Operation: Midnight Cowboy

by Linda Castillo

  “Perfectly, Mr. Karas.”

  “You will find the American agent. You will leave Moscow today. My private jet is waiting. When you find her, you will contact me immediately. I will take it from there. Am I clear?”

  “Crystal,” the young man replied and downed his remaining vodka in a single gulp.

  Chapter Two

  The Dripping Springs Ranch was exactly the kind of place where Rachael would never venture. A born-and-bred city girl, she much preferred the excitement of city lights. The ranch was about as far away from city lights as a person could get without leaving the planet.

  But as the SUV bounced down a dirt road on a ridge overlooking a valley, she had to admit the high plains and mountains of northwestern Wyoming possessed a stark beauty she would never find in New York. Of course that wasn’t going to make sitting on the sidelines any easier.

  The thought of being stuck out in the middle of nowhere while another team worked her case filled her with frustration—and a terrible sense of being out of the loop. Rachael had wanted to be the one to nail Viktor Karas. As far as she was concerned Sean Cutter owed her that. After all, Karas was indirectly responsible for her late husband’s death. She’d spent the last two years working to nab him; she’d worked hard and built a strong case. It rankled that she’d been forced to turn months of effort over to someone else.

  “You ever been to a working ranch before?” Bo Ruskin’s slow drawl tugged her from her reverie.

  Rachael frowned at him, annoyed because he wasn’t as miserable as she was. He was wearing a cowboy hat and a denim jacket. He looked comfortable behind the wheel of the truck. As if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Never had a desire to,” she replied in a clipped tone.

  “Not enough bad guys for you?”

  “Something like that.”

  He sighed. “Look, I know you don’t want to be here any more than I want you here, but since Cutter is evidently holding all the cards, we’re going to have to get through this.”

  It was the understatement of the year, especially the part about her not wanting to be there. But Rachael couldn’t think of how to change the situation. Without losing her job, anyway.

  Raising her hand, she displayed a small gap between her thumb and forefinger. “I was this close to nailing Karas.”

  “From what I hear, Karas came that close to killing you.”

  “I got into a scrape,” she conceded. “But what agent hasn’t over the years? Cutter overreacted.”

  Bo Ruskin looked away from his driving, his expression telling her he wasn’t impressed by her wrath—and that he didn’t necessarily agree with her.

  Their vehicle passed beneath a steel pipe arch bearing a sign that read Dripping Springs Ranch. Beyond, a white clapboard house and several outbuildings stood prettily against an endless blue sky. Within the confines of a neat pipe fence, several spotted horses looked up from their grazing.

  “So what do you do out here?” Rachael asked, taking in the barns and fenced corrals.

  One side of his mouth curved. “You mean out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “Well…yeah.”

  “I train and breed horses, mostly.” He parked in front of the garage and killed the engine. “Run fences. Repair the outbuildings when the wind kicks up.”

  “Seems…quiet.”

  “It is.”

  “Do you ever miss being an agent?”

  His eyes darkened for a fraction of a second. “Nope.”

  A man of few words, she thought. Probably a good thing at this point because she didn’t feel much like talking. She wasn’t sure she’d like what he had to say, anyway. Maybe they’d get along after all.

  Or maybe not.

  He hefted her single suitcase from the back and carried it to the front door of the house. Rachael had never been a fan of anything country, but the house made a lovely picture against the backdrop of crisp blue sky and purple-hued mountains. A railed porch wrapped around the front of the house. Geraniums grew in profusion from an old wooden barrel that had been split in half and filled with soil. A dinner bell dangled from a hook just outside the door. Beyond, an old-fashioned porch swing rocked in the breeze.

  The screen door squeaked when he opened it. Rachael stepped into a large, open living room adorned with rustic furniture and lots of rough-hewn wood beams. A Native American rug graced a pine floor. Beyond was a small but well-appointed kitchen and a window that offered a stunning view of the mountains.

  “That’s Bareback Mountain.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  “You’ve got the guestroom upstairs.”

  Rachael followed him up the staircase to a narrow hall with five doors. They passed three bedrooms and a large bathroom equipped with an antique claw-footed tub.

  The fourth bedroom was small but comfortable with terra-cotta paint, fresh white wainscoting and an intricately made quilt on the twin-size bed. A feminine touch graced the room and she found herself wondering about his decorator. “This is nice,” she said.

  “Pauline cooks and cleans a couple of times a week. I let her furnish the room about a year ago.”

  “She did a good job.” She wondered about his relationship with Pauline.

  He looked large and out of place in the small room, like a wild animal that was trapped indoors.

  “I make tortillas and tamales for dinner, Señor Ruskin,” came a female voice from the hall.

  Rachael spun to find a small, dark-eyed woman at the door. She wore a full skirt, denim vest—and cowboy boots. Her eyes widened when they landed on Rachael. “Hello.”

  Bo cleared his throat. “Pauline, this is Rachael Armitage.” His gaze flicked to Rachael. “Pauline Ortegon runs the house and just about everything else here at Dripping Springs.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Rachael said.

  The woman was fiftyish with long black hair shot with silver and pulled into a ponytail that reached all the way to the waistband of her skirt. Turquoise earrings in the shape of horses dangled from her lobes. The only thing missing, Rachael thought, was the gun belt and six-shooter.

  “Welcome to Dripping Springs Ranch,” Pauline said with a strong Spanish accent.

  “Rachael’s going to be staying with us a few days,” Bo said.

  “Oh.” The woman’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Questions flitted in her eyes, but she did not voice them. “In that case, I will bring clean linens and soaps.” She started toward the door, but turned before going through it. “I make tamales and tortillas for tonight for supper.”

  “Thank you,” Bo said.

  Nodding, she left the room.

  Rachael looked down at the small bed, wishing she was anywhere but here. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful about staying here,” she said. “I appreciate your putting me up.”

  “I owe Cutter a favor.” His smile looked more like a grimace. “This ought to even things up.”

  A shadow passed over his eyes at the mention of the favor. Rachael wondered what the debt was. “You must owe him big time, since you’re no longer an agent.”

  “Cutter and I go way back. He wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t seriously worried about your safety.” He motioned toward the window and the ranch spread out beyond. “He knew the ranch would be the perfect place for you to lay low.”

  “Laying low isn’t my style,” she muttered.

  “It is while you’re here.”

  A sharp retort hovered on her tongue, but Rachael didn’t voice it. Her beef was with Cutter, not Bo Ruskin. Still, the idea of spending the next week stuck in this room disheartened her. “So how do you spend your days here?”

  “Work mostly.”

  She tried again. “What kind of work?”

  “I train horses. For area ranchers. Breeders. People who show them.”

  She remembered seeing the horses grazing in the pasture when they’d driven up the lane to the house. “Spotted horses?”

  “Appaloosas.” Looking anxious
to leave, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his snug, faded jeans. “Do you know how to ride? There are some pretty trails on the ranch.”

  She laughed, but it was a nervous sound. She didn’t like the fish-out-of-water sensation creeping over her. “I rode a couple of times when I was a teenager. I’m not very good at it.”

  “I have a gentle mount if you want to do some exploring.”

  She hadn’t ridden since she was thirteen, to be exact, and spent most of that day on her rump. “Do you have a mode of transportation that doesn’t entail hooves?”

  One side of his mouth curved into a half smile. “A four-wheeler.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  “If you want to take a spin, just let me or Pauline know. I’ll leave a map of the ranch on the counter for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I also have a ranch foreman. Jimmy Hargrove. He’s a little crusty, but if you need anything he’ll be happy to help you.”

  Rachael studied him for a moment, her mind taking her back to the one and only time she’d met him. Michael’s funeral. She’d been so grief-stricken that day, she barely remembered. But she did remember Bo Ruskin’s eyes. When he’d approached her and offered his hand in sympathy for her loss, his gaze had reflected the same devastation she’d felt in her own heart. And at that moment, she’d known he was grieving, too.

  “We’ve met once before,” she said.

  “I remember.” His jaw flexed. “Mike’s funeral.”

  She didn’t let herself think of those dark days often. But she found herself curious about this man’s relationship with her late husband. “He always spoke fondly of you,” she said.

  His expression darkened. As if someone had flipped a switch inside him, she felt him closing himself off from her. Erecting a wall. “I’ve got to get to work.” Turning, he started toward the door. “If you need anything let me know.”

  “How about a flight back to civilization?” she called out.

  BY 4:00 P.M. Rachael was bouncing off the walls. She was accustomed to long work days filled with adrenaline. She was used to getting by on four or five hours of sleep for nights on end. She routinely participated in undercover operations where the heady rush of danger was the rule, not the exception.

  The Dripping Springs Ranch offered none of that.

  After an hour of quiet and birdsong, Rachael had had enough.

  Deciding it wasn’t too late to make the best of a day that had already been mostly wasted, she slipped into a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers. Throwing a jacket and her Beretta .380 into her backpack, she headed downstairs.

  She found Pauline in the kitchen, stirring a steaming pot of something spicy and savory. “It smells wonderful,” she said.

  The dark-haired woman turned and gave her an assessing look. “Tamales,” she said in a perfect Spanish pronunciation.

  Rachael slid onto a stool at the bar. “So how long have you worked for Bo?”

  “Two years now. Since he buy the ranch.”

  So he’d bought the ranch at about the same time Michael had died. She wondered if his former partner’s death had anything to do with it.

  Pauline arched an eyebrow. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “I thought I’d do some exploring. Bo said he would leave a map of the ranch for me.”

  “I have it right here.” Wiping her hands on her apron, Pauline went to a small built-in desk and pulled a single sheet of paper from its surface. “Are you going to ride Lily?”

  Rachael assumed she was referring to the gentle horse Bo had told her about. “I thought I might take the four-wheeler out for a while.”

  “Ah.” Pauline crossed to the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of water. “Take these.”

  “Thank you.” Rachael dropped the bottles into her backpack.

  Pauline went back to the stove. “Supper is served at six o’clock sharp.”

  Her stomach rumbling, Rachael took another long whiff of the air. “Believe me, I won’t be late.”

  She let herself out the back door. The air was crisp, but the sun warmed her back as she took the cobblestone walk to the barn. The earthy smells of horses and hay met her when she entered. She was midway down the aisle when a commotion just outside the rear door caught her attention.

  Several yards from the barn, Bo Ruskin stood in a steel, round pen with a beautiful young horse. On the end of a long rope, the horse was obviously frightened, snorting and throwing its pretty head high into the air. Dust billowed as horse and man danced on the sandy ground.

  Rachael approached the round pen slowly so she wouldn’t scare the animal. She watched, mesmerized, as the horse reared, flailing its front hooves at Bo. But the cowboy stayed a safe distance away and held the rope secure. All the while, he talked to the frightened animal in a calm, lulling tone.

  “Easy, boy,” he cooed. “Come on now. You can do it.”

  Sweat stained the back of his shirt between his shoulder blades. Dust coated his jeans from the knees down. The horse galloped in a circle around him on the end of the rope, tugging violently. But Bo remained calm, never losing patience with the animal, his tone never altering.

  “Settle down,” he whispered. “You know I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Rachael had never been unduly interested in horses—just a short phase in her preteen years—but watching the lanky cowboy work the animal, she felt something unfamiliar and vaguely uncomfortable stir inside her. A feeling she didn’t want to acknowledge. A yearning she thought she’d never feel again in her lifetime.

  Appalled by the realization that she was more mesmerized by the man than the horse, she stepped back into the barn and pressed her back against the stall door. What the hell was she thinking? Bo Ruskin had been her husband’s friend. He’d been there the night Michael had died. How could she feel anything for any male when only two short years had passed since her husband’s death?

  A hard and ugly guilt churned in her stomach. The logical side of her brain told her the return of her hormones was a normal thing. After all, Rachael hadn’t yet seen her thirtieth birthday; her life was far from over.

  But the emotional part of her psyche—the part of her that was still a mourning widow—berated that part of her for betraying the husband she’d loved and lost.

  “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  Rachael jolted at the sound of Bo’s voice and spun to see him standing just inside the barn door. Silhouetted by the sun, his image bestowed the impression with a tough, athletic build born of hard and physical labor. He wore a large silver-and-gold buckle and a leather belt adorned with an intricate design. Lower, she caught a glimpse of a part of his anatomy she did not want to think about.

  “I won it in a rodeo down in Cody last year.”

  Rachael’s gaze snapped to his. “What?”

  “The belt buckle.”

  “Oh.” A hot blush heated her cheeks. “How did you win it?”

  “I rode a bull by the name of Bone Cruncher. Made the eight seconds, but I broke my leg on the dismount.”

  “Sounds like the bull lived up to his name.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, but I got the buckle.”

  “It’s…nice.” But Rachael didn’t dare look at the buckle in question. It was to close to…something else she did not want to see.

  The hat he wore shadowed his eyes, but she knew they were on her. Probably wondering why she was acting like such an idiot.

  “I—I didn’t mean to disturb your work,” she blurted when she could no longer stand the awkward silence.

  “I reckon both of us have had just about had enough for the day.”

  She blinked.

  “The horse.” Amusement danced in his eyes for an instant, then he looked over his shoulder toward the round pen where another man was walking the horse. “I’d like to use him as a stud, but if he keeps up that attitude I might have to geld him.”

  Rachael knew it was a silly reaction—animals were
neutered all the time—but she blushed. “He’s beautiful.”

  “He’s a handful, that’s for sure. Doesn’t like to be told what to do.”

  “I know the feeling,” she muttered.

  He laughed outright. “I bet you do.” His gaze landed on the backpack she held at her side. “Running away from home already?”

  “I was thinking about borrowing your four-wheeler and doing some exploring.”

  “Did you get a map from Pauline?”

  She patted the bag. “Along with some water and a few tortillas.”

  “She makes the best tortillas in the world.” He motioned toward a small outbuilding a few yards from the barn. “I’ll show you how to fire up the ATV. You’re welcome to it anytime.”

  He started toward the shed. Rachael fell in beside him, silently berating herself for acting like some silly school girl. Bo Ruskin wasn’t the first attractive man she’d ever dealt with. Unfortunately, he was the only man in the last two years that had caused her to go totally brain-dead.

  They reached the shed, and he opened the door. A large four-wheel ATV sat inside. Wordlessly, he slid onto the seat and turned the ignition key. The engine started on the first try.

  “Helmet is over there,” he said, motioning to one of two helmets hanging neatly on the wall. “Red one will probably fit you best.”

  Rachael picked up the red helmet. When she turned around, he’d already eased the vehicle forward and out of the shed. Leaving the engine running, he slid off the seat and motioned for her to get on. “You ever driven one of these things before?”

  “No, but I’m mechanically inclined.” Sliding the helmet onto her head, she climbed onto the seat. “And I have a level four drive rating,” she added. Level five was the highest rating.

  “I’m impressed, but you still get a lesson.”

  Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she nodded.

  Bo set his finger against the right handlebar grip. “You have your gas here on the left. Brake on the right.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  Surprise rippled through her when he bent to fasten the chinstrap. His eyes met hers through the Plexiglas shield. They were the same endless blue as the Wyoming sky. “You sure you can handle this thing?” he asked.