by Beverly Long
The sheriff turned his head to glare at the intruder. “This is my scene, Kingston. Which means I’m in charge here—”
“Well, as the owner of the land it’s sittin’ on, on one of the hottest days this summer, I thought I’d bring by some cold drinks for everybody working—and condolences for the lady here.” Ignoring the drawn gun completely, he nodded in Emma’s direction. “I’m Beau Kingston, and we here at the ranch were so sorry when the news about your loss came over the scanner.”
As the sheriff awkwardly holstered his weapon, Beau Kingston pressed one of the waters, blessedly cold and slick with condensation, into her shaking hand. The relief of it, the simple human consideration, had her choking back tears.
“If there’s anything we can do to help,” he told her, his voice softened with kindness, “all you have to do is ask.”
With that, Kingston offered the second bottle to the sheriff, who had two dark sweat rings blooming in the armpits of his rumpled uniform shirt. “Here you go, coz. You look like you could use to cool down yourself.”
“You’re no cousin of mine,” the sheriff grumbled as he swiped the bottle from the younger man’s hand. Turning, he stalked away, muttering, “I’ve got work to do. Damned mongrel.”
Emma wasn’t entirely certain whether he was referring to Beau Kingston or her dog.
Before Fleming had made it three steps, he whipped around and pointed at her, his hand forming an approximation of a pointed gun. “You. Don’t go too far. I’ll get back to you as soon as I get my—my personnel coordinated.”
Clearly, he was embarrassed to have been thrown off his game, diminished in front of her. And furious that she’d been there to witness the moment. Her instincts warned her the sheriff would remember it, just as Jeremy had remembered every insult. Would Fleming, too, take his humiliation out on her, especially if she didn’t quickly distance herself from the man at her side?
As one of the deputies flagged down his superior, Beau Kingston snorted and shook his head in Fleming’s direction before returning his attention to her. “How ’bout I crack that open for you?” he offered. “You look like you’ve been through hell and back.”
“I—I’ve got it. Thank you, Mr. Kingston.” Though she broke another blister doing it, she unscrewed the cap and took a long drink, emptying most of the bottle before coming up for air.
“It’s Beau, and there’s plenty more back at my truck.” He hooked a thumb toward a deep-blue-and-chrome pickup bearing a license plate that read KINGSTN. “Come on over. You can wash your face and cool down.”
“I don’t think I should...” Though his offer seemed kindly meant, she had more than the sheriff’s hurt pride to worry about in standing so close to this handsome man—and she’d have to be blind, not just traumatized, not to register the masculine appeal of the rancher’s hard, clean-shaven jaw, the proud, straight nose and intelligent, dark eyes of a man in his prime. What if her ex was still somewhere nearby, watching her next move? After the horrific lengths he’d gone to in order to punish poor Russell for his harmless crush, would Jeremy lash out at this stranger for his thoughtfulness? Or kill her, too, for yielding to it, now that he’d crossed the irrevocable line between threats and homicide?
Emma’s stomach swooped, and her abraded fingers dropped to cup the flesh below her navel. The confidence she’d spent the past ten months so carefully rebuilding crumbled into dust.
“C’mon, Miss...” the rancher began, his dark eyebrows rising in a query.
She pulled herself together to respond to Beau Kingston’s unspoken question. To behave like a normal person instead of breaking down. “It’s Emma. Emma Copley.”
“At least come over in the shade while I get your dog some water.” Beau nodded down toward River, whose panting continued unabated. “You don’t want her getting heat exhaustion, do you?”
Responding to his reasonable tone, she took a steadying breath. As oxygen seeped past her panic, she assured herself that Jeremy was smart enough to leave the immediate area. Surely he’d realize that law enforcement would soon be climbing up the turbine, giving them a commanding view of the vicinity.
When Beau started walking, she found herself drawn in his wake. For River’s sake, she told herself.
“I can’t believe Wallace, keeping you out here baking in the hot sun,” the rancher said as they approached his vehicle. “But then, nobody’s ever accused my cousin of getting dealt a full hand when it comes to human kindness.”
Or the animal type, either, she thought, shivering at the memory of Fleming drawing his weapon on poor River.
A pair of strapping firefighters arrived and lifted a large cooler from the pickup’s bed. “Thanks for the drinks, Mr. Kingston,” said a square-jawed man in his midthirties with curly golden-brown hair.
“Sure thing, fellas, and I’m still Beau to you, Patrick, same as back in high school. And we at the ranch appreciate all of you fellas, especially after that range fire you put out last month.”
“Your donation was very much appreciated,” said Patrick before nodding toward his younger comrade, a kid of no more than twenty whose flashing smile, smooth, golden-tan complexion and raven-haired good looks undoubtedly had young women from here to El Paso taking note. “And that barbecue you had the rookie here bring over. That was some serious brisket, man.”
“I’d never send my ranch manager’s son with anything but the best.” Beau exchanged a quick grin with the younger man. “And anyway, it’s the least I could do after all the head of cattle your crew’s quick thinking and hard work saved me.”
The two firefighters exchanged a look before setting down the cooler. Only then did they shake Beau’s hand and offer their condolences to Emma, who had apparently become visible now that she had the blessing of a man who was clearly Kingston County royalty.
Once the firefighters left, Beau said, “Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty more water in here.” He reached inside a second, smaller cooler in the pickup bed.
“So, you and the sheriff,” Emma asked, circling back to what Beau had said about his cousin, “you really are related?”
“Every family’s got its black sheep.” Beau shrugged, a spark of amusement in his eyes. “I’ll leave it to you to figure out which of us is which.”
On another day, she might’ve returned his smile. Even now, she felt the tug of it, the way the shifting seasons called vast flocks to warmer climes. But at the thought of Russell still up on that turbine, nausea quickly followed, with horror, disbelief and guilt close on its heels. Shaking her head, she said, “I should—I should go to my Jeep. I have a bowl for River in there.”
“I’m sure I’ve got one in here,” he said, then looked down at River. “C’mon, pup. How about that drink now?”
River fanned her fringed tail and went to him. Standing in the shade of the truck’s cab, Emma hung back, watching as the dog lapped her way through his offering before slobbering all over his jeans as she accepted an ear scratch.
“We mongrels have to stick together, don’t we?” he told her, an effort at good humor edged with what sounded very much like bitterness.
It made Emma wonder about his real reasons for stepping in after Fleming drew his gun. But whatever Beau’s agenda, she didn’t have the strength to refuse when he offered her a second bottle, already cracked open. Next came a neatly folded, dampened bandanna he’d retrieved from the truck’s cab.
After wringing it out, he passed it to her. “This’ll make you feel better. Take my word for it.”
Numbly, Emma nodded and then washed her face, neck and hands. After she had finished, he produced a second, dry cloth.
“This one’s clean, too,” he said, “in case you want to dry off. And I’ve got a little first aid kit here. How about some antiseptic for those palms?”
“Thanks,” she said, rubbing the salve on the broken skin as he’d suggested. And fee
ling the relief of the warm wind blowing against her cool, still slightly damp skin.
“Why are you—why are you doing all this?” As she crumpled up the dry cloth, suspicion filtered through her pain and grief. “This isn’t about some childhood beef you have with Sheriff Fleming?”
“Oh, it’s a heck of a lot more than just some kid stuff,” Beau said before adding, “unless you want to count what that fool’s ugly talk is doin’ To my kids...”
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you’ve done for me, but whatever kind of feud you two have going,” she continued, too overwhelmed by thoughts of Russell and of Jeremy to ask questions, “I can’t afford to end up in the middle of it.”
Beau frowned and shook his head. “You’re absolutely right. That’s not your worry—and it’s not the reason I came, either. I’m here because a man died on my land today, a young man who was part of a team—your team—that I personally signed off on working on my property, Dr. Copley.”
Surprised by his use of the honorific, she said, “You—you saw to that personally? I’d just assumed some assistant or ranch manager—” Maybe your wife, she’d been about to add, recalling the reference to his children, but she hadn’t seen a wedding band, nor even a strip of paler skin to mark where he had worn one.
“That was me, before my father’s death this past April. Which made me feel I ought to be the one to come today.”
“That’s very kind of you, but what happened here—it’s not your fault.”
“I know it’s not my fault,” he said, his dark eyes studying her so intently that she began to feel self-conscious. “Do you know it’s not yours?”
A flush of heat engulfed her, making her want to drop her gaze. Instead she faced him squarely, her heart stuttering at the question she hadn’t yet dared to ask herself.
“Why on earth would you ask me that?” She sounded more than a little defensive, even to her own ears. How on earth did he guess I’m to blame?
Reaching down to scratch her dog’s ears once more, he stood there looking at her, the saddest smile she’d ever seen contrasting with the warmth of his bronzed skin. “I could tell you it’s because he was your student. But the truth of it is that guilt’s written on your face as plain as day for anyone to see...or maybe only anyone who’s been there.”
Copyright © 2020 by Colleen Thompson
ISBN: 9781488055690
Ten Days Gone
Copyright © 2019 by Beverly R. Long
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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