Читать книгу The Wrangler - Lindsay McKenna - Страница 12

CHAPTER FIVE

“DAMMIT, ZACH, WORK faster!” Curt Downing’s fine, thin nostrils flared as he stood on the wooden dock at the Horse Emporium. The twenty-year-old kid, still gawky and pathetically thin, wrestled with an eighty-pound bale of hay. The bale was winning. There was no use trying to make a cowboy out of this kid. Placing his hands on his hips as he watched his three wranglers working efficiently to transfer a hundred bales on the waiting flatbed, Curt fumed. If he didn’t need Zach Mason, the grandson of Iris Mason, owner of the Elk Horn Ranch, he’d have fired his ass a long time ago. But the kid was useful to him in other ways.

With the two hooks, Zach hurled the bale onto the flatbed where another wrangler stood impatiently waiting for it. Releasing his heavy load, he saw Downing glare at him. Zach wiped the sweat out of his eyes. He hated what he was doing. Shuffling back inside the huge two-story barn to get another bale, he wished he was in his rented room in town, smoking a joint. Marijuana soothed and calmed him. His heart still ached, missing his mother, Allison. She was in a federal prison, serving out a twenty-five-year term for trying to kill Iris Mason, his grandmother, and Kam Trayhern. Kam, his stepfather Rudd’s illegitimate daughter, had come home to claim her inheritance. Allison had seen her, as well as Iris with whom Kam was bonding, as a threat and tried to have them murdered to save the inheritance for her own kids: himself and his sister Regan. He still blamed all of them for his mother being torn from him.

Stopping at a table, Zach grabbed a bottle of water, opened it and slugged down its tepid contents. His large Adam’s apple bobbed repeatedly. Tossing the empty container into a barrel next to the table, he pulled off his baseball cap and wiped his brow with the back of his arm. The prickly alfalfa hay nettled his sensitive skin, turning it a splotchy red.

Zach knew he wasn’t cut out for ranch life, even though his stepfather and grandmother owned the largest and most prosperous ranch in the valley. But he wasn’t from their bloodline. His mother had been a Hollywood star. And his sister, Regan, who lived a block away from him in town, took after Allison. He tried to forget his promiscuous mother had had sex with an A-list Hollywood director. That was his real father. But Zacharius Blanchard refused to accept his illegitimate son. He refused to even talk to Zach. That hurt. Why did his Hollywood star mother have to screw with so many different men? His older sister, Regan, had a filthy rich film producer for a father. Patrick Dobson refused to acknowledge her as his daughter, too. What was wrong with these irresponsible bastards?

Until recently, Zach’s mother had led him to believe that Rudd Mason was his real father, and in the end, Rudd had turned against Allison and helped send her to prison. Damn him. Damn the whole, stinking lot. Again, Zach wished he was back in his room smoking pot and zoning out of his godforsaken, miserable existence.

“Hurry up!” Downing shouted into the barn. “You’re falling behind, Mason. Get a move on!”

“Screw you,” Zach muttered. Several wranglers, plus the hired help at Horse Emporium, were bustling like busy bees all around him. Not for the first time, Zach wished his real father would acknowledge him, because he was rich and could pay for his drugs. Then, he wouldn’t have to work for Downing, who was a son of a bitch to please.

Curt Downing stood on the dock but his attention turned from the lazy kid to notice his sister, Regan Mason, driving into the parking lot. Unlike her drugged-up brother, she was sharp and didn’t touch drugs. Regan had red hair like Zach, only hers was a dull red in comparison to his carrottop color. The very sight of her annoyed Downing, although he did like her from one standpoint. Regan was in her late twenties and had a killer body like her mother. Allison had known how to use sex to get what she wanted. What did Regan want? Downing tried to figure it out as he watched her climb out of her dark blue Chevy pickup and head directly toward the loading platform.

She was tall with full breasts, wide hips and long legs. Even though she wore a white cotton blouse and Levi’s, it did not detract from her sensual beauty. Downing saw the glinting look of a feral predator in her blue eyes as she quickly climbed the steps up to the bustling platform. Spotting him, Regan made a beeline for Curt.

“Is Zach here?” she demanded without preamble.

Curt nodded. “Yeah, but he’s busy earning his monthly paycheck.”

Regan disliked the millionaire rancher and her voice didn’t hide it. “I need to see him.”

“He’s working,” Downing said in a growl, glaring down at her. He saw the petulant set of her full mouth. Her red hair was in a single braid and hung down her long, curved back.

“When does he get a break, then?” she demanded, meeting his narrowed brown eyes.

Downing snorted. “He’s lucky to even have a break. Your candy-assed brother is weak and shuffles around like the pothead he is. For every bale of hay he manages to cart to the truck, my other wranglers have already put three of ’em in.”

Regan shot Downing a dirty look. He might be a tall, good-looking red-haired man in his midthirties, but his arrogance rubbed her the wrong way. He stood with his hands on his hips like he was lord of all he surveyed. “I should be grateful to you, Curt. You gave my brother a job when no one else would.” Before the ordeal with their mother, Zach had been holed up in his room smoking pot every day. He never took part in ranching. Even she knew he was lazy and spaced-out. But he was her half brother and she loved him.

Curt preened a little under Regan’s husky voice. He’d been trying to bed this woman for ages, but she always evaded him. “He does his best,” he said, giving her a slight smile. He knew from Regan’s many visits during Zach’s shifts that she was overly protective of her druggie stepbrother. When word got out in Jackson Hole about the Mason family’s poisonous, dysfunctional relationships, the town reeled in shock. Now, Regan and Zach lived in town and their every move was scrutinized by the citizenry. “So, what’s happening in your world?”

“I’m working on a Hollywood movie script.”

Curt was sure that Regan would send it to her estranged father, even though he refused to acknowledge her as his daughter.

“Word on the street is that you’ve written four scripts and all of them have been turned down by everyone in Hollywood.” Curt softened his tone a little. “Hollywood is the hardest place in the world to break into.”

Wrapping her arms around her chest, Regan muttered, “I’m not giving up. Once I break in, I’m leaving this place.”

Zach came staggering out with another bale between the hooks. He saw Regan, perked up and smiled a hello in her direction.

Regan lifted her hand. She watched her brother barely able to handle the bale. The other wranglers, all fit men in their twenties, were hustling back and forth with ease. Her heart sank as she watched her weak brother finally drop the bale onto the flatbed. “Mind if I take five minutes with him, Curt? I’m leaving unexpectedly for a job interview and he needs to know I’m leaving for a week.”

Curt didn’t want her hatred. And God knew, Regan hated with great ease. “Sure, go ahead.”

“Thanks.” She walked quickly toward Zach.

Standing there watching his minions work, Curt felt victorious. The world was literally in his hands. He felt strong and invincible. He had a damn good crew over at Ace Trucking who were very well paid to receive and help distribute the drugs he ran to six different states around Wyoming. Pride sizzled through Curt. He laughed to himself because he was the regional drug lord and not one bastard suspected him. Such was his stealth and cunning at keeping it a buried secret here in Jackson Hole. Everyone looked up to him. He was a successful rancher and an astute businessman. And he could have any woman he wanted. Except, perhaps, Regan Mason. Eyeing her, Curt promised himself to relentlessly pursue her until he got her into his bed.

Curt spotted another flatbed truck pulling into the gravel yard. The truck was at least fifteen years old, a beat-up red Ford that had certainly seen better days. Scowling, he recognized the driver: Griff McPherson. But who was the woman with him? Curt couldn’t place her. His focus shifted to the flatbed now backed up next to his rig.

“Well, well,” he said to himself as he saw Griff get out. “He’s finally got a real job….”

Val eased out of the truck. The door squealed as she shut it. Turning around and seeing Curt Downing on the platform, she frowned. Great. She recognized his features from many years ago, and since her return Gus had been warning her about him. He’d been the rebellious son of Red Downing who had taken over his parents’ ranch after their deaths. Since then, Gus had told her, he’d become a local kingpin and made it known to everyone how filthy rich he was. With so many ranchers struggling just to make ends meet, Val couldn’t stand to see the arrogant look on his face. It turned her stomach.

She walked around the front of the truck to Griff.

“You start putting bales on the truck. I’ll pay Andy for them in the store.”

Griff nodded. He knew the way things worked around here. “No problem,” he said as he tugged on his elk-skin gloves and scooped up the two hooks from behind the seat. Val was all business. She hadn’t talked much on their drive to the Emporium. While he wished she’d be a little warmer, Griff understood better why she continued to be standoffish.

Looking up at the platform that swirled with wranglers, Griff saw Curt standing off to one side. The red-haired cowboy stared belligerently back at him. In addition to the FBI fingering him as a suspect, Griff disliked Downing because he was a cheat and a liar. He’d heard from Slade’s wife, Jordana, that he’d tried to hit Thor with a crop during the endurance contest. Downing had forced her off the trail and was well-known for such underhanded tricks. Word had it that other endurance riders had been at the end of his attacks, too. And Downing always did his dirty work out of the sight of judges so no one had proof. And in the world of endurance riding, it had to be seen to be believed by the judges.

Mounting the stairs, Griff saw Downing’s brown eyes go steely. He was Slade’s brother and there was automatic hate between them as a result. Griff had never done anything to Downing, but this man couldn’t separate them. He was a McPherson therefore, to be distrusted. Griff met his hard gaze with one of his own as he stepped onto the busy platform. He wasn’t going to make small talk with this bastard.

“Hey, McPherson, you finally get a gig?” Downing asked in a pleasant tone.

Griff halted about six feet away from the rancher. “Don’t you have better things to do, Downing?” He saw Downing’s mouth curve into a rueful smile.

“No, not really. Looks like you got a red-haired filly in that truck. Who is she?”

Anger moved through Griff. He saw the arrogant smile increase across Downing’s full lips. “That’s Val Hunter, owner of the Bar H.”

Brows rising, Downing said, “What?”

Seeing shock register on the man’s face, Griff moved past him and got on with the business of hauling fifty bales of grass hay to his flatbed. Griff figured few people knew Val had returned home. Chuckling to himself, he hooked the first bale and wrestled it out to the flatbed. He was sure Gwen Garner, the owner of the quilt store, would know. That was the place to go if anyone wanted to find out what was going on in Jackson Hole. He wondered if Downing would take a drive over there to talk with her. Probably.

Val emerged from the Horse Emporium. The sun was warm upon her shoulders. She looked toward the hay platform, filled with hardworking, sweaty men. What she didn’t like seeing was Curt Downing. He was such a pain in the ass.

Val retrieved her elk-skin gloves from the truck, intending to arrange the bales Griff had delivered to the truck.

“Hey!” Downing called, walking over to the edge of the platform.

Val looked up and frowned. “Yes?” she called, pulling on her gloves.

“I’m Curt Downing. You must be Val Hunter? Gus’s granddaughter, right?”

She hated even making small talk with this bastard. Hauling herself up into the bed of the truck, Val said, “Yes, I am. Excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

Nostrils flaring, Downing watched as she turned her back to him. Despite his anger at her affront, he watched the woman with interest, perusing her long, lean body. She was in fine shape as she moved those bales around, lifting them without a problem. Not only that, she was damn good-looking. When did she get into town? And why was she suddenly back? Rubbing his chin, Downing decided he’d have to make a call on Gwen Garner. She’d know a lot more. And it was obvious that Val wasn’t interested in talking to him. Too bad, Downing thought. He’d seen no ring on her left hand before she’d pulled on her work gloves. Maybe she came back because the Bar H was going belly-up? Curt had wanted to buy the two-hundred-acre ranch for a long time now. It was strategic to his valley-wide plans.

Moving down the stairs, he quickly walked to his red Chevy pickup and climbed in. While the mice were away, the cat could play. It was time he gave Gus Hunter a little visit.

* * *

GUS HEARD THE POUNDING on the screen door. She was in the kitchen making cookies when the harsh sound echoed down the hall.

“Hold your horses!” she yelled, wiping off her hands and grabbing her cane. Who could it be? Val and Griff had left an hour ago to get supplies in town.

Hobbling down the hall, she saw a tall, broad-shouldered man standing at the door. Lifting her upper lip into a snarl, Gus quickly recognized him. She shoved the screen door open, making him leap back.

“What the hell you doin’ here?”

Curt doffed his cowboy hat in deference to the small woman glaring up at him. “Why, Miss Gus, I thought I’d drop by and say hello.” Downing held up a sack. “I brought us some lattes. I thought we might sit out here on your porch and chat a spell?” Curt saw the silver-haired woman sneer at him. Oh, he knew Gus was a red-hot pistol. She spoke her mind and didn’t care at all about diplomacy. He added a hopeful smile and gave her a pleading look. “Please?”

Snorting softly, Gus let the screen door slam shut behind her. “You listen to me, you young whippersnapper, I’m not interested in sellin’ the Bar H! That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Curt ambled over to the small table near the swing at the end of the enclosed porch. “Why, Miss Gus, you misunderstand my intentions,” he said in a soothing voice. Setting the sack down, Curt opened it up and placed two Starbucks coffee cups on the table. “I was at the Horse Emporium just now and I saw your truck. Griff McPherson was driving it.” He walked over and offered one to Gus. “I was surprised. I wanted to make sure that he hadn’t stolen it from you.” Curt congratulated himself on planting seeds in her mind that McPherson was not to be trusted.

“Get that crappy coffee outta my face!” She raised her cane and threatened to strike the cup out of Downing’s hand. “I like real coffee! Not that citified stuff!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Gus.” Curt feigned a hurt look. He quickly placed the cups back into the sack. “Might you invite me in for a real cup of coffee, then?” He added a warm smile along with a coaxing look he hoped would melt her anger.

Gus scowled. “I’d rather invite a pissed-off rattler in to dine with me, Downing.”

He looked up and placed his hand over his heart. “Miss Gus, you hurt me to the quick.”

“You can’t hurt a rock.”

Downing had always respected her spunk. Prodding Gus was like prodding a bull elk in heat: you knew he would get angry and charge. “Now, Miss Gus, I came out here with concern for you. That was your flatbed I saw at the Horse Emporium?”

“Of course it was! And what business is that of yours? You aren’t Gwen Garner! I don’t mind speaking to her, but you, I don’t trust any further than I could throw you.”

Curt smiled inwardly. The old woman’s face was pinched, angry, and she looked like she was going to have a heart attack any moment. Not that he would mind. Then he could scoop up her ranch. “Miss Gus, I saw a lovely young red-haired woman with McPherson,” he said, playing dumb. “She was in the truck with him. Who is that?”

Gus grinned savagely. “That, Downing, is my granddaughter, Val Hunter.”

Downing pretended to be as shocked as he was at the Emporium earlier. “What? I thought she was in the Air Force? Is she on leave to visit you?”

“No, you fool, she’s home for good!” Gus pointed to her hip. “And it’s not gone past your nose to know I can’t handle this ranch by myself any longer because of my broken hip. Everyone in town knows it never healed right. Val has come home to help get the ranch back up to an operational level.”

“I see….” Downing choked and nervously coughed. His mind spun with shock. He’d been expecting Gus to put up the For Sale sign any minute precisely because she was now crippled and no longer able to work. This was a definite setback. “But…what about McPherson? Yesterday, he worked at the Horse Emporium.”

Giving him an irritated look, Gus barked, “Well, he’s now our wrangler. With Val and Mr. McPherson’s help, the Bar H is going to be just fine. How about that, Mr. Big Shot?” Gus waved her cane in his face. “I know your type. You’re like a snake that slinks through the bushes just waiting for the right moment to lunge out and bite someone on the ankle. But you ain’t gettin’ our ranch. So don’t even think you can!”

Standing there, Curt felt like the world had fallen out from beneath him. Damn! He desperately needed this ranch! Of course, he couldn’t tell the angry old woman why. Even if he could, it’d only raise her hackles more. “I’m so glad to hear you got help once more, Miss Gus,” he murmured in a placating tone, trying to ratchet down her anger toward him. Walking over to the table, Curt picked up the sack. Turning, he said, “I really hope that your granddaughter can stay.”

“Oh, she’ll stay. This is her home!” Gus said, jabbing her finger down at the porch. “You know ranch families stick together. And I know you’re wantin’ to buy up any ranch land you can get your filthy hands on. Well, it won’t be our ranch. Git goin’, Mister. I have cookies to bake and I don’t like talkin’ to the likes of you!”

Moving down the porch steps, Downing turned, doffed his hat again and said, “I wish you a good day, Miss Gus. I’m here for you in case you need any help. The Bar H has a wonderful history and I know with your granddaughter home, things will get better. Good day.”

Gus snorted, breathing raggedly as she watched the bastard climb into his big gussied-up truck. The damned pickup held so much chrome it glittered like a Christmas ornament. But that was Downing. She’d watched him grow into a bully through the twelve grades of school. His father, Red, had been a bully, too. An abusive drunk always causing havoc for people in the valley. There were times when she’d hear that Curt had a black eye at school. And a small part of her felt sorry for the younger Downing. Well, minus the drunkard part, the kid had grown up to be just like his daddy.

Gus watched the truck pull out of the driveway. And then she saw that Val and Griff had returned. The two trucks passed one another on the road into the ranch. She watched Griff drive the truck around to the barn. Hobbling off the porch, Gus went to greet them.

Val climbed out of the truck as Gus approached. “Was that Curt Downing we just passed?”

“Sure as hell was.” Gus looked up at the bales of hay tied down on the flatbed.

“What did he want?”

Griff came around the truck to hear the conversation. Gus was clearly upset, her eyes narrow along with her pursed lips. He saw Val was concerned because she tugged at her ponytail. It was a habit he’d seen before and finally recognized it for what it was.

Gus told them what had transpired. She patted Val’s arm. “Now, get that worry wiped off your face. He’s gone and out of our lives.”

Griff pushed his hat up on his head. “Downing was surprised that we’re here?”

Cackling, Gus said, “Oh, it looked for a moment like he was going to fall through the porch. He was that surprised!”

Griff grinned a little. Gus got pure pleasure out of meeting Downing head-on. He liked her backbone. She might be small but that didn’t stop her from taking on the likes of Downing. Most of the town was afraid of him, but Gus was not. “Are you okay?”

“Ohhh,” Gus said, reaching out and patting Griff’s arm, “I’m fine, son. Not to worry. I’m not afraid of that bully!”

Val frowned. “He came out to ask about me?”

“Yep,” Gus said. “He’s a nosy son-of-a-gun.”

Mouth quirking, Griff said, “I’m going to start moving this hay inside, ladies.”

Val was pleased to see the wrangler move into action. She placed a hand on Gus’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go in? You look like you’re in pain, Gus. Do you need some aspirin?”

Moving her hand over her hip, Gus muttered, “Yeah, Downing got my dander up for sure. I was waving my cane around instead of using it to support myself.”

Smiling gently, Val said, “Come on, I’ll walk you back into the house.”

Nodding, Gus gripped her hand. “You’re a good granddaughter. Do you know that? It’s nice to be taken care of every once in a while.”

Laughing a little, Val escorted Gus back toward the house. The morning sun was warm, the sky blue and there was a pine scented breeze. “Oh, Gus, I always worry about you. You’re like a little banty rooster. I agree, Downing is dangerous and I don’t trust him. But you don’t need to get your blood pressure up because of him.”

“He’s a snake snoopin’ around, Val. You can’t ever trust a snake!”

Gus was moving very slowly and in obvious pain. “You know, I heard a commercial for the Scooter Store on the radio this morning when we were driving into town, Gus. A power chair could get you around here much more easily, even outside.”

“Oh, don’t you start jawin’ about a scooter for me. Cowgirls ride horses. What an embarrassing comedown.”

Chuckling, Val knew it would take a while to get her grandmother to consider another type of transportation. She was a proud, tough, Wyoming rancher woman who was used to using her two legs to get where she was going. Helping her slowly negotiate the stairs to the porch, Val replied, “Maybe we can talk about it another time.”

Gus snorted. She rested a moment at the top of the stairs. “I’ll bet Downing’s heading for Gwen Garner’s quilt shop. He’s gonna ply her with questions about you.”

Unconcerned, Val opened the screen door for Gus. “Gwen is a trusted friend to our family. I’m not worried about her. Come on, I’ll make us some coffee and you can sit down and give that hip of yours a rest.”

“Might help me finish those cookies, too?”

Grinning, Val said, “Absolutely.”