by Dana Marton
She made a point to relax and lower her shoulders.
“I’m thinking animal hoarder.” A grin played above his lips.
There. He’d been joking.
“You do have a good heart.” He bent to play with the kittens.
For a big, tough soldier, he sure could be gentle when he wanted to be. The careful way he played with those kittens softened something inside her, opened her up a little.
“I used to drag home every living thing when I was younger. Gramps drew the line at skunks.” She’d even brought two stray dogs onto the army base in Iraq where she had served. They were coming to the U.S. soon with her returning unit. She hoped she could work out a way to have them with her someday.
“Are you telling me this is an improvement?” he asked as he stood.
She thought about the dozen armadillos she’d liberated from the armadillo races the summer after her senior year. The old sheriff had threatened to put her in jail. Probably would have carried her off if Gramps and Tommy hadn’t defended her. That had been some night. A quick smile stretched her lips. “An improvement by leaps and bounds, believe me.”
A picture of those armadillos getting into the kitchen cabinets flashed into her mind, and she suddenly lost it, laughing, swallowing coffee the wrong way.
He was staring at her with a strange expression. Probably thought she was a lunatic. She did her best to pull her features back into a straight face and stop coughing.
“You don’t laugh enough,” he said, then blinked, as if shaking off whatever thoughts had taken hold of him. “I can put the lock up for you.”
That ended all the fuzzy, relaxed feelings. She snorted. “I think I can handle a screwdriver all by my dainty little self.” There she went with the overdefensiveness again, but she couldn’t help it.
His upper lip twitched.
Looking at his lips made heat spread through her belly for some reason. They seemed way too close suddenly. When had he come around the counter? Or had she? They stood at the end of the kitchen island. Looked as if they’d both come halfway.
She licked her lips nervously.
His gaze darkened.
She jumped back. Suddenly she didn’t seem to be able to look him in the eye. Her gaze fell on his fancy suit.
“If we’re going to be walking around town together… You can’t dress like that.”
He quirked an eyebrow.
“It screams outsider from a mile. People don’t like strangers so much in these little towns around here. You need a pair of worn jeans and a shirt that’s more appropriate.”
“There’s an appropriate shirt?”
“Where are you from, anyway?”
“Up north,” he said vaguely.
City slicker. “You look it.” She closed her eyes for a second. Made up her mind. She had to let go. “I have a couple of my brother’s things in one of the upstairs closets.”
“I’m not that much into overalls.”
“I was thinking a couple of decent shirts.” And boots.
She looked at the boot rack by the door, and he followed her gaze, let out a whistle. He was staring at a pair of silver rattlesnake skin beauties with spurs. Tommy’s favorite. She’d meant to keep those.
But she drew her lungs full and gave a slow nod. “Go ahead.” And went upstairs to get those shirts. Even found a pair of jeans that might be long enough for Ryder.
She happened to catch a glimpse of the barn from the upstairs window as she passed it on her way back down. The door stood wide-open. She could have sworn she’d closed it earlier. Then again, the latch was old and pretty loose. She made a mental note to take care of that before they left. It wouldn’t hurt to check in on the colicky horse one more time, anyway.
* * *
BY THE TIME RYDER CAME out of the laundry room, all changed, she was sipping from a country blue mug, sitting in the ancient rocking chair by the window. She took one look at him then coughed as she choked on her coffee again. “You can take those spurs off. Unless you’re planning on breaking in wild horses today.”
The grin she struggled with said she’d pay good money to see that. But the expression on her face slowly changed to something other than mirth as he turned around to show it all off. “Do I blend in better?”
She pushed to her feet. “You’ll do.” And went out to the kitchen.
He swaggered after her, sat by the table and took the spurs off with a hint of regret. His great-great-grandfather,
the one he’d been named after, had been a famous Oregon lawman back in the day. He imagined the man might have worn spurs like this.
She put her mug in the sink and glanced through the window. “You drive an SUV.” Her tone was less than complimentary.
“I sure do.” He loved that ride. It had a reinforced frame, secret compartments, special headlights, the works.
“Real men drive trucks,” she muttered.
“Do they now? Are you dissing my ride?” What got her hackles up now? She definitely had a prickly side. He found that it intrigued him.
“SUVs are just a step above soccer mom vans.”
“Live with it.” He raised an eyebrow, daring her to challenge him. He stepped closer, suddenly itching to show her what real men did.
But she backed down. “Could be worse, I suppose. You could be driving a hybrid.”
“I happen to own a hybrid.”
She watched him for a long moment, then suddenly gave a lopsided smile that drew his attention to her lips. “You do?”
He named the year, model and make—somewhat slowly. He was a little distracted.
“Actually, that’s pretty nice. I’d love to have one of those someday,” she admitted, rinsing her cup and heading for the door.
“Any new adventures last night?” he asked. “Any midnight visitors?”
“All quiet on the southern front. So what’s the plan for today?” She strode to the barn, and he followed, appreciating her long-legged stride all the way. He’d always been partial to petite blondes, but Grace Cordero was difficult not to appreciate.
He gave her a list of the surrounding small towns he planned on visiting—bars, bus stations, boardinghouses.
“We don’t have to go into Esperanza’s story with everyone. I don’t want to tip off the bad guys that she’d been talking to the authorities.”
The barn looked abandoned, save for two stalls that had been recently cleaned. Spiderwebs and shadows in the back, piles of heaven knew what old tools and miscellaneous ranch equipment. She checked on the horses, even talked to them, admonishing them to good behavior.
“What do I say about why I’m looking for Paco?” she asked as she closed the barn door behind them on their way out.
“Stick with the friend of a friend story.”
“Who do I say you are?”
“Border protection consultant surveying the area to make budget recommendations. You could also say that you’re showing me around town because I’m an old friend. We could know each other from the army, or college or something. I need an introduction to people around here that’ll make them trust me.”
“Aren’t I lucky to have so many friends,” she muttered. “I came here to spread my brother’s ashes.”
That explained the urn on the mantel, and her eyes that could turn from flashing with indignation to haunted in a quick second. “Your visit can have multiple purposes.”
“I’m not a great fan of lying.”
“I can get better cooperation from people if they don’t view me as a complete outsider. I think there are a number of illegal activities taking place on your land.”
Her expression turned somber as she nodded.
“Which is why you need to stay in town, at a hotel, for the time being.” Maybe this time she’d listen.
There flashed the indignation. “I’m not going to be run off my own land. And people would think it weird if I was around, but not staying at the house.”
She had a point there. He drew a slow
breath as the car flew down the highway. “If you want to stay, I should stay there with you.”
Her eyes widened for a second, but she gathered herself quickly. “No way.”
“It’d be safer.”
“If there are smugglers out there in some remote corner of the ranch, they have no reason to tangle with me. And if they do…I’m a trained soldier.”
The hard set of her jaw said there was no changing her mind about that. He was going to try, anyway. But they had other things to take care of first.
They drove on, sharing theories about where Paco and the kids might have disappeared to. They reached Pebble Creek in a little over an hour, and lucked out with Kenny. The Pebble Creek sheriff was bald and pockmarked, wearing the fanciest boots Ryder had ever seen, with swirling stitches and various color patches of leather. He came up to Ryder’s shoulder, and put on an oversize Stetson in a hurry that went a long way toward negating the difference in height between them.
Grace greeted him like a friend, introduced Ryder and pulled the photo to ask about the Molineros.
The man pulled a sheet of paper from the stack on his desk. Do You Know This Man? stood in large letters on the top of the page. On the bottom was the sheriff department’s insignia with a phone number to call. A police sketch of Paco took up the middle.
Grace tensed. “What did he do?”
“Showed up dead in a ditch. No ID. Nobody called the hotline, either.”
“How about his kids?”
The sheriff swore under his breath as he took the picture from her. “I’m going to need a copy of this. We’ll start looking immediately.”
“I appreciate it.” Grace’s gaze strayed back to the poster. “How did he die?”
“Shot to the back of the head.”
“Any leads?”
Ryder let her ask the questions. Answers tended to come faster this way.
“None. Couldn’t even find the bullet. It went straight through. He’d been killed someplace else then dropped off where we found him.”
“What happened to the body?” she demanded.
Kenny shrugged. “Since nobody showed up to claim it, the county buried him last week. That’s a headache and a half these days. With the economy as it is, unclaimed bodies are up by a third. The county crematorium stopped accepting four months ago. The coroner had to make a deal with a private place.”
He made a face. “Wanted to keep him a while longer, since he was a murder victim, but the morgue is backed up, too. They needed the space. The coroner did a thorough autopsy, but then we had to let him go. Didn’t think anyone would come looking for him at this stage. Sorry, honey.”
“I’ll let his wife know.” Her face turned grim, her eyes haunted. “Did he have any personal effects that might be returned to her?”
Kenny thought for a minute. “I’ll check to be sure, but as far as I can remember, he didn’t have a damn thing on him, except this.” He reached over to his desk and shuffled around, picked up a Chevy emblem and handed it to her. “Could barely pry it out of his hands. No other usable prints on it, but his. I’ve been keeping it out as a reminder. I don’t like unsolved cases.”
She turned the piece of chrome over in her hand, then handed it to Ryder. “Looks like it’s from a cowboy Cadillac. It’s a little larger than the ones used on sedans.”
When Ryder shot her a questioning look, she said, “A pickup truck.”
“Doesn’t exactly narrow things down,” the sheriff put in. “Must be a million pickups in the county, Chevy, Ford and Dodge for the most. Folks in these parts believe in buying American.”
Ryder checked the emblem over then handed it back to the man.
“Please let me know if you find out anything about those kids,” she asked the sheriff. “I’d really appreciate it.”
“Anything for Tommy’s little sis.” He gave a sad smile. “How are you dealing with that?”
“I’m dealing all right, Kenny.”
But Ryder heard a small hitch in her voice, which made him wonder just how well she was handling everything, if it hadn’t been a mistake to let her put herself in the middle of all this.
Chapter Five
She spent another restless night, thinking about Miguel and Rosita, thinking who else she could have talked to over in Pebble Creek, where she’d spent most of the previous day with Ryder. She’d taken him to all her old hangouts, shown the photo to every friend she had there. Nobody remembered seeing Paco or the kids.
Grace yawned, padding down the stairs as the sun rose outside. The horses were less anxious their second night than the first, but some noise in the barn had still woken her up at dawn, and she hadn’t been able to fall back asleep. Might as well get started on her day.
Ryder had said he’d be coming by first thing in the morning. Hopefully not too early. A nice, peaceful hour or so—just her and her coffee mug—would be great.
She headed straight for the coffeemaker. She was on her second cup when a pickup pulled into her driveway. She looked out the window, then went to the door to unlock it, still thinking of Ryder as she turned the dead bolt.
“Hello, Dylan.” She glanced at his new pickup in the driveway, a Chevy, the emblem in place. She couldn’t believe she checked. This whole mess was starting to make her paranoid.
“Sorry to come so early. I had to run some errands this morning, but I wanted to check on you before I got going.” He looked drawn, as if he hadn’t been getting enough sleep, either. He looked her over. “How are you this morning?”
“Sleepy.” She motioned him in. “Coffee?”
“That’d be much appreciated.”
“Dylan,” she said as they headed into the kitchen, “Have you heard anything about smuggling going on around here? Have you ever seen anything?”
He stopped to look at her, his eyes narrowing. “Did something happen?”
She hesitated. Ryder had said not to tell anyone that he’d been shot on her land.
“I drove out a little yesterday. I thought I saw some tracks.” Great. Now she was lying to Dylan.
He tensed. “Could be someone looking for their lost cattle or whatever. Or rustlers. With the economy the way it is, rustling is becoming big business again. It’s like the Wild West days are coming back.”
“Oh, God, remember Gramps’s rustling stories?” She smiled as she strode to the counter and poured him a mug of steaming java.
“He told the best stories, hands down.” Dylan smiled, too, and took the coffee. “Thanks.”
“How long is the team-building group staying?”
“They’re leaving this morning. Another group is coming in two weeks. They’re way down by the ravine. They won’t be in your way.”
But they could be in Ryder’s. She took a sip of her coffee, and decided she would let Ryder deal with that.
“On the off chance that the tracks you saw do belong to rustlers… You should stay with Molly,” Dylan said, but before she could think of a way to say no without making it seem as if she didn’t want to spend time with her old friend, another car pulled up her driveway.
She opened the door.
“Ready?” Ryder looked all freshly scrubbed, smelling of soap and aftershave. The sun was behind him, outlining his wide shoulders. When he smiled at her and that dimple appeared, her heart rate picked up a little.
Then his smile dimmed when Dylan walked out of the kitchen.
“Ryder McKay, Dylan Rogers.” She performed the introductions and kissed goodbye her dreams of a solitary, peaceful morning that would let her come gradually awake at her own pace.
“Dylan is an old friend of mine,” she told Ryder, who was busy measuring the man up. “Ryder is a friend from the army. Works for CBP now.” Yet another lie. She didn’t like the way things were going in her life lately, yet she didn’t see a way out, either. Something she needed to think about.
Dylan stiffened. “He’s wearing Tommy’s boots.”
The two looked at each other like two seasone
d gunslingers, ready to issue an invitation to meet at high noon in the street in front of the saloon. Wild West, indeed.
Dylan hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and puffed out his chest an inch. Unlike Ryder, he didn’t need tutoring on how to look every inch the cowboy. Yet, even if Ryder didn’t wear the clothes as naturally as Dylan, he sure looked good in them. Dylan no longer worked the fields, and had lost that leanness that came with daily physical labor.
Ryder had all kinds of physical strength in spades. He was a warrior through and through, and there was no mistaking it.
She caught herself comparing the two and stopped it. She didn’t need to give that much thought to either man. She had more important things on her agenda than deciding which one looked better in blue jeans. Ryder.
“So you’re the border agent?” Dylan asked him, and managed to make the question sound like an insult. A lot of people in these parts had definite opinions on the ineffectiveness of border protection.
Ryder nodded. “We talked on the phone. I appreciate your cooperation. I haven’t received those schedules yet for the leadership training groups you have out there, though.”
“Secretary must have forgotten to email it,” Dylan said in an impassive tone.
“How about coffee?” she offered Ryder to ease the tension.
Once she herded them into the kitchen, Dylan got a cup from the cupboard, as if to show off that he knew where everything was, that he belonged here, with her. She definitely sensed some territorial, alpha male sort of posturing between the two, which bewildered her more than a little.
It wasn’t as if either man was interested in her. Probably just some automatic testosterone response. Dylan was used to being top cowboy, and Ryder was probably used to being top gun. They were both born to dominate their environment.
“I have some business to take care of in Edinburg today,” Dylan told her as he held out the empty cup for her to fill. “But I’ll come back tonight. I’ll stay with you while you’re here. No sense taking any chances.”
