Finished with her iced tea, she wandered outside. Maggie loved this place, always had. On her fifth birthday Alan had given her a hand-tooled saddle, and she hadn't been off a horse since. The mingled scents of leather and hay were still the headiest perfume for her. And cutting horses were her life.
Mercy Creek was noted for producing and training the best available, both for ranch work and rodeoing. For six years Maggie herself had competed, winning enough ribbons, medals and money to convince her father she knew what she was doing. He'd absorbed her into the operation of the ranch, teaching her everything he knew, watching her soak it up like a sponge. Everything she had both emotionally and financially was tied up here.
Damn Alex Rowland anyway.
Her gaze traveled the length of the four massive buildings that stretched away from the house, painted brown with the Mercy Creek logo in white. The first two each held forty stalls, twelve by twenty four feet, filled with sweet-smelling straw for the occupant. Every day two of her hands mixed the special feed for the horses and distributed it on a regular schedule. People who brought their cutting horses for training paid a lot of money and expected first class care for their animals.
The third building held the two indoor training arenas, one for barrel racing and one for team penning. And the last building was the breeding barn, where the legendary Running M cutting horses were conceived and foaled. Her father had worked hard to build up the ranch to its elite status. She wouldn't let anyone take that away.
"So how's our patient?"
Charlie Guthrie, the ranch foreman, had come up quietly beside her and leaned his forearms on the railing of the pen.
"Finally woke up,” she told him. “Not too happy a camper, I can tell you that."
Charlie chuckled. “I imagine not. What did you tell him?"
Maggie turned to look at the man she'd known most of her life. “Just that we found him on Mercy Creek property so we're taking care of his medical bills. And that I know he's in shit shape."
Now Charlie laughed out loud. “And did you tell him just like that, Mags? I'll bet that did a lot for his comfort and care."
She slapped at the man's arm. “No, you idiot. But I did tell him I know he's not about to be invited to the governor's mansion for cocktails."
Charlie was silent for a long moment. “Did you tell him what I dug up?"
She shook her head, her eyes back on Janine, the horse, and the cow the horse was training with. “Plenty of time for that. And by the way, thanks for finding all that out for me."
"No problem. It wasn't hard. He's got quite a reputation that's spread out over a bunch of states.” He sighed. “Are you sure you really want to do this?"
"No.” She sighed. “But what choice do I have? The bank's breathing down my neck and Owen Grainger's in full attack mode. Damn!” She kicked one of the posts. “The rodeo's my best and only chance to pull out of this."
Charlie patted her arm. “If I was thirty years younger, you know I'd handle this myself, Mags. Right now you need someone to help you pull your fat out of the fire, although I'm not sure a drunk has-been is the answer. Talk in the barns is this guy is bad news from the starting gate. But like you say, he's tough and knowledgeable, and what other choice do we have?"
"He knows cutting horses and rodeos, and at the moment he has no other options. He's dead broke and I'm offering him a way to get back on his feet. And he'll give Grainger a run for his money."
Charlie threw up his hands. “Fine. And you know I'll give you whatever help I can."
She grinned at him. “I'm counting on it."
Chapter Three
Hawk had been cursing steadily for nearly an hour. He cursed the doctor who poked and prodded at him, made precise notes on the chart and told him nothing except he was doing fine. He swore at the nurse who insisted on giving him a bed bath, handling him as if he was six years old. He berated the lab tech who came to take blood from him “to make sure you have no infection."
And then he swore to himself as he sat alone in his room brooding over his situation. He'd been in the hospital for two weeks now, and the pain was finally tolerable as long as he took his pain meds. They'd fitted him with crutches. And physical therapy had helped him learn to navigate with a cast on one arm. Those people weren't going to be part of his fan club, either.
Maggie Devereaux came every day. It surprised him when he began looking forward to her visits. She was a breath of sweetness in his otherwise depressing world. She even brought a picture of Jocko loping in a turnout paddock with half a dozen other horses. Her conversation was light and upbeat and she carefully avoided answering any questions about why she was doing this.
But as the fog around his brain cleared and he could study her more carefully, he detected pain in her eyes that she tried valiantly to hide. Who had hurt his angel so badly that she still carried the scars?
His angel? Whoa, boy. Let's not get carried away here. You and Maggie Devereaux don't even exist on the same planet. In the same galaxy.
He knew all about hidden scars, though. His own might be invisible but after ten years they were still raw and bleeding. The only thing that ever seemed to fade the pain was good old Jack Daniels Black, but he and Jack had provoked too many fights in too many places. He was sure he'd spent a night in half the jails in five states. And still the scars wouldn't heal.
If he could go back and rewrite his life he'd do it in a heartbeat, but that was impossible. With his headstrong arrogance, he'd closed a door and become nothing more than another rodeo asshole and a brawling drifter. When he couldn't compete any more he'd been fired from one job after another for drinking and brawling.
You can't go back.
How many times had he told himself that, trying to wipe away the memories that were the stuff of nightmares? Hadn't he really been trying to kill himself all these years, too cowardly to do the job and hoping someone in a fight would do it for him? He grunted in disgust. Someone should just throw him out with the trash.
His immediate problem was what to do when the hospital released him. He could barely afford a motel and he didn't think living in his truck while his bones healed was what the doctor had in mind. He had maybe one very remote option, but he wasn't even sure he could bring himself to go there.
So here he sat, cursing steadily, thinking once again how much better off he might be if he'd just died under that truck. One of the aides had turned on the television, insisting he needed something to cheer him up. Yeah, right. As if game shows would solve his problems. He'd muted the sound, leaving the images dancing soundlessly across the screen.
Leaning back against the pillows, he closed his eyes and wondered if he could wish himself dead. Then he heard the familiar tap tap tap of boot heels in the corridor. The door to his room pushed open and there she was, wearing her usual cheerful smile that hid whatever tragedy she'd locked away. Today she was wearing a bright red blouse with her jeans and matching red boots, although the boots looked well worn. Red hoops dangled from her ears.
Bright colors to cheer up the invalid, he thought sourly.
"The doctor tells me you'll be out of here in a couple of days. He says your bones are healing nicely.” Her eyes raked over his face and whatever part she could see of his body. “Yup. You sure look a hell of a lot better than the mess we dragged in here."
"And a good day to you, too,” he grumped.
She sat smoothly in the chair, legs crossed, one swinging gently back and forth. The scent of her perfume, jasmine and vanilla, drifted to his nose and made him think of things he had no right to consider. “That's what I like, a man with a charming personality."
"Listen, Miss Devereaux. Maggie.” He tried to push himself up higher on his pillows. “We have some things we need to discuss."
She nodded her head. “Yes, we do.” Clearing her throat, she leaned forward, hands clasped around one knee. “We have some business to take care of."
He frowned. “I keep telling you I'll figure out so
me way to pay you back for all this. Just as soon as I know where I'm going to be."
Maggie nodded. “That's definitely a problem when you have no place to go."
"What makes you think that?” he growled.
Her laugh had a touch of uncertainty. “Come on. You drive a pickup that really belongs on the junk heap, your wallet's almost empty and the only thing you appear to take good care of is your horse. Which, by the way, gets you high marks with me."
"Thank God I have at least one good quality."
"We all have one, Mr. Riley. It's what I call the lone redeeming feature.” She studied him again.
"Is there something particular about me that bothers you?” he asked, irritated by her scrutiny.
"Just wondering how a man who knows as much about cutting horses as you do, and could be a top foreman at any ranch in the west, ended up in such a broken-down condition. Not to mention the history of brawling you've acquired."
A chill raced down his spine. Why had she gone digging into his life and what had she discovered?
"I'm not sure that's any of your business, Miss Devereaux.” He tried to hide his anger.
"Oh, I think I had every right in the world to find out about someone who nearly died on my property. What if you had family looking for you?"
"I have no family.” His voice was like a whip. “You can forget about that."
Maggie jerked back at the anger in his voice, then took a deep breath. “Everyone has family somewhere,” she said, her voice soft.
"Not me, so just don't go there.” He pounded his fist on the mattress in frustration. He tried to move again but the damned traction setup and the cast on his arm restricted him and made him clumsy. “Shit. What exactly is it you want from me?"
"Whatever else they said about you, Mr. Riley, everyone sings one song in your favor. You're an expert with cutting horses and you know all there is to know about rodeos. And you don't back down from a fight.” A tiny smile crept over her mouth. “Which can be good or bad."
"I grew up with quarter horses,” he told her, then cursed himself for giving even that tiny bit of information. “And I don't go looking for fights,” he defended himself, changing the subject.
"How much do you know about Mercy Creek, Mr. Riley?"
"I know it's one of the top ranches for training and breeding cutters in Texas. Maybe in the entire Southwest. I heard you went through some, let's say, changes a while back but everyone says it's a solid operation. That's why I was headed in your direction."
They were on familiar ground now and he relaxed slightly.
Maggie recrossed her legs and wet her lips with the tip of her tongue.
Hawk felt the first stirrings of arousal he'd experienced in a long time.
Oh, Jesus, not now. Please not now.
"I think ‘changes’ is probably a polite way of putting it,” she told him. “My ... ex-husband left me in some severe financial difficulty. I think we're almost past that, but we're not there yet."
The door opened again and the nurse bustled in bearing thermometer and stethoscope. Go away, Hawk wanted to tell her. Come back later. Maybe tomorrow. People had such an incredibly bad sense of timing.
They were silent while the nurse went about her business, Hawk grumbling under his breath and Maggie watching every move. Finally they were alone again.
"You were saying?” Hawk prodded as the door swung shut.
"We've managed to pull ourselves out of the worst of it. Rebuilt the confidence of the ranchers and rodeo riders who use us. However, I still have some problems to deal with."
"Oh?” Hawk lifted one eyebrow. “If you're having problems, why is your insurance footing my bill here? And how can you afford to spend so much time with me?"
A bright shaft of pain blazed across her face and turned her eyes into haunted pools. Then it was gone.
"Call it an investment in a plan.” She pulled a sheet of paper from her purse, unfolded it and handed it to him. “We have a rodeo here in Wayback every weekend from March to November. We get a lot of traffic through here competing. Some good, some bad. But the big one is in seven weeks, just before Thanksgiving."
Hawk studied the piece of paper. “The Wayback Grand Rodeo, huh?"
Maggie nodded. “It draws from all of West Texas because it's big and the points count toward the Grand National in Vegas."
Hawk studied the flyer. “Some big names coming."
"The rodeo is my make it or break it. We train horses for both barrel racing and team penning. We get a percentage of any purses our horses win. Plus, it raises the price I can charge for foals at the sale right afterwards. Mercy Creek could be right back in business.” Every muscle in her body tightened visibly. “But a man named Owen Grainger is trying to run me out of business."
Hawk raised an eyebrow. “And Owen Grainger would be who?"
"He owns the ranch adjacent to us.” Her mouth twisted is disgust. “He wants to buy Mercy Creek. Steal it, is more like it."
Hawk shrugged. “So just tell him no, Miss Devereaux..."
"Maggie,” she reminded him. “And that hasn't seemed to work so far."
"Fine. Maggie. I'm sorry if this jerk is bothering you but I don't know what I can do about it, especially in my condition.” He couldn't keep the frustration and anger from his voice.
She smoothed back her hair and fiddled with her ponytail. Hawk narrowed his eyes. Was the poised Miss Devereaux nervous? What was going on here?
"And that's where you're wrong. Right now I need someone with your knowledge to help me through this rough spell. Someone who can make sure our horses and riders are at competition peak. And can oversee the breeding program with me."
Hawk tried not to stare. “I was told you had a top-notch foreman in place."
She nodded. “I do. Charlie Guthrie has been with Mercy Creek for as long as I can remember. He's doing his best, but..."
"But along came Owen Grainger."
"That's correct. Grainger doesn't see him as a serious threat, and we've had a lot of things happen lately."
"Like what?"
"Horses being let lose and running off. We're lucky none of them were hurt before we rounded them up. Two of my key hands waylaid and beaten so badly they quit. Deliveries of feed not showing up or being wrong.” She fluttered her hands. “The list is too long and depressing to continue."
"You think Grainger's behind it."
She nodded. “If he can hit me now, when I'm the most vulnerable, I won't have much choice except to accept whatever offer he chooses to give me."
"So what are you saying? Are you proposing to hire me? In my condition?"
"Not exactly. The men—what's left of them—are loyal to Charlie, and your, shall we say, personal reputation precedes you."
Hawk glared at her. “Then what do you want from me?"
She wet her lips again, sending Hawk's heartbeat into overdrive. “I have a proposition for you, Mr. Riley. A strictly business proposition, and I'm prepared to pay you fifty thousand dollars if you agree."
Chapter Four
This time Hawk's eyebrows rose into his hairline. “Fifty thousand? Hell, this must be some proposition. And if money is tight, where the hell can you dig up an amount that size?"
"Once the rodeo is over, and if the sale goes well, I'll have more than enough to pay you and put the ranch back on solid footing. We terminate our arrangement, and you walk away with a significant amount of cash in your pocket.” She gave him a tentative smile. “In the meantime, your knowledge of cutting horses and rodeos makes you a valuable asset to the ranch operation."
"Not to mention that I'll probably be a lot tougher for Grainger to run right over."
She looked down at her hands. “That too."
"And the men will just welcome me with open arms and do whatever I tell them?” He shook his head. “Not if they're like any of the other hands I've ever worked with."
"They will if I introduce you as my fiancé."
Hawk wasn't
sure he'd heard right. For the first time in years he was totally speechless. Maybe the medication had softened his brain. He shook his head as if to clear it.
"Miss Devereaux. Maggie.” He ran his good hand over his face. “I must be hearing things."
Maggie clasped her hands over her knee. If he hadn't been looking at her closely he would have missed the faint trembling. Her knuckles were white. The elegant Miss Devereaux was more nervous than she wanted him to know.
"Actually,” she told him. “You heard correctly. If I just bring you to the ranch to take over, the men will resent it and things will go to hell. But if they think we're getting married, they might not like it but they'll do what you say. You'll be in a position of authority, so to speak."
"Authority,” he repeated slowly.
She tightened her hands on her knees. “I'm not too proud to ask for help. But believe me, I wouldn't ask you if I had any other option."
"Just full of compliments, aren't you. What happens if all this financial maneuvering doesn't work out? How will you pay me?"
She shrugged. “Then I guess you and the bank can fight it out to see who ends up with Mercy Creek. Or battle it out with Owen Grainger."
Hawk took mental inventory of himself. Hair too long, face lined and scarred from frequent brawls, at least two weeks past a shave so the makings of a beard increased his disreputable look. A body toughened by work and fights and far from appealing with the damage he'd inflicted on it. And too many bad years to ever get back to a level of acceptability. Of decency.
For once in his life, Hawk truly didn't know what to say. Maggie Devereaux was a class act. Business arrangements or not, she didn't deserve to be personally associated with a tainted name like his. Not that he couldn't use the money.
And even in his condition, he knew he could do the job. He'd be proving it to a lot of people, though.
"Tongue-tied, Mr. Riley?” She caught her lower lip between even white teeth.
Shadow of the Hawk [Wayback Texas Series] Page 2
