Wyoming True

by Diana Palmer

  “Pirate?” he mused, and his pale silver eyes twinkled.

  “I’d love to have a pirate ship and sail it on the local lake. It would have black sails and a skull-and-crossbones flag, and I’d hire men to sail it dressed up like Blackbeard.”

  “Why not do it?”

  “Oh, I’ve given Catelow plenty of reasons to talk about me. No need to add even more,” she added and regretted saying it when she saw the amusement leave his handsome face. It closed up. She grimaced. She had a knack for alienating people.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Oh! Sorry!” she blurted out and gave him directions.

  * * *

  HER HOUSE WAS OLD. It had been a bigger ranch in earlier days. It had belonged to a great-uncle who’d left it to her father. The family had lived there, barely scratching out a living, before her father had been offered employment in Denver at the same graphics firm whose owner Ida later married. It had been sold, but Ida’s first husband bought it back and put in a ranch manager. Ida should keep the place for her heirs, he’d said gently, before she knew that there wouldn’t be any with him. It had been a kind gesture, from a kind man.

  Now it was a horse ranch. Ida kept a small herd of palominos and two part-time cowboys who did nothing but look after them.

  “My dad worked as a typesetter for the local newspaper,” she commented. “But we lived here. It was a hard life. We had a cow for milk and butter, and chickens for eggs.”

  “No beef?”

  She shook her head. “It was hard enough providing for a milk cow and the chickens. We couldn’t afford fencing for beef.”

  He frowned. He hadn’t considered that her people had been poor. So had his. He was in his midthirties, over ten years her senior. It was probably why he didn’t remember her from school.

  “I grew up poor, too,” he said quietly. “I mostly lived with my mother and her parents. We had a ranch only a little more prosperous than yours. Plenty to eat, but no luxuries. My grandfather drove a ten-year-old car with eighty thousand miles on it.” He chuckled. “He used to say that any car that had less than eighty thousand miles would be as good as a new one to him.”

  “We had a twelve-year-old pickup truck with brakes that needed constant relining. My dad had a heavy foot.”

  “How old were you when he died?”

  “Ten,” she said softly. “He was the best dad in the world. I loved him so much. So did my mother. I almost lost her when he was gone so suddenly. She grieved until she died. She never even looked at another man.”

  “My mother was like that.”

  She glanced at him, curious. She wanted to know what sort of man his father was. But she was wary of asking. There was a look on his face that was puzzling.

  He was aware of that curiosity. He didn’t indulge it.

  He pulled into the long driveway that led to the Victorian house in a grove of lodgepole pines, with the Tetons sharp and snowcapped in the distance. “Nice view,” he commented.

  “It is, isn’t it? I sculpt, for a hobby. But I’ve always wished I could paint.”

  “I can see why.” He frowned. “It’s pretty remote.”

  “I like it that way,” she said. She drew in a breath. “I don’t...mix well.”

  “I have to,” he said. “Business requires it.”

  “I suppose so. Watch for Butler,” she said quickly as he pulled up close to the steps.

  “Butler?”

  In response, a huge yellow cat came trundling off the porch, rubbing up against the steps.

  “He’s not afraid of cars,” she said. “I live in terror that somebody will run over him.”

  “Most cats are intelligent.”

  “I got the stupid one,” she laughed. “He’s old and arthritic, but he’s so sweet.”

  He came around and opened her door. The cat curled around his slacks.

  “Don’t let him do that. He’ll get hairs on you,” she said quickly, trying to shoo Butler away.

  “I have a German shepherd named Wolf,” he replied. “I’ve got dog hairs everywhere, despite the best efforts of my housekeeper. You’ve got cat hairs. Hairs are hairs,” he added with a faint smile.

  “I guess so.” She glanced up at him. It was a long way, and she was at least medium height. “I know you don’t like me. Thanks for driving me around in spite of it.”

  He scowled. “How many surgeries have you had on that hip?” he asked abruptly.

  “Two...” She blurted it out without thinking and then flushed, high on her cheekbones.

  His pale silver eyes narrowed. “Two. It must have been one hell of a break.”

  She swallowed, hard, remembering. “It was. My hip was fractured and the femur was, too.”

  He wondered if she’d been in a car wreck. She didn’t say any more about it and flushed, as if it embarrassed her to have said even that much.

  “I got caught in the cross fire when I was fighting in Iraq, over ten years ago,” he said quietly. “Three hits in the chest. One would have been fatal, but the medics were quick. I got sent home.” He shrugged. “I would have gone back, but they discharged me. I guess three bullets qualifies you for retirement.” There were other injuries, as well, but he wasn’t sharing those.

  She grimaced. “It must have been very painful.”

  “It was.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “The scars remind me, every time I look in a mirror.” He laughed sarcastically. “I never take my clothes off in the light when I’m with women. I made that mistake just once.”

  She turned scarlet and averted her eyes.

  He was stunned. She was embarrassed. It was so obvious that it was unmistakable. She was a rounder who slept with anything in pants, but it embarrassed her to hear a man talk about what he did with women.

  “I have to go in and take these,” she said, holding up the bag of pills from the pharmacy. “Thanks again for the ride...”

  “I gave Cindy my number,” he interrupted. “When they finish with your Jag, I’ll have one of my men come with me to bring it home.”

  “But you don’t have to do that,” she protested.

  “I don’t have to do anything,” he said, “except pay taxes.”

  She got the point. “Well...thank you.”

  “You hate being obligated to other people,” he guessed and saw her blue eyes flash. He nodded. “So do I. But it’s not a bad thing to offer help when it’s needed. You live alone.”

  “Yes.” She drew in a breath. “I like...being by myself.”

  “Same.” He studied her for another minute before he turned back to his car. “Watch your cat. I’ll try not to run over him,” he added.

  “Come on, Butler,” she called to the big yellow cat, who was trying to follow Jake to his car. “Butler!”

  The cat looked torn, but he trotted back to Ida and followed her up onto the porch. She watched Jake drive away with mixed emotions. She couldn’t think why he’d offered help, when it was so obvious that he didn’t like her.

  Jake didn’t understand it, either. He went home, berating himself all the way for getting involved with the scarlet woman, even indifferently.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IDA HATED TAKING the huge ibuprofen caplets. They hurt her stomach, even when she took them with food, and she had to take an antacid just to tolerate them. But they did help with the inflammation and the pain.

  Her car had required a part that had to be sent for, so it hadn’t been returned the day Jake drove her home. It would be ready today, though. The mechanic, a former Jaguar mechanic at that, had told her on the phone. She didn’t really mind. She couldn’t take ibuprofen and drive anyway.

  She scrambled some eggs and made a piece of toast to go with them. She didn’t have much of an appetite. All she could think of was how dangerous Bailey was, and what he was capable
of doing to her. The pain in her hip reminded her graphically what could happen when she refused him.

  Over the few months of their brief marriage, he’d turned her from a happy, fun-loving woman into a frightened recluse who wanted nothing to do with men ever again. The trial had been quick, by judicial standards, and Bailey had sworn vengeance from the courtroom when he was convicted. Ida had been in the room, compelled to learn the outcome of the trial firsthand. She could never forget the look on her husband’s face. Well, ex-husband. She’d divorced him while he was in jail awaiting trial. Her attorneys had made him aware of what they could do if he refused to consent to it. So he’d consented, reluctantly. But he hadn’t known that she was cutting him out of her will at the same time. She wondered if he knew even now.

  She’d refused to go to his bond hearing when he was arrested, afraid of what he might do to her. The attorneys in Denver had concurred. One of them knew the assistant DA who tried the case. He’d made the man aware of just what had been done to Ida by the defendant, a drastically different story from the one the defendant had told. Bailey had no money of his own, no property for a cash bond, so he was forced to stay in jail until the trial. After the trial he went straight to prison. It was the first time in months that Ida had felt safe. She subsequently changed her surname back to that of Charles Merridan, her first husband. She didn’t even want Bailey’s name to be a daily reminder that she’d been stupid enough to marry him.

  She’d told only a handful of people about the threats. Her attorneys had hired a temporary bodyguard for her. He was masquerading as a cowboy who helped with her small horse ranch. He lived in the old bunkhouse that she’d renovated as a guest cottage. Nobody thought anything about it, because of her reputation.

  She grimaced. She hadn’t told Jake. When he found out about the bodyguard, and he would, he’d assume that the bodyguard from Texas was just another lover, because he was young and good-looking. She was going to hate that. Jake was a good, kind man. She wished he thought better of her. But then, give a dog a bad name... And she’d given herself a very bad one, encouraging gossip that protected her from the attentions of local men.

  She hated her own beauty that made her attractive to men. She downplayed it by not wearing makeup and going around in clothes that concealed her exquisite figure. But there was the occasional party and she dressed for those. They’d become an ordeal until Cort Grier had helped her out by pretending an interest in her.

  At the party she’d been flirting with an older man deliberately, because she knew he was married and unlikely to want to start something with her. Sadly, her idea backfired. He became very aggressively interested, and his poor wife went to the restroom in tears. She backed off after that and ran into Cort Grier, who left with her when the party ended. She’d wanted so badly to apologize to the man’s wife, but she hadn’t known how to approach her. Very few people in Catelow knew the real woman behind the vivacious flirt with the sordid reputation. It wasn’t the facts of any case; it was what people believed about it. Ida was a call girl who tried to steal other women’s husbands. That was the latest gossip, after the notorious party.

  Well, it was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it, to be scandalous? She’d thought it was the best way to keep men at bay. It had worked, so far. She had no interest at all in another marriage or getting involved with a man. She was convinced that she didn’t have the judgment God gave a billy goat, much less the ability to spot an abuser when she saw one.

  She finished her meager breakfast and went into the living room, carrying a cup of latte from her European coffee machine along with her in a delicate blue-and-white bone china cup and saucer. She put it on the coffee table and just stared at it.

  She drank too much coffee. It kept her awake at night. That would have been a problem if she hadn’t had the daily pain that ensured that she actively avoided sleep. She hated it when the lights went out, because that was when the bad dreams came. Horrible dreams, full of violence only half remembered when she awoke.

  So she avoided sleep. She avoided men. She avoided almost all contact with other human beings. Her only companion was old Butler, curled up in his kitty bed, sound asleep.

  There was a wide-screen television, the latest model, with every satellite channel known to man on it. But the centerpiece of the room was a grand piano. Ida’s first husband had played beautifully. He had her taught.

  She was a quick study, too. She’d always loved music. Piano came as naturally to her as breathing, to his utter delight. She memorized his favorite pieces and played them for him when they were at home together, which wasn’t often.

  Leaving the coffee on the table, she went to the piano, positioned the bench, sat down and put her right foot near the pedals on the floor.

  Her very favorite song was an old one that her grandmother had loved. She’d had several recordings of it by different singers and groups, but it was the one by Steve Alaimo that was her favorite. Ida had grown up hearing it, loving it. Her hands went to the keys and she began to play, her eyes closed, the music filling up all the empty, frightened places inside her.

  She was oblivious to everything around her when she played, even to the sound of the doorbell. It did finally get through to her. She stopped in the middle of a bar, jumped to her feet and moved as quickly as she could to the front door.

  Jake McGuire was standing there, watching her curiously.

  “Sorry, I didn’t hear you drive up.”

  “One of my men drove my Mercedes over here. He’s waiting for me.” He studied her. “Your radio was pretty loud,” he said. “No wonder you didn’t hear the cars. My grandfather used to play that song. What’s it called?”

  “‘Cast Your Fate to the Wind,’” she replied.

  “Catchy tune.”

  “It is,” she agreed, without telling him it was she, herself, playing it.

  He handed her a smart key on a key ring with a silver leaper, the Jaguar symbol, attached. “It handles like a dream,” he remarked. “I might even consider getting one of my own.”

  She smiled. “Thanks for all the trouble.”

  “It wasn’t. Trouble, I mean,” he replied.

  She stared up at him with conflicted emotions, feeling things she didn’t want to feel. He was only being kind. It was indifferent kindness. He didn’t even like her, for God’s sake!

  He was having the same kind of issues. His perception of her had changed. She wasn’t the wild woman he’d thought she was. He was curious about her. He didn’t want to be.

  Just as the tension reached flash point, there was a quick tap on the door and a tall man with dark hair and even darker eyes came into the house.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said curtly, “but we’ve got a problem with one of the horses.”

  “Which one?” she asked at once. “Not Silver?” she added worriedly.

  “No, ma’am, not him. It’s the palomino mare. The one that foaled last week.”

  She sighed. “Gold. She’s had so many problems since we delivered that colt,” she replied sadly. “What’s wrong with her? Do you know?”

  “She’s got deep cuts on both her flanks,” he said without inflection. “Bad ones.” He had a closed expression as he spoke.

  “But she’s only been out in the pasture,” Ida exclaimed. “And there’s nothing that could have injured her there!”

  “I know,” Laredo replied quietly. “I checked.” His dark eyes were saying things to her that she didn’t want to share with Jake.

  She just sighed. “Call the vet and see if he can come at once.”

  “I’ll get right on it.” He went out without another word.

  Jake’s eyebrow rose. “An employee?”

  “One of my new cowboys,” she replied, but she was lying and she didn’t do it well.

  He smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Have a nice day.”

  “Tha
nks for bringing my car to me,” she said quietly.

  He just shrugged and kept on walking.

  And so much for wild dreams, she told herself as she went back inside and closed the door.

  * * *

  SHE WALKED OUT to the barn where the palomino was stabled. The mare, Gold, was standing, but long, bloody cuts were visible on her hindquarters. Even Ida could see the pain the animal was in. The new man, Laredo Hall, was kneeling beside the horse with one of the ranch’s cowboys at his side. The mare shied away from him.

  “Oh, Gold, my poor baby!” Ida said worriedly. She went into the stall and drew her fingers down the mare’s soft mane. “My poor girl!” She looked at the cuts. “This was no accident,” she said icily.

  “Looks like somebody did this on purpose,” Laredo said. His eyes narrowed.

  Her heart ran wild. Was Bailey here? Or had one of his shady friends come right onto her ranch and damaged her horse? It was the sort of low-down, sneaky, mean thing he would do, and she knew it. Laredo, judging by his demeanor, was thinking the same thing.

  “Have you called the vet?” she asked.

  He nodded. “He’s on his way.”

  * * *

  SHE WRAPPED HER arms around herself and winced at the horse’s pain. Gold was still shying away from Laredo, and she was making nervous whinnies. Nearby, she heard the palomino’s colt whimpering, as if he understood that his mother was ailing. Ida had become fond of the mare since she’d been living in Catelow. She rode her occasionally, as she rode Silver, another of her small herd of palominos with a beautiful white mane, and the colt’s sire, but the cowboys mostly took care of the horses. She’d always loved to ride, but now she was afraid of large animals, afraid of any more injuries that would require surgery. It had been so painful...

  The sound of a truck pulling up outside gathered everyone’s attention. A young veterinarian came in the door, straight to the patient.

  * * *