Back in the Saddle

by Ruth Logan Herne

  What a joke.

  But he’d made that promise to his mother, to try things as needed. Right now he could use a job, and his father needed hands on deck. Colt was a numbers guy, and the mathematics of the situation wasn’t lost on him. In the end it all came down to simple equations. One plus one equaled two.

  Unless the human factor messed things up. And in Gray’s Glen, Washington?

  That was entirely possible.

  —

  “Slick City Boy Comes Home.” Angelina didn’t find the imaginary headline amusing as she strode toward her first-floor suite beyond the state-of-the-art kitchen and washing facilities. The extended hallway gave her just enough distance to provide space and privacy to be her own person, even on Stafford land.

  She walked into her room and closed the door, trying to sort old memories from current concerns.

  You pulled a gun on Colt Stafford.

  Holding Sam’s son at gunpoint fell neatly into the realm of current concerns. What was she thinking?

  Her heart hammered as she crossed the room. She listened to the messages on the house phone, and there it was. “This is Colt. I’m on my way from the airport. They switched my flight, so I’ll be there tonight instead of in the morning.”

  Information that would have been helpful thirty minutes ago.

  How could she have been so stupid?

  Not stupid, her conscience argued. Your training kicked in, plain and simple. Launching into Spanish, though? That was a blast from the past, chica.

  Her ability to deepen or lose her accent had worked in her favor on the Seattle police force but was not helpful now. Detective Mary Angela Castiglione could role-play at will, but here at the Double S, Angelina Morales should be unchanging—a simple housekeeper who liked to cook, clean, and sew tiny gowns for grieving parents.

  What if Colt’s father took offense at her actions? What if he fired her?

  Sam loves you. He treats you like a daughter, and he knows the truth. He knows you; he knows your past. He understands. He’d never let you go.

  The mental reassurance sounded nice, but then she’d never pulled a gun on one of Sam’s sons before.

  First time for everything. Being stubborn, Staffords, and male, they probably half expect it.

  The truth of that almost made her smile. The cold, hard look on Colt Stafford’s face erased the temptation.

  She’d dealt with his kind before. Cool, calculating men in designer suits with a head for finance and a heart for gambling. Lust for money and power had taken too much from her already.

  Never again.

  She’d brought her mother and son inland and nailed her two familial objectives: safety and obscurity. Her mother was discontented but safe, and her precious son was protected. She’d found an incomplete peace in Gray’s Glen, a small western town nestled in a broad valley of rolling fields. It was a respite from the dark crimes of city streets.

  Managing the ranch house had been the ideal solution to myriad problems, but she may have ruined everything by grabbing that gun.

  Anyone who takes offense at a woman defending herself isn’t worth the bother, her conscience chided. The gun is above the fireplace for a reason. This isn’t Country Décor 101. It’s the Old West, a century removed, but still a place where it’s not only okay to own a gun, it’s downright smart to know how to use it.

  She’d known how to use a gun long before she moved here. Anyone brought up by Isabo and Martín Castiglione understood the basics of self-defense. Raised in a poverty-stricken village in Ecuador, her parents had come to America and acquired citizenship before she was born. They’d given her the right to be an American, and her policeman father’s exemplary service record set the bar high. How proud he’d been at her academy graduation. Eyes moist, he’d hugged her and praised God for a second generation Castiglione cop.

  And then he’d been killed because she’d rattled too many racketeer cages as a detective. Her choice to follow in his footsteps became her father’s shroud, and she had the rest of her life to deal with that.

  She sighed, eyes closed. Father Almighty, Creator blessed, hear the plea of your daughter. Forgive my stubbornness, my pridefulness. Guide me in the paths of righteousness and humility.

  Guilt stabbed.

  She tried to staunch it, but to no avail. If she’d been righteous, she wouldn’t be a mother.

  If Ethan had been honest, you’d be a wife as well as a mother.

  Angelina shook her head. She refused to make excuses for herself. Yes, it was more acceptable to be an unmarried woman bearing a child these days, but she’d promised to do things the right way. Then she broke that word by believing a tall, good-looking Ivy League financial investor. For a short while, she thought the rich blue blood meant to marry her. Cinderella to the max.

  Wrong. Ethan Harding intended no such thing, which made her somewhat stupid for a smart girl. His selfish goals for their relationship had never included a happily-ever-after, and he didn’t care that a small child bearing his DNA came into being.

  Angelina did care. She’d refused Ethan’s proposed payoff. She didn’t need anyone else in order to raise her son God’s way. And when Noah Martín Castiglione was born, he gripped her finger and didn’t let go. It had been that way ever since. A tiny boy, wise beyond his years, trusting her to do what was right.

  With so much more to lose if things went awry, she’d do whatever it took to protect those she loved. Living a secretive life had become imperative after they buried her beloved father. She hoped, no prayed, that she hadn’t just lost her tucked-in-the-hills job.

  The scent of grilled steak and fried eggs woke Colt bright and early.

  His belly growled a welcome. His gut clenched in anticipation. His mouth watered, imagining the taste as he scrambled into blue jeans and a designer sweater—not exactly everyday ranch-hand attire.

  Would racing to the kitchen look too desperate?

  Yes.

  Plates clattered and silverware clanged as someone set the table. He made himself stroll when he longed to run. He hadn’t had more than a nibble of real food in two days. He was way beyond hungry, heading straight toward famished. He rounded the corner from the front stairs into the kitchen and came face to face with Irwin Hobbs, a longtime Double S cowboy.

  “Colt. Good to see you! Welcome home!” Hobbs grabbed hold of his upper arm. The old boy’s iron grip said he’d stayed in shape as the years rolled on. He squeezed lightly but kept any opinions about Colt’s lack of muscle to himself. “It’s good you’re back. We’ve got over a thousand calves due in the next few weeks, and you’re sorely needed.” Hobbs waved a hand toward the long kitchen table where a couple of men Colt had never met sat drinking coffee, waiting for breakfast to be served. “Colt Stafford, this is Dylan McGee and Brock Stiles, a couple of local yahoos who hired on last year. These days we don’t take on any but our own locals,” Hobbs added. “Too many people usin’ this, that, and the other thing to mess up their brains. Your father don’t take kindly to the way drugs are comin’ to the Northwest.”

  Brock stuck out a bronzed hand. “Nice to meet you, Colt.”

  “You too.” He shook Brock’s hand, then leaned across the table to repeat the gesture. “Dylan.”

  “Did you really work on Wall Street?” The young cowboy seemed amazed, almost star-struck.

  Hobbs fought a grin.

  Colt grasped the younger man’s hand in a quick shake. “For nine years.”

  “Wearing a suit?” The kid uttered the phrase as if wearing a suit was either the worst punishment ever or a crowning glory.

  “Every day.”

  “I see them New Yorkers in the mornin’ sometimes when I dial up them news shows,” Hobbs said. “Sittin’ there in front of their glass windows, the people and weather goin’ straight on by behind ’em.” Hobbs shook his head. “Settin’ inside, while life passes on. Can’t get my head ’round that, no how.”

  “You’d rather be caught in a blizzard, old man?”
Brock stared at Hobbs as if the older man might have a screw loose.

  “Well, not exactly a blizzard, but a snowstorm?” He shrugged, unimpressed. “They ain’t that bad. Just regular. Though I hear that global warmin’ stuff means we’ll probably be tropical by the time Nick’s girls are growed. We’ll be raisin’ flowers for them lay-ee things they hand out in Hawaii instead of fattenin’ cattle.”

  “Old man, you might be pushing up flowers by then anyway, so it don’t much matter.”

  Hobbs’s grin showed the gap in his lower front teeth. “The good Lord will call me when it’s my time, not a minute before.”

  “Sit,” Angelina said, removing a sheet of biscuits from the oven.

  “Shouldn’t I go see Dad first? And where’s Nick?”

  “Right here,” his younger brother said as he strode in through the back door, looking every inch the rugged cattle rancher he always wanted to be. At least someone’s dreams came true in the whole convoluted reality-TV-style mess of three brothers with five different parents. “You ready to jump in?”

  “You got work clothes for me?”

  “They’ll be loose.” Nick cast an amused glance at the other two men. “You’re not as bulked up as you used to be.”

  “I’ve been using my brain instead of my brawn,” Colt replied. A part of him wanted to go toe-to-toe with Nick for five minutes just to get it out of their systems. He hadn’t pounded on anyone since his last visit ended badly, but the enticing odor of lean grilled steak and farm-fresh eggs took precedence. For now.

  “Brain instead of brawn.” Nick jabbed Colt’s right shoulder. “How far’d that get you?”

  Colt paused. Began counting to ten. Made it to five before he lunged forward aiming a fist at his brother’s laughing face.

  Nick’s quick block made it a glancing blow, but Colt pulled up tight, ready to do whatever his little brother thought necessary to get this over with now.

  A rolling pin smacked hard on the counter, inches from them.

  They swung about, and Colt found himself staring into those same smoke-filled eyes he’d met the night before. It seemed Angelina was adept at finding weaponry in every room of the house, making her one of the most versatile women he’d met in a while. “One drop of stupid Stafford blood gets spilled in my clean kitchen, and I’ll take the hide off both of you.”

  Nick straightened but looked somewhat reluctant to back off—which was kind of how they’d both been since Nick was born. “Sorry, Angelina. I—”

  “You!” She waved the pin at Nick, and he stepped back, hands up. “You are upset by many things these days, here and at your home with the girls, but is this”—she stretched out the word as she pointed toward Colt—“the example a loving father sets? Picking fights with others? Or do you want your beautiful daughters to see a man who rises above, who goes the distance for his family? You are their only model of behavior now.” She set the rolling pin down, and Colt was pretty sure he heard a collective sigh as the three men began to breathe easier. “I believe you should make it a good one. Seeing you fight with your brother will show your daughters more division. They’ve already seen enough of that, haven’t they?”

  Nick surrendered without an argument, a rare moment in Stafford-land. “You’re right, Ange. Like usual.”

  “And you.” She shifted her attention to Colt and indicated the platter on the table next to him. “Would you rather fight? Or eat?”

  Colt pulled out the chair in front of the plate and sat in it.

  “I thought as much.” She reached over and poured Colt a steaming mug of fresh hot coffee, the kind he wished he could find in New York City. No one roasted and brewed coffee like they did in the Pacific Northwest.

  “Thank you.”

  She paused, said nothing, then went back to the cooking area.

  The guys exchanged quick looks. Despite their size and number, it was clear who ran things at the Double S—the inside things anyway. He hadn’t expected this, but he’d steered clear of the Double S for a lot of years, leaving him with no idea how things had changed. Any good cowhand knows that keeping the cook happy keeps everyone happy.

  Silence reigned as the men ate an astonishing amount of food for this time of the morning. Colt plowed through a strip steak, fried potatoes and onions, three eggs, and a hunk of Texas-style toast. He knew the rigors of calving would burn this away well before supper. On range days, the guys went out with a lunch in hand, knowing a hot supper would be waiting when they returned at night. A long day, a hard saddle, and tough, tugging work awaited him.

  Since the coffee she set before him beat anything New York had to offer, maybe his trade-off would be okay.

  About two-thirds of the way through his breakfast, he turned toward Nick. “Over a thousand calves, still? Aren’t we a little late this year?”

  Nick shrugged. “Last year’s tough spring messed up some timing. This year’s crop started dropping yesterday. Meat calves. The seed calves for propagation are due later. It’ll be like popcorn—the first few here and there, then the explosion of dozens a day, then back to a few here and there.”

  Colt understood bad timing real well. He met Nick’s gaze. “About those clothes.”

  “I brought you a bag of ’em.”

  Angelina appeared at his side to refill his mug. She moved his empty plate to the counter, set a bag of clothes on the table, then bent to pour the coffee. Her proximity put him in instant sensory overload. Long dark hair, held back with a clip at the nape of her neck, tumbled over her shoulder. Sugar and spice wafted his way, a mix of cinnamon and vanilla—a scent that was pure woman and way nicer than the high-priced perfumes popular in Lower Manhattan. He reached out to take the freshened mug. “Thank you.”

  She paused. Turned slightly. She didn’t speak, but the dip of her chin acknowledged his gratitude.

  “There are extra coats and boots in the closet,” Nick said. “Gloves, hats, whatever you need. We brought the herd down a notch last week, but if we get hit with this storm coming, we could be in trouble. We’re talking a lot of rangeland to cover. I figured on hooking you up with Newsie.”

  Yesterday’s News, his horse, still here, working and waiting. Would the big chestnut remember him? Not likely, but there was something earnestly right about pairing with his old friend again.

  “Having the cows down a level is easier on your dad,” Hobbs noted.

  “Is someone going to fill me in on Dad, or do I have to play twenty questions?”

  “He’s sick.” Hobbs offered up the info in a style Colt remembered like it was yesterday. “He got one of them hepatitis things last year that messed with his liver. He’s weak but he’s doing better. Some days. But then he went and got tossed around by a protective cow who weren’t takin’ none too kindly to your daddy’s attention to her baby. A rookie mistake, so we knew somethin’ weren’t right from the get-go.” He turned a no-nonsense look to the two younger cowboys on the far side of the table. “Never turn your back on an angry woman, boys. Words to live by.”

  “Whereas I would prefer ‘Do unto others as you would have done unto you,’ ” remarked Angelina, but she slanted a look of amusement and affection toward Hobbs.

  “Does he need a new liver?” Colt looked from Angelina to Nick to Hobbs.

  “We don’t know.” Eyes down, Nick gripped his mug. “We don’t know all that much right now.”

  “So you’re not bein’ left out, you’re bein’ included on the same lack of knowledge we’re all sharin’,” Hobbs said.

  “Until they know if Dad’s body will recover on its own, it’s a waiting game.” Strain tightened Nick’s observation.

  “I hate waitin’,” Hobbs grumbled.

  A chorus of agreement circled the table.

  Angelina made a low sound, and Colt noticed all the men sat straighter, shoulders back, chins up. “Look at you sitting here, all fed and round and good, whining about waiting for a little information while hundreds of cows that have been carrying calves for
nine months are about to deliver babies in the snow and wind. Bunch of whiners. Your mothers should take a switch to your behinds.”

  “When she’s right, she’s right.” Hobbs stood. “I’ll take the four-wheeler ’round the back way and meet you guys.” He pointed to Colt. “Boy, you gonna hold that bag of clothes all day or get ’em on? Time’s wastin’.”

  Colt took the bag upstairs, dumped the contents on the bed, and dressed as fast as he could. Nick was a touch broader and an inch taller, but not a big enough difference to matter. As he applied the layers, he caught sight of his Armani suit draped across the easy chair on the opposite side of the room. The irony of the situation caught him.

  When he’d stormed off the Double S years ago, he was determined to never come back—at least not to work. And he’d kept that promise a long time.

  Now he pulled on jeans and a dark green turtleneck and grabbed the Carharrt rancher coat he’d taken from the downstairs closet. He put it on and glanced in the mirror.

  What he saw surprised him.

  Looking back at him was Colt Stafford—the real Colt Stafford—a guy who played square, shot straight, and never messed anybody over, no matter how bad things got. He gave the reflection a long, slow look, then grabbed the hat and gloves from the bed. The guy in the mirror had a job to do and needed to get on with it. As he left the room, he glanced back.

  The mirror showed nothing now but a messed-up bedroom, tousled and strewn. But he knew what he saw. He saw the man he’d been, before Manhattan got hold of him. And seeing that man made him realize it had been way too long since that guy had put in an appearance anywhere.

  “Angelina.” Sam Stafford tried to cover the gratitude in his voice with a dour look, but he couldn’t fool her. He breathed in, deep and slow, and tried to sit more upright. That triggered a coughing fit that refused to stop. Note to self: broken ribs and bronchitis are not a good match. Next time? Keep a sharp eye over your shoulder.

  She moved forward, raised the head of the bed by pressing a button, then helped ease him into a more upright position by posting a pillow behind him. She stepped back, swept the new angle with a glance, and asked, “Better?”