Soul Deep

by Pamela Clare

  Burt said nothing, his gaze lifting to follow Janet, who was searching the wall of the barn with a flashlight, hoping to find the bullet embedded in the wall. Burt had always been quiet, but that was fine. Jack didn’t hire men to talk. Burt was a good hand with horses and cattle both and a hard worker. As far as Jack could recollect, he’d never had an occasion to complain about Burt’s performance on the job—until today.

  There were seventeen other men who worked and lived on the ranch, but Jack couldn’t imagine any one of them doing this.

  “Jack.” Janet turned toward them, motioned Jack over, her stiff posture all the proof Jack needed that she was cold.

  Jack stood, crossed the corral, and climbed over the fence to join her. “Find something?”

  She turned the flashlight on the barn wall, where he could see a bullet hole. “Either the slug embedded here, or it went through the wall. What’s on the other side?”

  “A closet full of old tack and grooming gear.”

  She lowered her voice, her teeth chattering, her cheeks red from cold. “I wouldn’t have said anything with your men standing around, but now that I’ve found the slug, we need to get our hands on it before the shooter does.”

  “You should go back inside and let me handle this. It’s ten below out here, far too cold for a special agent who was fighting hypothermia earlier today, no matter how tough she thinks she is.”

  “I’ll go back inside when you’ve got the slug.”

  “You mean to tell me you’re watching my back?” It was a sweet idea, if completely absurd.

  “There’s no one else here I trust to do that. If the person who shot Chinook did so deliberately, there’s a good chance it was done to hurt you. Since he didn’t succeed in killing the stallion, he might escalate the violence and go after you directly.”

  “All right then.” He fished his Swiss army knife out of his pocket, took Janet’s flashlight, and knelt down. “It’s still in here.”

  It was harder to dig out than he’d imagined, the wood seasoned and hard. By now, his actions had drawn the attention of his men, who stood in a group, leaning against the corral fence and watching.

  “She’s an FBI agent,” Chuck said.

  “No shit?” Burt answered. “She doesn’t look like an agent.”

  Finally, Jack pried it loose. “Got it.”

  A copper-jacketed slug fell into his gloved hand.

  “It’s a forty-five,” Janet said.

  “It sure looks like it.”

  “You are going to bring the sheriff in on this, aren’t you?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.” Before she could object, which he could tell she was about to do, he went on. “We can talk about it—inside. I want you out of this cold now.”

  The storm was picking up speed, flakes falling thick and fast.

  He turned to the men. “Shut the lights down and stow them away. Thanks for your help tonight, men. Warm up, and get some sleep. Chuck, lock up the stables.”

  Normally, they didn’t lock the stables, but things weren’t normal tonight. Jack would take no chances where Chinook was concerned—or Janet, for that matter.

  Holding the slug in his left hand, he offered her his right arm. “It’s slippery.”

  She tucked her arm through his, smiled. “It’s okay. I won’t let you fall.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sniper! Nine o’clock!

  Janet jerked awake to the memory of flying bullets, sat up in bed, her body drenched in cold sweat, her heart pounding, her stomach in knots.

  It was the third time tonight she’d been awakened by that same nightmare.

  She turned on the light on her nightstand.

  Four in the morning.

  She reached for her cane, got to her feet, then went into the bathroom, where she splashed cold water on her face. She knew she ought to try to get more sleep. She was running a serious sleep deficit. But sleeping would mean dreaming, and she didn’t want to dream again.

  Instead, she undressed and climbed into the shower, turning the water on as hot as she could stand it, washing the dream away, letting the multiple shower heads massage tension from her back and shoulders. But as the tension began to ebb, tears came. She wasn’t sure why she was crying. It was probably just stress and fatigue. Or maybe it was the nightmare. What had happened yesterday must have triggered her in some way.

  Listen to yourself.

  She hated how emotionally fragile she’d become. The person she’d been a year ago wouldn’t have been thrown over an emotional edge by the sight of a bullet wound. It hadn’t even been that serious of an injury.

  Of course, she hated the fact that someone had hurt Chinook. She supposed it might have been an accident. She knew that’s what Jack was hoping. People who abused animals were the worst. Lacking empathy even for innocent creatures, they were likely to hurt other people, too. She hoped Jack caught the bastard.

  Oh, God, how was she going to face Jack?

  Memories of last night flooded her mind, made her pulse pick up.

  You’re a beautiful woman.

  Is that you talking—or the Côte de Brouilly?

  It takes more than a few glasses of wine to make me say things I don’t mean—scotch if you want poetry.

  She closed her eyes, let the hot water pour over her as she remembered what his kiss had felt like—the brush of his lips against hers, the skilled teasing of his tongue, the hard feel of his body. God, she loved the way he kissed. She loved his confidence. She even loved the way he smelled.

  Have you lost your mind?

  Now wasn’t the right time to get involved with a man. She had so far to go to get her life back together. She had finished rehab, but she was still adapting. On Monday, she was starting her new position. Most of all, she had no idea if she could even enjoy being in a relationship with a man.

  Yes, she had healed, but her surgeon had cautioned her that she might find sex painful, at least for a while. He’d also warned her that pelvic damage of the kind she’d sustained often left women with some level of sexual dysfunction. She’d taken that to mean she might find it hard to climax. She ought to have experimented on her own, tried to figure out what still worked for her, but months of pain and narcotics and the breakup with Byron had squelched her libido.

  Still, last night had proved to her that she still had sexual needs. That was something at least. But was she ready to go there?

  No. Not yet. Her body with its new limitations and scars did not feel like her own. She wasn’t quite up to exploring its unfamiliar terrain with another person, no matter how handsome he was.

  She turned off the water, reached for a towel, dried herself, her mind made up.

  After breakfast, she would call for a tow truck and a ride back to Denver. Her week of relaxation in the mountains was blown thanks to the weather. While it had been kind of Jack to offer to house her for the week, she might as well get home and face real life head-on. If she stayed, she’d only be leading him on. Even if he had been despicably rude the first time they’d met, he didn’t deserve that.

  She dried her hair, put on her makeup, and dressed, then left her room, thinking she’d explore the library until Jack awoke. It was nearly five AM, and with livestock to care for, he would probably be up and awake soon.

  She was surprised to hear voices coming from the kitchen. She found Jack there, drinking coffee, reading the paper, and listening to a radio program about agricultural futures—prices on hog bellies, cattle, soybeans, and other crops.

  He looked up, smiled. “Morning. You sleep well?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say “yes,” but there was a gentleness in his gaze that had the truth spilling out of her before she could stop it. “No. I kept having nightmares. I finally gave up.”

  “Nightmares?” He frowned, got to his feet, pulled out a chair for her. “It’s a good thing I’ve got coffee going. You take yours with milk, right?”

  “You remembered.” She was surprised. �
�How’s Chinook?”

  “He seems to be fine—a bit shaken up, but fine.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. Are you going to report this to the sheriff?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think you should. It costs nothing but time to file a report. The sheriff’s department will be able to investigate the situation impartially. If the shooter meant to hurt you, the violence might escalate.” She’d already said this, and now she would drop it.

  “You’re right.” He poured coffee into a mug, set it down in front of her.

  She needed to tell him her plans, let him know what she had in mind before he could entice her with horses or aspens or food. “I’m going to call for a tow truck today and head back to Denver.”

  He reached for a porcelain creamer and set it down on the table for her. “You can call for a tow truck if you’d like, but you’ll have a bit of a wait. We got another eighteen inches overnight, and there was an avalanche a few miles down the canyon. I’m sorry to break the news, but the highway is closed.”

  She didn’t like this. “How long will it take them to open it?”

  “Lacking a crystal ball, I can only guess, but I’d say at least a day or two.”

  “Then I guess I’ll stay—for a day or two.”

  # # #

  Jack took his gaze off the icy, snow-packed highway long enough to glance over at Janet, who was bundled up and buckled into the passenger seat. He could tell she hadn’t slept, dark circles beneath her eyes, her pretty face lined with fatigue.

  She’d asked to come with him when he’d told her he was driving hay up to the high pasture. He’d warned her it was likely to be as exciting as watching paint dry, but she’d been all right with that. Despite his concerns about taking her along when driving conditions were almost certain to be hazardous, he was happy for the company.

  “Mind if I ask what these nightmares are about?” He supposed he ought to mind his own damned business, but he didn’t like the idea of her being afraid, especially not under his roof.

  “It’s like I’m reliving the moment I was shot. I hear Javier shout, ‘Sniper! Nine o’clock!’ Then gunshots ring out, and I’m down and in pain, and there’s blood everywhere. I usually wake up at that point.”

  Combat nightmares.

  Jack had had them off and on for years after coming home from Nam, and he hadn’t been injured—not seriously anyway. But damned if he hadn’t watched a lot of young men die, heard them screaming, seen their bodies torn apart. “Have you ever talked to anyone about your dreams?”

  “Like a counselor?” She didn’t look at him, her gaze focused straight ahead, her voice emotionless. “Yes. I thought they’d stopped. I haven’t had them for a while. I think seeing the wound on Chinook’s forearm or seeing that bullet brought it back.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I invited you to enjoy the hospitality of the Cimarron, promising you a relaxing week, and I failed to deliver.” This was just one more reason Jack needed to find the son of a bitch who’d pulled the trigger.

  “It’s not something you could have prevented.”

  “That’s exactly why it bothers me.”

  He prided himself on his management of the Cimarron, on knowing what was happening from one end of his land to the other. But someone—either an outsider or an employee—had stood fifty yards from his house and shot Chinook, a prized stud who’d been born here, a horse he’d hand-raised from a colt, and Jack had no idea who had done it or why. Chuck had talked to the men, but no one had admitted to a misfire, and no one could remember seeing or hearing anything. All he had in the way of evidence was the damage to Chinook and a .45 slug.

  Then another thought came to him.

  “Is what happened to Chinook the reason you’re in a hurry to leave—or is last night’s kiss to blame?”

  She looked over at him, her dark brow furrowed. “Neither. I just need to get my car in for repairs before I start my new position next week.”

  “I see.” He did—right through her. “I came on too strong, didn’t I?”

  “Maybe. No. Not at all. It’s just... ” She hesitated. “I enjoyed kissing you, if you must know. In fact, I enjoyed it a little too much.”

  Back in his twenties and thirties, Jack might have thought her words were emotional nonsense, the kind of thing women said just to drive men insane. But he understood it better now—or he thought he did.

  “It’s about this Byron guy, isn’t it? And your injuries.”

  She looked over at him, then quickly looked away again. “Something like that. I’m just not ready for a relationship yet.”

  Jack understood that, too. He’d had similar feelings. He’d gone to bed last night not only worried about Chinook, but wondering what the hell had gotten into him. He was sixty-three, a widower, a grandfather. What business did he have getting close to a woman her age? She was eighteen years younger than he was, for God’s sake.

  It had taken one look at her this morning to silence those doubts. She was a beautiful, desirable woman. Kissing her last night had made him feel alive again for the first time since Theresa’s death. He wouldn’t feel bad about that.

  He reached over, took her hand. “I’m not going to rush you. There’s no rushing anything up here. But please don’t run off on account of me. Stay and enjoy the mountains and the horses. You’ve seen Chinook, but you haven’t seen the mares, and you haven’t ridden yet. You came up here wanting to do those things, and there’s no reason you can’t do them. We’ll take care of the car. Don’t worry.”

  “Where is it?”

  “We passed it about a mile back.”

  “What?” Her head jerked around to look behind them.

  “It’s been completely buried, courtesy of CDOT. There’s no towing company that’s going to be willing to dig it out for you. My men and I will handle that when the snow lets up. In the meantime, I promise not to kiss you again. However, if you kiss me first, I will kiss you back. I think that’s only fair, don’t you?”

  She looked over at him again, but this time, there was a smile on her face. “You’re confident, aren’t you?”

  But he wasn’t—not when it came to Janet.

  “Here we are.” He turned off the highway, lowered the plow, and began clearing a path to the pasture.

  The cows were waiting for him again, lowing impatiently.

  “This will take a good ten or fifteen minutes.” He parked the truck. “If you start to get cold, I’ve got a blanket stashed behind my seat.”

  He got out of the truck, climbed into the back, and began cutting bales. He’d expected Janet to stay in the vehicle, but she didn’t. She climbed out and walked carefully up to the fence and began having a nice chat with the cows.

  “Look at you!” She reached through the fence to pet one of the animals. “You’ve got snow on your coat. I bet you’re cold and hungry.”

  There was a big smile on her sweet face, fatigue and worry replaced by dimples, her dark hair catching in the cold wind. And he thought he could see just a hint of the little girl who’d read books up in apple trees.

  She looked up at him, her face bright. “They’re so big!”

  He felt a hitch in his chest, felt his world shift on its axis.

  Ah, shit!

  “Wait till you see the bulls,” he managed to say as he tossed hay over the fence.

  # # #

  After delivering hay to the cows in the high pasture, they returned to the ranch house, where Jack made an amazing breakfast of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and flapjacks, with fresh-squeezed orange juice and lots of strong coffee. Strangely, Janet didn’t feel tired. When he suggested they go out and check on the horses, she felt wide awake and excited for it.

  “My father started with two mares.” He offered her his arm as they walked the short distance to the second of two horse barns. “He had a natural instinct for horseflesh. By the tim
e he passed, we’d become known nationally for our quarter horses with three champion stallions. I learned from him.”

  He opened the door for her, let her enter first, warmth rushing over her face, the familiar scents of horses, hay, and leather welcoming her.

  “Is Chinook one of yours?”

  He nodded. “He was born here in these stables. He’s still young as stallions go. He’ll be seven in May.”

  “Why is he kept in a barn by himself? Doesn’t that get lonely?”

  “You said you had two geldings?” He said this as if it amused him, a smile tugging at his lips.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Stallions can be a handful. Chinook has a strong sex drive. The moment he scents a mare in season, all he can think about is mating with her. If we put him in the same building as the mares, he would tear the place apart. He’d wreak havoc every time one of them was in estrus. He’d kick down his stall, tear down hers, and attack any horse—mare or gelding—that got in his way. As for being lonely, he gets a lot of female attention during the breeding season, and we keep him busy.”

  She’d had no idea stallions could be that difficult to handle. “So you just bring the mares to him when it’s time?”

  “More or less.”

  “How many mares does he breed each season?”

  “He sires probably a hundred-twenty foals each year.”

  “Good grief! He must be very proud of himself.” But that raised another question. “How do you know when the mares are fertile?”

  “Some stallions have good enough manners that you can use them to tease the mares and gauge where they are in their cycles, but not Chinook. We use ultrasounds and palpation to check the mares, and then bring them to him when they’re in deep estrus.”

  “It sounds like quite an operation.”

  They turned a corner, and Janet had to fight not to squeal. A dozen stalls stretched out before her, each one holding a beautiful palomino quarter horse, their coats ranging from the almost silver color of Chinook’s to deep golden and even chocolate hues. Their heads came up, and there was a ripple of excitement as they recognized Jack.