by Rebecca York
But it seemed to satisfy her…for the time being. He could also tell she hadn’t quite made up her mind.
She sighed. “I’d better go to the sheriff’s office.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Why?”
“Is that a trick question? I think he’s the kind of guy who will behave better if there’s a witness along—particularly a witness of the male variety.”
“You have him pegged there.”
“You’ve known him a long time?”
“No. He’s new in town.”
That was interesting, Riley thought. “What brought him here?”
“Maybe he likes being a big fish in a little pond.”
“He likes to throw his weight around?”
“Unfortunately, yes. And since he got here, the town has become a lot more…lawless.”
“Like how?”
“Like an increase in cattle rustling.”
“And shooting incidents out on the highway?”
“Yes,” she muttered.
They walked across the street to the office. Courtney breathed out a little sigh when the clerk told her that Pennington was on his dinner break. Instead of enduring an interview, she was able to fill out a form reporting the gunshot incident, and they were out of the office in under twenty minutes.
“You’re not going to leave the slug with him?” Riley asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s evidence, and I don’t want it to disappear.”
Riley considered that as they climbed back into the SUV.
COURTNEY WANTED to get out of town as quickly as possible—and back to the ranch. But she couldn’t leave yet.
“Mike’s Gas Station is at the edge of town. We need to stop there and arrange to have my truck towed.”
“Yeah, I saw it.”
On the way to Mike’s, she called Jake Bradley again and told him she’d stopped at the doctor’s to make sure the baby was okay. Jake had been at the ranch since her grade-school years. She knew he’d be concerned.
As she arranged to have the truck towed and fixed, she watched Mike eyeing her and Riley Watson with interest. But she wasn’t going to offer explanations.
Finally they started home. And it was a relief to be away from people who wanted to ask questions about her relationship with this good-looking stranger. She could just imagine some of the speculation. Had she hired him because he was young and handsome? Did she hope he’d marry her and take over the ranch? Was she looking for a guy to warm her bed at night?
She cringed inwardly. He might be attractive and sexy and strong and reliable, but that didn’t mean she was going to climb into bed with him—again.
That “again” made her cheeks hot, even though bedding down with him had been perfectly innocent. She hoped.
She also hoped that Harold Avery, the old geezer who owned the motel hadn’t seen her. If he had, the news would be all over town. She wanted to ask what Watson had said when he’d checked in, but she kept her lips pressed together.
Damn. The knowledge that she and this man were already the subject of speculation made her want to tell him she’d changed her mind about the job. Yet she silently admitted that she’d be acting against her best interests. And she knew darn well that she wasn’t being fair to him.
It was after dark when they approached the bridge again, and she couldn’t help the little frisson of fear that slithered down her spine.
When he slowed, her gaze shot to him. “What are you doing?”
“Going up there to have a look.”
“No.” Courtney heard herself say, the one syllable coming out high and strained.
“Now that we’re not in a hurry to get to the doctor’s, I want to find out what happened.”
“The guy’s long gone. And you’ll just be poking around in the dark.”
“Maybe he left a shell casing to go along with that bullet. Maybe he dropped a cigarette butt. Or leftovers from his lunch.” Without asking permission, Watson pulled to the side of the road.
She knitted her gloved hands together, holding tight, fighting her fears. She felt exposed out here on the highway, but she knew Watson was right. If there was still some evidence up on the bridge, they ought to find out what it was before it conveniently disappeared. Not that she was accusing the sheriff of anything dishonest. But there had been too many cases around here lately where the bad guys got away.
Watson opened the glove compartment and pulled out a flashlight. Then he stepped out into the cold and closed the door quickly to keep the heat inside.
She forced herself to sit quietly while the man who might or might not be her new ranch hand scaled the bridge abutment.
The clouds had blown away, and the moon had come out. In its pale light, she saw him move with agility and grace. Under other circumstances, she might have enjoyed watching him climb.
He made it to the road, then strode onto the bridge, where he switched on the light and shone it down toward the blacktop.
When he disappeared from view below the concrete railing, she felt her breath catch. But she could still see the light moving around up there.
The man was out of sight for several minutes during which she sat in the SUV gripping the edge of the seat.
She had just decided to go look for him when he popped back into view.
From his position above the highway, he waved to her, then began to climb down
“What did you find?” she demanded when he’d slipped behind the wheel and started the engine.
“He was a careful bastard. There might have been footprints in the snow, but he scuffed them away so I can’t tell the size of his boot.”
“Any shell casings?”
“No. He took them with him. And if he drank any coffee or smoked any cigarettes, he took the leavings away, too. Like I said, he was careful—or well trained. He could be a guy with a military background,” he said, dropping the observation into the conversation, then watching her closely.
She wasn’t sure what response he expected, but she only shrugged.
Watson drove to the other side of the bridge, then stopped beside her truck.
“We should unload your supplies, before some of them disappear,” he said.
She wanted to tell him that people around here didn’t steal from each other, but she wasn’t sure if that was true anymore.
“Yes. Let me help you.”
He cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t be lifting stuff, should you?”
“Nothing heavy. But there are things I can manage.”
“Okay.” He pulled off the road in back of the truck and cut the engine, but he didn’t immediately open the door.
She sensed his tension, and she wondered suddenly if he had some additional information about the man who had been up on the bridge. In response, she felt her chest tighten.
When he spoke, his voice had turned gruff, and it took several seconds for his question to filter into her consciousness, because it was the last thing she had been expecting.
“So…have you made up your mind about hiring me?” he asked.
Chapter Four
Riley waited for Courtney’s answer with his breath frozen in his lungs. In the hours since he’d met her, this assignment had become more than a job. Maybe because the flesh-and-blood woman was so much more complicated—so much more appealing—than the woman he’d read about in a briefing folder. She didn’t even look much like her pictures, which was why he hadn’t recognized her.
He wanted to ask her about Boone Fowler—about why she’d let a lowlife jerk like him onto her property. But he knew that was precisely the wrong approach. And it was against orders, too. Because as far as she was concerned, he didn’t know a damn thing about the militia leader. So all he could do was sit there waiting for her to decide his immediate future.
He had the feeling she was still weighing the pros and cons of her decision.
Instead of answering, she as
ked a question—something more specific than she’d put to him in town. “What’s the best material for a corral fence?”
So she was giving him a test. He was glad he had the background to say, “It depends on what you’re after. Looks, utility or price. Split rail is the cheapest. Those who go in for show favor white painted boards. Outside the main paddock, I like wire, with one line of electricity. To keep the stock from leaning on the fence.”
She nodded, then asked, “How do you tie a foal when you’re first training him?”
“The first few times, you want to make sure he’s not tied hard and fast. He might pull and injure his neck. I’d introduce a truck or car inner tube between him and the fence. That will act like a fat rubber band and offer some give.”
“What’s a chestnut?”
“I take it you don’t mean something roasting on an open fire? We’re talking about a horny, insensitive growth on a horse’s legs.”
“How would you treat it?”
“Trim it short and neat.”
“I guess you know horses.”
“Yeah.”
She heaved in a breath and let it out. “You have the job.”
“Thank you,” he said simply as they stood together on the frozen ground.
“You’ll sleep in the bunkhouse with the other hands,” she added, as though she felt it necessary to make it very clear that their afternoon in bed had been an aberration.
“I understand,” he answered, as he undid the hooks that held the tarp covering the supplies in the back of the pickup.
“It’s comfortable, but it’s nothing fancy.”
“I sure don’t need fancy. Just a bed and a chest of drawers will do,” he answered.
“And I assume the salary we discussed is satisfactory.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He turned his attention to the supplies. “Does it look like everything’s there?”
She carefully inspected her purchases. “Yes.”
“Good.” He opened the back of the SUV and began loading sacks of feed.
By the time they had finished, the back of his SUV was crammed to the roof, and the temperature had dropped sharply.
“Tell me about the Golden Saddle,” he said as he turned on the headlights and started down the highway again.
“Well, you already know we have twenty mares and five stallions. Most are quarter horses. But we have some Thoroughbred bloodlines, too. That might be our problem. Our prices are high, and the demand for horses like ours is falling.” She cleared her throat. “We could sell more to working cattle ranches. But that would mean we’d have to train them with cattle. And I don’t have the staff to raise both horses and cattle at the moment.”
“You didn’t mention any ‘problem’ when you advertised for a manager,” he said carefully, although he already knew that she was barely turning a profit.
“Well, that’s not the kind of thing I’d advertise, would I?” she snapped.
“Do you have any other source of income—besides the sale of horses?” he asked.
“I rent some unused buildings,” she answered.
“To whom?”
She hesitated a moment before answering, “A, um, group of…survivalists.”
“Oh, yeah?” She must be referring to Boone Fow ler’s militia. So were they styling themselves as survivalists? Or was that her term for them—because she thought it was more politically correct?
She was staring hard at him. “You object to my renting to them?” she asked sharply.
He knew he’d better be careful about stepping over the line with his answer. She owned the ranch. He was her hired help.
Even so, he had to fight the impulse to tell her about his experiences in Boone Fowler’s prison camp. Instead he kept his voice even as he said, “It’s not my place to object. Not if they mind their own business.”
He wanted to ask how they happened to pick the Golden Saddle Ranch. And where—exactly—they were located on her property. But he didn’t want to seem too interested, so he held back the questions.
“The entrance to the ranch is right up ahead,” she said.
He slowed down, then turned in at a horseshoe-shaped archway.
They bumped up a gravel road that was pocked with potholes.
Floodlights illuminated the ranch yard, and he saw a low stone-and-timber house with a wide front porch, which he knew had been built early in the previous century. The structure looked solid, but in the floodlights he could see that the trim around the window frames needed painting. Probably she’d do that when she got some spare cash.
The bunkhouse and barn were nearby. And another building that he assumed was used for storage.
He pulled up in front of the house. “We should unload what you need to take inside.”
“And you can put the SUV in the storage building for the night—then unload the rest in the morning.”
“Fine.”
Apparently, some of Ms. Rogers’s hands had been listening for her to arrive, because two of them came striding toward the SUV.
One was a short, grizzled guy with the bowlegged gait of a man who has spent much of his life in the saddle. He appeared to be in his fifties. The other was taller than his companion and younger than Riley. Both men wore jeans, heavy winter coats and Western hats.
Riley and Ms. Rogers climbed out of the vehicle. The two men eyed him with undisguised interest. But it was different from the appraisal of the people in town. These guys seemed to be protective of Ms. Rogers—although that could be an act, of course.
“Jake Bradley, Kelly Manning, this is Riley Watson,” she said. “I told you I was considering him for ranch manager, and he’s going to take the job.”
“Good to meet you.” He shook hands with both of them. They helped Courtney unload her groceries. Then he drove to the storage shed and left his vehicle inside. Finally he strode to the bunkhouse.
Up close, he could see it was a little newer than the main house, but also rustic. And it was set up like a private residence, with a living room, dining room, kitchen and several bedrooms in the back. All the furniture looked comfortable but well-worn.
The man named Kelly showed him to a bedroom. “There are three bathrooms,” he said, opening several doors along the hall.
“How many hands do you have?”
“Just three at the moment. Me and Jake and Billy. They’ll be along later.”
So the ranch was understaffed. He’d have to inspect the property in the morning. There was no point in stumbling around in the dark.
Setting down his duffel bag, he longed to close the bedroom door and lie down.
Instead he squared his shoulders and followed Kelly back to the kitchen.
Jake had just taken the lid off a big pot of chili…and Riley’s stomach growled.
“That smells good.”
Jake made a grunting sound.
“So you like working for Ms. Rogers?” he asked.
“Yup,” Jake answered. Apparently he was a man of few words.
Riley scuffed his foot against a worn floorboard. “She seemed kind of hyper.”
Jake’s head snapped toward him. “She’s got a shrinking income. She’s got herself a kid to raise on her own—with the whole town acting like she did something wrong. And—”
He stopped short.
Riley wanted to ask, “And what?” But he kept his mouth shut. He should have gotten the lay of the land before coming out with any kind of strong observation. Holding up his hands, he said, “Whoa. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
“You blame her for being hyper?” Jake pressed.
“I admire her—for truckin’ on. But it was a shock to find out she was pregnant.”
“Her husband was in the Special Forces. And he bought the farm on assignment in Lukinburg.”
Riley mumbled something appropriate, then changed the subject to the ranch acreage. They dis cussed the spread for a few minutes, then Jake said, “You want some dinner?”
“I’d app
reciate it. Your chili sure does smell good.”
Kelly and Jake both joined him at the table. Billy Cramer came in during the meal, and Jake made the introductions.
Riley knew the other men were sizing him up, just like he was doing with them. Could one of them have been the man who had shot at Courtney from the bridge?
He didn’t know, but he was going to find out.
RILEY WOKE WHEN HE HEARD the hands moving around the bunkhouse. When he arrived in the kitchen twenty minutes later, the rest of them were already at the table, eating eggs, bacon and toast.
The ranch might be in financial trouble, but Courtney Rogers was feeding her men well.
A television in the corner was tuned to the weather channel. It seemed they were in for another cold, blustery day. Par for the course in Montana in winter. But at least snow wasn’t in the forecast. Of course, he’d checked the weather yesterday. And there had been no mention of snow then, either.
After eating some of the food and complimenting the chef, he turned to Kelly and said, “So, could you show me around the spread?”
The young man looked startled. “Me? Jake’s been here a lot longer.”
Jake shifted in his chair. “Go ahead. I’ll clean up here.”
Kelly nodded.
Riley dressed warmly, grabbed some carrots from the refrigerator, then followed Kelly to the barn, the most modern structure he’d seen so far on the ranch.
Unless one of the men had gotten up early and scurried over here to make sure the work area looked good for the new ranch manager, everything seemed to be up to snuff. The stalls were clean. The well-groomed horses had plenty of food and water. And the equipment in the tack room was in good condition and neatly stored.
He stopped to greet the horses in the stalls, calling them by the names on the small plates at each door and offering carrots, which were readily accepted.
They paused by a stall with a filly named Irma. A protective boot was wrapped around her left foreleg.
“What happened to her?” Riley asked.
“She overreached and bruised herself—the way they do sometimes.”
Kicked her front leg with her back, Riley mentally translated. “Yeah, that can be a problem. How are you treating the injury?”
