee and a slice of their flaky apple pie would hit the spot. The money would be better saved for necessities, but there were times, like this morning, when he needed something extra.
Travis climbed into the truck and headed downtown. He was hungry, discouraged, and felt like three-day-old roadkill.
So why did he have this strange sense that something was about to happen—something he would never have expected?
Chapter 2
Buckaroo’s, on Main Street, was the only restaurant in Branding Iron, except for the B and B, which just served breakfast. Tucked away between a barber shop and a small parking lot, it was mostly a burger and pizza place, but they served good coffee, and the pie, made and delivered by a woman in town, was first-rate.
The place had just opened when Travis walked in, but it was already filling up. The stools at the counter were occupied, as were the three booths. The only empty seat was in the corner, opposite an old man who lived at the far end of Travis’s road. The two had met and talked a few times. Abner—that was the old duffer’s name. Abner Jenkins.
“ ’Morning, Abner,” Travis greeted him. “Mind if I sit here?”
“Suit yourself.” The old man, usually amiable, didn’t even look up as Travis slid into the booth. He was gazing down at his fresh coffee like a death row inmate contemplating his last meal.
Travis had always believed in minding his own business. But something about the old fellow’s downcast expression roused his concern. “You don’t look so good, Abner,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Abner glanced up, as if noticing him for the first time. “Not unless you can take ten years off this old body. The doc’s convinced my kids that I mustn’t live alone on my farm. They’ve sold the place right out from under me. This week the new owners are movin’ in, and I’m goin’ to Denver to live with my daughter’s family.” A tear rolled down his plump, bewhiskered cheek.
“I’m sorry, Abner,” Travis said. “But you never know. It might be nice having family around you.” Travis paused to give his order for coffee and pie to the waitress. On second thought, he ordered a slice for Abner, too. The old fellow looked as if he could use it.
“Oh, it’s not me I’m worried about,” Abner said. “It’s my two old horses and my dog, Bucket. I can’t take ’em to the city with me, and the fancy new owners don’t want ’em.” Another tear plopped into his coffee. “The horses are old, and Bucket is goin’ on eight years. I know what happens to animals nobody wants. Bucket will get put to sleep. Patch and Chip will get sold for dog food, or glue, or whatever the hell they do with horses these days. Those critters are like family to me. Just thinkin’ about ’em makes me want to bawl like a baby.”
The waitress brought Travis’s coffee and two servings of pie. Travis slid one toward Abner. “This one’s for you,” he said.
“Thanks, that’s right neighborly of you.” Abner picked at the pie with his fork but didn’t seem to have much appetite.
“Can’t you find somebody to take your animals?” Travis asked. “Surely with all the farms and ranches around here, somebody would want them.”
“I put notices up in the post office and the library, but nobody’s called me. The trouble with Patch and Chip is that they’re draft horses. They’re gentle, and I’ve trained ’em good, but folks don’t want ’em for riding because they’re so big. And everybody’s got tractors these days. Folks don’t need horses for work anymore.
“Bucket, now, he’s a great dog, half border collie and smart as a whip. But people who’ve got dogs don’t want another one. Or if they do, they want a puppy.” Abner’s sad eyes brightened as he looked at Travis. “Say, what about you?”
Travis choked on his coffee. He took a sip of water to cool his throat. He should’ve seen this coming before he walked right into it.
“I’ve been by your place,” Abner said. “You’ve got a barn that’s empty, except for the hay you’re sellin’. It’s even got a few stalls for horses. Patch and Chip would do fine there. And Bucket’s a great watchdog.”
“But I don’t know anything about horses!” Travis protested.
“What’s to know? You give ’em hay and water and muck out their stalls every few days. In good weather, you can turn ’em out to pasture. If it’s money you’re worried about, I’ll have a little left over from sellin’ my farm. I can give you a few hundred for their feed.”
Travis felt as if he’d stepped into quicksand and was sinking deeper by the minute. “I just don’t know . . . ,” he muttered.
“Hey, what’s a ranch with no animals on it?” Animated now, Abner shoveled in a bite of pie. “Tell you what. If you don’t want to keep ’em, can I at least leave ’em with you for now? They’ll have to be put down if I don’t find a place before I leave tomorrow.”
Travis sighed. “For now? How long is that?”
“Just long enough for you to find ’em another home. Somebody’s bound to want ’em.” Tears welled in the old man’s eyes. “Please, you’re my last hope. Those critters are like my kids. I can’t just go off and leave ’em to die.”
Travis emptied his coffee mug. “Well, I guess I could at least stop by your place and have a look at them.”
“Why take time for that? I can bring ’em over to your place this afternoon and stick around to help get ’em settled in. It’ll be no trouble at all.”
Something told Travis the old man was afraid he’d change his mind once he saw the animals. But what the hell—even after three years in prison, where he’d seen the worst of humanity, he was still a sucker for a hard luck story.
“All right,” he said. “Will you need any help getting them to my place?”
Abner shook his head. “It’s only a couple of miles by the road. I can walk the horses over behind the truck, and Bucket can ride with me.”
“Fine. I’ll be waiting for you. Watch out for the ice.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. And thanks. There’s bound to be a heavenly reward for folks like you.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” Travis put cash on the table for the coffee and pie and left Abner to finish eating. Only as he walked outside, to a clearing sky, did it hit him what he’d just committed to. He swore under his breath as he walked to his truck.
Why hadn’t he just said no ? He ought to have his fool head examined!
The sun was already warming the day, melting the ice on roads and sidewalks to slush. At the far end of Main Street, he passed the complex of wings that housed the city and county offices, the library, the sheriff’s department, and the jail. There in the parking lot, in the space clearly marked for the mayor, was the big, black Lincoln Town Car that had crashed into his gatepost that morning. At least the uppity redhead had made it safely back to town. But she didn’t appear fussy about whose parking place she took. She couldn’t be the mayor. Maybe she was the mayor’s wife.
Not that he gave a damn either way. She was just one more annoyance in a day that had taken on more trouble than he wanted. There was nothing to do but forget her, go home, try to fix the gate, and get the barn ready for Abner’s animals.
* * *
Maggie left her desk and, after a word to the receptionist, walked down the hallway to the wing that housed the sheriff’s office. The morning had kept her busy, but she still had questions about the gruff stranger at the old abandoned ranch. Maybe the sheriff would have some answers. If not, she would need to make him aware of the situation.
Sheriff Ben Marsden rose to greet her. Superman handsome, he kept a framed photo of his wife, son, and baby daughter on proud display. He and Maggie had gone through school together and were old friends.
“Have a chair, Maggie. What’s up?” he asked.
“Maybe you can tell me.” She took the chair opposite the desk and related the morning’s misadventure.
Ben listened, leaning back in his chair. “You say the man was angry. Did he threaten you in any way?”
“No . . . but he definitely made me nervous. When I offered him money for the gate, he wouldn’t take it. And he chewed me out for driving too fast on the icy road.”
A smile tugged at Ben’s mouth. “That sounds about right,” he said.
“You know him?” Maggie asked.
“Not well. But well enough to tell you he’s no danger. His name’s Travis Morgan. He inherited that old place from his mother’s family. He’s been living there about a year.”
“A year? But I’ve never seen him before—and I make it my business to know people in town.”
“He keeps to himself. I met him last winter when I drove by the place and noticed somebody was there. We talked for a few minutes. All he really wants is to be left in peace.”
“After meeting him, I’d certainly go along with that,” Maggie said. “The man’s about as friendly as a rattlesnake.”
“There might be a reason for that,” Ben said, “although I hope you’ll keep this to yourself. After I met him, I did some routine checking, to make sure he was who he said he was. He’s an ex-convict—did three years in Oklahoma for manslaughter.”
“Oh.” Maggie’s skin prickled. She waited, hoping to learn more.
“It’s an interesting story, what I know of it,” Ben said. “He was a highway patrolman, pulled over a driver on suspicion of kidnapping. I don’t know the details, but things got out of hand, and he ended up shooting an innocent, unarmed man. It was a case of mistaken identity, but he lost his career and did time for it.”
“I take it he’s still bitter.”
“Most people would be. But there’s more. It seems he’s Hank Miller’s son.”
“I’d forgotten Hank had a son,” Maggie said. “You and I were barely out of diapers when Hank lost his leg in that awful farm accident. I only remember because my parents talked about it later. Didn’t Hank’s wife leave him after that?”
“Right. And she took their little boy with her. When she remarried, Travis took his stepfather’s name. Evidently, he doesn’t think much of Hank. As far as I know, they haven’t spoken in decades.”
“That’s a shame. Hank’s a good man.” Maggie rose, glancing at her watch. “I won’t keep you. But thanks for filling me in. Believe me, if Travis Morgan wants to be left alone, I won’t have a problem with that.”
“You have a good day, Maggie.”
“You too. Say hello to Jess and the kids for me.”
Maggie walked back down the hall in the direction of the mayor’s office. A full day of meetings and appointments lay ahead of her. She needed to focus on doing her job. But thoughts of Travis Morgan and what she’d learned about him kept crowding into her mind. She remembered the chiseled planes of his face and the look in his startling, slate-colored eyes as she bent over him.
He was a bitter man, an angry man, too proud to accept payment for his damaged gate. And yet he’d been enough of a gentleman to open the car door and hold it against the wind. And now that she knew he’d been a lawman, his warning not to speed on the icy road took on a new meaning. He’d been honestly concerned about her safety.
Forget him, she told herself. As long as she knew he had the legal right to be on the ranch, and that he wasn’t a danger to her or anyone else, Travis Morgan was none of her concern.
Still, one memory haunted her. When she’d bent over him and he’d opened his eyes, in the instant before his gaze hardened, she’d glimpsed something wounded and vulnerable . . . something she couldn’t forget.
Lost in thought, she didn’t see the cocky figure coming toward her until she’d almost bumped into him. She gasped and took a step backward. Stanley Featherstone, the constable, who took care of minor violations in Branding Iron, was not a physically intimidating man. But something about him always made her uneasy. Maybe it was his way of edging into her personal space when they spoke. Like now.
“Hello, Maggie.” He was so close that she could feel his warm breath. She took another step backward and found herself trapped against a wall.
“What is it, Stanley?” she asked, trying to be polite. After all, she had to work with him—in fact, she was his supervisor. He was good at his job, dutiful, thorough, and always on time. She could find no fault with the man. He just plain annoyed the living daylights out of her.
“I saw you coming out of the sheriff’s office just now,” he said. “I was wondering what you talked about.”
“Nothing to concern you, Stanley. Everything’s fine. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m late for a meeting.” She tried to step aside, but he seemed rooted to the floor.
“I left my weekly report on your desk. I was wondering when you wanted to go over it with me.”
“I’m sure it’s fine. If I have any questions, I’ll call you in. Now I really do have to go.”
This time he let her. She hurried away, taking deep breaths to calm herself. Stanley had asked her out more th
an once, but she’d kept to the ironclad excuse that she didn’t date coworkers. At least he hadn’t asked her again—a small bright spot in a day that had started out with a dinged bumper, a broken gate, and an encounter with a disturbingly attractive man.
* * *
In the barn, Travis had cleaned out two roomy box stalls for Abner’s horses, lining the floors with straw, piling the feeders with hay, and filling two big plastic buckets with fresh water. Lord, he didn’t know anything about horses—or even dogs, for that matter. Growing up, his stepfather, a fastidious, germ-phobic dentist, had been allergic to animal hair, so Travis had never even had a pet. How was he supposed to take care of a whole damned menagerie?
At least he wouldn’t have to keep them forever. An online ad on some local site should be enough to find them new owners. But he was already sorry he’d walked into Buckaroo’s that morning and even sorrier that he’d fallen for old Abner’s hard luck story.
Wandering back outside, he gazed up the road, expecting to see Abner’s old truck approaching with the horses tied behind and the dog riding along. He didn’t have a doghouse or any dog food, but if Abner didn’t provide any, the dog could sleep in the barn and eat table scraps—or maybe catch gophers. There were plenty of those around.
While he waited, he decided to fix the damaged gatepost. On inspection, the metal didn’t appear to be bent, but it was leaning from its base. Travis fetched a shovel and began digging around it. The post was set solidly in concrete, but the big Lincoln’s impact had loosened it in the ground and pushed it to one side. It was fixable. But digging around the lump of cement to straighten it would cost him some effort.
He was nearly finished with the job when he heard the growl of an engine and the snorting of horses. He watched the truck come into sight, moving slowly, with two immense gray horses tethered alongside. As the truck rumbled closer, he could see that it was towing something on a flatbed trailer—something big and bulky, covered with a canvas tarp.
“What the hell . . . ?” he muttered as the truck pulled up to the gate. But there was no time to wonder. Abner opened the door and climbed out of the cab. His round, whiskery face wore a grin.
