Colton Family Rescue

by Justine Davis

  He knew he was dwelling on all that to avoid the obvious question hammering at the door of the small compartment in his brain where he kept all things Jolie. But it finally broke through and appeared as if in neon; had she been there when he had been? Had he eaten food she had fixed, or plated? Had she been that close, the distance between them measured in feet, not miles, and he hadn’t known?

  “Why there?” Those words weren’t anywhere near even, but he couldn’t seem to help it.

  It was a moment before she said, her tone dry, “They hired me.”

  He smothered the urge to glare at her. But his hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. He heard her make a small sound that might have been a sigh.

  “I’d worked with the woman who runs the back of the house before. She gave me a chance back then, even though I was fresh out of school.”

  That startled him into looking at her. “School?”

  “Culinary school. I took some courses. Got a certificate, couldn’t afford the full program. But it was enough that she gave me a shot. And when she left to start at the Balcones, she offered me the chance to go with her.”

  “And you took it.”

  “She believed in me when no one else did. I would have done more than just changed jobs.”

  “Loyalty,” he said, almost under his breath.

  He hadn’t meant it as a dig at her lack of loyalty to him, but he sensed her stiffen. He’d actually been startled enough that he’d put their past back in that compartment again. And puzzled at his own reaction; Jolie was smart, capable and talented, and knowing her history he shouldn’t be surprised she was also tough enough to succeed in a rather cutthroat industry.

  “I did hesitate,” she said. “I wasn’t sure I could handle the...proximity.”

  There was no mistaking her meaning; she hadn’t been sure she wanted to work that close to the Colton building.

  To him.

  “But you managed to overcome your distaste.”

  That he had meant as a jab, and he saw her flinch.

  “It wasn’t distaste,” she said, a tremor in her voice that made something tighten up even more in his gut, which in turn irritated the hell out of him. “It was pain.”

  “You’re the one who bailed on me,” he reminded her.

  She turned her head, looked at the little girl sleeping in the backseat. Then she turned back, meeting his gaze and holding it levelly. She said nothing more, but then, he supposed no words were necessary. Emma’s well-being trumped everything.

  Apparently the relatively civil conversation inspired her to ask what he guessed had been her main question all along.

  “Where are we going?”

  They were miles past the CVR. drive now, so it wasn’t surprising she was concerned. He wondered if she realized they were still paralleling the ranch; most people who didn’t grow up in the life didn’t realize just how much land it took to keep a cattle operation going.

  He, on the other hand, being in charge of the entire ranch operation, knew every damned square foot of the place.

  “What if I said California?” he asked, wondering why he felt compelled to prod at her; they’d talked about visiting there, she’d been curious to see if the Pacific was very different from the gulf. He’d wanted to take her there, or anywhere else she wanted to go, and had happily been making plans to do just that the day she walked out of his life.

  “Then I’d say I underpacked,” she answered, her tone almost nonchalant. That tone irked him even more, which in turn compounded his irritation.

  He was over it, wasn’t he? Sure, it still rankled a bit when he thought about it, but he didn’t let himself do that very often. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t completely over it, but it wasn’t like he dwelled on it every waking moment, as he had in the beginning. And he’d been to California, twice now, and with a determined effort he’d managed not to even think about her while there. Much.

  “You came to me for sanctuary, so that’s where we’re going.”

  “Should I assume you don’t mean the town of Sanctuary?”

  “Yes, assume,” he said dryly; the tiny town northwest of Fort Worth was definitely not his destination.

  “Then where?”

  “My sanctuary.”

  For a moment, she seemed to just absorb that. He wondered if she had any idea, any understanding of why he would even need such a thing. He was a Colton, after all, rich, famous, powerful—what in the world did he need sanctuary from?

  It must be awful, to always carry the weight of all those Colton expectations. I think I’d prefer no expectations at all, except bad ones. It’s a lot easier to be pleasantly surprised that way.

  The words shot through his mind, words she’d spoken years ago, when they’d gone on a ride, leaving baby Emma in the capable hands of Moira Manfred, the head housekeeper who after thirty years was as much a fixture at the ranch as her husband, Aaron, the butler.

  Something Moira had said, about being glad to see him take some time for himself, had apparently triggered the observation. He’d often felt exactly that way but had never expected anyone outside the family to ever see or understand it. It hadn’t been the first—nor the last—time he’d underestimated her.

  And this time was no different. She studied him silently and when at last she spoke, it was quietly.

  “A place to get away from the family chaos? I’m glad you have one.”

  He should have known she would understand.

  The question remaining was, after he let her invade that very private space, where would he go to get away from thoughts and memories of her?

  Chapter 11

  Jolie had lost track of how far they’d come when T.C. slowed the big SUV and pulled off the paved road. She glanced around, puzzled, seeing nothing but more open land, and a faint dirt track with an odd pile of flat rocks stacked waist high beside it. A marker? He started down the track. This was where the four-wheel drive was necessary, she thought; her little sedan would be struggling on this rocky ground.

  She wondered if she was thinking of such inane things to avoid second-guessing the choice she’d made. He had every reason to be angry with her, after all. Four years would have cooled it, but seeing her again, especially when she’d had the nerve to approach him asking for help, could easily have fired it right up again.

  And yet, once he knew the full story, he hadn’t hesitated. And that it was likely for Emma, and in spite of herself, didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter. Because when it came down to it, Emma was the only thing that did matter.

  She stayed silent as they went onward. He was obviously familiar with the area. She remembered Fowler once laughing at his younger half brother, and how after college he’d set out to ride over every part of the ranch. As if, Fowler had said with a derisive sneer, it mattered knowing one gully from another, one winter puddle from another. T.C. had calmly replied the ranch would be his domain, and he didn’t feel comfortable making decisions about things he hadn’t even seen.

  She’d said nothing—she’d only been at the ranch a few days at the time—but she’d remembered. She’d also remembered how Fowler talked in front of her as if she weren’t there, or as if she were no more aware than the kitchen counter she stood at, making his expansive breakfast. It had been T.C. who had looked at her behind his brother’s back, rolling his eyes and grinning.

  She’d started to fall in love with him at that moment.

  Not, of course, that she’d ever, ever thought anything would come of it. She’d fully expected to be one of those awful clichés, the lowly employee sighing after a man who was, in essence, her unattainable boss. And she’d done her best to quash those unwanted feelings, been careful not to look at him any more than anyone else when she helped serve meals, or stare when she caught glimpses of him setting out for one of those long, explo
ratory rides. Although she couldn’t deny the way her pulse leaped when she watched his jeans-clad figure swing aboard his big paint. She was a Texas girl through and through, and cowboys were in her blood.

  But she allowed herself small things, such as learning how he liked his coffee, his eggs—breakfast was the only meal she was allowed to handle alone—and his toast, and made sure they were done to perfection when he was there. It wasn’t something he’d notice—after all, it was expected—but it gave her a small amount of pleasure anyway.

  And then one day he’d thanked her for it, and she’d slipped a little further toward that precipice.

  She had to stop thinking about it. The past was the past, and she’d blown it all up when she took the money and ran. It was no small miracle that he was helping them at all. She’d be worse than a fool to keep dwelling on things she couldn’t change.

  Somewhat desperately she searched for a safe subject. But what she came up with was still colored with those memories. “How is Flash?”

  He’d told her once he’d named the horse after his brother Fowler kept calling the big paint flashy. “No point in denying the obvious,” T.C. had said with a grin.

  She’d liked how he’d deflated Fowler’s implied insult by adopting it. In the same way, he’d dealt with the disparaging childhood nickname Fowler had given him, The Crawler—he was, he admitted, always crawling into and under things, to see how they were made—turning it into the initials he cheerfully went by to this day. She felt a deep ache as she remembered the day he’d explained that to her. Most thought the T.C. stood for Thomas Colton, only family knew the real origin.

  But he’d told her.

  He didn’t look at her when she asked after his horse, but kept his gaze on the faint, rugged track that could hardly be called a road. They’d left the asphalt ribbon out of sight behind a rise now, and they could just as well be in the middle of nowhere as within a mockingbird’s flight of the huge Dallas metroplex.

  “He’s good. Still goofy, but still the best working horse on the ranch.”

  The big black-and-white pinto indeed had had a silly personality, once carefully nibbling away half of her straw hat while it was still on her head. Of course, she’d been distracted by his rider when they had dismounted so he could reunite the tiny lost calf they’d come across with its mother, who bawled out a welcome that had made him smile.

  And there she was again, she thought in annoyance, thinking about those lost days. Next thing she’d be thinking of the sweltering day he’d pulled off his shirt to dip it in the water tank, and she’d gotten her first look at his bare chest and flat, ridged abdomen. Tall, wide-shouldered and lean-hipped, he was like an illustration of the perfect male form come to life, for her.

  Why don’t you just torture yourself all the way, and think of when he kissed you the first time, or that morning when you first made love, in a pile of fresh, sweet-smelling hay...

  “Emma would love to meet him.”

  The girl actually had seen the horse before, but she’d been so young Jolie knew she wouldn’t remember. Then a flash of the drawing the child had made, of the black-and-white blobs that were almost recognizable as a horse, went through her mind and she wondered.

  “That can be arranged. I made her a promise.” He didn’t look at her when he added, “And I keep my promises.”

  Unlike some. Jolie thought the words he didn’t say. He didn’t have to say them. She knew perfectly well who the promise-breaker was in this car right now.

  “Meet who, Mommy?”

  Emma’s sleepy voice made her turn in her seat; the rougher road must have waked the girl.

  “The horse that looks like the one you drew, honey.”

  The girl was instantly wide-awake. “’s that where we’re going? Where he is?”

  “No,” T.C. said, “but we’re going somewhere I can bring him to.”

  “’Kay.”

  The girl said it simply, happily, immediately accepting his words. Did the child somehow know this was a man you could trust? Or was it the fact that this was who her mother had turned to for help?

  Jolie let out a quiet sigh. She didn’t know if the child even realized what was going on. She hoped not, not really. She needed the girl to be careful, but she didn’t want her terrified and haunted by what had happened last night. How did you explain to a four-year-old that this stranger was dangerous, but this one trustworthy? She didn’t want to raise a child who was perpetually frightened. She wanted Emma to be a bold, confident person with the courage to seize her dreams. But how did she do that and keep her safe? Especially now?

  “It’s nothing fancy,” T.C. said as the track lifted over another slight rise, and she assumed they must be getting close. “You won’t be watching a big-screen TV. Or any TV for that matter. Or using your phone, although you might get a couple of bars up on this rise.”

  She doubted that; she’d already noticed her low-rate, inexpensive phone was getting zero reception out here.

  “And no heat other than a fireplace,” he went on, “although it’s still nearly sixty degrees most nights, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “It’s October in Texas,” Jolie said dryly. “I’d be more concerned about the eighty degree days.”

  “No air-conditioning, either,” he said.

  It struck her suddenly that he wasn’t just preparing her, he sounded...not worried, but wary. What did he think, that she’d belittle the place, think it not good enough?

  “If it will do what needs doing,” she said, with a glance back at her daughter, “it could be a tent with an outhouse.”

  She saw his mouth quirk. “No outhouse. I drew the line at outdoor plumbing. But the water comes from a slow well, so it won’t do to waste it. And the stove is on propane, so same warning.”

  “No campfire cooking?” She put all she could manage of exaggerated disappointment in her voice.

  “Marshmallows!” Emma chirped at the word campfire.

  “You want toasted marshmallows, little mockingbird, put ’em on a rock.”

  Jolie’s heart nearly stopped as Emma giggled. Little mockingbird. He’d called her that when she was just a baby learning to make noise, and had been surprisingly adept at imitating the sounds she heard.

  He remembered. And it had slipped out as easily as if they’d never been gone.

  “What’s a mock...mockbird...what you said?” asked Emma.

  “It’s the state bird of Texas,” T.C. answered.

  “Oh. That’s good, then.”

  Jolie saw T.C. smile, as if in spite of himself. “Yes, it is.”

  “What bird is Mommy?”

  Jolie winced. She couldn’t even guess at his answer, and when after a thoughtful moment it came, she wasn’t surprised.

  “I think she’s more of a loggerhead shrike.”

  “Charming,” Jolie muttered as he named the bird more commonly known as the butcher bird for the habit of impaling its meals on thorns or barbed-wire fences. Thankfully the name was too complicated for Emma to even try, but her laugh said she found the sound of it funny.

  “But appropriate.” T.C. said it without any tone of malice, but the meaning of his choice was hard to miss.

  Before she had to react to that, they were coming down the other side of the rise, and Jolie saw a small building amid a cluster of pecan trees. There were also splashes of still green plants here and there, so she knew there must be water underground. The building itself looked old, but it had clearly been repaired much more recently. The roof looked new, and it appeared to have some newer windows. It looked more like a cabin than anything, solid, sturdy. And safe? That was paramount, after all. But the isolation should see to that, she hoped.

  They pulled to a halt beneath the branches of one of the big trees that were clinging to leaves despite the ho
t summer they’d had. Emma squirmed, clearly anxious to get out. T.C. turned in the driver’s seat to look at the girl.

  “Emma, I need you to listen to me.” Something in his voice made the child settle, and she met his gaze. “Be watchful when you’re outside. Especially for snakes. It’s nearly past their time of year, but there might still be some around, and they prefer to be left alone. If you bother the wrong one, it can hurt you. All right?”

  The girl’s eyes were wide as she nodded.

  “If you see it, leave it,” T.C. said. “Can you say that?”

  Emma repeated the words carefully.

  “Good girl.”

  He turned back then, and Jolie quickly looked away, her heart aching, her stomach knotted up. She didn’t want him to see the moisture welling up in her eyes. Back then, once he’d gotten over the nervousness of dealing with a baby, he’d been wonderful with Emma.

  Clearly he hadn’t lost the knack.

  She realized in this moment more than ever just how much she’d hurt him, not only by betraying him, but by taking away this child he’d come to love.

  And yet here he was, helping them.

  Helping Emma, she mentally corrected.

  It would not do to think this was anything more than a kind, generous man helping an innocent child who needed him.

  Chapter 12

  “Welcome to the refuge,” T.C. said as he opened the door.

  She glanced at him. “The refuge?”

  “It’s an old line shack the crew once used. We built a newer one farther west when we added the acreage out there, so I took over this one.” He shrugged. “It’s where I hide out when it all gets to be too much.”