by Angel Smits
This time, it wasn’t the comforting kiss he’d given her before. This was deeper, harder and definitely the kiss of a man wanting a woman. His arms closed around her, melding her against the solid planes of his chest.
Emily sighed, all her reserves to resist the flood of emotion gone. Want. Need. Longing. Desire. All pulsed through her.
She hastily pulled away from him and marched to the door, mentally cursing the fact that she’d kicked off her shoes. Her bare feet made barely a sound and she stood even shorter. She reached the front door and yanked it open. Damn. Her hand trembled on the knob.
He stood there for a long minute, then with a deliberately slow pace, he walked toward her. She felt his anger, and something else vibrate across the room. He took his time grabbing his Stetson off the front table and settling it on his head. He stopped for a minute, and she saw his reflection in the mirror. His broad shoulders filled the glass. As he approached the open doorway, she saw him clench his jaw as if resisting the urge to say something. Probably curse.
“Thank you again for making dinner.” She half hid behind the door. Then forced herself to step forward and lift her chin.
He stopped, filling the doorway, the night behind him. “That question you asked earlier about why I did all this? If anyone else had said that to me...”
“You’d do what?” She brought her own anger out to hide her uncertainty. She’d never cringed from Earl’s fist, and she refused to cringe from this man’s. But she’d danged well take action against him. She was not her mother.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Emily. I don’t know what you’ve been through or seen to make you this way. But in my world, we take care of each other. You ever want to see what real life is like, come out and spend more than an hour at the ranch. Then maybe you’ll get it.” He readjusted that damned hat and stepped out into the night. His footfalls were hard on the pavement and his truck roared in the night. She stood there, her chin high until the bright red taillights vanished around the corner.
Emily slammed the door and turned the lock with more force than necessary. “Damn you,” she whispered to the empty house. “Damn you for making me want to care.”
She leaned back on the door, her eyes automatically drawn to the now-empty glass of the mirror. She wanted so badly to believe him, to believe in him. But she couldn’t. He was right; she was damaged. Too damaged to let anyone in. He might not know what was wrong with her, but she did. Fear.
That fear—fear of trusting, fear of letting someone in too close to hurt her—snaked through her now, insidious and cold. She pretended she was tough, putting on the facade each day. But she was exhausted.
Her eyes burned and she slid down the door, her legs no longer able to support her. She curled her arms around her raised knees and let the tears she’d been fighting for days have their way. Her shoulders shook as the last barrier fell.
CHAPTER NINE
IN EMILY’S OFFICE, files tended to get stored away in chunks, sometimes sitting on the table for weeks, sometimes vanishing into the great-gray-drawer wasteland in a matter of hours. It all hinged on Dianne’s mood.
Emily started riffling through the stacks, hoping she’d locate Tyler’s file before Dianne got in.
“What are you looking for?” Dianne stepped into the office.
Too late. She knew better than to lie to Dianne. The woman remembered everything. “The file for Tyler Easton.”
Dianne’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she sorted through a different stack and quickly extracted a thick folder. “It’s right here.”
Emily took it and headed to her desk. “Thanks.”
Dianne, never one to let things be, followed her. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Just checking on a couple things.”
Dianne frowned. “How’d it go with your mom? She okay?”
“Yeah. Bruises mostly. Thank goodness.” Emily looked up for only an instant then turned back to determinedly flipping open the file.
The woman had more questions, Emily saw it in her eyes. She did not want to get into the details of last night with Dianne, but knew she’d have to soon. The rental car her insurance company had provided should be dropped off before lunch.
Emily slowly read through the pages, trying to find something, anything, that might tell her what motivated Wyatt Hawkins. Some secret she’d missed before. Ignoring Dianne, she didn’t stop until a shadow fell across the file.
“What are you doing?” Dianne stood, arms crossed tapping her fingers on her forearm.
“Just reviewing the file.”
“Uh-huh.” Dianne wasn’t buying it. “For what? You’ve already finished it. I was getting ready to put it away.”
“Well, I remembered a couple things last night—”
“What’d he do that put a burr under your saddle?”
“No-nothing.” Flashes of stolen kisses and delicious omelets came to mind. Emily felt her cheeks warm and dropped her gaze.
“Just as I thought.” Dianne reached for the file and before Emily could react, she’d swiped it, hugging it close. “I know you, Emily Ivers. He was nice to you. He helped you and now you think he has ulterior motives.”
“All people do.”
“No, they don’t. You just don’t trust anyone.” Dianne walked away, the file tight in her hands. She stopped in the doorway. “Emily, he’s a good man. Give him a chance. Both as Tyler’s guardian and maybe, just maybe, as something more than a case.”
“That’s not appropriate.”
Dianne sighed and came back to the desk. “Why not? The case is closed. It’s signed off, and you can always transfer the caseworker responsibilities to someone else.” She glanced back at the overflowing conference table. “It isn’t as if they don’t dump on you plenty.”
Emily looked at the table, too. She always prided herself on sticking to her commitments. But right now, it all seemed overwhelming. “That’s not how it works. Plus, it could take weeks to get a new caseworker.” She couldn’t risk any questions. Besides, it was already too late.
“So? The boy’s in good hands.” Dianne paused. “Wait... What did you do or say to tick him off?”
“Nothing!”
“I’m not buying it.” Dianne headed out of the office, stopping again when she reached the doorway. “Whatever it was, you should think about apologizing. Especially since you’ve scheduled a caseworker visit this afternoon.”
With that, Dianne finally left her alone.
Emily groaned, glancing at her Day-Timer. Sure enough, there in bold ink, in her handwriting, was the very appointment Dianne mentioned.
The first thing Emily always did when she came into the office was check her calendar. Every morning, that was her routine.
This man had her completely befuddled and she didn’t like it. Not one bit.
* * *
WYATT HAD TO get back to the house. The court visitor was scheduled to be here this afternoon—first one since Addie had gone back to Austin. He was fairly certain it wouldn’t be Emily. She’d find someone, anyone else after last night’s fiasco. But Wyatt knew he wasn’t going to make it. Right now, the men needed him out here.
Chet had called him on his cell fifteen minutes ago and it hadn’t sounded good. “Where’s Chet?” Wyatt asked as he climbed out of the truck.
“Follow me.” Walt, who’d worked for the ranch since Wyatt’s grandfather’s day, waved toward the group of men standing at the edge of a ravine. The ugly scent gave Wyatt his first clue. The buzz of flies in the heat confirmed it. He knew he wasn’t going to like what he’d see down there.
“It’s Dancer,” Walt whispered, the man’s pain apparent. None of the other men would meet Wyatt’s eyes. Wyatt peered down the hill and then looked away. Chet was on his kne
es, huddled beside the big horse lying mired in thick, black mud. Looked like he’d been there a while.
The wild look in Dancer’s eyes told Wyatt he was more than stuck. He was hurt. Wyatt’s heart sank. The big, beautiful horse couldn’t die like this. Wyatt skidded down the side of the sandy hill, joining Chet in the dirt.
Dancer loved Chet and didn’t seem to mind the man’s poking and prodding. With Wyatt’s arrival, the horse cried in panic. Wyatt spoke softly, trying not to alarm the animal any more. “Easy, boy. What’s the verdict?” He looked over at his foreman.
“I’m not sure, boss.” Chet kept moving his hands gently over and, as best he could, under the fallen horse. “I don’t think anything’s broken, but I don’t know why he’s not fighting to get up. It’s like—” Dancer screamed, flailing in the mud. Chet cursed and both men scrambled away from the deadly hooves. Blood coated Chet’s hands.
“What?” Wyatt asked.
“He’s been cut. Felt clean, like wire.”
Wyatt joined his cursing. Barbed wire had long been the bane of a cattleman’s existence. A necessity thanks to none-too-bright cattle, but a danger that threatened all other beasts.
Wyatt glanced around. There wasn’t any fencing near here. He spotted a dark trail that looked like blood coming down the far side of the ravine. “Josh,” he called. The cowboy stepped forward. “See if you can follow that trail and see where he was hurt.” A nod and the sound of receding hoofbeats was the only answer.
He turned back to Chet and Dancer. “Bad?”
“I don’t know. It’d be easier if I could see.” The horse had calmed and they stepped closer again. “Easy, boy,” Chet whispered, smoothing his hand over the horse’s ears.
Wyatt knew the horse wouldn’t lay so still for anyone but Chet. If the man could save this horse, he deserved a raise. “Can we get him up?” A horse on the ground was dangerous. Too dangerous.
Chet frowned, then nodded once. “I think we can try, but it won’t be easy on any of us.” He looked up the hill at the rest of the men ringing the edge above. To a man, they nodded. Slowly, hoping not to spook Dancer, each man walked or slid down the hill, just as Wyatt had done moments before. It would take every one of them to get the horse back on his feet and up that hill. If they could stand him up.
“You think we can get a sling under him?” Wyatt thought of the vet’s rig. “Can we wait until Max gets here?”
Chet shook his head. “Without knowing how bad he’s hurt or where, I think that could be dangerous.”
Wyatt nodded. “Okay, your call. You’re in charge.”
Chet took a deep breath. “I’ll take his head. Keep him calm best I can.”
Wyatt looked around at the others. They didn’t always get along, but they were all good men. Again, they all nodded. Chet continued to soothe the horse, but Wyatt saw a plan forming behind his eyes. Chet started giving directions, a natural leader—his strategy keen and well planned.
He put each man exactly where he would be at the best advantage. Ryan at the back as he was the smallest and could move out of the way fastest. Chet held the reins and guided Dancer’s head. Wyatt and Paulo at each shoulder. The other two, Walt and Manny, stood at each flank, hands gently rubbing the smooth coat to soothe Dancer, ready to do whatever Chet asked of them.
Slowly, they moved in unison. Wyatt’s pride and pleasure at his crew filled his throat with a lump.
An hour later, after sweat had drenched them all and dirt had been ground into nearly every pore, Dancer wobbled on his hooves, breathing hard and angry. His eyes were wild and yet he held Chet’s gaze, apparently ignoring his own pain to please the man he loved.
Wyatt rubbed at his own eyes, sure it was only the dust that brought the dampness to them. Dancer had never really belonged to him, and he surely didn’t now. Chet was this horse’s master.
“He needs the doc,” Walt said. The older man shook his head in displeasure. “And soon.” Not only was Dancer’s side covered in blood, but the sand and half the men had soaked up a good portion. At least the bleeding had slowed and from what Wyatt could see through the dirt, it didn’t appear as deep as they’d thought. But it was still bad.
“Can we get him up the hill, or do you think Max can get out here soon enough?” Wyatt asked. The trailer seemed a million miles away, and the vet was coming from halfway across the county.
As if knowing what they were asking of him, Dancer took a step. Tossing his head and flinging dust and damp over them all, he took another step. Toward the hill.
“He’s gonna try, boss.” Chet’s smile covered most of his face. And so the slow progression began. Two hours after Wyatt had driven to the spot, Dancer crested the hill and whinnied into the wind, as if to taunt the elements with the fact that he’d survived.
He made it to the trailer on wobbly legs, letting Chet slip into the compartment with him.
The trip over the prairie was just as tedious. Wyatt drove as fast as he dared, but not nearly fast enough, with Walt riding shotgun. Chet held on to the back of the trailer door as he crooned to the animal and made sure the wound was protected.
When Wyatt finally crested the last ridge and saw the house, he breathed a sigh of relief. He was fairly sure Dancer would make it, if for nothing else than because of his love for Chet, but Wyatt was glad all the same that they were back home with the vet on his way.
Driving into the yard, Wyatt’s stomach dropped. Well, damn. Miracles were all over today. Emily, not some other caseworker, sat on the front porch. The fact that she was here gave him a smidgen of hope. The fact that she was sitting there talking to Tyler, who’d been home from school for—he glanced at the dash clock—forty-five minutes extinguished most of that hope.
The only saving grace was Yolanda’s truck parked in the drive, a clue that she was here making dinner and keeping an eye on the boy.
Wyatt pulled the truck up to the barn doors, angling the back gate of the trailer as close as he could to the opening. The rest of the crew pulled in behind him, a cloud of dust announcing their arrival, turning his mind back to Dancer.
“Dancer!” Tyler came barreling down the walk, his concern at seeing the horse in the trailer apparent on his face. Emily didn’t follow. If anything, her complexion paled and she grasped her bag tighter. He lifted a hand, wishing he could reassure her, but knew this was as good as he could do.
He had to focus on Dancer. Tyler tried to run past him but Wyatt reached out to stop him.
“Stay back, buddy. He’s hurt. Let Chet set the pace.” He kept his arm across Tyler’s chest, letting his men guide the horse out of the trailer. They were all competent, knowledgeable men and he hated holding back. He should be helping them, but keeping Tyler at bay was just as important. Everyone held their breath until the horse’s big shoulders cleared the edge of the metal gate.
* * *
BREATHE IN. BREATHE out. And again. Emily forced herself to focus inward, trying to ignore the events in the yard. If only she could wipe away the images she’d seen in that first instant. If only she could tear her gaze away.
Men poured out of the truck or rode up on horses they quickly dismounted. The older man, who she knew was Chet, opened the horse trailer. Slow hoofbeats on wood and then on hard-packed dirt filled the late-day air. She saw blood. Bright red, glistening on the horse’s light brown coat.
Flashes of a memory stabbed her mind. Emily shut it down nearly as quickly as it appeared. Not here. Not now. No. She focused on the men, staying in the present. Barely. She noted the copper smears on the men’s clothing. More deep breaths.
As if in slow motion, she turned to look at Wyatt, seeing the same stains on his shirt and jeans. And the strain of concern on his face as he held on to Tyler and watched his men closely.
She swallowed hard, knowing it was the horse’s blood, not Wyatt’s, but still th
e idea he could be hurt leaped into her mind and twisted around. Ranching was dangerous work. Emily knew that more intimately than most. Memories of her father’s death strobed through her mind.
She focused on the men guiding the horse into the barn. Carefully, reverently almost. Wyatt’s deep, calm voice carried over the yard as he explained to Tyler what had happened and what was going on. The boy’s eyes lit with interest and concern.
A white-when-clean pickup truck roared into the yard, announcing in big bold letters on its side that the vet had arrived. A collective sigh rippled through the group as a tall, gangly man climbed out.
“Do me a favor,” Wyatt said, resting his hand on Tyler’s arm. “Go back with Ms. Ivers until we get him in. I’ll call you as soon as Dancer’s settled.”
Tyler didn’t move, looking up at his uncle, pleadingly, then he nodded and trudged back to Emily’s side.
“Doc.” Wyatt met the man with a brief handshake, then hustled him into the barn.
Having Tyler there with her flipped a switch inside Emily. Her panic faded and she concentrated on the boy’s emotions. As he sat down beside her, she slipped an arm around his shoulders. He leaned into her, and she felt an unfamiliar warmth inside her. Her own tension eased and drained away.
She needed to stay strong for him—a strange, yet wonderful feeling.
No one had ever really depended on her before. Even her mother was the responsibility of the staff at the facility.
It was pleasant.
Just then, Wyatt stuck his head out of the barn door and waved for Tyler to join them. He took off at a dead run, leaving Emily alone.
Last night she’d practically bragged to Wyatt that she was used to being alone. So why didn’t she feel comfortable? Why did she nearly stand and follow them?
* * *
EMILY HADN’T PLANNED to stay for dinner. But Wyatt’s challenge last night, to spend more than an hour here, rang loudly in her mind. When the housekeeper, Yolanda, made it clear she expected Emily to join them, she didn’t argue. Standing in the big country kitchen, Emily watched, enthralled.
