Colton Family Rescue

by Justine Davis

  He hadn’t been celibate since she was gone. At least, his body hadn’t been. Right at this moment he wasn’t so sure about his mind, and he’d given up trying to keep his heart in line.

  “I would do anything...”

  Would she? Really?

  He forced the zipper up the rest of the way with a grimace. He took his dark gray Stetson off the peg on the wall rack, more out of habit than need. He grabbed a few things and stuffed them into the hand-tooled saddlebags that hung from the next peg. He slung them over his shoulder and headed out, down the back stairs and off to the stables.

  Flash welcomed him with a soft nicker; the amiable horse was always up for an adventure, and seemed to relish these moonlight rides as much as T.C. did. It was as if he knew work was work, but this was play, and reacted accordingly. T.C. had even sometimes wondered if the horse knew his black-and-white markings made him blend into his surroundings in the silver moonlight, and maybe he felt safer.

  He put the saddlebags over the bottom half of the stall door, and gave the dark-eyed animal an affectionate rub under the jaw. The horse bobbed his head in appreciation.

  He walked to the tack room to get his saddle. No fancy, silver-trimmed parade saddle for him; Flash was gaudy enough already. He lifted his worn but well-cared-for stock saddle from the rack. He’d forgo the flank cinch, he thought; no heavy roping this ride. He stuck a brush under his arm and a currycomb in his back pocket, then grabbed the thick black saddle pad and turned to head back to Flash’s stall.

  He stopped midstride when he thought he heard a rustling from the end stall next to the tack room. His brow furrowed. It should be empty; they’d moved Marceline’s Queenie to a smaller stall after she turned up lame and the vet suggested it to keep her from moving too much until she healed.

  But he heard nothing more and decided he must have heard an echo of one of the other horses moving around. He went back to Flash’s stall and began to run the currycomb over the paint’s dramatically colored coat. He noticed some straw clinging to the animal’s flowing white tail, and realized it was time to trim the thing. It looked great in a show ring, but it was a nuisance for ranch work, and that was their life now. He’d brush it out for now and leave it; Emma would probably like the flowing tail that was so like her beloved toy ponies.

  Emma.

  The odd tightness returned to his chest. He hadn’t realized quite how big a hole the little girl had left in him. She—

  The rustling came again, and this time from where he stood he was certain it had come from the empty stall.

  He put down the brush he’d picked up and started toward the sound. Then he hesitated for a moment. After all, his father had been grabbed from the house; who was to say the perpetrator hadn’t come back? It wasn’t like he was carrying, although he’d thought about it more than once since that night. He knew Fowler was always armed now, terrified he’d be next. Or at least saying so, but that could be to throw suspicion off himself. But the only thing T.C. had with him was the folding knife he always carried, in his mind an essential on the ranch.

  Then again, the sound could be a possum, or a stray armadillo or something. Hopefully not a skunk, he thought with an inward grimace. That was one black-and-white creature he preferred to leave alone whenever possible.

  “Whoever or whatever you are, get out of there,” he said, easing the knife out of the sheath and into his hand, ready to flip the four-inch blade open in an instant.

  “Oh! T.C.!”

  He blinked, startled to hear Marceline’s voice coming from the darkness of the stall. And curious about how relieved she sounded; they didn’t get along well enough for her to be glad to see him.

  She emerged from the stall looking uncharacteristically flustered. Her silk blouse was half-untucked, her usually perfect hair mussed. And, he noticed, festooned with straw.

  “What are you doing out here at this hour?” he asked, slipping the knife back into the sheath on his belt.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” she retorted, trying futilely to tidy herself. And, he realized, looking very, very guilty.

  “I’m going for a ride,” he said, jerking a thumb toward Flash’s stall with the saddle in plain sight.

  “You and your midnight rides. You’d think you were Paul Revere or something.”

  “I don’t think he ever rode a horse like Flash,” he said, wondering why she was dodging his question. “You know until we know what happened to Dad you shouldn’t be out alone.”

  “I’m not—” She cut herself off, and he could have sworn her gaze darted to the side, back toward the stall she’d emerged from. Had she not been alone? But who the hell—

  “You’re here alone,” she pointed out, clearly back on track, and on the offensive.

  “That’s different and you know it.”

  “Because you’re a big, strong man?” Her tone dripped acid, but it seemed a little forced.

  “Fact of life.”

  “Just forget it. Go on your ride.”

  “When you tell me who else is in there,” he said with a gesture toward the stall.

  “No one, not that it’s any of your business.” Her nose came up. “I just came down to check on Queenie. I’m worried about her.”

  That stopped him. If Marceline had one saving grace, it was that she did genuinely care about that horse. More than most people, he suspected. But it was the only reason he tolerated her at all. “Dr. Daniels says she’ll be fine.”

  “I still wanted to check on her.”

  “But she’s not in that stall anymore.”

  “I forgot,” she snapped. “Honestly, T.C., just go on your ride and quit butting into my business.”

  She turned on her heel in the imperious, dismissive way only Marceline could do, and stalked away.

  T.C. puzzled over her odd presence and actions as he tacked up Flash and brought the horse out into the stable aisle. He made a quick check of the horse’s hooves, then led him outside into the moonlight. The animal was alert, ready, knowing what was coming, a good, free run through the night.

  He swung aboard and settled into the seat, the saddle feeling familiar and comfortable; if this thing was a car it would have a hundred thousand miles on it and be ready for that many more. Best money he’d ever spent, having it custom-made down in San Angelo. He and Flash could put in a sixteen-hour day and there wouldn’t be a sign of a rub or tender spot on the horse when they were done.

  He barely had to lift the reins before the horse eagerly started out of the stable yard. And when T.C. pulled him back suddenly, he let out a startled snort of protest. But a movement at the edge of his vision had turned him around in the saddle. Just in time to see a man darting from the stable into the darkness, heading quickly back toward the main barns and the bunkhouse.

  T.C. blinked.

  Dylan Harlow? He had been the one in the stall with Marceline?

  He frowned. That made no sense. If it was anyone but his snotty, snobby half sister he would have guessed at a secretive, romantic tryst—God knows he and Jolie had indulged in an empty stall more than once, and the memories had the power to tighten his gut and other body parts—but Marceline was the last person on earth to ever get involved with a mere ranch hand. Which left her being up to something else, one of her schemes. It would explain why she dodged his questions.

  On the other hand, he’d always thought Harlow a straight-up guy, loyal and not prone to deviousness, so what on earth would he be doing plotting with Marceline?

  What the hell was she up to?

  Chapter 18

  “Mommy, Mommy, wake up, he’s here!”

  Jolie opened her eyes to the excited exclamation of her daughter. She couldn’t help smiling, albeit sleepily, at the expression of exuberant joy on her face.

  And then memory flooded back and she jo
lted upright. The refuge. T.C.’s place.

  His bed, where Emma had slept peacefully and Jolie had at last surrendered to exhaustion and curled herself protectively around her little girl. She glanced around the room, expecting to see him despite the fact that she knew she would have sensed it if he was there. T. C. Colton wasn’t the domineering, attention-demanding Colton Fowler was, but to her he was much more of a presence, quietly taking up a good bit of the air in any room he was in.

  Or maybe it was simply that she had trouble breathing around him.

  On that rueful thought Jolie swung her feet to the floor while Emma waited with clear impatience. The child was up and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, although she was still barefoot.

  “Hurry, Mommy, I wanna go see him!”

  This seemed a new sort of enthusiasm. Caution spiked through her. “See who?”

  “The horse, of course.” As if she’d just heard the sound of what she’d said, the girl giggled.

  “The horse...?”

  “The man brought him.” The child gestured toward the door. Only then did Jolie notice the blanket on the floor, and a second rolled up into a makeshift pillow at one end.

  “He’s back,” she murmured. He’d slept there, so close, and she hadn’t awakened? It seemed impossible.

  “He was there when I waked up,” Emma explained, practically wiggling in her eagerness to get outside. “Hurry, Mommy,” she urged again.

  “I’m surprised you’re not already out there,” Jolie said wryly, realizing the shower she’d been pondering was going to have to wait.

  “He told me wait. Till you waked up. ’Cuz you’d be scared.”

  The simple thoughtfulness nearly put her on her knees. Because he knew had she waked to find Emma gone, she would have been more than scared; she would have been terrified. And likely would have panicked.

  It just proved what she’d already known: T. C. Colton was, at heart, a kind man. He might be tough as nails in business dealings, smart enough to outmaneuver even Fowler on occasion and strong enough to work as hard and long as any ranch hand, but at the core he was still the kind, decent man she’d fallen in love with. That she’d destroyed his love for her hadn’t changed that, and she was glad to know it. Especially since that was what was making him help her. Well, that and the possibility that he had never stopped loving Emma.

  “You’d better get your shoes on, then.”

  “My boots!”

  The girl ran to where her backpack leaned against the wall. Jolie smiled; the inexpensive but adorable pair of tiny red cowboy boots were hardly designed to stand up to an actual horse, but they were Emma’s favorite footwear, and she would wear them daily if allowed.

  The child plopped on the floor to pull them on. Jolie noticed she was starting with the wrong boot for her left foot, but she waited, saying nothing. And a few seconds later Emma frowned, pulled the boot off and then back onto her other foot, having realized her mistake.

  Jolie felt a spurt of both pride and regret, pride at how bright and quick her girl was, and a regret that she was growing and learning so quickly it seemed each precious stage lasted only moments. One minute Jolie was carefully dressing her, the next the girl was doing it herself in a rush. And doing it well, the occasional mismatched sock or inside-out T-shirt not withstanding.

  She tugged her own shoes back on, glad she’d had on her one pair of sturdy leather slip-ons when chaos erupted last night. Once it was clear Jolie was up and moving, Emma raced to the door. She glanced back, clearly impatient. But in this new, strange place, Jolie didn’t want the girl outside without her, at least for now. She gave up on any other effort at making herself presentable, settling for running her fingers through her hair until it felt a bit less sleep-tangled, and being thankful she’d at least washed her face last night so she shouldn’t have raccoon eyes this morning.

  Not, she told herself with a wry, inward grimace, that it mattered. It wasn’t like she had to look nice for T.C. She could be the hottest female on the planet, and it would make no difference to him, after what she’d done. He just wasn’t that kind of guy.

  Unless he decided he really did want that payback.

  She shivered despite the morning warmth at the cold-bloodedness of that idea. Perhaps she should rethink that. Maybe he really was that angry still. But if he was, he wouldn’t have helped them, would he?

  No, he would have helped Emma. She knew that.

  But it didn’t mean he wouldn’t exact a price from Emma’s mother.

  Then so be it.

  She steeled her spine and followed the girl, who had finally broken and pulled the door open. She stepped out onto the porch. Stopped. And found herself smiling widely.

  He was so familiar, this well-named paint horse who was saddled and ground-tied beside the porch. And to her shock, he lifted his head and looked at her, then nickered softly, as if he remembered her. That was impossible, surely? Then again, dogs remembered people after years away, so why not horses?

  Emma was looking at the horse, clearly awestruck.

  “He really is my horsie I drew,” she said, reverting to the childish term she’d left behind a few months ago when Jolie explained the difference between horses and ponies.

  T.C. swept off his gray Stetson and bowed to Emma with a flourish. “Miss Emma Peters, may I present CVR Moonlit Shadow. But since that’s a bit much for an ol’ ranch horse, we just call him Flash.”

  Emma giggled. “’Cuz he’s pretty?”

  “Because he’s the quickest darned cow horse I’ve ever ridden.” He leaned toward her and added in a conspiratorial whisper, “He’s also the biggest clown.”

  Emma giggled again. She was clearly charmed, probably as much by the man as the horse. Who wouldn’t be? T.C. was charming. And if you just happened to meet him, with no knowledge of his background, you would never guess he came from one of the most powerful families not just in Dallas, but all of Texas. It was the thing that had drawn her to him in the beginning, that utter lack of pretension.

  She sighed. Painfully. She wondered if there was a drug to treat chronic nostalgia.

  He glanced at her then. His expression narrowed, and she felt color flood her cheeks. She could only imagine what her face had looked like as her heart had filled with longing and need for those days when he had loved her. And in that moment she thought that if he did demand that payment for his help, she would give it gladly, grateful for the chance to hold him once more, to feel the wonder they’d found together.

  And then reality rushed back in. Although she doubted T.C. was capable of intentional cruelty, she also doubted it would be the tender, loving thing it once had been. She’d hurt him too badly, and while he was an incredible man, he was also human. How could he not have changed toward her? And did she really want to risk the sweetness of those memories, to perhaps have them replaced with something colder, harsher?

  The answer to that was simple.

  Withstanding the urge was not.

  * * *

  T.C. busied himself snugging up the cinch. He stared at the latigo for a long moment after he’d properly looped and tucked it, as if he’d never seen the strip of leather before. But he wasn’t really seeing it at all. The image of that look on Jolie’s face was taking up every inch of his mind.

  This is the woman who took a payoff to dump you.

  The stark reminder was one he’d used whenever she popped into his mind when his guard was down. Which meant he’d used it often over the years. It had always worked.

  But now, with her standing a bare yard away, it seemed to have lost its effectiveness. Not to mention that her version of the story, including the threats to Emma, cast the entire episode in a different light. Normally he had little patience for fools who justified disastrous results with their motivation, but he had to admit that when it came to prot
ecting your child, all bets were off.

  His gaze shifted to Emma, who was gazing up at Flash in rapt wonder. He was going to have to have a long talk with his mother about her actions that day. He hadn’t yet because of the situation with his father, and he hadn’t wanted her wondering why he was suddenly asking about Jolie. Not with Fowler tossing out stupid accusations.

  Then again, perhaps now, when she might be too distracted and consumed with the old man’s disappearance to fudge about something from years ago, would be the best time to corner her and demand some straight answers. He could tell her Fowler’s idiocy had brought it all back.

  As if it had ever really left him.

  He gave a sharp shake of his head and smiled at the little girl. “What do you think, Emma? Would you like to go for a ride?”

  The girl seemed struck speechless, but she nodded rapidly. T.C. glanced at Jolie, who apparently had her emotions in check now. Or perhaps he’d misread them moments ago; perhaps he’d only imagined that she’d looked at him as she once had, with all the longing of a woman in love.

  Or perhaps she was merely remembering how it had been. That didn’t mean she was yearning to return to that. Nor did it mean her feelings had been real back then. Maybe it just seemed that way to her in retrospect.

  He realized suddenly he was thinking of it all analytically, and wondered if this dispassionate assessment was merely a way to keep his own emotions in check. Wondered why the compartmentalization that always worked for him didn’t seem to be working now.

  He gave himself an inward shake. Focus, he ordered silently.

  He looked back at Jolie and merely lifted an eyebrow. “With me, I think, at first?” She had ridden the amiable horse before, but she’d as much as said she hadn’t been aboard a horse since.

  After a bare instant, she nodded. “I’m way too rusty to risk it. And I was never at your level anyway.”