by Susan Fox
When he entered the barn, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. On the ground floor, horse stalls lined a wide center aisle. Karen stood halfway up the aisle talking to a woman clad in Western garb who was squatting to stroke the dog.
As Jamal joined them, the woman straightened with a smile. A couple inches shorter than Karen, she was attractive, with short, curly strawberry blond hair framing an oval-shaped face under her Stetson. Freckles sprinkled her nose and cheeks, as well as the top of her chest, revealed by the round neckline of the gray tee she wore under an unbuttoned blue denim shirt.
Karen made the introductions and he learned that this was Sally Ryland. When she’d said “widow,” he had expected gray hair, but Sally looked to be in her midthirties, like him. Lines of tiredness did no favors to her greenish gray eyes and full, chapped lips. Her well-worn clothing was a size too big on her thin, muscular body.
“I brought Montana in,” Sally told Karen. “For you, Jamal, we’ll go with Smoke Trail. He’s an appaloosa gelding.”
Gelding, he understood. Appaloosa, he found out when Sally led the way to one of the roomy stalls, meant spotted. Smoke Trail was mostly a dark charcoal gray, but his hindquarters were white with a sprinkling of dark spots. Even Jamal could tell that this animal had good lines.
When he told Sally that, she nodded. “Yes, he does. And nice smooth gaits, and a bit of spirit. You don’t look like a man who wants a wussy horse.”
“Nope,” he agreed, wondering what “a bit of spirit” meant.
“I’ll get him ready while Karen tacks up Montana.”
And that, he found as he stood patting Tennison and watching Karen, meant putting a pad on the horse’s back, followed by a saddle and bridle.
Karen led her horse, with its glossy dark brown coat and black mane and tail, out of its stall. Sally brought Smoke Trail to join them. The two animals made friendly sounds as they greeted each other. Neither seemed bothered by Tennison, who stayed close to Karen’s left side.
The two women led the horses out of the barn into the yard, where a silver Honda CR-V was parking. “The first half of my two o’clock class,” Sally said.
Four kids around seven or eight years old, three girls and a boy, poured out. The children, dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and helmets, headed over to the horses tied to the rails.
“You teach little kids?” Jamal asked. “Or all ages?”
“All ages, but I admit to having a soft spot for the little ones.” A fond smile touched her lips.
He was about to ask if she had kids of her own, but stopped when that smile flickered out and the corners of her mouth turned down.
Briskly, she said, “I need to talk to the carpool mom. I’ll leave you in Karen’s capable hands.” She handed Smoke Trail’s reins to Jamal and headed over to greet the stocky brunette who had exited the driver’s side.
Jamal turned back to Karen. “What now?”
“Mount up. Reins in the left hand, grip here and here, left foot in the stirrup, and swing the right leg over.” As she spoke, she demonstrated. Quick and agile, she made it look easy.
He clambered aboard with less grace. As he settled into the heavy leather saddle, something tugged on the bottom of his jeans leg. “Mister,” a piping female voice said, “you’re supposed to wear boots.” A pint-sized blonde frowned up at him.
“I don’t have boots,” he told her.
The frown turned to a scowl. “Real cowboys wear boots,” she announced, then stalked back to the other kids and the horses.
To Karen, he said, “I guess that puts me in my place.”
“That’s okay.” Her eyes, more gold than brown in the sunlight, danced. “I still like you.”
The two horses set out, walking side by side across the barnyard, then onto a dirt road. The animals strode along like they were happy to be outside on a sunny June day, getting some exercise. Their mood was contagious. Particularly when he glanced to his left and saw Karen, her lithe body swaying gently with her horse’s movements. Beside her, her well-trained dog kept pace, nose raised to scent the air.
The road ran along the side of the Ryland property. “There’s a network of roads and trails going for miles,” Karen said. “Many of the locals give public access to portions of their spreads.”
“That’s generous. But I have to wonder, why aren’t some of those generous people helping out Sally? She looks worn out and her place could use some work.”
Karen turned concerned eyes on him. “I ask her and she assures me everything’s fine. She’s proud, a bit of a loner.”
Hard to criticize someone for that, since he was the same way. “Any kids?”
She shook her head. “She and her husband put a lot of work into getting Ryland Riding going. She loves kids and I’m sure they planned to have them, but then he died. He wasn’t much more than thirty. The poor guy had a serious heart condition that no one knew about. One day he had a massive heart attack and that was it.”
“Doesn’t seem right.” He and Jake had worked undercover for almost ten years and except for an occasional bullet hole or knife wound, they’d survived just fine.
He and Karen rode in silence for a while. This had a lot going for it, compared to city streets. The scenery was spectacular yet peaceful: rolling grassland, low hills, patches of trees, and wild rosebushes in bloom. Birds sang from fence posts; squirrels chattered in tree branches. Occasionally they passed someone else, either on horseback on the trail or out working on their ranches. Friendly words were exchanged, which was kind of nice compared to a city full of strangers. Tennison ranged more freely now, but stayed within sight and responded immediately when Karen called.
It was all pretty impressive, but best was the sight of Karen in her well-worn jeans, flannel shirt, cowboy boots, and Stetson, graceful and at home on her horse’s back.
A dedicated, skilled cop; a sexy, surprising lover; a natural horsewoman. He had the feeling that anything Karen chose to do, she did well. She’d be a great mom, raising responsible kids who would also know how to have fun. To play and picnic; to ride and maybe shoot hoops.
Could he see himself fitting into her life here? Hell, he’d blended into the roughest gangs and he’d once infiltrated an evangelical church to prove that the leader was a pedophile. Despite the little blond girl’s censure over his footwear, he could fit in in the country. If he wanted to.
“How are you liking it?” Karen’s voice drew him from his thoughts.
“Not bad, but do these horses have only one speed?”
“I’ve been taking it easy on you, letting you adjust.”
“Adjust to a horse walking? Oh yeah, big challenge.”
“All right, tough guy, we’ll kick it up to a trot and then try a lope. Plant your butt deep in the saddle, keep your back straight, heels down in the stirrups—which is one reason for wearing boots. Don’t be afraid to grab on to the horn or the cantle.” She patted the back part of her saddle.
“Got it.”
Her horse sped up, with his following along. The first gait, the trot, was a bone shaker, but he kept his balance without grabbing on to the saddle. Then, when the horses loped, he quickly caught on to Smoke Trail’s rocking motion.
Karen tossed him a smile. “Okay?”
“Okay!” Though they weren’t going all that fast, it was exciting. In its own way, even more exciting than riding a motorbike. It was more primitive and raw, just man and beast. He smothered a chuckle. Here he was, going all Wild West. Next thing he knew, he’d be buying cowboy boots.
As the horses ran side by side through a patch of sparse trees, Karen said, “We need to pull up because this trail crosses another up ahead.” She called, “Tennison! Come!”
The horses slowed, heads tossing as if to make it clear they weren’t happy about it, until they were walking again. The dog bounded up and fell in beside them. Ahead, through the final few trees, Jamal saw another country road with a parade of maybe ten riders approaching. “Man, it’s a crow
d.” These were adults, not kids, and they all wore riding helmets except for the leader, a pretty woman with glossy chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail, riding a near-white horse.
“That’s the group from Riders Boot Camp, coming back from their Saturday trail ride.”
“Another riding school?”
“An intensive residential one. Students sign up for one or two weeks, and come from all over Canada and the States. Whereas Sally gives lessons to local kids and adults.”
On reaching the spot where the roads intersected, Karen stopped Montana. Smoke Trail and Tennison halted on either side.
The ponytailed woman stopped her group too. Moving her horse a few paces ahead of them, she said, “Hey, Karen. Who’s your friend?” Her gaze rested on Jamal with open curiosity.
“Hi, Jess. Jessica Kincaid, meet Jamal Estevez. Jamal, Jess is the owner of Riders Boot Camp and she’s also Brooke’s daughter-in-law. Jess, Jamal is—”
“You’re Cousin Arnold’s—I mean Corporal Brannon’s—RCMP colleague,” Jess finished. Her eyes sparkled. “You’re in Caribou Crossing tidying up details on the Miller arrest?”
He glanced at Karen, looking for a cue. Did she worry about people gossiping?
“No,” she said, “this is purely a social visit.”
“Nice.” A smile widened on Jess’s face. “Very nice. I hope you have a wonderful time, Jamal.”
“So far, so good.”
“Karen, you gonna bring him to the Wild Rose tomorrow night?” Her smile tilted into a grin.
Karen grinned back. “I’ll do my best.”
“See you then.” Jess waved them on, to proceed ahead of her group.
When they were out of earshot, Jamal asked, “What’s at the Wild Rose tomorrow?”
“Line dancing.”
He winced. “Did I mention, I think I’m coming down with the flu?”
“Ha ha.” She slanted him a seductive gaze from under the brim of her hat. “There’ll be slow dancing too.”
“Hmm.”
“Slow dancing can be a lot like foreplay, don’t you think?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Okay, you win.”
She grinned. “I like a man who can admit when he’s wrong.” Then the smile faded and she gazed at him with an expression he couldn’t read.
Next thing he knew, she’d stopped Montana. When Smoke Trail halted too, Karen shifted her horse closer so that her leg brushed Jamal’s. “I like you, Jamal.” She leaned toward him in a clear invitation to kiss.
He stretched over to meet her lips with his. The kiss went deep, fast. His body’s response was fast too, tightening, swelling.
Smoke Trail moved restlessly, jarring them apart.
“Have mercy, Karen. A Western saddle’s not designed to accommodate a hard-on.”
She gave him a saucy, pleased look, then got their horses going again. How did she do that, with no obvious signals? Riding clearly took skill. And, as he was learning, strong thigh muscles. His own, which had no problem running ten miles, felt a little sore.
“So that was Brooke’s daughter-in-law,” he said.
“As of a year ago. Brooke acquired a granddaughter, and now Jess is pregnant again. Hard to believe Brooke’s a grandma, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, she’s so young and pretty.” And she’d survived an amazing amount of shit—bipolar disorder and alcoholism—and come out strong.
“She and Jake seemed pretty close,” Karen mused. “And yet she said they agreed it was just short term.”
“Yeah. He’s a loner.”
“Just like you were,” she pointed out.
“You know how you said your mom’s life changed in five minutes? Well, that night you and I stayed up talking, you got me thinking. Seeing possibilities. Jake’s not thinking that way.”
“Then Brooke’s better off without him,” she said sadly. “It just seemed like they really cared about each other.” She shook her head bemusedly. “Listen to me. I’m turning into a romantic.” She shot him a wink. “Words guaranteed to scare off any guy, right?”
“I don’t scare easy, Corporal MacLean.”
The only thing that terrified him was how she’d react if she ever found out his guilty secret.
But she wouldn’t. Only he and Jake knew what had happened on that assignment two years ago. Jake would never tell anyone. It was the past, and it would remain dead and buried. It had nothing to do with Jamal’s relationship with Karen. She was his fresh start.
As Jamal and Karen left the dance floor at the Wild Rose pub, he, breathing hard, said, “Does this prove I’d do anything for you?” He still had trouble believing she’d talked him into line dancing.
Not appearing the least bit winded, she said, “Oh come on, you love it. And you’re good at it.”
“You said there’d be slow songs. Foreplay songs.”
“We’ve had a couple. They’ll play another one soon.”
“No dancing with anyone else this time,” he warned. For one number, she’d wanted to swap partners with Brooke and a sandy-haired guy a few years younger than him. Brooke looked particularly pretty, almost glowing, and a secretive smile played around her lips. She didn’t ask about Jake. Maybe she’d already moved on. Jake was a dickhead, letting her get away.
“Deal.” Karen bumped her shoulder against his. “I need to hit the ladies’ room. Get me a beer?”
“Sure.”
He watched her walk across the room, exchanging greetings as she went. At least forty people crowded the Western-style pub, many still dancing, most clearly regulars. A white-haired couple, Jimmy B and his wife, Bets, were the line dance instructors. They’d kept the group hopping—and Jamal’s feet tangled up—for much of the last hour.
As he headed toward the bar, he was aware of being the only guy in the room who wasn’t wearing boots and a Western shirt. His jeans fit in fine, but his tee and Nikes made him stand out. Not that there was any chance of him blending in here, not with everyone knowing everyone. And each one as curious as hell about his relationship with Karen.
A couple of men watched him approach the bar. Karen had introduced him to one of them already: Evan Kincaid, Brooke’s son, who was there with his wife, Jess. The other was the swap-partners guy.
Evan introduced the two men. “This is Dave Cousins, the owner of the Wild Rose. Dave, Jamal Estevez.”
So this was the friend Karen shared dinner and movies with. Tall and fit, he was good-looking in an all-Canadian-guy kind of way. Karen had said there were no sparks between them, yet she’d wanted to dance with this guy and they’d looked pretty comfortable in each other’s arms.
Dave’s gaze wasn’t exactly unfriendly, but it was definitely assessing. “Came up to see Karen?”
“I did.”
“She’s a terrific woman.” There was a warning note in his voice. Maybe a hint of possessiveness or jealousy?
“I know she is.”
“She’s done a lot of good for this community,” Dave went on. “We’d hate to lose her.”
Or did he mean he’d hate to lose her? Jamal felt a jealous twinge of his own. What, exactly, was Karen’s relationship with this man?
“On the other hand,” Evan said lightly, “Caribou Crossing could use another good cop.”
Jamal figured this wasn’t the time to explain why he and Karen couldn’t work together here.
The female bartender, a slender, attractive young Native Canadian woman with a rippling sheet of black hair, came their way. “What can I get you?”
“A bottle of Caribou Crossing Pale Ale for me, Madisun,” Evan said, “and a ginger ale for my pregnant wife.”
She served up the ginger ale in a tall glass with ice, handed Evan a beer bottle, and gave another beer to Dave. Those lightly sweating brown bottles looked so damned good, Jamal’s breath quickened with need. He intended to order a beer for Karen and a tomato juice for himself, but somehow heard himself say, “Another couple of ales.”
“Coming up,�
�� she said cheerfully.
Okay, no problem. He’d do his dump-and-refill trick.
The bartender handed him two bottles, and damn, they felt good in his hands.
Dave hoisted his drink. “To Caribou Crossing.”
Jamal and Evan clicked their bottles against his, and then all three men raised their bottles to their lips.
Jamal breathed in a crisp, hoppy scent. Irresistible. What difference would one sip make?
It would mean he’d failed again. Fuck, it shouldn’t have to be this hard.
Muscles screaming in protest, he forced his hand to lower the bottle, the beer untasted. There. He was sober. A minute at a time. He was in control and he wasn’t going to violate Karen’s trust, or Jake’s.
“I grew up in Caribou Crossing,” Evan said.
“Oh yeah?” Big surprise. And who cared about Evan anyhow? The bottle felt so damn right in his hands, like an old friend. Jamal needed to dump the beer quick, before habit—or fierce craving—overcame two years of hard-won sobriety.
“To me, it was a hick town,” the other man went on. “I couldn’t wait to get out. I lived in New York and loved it.”
“And then you came back,” Dave said. He and Evan exchanged a meaningful glance that Jamal, in his distracted state, couldn’t hope to read.
“It was a shock to my system,” Evan said. “But I soon realized how much Caribou Crossing has going for it. It’s a healthy life. Perfect if you plan to raise a family.”
“Karen sure likes it here,” Dave put in.
Both men gazed at him, neither hiding his curiosity.
Yeah, “Mind your own business” did not apply in Caribou Crossing.
He glanced away, across the room, and saw Karen talking to another woman. A moment later, she headed in his direction. Relieved to escape the conversation, he went to meet her. When he handed her a bottle of beer, she glanced at the bottle in his other hand. “You’re drinking?”
Panic froze him in place. Had she figured out that he was an alcoholic?
“You’re not worried about feeling sick?” she went on.
Relief whooshed through him, along with annoyance at himself. He never forgot a cover story. But tonight the craving for a drink had made him forget what he’d told her. He cleared his throat. “Damn, that was stupid. Habit. Yeah, I’d better not. Want mine?”