by Vicki Tharp
“Nah,” she said. “I’ll catch you guys in the morning.”
Bryan didn’t try to cajole her into coming. Just gave a little-too-quick “suit yourself” as he turned to go. Then he stopped and turned back again. “My cabin is down the hill, far left, if you need anything.”
He didn’t lower his voice, raise his brows, wink, or pause suggestively before he said the word “anything,” but for some reason that only made it sound even more like an invitation.
Or maybe that was just her libido talking.
* * * *
Sidney woke to the distant sound of her Ford’s engine spinning, spinning, spinning. The only window in her room overlooked the stall Eli had chosen. The one she couldn’t see out of because Eli’s wide ass blocked it.
She thumped the window with her fist. He swished his tail and cocked a hip. She didn’t fight the smile. Cheeky bastard.
Light filtered in through the top corners of the window that her horse’s butt didn’t obliterate. In the near darkness of the room, she stumbled to the switch and squinted against the light.
Her jeans and boots were in front of an armless chair, toes pointing toward her, the cuffs of her jeans over the shafts of her boots, spurs tight against the heel, the legs and waistband of her pants accordioned on her boot tops, like a fireman’s turnout gear ready to be pulled on.
Sitting in the chair, she tugged on her last clean pair of socks, threaded her legs through the fabric and her feet into the soft leather of her boots. Every morning when she put her boots on it was like coming home.
She finished dressing, brushed her teeth, and finger-combed her hair. No mirror in the small room, so that was as particular as she got. She threw Eli a couple flakes of hay and he chuffed a muffled thanks around a mouthful as she headed out the back of the barn, searching for her truck.
It was a lot earlier than she’d thought. The pink hues of dawn had just started to fade, and the light breeze swirled warm thermals around her. She caught hints of warmth, but it wasn’t enough. She rubbed her hands over her bare arms, wishing she’d grabbed her hoodie.
Her little trailer had been unhitched and maneuvered into place beside one of the big stock trailers. Her truck was off to the side of the tractors, out of the way, the hood up—a big gaping mouth half swallowing a man. The gravel crunched beneath her feet and the man turned as she approached. Bryan. She glanced down at his right foot. There was a cowboy boot where the blade had been. He noticed her looking. Didn’t comment. Didn’t explain. Not that he owed her one.
She tossed her chin toward her truck. “What’s up?”
“Keys were in the ignition. Thought I’d take a look.”
To make it easier for her to leave if she got fired? But his blue eyes were sincere, like he wanted to help. So maybe he had a thing about damsels in distress. Not that she was either a damsel or in distress now that she had a job, but she knew how some men were.
Observation, not complaint.
“Help yourself.”
She wanted to wrap him in a bear hug and plant a fat, wet smack on his lips. Mostly it was the gratitude urging her on.
He ducked under the hood and held a grease-stained T-shirt beneath something he’d disconnected. “Start the engine.”
She climbed in. The engine cranked and wheezed like an asthmatic looking for his inhaler—not that she’d expected it to start with whatever it was that was disconnected.
“Cut it,” he called out.
She tugged the keys from the ignition and tossed them on the seat. “Well?”
“Fuel pump is shot. Here.” He motioned for her to lean in next to him and pointed out the fuel pump and the gas line he’d disconnected. “No gas coming through the line when it’s cranked.”
“Sounds expensive.”
One more expense she couldn’t afford. But she wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon, so maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing. At least Eli was healthy and it wasn’t a vet bill.
Under the hood, with no breeze, she thought she caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath. The air in her lungs caught and she had to force it to move again.
She took an involuntary step back. Her brain didn’t want any part of a man with alcohol issues, while at the same time her heart found excuses. His eyes were clear. Maybe it was mouthwash.
Mouthwash my ass, Practical Sidney, one of her alter egos, said. Sidney much preferred Impractical Sidney. She tended to be a lot more fun.
No, she had to stop jumping to conclusions and leaping headlong into an abyss of worst case scenarios. Besides, at this point, a paying job training horses pretty much made it worth putting up with whatever other bullshit was involved.
“You can use Mac’s computer at the house, check prices online. About time for breakfast anyway.” He wiped the grease from his hands and shrugged into a jean jacket that molded to his body better than a tailor-made Italian suit ever could.
“Wha-at?”
He grinned when she pulled her eyes up to his.
Smooth, Sidney, real smooth. Practical Sidney rolled her eyes.
Sidney’s stomach grumbled. At least a part of her was paying attention to something other than the fit of his clothes.
“Food. Big house. Now,” he said, slow and simple as if she’d been clocked in the head with a hoof.
He dropped the hood and they headed toward the big house which really wasn’t that big. Three or four bedrooms maybe. Old enough it could have been original with the small second story added on at some point over the years. Deep porches both front and rear.
As they climbed the rear steps, Sidney saw cabins down the hill. An older log cabin, a shell of a cabin with the roof nearly complete, and two concrete foundations where she assumed two others would go.
“My cabin is down the hill just out of sight.”
She nodded, not knowing what else to say to that, but it didn’t seem like he was expecting a reply.
He grabbed the handle of the screen door and ushered her into a large kitchen, warm with the heat of cooking and full of delicious smells. Eggs, bacon, hot maple syrup, biscuits, coffee. Mmmm…coffee…
The rich scent of fresh ground coffee beans gave her system a small jolt. Her mouth watered and she fought the urge to dig bare-handed into the spread on the table.
“You must be Sidney.”
Sidney did a double take. She’d been so focused on food and coffee she hadn’t noticed the woman in the kitchen behind a bright purple apron. By the woman’s gray hair and sun-worn features, she pegged her to be somewhere in her sixties, but she was solid. Not as in fat, but strong and fit for her age. A stiff breeze wouldn’t blow this woman over—in fact, Sidney got the impression Mother Nature would probably think twice about messing with her.
The woman wiped her hands on her apron and extended it to shake. “Welcome to the Lazy S. I’m Lottie. My husband Dale and I own the ranch. Mac told me so much about you.”
The good and the bad, Lottie’s expression said, but as Sidney gave the woman’s calloused hand a firm pump, she realized that, unlike with Bryan, there was no judgment there. Only the acknowledgment of her situation, and somehow the air suddenly felt lighter, easier to breathe. “Ma’am.”
“Grab a plate and a seat before the piranhas pick the bones clean.”
She didn’t see how that was possible; the long table practically groaned under the weight of the spread. Bryan leaned in and gave Lottie a peck on the cheek as he reached around and stole a piece of bacon off a platter. Lottie swatted his hand, but there was no heat behind it.
“Take that to the table,” she ordered him, indicating the plate of bacon.
He grinned, the slice of bacon sticking out between his teeth.
Sidney took the closest vacant seat. Bryan deposited the bacon in front of her and took the empty seat across the table as the slice disappeared between his lips. S
he introduced herself around. Dale was at the head of the table. Lottie brought a carafe of coffee and sat to his right. Mac was to his left and beside Sidney. The man on her left was a hand named Santos.
As soon as they were all seated, it was like the feeding bell had rung and everyone dug in and started passing plates. Her stomach growled again, and even over the scrape of forks and knifes Bryan heard it. His eyes lit up and her face flushed. Damn her fair complexion.
Bryan dropped an extra scoop of hash browns on her plate and opened his mouth to comment, but someone knocked on the jamb of the back door. The hinges of the screen door cried out for oil as it opened and a man stepped in.
It was like a scene in an old western, when the cowboy steps into the saloon and all heads turn. The morning sun backlit his large frame as he nearly blocked the doorway. A gun hung at his hip and a wide-brimmed hat covered his head.
“Morning, Sheriff.” Dale stood and held out a hand toward an empty seat at the other end of the table. “Join us.”
The man stepped in, his boots clapping on the hardwood floors as he removed his hat and stood at the end of the table, his gaze stopping on Sidney. The only thing missing from the scene was the jingle of spurs. “New here?”
His face was clean shaven, his brown hair wasn’t short, but it wasn’t long either. The ends curled up over the collar of his tan uniform. He was muscular, and a Kevlar vest added to his bulk.
Sidney stood and offered her hand. “Sidney Teller. I’m the new trainer.”
His eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly, like he thought he should know the name but couldn’t place it, then he took her offered hand. It was one of those weak, half-hearted shakes men sometimes give to women. She caught herself before she wiped her hand on her jeans.
“Elmore St. John,” he said.
“Can I get you anything? Coffee?” Lottie held up the carafe.
“Thanks, no.” He fiddled with the brim of his hat, rotating it around and around in front of his body. If he did it any faster, they’d all be hypnotized. “I’ve got a bunch more ranches to stop by today.”
Dale rubbed the thumb and forefinger of one hand down the sides of the silver mustache bracketing his mouth. “What’s wrong?”
Bryan stopped with a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth and eyed Mac for a heavy second. Mac sighed. Again it was as if she and Bryan had a conversation with one quick look.
“Have any of you heard of El Verdugo?”
Santos muttered a curse in Spanish. “The Hangman.” His face screwed up at the words like he wanted to spit and clear the foulness from his mouth, only he had better manners than that.
The hat in St. John’s hands stopped turning and he tossed it on the end of the table. “What do you know about him?”
“Bad hombre.”
“What kind of bad?” Mac asked, her eyes flicking to Bryan again.
“He string a rope around your neck and cut off your air, then right before you pass out he loosens rope. Beats you like a piñata. Over and over and over again until you talk. Everyone talks. I had a cousin in Mexico…” Santos cleared his throat, but he didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
Bryan’s fork clattered onto his plate and he wiped his mouth. Lottie held her breath and Dale just looked resigned.
“What kind of trouble are we talking about?” Dale said.
“The drug kind of trouble,” St. John said. “El Verdugo makes El Chapo look like the ice cream man.”
“What does that have to do with us?” Bryan said. “We’re what? Seven hundred, eight hundred miles from the Mexico border?”
“Yes, but the Lazy S backs up to thousands of acres of BLM land, Forest Service land, and the rest of the Rockies,” the sheriff explained.
“I guess Fed land is not just for grazing anymore. Uncle Sam not like El Verdugo growing weed on his land?” Santos asked.
St. John shook his head and the corners of his mouth dipped down. “I wish it were just that. Law enforcement has cracked down on the drug corridor up and down I-15 west of the Rockies and I-80 in southern Wyoming. El Verdugo and his men are finding other ways through, or rather, around the checkpoints.”
“They’re packing the drugs across the mountains?” Mac asked.
“There have been reports, indications that they either travel through or have stashes along the mountain range. And weed’s not the half of it. Cocaine, heroin. And, like a good investor, El Verdugo has diversified.”
“How so?” Bryan said around a bite of fried egg.
“Human trafficking.”
Dale cut to the chase. “What does this mean for us?”
“We hope nothing.” St. John picked up his hat again, stared down at the sheriff’s insignia on the front and said, “We hope they steer clear of our corner of the world, but we want everyone to keep a lookout, to report anything or anyone unusual, to stay safe, vigilant, and above all else, leave the law enforcement to those sworn to uphold the law.”
That last bit was directed at Mac and Bryan. Mac shifted uncomfortably but held the sheriff’s gaze. Boomer’s mouth went flat and Sidney saw the heat rise in his eyes. What was that all about?
“We—” Dale started.
“Just so we’re clear, Sheriff…” Bryan glanced at Dale as if concerned he’d overstepped his place, but Dale nodded for him to continue.
Bryan didn’t raise his voice, but the sharp steel wrapping his words could slice iron. “We take care of our own at this ranch. We will protect ourselves. With or without or in spite of law enforcement.”
“Now look here—”
“I think Boomer made our position clear, St. John,” Dale said, as if he were the sheriff putting his deputy back in his place. “You know our history. You know what happened with your predecessor.”
Sidney got the impression the sheriff hadn’t needed the reminder. He picked up his hat, palmed the crown, and planted it squarely on his head. “I have worked my a—” St. John caught himself, his lips going flat with the effort to keep what he was going to say tucked inside. “I have worked very hard these past two years rebuilding this department—”
“No one says you haven’t, son,” Dale said. “But there’s a lot of land out there and very few of you. Even if you are on our side.”
St. John grimaced and snugged his hat on tighter. He nodded once to the group then turned on his heel and strode out the screen door. The hinges screeched and the frame slapped back against the jamb.
Sidney glanced around the table. Bryan and Santos tucked back into their food. Mac pushed her half-eaten plate away and kneaded her left shoulder as if she were trying to relieve some pain. Lottie pushed her eggs around like a four-year-old trying to make it look like she was eating. Dale threw back the last of his coffee and swallowed hard.
“What was that all about?” Sidney asked.
CHAPTER TWO
Boomer rubbed at the hair standing up on the back of his neck. Lottie started clearing the half-eaten food from the kitchen table. Dale stood to help. Santos slathered another biscuit with honey, shoved it into his mouth, and vamoosed, leaving Boomer, Mac, and Sidney at the table.
Nobody jumped to answer Sidney’s question about what had happened with the sheriff.
“You wanna tell her?” Boomer asked Mac.
“You’ll have plenty of time to fill her in on your way to Rock Springs.”
Rock Springs? “Wait. What?”
“Dale got an earlier appointment at the Wild Horse Holding Facility. At noon.”
“I thought you and I were going tomorrow,” Boomer said.
“Dale wants Sidney to pick the string she wants to train.”
“Wait. What?” Sidney sounded like Mini-Me, only a few octaves higher. “I don’t know what you want. What if I get the exact opposite of what you need?”
Mac smiled at Boomer, but to him it came off as
a better-you-than-me kind of smile. “Boomer knows.”
“So do you.” In return, he gave her his best you-can’t-do-this-to-a-buddy stare, but it did nothing. “I have a load of lumber for the cabins coming in this morning.”
“And I’m meeting Hank—my husband,” she added for Sidney’s benefit, “in Cheyenne. Besides, I have all my fingers and toes. Pretty sure I can add up lumber to make sure we got everything we ordered.”
“Not funny.” He chuckled in response to her jab about his toes. At least Mac ribbed him about his leg. Much better than people who avoided the obvious. His leg was a part of him. Or more like it, not a part of him anymore.
Mac glanced at her watch. “Tic-toc, Marine.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he groused. She may have married into boss-dom. She may have even saved his sorry ass in Iraq. But that meant it was his duty to give her a hard time. Someone had to keep her grounded.
He turned his attention to Sidney. “Finished? It’s a three-hour drive and we gotta get the trailer prepped and hooked up.”
Sidney stood, her chair scraping against the floor. Bryan swallowed one last swig of coffee—he missed the splash of whiskey he normally put in his morning brew when no one was looking—and gave Lottie and Dale a nod as he and Sidney headed out the kitchen door. He was feeling a little more like a teacher on a class field trip than a ranch hand.
After they’d spread a thick layer of shavings in the back of the stock trailer and hooked it to the truck, Boomer waited in the crook of the open driver’s door. Sidney had wanted to change clothes before the drive down.
He glanced down at his jeans and army green T-shirt with “Marines” in big letters stenciled across his chest and a hole in the left armpit. It wasn’t like the horses cared what they wore. Besides, it was a tiny armpit hole and it was his favorite T-shirt.
The sun warmed his cheeks. His nerves buzzed and his stump crawled with the niggling sensation of ants that made his skin feel a size too small. Boomer reached into the inside pocket of his jean jacket, pulled out a flask, and threw back a quick swig. The Glenmorangie went down smooth—a soothing trail down the back of his throat.