“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Well, I shore do appreciate you sewin’ them buttons back on. These ole fingers can’t thread a needle like they used to.”
“Thanks, Silas. But you didn’t have to do that. I don’t mind doing your mending for you.”
She took the lasagna from him and turned, finding herself eye-level with Trevor’s boot. “Hello, Silas,” Trevor greeted.
“Well, as I live and breathe, if it isn’t Trevor Donaldson, all growed up. How you doin’, Son?” Silas reached his arm across Ketra’s shoulder to shake Trevor’s outstretched hand. “You up here huntin’ this weekend?”
“Not this time. I’m taking over for Dom for a little while.”
Silas rubbed his jaw with the forefinger and thumb. “Well, that’s right fine. Been awhile since you rode the Diamond D. I’m sure you’ll find things a little different around here these days.” He patted Ketra’s shoulder before heading back into the barn.
Trevor didn’t move the horse out of her way. She refused to back down from his silent challenge. He rested his crossed wrists casually on the pommel of the saddle. “So, you can be nice.”
She clenched her jaw. The wicked grin accentuating his strong, beard-stubbled jaw made her blood pump too fast. She concentrated on breathing—in and out. Nice and slow.
“Wanna ride along?”
The innocence in his request gave her pause. It’s just a ploy to earn your trust so he can crush you beneath his booted heels then brag about it to his friends. She huffed in disgust. “Afraid you’ll get lost?”
“You wish. I just thought you might need a break from that ornery old nag you’re trying to ride.”
“Trying to ride? I can outride you or any guy on this ranch. Get out of my way.”
He inched the horse forward and she marched around the back side of the mare. Clomping up the steps of her porch, she pulled her key from her front pocket, swung open the screen door, and jammed it into the lock.
He rode into the valley behind her house, leaving her in the wake of his laughter. She let the door slam shut behind her, put the lasagna in the refrigerator, then leaned back against it.
Trying to ride? How dare he insult her! Who does he think he is?
She flung open cupboard doors and rummaged for something to satisfy her hunger. She hoped a bag of potato chips would do the trick because she was too worked up to fix anything more complicated. She flopped down onto her big leather sofa, removed her hat, and put her feet up on the coffee table. She hated him, but she hated herself more. She’d actually considered riding with him! Why can’t he just leave me alone like all the other guys? But she’d known from the moment she’d set eyes on him that he most definitely was not like the other guys. He was a force to be reckoned with. And his magnetic good looks and Prince Charming smile would be her downfall if she wasn’t careful.
Dammit! She should have shot him when she had the chance.
Chapter Eight
Trevor rode across the Arizona countryside, amazed that one person owned so much land. He wondered at its value as he stopped atop a rise and rested his arms across the pommel. The sun descended, tinting the western horizon magnificent shades of orange, red, and yellow, brilliant colors only nature could manufacture. The pine-scented air at this altitude invigorated, and he experienced a modicum of peace for the first time in a good long while.
Operation Screw-Up, as he’d coined it, had taken a lot of fight out of him, left him second-guessing himself, which could be deadly in his profession. Since the incident, he didn’t know who to trust or who to confide in. Everyone seemed the enemy. Following the incident, as protocol dictated, he’d been put on administrative leave. Then yesterday—because a cop shooting always makes headline news—Denny had instructed him to disappear until things settled down, so he wouldn’t be hounded by nosy reporters.
The horse pawed the ground. Trevor’s eyes swept the horizon, bathed in a pinkish glow from the waning sun. How ironic that everything around him was rosy and calm when everything inside him was black and as anxious as the horse beneath him. Lying low while others investigated pissed him off. Investigating was his job and he was damned good at it. But instead of investigating, he was living like a fugitive. Denny Holliwell was the only person in Phoenix who knew how to reach him. But even Denny didn’t know where he was.
An icy breeze bit into the back of his neck. He nudged the horse down a gentle slope toward the barn. He’d had high hopes when he left Phoenix that this job would help him unwind a little, forget about the trouble back home and purge Heather from his body, mind and soul. But instead of relaxation, tension crept in, accompanied by irritation and disappointment.
And what was it about the woman? He’d never achieve the peace he sought with her around every day. She was easy on the eyes but didn’t appear cut out for ranch work. He needed to stay away from her. But her penchant for falling off horses meant he’d have to watch her all the time. A sensible man would walk away from this mess, but he didn’t have anywhere else to go.
He touched his heels to the side of the mare and trotted through the knee-high grass. Despite his glum mood, being back in a saddle felt good. It had been a long time since he’d ridden for the shear enjoyment of riding.
His stomach rumbled, a reminder that lunch had long since come and gone. He wasn’t thrilled about fixing his own dinner. In Phoenix, he ate out most nights. But way out here the closest restaurant, a diner on Route 66, was about fifteen miles away. Downtown Flagstaff was even farther. He could eat with the hands at the bunk kitchen, but he didn’t want anyone asking questions. Earlier in the barn, no one seemed to have recognized him, which bolstered this hope that nobody had seen his face on the local news.
When the ranch came into view, he urged the mare to a canter, reveling in the feel of the wind on his face. Although the days were still warm, the nights weren’t. When the last of the sun’s rays dissipated below the horizon, it would be downright cold, evidence that summer had ended. He brought the mare to a halt at the paddock outside the big barn and dismounted. He unsaddled and rubbed the mare down before turning her back into the stall where he’d found her.
Shouting from Ketra’s wing stopped him. Shit! What now? He took a deep breath and jogged toward the commotion.
Brooks stood in a stall with a pitchfork, trying to toss dirty wood shavings and manure into a wheelbarrow while Carter attempted to wrestle the pitchfork out of his hands. Ketra kicked at his legs and beat her fists on his back.
No surprise—the commotion involved the girl. Dammit all to hell!
Trevor pulled her away, as Carter slammed an elbow into her ribs. She squealed at the contact. Wrapping an arm around her waist, Trevor pulled her backward into his chest. She continued to kick at both of them. He backed out of the stall and commanded Carter to get out.
“She started it,” Carter yelled.
Brooks crouched in the corner, eyes wide with fright.
“Now!” Trevor bellowed when Carter refused to move.
“Hey, I was trying to clean the stalls like you told me to. This jackass wouldn’t get out of the way. When I tried to take the pitchfork, that crazy bitch attacked me. I’m just defending myself.”
Carter had perfected the innocent and offended dramatis. Trevor plopped Ketra behind him and grabbed Carter by the throat, squeezing just enough to get his attention. “I told you not to come in here until she was done with her work for the day.”
He released his hold and pushed him toward the door. “Out.”
Face red with rage and fists clenched at his waist, Carter took a step forward. Trevor planted his feet and narrowed his eyes. “Now.”
Carter jutted his chin. He spat a stream of brown tobacco juice between Trevor’s feet before sauntering toward the bunkhouses.
With an inward curse, Trevor faced Ketra, his worst fears confirmed. Before
him stood a hundred pounds of pure trouble. The biggest mess of gorgeous chaos he’d ever seen. She panted from the exertion of fighting against both Carter and Trevor. The temptation to pull her into his arms overwhelmed him.
She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.
Trouble with a fucking capital T!
“You do realize,” Trevor said, “how badly he could have hurt you, right? In fact, if I hadn’t shown up when I did, you’d be nursing some nasty bruises right now, or worse.”
She lowered her gaze.
“You’re welcome.”
Her eyes flicked back to his and she tossed her head, sending curls flying around her face. She brushed an unruly lock out of her eyes. “He was going to hurt Brooks.”
Trevor took a step closer, admiring her spunk. “Well, I admire your chivalry. But, surely you realize how dangerous it is to pick a fight with someone who is considerably bigger than you.”
She straightened, challenging him with a frosty stare. “Oh, you’re a fine one to talk. You picked a fight with him earlier.”
“First of all,” Trevor took another step closer to her, forcing her to bend her head back if she wanted to maintain eye contact, “I did not pick a fight, he did. Second, I’m not smaller than him. And third, I’m the boss. If I want to fight, I will.”
He’d bent lower with each listed item. He was almost nose to nose with her, surprised when she stood her ground despite the fact that she trembled. He touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek. “Are you hurt?”
She grabbed her cheek as though she’s been cut and needed to stop the bleeding.
They stood sizing each other up for a few seconds. She lost some of her steam but remained cautious. The fear in her eyes changed to something more akin to curiosity.
“Try to stay out of trouble for the rest of the night, will you? I’m hungry and tired and I don’t want to break up any more fights today.” He stalked away, pausing at the stall where Brooks remained crouched. “Carter will clean the stalls tonight, Brooks. You can take the night off.”
Brooks crept out of the stall, stopping where Ketra stood in the middle of the breezeway, her hand still on her cheek. The pitchfork clattered on the concrete floor, startling the horses. Unaware of the havoc the sudden noise had created in the barn, Brooks approached her. “Did he hurt you?”
Ketra lowered her hand and cast a glance at Trevor before answering. She straightened her shoulders. “No, Brooksey, I’m fine. Go home. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Trevor left the barn with more pent up frustration than ever. Evening had descended like a cozy blanket. A few bright stars winked overhead. Crickets chirped, lulling the day creatures to sleep and beckoning the night ones to come out and play. How he wished he could relax.
Not sure if Carter would follow his orders, instead of going into his own cabin, Trevor climbed the steps to Ketra’s porch. Protecting, especially women and children, came instinctually to him. From Ketra’s porch, Rocky’s house, his cabin, both bunkhouses and the barn were in plain sight. Because he couldn’t see the barn from his porch, he’d wait here until Ketra came out. That way he’d be close if trouble reared its ugly head again.
From the shadows, he watched her leave the barn on unsteady legs. She slowed, watching the cabin next to hers where light glowed from the windows. Judging from the look on her face, she only now realized that he was her new neighbor. Had she helped clean the cabin and get it ready for him?
She ascended the steps with slumped shoulders and reached into her pocket for her key. She didn’t see him sitting on the porch swing in the encroaching shadows. That thought disturbed him. Anyone could sit here in the dark unobserved.
When her key slid into the lock he spoke. “Hey, neighbor,”
As expected, she jumped.
“What do you want?” To his surprise, she sounded more tired than scared.
He covered the distance between them. She backed away, crossing her arms tightly in front of her. He’d discombobulated her enough already today and a twinge of regret tugged at his conscience for his bad behavior. His mother would be ashamed.
She’s not Heather. She deserved a chance to prove that she was a different sort of lady. He’d not given her one. He’d try to rectify that right now.
“This is my house.” Her voice quavered. She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “Yours is next door.”
“I know.” He took another step toward her. She retreated. If he took one more step she’d be pinned against the porch railing. His fingers twitched with desire to touch her. A deep primal need churned in inside. He needed to prove to her that he wouldn’t hurt her.
“Why do I make you so nervous?”
“You don’t.” She cleared her throat. “What do you want?”
“Do you have plans for dinner?”
“Excuse me?”
“Well, I’m pretty certain you don’t chow down with the guys out in the bunk mess. And since I really don’t want to either, I thought maybe we could have dinner together.”
In an attempt to squelch his urge to take her into his arms and kiss her fears away, he took a step away. “You can fill me in on some things around here.” Like why you’re here pretending to be a horse trainer and why you’re so afraid of men.
She slid along the railing, farther away from him.
“I’ll cook,” he coaxed, resting a hip against the railing. “Think of it as an olive branch for my bad behavior earlier.”
She gripped the doorframe, eyes glued on the wooden planks beneath their feet. Her chest rose and fell with each breath. Her fingers roamed over the wood siding in search of the front door.
“And I really would like to talk to you about some things here at the ranch.”
She shook her head and sidled closer to her front door.
Not how he’d envisioned this would go. “I’m sorry, okay? Had I known you are afraid of men, I wouldn’t have acted the way I did.”
She raised her face, her cobalt irises huge in her oval face. She was breathing so fast he thought she might hyperventilate.
He gave her more space. “I can’t help it if I look like your old boyfriend and that brings back bad memories. But I’m not him, okay?”
Her voice was strained when she spoke. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” She twisted the key and threw open the door. “Get off my porch.”
He returned to the porch swing, to the shotgun he’d left leaning against the side of the house before he’d gone for his ride. “Here.”
When she grabbed for it, he pulled it back. “You do know this’ll be more effective with shells in it, right?”
“It had the desired effect.” She yanked the gun out of his hand. When she tried to close the door, he stuck his toe inside to prevent it from latching.
“Do you even know how to shoot that relic?”
“Get. Off. My. Porch.”
“Ketra,” he said, with a sternness that demanded attention, “don’t ever pull a gun on me again. Not even an unloaded one.”
“Don’t ever make me have to.”
When their gazes connected, her brows dipped inward and he noted wariness, embarrassment, and something he thought might be interest in the depths of her eyes. He removed his toe. The lock clicked. He’d expected that his offer of friendship wouldn’t be well received. However, he vowed to keep trying. Someone had hurt this little lady. For some unexplainable reason, that piqued his curiosity and kicked his desire to protect her into overdrive.
Dammit! It’s Heather all over again.
Chapter Nine
Trevor put a frozen pizza into the oven and opened a bottle of beer. While the pizza baked, he logged on to the internet and typed Ketra’s name in the search box. A few minutes later he learned that his intriguing neighbor was a 24-year-old Oklahoma native from a reputable family with much influence
in the rodeo circuit. Her father and grandfather were renowned for their horsemanship and miracle training techniques.
She’d been a student at the University of Oklahoma in Norman, praised in the equine program for her knowledge of and skill with horses. She earned the rodeo queen title two years in a row and been crowned Miss Cleveland County. She’d dropped out midway through her senior year.
Why would a highly praised and talented young lady leave college six months shy of getting her degree?
The words “world champion” caught his eye several times as he scrolled down the pages. At no point today had she ever looked like a world champion in the arena.
The timer buzzed. He ate on his front porch, where he observed the ranch hands winding down their day. Some pitched horseshoes in a lighted pit near the bunk kitchen, others sat on their porches smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. Guitar strumming and raunchy, off-key lyrics wafted from behind the bunkhouses. His focus switched to Ketra’s house. Her curtains were closed, but lights glowed in two of the rooms. How does she spend her evenings? His overactive imagination conjured up images of her sitting naked in a steaming bathtub, golden hair piled on top of her head, puffy white bubbles glistening on her shoulders.
Staring at her house added fuel to the fire kindling in his sex-starved veins. If he sat here any longer, his vivid imagination would cajole his nether regions to stand at attention and he didn’t need that torture on top of everything else. His stuffed another slice of pizza in his mouth and returned to the computer.
Fifteen minutes later, he uncovered a familial link, Ketra Weston is Rocky Dillinger’s niece.
Well, that explains their connection.
“Why are you in Arizona?” he mused aloud.
After a few more clicks he found a newspaper write-up from almost thirty years ago featuring Rocky’s sister—Ketra’s mother—Mary Jo Dillinger. She lived at the Diamond D and was well known in the rodeo world for her unusual training methods with barrel horses. Like mother, like daughter. The article praised the local girl with a promising future. Why has Rocky never mentioned Mary Jo or her family?
On Common Ground Page 5