"Just leave the bags on the stoop and go on," Deanna assured him. "I'll put together some supper while you're gone." Salad and... something.
"Much obliged, ma'am."
The real McCoy, Deanna thought, quite taken once again by the simple, sincere avowal. And that drawled ma'am tickled her fancy
"How about if I wash down the Jeep, too," she called after him as he strode toward the barn. For some reason she was feeling ambitious. "I can't even tell what color it is."
Shep stopped at the livery stable door and tipped his hat. "Keep this up, Slick, and I just might take a mind to keep you." With that, he disappeared inside.
Fumbling for a ready reply, she slipped into the house instead, but not without stumbling over the threshold. Of course the talk about keeping her was just teasing, nothing more. She had to keep things in their proper perspective with Shepard Jones. No more mistakes.
"The last thing you need, Deanna Rose Manetti, is another complication in your life." From the kitchen window she watched Shep lead Patch out of the barn and swing up on the mare's back.
Broken in by wear, his jeans gloved his body like a second skin. Calvin Klein, eat your heart out. Deanna checked an inadvertent sigh when he glanced toward the house and waved a sun-bronzed forearm in her direction, as if he sensed she was looking. Could he be as aware of her as she was of him?
"Oh, enough already."
Instead of dropping her fascination with Shep, Deanna opened the cupboard doors above the kitchen counter. One could tell a lot about a person by what he kept in his cabinets. Instant coffee, some artificial creamer, a box of sugar cubes, and a few basic staples rested on yellowed lace-edged shelf paper—the sort Deanna hadn't seen since her childhood in Brooklyn.
A simple man with simple tastes, but not quite in the twenty-first century It would be Manetti and Rubbermaid to the rescue. And a good Starbuck's brew would put that jarred mess to shame. After all, the way to a man's heart...
"So who wants a way to his heart, Gram?" she argued with her grandmother's reminder embedded in her memory. In Deanna's line of work, simple was easier, cheaper, and usually more effective. "I'll just earn my room and board by organizing him. It's safer that way."
Ten
By the time Shep rode into the stable yard on Patch, a scrumptious smelling meatloaf simmered in the oven, surrounded by small red potatoes and some onions Deanna had pulled from the garden at the side of the ranch house. Stomach growling, she glanced once more at the simply set table, now adorned with some wildflowers that grew along the gardens edge, and popped the tray of homemade biscuits into the oven to cook with the finishing main dish.
"Never put the bread in until you see the whites of their eyes," she said in satisfaction as she hurried to let her barking companion out.
As she followed Smoky to the livery entrance where Shep tied up his steed, both were covered in trail dust.
Deanna didn't have to guess the reason for the grim line of Shep's mouth. There was no sign of the stallion he'd set out to bring in. "Got away, huh?"
"Yep."
Shoving his hat up from a furrowed brow, Shep raised the stirrup to unfasten the girth. Patch shuddered when he lifted the saddle and blanket off her back, revealing sweat-soaked hair matted in little ripples and swirls. The horse nuzzled him, almost in a consoling manner as he removed her bridle.
"Ah, I know, girl." He rubbed her neck with broad, capable hands. "You're disappointed, too. We're gonna knock him on his backside one of these days."
Deanna watched the exchange between horse and master and felt an odd pang of envy. Then, catching herself, she rolled her eyes toward the cobweb-infested ceiling of the barn. She'd reached an all-time low, envying a horse... after spending the afternoon talking to a dog. She'd be a flaming Dr. Doolittle before she got out of this mess.
"Maybe a nice hot supper will make you feel better," she suggested with mustered cheer.
"Can't hurt."
Now that was better. Her stomach acted up again, but this time it was from the apologetic grin directed at her.
"Matter of fact, it sounds downright tempting. If it's half as good as it smells, you got yourself a job."
All Deanna smelled was hay, horse, and sweat-soaked leather, but she accepted the compliment eagerly and prayed Shep was right. She'd thrown it together from the memory of watching her mother and grandmothers in the kitchen—soup mix and breadcrumbs in the meatloaf with ketchup for a topping. And of course, the meal wouldn't be complete without biscuits like Gram used to make. If Shep had cookbooks, they were well hidden.
"So the rope didn't hold, huh?"
"The rope held." Shep tossed a scoop full of grain through a feeding window into Patch's stall.
"Maybe Patch isn't fast enough," she offered, envisioning the smaller horse trying to catch the bolting red. Since Shep was gone all afternoon, he must have given the stallion a good chase. "Did you hurt your leg?" she inquired upon seeing him wince when he picked up a dusty green hose curled in the dirt.
"Nah, it's an old war wound that acts up when I do more running than riding."
"You were in a war?"
"Figure of speech. As for Patch," he continued, "I'll put her up against the stallion in the long run any day Some horses are built for speed and others for endurance. But speed wasn't the problem."
Shep lifted the handle of the faucet. Water poured from the hose nozzle into a galvanized trough. "Nope, that renegade kicked the old gate to pieces. The rope was the only thing that held. I'd hoped he would keep, at least until I could get back there. I spent most of the time tracking him up into the hills. At least he's away from the roads. All I need is another accident to account for. No offense," he added quickly.
"None—" Deanna finished with a shriek, jumping back from the brimming hose he offered her.
"Want a drink?"
She shook her head.
"You gotta get over that nervousness. The horses can sense it and it'll affect them too."
Under her watchful eye, Shep helped himself to a few hearty gulps before turning off the flow. Where it had washed away the dust from his face looked like a clown's smile of tanned whisker-stubbled flesh. Instinctively, Deanna traced it with her finger.
"Bozo the cowpoke. Cute!" she teased, before catching herself. She took a step back, striking the post where the saddle hung, and would have stumbled had Shep not been fast on his feet, wrapping an arm around her waist to steady her.
"Whoa, Slick! Didn't anyone ever tell you horsing around in a barn can get you in trouble?"
"More than I'm in already?" she shot back, her throat suddenly in need of that drink of water. And she thought the temperature normally dropped as the sun started down. This close to Shep Jones, hers rivaled high noon.
"Never can tell."
Deanna's ears roared. At first she thought it was the blood rushing to her face, but Shep's disconcerting attention switched to something beyond her in the ranch yard. She glanced over her shoulder to see a pickup come to a stop, driven by another man wearing a Western hat.
The moment Shep's arm left her waist, she moved away with a guilty flush. Giving her a surreptitious wink, he turned to meet the visitor climbing out of the truck cab.
"Clyde Barrett, you old dogface, what brings you to these parts?"
"I tried to raise you on the radio," the older man answered with a grin at Deanna, "but this city gal said you weren't in."
She stepped forward under the simultaneous appraisal of her companions. "I'm sorry, but I'm not much of a radio operator. I didn't mean to hang up on you."
The man laughed and brushed aside her apology with a wave of his hand. "You didn't hang up, ma'am. You just didn't give me a chance to get a word in."
"But I held down the button."
Their visitor chuckled. "Shep, if you're going to keep this little gal around, you gotta teach her how to use a radio so she can earn her license... or break down and git a phone." Clyde's pained grimace at the latter suggestion told De
anna she was in the company of another Stone Age remnant.
"I see what you mean," Shep said. "If you hold down the button, Slick, the person on the other end can't transmit. You only hold the button down to speak, then let it go so you can hear the answer."
"I'm so sorry I feel like a dunce." As many police movies as she'd watched, she should have been able to figure that out.
"Shoot, Miss—"
"Manetti," Shep filled in for his friend, offering an apologetic look to Deanna for forgetting his manners. "Clyde Barrett, this is Deanna Manetti from the Big Apple."
"From what little I heard, I figured she was from someplace like that." Clyde extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Manetti. I don't reckon a city gal like you would know her way around a radio. We hams are a dyin' breed."
"My pleasure, Mr. Barrett." Deanna raised her brow in confusion. "But I thought you said your name was Charlie on the radio."
"That's the phonetic alphabet we use for our call sign. Mine's kilo-seven-lima-oscar-X ray... K7LOX," Shep said.
"Oh shine, boy, she can call me Charlie anytime. Been called a lot worse," Clyde snickered.
"Did you come out here to flirt or just to hold up my first home-cooked meal in a coon's age?"
"My biscuits!" Deanna gasped. Without so much as an adieu, she sped off toward the house at a full run, her only comfort being that the smoke alarm she'd wiped off earlier hadn't gone off... yet.
***
"She's a flighty filly, ain't she?"
"A thoroughbred for sure." Shep's gaze lingered after Deanna's hasty retreat until she disappeared inside the house with the slam of the screen door. "Long-legged, sleek, and swift," he added with an unwitting sigh.
And too full of cute and spunk for his good. If Deanna had been one of his buddies, he'd have clapped her hard on the back in his rush of excitement and maybe shaken her arm till it was about to fall off. Instead, he kissed her, dumb as a drowning goose in the rain. A peck on the cheek was innocent enough until that unguarded glance at her lips called for something more intimate. Not that he even had feelings for her, he argued with himself.
Clyde snatched Shep from the stew of his thoughts with a smug snort. "Boy, you got that same gotta have look in your eye as you get when you talk about that stallion Dan turned loose in the hills."
Shep groaned inwardly. He'd learned early on that there was no point in arguing with the old lawman. As a kid, Shep came to know the sheriff of Buffalo Butte—and vice versa— while doing civic duty for shooting out the town's only stoplight with his new air rifle. Every Saturday that summer, Shep had to clean the sheriff's office and jail. Aunt Sue blamed his fascination with law enforcement on the bond that formed between the juvenile and the lawman.
"Maybe, but I know where to draw the line." Yes, exactly where he'd drawn it. And twice now, he'd come within a fool's breath of crossing it. If he hadn't caught sight of the rope when he did...
The annoying smirk on Clyde's lips showed he was no more fooled than Shep himself. "Well, that's good to hear."
There was something about Deanna that went beyond physical attraction, something a lot scarier than chemistry That quirky accent and seeing the West through her incredulous city eyes made him laugh—something he'd begun to think he'd forgotten how to do. Then there was that vulnerability behind her spunky, wiseacre veneer that beckoned to his protective instincts like a silent but dangerous come hither.
He knew nothing about Deanna Manetti, but what Shep did know was enough. The sooner she was gone, the better. What could God have possibly been thinking in sending him another Ellen, unsuited to the hard life he loved? Hadn't he given it all over to God—his hurt, his disappointment?
"Maisy brought over one of her pies to my office..." Clyde was saying in the background of Shep's introspection. A body never could rush the aging sheriff when he was bound on visiting.
Granted, Shep knew the Bible bit that said as he treated the stranger in need, so he treated Jesus himself, but was he being asked to plough the same heart ground all over again? He'd barely recovered from the first time.
"I tell you, that husband of hers has a handful, but he eats good."
Although Deanna wasn't exactly like Ellen, another voice cropped up, drawing Shep deeper into thought. The feisty New Yorker adapted quickly enough today, even if she did nearly drop his transmission on the ground. Ellen wouldn't have even tried. And Deanna liked country music...
"...I'd no more finished the last bite when the phone rang," Clyde droned on.
Shep checked himself. Never mind what God was thinking; what was he thinking? Spunk or no, a future out here with someone like Deanna was as futile as building a house on sand... and he'd eaten enough grit in the collapse of his previous relationship to last a lifetime. His best bet was to stick with the stallion for any kind of future. Horses he understood.
"...thinkin' she's in a heap of trouble and I'd just hate to see you get throwed again."
Clyde's remark jerked Shep from his tail-chasing introspection. "What?"
"I said, I'm glad to hear it, 'cause I'm thinkin' she's in a heap of trouble, and I'd hate to see you get throwed again. You know," the sheriff teased, "like off a horse?"
Trouble. Shep heard the word. His brain processed it, but he still stared at Clyde as though it were Greek. Shep gave himself a mental shake. "What kind of trouble?" It wasn't like he hadn't suspected something, so why did he feel like he'd just been mule-kicked in the belly?
Lord, I told You this was more than I was up to. I have every reason to be leery of this mess.
"Not sure." His friend shrugged, hooking his thumbs in his waistband. "But the DEA is sending someone here to talk to you about her. My office, tomorrow, first thing in the mornin'."
Drug Enforcement Agency? Now Shep knew there was more to Deanna's problems than a lovers' spat or an overbearing boyfriend. Bob Holloway's inquiry on his behalf must have triggered the Feds' interest. Still, she certainly didn't look or act like a user or a pusher—no needle marks along the soft, slender length of her arms. But then neither had the last witness he'd been assigned to protect. The grim reality was that Clyde's news also explained the reason behind the fear that Shep sensed beneath her feisty exterior.
"So who's after her, the law, a cartel, or both?" If it was the law, she'd be okay. Otherwise, Deanna was a murder victim waiting to happen.
Clyde sighed, scuffing the dirt with his polished shoe. "I told you all I know, son."
"I appreciate it." Shep reached out to shake Clyde's hand. "So, what were you going to do on the radio, leave that message with her?"
"Not much chance of that," Clyde grunted turning to leave. "I was just gonna give you a heads-up that I was comin' out." He winced as he slipped into the driver's seat. "I'm gettin' too old for this."
"You still got a few years left in you." Stepping up to the car, Shep closed the door and peered through the half-open window. "I'll see you at eight sharp tomorrow. I doubt she'll be going anywhere if I have the Jeep." Not as afraid of horses as she was.
"Yeah, well, you mind you take care of yourself and watch your back, just in case them DEA are right about the folks she's involved with." Clyde gunned the big engine of the police car.
Stone still, Shep watched as his visitor turned around and headed out the main street, the same way he'd come in. He didn't like being used, which was exactly what that city gal was doing. If he hadn't followed his professional instincts and called Washington, he might not have found out until it was too late. Shep started for the house. Maybe God sent an answer to his quandary after all—hands off.
Eleven
The white porcelain backsplash was spattered with the charred debris Deanna cut away from what was left of her culinary attempt. Shep was inclined to have it out with her then and there, but knowing that if she lied before, she'd lie again held him in check. That and the tear-glazed eyes she raised to him as he approached her checked his raw impulse.
"I'm here under false pretenses
," she announced in a voice so small it begged for reassurance.
Shep stopped in midstep. Had she heard his conversation with Clyde?
"I can't cook worth butkus!" Deanna slam-dunked the biscuit she was working on into the garbage can next to the gas stove. "I usually ordered out or ate salad, but how hard can it be to make a biscuit?"
Following her glance to the table, Shep spied the large bowl of greens decorated with pepper rings and fancy cucumber slices. "I like salad," he ventured cautiously, uncertain yet as to which of her personas was going to prevail—Alice in Despair or Valkyrie of the Burned Biscuit. More disconcerting, neither resembled the pepper spray packing mama, who'd stood him off yesterday, or the indignant sleepyhead, who'd held him at bay with a pillow this morning.
"I just got distracted and forgot the time." She sniffed, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand.
Burned never looked as cute as it did on Deanna's upturned, forlorn face. He reached for a towel and mopped some of the charred crumbs she'd been scraping off her nose. "Don't fret. The salad, the meatloaf, and those..." Shep grasped for an identification of the shriveled bits surrounding the lump of meat with clotted ketchup topping. "Vegetables," he decided, "will be just fine."
"I've never been a homemaker." Deanna sounded like her entire life had been a failure. "But I can cook with a book. I mean—" She grabbed a paper napkin and blew her nose. "If you can read, you can cook, right?"
"That's what I've found." Shep was glad the Feds were coming to save him. He just hoped they came before he forgot how mad he was.
"But I can clean," she went on, "and I'm very good at organizing."
"You wouldn't be successful if you couldn't... organize, that is." Now that was intelligent. "Look, you just have a seat and let me finish up here, soon as I wash up a bit."
"But dinner will be cold."
Like that could make it worse. Shep fought down a chuckle. "Just put it back in the oven. It'll stay warm from the residual heat."
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