Unfortunately, he’d forgotten that he no longer had the house to himself.
He took off his gloves and then his hat and stopped midway between the house and the stables. A moving truck was backed up to the front porch, and four men were hoisting a table inside, a golden retriever barking at them and running circles around their legs. Trace walked over to where Scout was lying in the grass nearby, watching the action with wary eyes.
“What’s the matter, boy? Somebody invading your territory?” The dog whined and looked up at him. “Trust me, I know just how you feel.”
He scratched the old dog behind the ears and sighed. Scout mimicked his sigh with a yawn.
Trace gave a weak grin and patted him on the back before getting up. Dragging his heels out here wasn’t going to change anything. Thankfully, it looked as if the moving men were finishing up, so at least he wouldn’t be required to lift anything after a long day on the range.
“Evening,” he said to the men as he passed them on the steps.
He entered the house, immediately spotting Sara Harris, the woman Eric had brought home with him six months ago for a visit. Seeing the pretty blonde wasn’t a surprise. But seeing the size of her stomach was.
“Holy shit.”
Sara turned around to face him at the same time Eric came in from the kitchen carrying a bucket of beer for the movers.
Eric’s expression darkened. He hadn’t forgotten about their exchange of words this morning any more than Trace had. But he went through the motions as he put the bucket down and placed his hands on Sara’s shoulders from behind.
“You remember my brother, Sara.”
Trace maneuvered around the stacked boxes and furniture and shifted his hat from his right hand to his left. “Nice to see you again,” he said, extending his hand.
Sara took it in both of hers, her smile wide and warm.
Trace couldn’t help himself. He stared at her stomach.
Eric’s right hand dropped from her shoulder to her burgeoning belly, as if protecting the child within. “I didn’t think this was the kind of news to share on the phone,” he said.
Sara tilted her head to look at Eric. “You mean you didn’t tell Trace? I’m six months along. When did you think it would be a good idea? After Agnes is born?”
Agnes. Their mother’s name. Trace braced himself against the hall table.
Eric frowned. “I suppose I should mention that we’re also planning on getting married. Right here on the ranch, in two months.”
“Congratulations.”
Trace couldn’t help himself. Within the blink of an eye, everything that was familiar to him, everything that was his life, had changed. He started to go upstairs, but banged his knee on a box before he found a clear path.
“I’m sorry about the mess,” Sara called after him. “I promise I’ll have everything put away by tomorrow.”
Trace mumbled something, but had no idea what.
JO COULDN’T SLEEP. Shocker. She’d hoped that Trace would come out tonight, but so far he hadn’t shown. And the sun had set over an hour ago.
She flopped back on her bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. She checked her cell again. Nothing. Sighing, she blindly put the phone back on the nightstand and then lay spread-eagled, concentrating on her breathing.
We need to talk.
His words echoed in her mind over and over again, accompanying the image of his handsome face drawn into concerned lines.
How had this happened? How had casual sex evolved into something far more serious?
Spewing out a few choice profanities, she pushed herself from the bed, grabbed her keys and left the room, trying to decide which would help her more, a nice long walk or a ride into town in her pickup.
She decided a walk would help put her thoughts to right. Or at least exhaust her to the point where she could fall asleep.
“Jo!” Jackson and Milford called out from down the line of bunkhouses. “Have a beer?”
“Sorry, guys. I think I’ll pass.”
They tried to convince her to change her mind, but as soon as she set out in the direction of the stables, they returned to whatever conversation they’d been having.
She remembered the first time she’d gone to the ranch where her father had worked. She’d been six years old, and while he’d told her on several occasions that he’d taken her with him when she was younger, her first real memory was that spring day some twenty years ago.
“Let me ride, Daddy! Let me ride.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jo. You don’t want to go back home to your mother smelling like horse.”
“But I want to, Daddy! Please, just this once. I promise, I’ll never ask again.”
He’d looked at her thoughtfully and then finally gave up, pretty much the way he always did whenever she wanted something badly enough.
“Okay, darlin’. Come here and let me lift you up.”
Of course, he’d planned for her to have a harmless canter around the pen on the large steed. What he hadn’t known was that she was digging her heels into the horse’s sides and pulling on his mane, trying to egg him into a run.
And run he finally did.
She’d giggled, giddy with power, and held on for dear life as the horse bolted away from her father and headed for the back pasture through an open gate.
She wasn’t sure how it had happened, but within seconds she found herself lying flat on her back in a blanket of bluebonnets, holding her arm. Her dad had come running to her, scared within an inch of his life.
“JoEllen Sue, are you all right?” He’d looked down at her, trying to take a physical inventory, unsure if he should move her. “Oh, please be okay. Your mother would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”
She’d stared up into his worried face, waiting for her breath to return. The instant it did, she jumped right back up and said, “Let me go again, Daddy!”
She’d broken her arm in three places that day. And her mother had been livid. But from that moment on, a ranch was where she wanted to be. And if her father hoped to have any control over her growing interest in horses, he was forced to indulge her—without her mother being any the wiser—so long as Jo didn’t break any more bones.
She tugged off the rubber band that held her ponytail, and braided her hair as she walked, unsure why she was thinking about her youth now. Maybe because the possibility that she’d soon have her own daughter or son was more of a reality than it had ever been. Or maybe because she couldn’t imagine bringing a child into her life. A life filled with bunkhouses and hard days on the range, and no place to call home.
Of course, there were options. But since she’d never been in this position before, she hadn’t given any of them much thought.
She swallowed, feeling a sudden lump in her throat. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to, either.
She reached the stables and entered through the side door, since the large barn doors were closed. It always soothed her nerves, the smell of hay and horses. Scout walked over to her, his limp seeming more pronounced. She bent down to greet him.
“How you doin’, boy?”
He panted as she petted him, and then went to the door and whined.
“What is it? You wanna go outside?” She held open the barrier and he walked out, his tail wagging in thanks.
Jo closed the door again. Reaching into a bag of apples, she took one out and walked down the aisle between the stalls. Horses whinnied, poking their heads out to see who the visitor was. She went to her regular mare first, stroking her soft nose.
“You want a treat, Chelsea?” She slid her pocketknife out of her jeans and cut the apple into quarters, then held one out in her palm. The mare sniffed and then snuffled it up with her prickly lips, chomping away.
The Wildewood ranch was one of the cleanest operations Jo had seen in her years working the circuit before and after her stint in the military. The stalls were kept fresh and well stocked, the horses healthy. The cattle were well cared
for and their pens covered with new straw the instant they were taken out on their daily run. And business with the hands was always on the up-and-up. Which made it difficult to get hired on full time, because there was so much competition. Hands from hundreds of miles around rolled into town every spring to put in their résumés and try to prove they had the stuff it took to be a permanent part of the ranch.
Jo had driven from a smaller ranch closer to her hometown of Beaumont to check out Wildewood. And immediately found she’d like to stay on if they’d have her.
Her hand slowed now as she picked up a brush and began stroking Chelsea’s long, glossy neck. Of course, that was well before she’d succumbed to her desire for the ranch owner.
Now?
Well, she was going to have to let the present go until she could see what the future held.
There was a sound down the aisle, one that wasn’t made by an animal.
Jo looked in that direction. Could it be Trace? Had he seen her walk to the stables, and sneaked out to talk to her?
She resumed brushing the mare, unsure if she wanted him there or not. She was worried enough for her own reasons, and she didn’t need to add Trace’s worries to the mix.
Another sound came, from the other side of the aisle.
“Is anyone there?” she called out.
No answer.
The fine hairs stood up on the back of her neck.
Jo had long ago learned to respect her body’s reaction to an immediate threat. Her internal radar had served her well in Iraq and Afghanistan. Now that she was stateside, she didn’t expect it to do anything less.
She hooked the brush back into its holder as Chelsea whinnied in disappointment. Either that, or the mare had also picked up on a threat.
Jo reached for the knife in her pocket…but didn’t have the chance to pull it out before something was dropped over her head and tightened around her neck, making it virtually impossible to breathe…
Chapter Thirteen
TRACE PACED THE LENGTH of his bedroom and back again. It seemed to take forever for the couple that had commandeered the house to finally call it a night and head up to Eric’s room.
Correction, not Eric’s room. His older brother had claimed their parents’ master bedroom down the hall. A room the two brothers had silently agreed never to sleep in.
As if it wasn’t enough for Eric to take over the ranch, he’d also staked a claim on the house.
Trace hadn’t gone down for dinner. Instead, he’d taken a shower in the main bathroom off the hall, forgetting to bring a clean change of clothes with him, he was so distracted. Hell, it wasn’t his fault that when he opened the door wearing nothing but a small towel, Sara was out there.
Of course, he could have apologized and then backed into the bathroom. Or even gone to his room.
Instead, he’d leaned against the doorjamb and allowed the towel to drop to the floor.
He grimaced and ran both of his hands over his hair, even now not knowing what he’d been thinking. He supposed at the time he’d figured it was a good idea that the female addition to the household get used to the idea of sharing the place with two males.
Then he’d looked at her belly, where his niece grew inside, and felt instantly guilty for having done something so juvenile.
Evidently, Sara hadn’t shared the incident with his brother. Because Trace had little doubt that Eric would have hunted his ass down and instigated that fight they were both spoiling for.
Why she wouldn’t tell surprised Trace. After all, he had humiliated her. And Eric was there to protect her.
Then again, maybe she understood how Eric might react, and had said nothing in an effort to keep the peace.
Trace supposed he owed her the same consideration. Especially since he hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to make her feel welcome.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he’d get up and try to make amends. After all, it wasn’t her fault his brother was such an overbearing jackass.
Five minutes after he heard the door to the master bedroom finally close, he exited his own room. He hadn’t eaten, but that was low on his priority list just now. What was more important was having that talk with Jo.
He went quietly down the stairs…and ran straight into Eric, who had apparently forgotten something.
The two of them faced off in the half-cleared living room…
THE MATERIAL WAS SOAKED with something. Jo detected a chemical scent. She held her breath as she continued to dig for her pocketknife, freeing the weapon. She opened it and took a blind swing at her assailant, who moved behind her at the same time she brought her boot heel down on his instep.
Both blows hit their intended target, giving her the opening she needed to step out of his grasp and struggle to remove the hood. Unfortunately, he appeared to have tied it off, and she couldn’t find a way to open it. Still holding her breath, she instead looked for a way to tear it open, something—anything—to allow her fresh air.
She was aware of barking. Scout. He must have heard the ruckus and was trying to alert the other cowboys and gain access to the stables at the same time. She heard him scratching at the door.
Her assailant regained his footing and grabbed for her again. Relying on tactics that had been drilled into her head during combat training, she fought him off.
Until she was forced to draw a breath.
The world instantly faded to gray and then black, and she collapsed to the stable floor.
“I’M EXPECTED SOMEWHERE,” Trace told his brother, and began to circle around him to gain access to the door. “You’re not going anywhere until you talk to me.” Trace stared at him. “There you go again, trying to act like a parent rather than a brother. Get the hell out of my way, Eric. Or I’ll make you.”
The sound of Scout’s sharp barks distracted them both at the same time. They continued staring at each other, but no longer with the same animosity.
“Get the shotgun out of the cabinet,” Trace told Eric as he grabbed a Smith & Wesson from the drawer of a side table and ran for the door.
When you were raised on a ranch, you were trained to know what each dog bark meant. There were the playful barks when someone played fetch. The “I’ve got a squirrel in my sights” bark. And even an “I’m not happy to be out here on this cold night” bark.
This was none of those. This was a “let me at him” bark, meaning someone was on the grounds who didn’t belong there.
Trace’s thoughts ran straight to Carter Southard. He’d been released from the county lockup the morning before. But had he gone back to Dallas as everyone assumed? Or had he stuck around, had another bout with booze, and come back to finish the job he’d started the other night?
Trace’s blood boiled through his veins as he ran full out for the stables.
Scout spotted him and redoubled his alert, probably hungry for some intruder flesh now that Trace was going to give him a shot at it. Trace pulled open the door and Scout led the way in.
“What is it, boy?” he said. “Show me.”
Scout ran first right, then left. Then stopped in front of the stall left empty by the mare they’d lost two days ago. He began scratching at the bottom of the door.
Trace led with his gun, holding the pistol out in front of him and cocking it for good measure. He heard no sounds other than excited whinnies from the horses and the shuffle of hooves as they moved to and fro. He hesitated outside the stall in question before reaching for the latch. The safety pin was off, so he pulled the handle.
And immediately spotted Jo sprawled on the floor, unconscious. She was wearing some sort of dark hood, her shirt and jeans partially open.
“Sweet Jesus,” Eric said from behind him.
“Check around! He’s still got to be here somewhere,” Trace ordered.
His brother instantly did as asked, disappearing down the aisle.
Trace stuck the gun in the back of his waistband and lifted her motionless form to a sitting position. It took a few
moments, but he figured how to remove what looked like a standard pillowcase tied off with rope.
His stomach tightened. The rapist.
“Jo, can you hear me?” he asked, detecting the strong medicinal scent as he tossed the case into the aisle. “Come on, baby, wake up. Talk to me.”
He checked to make sure she was still breathing, and then smoothed strands of hair that had escaped her braid back from her face. He was virtually shaking all over. With fear that she might not be okay. With rage enough to kill whoever had done this to her.
Eric reappeared at the door with a subdued Scout. “Whoever it was is gone.”
Trace glanced up at him.
“She going to be okay?”
Jo coughed, a wretched sound that racked her entire body. Trace held her up straighter and rubbed her back.
“Hey,” he said when she looked up at him with damp blue eyes. “Are you okay?”
She started to talk, then went into another fit of coughing, nodding her head instead.
Trace helped her to her feet and led her out into the aisle. Milford, Jackson, Vern and the stable manager all came rushing into the barn.
Trace handed Jo off to Eric. “Have Sara look after her, will you? And call the doc.”
He stalked toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Eric asked.
“Just take care of her for me.”
JO SAT AT THE kitchen table of the main house, downing milk to counteract what she strongly suspected was chloroform. The doctor was on his way, and Trace had left her to do God only knew what, while Eric hovered like a dark sentinel, watching her closely.
“I’ve…” She started coughing again. “I’ve got to get ahold of Trace.”
“He didn’t take his cell phone,” Eric said.
“Then I’ve got to get to the sheriff’s. Can I borrow your truck keys?”
The woman named Sara handed her a couple more tissues from the box she held. Jo’s eyes kept drifting to her rounded stomach, but her foggy mind wasn’t sure why.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” the woman said.
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