How to Wrangle a Cowboy

by Joanne Kennedy

  Heading inside, he called the Wynott sheriff’s office. Sheriff Jim was the next best thing to useless when it came to law enforcement, but he could probably manage to transport a box of puppies to Cheyenne and report the puppy mill. Not that that would do much good. Wyoming law favored the property owner, and a man could do what he liked on his own place.

  He glanced over at the barn, where the lights in the new kennel area glowed a warm and welcoming gold. Silhouettes crossed the lighted windows—first Lindsey, then Cody—and the sight made him smile.

  He felt bad for those poor little pups. He really did. He hoped they were able to find good homes in Cheyenne. But at least here, for one night, they’d be loved and cherished by a heart big enough to hold them all.

  Because if love was all any living thing needed, Lindsey had enough to save all the dogs in the world. And maybe once she was done with the dogs, she’d have a little left over to save him.

  It had felt that way once. But was he really worth saving? If he couldn’t support all her goals and dreams, he didn’t deserve her love—and he’d spend the rest of his life in a world that was safe but cold, well-ordered but dull.

  But that support wasn’t something he could fake, and it was a long leap from pitying a box of mistreated pups to wanting to save every animal in the state. He knew, deep down, that he’d never have Lindsey’s energy or idealism.

  Sighing, he gathered up the remnants of the picnic party and carried the dishes back into the house. By the time Lindsey walked Cody to the door, he had them washed and dried, everything in its place.

  “You want to come in?” he asked hopefully.

  “No,” she said. “Thanks. I need to take care of the dogs.”

  Of course she did.

  He hid his feelings for Cody’s sake, but he felt like putting his fist through a wall. Better yet, he’d break his fist against the sturdy logs of the cabin.

  Maybe then Lindsey would take care of him.

  Chapter 52

  Lindsey paused, looking into Shane’s dark eyes. She knew him well enough that she could always see the hurt in those eyes, but he looked more wounded than usual tonight.

  “Maybe I will come in for a while.”

  Some of the furrows in his forehead smoothed out as the pain in his eyes eased a little.

  “Did you get hold of Animal Control?” she asked.

  He fished two beers out of the fridge and raised one in her direction. She nodded, and he handed it to her before cracking one open for himself. They sat down at the table, Lindsey resting her elbows on the wood. Her hair gleamed in the lamplight, and the dim lighting made her eyes shine.

  He imagined them sitting like this night after night, talking cattle, equal partners in a successful ranch. That was his dream.

  The trouble was, her dreams were bigger. He wondered if she realized her dream had sat on his and squashed it.

  “I called ’em,” he said. “Sheriff Jim from Wynott’ll be out in the morning. He says they’ve got a real nice facility in Cheyenne. And puppies almost always get adopted.”

  Lindsey had taken a sip of her beer, but it apparently went down the wrong pipe. She coughed and spluttered until Shane pounded her back. As soon as she recovered, she swatted him away.

  “Get away from me!”

  Her anger was genuine, her slaps hard. Shane backed away.

  “What did you tell him?” She spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Who, the sheriff? I told him you’d rescued a bunch of dogs from a bad owner and needed them taken to a shelter.”

  She put one hand to her forehead and stared down at the tabletop. “I should have known,” she said. “I really should have known.”

  “What?” he asked. “You wanted me to call Animal Control. So I did.”

  “We are the shelter, remember? That’s what we do now, whether you’re on board or not.”

  Shane blinked. Her anger might be genuine, but his confusion was equally real. “Then why did you want me to call Animal Control?”

  “I wanted them to help me bust up Brockman’s puppy mill,” she said. “I told you, there are dozens of dogs there. Maybe sixty, eighty—who knows? Every one of them is living in filth. He needs to be arrested for animal cruelty.”

  “Well, that proves it,” he said. “You’re not ready for this.”

  “For what?”

  “For this crazy shelter idea,” he said. “You’re in Wyoming, okay?” He said it as gently as he could. “This is the land of the castle doctrine, of property rights and the Second Amendment. There’s no way Brockman’s going to let anyone in.”

  “I know. He went on and on about how his property is protected by Smith & Wesson.” She shrugged. “So we’ll get a warrant.”

  “You think there’s a judge in Wyoming that’ll give you one? This is a ranching state, hon. I’m sorry, but animal rights aren’t high on the agenda. Judges are elected, and trampling what folks see as their God-given right to abuse animals won’t win anybody a seat.”

  “God, you’re cynical.”

  He took a long pull on his beer and set it down. “I sure am. Why do you think Grace just takes in those poor horses? There’s no point in trying to prosecute. Abusers get a slap on the wrist, and go on to abuse some other poor creature. It’s sad, but it’s true.”

  She swatted away his answer as if batting at a pesky fly. “Look, we don’t need the law, anyway. Brockman knows he’s in the wrong. He let me take these puppies for next to nothing, because I told him I’d report him. If it’s so hard to prosecute abusers, why would he do that?”

  “Because those dogs aren’t worth anything to him. And because now that he knows what your feelings are, he’ll meet you at the door with a shotgun next time.”

  “I’ve got better weapons than that.” She stood, almost knocking over her chair, and set her nearly full beer down on the counter with a thunk. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she headed for the door.

  “Lindsey, what do you mean? Where are you going?”

  “Never mind where I’m going. You just stay here, in your safe little world.” She spun and shot him a glare that was filled with contempt. “Don’t rock the boat, Shane. After all, there’s a one-in-a-thousand chance it might tip over.” She gave him a look filled with something very close to hatred. “Don’t even try to set the world straight. You wouldn’t want to take any chances, right?”

  He didn’t answer, except in his mind. There, the answer rang out like the single strong tone of a gong, resonating long after she’d walked out and slammed the door behind her, long after the roar and rattle of her grandfather’s truck had faded away.

  Right.

  She was probably going to the Red Dawg, to get some sympathy from Ozzie and her other trailer park friends. Or maybe she was going to Decker Ranch to vent to Sierra. Soon, she’d have his brothers so firmly on her side, he wouldn’t have any family left at all.

  But he’d always have Cody. And that was what Lindsey didn’t understand.

  Cody was the reason he couldn’t take chances. Cody needed a stable home and a father who set a good example of hard work and steadiness. Lindsey didn’t understand that.

  She could afford to have dreams, to take risks, to rock the boat, because she was alone in the world. Shane couldn’t.

  He had a child to raise.

  * * *

  Lindsey eased her grandfather’s truck off the road and into a copse of trees that stood behind the “Puppies 4 Sale” sign. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told Shane she had a better weapon than a shotgun. She patted the rear pocket of the black pants she’d changed into. Yup. Her cell phone was right there, video app at the ready. From what she’d seen of Brockman’s basement, video footage would go viral in minutes. Then someone would have to do something about it.

  She could hear the television blaring as she neared the house. She doubted the Brockmans would hear a tornado approaching, let alone a lone animal rescuer.

  Taking a winding, circuitous r
oute, she made her way to the backyard. Just as she’d hoped, there was a basement hatch with wooden doors. A padlock gave her pause, but when she twisted it, she realized Ed had gotten careless, and she’d gotten lucky. It was unlocked.

  Carefully, quietly, she swung one side open and crept inside, closing it behind her. Crouching on the steps, she strained to hear any human sounds above the faint whimpering of the dogs.

  Nothing.

  She’d noticed on her way in that Brockman had fixed the one uncovered window, taping newspaper over the glass.

  Good. That meant she could flick on a light switch once she found one, and no one would notice.

  The tinny sound of a laugh track startled her, then made her smile. They were watching a sitcom, and it was only five after. That meant she had an easy twenty-five minutes to get the evidence she needed. Still, she’d better hurry.

  As she strolled up and down the aisles, camera focused on the misery inside the cages, it was all she could do not to cry. Conditions were even worse than she’d expected. Sending this footage to Cheyenne’s nightly news would ruin Brockman, and end his puppy-selling, animal-abusing days forever, she was sure.

  She paused her filming several times when soft skittering sounds made her glance behind her. Stale dog food crunched underfoot, coated with dust. She couldn’t imagine the size of the rats that infested this chamber of horrors.

  She was nearly done, absorbed in a close-up of a particularly heartrending case, when she was almost blinded by a ray of yellow light from the hatchway. She could barely make out Ed himself grinning behind the glaring flashlight.

  “You come to steal more of my dogs?” he asked.

  “No.” Lindsey couldn’t think of anything to do but deny, deny, deny—and escape, escape, escape.

  “I just wanted to look.” She hoped her tone was light and perky rather than weak and desperate. Perky, perky, perky. “Now that I’ve seen the place, I’m sure I could help you clean this place up. I’m a vet, you know. We can get it up to standards, no problem. Your dogs will be healthier, and you’ll make more money. Money’s good, right?”

  She knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t help it. Beneath the torrent of mindless words, she was praying.

  Get me out of here. Get me out of here. Please, please, let me get out of here.

  Brockman stepped closer, his knuckles white on the barrel of his flashlight, which Lindsey figured held four D batteries. What would that weigh? How much would it hurt if he hit her with it?

  Alive, okay? I want to get out alive.

  Brockman scowled. “I don’t need some lady vet telling me how to raise my dogs.”

  Stand up to him. Force him to respect you.

  She remembered what Shane had said about the Lone Rancher.

  “Look, we’re neighbors, and that makes us friends, right? I don’t want to see you arrested on animal cruelty charges. Let’s work together to make this right.”

  Brockman’s face flushed red, then purple. “I don’t need your help, missy.” He puffed out his chest like a bantam rooster. “Guys like me don’t go to jail. That’s for those losers out at the trailer park. Guys like me, we own guys like that. We own stuff.”

  “Like what?” Lindsey glanced around the room. “This?”

  “Like Springtime Acres,” he said.

  She stared, the truth dawning on her. She thought of the substandard trailers with their dangling screen doors, their faulty plumbing, their leaky roofs. People there didn’t live much better than Ed’s dogs.

  “Yep, that’s mine,” he said. “I guess you realize now I got the power ’round here.”

  Come to think of it, owning the biggest population center in the area explained how Brockman managed to stay on the county commission. He probably forced his tenants to vote for him.

  “Wow, Springtime Acres.” She licked her lips and saw his eyes light up. Maybe she could somehow distract him. “That’s really something.” She tugged at her collar, accidentally on purpose revealing some cleavage. “I didn’t know you were rich.”

  “That’s right, missy,” he said. “I’ve got a lot to lose. And a little hussy like you ain’t worth my spit.”

  He spat onto the dirty floor, and Lindsey hopped out of the way. While she was distracted, he lifted the flashlight and swung it wide. She dodged again, but not fast enough.

  She felt a sharp pain—bright, blinding pain—and then all she knew was darkness.

  Chapter 53

  It had been a hell of a day. First, the dog had been lost, and now, Shane couldn’t find Cody. It was starting to get late, but since he couldn’t find Lindsey either, he wasn’t too worried. Cody loved going with her on her veterinary rounds, so the two of them were probably together.

  He shrugged on a Carhartt jacket and climbed into his truck. Lindsey was probably doctoring somebody’s raggedy little dog or skinny old cat at the trailer park, with Cody acting as assistant. He’d just go out there and have a look around.

  He trusted Lindsey. Sure he did. But the last time a woman had left with his son in a pickup truck, it hadn’t ended well.

  The scent of barbecue drifted through the truck’s open window as Shane approached the park. Someone was having a cookout, and it smelled fantastic. His mouth watered as he turned into Springtime Acres and took a right, planning to drive up and down the dirt streets until he found Lindsey’s old truck.

  But that smell drew him, and he found himself deviating from his planned route to find the source. At the center of the park, a circle of battered single-wides protected a circle of grass he supposed was a sort of playground. There was a jungle gym, a swing set, and a sandbox—all obviously homemade, all defying current child safety laws. In the very center, between the swing set and the jungle gym, was a row of four picnic tables, all occupied. Beyond them, Ozzie Wells manned a battered charcoal grill that was responsible for the heavenly scent of grilling meat.

  “Hey, it’s Lindsey’s boyfriend,” somebody said.

  Shane was about to set the facts straight when he took a good look at the crowd. Ozzie was the biggest dude there, but not by much. It looked like the entire starting lineup of the Denver Broncos, if that lineup aged about ten years and went to seed. He figured any relationship with Lindsey was probably as good as a Harry Potter protection spell around there, so he’d let them think the two of them were still an item.

  Hell, if wishing could make it so, they would be. There’d been a time when he’d feared Lindsey wanted more than he was willing to give, but that had all changed. Now, he didn’t care what she asked for. A proposal? A diamond ring? His left lung and liver? She could have them all if it would bring her back to his bed and back into his life.

  “You want some barby-cue, Mr. Ward?” Evidently, the men had already married him off in their minds, and made him take Lindsey’s last name.

  “Lockhart,” he said. “Shane Lockhart. Lindsey and I aren’t married.” He gave his best imitation of an easy grin. “You think she’d marry me without inviting all of you to help us celebrate?”

  Ozzie laughed, and it occurred to Shane that he’d make a pretty good department store Santa Claus. “You’re right, Mr. Lockhart. Doc Ward wouldn’t do such a thing without letting us all know.”

  Shane laughed uneasily, glancing around. He’d never been inside the park before. He’d figured it was like most other trailer parks—sad, a little poverty-stricken, but still a decent place to live.

  He’d been wrong. The homes here were falling apart. Most had peeling siding, and many had old tires on their roofs, holding down slabs of corrugated tin. Broken windows were draped with dirty sheets, and crooked screen doors hung from rusty hinges.

  In the playground, a few children raced around in clothes that weren’t nearly adequate for the brisk fall weather. An elderly couple occupied a park bench, their faces sunken in the way of those who can’t afford dental care. A couple of skinny but optimistic dogs sat patiently beside the grill, rolling their sad eyes at Ozzie every time he pi
cked up his spatula.

  “Is Lindsey here?”

  Ozzie shook his head. “Nope.” He lifted his gaze from his work, and Shane was heartened by the friendly twinkle in his eye. “You let that fine woman get away from you?”

  “I guess I did. I can’t find her, or my son Cody. She had a run-in with Ed Brockman the other day, so I’m trying to keep an eye on her.”

  “Ed Brockman?” Ozzie scowled—a truly terrifying thing. “That scum-sucking bag of goat shit. Why’d she want to have anything to do with him?”

  Shane shrugged. “He’s running a puppy mill, I guess. She’s concerned about the dogs.”

  “Aw, don’t you just love Doc Ward?” Ozzie shook his head in wonder. “She’s worried about just about everything and everybody.” He returned to his work carefully basting an enormous hunk of meat—a brisket, maybe? Shane didn’t recognize the cut, and he was a cattleman. He figured he might not want to know. The barbecue might explain the speedy disappearance of a roadkill deer he’d noticed the other day.

  “She shouldn’t have anything to do with Brockman,” Ozzie continued. “He’s a dangerous guy. Damn near shot Ida Murphy when she couldn’t pay the rent. Kicked her door down.”

  “The rent?”

  “The lot rent. Brockman owns this place. Didn’tcha know that?”

  Shane shook his head. “I wondered what he did for a living.”

  “Puppy mills and people mills,” Ozzie said. “That’s his business. Scum sucker.”

  The old lady from the bench had risen as best she could. Her frame was bent with arthritis, but she smiled as she hobbled over to Shane. “Mr. Lockhart, you gotta come see my cat Muggins. Your Lindsey saved him, is what she did. Her and your young man.” She chucked his chin. “Looks just like you, he does. Come on and see old Muggins.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Shane tipped his hat. “But I’m not sure…”

  “He just loves to have company.” Clutching his arm, she staggered forward, giving him no choice but to follow. He had a feeling she’d pitch over headfirst if he let her go.