by Kim Redford
“No,” Slade said. “It’s the intent that matters.”
“Right.” Sheriff Calhoun studied the area. “If the arsonist didn’t get what he wanted the first time, will he escalate until he gets the attention he wants or the reaction he wants or the final situation he wants?”
“That’s what worries me,” Slade said.
“Craig, check for footprints.” Sheriff Calhoun pointed at the ground as he looked closer at the front of the cabin. “Maybe we’ll get a hit.”
Craig examined the ground before he knelt down in front of the crawl space. “Ground’s dry, so I’m not seeing anything other than what I’ll bag up.”
“I found where the arsonist entered the Park. Maybe you can find prints there.” Slade pointed toward the side of the cabin. “It looks to me like he came in off Wildcat Road.”
Sheriff Calhoun walked to the side of the building and looked behind it. “It’d be easy enough to get in here with nobody in residence, nobody on alert, and the Hall in transition from one manager to another.”
“I don’t think this fire was meant to take out all the cabins or maybe even this one structure,” Craig said. “It’s simply not enough material unless the wind had come up.”
“Fortunately, it didn’t.” Slade was relieved to hear that news, but it didn’t put him much more at ease.
“And it’s fortunate you were here,” Sheriff Calhoun said. “I’ll go take a look at the entry point and maybe I’ll see something that’ll help.”
As the sheriff walked away, Slade put his hands on his hips and kept watch for more trouble, although that horse had already left the barn.
He heard voices at the Hall and hoped all was going well. He wanted to be there for Ivy. More than that, he needed to be there for her. He shook his head at his own protective instincts coming into play. She was a grown woman with experience under her belt. Still, she was city, not country. He didn’t want her getting into trouble before she even knew she was in it. And yet, if anybody could ease her from one life into another, it’d be the gentle attention of Morning Glory and the firm determination of Hedy. Ivy was in good hands and he should let it go. Yet he couldn’t and he knew why—he’d fallen hard.
While Craig finished up, Slade walked around the side of the cabin, searching for anything he might have missed the first time. The sheriff was out of sight, possibly following a trail down to the road. He hated the whole situation, but he had a similarly disastrous one on his hands, too, at the new ranch. Why couldn’t folks—like most in Wildcat Bluff County—just live and let live?
But that was wishful thinking on his part. He simply had to keep putting one foot in front of the other to make everyone and everything in his county safe. Easier said than done, but still, it was the right goal.
As he continued to look around, he heard the sheriff return, pushing through the thick hedge. Slade walked over to meet his friend.
Sheriff Calhoun shook his head. “You’re right about this being the entry and exit point. I couldn’t find any footprints. I did see a few tire tracks on the side of the road down there, but those might not have been made by the arsonist. Still, I’ll get somebody out to take casts. Hopefully, we’ll get a chance later to compare it to somebody’s tires. Right now, those look like about fifty percent of the tires on the pickups around here.”
“But every tire wears different.”
“That’s our ace in the hole, if we get that far down the track.”
“We will. It’s just a matter of time.”
“That’s the attitude.” Sheriff Calhoun glanced around at the ground another time, as if hoping he’d missed something the first time. “Looks like we’ve done all we can do here. I’ll stop by later and talk with Ivy, but I doubt she can tell me much more than we already know.”
“Thanks for the help.” Slade walked with him back to the cabin.
“All finished here.” Craig pulled off his gloves and booties, then stuffed them inside his backpack. “I’ll go with the sheriff and write up my report.”
“I’ll stay here for a bit and—”
“What are you going to do?” Craig asked. “Camp out?”
“Wish I could make sure it’s safe all the time,” Slade said, “but I’ve got the new ranch, the old ranch, the café, and about a million other things to do.”
“I’ll send patrols by more frequently,” Sheriff Calhoun said. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye on Ivy and the Park, too.”
“I’ll be glad to do it.” Slade glanced toward the honky-tonk, noticing that the party hadn’t broken up yet. “Fern and I discussed enlarging the menu, particularly for the holidays. You know, Christmas treats. Ivy agreed it’s a good idea. I can cook and bake at the Chuckwagon, then bring the food up here.”
“It’s a good idea, but do you have time with everything you’ve got going on?” Craig appeared skeptical.
“No, I don’t, but I’ll do it.” Slade glanced from one man to the other, giving them a wry smile. “Those two sisters…”
“Yeah. Tell me about it.” Craig looked toward the Hall. “At least yours is here, while mine is in the wind.”
“What makes you say she’s mine?” Slade asked, feeling defensive even though his friend had called it right.
“Take a look in the mirror when you get home,” Craig said. “I’m wearing the same expression on my face.”
Sheriff Calhoun chuckled, adjusted his hat, and turned toward the vehicles. “Come on, Craig, let’s get back to the station before you two start crying in your beers.”
Craig gave Slade a sympathetic smile before he followed the sheriff down a path toward the parking lot.
Slade rubbed a hand across his jaw, felt slight stubble, and grimaced at Craig’s words. Was he that obvious when he talked about Ivy? If so, the whole county would know in no time that Slade Steele had finally fallen to his knees—not after riding a bull, but after meeting a gal.
He thrust that thought from his mind. He wasn’t going to get caught up in what others might think about him. He had too much on his mind to go there. Right now, he had to make sure Ivy was okay, then he needed to get out to the new ranch and check on things. Tonight he’d pull out his great-granny’s cookbook written in spidery cursive, hardly legible in some places where the purple or blue or black ink from a fountain pen had faded over time. But it was the best cookbook in the world, with old-time recipes using old-time ingredients. Some stuff he couldn’t even get anymore, so he found substitutes. Lard was one ingredient he could usually live without as could most of his customers, so he substituted what worked best depending on the recipe.
As he walked down the winding path between the cabins, he thought about cowboy cookies and what he could add to make them even more special for the Hall and Christmas. He needed some ingredient that went beyond the usual fare that had originally been quick, easy, and cheap for hardworking farm and ranch families. He wanted something unique to promote Wildcat Hall, as well as his own award-winning pies.
He gave the parking lot a glance, then a second look as he neared it. If he wasn’t mistaken, even more vehicles were parked there now. Word must have spread that Wildcat Hall was holding an open house to meet the new owner, or at least that’s what they’d all say just to cover everybody’s itch to meet Ivy and find out about Fern.
He felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Just what Ivy needed, more folks on her doorstep. He hoped he wouldn’t find her locked in a bathroom. She’d had to endure a cabin fire, and now a horde of strangers had descended on her. He increased his pace, hurrying to get inside, assess the damage, and if necessary, take over as host.
When he pushed open the front door and stepped inside, he was almost knocked over by the wall of noise from patrons and Dolly Parton trilling from the camouflaged speakers of a state-of-the-art sound system. All the tables were filled, and there was standing r
oom only, with folks spilling outside into the beer garden. Beer, wine, and sarsaparilla were flowing by the look of the glasses in everybody’s hands.
He hadn’t seen the Hall this lively in many a long year. How was Ivy standing it? She’d said she wasn’t used to a lot of people, particularly entertaining them. At least that’s what he’d thought she’d told him. Maybe he’d gotten it all wrong. She didn’t need to be rescued. She needed to be congratulated.
He smiled as he pushed through the crowd, using his height and size to cut a path for him. He said his hellos as he saw friends and neighbors, but he kept moving forward, looking for Ivy. Finally, he saw her. She stood behind the bar with Morning Glory and Nocona Jones, his favorite lawyer and cowgirl. They’d donned matching pink, rhinestone-studded aprons festooned with “Wildcat Hall” in Old West lettering. Fern must have ordered the fancy aprons before she left town because he’d never seen them before. They definitely suited the ladies and the place.
He bellied up to the bar, along with all the others who were ordering and being served drinks. Ivy was laughing and talking and filling beer mugs as if she’d been doing it all her life. She fit. There was no other word for it. City to country in one blazing moment.
And yet, he stood there, feeling like he’d lost her before he’d ever had her. She didn’t need him anymore. She had all of Wildcat Bluff County at her beck and call—just like her sister, Fern. He’d wanted to keep her to himself, at least for a little while—or more likely a long while. And now…he turned to go.
“Slade!”
He looked back. She was smiling at him, beckoning him closer, giving him that look in her eyes that made the rest of the room fade away. He felt his heart beat faster. He leaned toward her.
“Thanks.” She handed him a sarsaparilla in a frosty glass mug.
When their fingers touched, he felt that familiar zing between them. He was going nowhere fast. He’d fight the entire county for her if need be, because she was every bright color in his personal rainbow. “Are you doing okay?”
She grinned, white teeth flashing. “Impromptu party. Who’d have guessed I could handle it?”
“You look like a natural behind the bar.” He returned her smile as he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out, glanced down at the text message, and felt his stomach clinch at the news. He set down his mug. “Gotta go.”
“What is it?”
He leaned forward so only she could hear him. “Cattle rustlers struck the new ranch again.”
“Oh no! Do you need help?”
“I’ll get ahold of Sheriff Calhoun and take it from there.”
“Will you let me know what’s happening?”
“I’ll text or come by later.” He was glad she cared enough to be concerned about him.
She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Stay safe.”
“Always.”
And then he was out the door, on the run, and in his truck, hauling out of there as fast as he could go.
Chapter 8
“Sheriff, hate to bother you again so soon.” Slade cradled his cell phone between his shoulder and ear as he started his truck. “Rustlers hit my new ranch again.”
“When?” Sheriff Calhoun asked.
“Not sure. Cowboys just found the gate open, cattle turned loose, and tire tracks.”
“How many head did they get?”
“We won’t be able to tell until morning, when we make a count. If the rustlers got scared off, probably not more than three or four, but that’s still worth it to them. If they filled a trailer, we’re looking at fifteen or more cows.”
“Sorry to hear it. I’ll meet you at the ranch house.”
“Thanks. I’m headed there now.”
Slade clicked off and dropped the phone on the seat beside him, trying not to get so mad he couldn’t think straight. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed down Wildcat Road with his foot heavy on the gas. He forced himself to slow to a reasonable speed. No point in rushing to get there. The theft had already gone down and nothing could reverse the situation.
At this rate, there wouldn’t be a cow left on the new ranch. If he didn’t get the rustlers stopped, he risked losing even more head after the cattle drive. So far, they’d outsmarted him at every turn. He hoped the sheriff had some new ideas to stop the thieves because he was fresh out of them.
He turned onto the ranch under the brand-new sign that arched over the cattle guard in cut-out, black-painted steel that read “Steele Trap II.” Looked good. A new and shiny barbwire fence of six strands made getting in or out of the pasture a lot harder than a four- or five-strand fence. It stretched beside the road in both directions. They were pouring money into the place and it’d pay off—if they got the rustlers out of their hair soon.
He drove up the narrow gravel road, looking right and left. Nothing appeared out of order here, but the spread was hundreds of acres with a lot of loose-wire fence that was just asking for trouble, so it needed to be replaced before the cattle drive. Fortunately, he had hardworking ranch hands who were on that job, but even so, he had to stay on top of that as well as everything else. And, as if he didn’t have enough to do, he’d just added preparing holiday food for Wildcat Hall. But that notion simply made him smile because it brought him back to the fascinating and alluring Ivy Bryant. He’d do about anything to spend time with her. And he’d definitely carve out as much time as he possibly could for her.
Just the thought of Ivy made him feel better. He adjusted his weight on the seat, trying to ease the pain in his hip. Stress tightened the muscles that pressed on the nerves that… It was ancient news he didn’t need to rethink. He’d healed as well as he was going to heal, and most of the time his old injury didn’t bother him much. But right now, with arsonists and rustlers adding to the overall pressure of moving into the new ranch and staring at an upcoming cattle drive that was getting bigger by the moment, he was unable to exert his usual control over his limp. And of all the times for his injury to act up, it just had to be when he’d found a woman he hoped would see him as strong. Not weak. Sometimes life simply wasn’t fair, and he knew that as well as anybody. He resisted a sigh. Ivy would just have to like him the way he was or not like him at all.
Amber lights on tall poles illuminated the area as he drove up to the sprawling, one-story ranch house that Mr. Werner had built with his own hands using large pieces of flat, red rock trimmed with natural cedar. He’d added dramatic, hand-carved double front doors made of cedar, too, with the same accent on the windows. All in all, it was a beautiful place, landscaped with dormant flower beds, green shrubs, and leafless trees and set on a rise overlooking acres of pretty pasture with blue ponds dotting the landscape here and there. In the future, there’d be plenty of grazing black and red Angus to see while watching horses kick up their heels in other pastures. He looked forward to getting it all set in place.
He wouldn’t change the exterior for anything, but he was working on updating and upgrading the eighties-style interior because he planned to make this house his home and he wanted all the modern conveniences. He also needed new furniture, although it’d come completely furnished since Mr. Werner’s children hadn’t wanted many of the interior items beyond family keepsakes and a few mementos. He had made one major change. He’d traded the old furniture in the master bedroom suite for finely crafted red cedar pieces from a local artisan. On top of that, he’d added a big, new, king-size mattress. His hip thanked him every time he slept there.
Sheriff Calhoun hadn’t arrived yet, so he glanced around, taking stock of the area. Again, nothing appeared out of place. He decided to check on the outbuildings, so he drove past the house, looked at the pastures, and stopped his pickup. More amber light illuminated the structures. Cattle barn. Horse barn. Storage buildings. Corrals. Several four-wheelers and two pickups were parked outside the barns. All looked normal, but something wasn’t
right.
He thought about it a moment, searching the area for what didn’t fit. Finally, it struck him. Too quiet. No activity. He heard his truck engine idle, but that was it. Where was everybody? He honked his horn to see if he could get a rise out of somebody.
Tater, that rascal of an Aussie cow dog, ran out of the cattle barn followed by Oscar, the leathery-skinned, bald-headed, crotchety ranch foreman who’d most likely forgotten more than Slade would ever know about running a ranch. Tater wore a red bandanna around his neck, while Oscar wore hat, shirt, jeans, and boots. Both looked frayed around the edges, but he well knew it was just a guise to put you off their true, bred-in-the-bone toughness.
Slade lowered his window as Tater loped over and Oscar sauntered over. “Heard we had another visit from our new friends.”
“Weren’t from me.” Oscar spit tobacco to one side. “I wouldn’t use one of those cancer-causing, new-fangled devices if you paid me.”
“I know.” He quickly slid his cell phone out of sight before Oscar saw it and backed out of EMF range. “Sydney texted me. Owl called and let her know.”
Oscar just shook his head. “That Sydney gets prettier all the time. And smarter. Can’t wait to get this dad-nab-it cattle drive done and gone so I can get back to where I belong and see her every day.”
“My sister misses you, too,” he said.
“Sure she does. We’re simpatico.” Oscar gave a big tobacco-stained, toothy grin. “Not surprised it was Hoot-Owl done called her. He’d use any excuse. He’s still smartin’ that she up and got engaged to that Dune Barrett.”
“You know you like Dune.”
“Like him. Hate him. Don’t matter. He’s her choice, so that’s that.”
“Right.” Slade twisted his mind back to business. Oscar could get you so far off track with his musings that you’d forget what you came for. “Sheriff Calhoun is on his way.”
“And he’ll find diddly-squat.”
“Why do you say that?”
“These guys got brains. More’s the pity.”