Winsor, Linda

by Along Came Jones

  So he really was a cowboy... and a bit of a smart aleck. She refrained from complaining that he was three days too late to be of any real help to her. This little fender bender was the least of her worries. Just as she started to relax, Deanna realized they were approaching the spotted horse, which had moved a short distance away and stood patiently, awaiting its master.

  "You've got to be kidding!" Her eyes widened with dubious alarm. "I... I can't ride."

  Shep's chuckle shook her. "You won't have to. All you have to do is sit still and look pretty in the saddle. I'll do the riding."

  Before she could say another word, he placed her in the worn saddle as easily as a carnival man puts a child upon a painted carousel steed. She wasn't overweight by any means, but her five-foot-eight height made her self-conscious around most men. Now that she'd seen him stand up full height, she realized that even in heels, she wouldn't intimidate this guy. With that rumpled hat of his, he looked to be at least six-six. Most of it was man rather than topper. He wasn't the slump-shouldered Neanderthal she'd first taken him for, but strapping Montana prime.

  "If you swing your leg over and ride astride, you'll be more secure, not to mention comfortable."

  Glad that she wore linen-flax trousers instead of a skirt, Deanna complied. The horse acted as if it had women slung over its back every day, even ones who were so stiff with apprehension that they grazed its ears with a heel while trying to mount.

  "Take it easy; I gotcha." His grasp on the belt of her slacks was as unrelenting as her fear that the animal might dash off with her.

  "So does he," she managed in a shaky voice. Without taking her eye off the horse's now laid-back ears, she sought the stirrups with the toes of her kiltied pumps.

  "He is a she, and I'll be needing that." Shep moved her left foot forward, just as she seated it in the stirrup. "Her name's Patch, for obvious reasons."

  "Why not Spot?" Certain the saddle would be crowded, Deanna eased toward the pommel as her companion slipped his boot into the stirrup to swing up behind her, settling on the horses back to the rear of the saddle. Reaching to either side of her, he picked up the reins from where they rested on the horse's neck. At the soft click of his tongue, Patch turned toward the blazing bright horizon.

  "Oh, my purse." The glaring spectacle assaulted her eyes. "And my sunglasses. They may have fallen on the floor during the accident."

  Shep reined the horse in and slid off its back without the formality of stirrups.

  Frozen at the idea of being abandoned on what seemed to be a ton of snorting horseflesh, Deanna watched statue-still as he rummaged through the car and found her things. Her purse was intact, but the glasses were snapped in half at the bridge. He handed her the first and tossed away the latter. Then, with a running start, he vaulted up on Patch's back, Indian fashion.

  The black and white horse took a step forward and Deanna's derisive, "Show off," erupted on a note of alarm.

  "Easy, gal... both of you," he consoled in an easy drawl she'd heard movie cowpokes gentle animals with.

  It worked on the horse, but Patch was in her element. Deanna wasn't.

  She started again when her companion slapped his hat down on her head, shading her eyes from the sun. "Thanks," she murmured, ashamed of her skittishness. But then, how would Shep fare on the subway?

  Probably just fine. He struck her as the sort of man who, while comfortable in the saddle, could take the city in stride. She sucked in a breath as he slipped his arm snugly about her waist while taking up the reins with his free hand.

  "Ready, Slick?"

  Ready? That was a joke. "Yes, but where are we going?"

  "Home. A good meal and a bath will make a world of difference in how you feel."

  And how you smell, she thought, keeping her opinion to herself. Rakish and disheveled was one thing, but Shepard Jones's horse smelled better than he did.

  "In fact, I'm looking forward to both. A week in the high country'll make a man offend his own nose."

  "I hadn't noticed," she lied politely, so as not to wind up abandoned in the wild by offending her rescuer. Like she could miss that mingle of horse, sweat, and leather. Stranger still, it wasn't entirely offensive but rather made her aware of his raw masculinity

  "Well, you're still dazed." He urged the horse forward with his knees.

  Deanna's fingers tightened on her purse. She noticed the stains on his knees, her wariness assuaged by his easygoing charm returning. Cowboy or not, this was a total stranger who could be taking her anywhere for any reason.

  "Why not take me into town?"

  "Because, Slick, town is an hour's ride by car. On four feet, it's a half day's ride."

  "So take me in your Jeep."

  She felt his arm relax against her. "If that's what you want," he said, confirming her guess that he owned such a vehicle. It fit his image. "We can report this to the authorities. My insurance will pay for it, of course, but I can tell you, it'll take a while to order parts for that fancy rig of yours."

  Deanna felt the blood leave her face. Report the accident to the authorities? But then she'd be right back where she started— in a brimming kettle of trouble that was not of her own making.

  What had she done to deserve this? It wasn't as if she'd been a bad person since she stopped going to her parents' church. She'd just been busy building a career in marketing.

  "If you'd like to keep this off the record, for the sake of my insurance rates as well as your own, I happen to know a good mechanic who might be able to get you back on the road with used parts and a little bodywork. He's a shade-tree genius."

  "A what?" The brush of an unshaven cheek against her ear as Shep leaned forward to see her face snatched her out of her reflection.

  There was that grin again. This close, it was toe-curling and smelled of mildly redeeming spearmint. Was this guy a scruffy angel or yet another trap waiting to spring on her?

  "I said I have a friend who might be able to get your car back on the road. I'll pay him and put you up until he's done. That way nobody needs to be called, and my premium will remain affordable."

  Nobody needs to be called. Deanna sighed. "That's fine with me," she heard herself saying, even as anxiety began to demand to know if she'd lost her mind, agreeing to stay overnight with a complete stranger.

  But then, what was she going to do with no money, no car, and more important, no food? She tried hard to concentrate on her predicament rather than acknowledge the uncomfortable jarring between her temples with each step the horse took.

  So far, Shepard Jones had been as gallant, if not as polished, as his movie counterparts. And he was a rancher. Somehow, she didn't think serial killers lived double lives as Montana ranchers who worried about insurance rates. Maybe his name was no coincidence. Maybe God had listened to her plea for help and sent a shepherd—even though it had been a long time since she'd been her parents' version of P.C.—practicing Christian. Politically correct had been more her lifestyle since their deaths. Was this guy the kind of shepherd she needed, or God's way of getting even for her neglect?

  Deanna clenched her purse against the pommel of the saddle as if her life depended on them both. The pepper spray in the purse gave her small comfort. For now, she had a place to stay, which was more than she'd had before she wound up in the gully by the side of the dirt road. There was nothing left to do but ride off into the sunset with her rumpled Montana cowboy and trust—not him but God.

  Even if he looked like a movie star when he was freshly scrubbed and in clean clothes, she'd keep her eyes wide open. Deanna had been taken in by a man just once, but it was one time too many This time she intended to live up to her new nickname—Slick.

  Two

  Hopewell was an odd name for the ramshackle cluster of buildings bleaching in the sun. Hopeless was more like it. Not that the word ranch applied either, Deanna thought, stiffening against Shep's wiry wall of muscle at her back. It looked more like a—

  "It's a ghost town," he infor
med her, as if he'd read her thoughts. "But don't worry. I've never seen one ghost."

  "That's very reassuring." Her situation had gone from desperate to bizarre. It was either wisecrack or cry at this point. "Just tell me you're not a serial killer."

  Shep laughed behind her. "I'm not a serial killer. Just a poor rancher trying to get a small spread started."

  An hour's ride from the nearest town, he'd said, and she didn't see a Jeep. Deanna opted to pretend that she was still back in her car and was out of her head, dreaming all this. After what she'd been through to date, this wasn't a large leap at all. She'd just nightmare-hopped from cops and robbers to back at the ranch, er, ghost town.

  Cod, I know I've been a stranger, but please, I need help. Mama said You'd never give a person more than she could stand, and, Lord,.. . I can't take much more.

  "Don't worry; you won't have to bathe in a barrel. The main house is beyond the livery stable at the end of the street, complete with indoor plumbing." Shep pointed to a thin line of poles strung from the opposite direction with a couple of heavy-duty overhead wires. "And we've got electricity.. . most of the time."

  Somehow the conditional assurance of electricity didn't strike Deanna as a heavenly response to her prayer. But she hadn't prayed in so long, maybe God wasn't listening. Ignoring a sense of despair wedging itself between hope and desperation, she drew on the independent reserve that had moved her up the corporate ladder. Think for yourself, Deanna. She took in her rustic surroundings with a wary eye.

  Push come to shove, she could follow the poles back to civilization like the cowboys always followed a railroad or river. She hadn't been raised in the city for nothing. She was a survivor. Still, try as she might, Deanna had yet to see the home the wires connected to because of the tall high-pitched roof of the last building on the street. Beyond it was an oasis of treetops and a working windmill. At least the pinwheel part moved, catching a slow breeze that eluded her.

  "My grandparents modernized the mayor's house before I was born. Then my Uncle Dan took it over. Since I'm his only living relative, he left the whole kit and caboodle to me." Shep guided Patch down the knoll toward the small opening of what appeared to be a narrow main street.

  The gentle timbre of his voice failed to ease her growing alarm. She held back the "Lucky you" that came to mind sooner than annoy the stranger carrying her into a remote ghost town where only God knew what fate awaited her. There weren't more than a dozen buildings. According to some of the faded signs still left above some of the doors, there was—or had been—a boardinghouse, a dry goods, and, of course, a saloon, with swinging doors still intact.

  Eager to get home, Patch broke into a teeth- and head-jarring trot, which Shep put an abrupt end to. "Treat the lady nice and I'll give you an extra measure of feed," he cajoled the animal.

  Ahead of them through the cluster of shade trees was a white clapboard house with once red, now faded, trim straight from a Better Homes and Gardens nightmare edition. The paint was cracked and peeled. The remaining screens were buckled and patched. Well, it was in better shape than the rest of the town. Besides, who knew? Fifty years ago, it may have gleamed fresh from its modernization, but it was in dire need of another facelift now. Still, she could see possibilities.. . if she lived long enough.

  "Home sweet home." Shep reined in his horse in front of the large livery stable.

  Before Deanna could agree or not, a strange figure emerged from a concrete block building set slightly back from the street. It was a bearded man, clad much like her rescuer, except for one critical thing: He was covered in blood—fresh blood. As he raised his hand, the sun glanced off the meat cleaver he held.

  The sight pushed her beyond her limit, an unadulterated fear filling Deanna with renewed strength. The scream that mustered below her heart drowned out whatever the man said. In a flurry of kicks and blows at Shep, who tried to restrain her, she landed on her feet in the dirt. Pain shot through her ankle as her heel twisted beneath her, but Deanna ignored it. She hobbled away from the startled, prancing horse that Shep abandoned in pursuit of her.

  She fumbled in her purse for the pepper spray "Stop right there or I'll shoot!"

  Shep froze in midstep. His expression teetered somewhere between shock and amusement. Taking a step back, hands raised, he smiled and licked a trickle of blood from the lip she'd battered in her bid to escape.

  "Slick, you've seen too many Westerns. Though I've never seen a cowpoke kayoed by a purse before," he added, a twinkle in his eye.

  Deanna felt the rise of heat in her cheeks, but she held her ground. "Now take out that pistol and toss it over here.. . slowly." Sheesh, she did sound like a veteran TV cowboy

  "What in tarn hill's goin' on here?" The other man, not the least intimidated by Deanna's last stand, propped his hands at an indistinguishable waist and addressed Shep. "I thought you lit out after that stallion."

  "Ticker, this is Miss Deanna Manetti from New York. The stallion ran her car off the road, and by the look of it, shell be our guest for a few days." He returned his attention to Deanna. "Or maybe not."

  Ticker—heaven help her; that sounded like a cleaver-wielding maniacs name.

  He gave her a short nod. "Went Western on ya, did she? Reckon she looks a mite on the high-strung side." Ticker stared at her with a bemused expression. "Ain't they got butchers in New York, gal?"

  "Butchers?" A ghost town with a meat market? She had to be imagining all this.

  "Ticker and I are outfitters. The ranch is a dream on the side."

  "Outfitters?" Confused, she took in their collective appearance. Certainly not outfitters of fashion.

  "My partner and I take hunting parties up into the high country for elk and other game. Tick's been butchering and wrapping the last kill to ship back to our clients."

  The other man snickered and made a tut-tutting or rather a ticking sound with his tongue. "Yep, by golly, I ain't kilt no human since..." He scratched his beard, absorbed in thought for a moment. "Since I don't know when."

  With a mocking grin, Shep turned and started toward the open livery doors where his horse had bolted. "Just go on back to wrapping that elk, Tick. Maybe Miss Manetti will calm down once she sees she's not next in line for the freezer."

  Bearing the brunt of their unabashed humor, Deanna watched until both men disappeared, one into the block building and the other into the stables. Weak with relief, she sank onto the remains of a plank walkway in front of the boardinghouse and buried her face in her arms, the pepper spray suspended in her hand. Her eyes stung from the emotional barrel race her mind had been dragged through and her head thundered fit to burst.

  If "going Western" was another term for losing it, then she'd gone Western in a big way punching and kicking fit for a big screen brawl. Where was the antiviolence marketing exec whose brass and sheer inventiveness won some of Image International's largest advertising accounts?

  Men either cowered by the wayside at Deanna's first cool assessment or retreated after finding she had the steel to back it up. Now she wavered somewhere between nausea and hysterics, although how someone could be so hungry and sick to her stomach at the same time was a puzzle.

  What have I gotten myself into now?

  Massaging her temples, Deanna closed her eyes to the bright afternoon sun. Memory shorts of the grueling police interrogation played havoc with already ragged emotions. So help her, she had no idea that the bank transactions she made for C. R. Majors were illegal. She'd never suspected a thing.

  "I made the deposits for C. R. on my way back to the office on Fridays as a favor, so that he could make his weekly one o'clock with the board of directors," Deanna had defended herself to the detective who arrested her right in the middle of a client interview.

  She and C. R. always had a long lunch together on Fridays to go over her progress with the marketing team and, fool that she was, she'd thought that he enjoyed her company as well, since the discussion usually involved planning a date for the weekend.
She didn't tell the police how the silver-tongued devil had flattered his way into her heart through her work or that she'd let her guard down at the promise of job advancement and romance with a man who appreciated the brain behind an attractive face.

  "And you had no clue what was in the deposit bag Mr. Majors gave you?" Detective Riordan demanded.

  So, instead of C. R. on the bank videotapes, it was Deanna making the transactions that laundered illegal money through a reputable firm, once a week for the six weeks she'd been living in Great Falls. "I had no reason to look. He was the CEO of the company, so what right had I to question him?"

  "Why didn't he ask the Accounts Receivable manager to make the deposits?"

  "She was taking off on Fridays to get ready for a wedding. C. R. was boss over all of us. I didn't know what from why about the company's banking procedures. I was in marketing, not receivables. I hardly knew personnel in that department beyond an initial introduction."

  Okay, so she did wonder at first, but C. R. had explained how the receivables department head was taking off to plan her upcoming wedding and that he, as her immediate superior, had offered to make the Friday bank run for her. Deanna had thought it a sweet gesture. The police weren't as gullible as she'd been.

  "You were romantically involved with C. R. Majors, weren't you, Miss Manetti?"

  "We dated," Deanna admitted. The heat that scorched her cheeks surely told the rest of the story To her astonishment, the detective spread an array of photographs of her and C. R.—the afternoon at the park, a night at the theater, the Cattleman's Club, and the AR manager's long awaited wedding last weekend. In addition to the betrayal she already felt, violation added its two cents worth.

  "When did you last see him?"

  "There, at the wedding." She pointed to a picture of them dancing together. She looked like a starry-eyed idiot looking up at him. Although at the time, she'd felt like a princess walking on air in her designer suit and matching eelskin heels and clutch she'd purchased to complete the ensemble. She'd been clueless that her prince charming was a weasel. "He said he'd be leaving Sunday on a business trip to Toronto."