Cal herded a small calf into the chute. It called for its mother, clattered against the railings with instinctive fear. Elizabeth was sitting on an overturned crate with her clipboard on her knee and a red pencil tucked behind her ear. She handled the small Black Angus calves like a pro, now, murmuring reassuringly to them, checking yellow ear tags and weighing each calf individually before freeing them so they could go find their mammas. Some were kept aside for fattening, most were being sent to market.
The work was easy for the most part, but tiring. They were separating out the surplus cattle and preparing the rest of the herd for tagging, castration and vaccination. The rest of the time was spent putting out salt-licks or feed for the cows and exercising the horses.
Ryan had told her that fire destroyed a swathe of upper pastures and the ranch couldn’t support last year’s herd anymore. Nobody knew if they’d get government aid either because last year’s appropriation fund had run out and nobody knew if there was any money in the kitty to spare more beleaguered farmers. Costs were rising all around. And there was the threat of BSE.
Up until a week ago, Elizabeth had had no idea that ranching was so complicated.
Elizabeth tried to put the Sullivans’ problems out of her mind. Money had never been a problem for her and she wished she could just hand over a wad of cash and make everything all right. But it didn’t work like that, and Elizabeth had discovered a long time ago that money didn’t make your problems disappear; it just buried them for a while.
Plus, she liked to keep a low profile about the extent of her personal wealth. She hadn’t earned it; she had inherited it at the expense of her family’s early deaths. First her parents, and then her aunt, who’d moved to the States when she’d married an American steel magnate. Elizabeth would rather have family—but you couldn’t buy family.
Chewing her pen, she mused, maybe she could do something to help the Sullivans financial problems without revealing herself. She could get her lawyers back in Ireland to set something up...maybe.
Old Ezra, the second ranch hand, was a sweet, gnarled old bear of a man, with a corrugated forehead, big ears and a nose the size of a Boeing 747. He smiled easily, despite the look of pain that narrowed his washed-out blue eyes.
He ambled over, his potbelly forcing him to hitch up his pants along the way. He liked chatting to her, always giving her snippets of information he’d obviously read in the morning papers.
“Did you know,” he began, “that Australia is the most obese country in the whole stinking world?”
She shook her head and wondered if Ezra thought that made him thinner than all Australians.
“Nat spent a lot of time down in Australia.” Ezra spat a wad of tobacco on the ground next to his boot and squashed it into the dirt with his heel. “Said it was as hot as Hades.” He rubbed the shiny spot on his bald head as Elizabeth called out and recorded another tag-number and calf-weight, before pulling up the gate lever and letting the calf go.
Ezra looked bothered about something and it didn’t take him long to divulge.
“Imagine being real fat in such a hot place. Having to show off all that flab in those skimpy clothes.” Ezra stroked his well-defined gut that was thankfully hidden beneath a washed-out navy shirt. “Stinking ugly.”
He had a point.
Elizabeth stuffed her pencil into her mouth and tried not to smile, but she couldn’t help it. Trying to move on from the problems of exposing too much unwanted flesh, she noted, “You don’t curse much do you, Ezra?”
“Never.” He shook his head then paused with his head tilted to one side as he considered her question harder. “Well now, I guess I do in my head, but ‘stinking’ is the word that comes out of my mouth.”
“I never used to swear,” Elizabeth said, mulling it over. Since she’d attended the academy her language had taken a real nose-dive.
She stood, but staggered on her injured ankle. It was much better, but still weak. “Feck!” Her voice carried and echoed off the hills in a rare moment of silence and everyone looked up from what they were doing.
She grinned at Ezra’s appalled expression. “It’s not what you think. Feck just means damn or heck. It’s Irish.”
Ezra rubbed his belly before taking his tobacco pouch out of his back pocket and popping a tab into his mouth.
“Stinking works better for me,” he said, and then laughed a huge belly laugh as he trundled off back to the cattle.
EIGHT
Stone Creek, Montana, April 11th
Cal held the saloon door open for Elizabeth and she walked into a solid barrage of bodies with rock blasting from the sound system. She’d braced for country, got rock.
Figured.
Following Ryan’s rapidly disappearing back she squeezed between groups of cowboys and pushed when space became tight.
She found a gap at the bar and Ryan miraculously grabbed a stool for her. She didn’t need it, but decided it might make a good anchor if her buddies got lucky with the ladies. She ordered a round of ice-cold beer and saluted her new friends before taking a thirst-quenching swig straight from the bottle.
The familiarity of the routine eased her mind. She’d always enjoyed the camaraderie of drinking with the boys and the bar wasn’t quite the den of iniquity it looked from the outside. It was full of cowboys wearing their best western shirts, clean jeans, highly polished boots and every size of hat, from ten-gallon to ball cap. The women varied. Most were dressed in western-style clothes, but some of the younger ones were squeezed into Lycra and sparkles.
The Screw Loose was a roadhouse on the edge of the small town of Stone Creek about ten miles north of the ranch. It was one big room with a horseshoe bar set against the back wall. A row of booths sat beneath the front windows where customers could eat. A few tall tables were bolted to the floor, stacked high with so many glasses they were beginning to look like crystal sculptures. Peanut shells littered the floor and crunched beneath her boots—at least that’s what she hoped was crunching beneath her boots.
A large-screen TV filled one wall; the Canadiens were hammering the Ducks 5:0. Large mirrors lined the back of the bar and added to the chaos, making the place look even more packed than it actually was. The dance floor heaved with energetic bodies writhing and shaking as Nickelback burned it to the ground.
Ryan was nodding to the music, looking for someone to dance with. He looked in her direction
“When hell freezes over.” She shook her head when he gave her a puppy dog expression.
Cal pulled up a stool next to Elizabeth and made his opinion on dancing clear. He sipped his beer and slouched backwards against the bar, leaning on his elbows. Elizabeth noted a group of biker boys staring at Cal, throwing him hostile glares.
Back at the ranch, she’d asked him if he’d gotten counseling when inside. Cal had told her, ‘cowboys didn’t get counseling, they got drunk.’
Right then.
Elizabeth figured it wasn’t easy being a convicted murderer in a small town, and wondered why Cal hung around. It would have been easier to make a fresh start somewhere where people didn’t know your history. She should know. She shrugged it off, and figured it was nothing to do with her. She and Cal were vaguely friends, nothing more. He had his reasons for living his life the way he did and she had hers. She wasn’t about to explain hers to anybody.
Ryan spotted an old girlfriend across the room and excused himself to head off and claim her for a dance. Conversation was impossible so she and Cal just drank their beer and watched the show.
Nat Sullivan had hurt her feelings and dented her pride. Nobody had wielded that kind of power over her for a long time. She was surprised she hadn’t packed her bags and left. Maybe she just didn’t know where to go, or maybe bullheadedness had her digging her heels in. Whatever the reason, she was glad she’d stayed at the ranch.
A big guy with a long ZZ top beard and small wire-framed glasses came across and spoke to Cal, trying to include her in the conversation. She sm
iled at him, but didn’t answer his questions except for vague mutters that were lost in the noisy bar. She wasn’t worried about anyone recognizing her. Her disguise was good enough and the disinformation she’d left behind would take them far from this corner of the United States and only Josie knew where she really was.
She spotted Ryan doing some dirty dancing in the corner with a redhead and hid a smile. That cowboy knew how to party. He acted like an irresponsible teenager most of the time, rarely making time for his daughter, but she knew he’d lost his childhood sweetheart to cancer and that couldn’t have been easy. He worked hard and partied harder.
The Sullivans had been a revelation to her. People were always more than you thought, and often less than you wanted.
Elizabeth admired the determination with which Rose Sullivan pursued her recovery from her recent heart attack—like it was just another battle to be fought. And Elizabeth spent a lot of time with Sarah, mostly late in the evening after Sarah came home from the hospital after a marathon shift and Tabitha was tucked up in bed. The woman could talk a mile-a-minute and was nosey as hell, but Elizabeth liked her.
Then there was Nat.
At least she didn’t have to wonder what it would be like to kiss him. She knew. It had been like touching the stars from the depths of hell. That kiss—the incredible heat of it stayed locked in her memory, and she could still feel his hands on her body and was damned if she didn’t want them there again.
Maybe hot rampant sex with Nathan Sullivan was exactly what she needed.
She thought about him, those sapphire blue eyes and those strong broad shoulders and those long, long legs. Harmless thoughts, now that he was away in the mountains.
At least she didn’t have to lie to him.
She’d fielded questions about her past from everyone on the ranch, and she told them the lies that were the closest to the truth, but nevertheless lies all the same. She hated every word of it.
For years lies had been her game, deception and intrigue, sleight of hand and poker face. Now she wanted it over with, finished. But telling the Sullivans the truth would put them in danger and she wouldn’t risk it.
It was Friday night and she had cabin fever. It wasn’t the isolation of the ranch that got to her—she savored that. It was the isolation from information. The Sullivans weren’t hooked up to the Internet, something Sarah had suggested not so subtly that Elizabeth, IT specialist that she was supposed to be, could help them with. Nor could she get a signal on her cell phone. She’d taken the opportunity of a Friday night out with the boys to go into town and check up on Josie.
Thankfully, Josie was fine.
In the cottage, she’d splashed cold water on her face, but decided against makeup. Juliette wore makeup, Eliza didn’t. She smoothed her wayward hair back into a loose ponytail, grabbed her lumberjack coat and dumped her Glock in her purse.
Now Elizabeth found herself watching the saloon door like a teenager with a crush. Cal expected Nat back anytime soon and said if he wasn’t home by morning that he was going up after him.
The music changed again and this time the Dixie Chicks declared that Earl had to die. Elizabeth hadn’t expected to like country music, but she loved the Chicks.
She didn’t see it coming but suddenly she was pushed sideways off her stool and sent sprawling onto the gritty floor. She landed between a woman’s legs and was trodden on as the woman’s companion dragged his girl out of harm’s way.
Thanks, buddy.
Then all hell broke loose.
Some skinny guy with tattoos snaking down his arm took a swing at Cal. Cal managed a left hook that knocked the other guy down, but was grabbed from behind by some thug with a dirty blond ponytail. He held Cal up like a punching bag and three other guys waded in.
“Damn it.” Elizabeth clambered to her feet, rubbed wet, sticky hands on now grimy jeans. Cal was fighting back, but odds were four to one, and they weren’t taking prisoners.
Frantically she searched the crowd for Ryan, but the crush of people meant it would take an age for him to break through, even if he realized what was going on.
The guy on the floor got up and the odds were now five to one. Nobody appeared to be siding with the lone man from the Triple H.
Feck. Elizabeth took a deep breath and wished she could draw her gun. So much for avoiding the limelight.
She grabbed the guy who held Cal’s arms and put him out of action with a single blow to the temple. Released, Cal was at least able to defend himself, but Elizabeth could tell he’d been badly hurt. She swung around to confront the nearest biker, the skinny one with the tattoos. She grabbed his shaggy blond hair and swung him around to face her, smashing the flat of her palm into his nose just hard enough to break it. He dropped to his knees, gasping and choking on blood.
Suddenly, Nat appeared out of the crowd and shouted, “Get the truck.” He tossed the keys towards her and leapt into the fray.
Boy, was she glad to see him. She stood for a moment and wondered where the heck Ryan was and tried to work out who was winning the fight. Nat wrestled one guy, who must have weighed two-hundred-fifty pounds, to the floor and held him down in a chokehold. He was good, she’d give him that, but there were still two guys beating the crap out of Cal.
The one closest to her was only about five-foot-eight, but he was stocky and using a beer bottle to inflict damage. Cal went down. Ignoring Nat’s instructions, she side-kicked the guy’s spleen into his throat. Turning to face her, his eyes blazing with rage and not a little indignation, he lifted the bottle and heaved it at her. She ducked, but it caught her a glancing blow on the temple. She ignored the pain, grabbed his ears and pushed his face into her raised knee. Satisfied, she watched him drop like a stone.
Nat had just finished with the big guy on the floor, but Cal was still fending off one guy who seemed determined to smash him to a pulp. This last guy was a little taller, a little leaner and meaner than the rest of them. One of his hands came behind his back as he prepared to take a swing. Elizabeth grabbed his wrist and elbow, twisted hard and shoved his arm up toward his neck. Then she grabbed his hair and he yelled out in surprise as she slammed him into the bar. He never knew what happened. He fell like a brick to the floor and Elizabeth narrowed her eyes on a face that was now less than pretty.
Cal was slumped against a barstool, breathing hard, his face already swelling. Working on instinct and the need to escape, she grabbed him and threw his arm over her shoulder and started to haul him out. His weight eased off her shoulders and she turned to see Nat take Cal’s other arm. Adrenaline still pumped through her body, but relief welled up as she caught Nat’s eye and sent him an unsteady smile.
He had a cut lip, but apart from that he looked good. Christ, he looked great. They piled out through the crowd into the fresh night air and stumbled across the road to where Nat’s truck was parked.
Elizabeth helped Cal into the backseat and then turned to look for Nat, who’d run over to a car parked further down the street. She frowned in confusion, wondering what he was doing as he knocked on the window and a disheveled Ryan popped up his head.
It seemed that Ryan was a faster mover than even Elizabeth had anticipated.
Nat spoke to him and pointed at his truck. Ryan nodded and Elizabeth watched him give a quick kiss to his companion and jump out of the car. At least he managed to do up his pants before he crossed the road. Elizabeth’s mouth was open and her eyebrows stuck in her hairline by the time he reached Nat’s truck.
“Let’s go,” Nat opened the passenger door for Elizabeth, which she thought was absurdly old fashioned and polite under the circumstances. She jumped in. Ryan climbed into his own truck and they both gunned the engines for home.
***
Back at the ranch, Elizabeth paced the den while Sarah patched up Cal. The den was rustic and welcoming with bright, Navaho rugs adorning the floors, along with a couple of bleached skulls on the walls that would have looked right at home in a Georgia O’Keeffe paint
ing.
Cal lay shirtless on an old red couch, sharp features pale and drawn, his hazel eyes unfocused with pain. He was as white as a shroud. Red wheals covered his lean body, and Elizabeth figured at least one of the attackers had worn a knuckle-duster. By tomorrow Cal would be black and blue, and sore all over.
Nat helped him sit up as Sarah wrapped a bandage around his torso. Sarah had given Cal painkillers, but from the look on his face Elizabeth didn’t think they’d kicked in yet.
“You might have a hairline fracture,” Sarah said, gently probing Cal’s chest. “You’ll live,” she gave him a weak smile, “but tomorrow you’re getting an X-ray.”
Cal shook his head, but Sarah ignored him and brushed his short hair back from his damp forehead. “Why can’t they just leave you alone?”
Cal captured her hand and squeezed. “Leave it.”
Sarah rose and turned her attention to Elizabeth, pulling her down to sit in an easy chair so she could examine the wound on her scalp.
“What happened to you? Caught in the crossfire?” Sarah’s competent fingers gently examined the cut on Elizabeth’s temple.
Elizabeth muttered something noncommittal and would have scowled at Ryan who was grinning at her, but her forehead was too sore. Ryan had been filled in on the action after Nat had roused Sarah.
At least Elizabeth had tried to keep a low profile. Ex-queen of undercover does local bar fight, rodeo-style. She glanced up, found Nat watching her with a narrowed gaze that she couldn’t decipher. He still had his jacket on, looked like he wasn’t staying, looked like he was forcing himself to stand still.
Sarah dabbed peroxide onto the cut and Elizabeth sucked in her breath. She didn’t cry out, but she wanted to. Why was the treatment always worse than the injury?
“A flying beer bottle,” Elizabeth said and sat back with a jolt as Sarah shone a penlight into her eyes.
“Looks like you may have a mild concussion.” Sarah frowned, concern showing in her blue-gray eyes. “You should really go to the ER and have a CAT scan.”
Crimes of Passion Page 40
