Читать книгу Riley's Retribution - Rebecca York - Страница 11

Riley waited for Courtney’s answer with his breath frozen in his lungs. In the hours since he’d met her, this assignment had become more than a job. Maybe because the flesh-and-blood woman was so much more complicated—so much more appealing—than the woman he’d read about in a briefing folder. She didn’t even look much like her pictures, which was why he hadn’t recognized her.

He wanted to ask her about Boone Fowler—about why she’d let a lowlife jerk like him onto her property. But he knew that was precisely the wrong approach. And it was against orders, too. Because as far as she was concerned, he didn’t know a damn thing about the militia leader. So all he could do was sit there waiting for her to decide his immediate future.

He had the feeling she was still weighing the pros and cons of her decision.

Instead of answering, she asked a question—something more specific than she’d put to him in town. “What’s the best material for a corral fence?”

So she was giving him a test. He was glad he had the background to say, “It depends on what you’re after. Looks, utility or price. Split rail is the cheapest. Those who go in for show favor white painted boards. Outside the main paddock, I like wire, with one line of electricity. To keep the stock from leaning on the fence.”

She nodded, then asked, “How do you tie a foal when you’re first training him?”

“The first few times, you want to make sure he’s not tied hard and fast. He might pull and injure his neck. I’d introduce a truck or car inner tube between him and the fence. That will act like a fat rubber band and offer some give.”

“What’s a chestnut?”

“I take it you don’t mean something roasting on an open fire? We’re talking about a horny, insensitive growth on a horse’s legs.”

“How would you treat it?”

“Trim it short and neat.”

“I guess you know horses.”

“Yeah.”

She heaved in a breath and let it out. “You have the job.”

“Thank you,” he said simply as they stood together on the frozen ground.

“You’ll sleep in the bunkhouse with the other hands,” she added, as though she felt it necessary to make it very clear that their afternoon in bed had been an aberration.

“I understand,” he answered, as he undid the hooks that held the tarp covering the supplies in the back of the pickup.

“It’s comfortable, but it’s nothing fancy.”

“I sure don’t need fancy. Just a bed and a chest of drawers will do,” he answered.

“And I assume the salary we discussed is satisfactory.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He turned his attention to the supplies. “Does it look like everything’s there?”

She carefully inspected her purchases. “Yes.”

“Good.” He opened the back of the SUV and began loading sacks of feed.

By the time they had finished, the back of his SUV was crammed to the roof, and the temperature had dropped sharply.

“Tell me about the Golden Saddle,” he said as he turned on the headlights and started down the highway again.

“Well, you already know we have twenty mares and five stallions. Most are quarter horses. But we have some Thoroughbred bloodlines, too. That might be our problem. Our prices are high, and the demand for horses like ours is falling.” She cleared her throat. “We could sell more to working cattle ranches. But that would mean we’d have to train them with cattle. And I don’t have the staff to raise both horses and cattle at the moment.”

“You didn’t mention any ‘problem’ when you advertised for a manager,” he said carefully, although he already knew that she was barely turning a profit.

“Well, that’s not the kind of thing I’d advertise, would I?” she snapped.

“Do you have any other source of income—besides the sale of horses?” he asked.

“I rent some unused buildings,” she answered.

“To whom?”

She hesitated a moment before answering, “A, um, group of…survivalists.”

“Oh, yeah?” She must be referring to Boone Fowler’s militia. So were they styling themselves as survivalists? Or was that her term for them—because she thought it was more politically correct?

She was staring hard at him. “You object to my renting to them?” she asked sharply.

He knew he’d better be careful about stepping over the line with his answer. She owned the ranch. He was her hired help.

Even so, he had to fight the impulse to tell her about his experiences in Boone Fowler’s prison camp. Instead he kept his voice even as he said, “It’s not my place to object. Not if they mind their own business.”

He wanted to ask how they happened to pick the Golden Saddle Ranch. And where—exactly—they were located on her property. But he didn’t want to seem too interested, so he held back the questions.

“The entrance to the ranch is right up ahead,” she said.

He slowed down, then turned in at a horseshoe-shaped archway.

They bumped up a gravel road that was pocked with potholes.

Floodlights illuminated the ranch yard, and he saw a low stone-and-timber house with a wide front porch, which he knew had been built early in the previous century. The structure looked solid, but in the floodlights he could see that the trim around the window frames needed painting. Probably she’d do that when she got some spare cash.

The bunkhouse and barn were nearby. And another building that he assumed was used for storage.

He pulled up in front of the house. “We should unload what you need to take inside.”

“And you can put the SUV in the storage building for the night—then unload the rest in the morning.”

“Fine.”

Apparently, some of Ms. Rogers’s hands had been listening for her to arrive, because two of them came striding toward the SUV.

One was a short, grizzled guy with the bowlegged gait of a man who has spent much of his life in the saddle. He appeared to be in his fifties. The other was taller than his companion and younger than Riley. Both men wore jeans, heavy winter coats and Western hats.

Riley and Ms. Rogers climbed out of the vehicle. The two men eyed him with undisguised interest. But it was different from the appraisal of the people in town. These guys seemed to be protective of Ms. Rogers—although that could be an act, of course.

“Jake Bradley, Kelly Manning, this is Riley Watson,” she said. “I told you I was considering him for ranch manager, and he’s going to take the job.”

“Good to meet you.” He shook hands with both of them. They helped Courtney unload her groceries. Then he drove to the storage shed and left his vehicle inside. Finally he strode to the bunkhouse.

Up close, he could see it was a little newer than the main house, but also rustic. And it was set up like a private residence, with a living room, dining room, kitchen and several bedrooms in the back. All the furniture looked comfortable but well-worn.

The man named Kelly showed him to a bedroom. “There are three bathrooms,” he said, opening several doors along the hall.

“How many hands do you have?”

“Just three at the moment. Me and Jake and Billy. They’ll be along later.”

So the ranch was understaffed. He’d have to inspect the property in the morning. There was no point in stumbling around in the dark.

Setting down his duffel bag, he longed to close the bedroom door and lie down.

Instead he squared his shoulders and followed Kelly back to the kitchen.

Jake had just taken the lid off a big pot of chili…and Riley’s stomach growled.

“That smells good.”

Jake made a grunting sound.

“So you like working for Ms. Rogers?” he asked.

“Yup,” Jake answered. Apparently he was a man of few words.

Riley scuffed his foot against a worn floorboard. “She seemed kind of hyper.”

Jake’s head snapped toward him. “She’s got a shrinking income. She’s got herself a kid to raise on her own—with the whole town acting like she did something wrong. And—”

He stopped short.

Riley wanted to ask, “And what?” But he kept his mouth shut. He should have gotten the lay of the land before coming out with any kind of strong observation. Holding up his hands, he said, “Whoa. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“You blame her for being hyper?” Jake pressed.

“I admire her—for truckin’ on. But it was a shock to find out she was pregnant.”

“Her husband was in the Special Forces. And he bought the farm on assignment in Lukinburg.”

Riley mumbled something appropriate, then changed the subject to the ranch acreage. They discussed the spread for a few minutes, then Jake said, “You want some dinner?”

“I’d appreciate it. Your chili sure does smell good.”

Kelly and Jake both joined him at the table. Billy Cramer came in during the meal, and Jake made the introductions.

Riley knew the other men were sizing him up, just like he was doing with them. Could one of them have been the man who had shot at Courtney from the bridge?

He didn’t know, but he was going to find out.

RILEY WOKE WHEN HE HEARD the hands moving around the bunkhouse. When he arrived in the kitchen twenty minutes later, the rest of them were already at the table, eating eggs, bacon and toast.

The ranch might be in financial trouble, but Courtney Rogers was feeding her men well.

A television in the corner was tuned to the weather channel. It seemed they were in for another cold, blustery day. Par for the course in Montana in winter. But at least snow wasn’t in the forecast. Of course, he’d checked the weather yesterday. And there had been no mention of snow then, either.

After eating some of the food and complimenting the chef, he turned to Kelly and said, “So, could you show me around the spread?”

The young man looked startled. “Me? Jake’s been here a lot longer.”

Jake shifted in his chair. “Go ahead. I’ll clean up here.”

Kelly nodded.

Riley dressed warmly, grabbed some carrots from the refrigerator, then followed Kelly to the barn, the most modern structure he’d seen so far on the ranch.

Unless one of the men had gotten up early and scurried over here to make sure the work area looked good for the new ranch manager, everything seemed to be up to snuff. The stalls were clean. The well-groomed horses had plenty of food and water. And the equipment in the tack room was in good condition and neatly stored.

He stopped to greet the horses in the stalls, calling them by the names on the small plates at each door and offering carrots, which were readily accepted.

They paused by a stall with a filly named Irma. A protective boot was wrapped around her left foreleg.

“What happened to her?” Riley asked.

“She overreached and bruised herself—the way they do sometimes.”

Kicked her front leg with her back, Riley mentally translated. “Yeah, that can be a problem. How are you treating the injury?”

“We started with cold hosing three times a day. Now we’re on to warm, dry bandages.”

He fed Irma a carrot, which she gobbled up, telling him her appetite was good. On a more prosperous ranch the owner might have called out the vet. But he knew it wasn’t unusual for owners to treat minor problems, which certainly saved money.

Another filly named Buttercup was obviously very pregnant.

“When is she due?” Riley asked.

“In a few weeks.”

They discussed some of the other horses, then Riley continued on his fact-finding mission. “Who’s been running things?”

“Jake.”

“He’s doing a good job.” He hesitated for a moment. “So, would he resent someone taking over?”

Kelly scuffed his foot against the hard-packed dirt. “I guess you’ll have to ask him.”

Yeah, sure.

“Has there been any vandalism at the ranch?”

Kelly looked uncomfortable.

“What?” Riley pressed.

“We got some renters. They’re using the back forty for a garbage dump.”

“What renters?”

“Ask the boss lady.”

“Okay,” Riley answered, then cleared his throat. “I noticed she took some flack in town. Do the men on the ranch—” he stopped and fumbled for what to say “—support her.”

“Everybody here now is on her side.”

“Now?” Riley probed.

“There was a guy here—Greg Nichols. He made some…nasty comments.”

“To her face?”

“Not likely. But they got back to her, and she asked him to leave.”

“Would Nichols make trouble for her?” Riley was thinking of the man who had shot at her from the bridge. If he knew her routine, he could have lain in wait for her. Or someone out here could have called him.

“Maybe.”

“What does he look like?”

“Blond hair. Blue eyes. A big scar on his right cheek.”

So he’d be easy to spot, Riley mused.

They finished the tour back at the barn. Riley could go to the house and start perusing the books. But he didn’t want to barge in on Ms. Rogers. Their first meeting had been pretty crazy. Maybe he should give her some space. And himself, too. Taking the coward’s route, he decided to have a look around some of the ranch acreage. He found himself wondering if he’d find any signs of the guy named Greg Nichols. What if he were hiding out on the ranch? Was he watching Courtney’s activities?

With a silent curse he reminded himself he wasn’t supposed to be looking for Nichols. He was supposed to locate Boone Fowler’s militia group so he could report back to Big Sky.

Of course, Nichols could be with Fowler. So maybe if he found the militia group, he’d kill two birds with one stone.

AFTER SADDLING UP a stallion named Monty, he rode east across a shallow river into rugged country with rolling hills covered by dry grass. Rugged snowcapped mountains rose in the background like sentinels.

But he could easily skirt the patches of snow that still lay in the valley shadows.

Of course, the ranch encompassed almost ten thousand acres, so there was a lot of territory to cover. But Big Sky had done aerial surveillance and pinpointed some areas to investigate.

He brought Monty to a halt and turned in the saddle, taking in the wide-open spaces that stretched around him. Out here, he and the horse might have been the only two living creatures in the world.

After two hours on the range, he found nothing out of the ordinary. So he headed back, then spent the rest of the day asking more questions, unobtrusively watching the men do their jobs and giving the horses a more thorough inspection. And all the time he was aware of Ms. Rogers’s absence.

That evening he joined the rest of the hands at dinner, working hard to convey the impression that he was a regular guy who just wanted to fit in to the established patterns of the Golden Saddle Ranch.

But when he went to sleep, he had no control over his unconscious mind. He dreamed about Courtney. Dreamed about holding her in his arms in a bed the way he had in that motel room. Only, in his sleep, the encounter hadn’t been quite so innocent. He’d started taking her clothes off, like a man uncovering buried treasure. And her hands had moved just as eagerly over him.

He woke up angry with himself. In practical terms he was thinking that probably he should have gone out and gotten laid before he took this job. Then he wouldn’t be so focused on Courtney Rogers. She fascinated him. Exasperated him. Attracted him. She’d been ready to defend herself when she thought he was the guy who’d taken a shot at her. But she was hiding out from her own ranch manager.

COURTNEY STEPPED BACK from the window. She’d been watching for Riley Watson, and he’d just stridden across the ranch yard and into the barn.

He had an unsettling effect on her, like no one she’d ever met. He was so damn self-contained, yet below the surface she could sense his mind working.

Too bad he was the sexiest man she’d met in a long time. That was another major problem. He had made her feel hot and needy, just from the way he looked at her.

And she knew that he found her attractive. That was part of the lure of the man for her—the exhilaration of knowing that he was responding to her, even in her condition.

Her lips firmed. She should be focused on the baby, not some cowboy who had just stepped into her life. Or was she so eager for attention, that she glommed on to the first guy who came along?

She stalked down the hall, then stopped short at the room that she was fixing up as a nursery. For Emily. Or maybe Hannah. She wasn’t sure of the name yet, and she hated not being able to discuss her choices with anyone.

She stroked her hand over her abdomen. “What do you think, Emily? Do you like that name? Or is Hannah better?”

She’d let her imagination blossom as she’d decorated the room. The walls were a light green, with a colorful garden of flowers and a picket fence running around the bottom three feet of the walls. And in a fit of whimsy, she’d painted the ceiling blue and added fluffy white clouds.

She fingered a pink and white blanket she’d bought on sale from an online company. Too bad nobody in Spur City had thought to give her a baby shower. With money so tight, she could have used the gifts. And she would have loved someone making a fuss over her.

That last thought made her grimace. It sounded as if she was feeling sorry for herself. And that wasn’t true. She was going to make the best life she could for herself and her daughter.

And she wasn’t going to let Riley Watson think she was a coward. Because she wasn’t. She simply hadn’t been prepared to meet anyone like him—not now.

Marching out of the baby’s room, she hurried to the front hall and pulled on her coat. It was about time she stopped hiding in her own house. But just as she stepped out the door, she saw the man ride past who had been in her thoughts—and he didn’t look as if he was just taking Monty around the ranch yard.

RILEY RODE NORTH into an area where the landscape was flatter. A couple of miles from the ranch yard, he caught sight of something interesting through the trees and ordered Monty to a halt. Just visible through a screen of branches, he could see an old cabin.

He’d better check the place out.

The militia could be using it—or that Gary Nichols guy could be squatting here.

He dismounted and tied the horse to a low pine branch. Then crept slowly forward, moving from tree to tree in case somebody took a notion to shoot at him.

The cabin sat in a large clearing. He observed it from cover for several minutes, then stepped into the open. Now that he was exposed to view, he moved more rapidly.

Maybe he should have been paying better attention to where he put his feet.

The ground was scattered with brush. When he crossed a patch with a heavy accumulation of branches and leaves, the surface gave way under his feet with a ripping sound. Before he could catch himself, he was tumbling into blackness…and cursing his own stupidity.