by Kaki Warner
Yet, what did Raney have going but more of the same?
Now on the eve of her mother’s departure, she was helping her sort through and fold clothes into the suitcases—one big roller for the cruise out of Seattle, and another to be shipped directly to the outfitters for the pack trip around Mount Rainier—which only worsened Raney’s mood. Maybe she should cut and run, too.
“Is something wrong?” Mama asked as she pulled more clothes out of the closet and tossed them on the bed. “You’ve seemed distracted lately.”
Raney was distracted. And restless. But she didn’t know why.
Things were going great. Other than a reprimand in Deputy Langer’s file, there had been no blowback from the fight at the Roadhouse. Dalton had gotten out of his citation and was now working hard toward Rosco’s grand debut at the USCHA fall Futurity. She and Joss were getting along better than they ever had, and Press Amala had given them a generous price on Sassy, the mare Dalton had recommended. Even the AI program was doing well—despite Glenn’s resistance—and the horses they’d bought after selling the herd showed great promise. Everything was good. So why did she feel so off?
Maybe last week’s letter from Bertie had something to do with it. Guess what? her friend had written. Phil and I got married!
Raney had been shocked. And a little hurt. She and Bertie had promised each other since grade school to be in each other’s weddings.
I’m a little sad, Bertie’s letter had gone on, that we didn’t have time for a traditional wedding with you beside me as my maid of honor. But Phil got this amazing offer from a clinic in Oklahoma and had to start right away, so we ran off to Las Vegas and tied the knot in the cutest little pink chapel just off the Strip. Isn’t that romantic? We’ll talk more when I come visit Mother after we settle in. Love you. Bertie. A disappointment, Raney realized, but not a surprise. She had felt Bertie drifting away the last time they’d been together in the diner.
But she did feel a little lost. Everyone around her was making changes, moving on to newer and better things while she stayed where she’d always been. And now Dalton seemed to be drifting away, too. What was she doing wrong?
“Is it Dalton?” her freakishly perceptive—and nosy—mother asked. “Is that why you’re feeling so down?”
“I’m not down,” Raney lied.
“Did something happen between the two of you?”
“Why would you say that?” Had Mama noticed he was avoiding her?
“Because I see you pushing him away, darling. Like you do with any man who shows interest. Is it because of that fight at the Roadhouse? I never liked that place.”
“I didn’t push Trip way.”
“Sadly, no. Not until he showed where his interests truly lay. And for the record”—Mama waved a silky cover-up for emphasis—“I never liked him, either.”
“Then all that so-happy-to-have-you-in-the-family stuff was just for show?”
“I was supporting you. Not him. Have you seen my green capris?”
Raney dug them out of the pile and tossed them across the bed. “I’m not pushing Dalton away.” She almost added that she’d let him kiss her. Repeatedly. But decided against it. Mama didn’t need more ammo.
Yet, what if her mother was right? What if she was pushing Dalton away, rather than the other way around? More likely, he was so focused on making a name for himself through Rosco, he didn’t have time for anything else.
And why shouldn’t he? It was his future at stake as much as her hopes for a successful cutting horse program. He deserved to be successful. Even Alejandro admitted the colt responded better to Dalton than he did to anyone else. And when Raney had called Press Amala about the mare, the old man couldn’t say enough about Dalton’s gift with horses.
“Maybe not this year,” Press had said, “but soon Rosco and Dalton will be top tier on the cutting circuit. Just stay out of their way. The boy and that colt have an understanding and you don’t want to mess with it.” With a recommendation like that, what could she do but turn over the prize colt she had raised to an unproven trainer who was also an ex-con?
Actually, Raney was proud of both of them. She was excited about Rosco’s progress. And despite all the marks against him, Dalton’s hard work and easygoing manner had earned the friendship and respect of the other workers. Mama and Joss already treated him like family and Maria always had a plate of his favorite cookies on hand. He never asked, but people happily gave. She didn’t begrudge him all the positive attention he was getting. He’d earned it.
Yet, for the first time since she’d taken over management of Four Star, she felt a little left out. Or better said . . . left behind. She wasn’t usually on the sidelines, observing. She liked being in the thick of things, making sure everything moved smoothly. As ranch manager, that was her job. A workhorse, like Joss said.
But of late, she’d begun to feel irrelevant. She didn’t feel like she fit anymore.
She still managed Four Star, of course. But it could be stressful, keeping a grip on all the threads that held the ranch together, while at the same time, balancing the needs of the workers, the expectations of her family, and the edicts of the moneymen and accountants who oversaw the family trust. She loved taking care of the ranch. But horses were her passion. And ever since Dalton came, she’d had to sit back and watch someone else do what she had always done. And do it better.
No wonder she was a little discouraged.
Mama sat on the end of the bed and patted a cleared space beside her. “Sit down and talk to me, Raney. I hate to leave when you’re so troubled.”
Reluctantly, she sat. “I’m not troubled. I’m just tired.” She hesitated, then added, “Bertie got married. Ran off to Las Vegas with her veterinarian.”
“Without you?”
“No big deal. They’re moving to Oklahoma.”
“That’s too bad.” Her mother reached over and took Raney’s hand. “But are you sure that’s what has you upset? I know you’re not sleeping well. No, don’t deny it. I’m your mother. I can tell when my girls are fretting. What’s wrong?”
Raney shrugged, not wanting to put all her petty resentments and doubts into words. She felt ridiculous even having them. She was a grown woman, for heaven’s sake, not some whiny teenager.
“I know Dalton cares for you, Raney,” her mother went on. “And I think you might have feelings for him, too. What’s holding you back? Is it the accident?”
“Maybe. A little. Not as much as before.” Yet it was still there, a shadow in the shadows. Accident or not, Dalton had taken a life and gone to prison for it. A life-changing thing. Yet he seemed to have blocked it from his mind as easily as if it were a minor mishap.
Like he was blocking her now? God, she was pathetic.
“It may not be all it seems,” her mother said.
Raney frowned. “The wreck? What do you mean?”
Mama looked away. “Nothing. Just wishful thinking, I guess.”
They talked a few more minutes about ranch stuff and how Raney should bully the trust accountants into giving raises to the workers, then with a final pat, Mama let go of Raney’s hand and rose. “We can talk while we finish up here. UPS is picking up the suitcase for the outfitters this afternoon.”
* * *
* * *
Dalton wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong. All he knew for certain was that something was pushing Raney away from him. The fight at the Roadhouse? Because he’d told her he loved her? Because the sun was shining?
He didn’t understand women at all. But unwilling to give up, he cornered Joss the afternoon before Mrs. Whitcomb was to leave on her trip and asked her if Raney was mad at him.
“About what?” Joss asked.
Dalton struggled to hide his impatience. “If I knew, would I be asking?”
Apparently he hadn’t hidden it well enough. “Don’t get piss
y with me, Mr. Fancy Pants,” Joss snapped. “I’m pregnant.”
“Right. I forgot.” Which earned him another glare before she stomped off. Now he had two sisters mad at him. Which left him no choice but to go all in.
“Mrs. Whitcomb,” he said, after dinner that night. The sisters were carrying empty plates back into the kitchen and only Raney’s mother remained on the veranda. “Can I talk to you?”
“Certainly.” She studied him with a knowing smile. “About Raney?”
The woman must be psychic. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Will it keep another day?”
With reluctance, Dalton nodded.
“Then drive me to the Lubbock airport tomorrow.”
Lubbock? He had hoped for a quick answer, not a two-hundred-mile round-trip. “Isn’t there a shuttle from Gunther to Lubbock?”
“It leaves midafternoon. My flight to Seattle leaves in the morning.”
“Raney’s not driving you?”
“I’ll tell her you’re stopping in Plainview on the way back to visit your folks.”
On the way back? Plainview was fifty miles in a different direction. “Amala’s bringing the mare tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’m sure your parents miss you terribly, Dalton. Cancel Press. He’ll understand. Unless you don’t really need to talk to me.”
Blackmail. Dalton sighed. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be happy to drive you.” What was another hour to Plainview if he got the answers he needed?
“We leave at seven thirty in the morning.”
* * *
* * *
When he arrived at the parking area the next morning, he was surprised to see Raney leaning against her mother’s Expedition, a cup of coffee in her hand. “I thought I was driving your mother to Lubbock.”
“You are.” She tipped her head toward the back door. “If you haven’t eaten, Maria can whip up some eggs while you get Mama’s luggage.”
A few minutes later, he knocked on Mrs. Whitcomb’s door. “Bellhop.”
“We’ll have to hurry,” she said, waving him inside. “I forgot about TSA, although why they would be worried about a woman my age, I’ll never know.” She pointed to the big roller by the bed. “Take that one. I’ll bring the carry-on.” As he rolled the suitcase into the hall, she said, “Raney insisted on coming, too.”
“I saw.”
“I know you wanted to speak to me about whatever’s going on between you two, but it’s probably best if you speak directly to her.”
It probably was. But how was he supposed to do that when she would barely talk to him?
“She just needs reassurance, Dalton. Have patience.” She pointed down the stairs. “You go first. I don’t want you falling on top of me.”
“Reassurance about what?” he asked over his shoulder as he headed down.
“You. You don’t share much of yourself, you know.”
That again. Why did women insist on knowing every little detail about stuff that didn’t concern them? “I won’t discuss the accident,” he said when they reached the first-floor landing.
“I know. I talked to your mother.”
He stopped so abruptly, she almost ran into him. “My mother spoke to you about the wreck?” They had promised each other to never talk about that night.
“In a roundabout way. Nothing specific. Keep moving. I’m late as it is.”
Dalton was so shocked he could barely wolf down the scrambled eggs waiting on the kitchen counter while Mrs. Whitcomb gave out last-minute instructions to Maria. What had his mother said?
Since Raney was sitting in the backseat when he went out to load the luggage, Dalton assumed that meant he’d drive. By the time he’d stowed the big roller into the rear deck of the car, Mrs. Whitcomb was in the passenger seat, passing kisses through the open window to sleepy-eyed Joss and promising she’d be back well before the baby came.
When they drove through the main gate a few minutes later, Mrs. Whitcomb turned to Dalton and said, “Since we’re running fifteen minutes late, you may speed, but only if you do it prudently. I don’t want to die before my cruise.”
He didn’t question the weirdness of her comment, but happily pressed down on the gas pedal, making the hundred-mile drive in an hour and twenty minutes and pulling up to the terminal with time to spare.
More good-bye hugs, this time directed at him, then, leaving him to guard the car, Mrs. Whitcomb and Raney went inside to make sure her luggage was sent to Boeing Field, rather than Seattle-Tacoma International.
Fifteen minutes later, Raney came back out, a big smile on her face. Dalton didn’t know the cause, but guessed it wasn’t because she’d be alone with him on the drive back, but rather that she’d be motherless for several weeks.
“I thought she’d never leave,” she said with a deep sigh as she climbed into the passenger seat. “Mama can drag out a good-bye for hours if you let her. She said you might want to swing by Plainview to see your folks?”
“Maybe another time,” Dalton hedged. “Amala’s bringing the mare later this afternoon. I’d like to be there when they arrive. That okay with you?”
“Peachy.”
Dalton drove to the Highway 82 interchange and headed east, retracing their route back to the ranch. This time, he didn’t speed. Raney sat quietly beside him, staring out the window. After half an hour of silence, he accepted that she wasn’t going to speak to him unless he drove her to it.
“What’d I do?” he finally asked.
She turned her head and looked at him. “About what?”
“Whatever it is you’re mad at me about.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“Then why won’t you talk to me?”
She gave a half smile. “I could ask you the same thing.”
He thought back to his conversation with her mother and let out a deep breath. “This is about what you said the night of the fight, isn’t it? About us not knowing each other.”
“We don’t. Not really. What do we ever talk about but Rosco and the ranch?”
“Fine. Then what do you want to talk about?”
“Forget it,” she snapped, and turned back to the window.
He probably shouldn’t have said it so impatiently, but it pissed him off that she’d shut him down when he was trying to do what she’d asked. “Don’t pull that crap, Raney. You wanted to talk, so let’s talk. But since I’m just a guy and don’t know all the rules, you’ll have to spell it out. What do you want to talk about?”
“You. For starters.”
Hell. But he gamely said, “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.” She spread her hands, palms up, then dropped them back to her lap. “There are big sections of your life you won’t discuss, Dalton. Maybe you locked them away. Maybe you have good reason. But they’re still there, still part of who you are. And if we’re to go any further with whatever we have between us, I need to know that stuff. How you think. How you feel. What makes you happy, or sad, or afraid. I need to know you, Dalton. Only then can I trust you.”
Dalton was astounded. “You don’t trust me?”
“I trust what I know about you. But I don’t know much. That’s the problem.”
He didn’t know what to say. Despite the one incident when he’d felt compelled to be otherwise, he’d always considered himself an up-front person. No hidden agendas. No ulterior motives. A forthright, honest, what-you-see-is-what-you-get type of guy.
Naturally, there were things he didn’t want to talk about. Mistakes he wished he hadn’t made. Regrets over things he’d said, or done, or didn’t do. But most of it was in the past. Different time, different place. What good would it do to drag it all up now?
But if he wanted Raney, and that’s what she needed . . . shit.
“I’m guessing you only want to hear about the bad stuff
, not what I got on my fifth birthday, or which ride I liked best at Six Flags, or what my favorite color is.” He grinned over at her, hoping to lighten the mood and maybe distract her a little. “Blue. As long as it matches your eyes.”
She smiled but said nothing. Definitely not distracted.
“Okay, then. Let’s start with prison.” Maybe if he worked backward, she’d forget about the wreck. “It was noisy, grim, impersonal, and overrun with guys choking on rage with no way to expend it except on each other. Just like on TV except a lot more boring. And violent. The food was terrible, the monotony awful, the guards tolerable as long as you toed the line.”
He didn’t mention the few fights he’d had. Or his trips to the infirmary because of them, and how hard he’d worked to bulk up so he wouldn’t have to go there again. Or the endless, soul-crushing loneliness of the nights, and the constant brutal savagery that defined his days.
“I spent most of my time reading and counting the days and working out in the prison yard.” Struggling to stay sane and alive.
“What did you read?”
“Child, DeMille, Crichton. Lonesome Dove, twice.”
She gave him a teasing smile. “No romances?”
“Lonesome Dove is romantic. Sort of.”
“Only a man would think so. What about Iraq?”
He slumped back in the bucket seat, as if that might distance him from those bleak memories. After spending the last eight years trying to outdistance that dark time, now she was asking him to go through it again.
But again, if he wanted Raney, and that’s what she needed . . .
“Iraq definitely wasn’t romantic. Brutal in a whole different way from prison. Even more violent and cruel, but at least I had brothers beside me. Did I kill people? I don’t know. I aimed to. Did I see terrible things? Definitely.”
