Familiar Showdown

by Caroline Burnes

  “I grew up in the wire grass country of Alabama. My granddad raised cattle.” He still didn’t look at her.

  “And what happened between growing up and today?”

  At last he lifted his gaze, and she saw there was a tempest brewing in his oddly colored eyes. He covered it quickly.

  “I went to the University of Alabama on a scholarship and ended up in the law school.”

  “You have a law degree?” She was surprised. Not that he didn’t look capable. In fact, Johnny Kreel looked like he could take on and conquer almost anything he set his hand to.

  “I do, but I only practiced for five years. It wasn’t the job for me.”

  He’d really ignited her curiosity now. “Why not?”

  Picking up a piece of bread, he took his time answering. She could see that he was thinking through his response, which meant he cared.

  “I thought the law was going to be about fighting for truth and justice.” The tiniest bit of red tinged his strong face. “I know that sounds corny, but it’s true. I really thought I could make a difference.”

  He returned to his food as if he’d answered her.

  “What happened?”

  Johnny met her stare head-on. This time he didn’t look away or flinch. “A man I defended—an innocent man—ended up in prison. He was killed before his case came up for appeal.”

  “I’m so sorry.” An almost irresistible urge to put a comforting hand on his arm struck her, but she restrained herself.

  “He was a good guy. An innocent man wrongly accused. Putting him in prison was like throwing him into the lion’s den. Everyone knew he’d be killed and no one did a thing to stop it. After that, I sort of lost my taste for the justice system.”

  “A law degree can be a handy thing,” she said. Rupert Casper and Black Jack sprang to mind. Wasn’t there some law that said possession was nine-tenths of the law?

  “I don’t practice. Besides, I was only licensed in Alabama.”

  “You could get licensed here. Folks in town would be glad to have another lawyer.”

  “Not this one.” The way he said it told her he was ready to let the subject drop.

  “So after you quit the law, what did you do?”

  He visibly relaxed. “I bummed around the country, working on ranches and doing odd jobs. I needed to get back in touch with the things I’ve always loved about the West.”

  “And did you?”

  He finally laughed. “Did you work for the Spanish Inquisition in a past life?”

  His question was so unexpected that she laughed, too. His dusty cowboy clothes hid a lot more than they revealed. “Maybe,” she said. “You just never know, do you?”

  “No, ma’am, you don’t.” He eased his empty bowl away from him. “That was delicious, except for the wine I threw all over myself. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll make sure Tex is comfortable, stop by and visit with Black Jack for a moment and then I’ll be off to bed.”

  Chapter Three

  Stephanie swatted away the small furry creature that licked her face with a barbed-wire tongue. It took several moments to realize that a black cat was in her bed and demanding that she wake up. Pushing the cat away, she tried to sink back into a dream where a handsome cowboy walked through her barn and straight into her arms.

  It took another moment to remember that Familiar was her houseguest.

  She reached out to stroke Familiar’s head. A soft chuckle escaped as she thought back through the events of the day before. The cat had really done a number on Rupert Casper. Familiar’s “gift” to Black Jack’s owner had been purr-fect. She kissed the top of Familiar’s head and earned another sandpaper lick.

  Too bad Black Jack was such a tough case. She sensed the horse’s fear. He lashed out at humans because he’d been hurt, and hurt badly. Some horses could be “broken” by cruelty, punishment and pain. Others, like Black Jack, died fighting mistreatment. The question was, could she bring Black Jack back from the brink of self-destruction? She wanted to show him that humans could be kind and loving and a true partner. But would he accept that after the abuse he’d received?

  As much as she hated the idea, she might have to confront Rupert Casper about what, exactly, he’d done to the horse. That knowledge would figure prominently in how she approached Black Jack.

  With the memory of the stallion’s bad behavior came thoughts of Johnny Kreel. She’d hired a cowboy. Johnny wasn’t some phantom. He was flesh and blood, a handsome man who’d infiltrated her dreams.

  She groaned and rolled over, cracking one eye open to find dawn breaking in the east.

  “It’s not even light outside,” she complained to the cat. But Familiar had done a thorough job of waking her. She threw back the covers and put her feet on the chilly floor.

  It was only October, but the mornings were cold. She found clean socks, jeans and her boots. From the dresser she pulled out a thick shirt and slipped it on. Feeding the stock was the first order of business.

  Grabbing a jacket, she stepped out the back door into the crisp morning. In the distance the Black Hills rose from the flatland, a symbol of many things Stephanie loved. Her grandfather had been Oglala Sioux, and her ranch was named for him. Running Horse. He’d been legendary as a “gentler,” a man who preferred the company of his horses to that of humans.

  After the death of his wife, Running Horse had lived alone on a small ranch with his horses. His reputation had spread far and wide, and people drove from all over the continent to bring him horses.

  They brought him the rank horses, the ones that no amount of training or abuse could break. Stephanie had never seen him agitated for a single moment. He studied each animal and learned the horse’s secret wounds. Then he began the process of listening and building trust.

  Stephanie had spent her summers following behind him like the most loyal of dogs. His days had been long, but Stephanie was never bored. She watched him work, listening to him talk about this horse’s spirit or that horse’s past experiences.

  Not one single time had she ever complained of tiredness or hunger. Grandfather Running Horse and the privilege of sharing his work was all she needed.

  Until she turned thirteen. Her life had unraveled then. The grandfather she adored was killed in a farming accident.

  Stephanie’s parents, both more interested in humanitarian efforts than money, couldn’t afford to keep up the ranch, so it had been sold. Five years later, they died in a cholera epidemic in Africa. The tradition of horse gentling had almost died with Running Horse—until Stephanie decided to try her hand at it.

  As Stephanie walked across the yard to the barn, she felt her grandfather’s presence with her. She often felt him close by. In the long days since her fiancé had disappeared into the Central American jungles in a tragic plane crash, her grandfather’s spirit had sustained her.

  And he was with her now.

  She heard the sound of hoofbeats and hurried into the barn. Tex and Layla peeked out of their stalls. Each gave a throaty greeting.

  “In a minute,” she said as she walked by. First she had to see who was running, and why. Concern drove her to pick up speed.

  She burst out of the barn and stopped in her tracks. In the round pen, Black Jack was moving at an extended trot. Muscles rippled beneath his glossy hide, and she was struck by the sheer beauty of the horse’s movement. His grace and balance were exquisite.

  In the center of the round pen was Johnny Kreel. He held a soft cotton rope in his hand, sometimes slapping it lightly against his leg when Black Jack slowed.

  Stepping forward, he turned a shoulder to the horse and Black Jack stopped. His flowing mane settled on his neck and he snorted, a wary eye on Johnny’s every move.

  “Reverse,” Johnny said crisply. He stepped forward, shifting his position again. The horse did an about-face and began to trot around the edge of the round pen in the opposite direction. Johnny moved back to the center and continued shifting so that he constantly faced the horse. />
  It all went as smooth as clockwork.

  Stephanie walked to the round pen and put her boot on the rail. “Well done,” she said softly. She didn’t want to distract Johnny from his total focus on Black Jack.

  “He understands what I tell him.”

  “I’ve never doubted his intelligence,” Stephanie said. “I just wonder if he can overcome the way Rupert Casper handled him. From the stories I heard, it was pretty brutal.”

  “He can leave it behind,” Johnny said. “That’s our job—to see that he does.”

  She’d tried to block out Black Jack’s future, but now she confronted it. “And once we straighten him out, he’ll go back to Rupert Casper.”

  Johnny signaled the horse to whoa. Black Jack slowed to a walk and then stopped. He stood perfectly still as Johnny walked to Stephanie.

  “Maybe not. Life is peculiar. Sometimes a horse ends up where he needs to be.”

  Stephanie wished that were true. “I can’t afford to buy Black Jack, even if Rupert would consider selling him, which he won’t. Black Jack is a high-dollar horse.”

  “He’s not worth much if Rupert Casper can’t ride him,” Johnny pointed out as he vaulted over the rail and stood beside her.

  “You heard Rupert. He’ll see the horse dead before he lets anyone else ride him. That’s the kind of man he is.”

  Johnny wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Let’s see how far we get with Black Jack before we predict the future. Or maybe, as the folks in town say, you’ve got a crystal ball in the house. And a boiling kettle and a broom that flies.”

  Stephanie couldn’t stop the frown. “Folks in town been talking about me, have they?”

  “Folks don’t mean harm,” Johnny said. “Their lives are boring and they think yours isn’t.”

  “I think they should mind their own business. But for your information, I don’t practice witchcraft or black magic. Now I’ve got to feed the horses and you should see what you can do with Moon Stinger and Dolly’s Rocker. They’re both in the barn and both need some work.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

  She left him at the round pen and continued with her morning barn chores. Feeding the horses was always a pleasure. She loved the snuffling noise they made as they cleaned up their oats.

  When she started back to the house, she passed Johnny’s rig parked beside the barn. The trailer was in excellent shape, and the truck was well maintained for a rodeo man.

  She glanced at the interior as she walked by. Just beneath the edge of the front seat was a gun. Not a rifle, which a lot of ranchers carried, but a handgun. Something that looked modern and dangerous.

  She kept walking, unsure how the weapon made her feel. Guns were a part of life for many men. Somehow, though, she hadn’t expected it with Johnny. He was different. He communicated with the horses. Folks like him normally didn’t care to carry a deadly firearm.

  Then again, she didn’t know him. She couldn’t forget that, no matter how much she admired his technique when he worked with the horses. He was an unknown entity, and chances were he wouldn’t remain around Running Horse Ranch long enough for her to figure out who he was deep down.

  THE DAY IS OFF to an excellent start. Cowboy Johnny is dealing with the devil horse, and Miss Cowgirl found the gun in the cab of Johnny’s truck. Now, I’m not a gun aficionado, but I’ve seen a lot of weapons in my day. That is an expensive weapon. And one with some firepower. A Glock, one of the preferred weapons of law enforcement agencies and the Feds.

  Which makes me wonder about a couple of things. How did Johnny find the Running Horse Ranch? We’re miles off the beaten path. He had to drive here specifically. And he shows up with a skill set that just happens to be what Stephanie needs.

  I’ve always been told not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but what if it’s the Trojan horse? When something is too good to be true, it usually is. So now it’s up to me to do a bit of sleuthing.

  Is Johnny Kreel just a drifting cowboy, or is there more to this package than meets the eye? Stephanie has a computer. I can start there. With my private investigator knowledge, I can check a few Web sites and start a background check on this guy.

  But first some breakfast. I catch the aroma of bacon. While I’m normally a seafood kind of cat, I can be swayed by other dishes. A nice bacon and cheese omelet would do wonders for my hungry tummy.

  Then off to work.

  LIFTING THE OMELET from the skillet, Stephanie served the cat and then began making breakfast for Johnny. He’d finished with Black Jack and she’d called him in before he started work on the other two horses.

  He sat at the table, though he’d offered to help cook. She kept looking at him, his dark hair slicked back and his face freshly shaved. With his strange gray-green eyes, he seemed to take in everything.

  She put the omelet in front of him and sat down to finish her coffee and toast.

  “Not hungry?” he asked.

  “I don’t normally eat breakfast,” she said, “but Familiar let me know he was ready for something.”

  “Smart cat.” Johnny glanced at the shelf where she kept her cookbooks and several framed photographs. “Is that your husband?” he asked, indicating a picture of Stephanie and a handsome man on a beach.

  Stephanie didn’t have to look at the photo to know what it was. It had been taken only weeks before she moved to South Dakota. She and Rory had been at Gulf Shores, Alabama, a last fling in the Southern sun before moving north. It was the last weekend Rory had been alive.

  “My fiancé,” she said. “He died in a plane crash.” Normally that put the kibosh on further conversation.

  “I’m sorry,” Johnny said. “You two look so happy. When was the crash?”

  She almost told him to mind his own business, but she stopped herself. “About four months ago. He ran a charter airline business out of New Orleans. His plane went down somewhere in the Darien Jungle.”

  Johnny stopped eating. “That must be terrible for you.”

  To her surprise, she found her eyes clouding with tears. “Rory was a good man. We were going to run this business together.”

  “He was giving up his charter business?”

  She nodded. “He loved flying, but he could have kept one plane and done a part-time business here. Mostly, though, we wanted to focus on the horses.”

  “So he was a trainer, too.”

  Stephanie smiled. “Not really. But he wanted to learn. That’s the important thing, isn’t it? To want to learn a different way of relating to an animal.”

  “If more folks were willing to open their minds, it would be a different world,” Johnny said. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I should get to work, but first…” He picked up his plate and went to the sink, where he ran the hot water and began washing up.

  “That’s not necessary,” Stephanie said.

  “Probably not. But you cooked, so I’ll clean up. It’s not a fifty-fifty distribution of work, but it’s more fair than your doing it all.”

  She leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee, watching him as he efficiently tidied the kitchen. He knew his way around housework, which was more than surprising for a cowboy.

  “How long do you expect to be in these parts?” she asked.

  Johnny didn’t turn around. He rinsed a plate and set it in the drainer. “I’d thought a couple of weeks, but I’m in no hurry to leave. Nobody is expecting me anywhere down the line.”

  “That’s good to know,” she said. Winter was coming. While the ranch work was hard enough in the summer heat, the winter was going to be long and cold and even more difficult. “Maybe, if things work out, you’d want to stay around here.”

  “Let’s get to the end of the first two weeks. After that, if you like the way I work, we can negotiate a salary.”

  “Perfect.” She stood and took her coffee cup to the sink. “When you finish Dolly and Stinger, let me know. We’ll saddle up and check the fence line on the north pasture.”

>   He grinned. “Sounds like a good plan. I haven’t done range work in a long time.”

  “You’ll get plenty of chances around here,” she said.

  HE RODE CUTTING PATTERNS on Stinger and Dolly. Both horses moved willingly and with total confidence. Stephanie had done a wonderful job with them. If they’d had problems, he could find no trace of them.

  When he was finished, he knocked at the back door, and Stephanie came out, ready to ride. The afternoon had warmed, and she carried a light jacket. They saddled two more horses and set out across the flatland toward the Black Hills.

  He had questions to ask. Plenty of them. But he had to be careful how he phrased them. He could see that the wound Rory Sussex had left was still raw. And if Stephanie ever found out who and what Rory really was, she’d be terribly hurt. On one hand, Johnny could understand why Rory would lie. Stephanie was a rare woman. And she’d never have willingly involved herself with a man whose entire life was a web of fabrications. It was either lie or lose her.

  But Rory had to know that eventually the house of cards would come tumbling down around him. He couldn’t simply walk away from the life he’d led and become a different person. Certainly, he may have thought that the wilds of South Dakota were secluded enough that he could build a new life. But they weren’t. And now Stephanie had been caught in Rory’s past.

  “You’re looking mighty serious,” she said as they crossed a dry creek bed. “Something wrong?”

  “Sorry. I was thinking about your fiancé and his plane crash. It’s just hard to grab hold of. Did they find out why the plane crashed?”

  Stephanie waited until her horse had scrambled up the side of the creek bed before she answered. “They never found the plane. Or Rory’s body. The control tower got a Mayday call from Rory. He was having engine trouble. That’s the last anyone heard.”

  “They never found any of the wreckage?” Johnny knew this. The trouble was, he didn’t believe it.

  “No. I hired an investigator, someone who knew the jungle. They searched, but it’s apparently impenetrable in places.”