Remember Me, Cowboy

by Caroline Burnes

  Even as she rested back against him, he felt the tension in her. Well, he couldn’t blame her. Now that she remembered he was an ex-con, she didn’t want to be that close to him. But just for a split second, she’d seemed mighty glad that he was there.

  What would it be like to have this woman care for him in that way? The thought was like a sharp kick, so painful that Slate wondered if he’d been shot.

  Her reaction to the change in his expression was instant. “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “No,” he assured her. “I thought for a few minutes that you might be seriously injured. Looks like it was a glancing blow. No serious damage.”

  “Lightning has never frozen like that. If you hadn’t…” She licked her dry lips. “You saved my horse, and then you risked your life again to save me.” She turned to look at the narrow opening, now filled with rocks. “What caused the landslide?”

  “I don’t know.” But he had some suspicions. “When you feel like it, we should take a look.”

  Cassidy took a breath and sat up. “I’m fine, Slate.” She looked at the pass. “Thank you. That was brave—”

  He shook his head. “Thanks aren’t necessary. Anybody would have done the same thing.”

  This time her smile lingered. “Not many people would have gone back in that ravine with half a ton of rock falling to save another person, much less a horse.”

  Slate felt his own lips tugging into a reluctant smile. He’d gone back for her—and he knew she’d never leave her horse. “Lightning seems to be a really nice horse.”

  Cassidy couldn’t help the laughter.

  Slate laughed, too, glad to see that she’d caught his dry humor. He looked down at her hand and felt again the brush of her fingertips on his cheek. Some man would be very lucky to have this woman. Very lucky.

  “Let’s see if we can discover what happened,” she said, rising slowly to her feet.

  “While you were out, Joker came and paid you a visit. He was quite taken with you,” Slate said as he, too, stood.

  “Really?” Cassidy’s blue eyes snapped to life.

  “He came right up to you and seemed to be guarding you. It was something to see.”

  She turned to him and stopped abruptly, eyes widening as they dropped to his bare chest. They lingered there, and before she turned away, Slate caught something wistful in her gaze.

  He felt a twinge of self-consciousness and picked up his shirt from the ground, shook it out and put it on. “It’ll dry in no time,” he said.

  “Yes.” She stumbled slightly as she turned away. “Thank you again.”

  “Any time,” Slate said, and this time he was glad she couldn’t see his smile. He didn’t fully understand it, but her reaction had given him a grain of hope.

  THE OUTCROPPING KNOWN as Big Boot was gone. It looked as if the top of the ravine had been smashed and hollowed out by a giant fist. Easing to the edge, Cassidy looked down to the pass below. She saw with a sense of wonder that it was a miracle she and her horse were alive. And Slate, too.

  The ground was littered with stones of all shapes and sizes, and a layer of dust hung over the bottom.

  “The timing on this is more than a little suspicious,” Slate said from ten feet behind her.

  The picture of his broad chest, bared in the sunlight, was in the back of her mind. She forced it away as she turned to face the man who had no idea how intimately she’d once known every plane and angle of his body. Or how much pleasure she’d taken in holding and touching him. In so many ways, it was as if he’d never been away. Certainly not in prison. Whether he had his memory or not, he’d kept his dry wit. And the green sparkle that occasionally flashed in his eyes was something from her past—and her fantasies. Even as she met his gaze, the feel of his face lingered on her fingertips.

  “You don’t think the rock slide was an accident?” It had never crossed her mind that it could be anything else. The outcropping had hung out there so precariously—the slide seemed almost inevitable. Except that Big Boot had hung there for decades. And it was odd that the disaster should happen just at the moment they were in the path of it. Ranching was a practical life, and coincidence wasn’t a word you’d hear on the lips of a man or woman who worked livestock. Slate was right, they should check it out.

  Slate called her attention to the remaining face of the rock. His own hand, large and calloused, moved over the concave surface. “It’s possible that it was a natural accident, but I want to look around.” He began sifting through the rubble.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “If it wasn’t an accident, there should be a blasting cap or some remaining evidence.”

  His words were so matter-of-fact, they were even more horrible. Cassidy couldn’t help but wonder if prison had hardened him so. The very idea that someone had set a charge—had intended to…kill her—sent shivers down her spine.

  She found that he was staring at her, and she couldn’t hide her fear. “Who would do such a thing?” she asked. “And why?”

  “I can’t answer that.” He pointed to tracks. “But someone has been up here on a horse shod with heel caulks. Are you running any horses out here shod like that?”

  She shook her head. “If the horses are in pasture, they’re unshod. I don’t like to leave them out with shoes on.” She hesitated. “But there are several at the barn with heel caulks.”

  He stooped over the tracks and brushed at them lightly. “They’re fresh.” He moved suddenly forward and picked up a long pole. Gazing at it with a speculative look, he looked into the distance again. “You said Cole Benson was after the stallion.” It was as much a question as a statement.

  “Yes.”

  “Let me take a look at something.” He hurried down to the bottom of the overhang, sliding in his haste. When he reached the ground, he began searching the sides, ignoring the dust that lingered.

  “What?” Cassidy called down.

  “You’d better come down here,” he said, standing up.

  He held something in his hand. Cassidy skittered down the rock. The way he stood made her anxious. “What?”

  He held out the filament. “It was a booby trap. Set to go off when horses, or something big enough to trip it, went through the ravine. Whoever did it used that pole up there as a fulcrum to loosen the rock formation. This thin wire went across the path and then up to the fulcrum. The rock was precariously balanced. It didn’t take much to set the chain reaction in progress. I must have set it off and you got caught in the rock slide.” There was cold anger in his voice as he looked up. “Some bastard meant to kill those wild horses.”

  Her intake of breath was both horror and anger. “This is my ranch, and no one has a right to come here and set traps of any kind for any reason.”

  “Whoever did this is very foolhardy,” Slate said. His green eyes were narrow and hard. “And very calculating.”

  “Cole wants Joker dead, but I can’t believe he would be this stupid.” Cassidy really didn’t believe her neighbor would do such a thing. “Lindsey could have been riding back here. Or any of the hands.”

  Slate was watching her, and his stare made her feel uncomfortable. All hint of tenderness was gone. His face might as well have been carved from the very stone that surrounded them. “Slate?” She spoke his name without thinking.

  “The idea that someone would be stupid or careless enough to set up something like this—” He broke off. It was clearly with an effort of will that he tamped his anger down. “If you’ll get the horses, I want to take another look up top.”

  “Okay.” But it wasn’t. Slate’s anger, on top of the rock slide, made her feel as if she were walking a tightrope without a net. She heard his boots in the loose rocks as he went up the steep incline. When she looked up, his silhouette was a shadow in the sun. Once again she was flooded with poignancy. She had seen him so often—building a fence or gentling a horse—as just a silhouette against the setting sun. And prison had not changed him. Not physi
cally. But what had it done to him inside? Now the smallest display of anger, even when justified, frightened her. Perhaps it would be better if she didn’t hire him to help with the horses and to catch Joker.

  As she started toward Cutter and Lightning, she knew she didn’t have a choice there. She’d been trying for better than a year to catch the elusive stallion and hadn’t gotten within half a mile. Now, the first time Slate walked on the property, the big bay had been within touching distance—twice.

  If she were going to have one shot in a million at catching Joker, it would be with Slate. And she needed that one shot, with Cole determined to rid the rangeland of the stallion.

  She gathered up Cutter’s reins and reached for Lightning. With both horses obediently following her, she started back to the ravine.

  Lightning balked, and she stopped to soothe the mare’s fears. Even with patience and a steady hand, it took her ten minutes to get the mare to reenter the narrow pass. By the time she walked out the other side, Slate was waiting for her, his face not exactly grim, but certainly not happy. And her mind was made up. Slate was hired, and he would live in the bunkhouse. Once Joker was captured, she could reevaluate her plan. Until then, she could only pray that Slate didn’t recover his memory—or ignite too many of hers.

  THE GUN WAS JUST AS Rusty Jones had described it, a beautiful weapon that balanced in Slate’s hand. As he tightened his grip around the handle, he saw the young deputy’s gaze flick nervously.

  Slate tucked the gun back into the holster he’d recently bought. “Thanks,” he said.

  Sheriff Noll Owens walked up to the counter with a slow, steady pace. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t let you have the gun, Slate. State law doesn’t allow a felon to have a gun. But Rusty said it was a valuable collector’s piece and that you were putting it somewhere for safekeeping. He said to let you have it.” Owens adjusted his black leather belt. “Like I said, if it was up to me, you wouldn’t get it.”

  “But it isn’t up to you,” Slate responded.

  “No, but I don’t like the idea of it. And I don’t like the way you’re looking at it and holding it.”

  “That’s not up to you, either,” Slate said.

  The sheriff blew air. “Don’t be a fool, Slate. That’s all I’m going to say to you. Hook’em said you were living out on his ranch. Stay out there for a month or two, work the cows, get back in the routine of being a free man. Don’t start any trouble.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” Slate said as he turned and walked out of the sheriff’s office, the gun firmly in his hand.

  The town of Boerne, the Kendall County seat, bustled around him, and he stopped to remember the days of his trial. It all seemed like a bad dream now. Every day, he’d walked into the courtroom and seen people who looked at him with sorrow and disbelief. With anger and disappointment. People who’d known him all his life, people he’d worked beside and laughed with. People he no longer recognized. And Cassidy O’Neal had been one of those people. She was there every day, sitting just behind him, so close that he was always aware of her. And yet separated by a distance that was much more than the wooden rail that divided the spectators from the participants in the trial.

  There had been hope in her eyes. He recognized the emotion now. But he didn’t have a clue what she hoped for—his innocence, his punishment, what?

  A horn sounded, and he looked up into the steady brown gaze of a dark-haired man driving a red-and-silver dual pickup.

  “Slate!” the man called. He whipped the big truck into an impossibly small parking space and jumped out. He was standing beside Slate in a flash. “I heard you were back. It’s good to see you. I’m delighted to hear you’re staying in Kendall County.”

  “Thanks.” Slate was adrift.

  “Cole Benson,” the man said, slapping his arm good-naturedly. “I heard you never regained your memory. And after all the times those broncs kicked you in the head and you never even blacked out.”

  “Yeah,” Slate said. So this was the bronc rider who was trying to capture wild horses—and possibly setting dangerous traps on Cassidy’s land. “Speaking of broncs, someone set a trap for that wild stallion. Cassidy was almost killed.”

  “That’s too bad. I told Cassidy that horse was going to get someone killed.”

  Slate clenched his fist. Cole wasn’t admitting or denying anything. But he wasn’t suitably sorry. “Well, the next trap set on Double O land is going to cause trouble. Big trouble.”

  Cole’s gaze fell on the gun in Slate’s hand. “Is that a good idea?”

  Slate blinked as the meaning of Cole’s words registered. He was a felon. He couldn’t own a gun. He shrugged. “I’m selling it. It’s a collector’s item, and I need the cash.”

  “Your father’s gun, wasn’t it?” Cole asked. “I’ll loan you some money and hold the gun for collateral.”

  Slate hesitated. Cole Benson was acting as if they were friends, just as the newspaper clippings had said. “No, thanks, Cole. I want to keep my personal life and my business transactions separate. There’s a dealer in Houston who’ll pay top dollar.”

  “Suit yourself,” Cole said. “It’s good to see you back on the streets. I’ll see you at the barbecue tomorrow night, right?”

  “Sure,” Slate answered. He knew Hook’em was cooking and that the barbecue was a big deal to his friend. So he would be there. He had most of his gear already packed in his truck for the move to the Double O, but he had to get Stargazer. He wondered again at Hook’em’s reaction when he’d told the old cowboy he was taking a job as horse trainer at the Double O. Delight was the only word that described Hook’em’s expression, though he’d turned gruff and ornery as quickly as possible.

  Slate sighed and walked on. Figuring folks out wasn’t his forte. If he had any talent at figuring anything out, it was horses. And that’s where he intended to focus his energies.

  DUST SWIRLED AROUND the legs of the gray gelding that trotted in the round pen, and Slate pulled the truck over so that he could watch as Cassidy worked the two-year-old. He couldn’t decide whether to watch the horse or the woman, and he finally settled on Cassidy. She kept her body turned squarely to the young horse, pushing her out to the boundary of the pen.

  He noticed that she used the same training techniques that he favored. It was odd—as far as he could remember, he’d never seen anyone else use them. He’d begun to believe he was the only person who understood that a horse could be trained without violence.

  He was so impressed, he forgot his things and went to the rail and took a seat Across the ring, several other hands had stopped to watch Cassidy work.

  “That filly makes a fine pet dog, but what are you going to do when you have to put a bridle and saddle on her?” one of the ranch hands asked.

  “She won’t get upset,” Cassidy assured them. “Once she trusts me, she’ll do anything I ask, willingly. Pay attention, because this is the way I want all of my animals handled. There’s no need for harsh treatment.”

  The man laughed, and Cassidy shot him a look that shut him up.

  Slate found that he was smiling. When she finished working the mare, he slid down from the rail and walked into the center of the arena. The gray gave him a wary glance and then stepped closer.

  “That was some fine work,” Slate said. “I was hoping we weren’t going to butt heads on training techniques, but we do it exactly the same way.”

  Cassidy laughed, and he was startled to see her blue eyes were sparkling with happy memories. “You taught me, Slate,” she said. “I know you don’t remember, but I was your first convert.”

  “You were?” Slate felt a jolt of joy that was as thrilling as it was unexpected. They had known each other, and they had been friends. She’d once respected him.

  Cassidy had turned away from him and was signaling the ranch hands for quiet. “This is Slate Walker, the new horse trainer at the Double O.” She pointed around the group, introducing the men. She stopped at a tall blonde who sto
od with a boot hooked on the fence and his eye on Cassidy. Slate recognized him as the cowboy who’d spoken out.

  “This is Lucky Hill, our foreman,” Cassidy said.

  Slate could feel the antagonism coming from the man. He smiled. “Pleased to meet you all.”

  “I’m not so sure I want to work and live around a bank robber,” Lucky said.

  Cassidy tensed for a split second before she turned to face him. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Lucky. You’re a good foreman, and I’d hate to see you move on. But if you can’t get along with the horse trainer, you’ll have to go.”

  She spoke so softly that Slate was impressed with the authority of her voice.

  “You’re saying you’d let me go to keep him?” Lucky was angry and disbelieving.

  “You’re a good man. But Slate is the best horse trainer there is. It won’t be long before he has his own place and we’ll be competing against him. Until then, if I can get him to work for me, he will.” She walked over to Lucky and drew him aside.

  Slate watched as she talked to him, her voice so soft he couldn’t hear what she had to say. He felt awkward, until he saw the flying blond braids of the little girl headed right at him.

  “Mr. Walker!” she yelled. “Mommy says you’re going to catch the stallion.”

  Slate laughed. “Maybe.”

  Lindsey stopped and looked up at him. “You’d better! Mama needs Joker bad.”

  The men broke up and moved along to finish out the day’s work. Slate caught the young gray mare and started toward the barn with her, Lindsey at his side. She was talking nonstop about her kitten and the baby horses.

  Slate turned the corner and almost collided with Lucky. The tall foreman didn’t step aside.

  “Take my advice and move on,” he said. “The Double O has enough problems without you here.”

  “If I were you, I’d move out of the way,” Slate said.

  “If you were me, you wouldn’t have a criminal record. Now, Cassidy has enough on her plate without you making trouble for her.” His fingers brushed the handle of a gun he wore in a holster on his hip. “Things have been good for the past two years. But they can turn bad mighty quick for her.”