Every Breath She Takes

by Norah Wilson

  As the two men pondered the price of survival, the first of the passengers clambered off the bus.

  “I’ll handle this, Boss.” With a grunt, Jim pushed his arthritic frame off the fence.

  “Stay put, Jimbo. I’ll see to it.” Cal tugged the brim of his hat down and strode across the drought-scorched grass toward the bus. Jim was the best wrangler he’d ever ridden with. Asking him to babysit tenderfooted adventure-seekers on tame trail rides was bad enough. He’d not see his friend reduced to smiling greeter.

  No, that distinction he reserved for himself.

  Dust rose up from her sandals as Lauren stepped off the bus into the punishing August sun. The black sundress she’d thought so perfect for traveling sucked up the sun’s heat. Her hands came up to shade her eyes despite the sunglasses she wore. She was definitely going to need headwear. Back home in Nova Scotia, she’d have worn a sun hat to protect her fair skin, but nothing short of a Stetson was likely to cut it here.

  She glanced at the man making his way down the line, greeting guests. Now, there was a working hat. Battered and dusty, it looked custom-molded for its tall, lean owner.

  Except he didn’t really look much like a cowboy, she realized. Shave off a few years, lose the hat, and she could picture him in a leather jacket, cigarette dangling James Dean–like from his lips. Or maybe astride a motorcycle.

  She focused on his face. All planes and angles, it looked like it might have been carved from the rock that rose in the distance. What would it feel like under her palm? The thought came out of nowhere, as did the answer. Hard, warm, mobile.

  She reined in those thoughts as soon as they registered, reminding herself that for all she knew, this man might be the killer. As he moved closer, she found herself analyzing his gait and trying to put herself inside his head looking out. No, she decided. He didn’t have enough swaggering roll to his walk. His movements were more economical. Graceful, almost.

  Suddenly he was there, offering his hand. “Welcome to Foothills, ma’am. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  “Thank you.” As his big hand enfolded hers, she noticed his eyes. Sensual, hooded, they gleamed a silvery gray, like her beloved Atlantic Ocean under overcast skies.

  They also gleamed with something else, she realized with another small jolt. Masculine interest.

  Suddenly she wished for her lab coat and trousers. The professional uniform usually precluded this kind of thing. Not that she minded male appreciation. But from this cowboy, it made her unaccountably nervous. Maybe because she felt an answering twinge, a twinge she couldn’t afford to indulge. She hadn’t crossed a continent to flirt with a cowboy. She had one purpose here, and one only.

  Turning toward the growing mountain of luggage, she dragged her duffel bag and suitcase from the pile. A hand closed over hers on the duffel bag’s handle.

  “Let me help you with that.”

  Damn. The gravel-voiced cowboy. “I can manage, thank you.”

  “Allow me. You’re really not dressed for it.”

  “I’ve got it, thanks.”

  At her tone, he released his grasp. “Ma’am.” He tipped his hat, the barest suggestion of amusement flickering in those gray eyes. Then he was gone, helping a family of five drag their luggage from the pile.

  Checkin, handled by a capable middle-aged woman, went smoothly. Another employee, a quite dazzlingly handsome young man of maybe nineteen or twenty who introduced himself as Seth, showed her to her cabin. It was a fair distance from the lodge, and he insisted on carrying both the duffel bag and suitcase. Not wanting to puncture his youthful machismo, she allowed it. It also gave her the opportunity to study his gait. Burdened as he was, it was hard to judge, but he definitely had some swagger to him. Particularly after he noticed her checking him out. As if! He was just a kid.

  But even kids could kill.

  En route, they encountered the cowboy, who looked pointedly from Lauren’s empty hands to the overburdened young Seth. Oh, man! After she’d turned down his help only to accept it from this pretty youth, he no doubt concluded she preyed on teenage boys. Well, that was his problem. He could think what he liked. Refusing to blush, she smiled and offered him a what-can-you-do shrug.

  A moment later, her young escort left her at her cabin. Putting the disturbing cowboy out of her mind, she explored her new living space. It was tiny, nothing more than a small kitchenette, a single bedroom, and a tiny bathroom. The bath, she noted with relief, was modern. Equally pleasing was the sunny bedroom, its double bed draped with a hand-sewn quilt. On a scarred dresser, a bouquet of wildflowers trembled in the breeze from the open window. She fingered the blooms, inhaling their sweet scent. Prairie mallow and some fragrant purple thing.

  Lauren crossed to the bed and stretched out on it, testing the firmness of the mattress. Exhaustion tugged at her. She’d love to pull the colorful coverlet over her shoulders, but she couldn’t. If she succumbed to sleep now, she’d be dead to the world until tomorrow, and that was unacceptable. She had a job to do.

  On the way over, she’d pumped young Seth for information about how best to meet other folks. He’d suggested she take all her meals in the ranch house’s dining room rather than getting the kitchen to stock the cottage with food. Sooner or later, all the guests turned up there, he said.

  Okay, the ranch house it was. Groaning, she rolled off the bed and hit the shower.

  When she walked into the dining room an hour later, she was among the first of the diners. She picked a table by the window, which would allow her to keep an eye on the comings and goings both inside the dining room and outside the house.

  Dinner was buffet style. The dueling aromas of beef and fresh baked bread tantalizing her, she strolled over to the big table. She could only gape at the volume and variety of food. Hip of beef, baked potato, molasses baked beans, garden salads…After six or seven dishes, she stopped counting. And carving the beef, a white chef’s hat on her head, was the same round-faced woman who’d handled the registrations.

  “You sure get around,” Lauren said.

  The woman smiled. “’Round here, nobody has just one job.”

  “And what are yours?”

  “Registration desk, cook, and housekeeper.” She poked the beef with the tines of her fork. “How do you take your beef?”

  “Medium.” Lauren’s mouth watered. “It looks wonderful.”

  “It is wonderful.”

  At the masculine voice, she turned to find the cowboy, minus his hat and with plate in hand.

  “It’s our specialty,” he said as the cook handed Lauren back her plate, which now bore a sizeable chunk of meat. “Rolled and aged before being cooked in a big ol’ barbecue oven. Nobody does it like Delia.” He winked at the cook.

  “Go ’way with you.” The older woman blushed to the roots of her red hair.

  He grinned at Delia. “Not without some of that beef.”

  Lauren almost dropped her plate. He’d smiled when he greeted the tour group, but it hadn’t changed his face like this. Good thing. She might have melted into an embarrassing puddle.

  “I’ve got just the piece for you, Boss. It still moos when you poke it.”

  Boss? This hard-edged cowboy was the proprietor? Lauren watched as the woman forked a slab of rare beef onto his plate. She should have figured it, she supposed. He did exude an undeniable air of authority. No, maybe authority wasn’t quite the right word. At least not in the conventional sense. It was more like the aura people project when they’re just that confident that they have the skills to meet whatever might be around the next corner.

  She’d bet, too, that he harbored a wide streak of cynicism. It was there in the set of his mouth, as attractive as it was. Yes, his character was certainly set in his bones. High, intelligent forehead, strong cheekbones, stubborn chin. What in God’s name drew a man like this to the hospitality industry?

  He cleared his throat, and she realized he was waiting for her to move on. Meanwhile she’d been standing there study
ing his face as though it held the key to some ancient lost secret.

  “Whoops, sorry. Woolgathering.” She smiled up at him while her mind raced. If he was the owner of this operation, he was a man she should be talking to. No time like the present. She glanced around the room and the mostly empty tables, then back up at him. “So would you like to join me for lunch? Or are you the romantic loner cowboy archetype who has to sit by himself?”

  He laughed, the sound sudden and spontaneous. “Ma’am, I’m the type who never says no to a beautiful woman when she asks me to dine with her,” he said. “Not sure what archetype that makes me, except red-blooded man.”

  Inside, she felt a few butterflies at the idea of eating her meal with him watching her through those hooded eyes. There was something unsettling about his intensity. But she smiled back at him and said, “Thank you.”

  He followed her to the small cloth-draped table near the window that she’d staked out earlier and drew out a chair for her. So the cowboy had manners. She placed her loaded plate on the table and took a seat.

  “Cal Taggart,” he said, seating himself opposite her and extending a hand.

  “Lauren Townsend.” She extended her own hand, grateful that he merely shook it in a firm clasp and released it. Better and better. She hated it when guys held on too long, trying to make you aware of…what? The fact that they were stronger than you?

  “So did I pass inspection back there?”

  Of course he would mention it. There went all the points for politeness. Not that she minded a little directness. It was usually the best policy. Well, except for when it came to the woo-woo stuff. Honesty, she’d come to learn, was almost universally not the best approach to that particular topic.

  “I don’t know yet.” Her gaze swept his torso visible above the table. “I didn’t get past the face.”

  A glint in those gray eyes was his only reaction. “And how’d the face rate?”

  She pursed her lips and tilted her head, considering. “A little too strong, but good around the eyes.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You an artist or something?”

  “Or something.”

  He smiled, the same smile that jerked at her senses when he’d used it on Delia. Good around the mouth too.

  “So do I get a turn?”

  She sipped her water. “I guess it would only be fair.”

  He studied her. “Good hair, good bones, good diction.” His gaze fixed on her eyes. “Well-heeled East Coast lady.”

  “Well-heeled?” She let her lips part on a smile. “You make me sound positively proper.”

  He shrugged, reaching for his own water goblet. “Could be, I suppose, if I believed it.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”

  She waited while he chewed an ice cube. “Mouth makes a lie of the rest of it.”

  Her pulse leapt. “Maybe it’s the mouth that lies.”

  He made no remark, just watched her with those steady eyes. She suppressed the urge to swallow.

  “To faces, then.” She raised her water goblet.

  He clinked her glass in a salute. “To faces.”

  “Okay, now that the obligatory bantering is out of the way,” she said, conscious of her proper East Coast diction, “can I ask you some questions about the ranch?”

  Something flickered in his eyes. “Sure. What would you like to know?”

  For the next half hour, as they ate, she pumped him about his operation. She learned the ranch could accommodate around twenty guests, depending on how many could double up in beds or share cabins. Currently there were only thirteen guests registered, including her. Cal informed her that while they occasionally had longer-term guests, the average stay for most of them was three or four days, so people tended to come and go all the time. Most of them came in on the shuttle bus from Calgary, but some tourists arrived in rental cars. As for guest profile, he reported that he got a lot of couples, from twentysomethings to fiftysomethings, as well as a lot of families, so the demographic was pretty mixed.

  But talking about business and, by extension, himself, didn’t seem to be Cal Taggart’s favorite pastime. His answers grew progressively shorter, until finally he clumped his coffee cup down.

  “Ms. Townsend, if you’re looking to start your own ranch, you’d be better off pickin’ someone else’s brains. There are plenty of more established, more successful outfits in these parts.”

  “Oh, no! I have no desire to get into the business.”

  “Then why the twenty questions?” His eyes drilled her.

  What to say? I’m conducting a homicide investigation—before the fact? Hardly. She licked suddenly dry lips, searching for inspiration. Then the solution came to her.

  “I’m a writer,” she lied. “My publisher thought it would be a great idea to set my next book on a guest ranch,” she said, warming to the idea. “It’s research of a sort.”

  “A writer?” He sat back in his chair and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Should I know you, then?”

  Yikes! She’d as much as said she was published, hadn’t she? “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “Try me. Despite my too-strong face, I have been known to read the occasional book.”

  Okay, now what? She could say romance. He didn’t look like a romance reader. On the other hand, maybe he had a mother or a sister who was an avid fan of the genre. Then it came to her. Perfect! She placed her own napkin on the table and sat back. “Not these books.”

  There was that eyebrow again. “And what kind is that?”

  She smiled. “Female erotica.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cal double-checked the saddle on the small paint mare, then gave her a reassuring scratch on the shoulder.

  Female erotica. The words might as well be etched in neon in the forefront of his mind. He shook them away again, along with the image of Lauren Townsend’s ridiculously blue eyes skimming over him yesterday in the dining room. Concentrate. A riding clinic was no place to let his mind drift.

  “Okay, pal, let’s get you up there,” he said to the kid at his elbow. The boy couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old and had obviously never been this close to a horse, but despite his fear, he followed Cal’s bidding. A moment later, the helmeted kid sat astride the mare, beaming. This was a part of the job Cal actually liked. If things had been different with his marriage, he might have had his own child to teach…

  Dammit, he was wandering again. Snapping back to the task, he adjusted the stirrups, all the while keeping up a conversation with the kid.

  “Ready to walk her a bit?”

  The kid clung to the saddle horn, but nodded gamely.

  Cal led the mare around in slow circles to allow the boy to get a feel for the horse’s movement under him and to find his balance in the saddle. When the kid—Jordan—seemed to be getting comfortable, Cal handed him the reins and showed him how to execute the basic commands. Cal continued to walk beside the paint, alternately correcting and praising the boy as he got the hang of things.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Cal caught a glimpse of Lauren, who’d landed in a brush-up clinic for intermediate riders. One of his wranglers, Spider, was helping her mount her horse, a reliable dun gelding named Buck. Help she didn’t particularly need, he decided, as he watched her spring into the saddle. But when she tried to bring the sidestepping gelding back in line, he veered off in the other direction. The harder she tried to correct Buck, the more the horse danced off. Spider seemed stymied by this development.

  “You be okay for a second, Jordan?” Cal asked the kid.

  Eyes shining, the boy nodded.

  “Just keep doing that figure-eight thing.”

  With that, Cal stepped forward and grabbed the dancing dun’s reins. “Whoa, Buck.” He shot an I-got-this glance at Spider, who turned to watch over young Jordan, then looked up at Lauren. “Having trouble?”

  “What was your first clue?” A blush colored her cheekbones, all the more evident some
how with most of her glossy black hair concealed beneath her hat.

  “I think I know your problem.” He eyed the English riding boots that hugged her slim calves. A bit of a style clash with the white Stetson they handed out to all their guests, but nice.

  “Do tell.”

  He liked looking at her from her imperious position atop the horse, he decided. A sudden fantasy involving Lauren, those black riding boots and little else seared his nerve endings. Was that the kind of stuff she wrote about?

  “So, what am I doing wrong, Einstein?”

  “You’re used to English-trained horses, am I right?”

  “Of course! That’s why he won’t move toward my hand.”

  “Exactly. They’re all Western-trained here. They respond to the touch of the rein against the neck, not the pull of the bit in the mouth. Try it,” he urged, releasing the bridle. “Touch the rein to the right side of his neck, and he’ll turn left.”

  She did, clearly pleased when her mount obeyed. “It feels so strange.” She wheeled Buck again. “What about the legs?”

  Yes, what about them? Since he’d seen her mount the horse, he couldn’t stop thinking how her slender legs would feel wrapped around him instead of the buckskin’s flanks.

  “He’ll move away from the leg,” he croaked.

  Damn, why did she have to tell him she wrote erotica? That must be why he couldn’t get sex out of his mind.

  “Good, that’s the same as English.”

  She seemed oblivious of the carnal nature of his thoughts. Thoughts he’d better curb if he didn’t want to be publicly embarrassed. He tipped his hat back. “Since you don’t need any more lessons, I’m gonna move on to the folks who do.”

  Lauren was grateful for Cal’s help straightening out her cues, but she wasn’t sorry to see him go. She wanted to check out all the males, guests and ranch hands alike, to see if any of them set off alarm bells.

  She’d already mentally eliminated the ranch hand who’d given her a hand up to her mount. While he seemed to be plenty strong, she was certain his arms were much thinner and more wiry than the man in her vision. Plus he had the rolling gait of a man who lived in the saddle. Last but not least, he probably wasn’t more than five foot five or five foot six, whereas her impression of the killer was that he was considerably taller than the victim. Chances were that gorgeous woman was at least the same height as the ranch hand herself, probably taller.