Читать книгу Her Mistletoe Cowboy - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 9

Chapter Two

Damn but it was hot. This had to be the hottest December day to hit the area as far back as he could remember.

Taking off his tan Stetson, Garrett wiped his brow with the back of his hand, then put his hat back on. For what it was worth, the hat helped keep the sun out of his eyes.

He’d come up on this hill because it afforded him a better view of the surrounding terrain. The road below was flatter than his uncle’s voice had been when Sam had sung in the occasional choir, back in the day. To his and Jackson’s surprise, the man had been a big believer in going to church and he had made sure to usher the two of them in with him every Sunday.

Even now, he wasn’t sure if Sam had exactly been a man of faith, or just someone who believed in the healing power of having a place to go where you were forced to think outside of yourself. Church had perhaps been that place for Sam.

Maybe that wouldn’t have been good for some, but it certainly turned out to be good for Jackson and for him, Garrett thought now, still carefully scanning the road below. He would have hated to think where he and his brother would have wound up if it hadn’t been for Sam and his rather strict way of doing things.

One thing was for sure, if it hadn’t been for Sam, he wouldn’t be here right now, looking for a long-overdue magazine writer.

According to the phone call he’d taken from the main editor of the bimonthly magazine doing that story on the Healing Ranch, the writer he’d sent, a woman named Kimberly Lee, should have gotten to them by now. The man who’d called an hour ago said he’d tried to reach her cell phone and received the message that it was out of range—something that was all too familiar around here. The editor had decided to call the ranch.

“She might have gotten lost,” the man, a Stan Saunders, had told him. “I told her to get a car with a GPS, but even if she did, it’s still possible that she’s gotten lost. I called the airport rental agency and they said she rented a tan compact Toyota,” he’d added as an afterthought.

The editor had started to recite the license plate to him, but he’d stopped the man, saying it was enough that he had a description of the car. There weren’t exactly an abundance of compact Toyotas of any color in this part of Texas.

“People tend to drive Jeeps and trucks out here,” he’d told the man. “But to be on the safe side, maybe you could describe your writer to me.”

Saunders had immediately rattled off the pertinent details as if he was staring at a picture of the writer. “Kim’s five-two, twenty-eight years old, has really dark brown eyes, blue-black hair, straight, chin length, oh, and she’s Eurasian, if that helps any,” he said as if he’d just remembered the last detail.

“I’ll find her,” he’d promised the man, more than a little intrigued now by the mental picture he’d formed from Saunders’s description.

Before he left, he’d stopped to tell Jackson where he was going because this was the morning he was supposed to be overseeing some of the recent arrivals’ progress. Now, because of the missing writer, Jackson was going to have to double up and take his boys, as well as his own.

Not that his brother minded extra work when it came to the teens on the ranch. That was, after all, the entire point of the ranch’s existence. But he could see that Jackson minded the reason for his being unavailable for a while.

Ordinarily easygoing and unflappable, Jackson had frowned at the prospect of his going out to hunt for the supposedly missing writer.

“If you hadn’t said yes to the story in the first place,” Jackson had pointed out, “you wouldn’t have to go running around, trying to track down the whereabouts of some displaced big-city tenderfoot who could just have gotten herself really lost out there.”

“It’ll all be worth it in the end,” he’d promised Jackson just before he’d gone off.

Of course, he hadn’t been all that sure about it at the moment.

And he still wasn’t any surer about finding her now. Granted that looking for a tan compact foreign car was somewhat better than looking for a needle in the haystack—but not by much. There was a lot of terrain to cover between Forever and Laredo, and if this woman was really as bad at following directions as that editor had said she was, he just might have to enlist Sheriff Santiago and his deputies to help him find her.

What kind of a Navajo brave are you?

He could almost hear his uncle growling the question at him in that hoarse, gravelly voice of his.

Unlike a great many residents in and around the reservation that was located ten miles outside of Forever, Sam White Eagle had been very proud of his heritage. Proud to be both a Navajo and an American, and it was because of Sam that both he and Jackson had their feelings of self-worth and their self-esteem intact.

It hadn’t always been that way, at least not for Jackson, who was only half Navajo. The mother who had deserted him had been Caucasian and from what his own mother had told him about the other woman, she had made Jackson feel that his Native American side was what dragged him down.

Jackson had had a lot going against him and to his credit—and Sam’s—he had come a long way, Garrett thought. That was part of what he wanted this writer’s article to reflect. That Jackson had been the first youthful offender who had been turned around by what he’d learned at the Healing Ranch—even if the ranch hadn’t been called that at the time. Back then it had just been a working ranch—and he and Jackson had been the ones doing the working—right alongside their uncle.

These days it was still a working ranch, but its purpose now was a little different from the one it had when Jackson was brought in to work there as a troubled teen.

Damn, how could this woman have gotten lost? Garrett wondered, slowly urging his horse on. The road was fairly straight from Laredo to here. All she had to do was stay on it.

There were no storms anywhere in that stretch of land to divert her, not even one brewing on the horizon, according to the latest weather report, so where the hell was she?

Garrett squinted as he stared out along the road below. Even from here, he should be able to see the dust the car was kicking up.

Okay, so the car was tan and that didn’t exactly stand out immediately in this area. If she’d rented a car that was a royal blue, the color that was still pretty popular in the glossy magazine ads he looked at on occasion, she would be easier to spot. But even in a tan car, he felt he could still find her. It was just harder.

But harder didn’t mean impossible. It just meant that—

Garrett abruptly stopped giving himself a pep talk and really stared down at the road below him. There was something pulled over to the side.

It was a tan compact car.

Her car, he thought triumphantly. He’d found her, Garrett congratulated himself.

There was no cloud of dust, big or little, coming from around it. Now that he had finally spotted it, he saw that the vehicle wasn’t moving.

Why wasn’t it moving? he wondered in the next heartbeat. Had she run out of gas, or had the car just died?

And then an even worse thought suddenly occurred to Garrett.

Had the woman passed out for some reason?

With women like his late mother, Sylvia, Miss Joan, the tart-tongued woman with the heart of gold who owned the diner, and now Debi, the nurse who had married his brother, populating his life, he was accustomed to thinking of women as inherently strong. He was used to women like Debi who rolled up her sleeves, went out and got the job done, not women who fainted at the first sign of trouble.

From what he’d managed to gather from the editor he’d talked to, this woman from the magazine might very well fall into the latter group, not the former.

If that was the case, whether she was spooked or had fainted, he had better get down there to her pronto. There was no telling what sort of condition this woman was in—and how that might, ultimately, reflect on the Healing Ranch.

He knew that was a selfish thought, but when it came to Jackson, he could be as selfish as he had to be.

The fastest way from where he was to where she was down below was straight down the hillside. It was the fastest way, but definitely not the easiest.

“You up to this, boy?” he asked, patting his golden palomino’s neck.

There was no question that the stallion he had raised from a foal was sure-footed, but he had never actually put Wicked to the test, at least not for more than a couple of feet.

Garrett looked down, undecided. It was a lot more than a couple of feet between where he was and where the woman’s car was.

“This is going to be tricky,” he said.

The words were intended for him rather than for the horse he regarded as more than just an animal. Wicked and he had a strong bond, and the horse would push himself to the limit for him. That was just the way things were.

At the same time, he didn’t want to do anything that just might cause the stallion to injure himself.

“You’ve got to go nice and slow, a little bit at a time.” He spoke in a steady, firm cadence, encouraging the horse. “But you can do it.”

Garrett was completely aware that once they started, there was no turning back, no do-overs. They could only continue on the path they were on. But he felt he had no choice, he had to try it. The woman might be hurt, which was probably why she was pulled over like that and if she was hurt, then time was important and going the other roundabout route would take him at least three times as long.

Mentally crossing his fingers and all but holding his breath, Garrett gave Wicked the command to start down the side of the hill. The horse obeyed.

He held on to the reins as tightly as he dared, not wanting to pull the horse back too much because he was afraid that it might cause Wicked to either grow skittish or actually rear back, neither of which would end well for them.

What ultimately resulted was something that, to the casual observer, looked as if the horse was sliding down the hillside in slow motion, his front hooves going first, sending bits and pieces of dirt and a little grass raining down ahead of him. The same, a little less forcefully, was happening with the back hooves.

Progress was slow and careful, but after what felt like an eternity later to Garrett, he and Wicked were on flat ground at the bottom of the hill several feet away from the parked car.

The feeling of relief was almost dizzying. He couldn’t help wondering if Wicked felt the same way.

“Extra lumps of sugar for you today when we get back,” Garrett promised, leaning over slightly in the saddle in order to pat the horse’s neck. Both of them, he noticed, were sweating. He felt more connected to the palomino than ever.

“Hell, extra lumps of sugar for you for a week,” Garrett amended. “You could have sent me flying right over your head and breaking my fool neck with just one misstep,” he acknowledged with more than a little feeling. “Thanks for not doing that.” He took a breath, steadying what he realized was a ragged case of nerves. “Now let’s see what’s wrong with this tenderfoot,” he proposed to his four-footed companion.

Still not knowing what to expect, he guided Wicked closer to the car, then dismounted. With the reins held tightly in one hand, he approached the vehicle slowly, then peered into its interior.

Garrett was still about three feet away from the tan car when the driver’s door swung open and a petite woman in tight jeans and what looked like a suede, fringed jacket jumped out like a jack-in-the-box on a delayed timer.

Looking at her, he couldn’t decide whether she looked terrified and was attempting to hide it, or if she was braced for a fight but undecided as to how to defend herself.

Pressing her back against the opened driver’s side door, the woman shouted at him. “I don’t have any money on me!”

“That’s okay,” he told her, staying put for the moment even as he raised his free hand in a gesture to reassure her. “I wasn’t going to ask you for any—and why are you yelling?”

Maybe it was his imagination, but the woman—he had no idea that they made writers so sexy—looked a little chagrined, as well as leery. “So you can hear me.”

“I can hear you just fine even if you lowered your voice. As a matter of fact, maybe even better,” he amended, trying to get her to smile.

So far, it wasn’t working.

Because Kim had absolutely no idea how to defend herself in this sort of a situation, she was forced to make it up as she went along. Why hadn’t she thought to pack her can of mace? Did mace even work on a horse if he used the horse to attack her?

Even as she started to talk, it sounded lame to her ear. Despite the fact that she had lived her entire life in San Francisco, she had never been in a situation where she felt threatened. She’d had to come out here for that, she thought grudgingly. She was going to find a way to get even with Saunders if it was the last thing she ever did.

“I’m not alone. I’ve got people coming,” she announced, raising her voice again as if the increased volume would bring these “people” faster—either that or scare him away.

“Are you Kimberly?” he asked, even as he searched his brain for the last name that the editor had told him. The last name that was temporarily eluding him.

And then he remembered.

“Kimberly Lee?” he asked.

The woman’s eyes widened even more. He would have found it hypnotic under any other circumstances.

“How do you know my name?” she demanded nervously.

He couldn’t get over how adorable she looked. Spooked, most likely feisty if her stance was any indication, but definitely adorable. He began to relax. He could work with adorable. Adorable women were his specialty.

“Well, I could try to dazzle you with a few mysterious answers, tell you my ancestors were into reading minds—” and then he cracked a grin “—but the truth of it is, your editor told me.”

The woman eyed him suspiciously. “Miles?” she asked.

“No, that’s not the name he gave me. I think he said it was Stan—” Garrett searched his memory again—names were not his long suit. And, just like with her last name, he remembered. Belatedly. “Stan Saunders, that’s it.”

How could he have forgotten that last name? he upbraided himself. It was the same as one of the boys Jackson had been personally working with. A dark-eyed, defiant kid who had taken more time to get through to than most of the rest.

He caught himself wondering if there was some sort of a connection between the kid and the editor, then decided probably not. Saunders wasn’t that unusual a name. Most likely it was just a coincidence. Unlike his brother, he believed that there was such a thing as coincidences and moreover, he believed that they happened more than just once in a while.

“You talked to Stan Saunders?” Kim asked, surprised.

Looking at the tall, dark-haired man for the first time—really looking at him, she realized that he might be the main man she was supposed to interview. And then again, she wouldn’t have been able to actually swear to it. It hadn’t been a very good picture, just something she’d managed to find in a local newspaper article.

“What about?” she asked, still suspicious.

“He got worried when he couldn’t reach you on your cell phone.” Garrett remained where he was. He had a feeling that if he tried to get closer, she just might run. Not that there was anywhere to run to, but he’d still have to catch her and it was too hot for that kind of exertion. “He asked me to find you.”

“You’re Jackson?” she asked, still a little on her guard but she had to admit that she was feeling less defensive than she’d been a minute ago.

“Garrett,” he corrected. “The other White Eagle,” he added with a touch of humor.

He had a nice smile, she thought. But then, she’d read somewhere that Ted Bundy had a nice smile. Still, she began to relax.

“Well, Garrett-the-other-White-Eagle, you have no cell reception out here,” she complained. And then to prove her point, she held up the phone that still wasn’t registering a signal.

Garrett nodded. “It’s been known to happen on occasion,” he acknowledged.

She was right. This was a hellhole. “How long an occasion?” she asked.

The shrug was quick and generally indifferent, as if there were far more important matters to tend to. “It varies.” He nodded at her compact. “What’s wrong with your car?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Nothing, I just didn’t want to drive it if I didn’t know where I was going.” A small pout accompanied the next accusation. “I lost the GPS signal.”

Garrett took that in stride. Nothing unusual about that either, he supposed, even though neither he nor anyone he knew even had a GPS in their car. They relied far more on their own instincts and general familiarity with the area.

He did move just a little closer now. He saw that she was watching him, as if uncertain whether or not to trust him yet. He could see her side of it. After all, it was just the two of them out here and she only had his word for who he was.

“You can follow me, then,” he told her, then added with a smile that was intended to dazzle her—several of Miss Joan’s waitresses had told him his smile was one of his best features, “Consider me your guiding light.”

You’re cute, no doubt about that, but I’ll hold off on the whole guiding-light thing, if you don’t mind, Kim thought.

She stifled a sigh as she got in behind the wheel of her car. She knew she should have dug in and fought getting stuck with this assignment.