The Colton Ransom

by Marie Ferrarella

  “Maybe not,” Trevor allowed in an off-handed manner. “But you can either choose not to fall in love or to follow through with it.”

  Before she could find her tongue to take a stab at a coherent answer, Trevor had got out of the truck and called out to one of the rodeo clowns he spotted leaving the grounds. The man was still in partial makeup.

  The clown stopped walking and Trevor crossed over to him.

  “You seen Dylan Frick around?” he asked the other man.

  Recognition filled the clown’s brown eyes and his expression beneath the crimson makeup softened. “You mean Doc?” he asked.

  “Doc?” Trevor repeated, slightly confused. “He’s not a vet,” he told the clown. “The guy I’m looking for works with the animals, horses mostly. Kinda has a way with them,” he added.

  Around the ranch, some of the hands referred to Dylan as a horse whisperer, someone who could almost get into a horse’s mind, understand the way the animal thought and somehow manage to get them to do whatever he wanted them to do. For the most part, he assumed that it was a good thing.

  The clown nodded. “Yeah, that’s him. We call him Doc ’cause that’s short for Dr. Doolittle. He communicates with the animals,” he explained. Then, to prove his point, the clown told him a story. “He worked with a horse that had gone lame. Rest of us thought it was the glue factory for Wyoming Pride, but not Doc. He worked with that animal day and night, and damn if he didn’t get that stallion to high step proudly again. The rest of us at the rodeo just took to calling him ‘Doc.’ Seemed only fitting.”

  Trevor wasn’t interested in stories or explanations; he just wanted to get this part over with.

  “Well, do you know where I can find Doc?” he pressed impatiently.

  “Not sure,” the clown answered honestly. “But if he’s not working, he’d be in that trailer over there.” The man pointed out one that was parked close to a corral. Some of the horses were being kept there for the next series of events once the rodeo was under way again later that day.

  Trevor merely nodded as he strode away.

  “Thank you,” Gabby called after the clown before she hurried to follow Trevor to the trailer.

  Trevor turned to look at her, raising one quizzical eyebrow. Why had she thanked the clown? She hadn’t talked to the man—he had.

  Gabby could almost read the thoughts going through his head. “You should have thanked him,” she told Trevor simply.

  Now she was telling him what to do? “What are you, the etiquette police?”

  She bristled at the sarcasm she perceived in his voice. But she was also beginning to understand that it was his defense mechanism, his way of surviving the ugliness he saw around him. He had to be deeply upset over his daughter’s disappearance.

  “I just believe in treating people nicely,” she told him. “You know, follow the Golden Rule, that kind of thing.”

  He laughed again, shaking his head. “Yeah, how’s that working out for you?”

  “It’s working out,” she said automatically, then, because she was truthful, she added, “Sometimes.”

  He laughed shortly under his breath. Half of him, he had to admit, was amused and just a little impressed by her attitude. He couldn’t help wondering what it would take to actually completely daunt this woman.

  A part of him hoped that neither one of them would ever find out the answer to that unspoken question.

  Glancing toward her again, he saw that he actually had to look over his shoulder. She was struggling to keep up with him. He knew he should keep going. With luck, she’d finally give up and go back to the truck to wait for him.

  But even as he entertained the thought, he caught himself slowing down just enough for Gabby to catch up. She was abreast of him just as he reached the trailer door.

  He raised a hand to knock on the trailer door. His eyes stole a glance in her direction. “Last chance,” he told her.

  Gabby knew the security head was referring to her backing away from the scene that lay ahead.

  But this was going to be difficult for him, and she didn’t want to leave him in a lurch. She was beginning to realize that beneath all that bluster and those scowls, there was a decent man who was just as capable of being hurt as she was.

  And after all, the man was already dealing with having his daughter abducted. If she could help in any way, even minimally, she wasn’t about to back off just because this was going to make her uncomfortable.

  Despite her appearance, it wasn’t as if she were exactly fragile, about to break at the slightest bit of jostling. Dealing with her father as well as the troubled teens she was determined to save, she’d managed to develop if not a really thick skin, at least one that didn’t just dissolve at the first sign of adversity or a confrontation.

  “Just knock,” she instructed. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Stubborn,” he muttered under his breath. Trevor told himself that he was glad she wasn’t his headache on a regular basis.

  She heard him mutter the word clearly meant for her and smiled to herself. “Yes, I am,” she answered cheerfully.

  “You’ve got big ears, too,” he told her as he knocked on the trailer door.

  Gabby was unfazed by the assessment. “I hear what I have to.”

  If he was about to comment on her reply, Trevor never got a chance to because, just then, the trailer door started to open.

  Before it had opened up fully, Dylan was already talking. It was obvious that he was expecting someone else to show up at his door.

  “I already told you, you’re going to have to rest that bronco for at least today, maybe tomorrow— Oh.” Dylan grinned at the two people he recognized in front of his door. He took his error in stride. “Sorry, I thought you were one of the cowboys I talked to earlier. Sometimes I think all that bronco busting rattles their brains. Even an eight-second ride is too much for them.

  “C’mon in,” Dylan invited, waving them in and stepping back so that they could enter the small, rather messy trailer.

  When they did, Dylan looked at the faces of the two people who had just walked into his “home away from home.” It was hard to say whose face looked grimmer. His smile faded away as he appeared to brace himself.

  “Why are you both here?” he asked. Not giving them a chance to answer, Dylan followed up his first question with another one. “What’s wrong?”

  He turned toward the man who had been raised with him. They weren’t exactly close, and they didn’t really hang out together, but at bottom, because the same woman had been there for both of them, there was a bond between them that couldn’t quite be dissected—or denied.

  “Trevor? What’s going on?” Dylan asked, more urgently this time. He could feel a nameless fear forming inside him, threatening to squeeze his insides until he couldn’t breathe at all, much less breathe right.

  “It’s your mom,” Trevor began awkwardly.

  Dylan looked even more apprehensive than before, if that was possible. “What about Mom? Is she okay?”

  All sorts of half-formed scenarios began to flash through his head. Faye Frick wasn’t the type of woman to complain, even if she were in pain or suffering through some family crisis that severely upset her, at least on the inside. The outside always appeared to be cool, controlled, so he never knew how things actually stood with his mother.

  To his utmost admiration, his mother always just seemed to forge on. It was her way because people always needed her. She was always in demand. And he had always been proud of her.

  “Is she hurt?” he asked when Trevor made no answer. “Tell me, Trev,” he insisted, then repeated, “Is my mother hurt?”

  Trevor took off his Stetson. It was a sign of respect, and a chill ran across Dylan’s heart. Why did Trevor think a sign of respect was necessary?

  “Dylan,” Trevor began haltingly, “there’s no right way to say this.”

  He didn’t care about a “right way”; he just wanted to know what was causing all this dr
ama. “Just spit it out, damn it!”

  So Trevor did. Unconsciously squaring his shoulders like a bodyguard going into the fray for someone he considered more than a client, he said, “Your mother was murdered.”

  Dylan didn’t remember sitting down, but he knew he must have because suddenly, not just Trevor but Gabby as well was taller than he was.

  A numbness had slid over him, but even now, it was beginning to ebb away as a really sick feeling in the pit of his stomach came to take its place. Dylan had always thought he could take anything.

  He was wrong.

  “Murd—?” Even uttering just a sliver of the word almost choked him. “Who’d want to kill my mother?” Dylan demanded in a completely stunned voice. “There’s got to be some kind of a mistake,” he cried, praying he was right. “She’s just a governess, for heaven’s sake. She doesn’t have any money, any—”

  “She died trying to save Avery from being kidnapped,” Gabby told him, unable to watch Dylan struggling to deny what he was hearing any longer.

  Dylan looked at her, the expression on his face a mask of confusion. “Avery?” He said the name as if he’d never heard it before. He had, but shock was making him draw a blank. And then he suddenly remembered. “Your daughter?” he asked, looking at Trevor. “Why would anyone want to kidnap your daughter?”

  “They wouldn’t,” Trevor told him grimly. “Whoever kidnapped Avery thought they were kidnapping the old man’s granddaughter.”

  “Cheyenne,” Gabby interjected.

  Dylan still tried to wade through his confusion and shock. The Colton woman was talking about two entirely different wings of the house. Avery belonged with the maids and the wranglers, while Cheyenne had a silver spoon in her mouth as well as one in her chubby little hand. She slept in the main section of the house.

  “Why would they have gotten the two mixed up?” he asked, then looked at Gabby, his voice almost pleading with her to tell him it was all a big mistake. “My mother’s really...gone?”

  Gabby pressed her lips together as a sob suddenly threatened to emerge. She nodded, struggling to maintain control over her emotions.

  “If it helps any,” she said in almost a whisper, “your mother died a hero.”

  Dylan stared at the opposite wall, not seeing anything.

  “It doesn’t,” he answered. “Not really.” He knew it should, but it didn’t. All he could think of was that someone had killed his mother. And that she was gone before he could say goodbye.

  That hurt almost worst of all.

  For several long moments, Dylan was afraid that he was going to break down right then and there.

  Trevor placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder, a silent gesture of comfort and mute communication. “Hey, man, I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Trevor told the governess’s son.

  “Yeah,” Dylan heard someone with his voice reply. “I know.” His desire for revenge, for vengeance spiked, speeding through him like lightning. Then he looked up at Trevor. “They know who did it?”

  “Not yet,” Trevor answered, then added, “But when I find out and get hold of him, he’s going to be sorry that he was ever born.”

  It took a minute for Dylan to assimilate the information and what it meant. He raised his eyes to Trevor’s. “Then your daughter is still...?” His voice trailed off.

  “Missing,” Trevor supplied as he nodded somberly. “Yeah, she is.”

  Chapter 7

  Dylan followed them back to Dead River Ranch in his own car. With the horrific tragedy of his mother’s murder so vividly fresh in his mind, the man told them that there was no way he could remain at the rodeo, at least not right now. He knew he wouldn’t be able to give the animals he planned to work with today even half his attention, much less what was actually required in order to achieve any sort of hoped-for success. Gabby completely understood and had offered to drive with him, but Dylan had said he wanted to be alone.

  As he and Trevor, driving Gabby back in his truck, approached the house, it was evident that the police were still on the premises, along with the county M.E. The latter’s black van was conspicuously parked beside the chief’s service vehicle.

  “Wonder if Drucker found something,” Gabby said, breaking the silence that had accompanied them back from the rodeo. Trevor had not said a single word, and just this once, Gabby decided that maybe it was best to leave it that way, since everything she said to the man seemed to irritate him to a greater or lesser degree.

  It was as if her innocent question had tripped some sort of a wire. Trevor’s frown instantly deepened as he told her, “One way or the other, I want a list of names of all the so-called troubled teens you’ve been talking to about this fool center of yours—and I want their parents’ names as well.”

  She debated holding her tongue and just letting his order and his tone slide, but she came to the quick conclusion that holding her peace with this man did no good, and the emotional turmoil he was going through notwithstanding, she wasn’t about to just let him belittle what she was trying to achieve.

  “Look,” she began slowly, “I know that you’re hurting—”

  “Hurting?” Trevor echoed incredulously, all but spitting the word out. “Let’s get something straight here,” he continued gruffly. “I’m not ‘hurting’—I’m damn angry and really worried, to boot. If it wasn’t for you putting my kid into your fancy nursery—”

  Gabby had always prided herself on being even-tempered and levelheaded, but he was shouting at her and his anger sparked her own. “It wasn’t ‘your kid’ a few hours ago. A few hours ago all you could think of was palming her off on someone else. Permanently,” she reminded him. “Now, I’m very sorry that Avery was taken, and I swear that I’ll do whatever it takes to find her and get her back, but all I’m guilty of is trying to be nice to her—nicer than her father was to her,” she pointed out.

  The moment the words were out of her mouth, Gabby felt remorseful and not because Trevor was glaring at her. This was an awful situation, and maybe he wasn’t smart enough to be aware that he was dealing with it by lashing out, but she should have been. The teens she worked with had the exact same problem, pretending they were emotionally remote and removed from the hurtful situations they encountered and had to deal with every day of their lives.

  Taking a breath, Gabby owned up to what she’d just done and said what had to be said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The expression on Trevor’s face was extremely dark. “For messing up?”

  She raised her head, refusing to be intimidated by the man she was with. “For yelling at you. Just because you’re yelling at me doesn’t mean I should be yelling back.”

  It was as if she’d just rubbed salt into his wounds. “I’m not yelling—”

  “Okay,” she allowed gamely, “how about ‘expressing yourself loudly’? And if that is the case, I think you should know that I’m not deaf and you can lower your voice.” She pressed her lips together, searching for a way to get through to him and still hang on to her patience. “We’ll get her back,” she told him, her voice softening so that she could sound more reassuring.

  Her tone seemed to make no difference.

  Trevor wasn’t nearly as sure as she appeared to be, even though he didn’t want to think of all the things that could befall the tiny girl who had no one else to be in her corner except for him.

  “I’m not the cockeyed optimist that you are.”

  She resented the condescending tone and the label he’d just slapped on her, but she refrained from saying as much. Instead, she pointed out the obvious problem with the point of view he’d taken.

  “Living without hope is very draining, not to mention daunting,” she told him needlessly. “You need to hang on to something.”

  “What I need to do,” he told her, finally getting out of his truck, “is to interrogate all those young punks you told about the bleeding-heart shelter you’re building for them.”

  There is no arguing wit
h him, she thought, getting out of the passenger side of the truck. She slammed the door hard, trying to leach out the bulk of her frustration that way.

  It worked, but only to a small degree.

  So did trying to reason with herself about Trevor’s bombastic reaction to her attempt to talk to him. It was nothing personal, she tried to convince herself. It was just his way of reacting to a dire situation in lieu of showing that, at the moment, he was being eaten up by concern and worry.

  In his place, Gabby thought, she’d probably react the same way—except that she would have done a lot less yelling.

  Rather than offer any words of protest or try to convince him that the kids she wanted to bring onto the ranch had redeeming qualities she wanted to expand on, she just quietly told him what he wanted to hear: “I’ll get you that list.”

  “Thanks,” Trevor bit off without sparing her so much as a backward glance. Instead, he picked up speed and strode over to the front entrance of the house.

  The scene inside had calmed down a little in some respects. Some of the household staff had dispersed, although the main housekeeper and several of what she considered to be her key staff members were still sitting in the family room, either waiting for further instructions from the police chief or, most likely, just seeing how this whole investigation into the murder and subsequent kidnapping would play itself out for the time being.

  One look at Drucker’s face as they walked in told Trevor that no progress had been made and no suspect as of yet had been found. If anything, only a few minor eliminations had occurred.

  Nonetheless, Trevor crossed directly to the chief. “Any word from the kidnappers?”

  Drucker shook his head. “Except for that note they left pinned to the pillow, no—sorry.”

  Trevor then turned toward Jethro, who was now seated in what was thought to be his favorite chair in the family room. The old man looked somewhat uncomfortable in addition to his pale coloring, but that, Trevor surmised, was more a function of the chair the man was sitting in than in what was going on with this investigation.