How to Handle a Cowboy

by Joanne Kennedy

  “Good thing I was with Mitch, though,” Riley said. “When he saw I didn’t have anywhere to go, he was nice enough to take me to you.”

  She shot Delivery Truck Man a smile most men would kill for. He grunted in response and glowered as he shambled over to sit—uninvited—on the couch. Sierra didn’t know if he was angry or if glowering was his default expression.

  Riley had found a real winner.

  “I was wondering if I could stay with you, just for a couple days,” Riley said. “We could catch up, you know? And maybe there’s some way I could help out.” She glanced around the house, at the smooth hardwood floors and newly painted walls. “I’ve been taking classes in home renovation, but it doesn’t look like you need any help with that. Maybe I could work in the kitchen?”

  “Riley, you can’t stay with me. I live here, at the group home. I don’t really need any help, but thanks.”

  Sighing, Riley frowned down at the floor. Meanwhile, Mitch spent what should have been the date night of his dreams staring around the house as if he was memorizing the floor plan. Now he was gazing up the stairs.

  The kids slept upstairs.

  Sierra wanted him out of here.

  “Where’d you guys meet again?” she asked Riley.

  “Me and Mitch? At a meeting.”

  So he was in recovery too, but he was taking women he met there to bars. Sierra wondered if he was one of those people who couldn’t get themselves cleaned up and hated to see anyone else succeed. Either that, or he was a predator looking for vulnerable women. If that was the case, he was in for a surprise. Riley was stronger than she looked.

  “We’ll figure something out, Riley. Meanwhile, you can stay here tonight.” She shot Mitch a dismissive glance and caught him staring at her with a hard, steady glare that was unmistakably hostile.

  “Thanks for bringing her.” She returned his stare with equal intensity, and when he broke off and looked out the window, she resisted the urge to pump her fist in victory.

  As if to make up for his bad manners, Riley lit up the room with a smile. “So where do we sleep?”

  “I have a room up on the third floor.”

  “What about Mitch?”

  “What about him?” Sierra shoved her chair back from the table and stood up. “Sorry, but it’s not my house, and I don’t know him.”

  Riley’s eyes widened. “You don’t?”

  Without a word, Mitch stood and strode toward the door. With his hand on the doorknob, he paused.

  “What are the kids’ names?” he asked without turning to look at her.

  Sierra thought she hadn’t heard him right. “What?”

  “You have kids here, right? What are their names?”

  Sierra’s stomach clenched tight. “None of your business.” She shoved back her chair and stood up. “And if you don’t get out now, I’ll call security.”

  He didn’t need to know “security” was jammed into the waistband of her jeans. She breathed a sigh of relief as the door slammed behind him.

  Riley blew out a long breath. “I’m sorry, Sierra.” She sat back and brushed her hair out of her face. “I shouldn’t have come here, but it just kind of happened, you know? He offered, and I wanted to see you so much. I’ve really missed you.”

  Sierra felt the heat of tears at the back of her eyes, but there were more important things going on right now than girlish reunions.

  “Who is he, Riley?”

  “I don’t really know. I thought you would.”

  “How would I know a guy like that?”

  “He said he was a friend of yours.”

  Sierra felt a chill tiptoe its way up her spine like a slow-walking spider with cold, cold toes. “I’ve never met that man before in my life.”

  She did her best to slow the questions ricocheting through her mind. How did Mitch know her name? How did he know about her friendship with Riley? Could he be the parent of one of the kids? Nobody should have been able to track them down that fast, but that was the only reason Sierra could think of that he’d want to know the boys’ names.

  He’d asked that question at the last second. It was a dead giveaway he was up to no good, and the way he’d asked it—he’d sounded a little desperate. And that made him doubly dangerous.

  She’d have to look at the kids’ files, check out their parents’ mug shots.

  “How well did you get to know him?” she asked Riley.

  “Well enough to be glad he’s gone,” Riley said. “I only talked to him because he said he was a friend of yours, and that made me feel safe, you know? But he’s not, so…”

  Riley wrapped her arms around her waist and hunched her shoulders. She was staring down at the floor with a lost expression that reminded Sierra of the little girl she’d been matched with in high school. Riley had been so young and so broken. She seemed to be mending now, but she’d always lived right on the edge of poverty, a paycheck away from disaster.

  “Come on.” Sierra jumped up, shaking off the dread Mitch had inspired. “Let’s have some tea. Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

  Sierra heated up two mugs of water in the microwave then dropped in two tea bags—Earl Grey for her and Lemon Zinger for Riley. She didn’t even have to ask.

  She grabbed a handful of sugar packets, and they sat down at the rickety kitchen table.

  Sierra sipped at her tea then fanned the hot liquid with one hand while Riley tore open a sugar packet and poured it into her tea.

  “So what have you been doing? You said you were taking classes?”

  Riley shifted to the edge of her seat, her face brightening with excitement. “I got into this program called Climb Colorado. It used to be just for single moms, but now they’ve opened it up for unemployed women too.” She opened another packet of sugar and poured it into her tea, and then another. “They teach male-dominated trades to women—construction, home renovation, electrical and plumbing—that kind of thing. I got to do renovation.” She preened a little. “That’s the most popular choice, and it’s hard to get into. My test scores were really high.”

  “Riley, that’s great.” Sierra wasn’t sure how to ask her next question. Riley wasn’t exactly famous for finishing things she’d started. “Are you still taking courses?”

  Riley shook her head then peered into her mug. No doubt she had a mountain of undissolved sugar at the bottom of the cup. Sierra got up and grabbed a spoon from the dish drainer beside the sink.

  “I’m done,” Riley said, stirring vigorously.

  “You graduated?”

  Riley shook her head again. Sierra felt like she was playing some kind of game—good news, bad news. Good news, bad news.

  “I have to do a project. I was hoping to find a job that would qualify, so I could make money and finish my certificate at the same time. It needs to be a whole-house renovation.”

  “Wow. That’s a huge thing to take on.”

  Riley took a sip of her tea, cocked her head like the judge on a TV cooking show, then grabbed another packet of sugar.

  Sierra smiled. Riley had always loved sweets. Even though she wanted good things for her friend, she was glad Riley was still Riley.

  “It is big. I don’t have to be in charge of the project, but I have to work on at least four different parts of the renovation—like maybe countertops, flooring, electrical, and drywall.”

  Sierra cocked a head toward the front room. “Did you hear Mitch’s truck start up?”

  Riley shook her head.

  “Stay here.”

  Sierra headed for the front window. Brushing back the curtain, she was dismayed to see the truck still sitting at the curb, with the bulky silhouette of Mitch at the wheel.

  “He’s still out there.”

  Riley got up and looked over her shoulder as Sierra edged the curtain aside again. The lights had come on in a few neighboring houses. Sierra really didn’t want to frighten the neighbors by striding out there with her gun drawn.

  “Is there a sheriff
or somebody you can call?” Riley asked.

  Sierra could just see Sheriff Swaggard pedaling up on his bicycle to take on Delivery Truck Man. “This isn’t Gunsmoke,” she said. “There’s no Matt Dillon here. Our sheriff—well, he’s not much use.”

  She glanced back out the window and studied the shadowy man at the wheel of the derelict car. Suddenly the darkness that had seemed so velvety and warm an hour ago seemed deep and dangerous.

  “But there is somebody I can call.” She let the curtain swing shut and grabbed her cell phone. “I’ll call him right now.”

  Chapter 24

  Ridge had spent the whole night twisting and turning in bed, first on one side, then on his back, then the other side, turning around and around again, with thoughts of Sierra tumbling through his mind. He felt like a pig on a spit.

  So when the phone rang, it didn’t jerk him out of a sound sleep, only out of a waking dream, one where he and Sierra were out in the barn taking a literal and very pleasurable roll in the hay.

  “Ridge?”

  It should have surprised him to hear her voice, but it seemed the most natural thing in the world. She sounded worried, though. He sat up, raking his free hand through his hair.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My friend Riley’s here, and I think the guy who brought her is after one of the kids.”

  He sat up so fast he felt light-headed.

  “Which one? Why? Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know. He’s out front, in a big old truck. He won’t leave. I could go out there and talk to him but…”

  “No. I’ll be right there.” He reached for the T-shirt and jeans he’d shed hours earlier.

  “Thanks.” Some of the tension had drained out of her voice, but it was back when she spoke again. “Ridge? Just so you know, he’s really big. And I don’t know what he might do.”

  “You got a gun?”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. “Um… yes.”

  “What about Riley?”

  She would have laughed except her mouth was so dry she couldn’t. “No. Riley does not have a gun.”

  He struggled to hold the phone to one ear then the other, as he stepped into his jeans and flailed around with a suddenly uncooperative shirt.

  “Just sit tight,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

  He finally conquered the shirt then toed into his boots, struggling to seat his heel when one of them went on crooked. He was in the hall in a heartbeat, snagging his Carhartt jacket off the hook. Opening the door, he almost closed it behind him before he realized he didn’t have a gun himself. He had no idea what kind of situation he was walking into. The guy in the truck was probably just some citified loser, but Sierra had sounded panicked—and he had a feeling it took more than some wannabe tough guy to scare her.

  Dodging back inside, he opened the hall closet and rummaged through the accumulated detritus of a generation of ranchers: scuffed boots, a couple of horse blankets, gloves and hats and heavy socks, all tossed in willy-nilly. No one had cleaned out the closet since Irene had passed. He’d have to clean it out next chance he got. It was damn near impossible to find anything.

  With the wide sweep of a breaststroke swimmer, he parted the jackets hanging from the rod and found what he was looking for: Bill’s old Winchester and a box of shells. Pocketing the ammo, he tucked the gun under his arm and set off into the night.

  ***

  Sierra and Riley had moved to the upstairs hall to make it less obvious they were watching Mitch. Sierra couldn’t tell if his eyes were open, but he’d turned sideways in the front seat so he faced them, with his back against the driver’s side door. His arms were folded across his chest, and his legs were crossed at the ankles. It sure looked like he was watching, but his face was hidden by shadows.

  There was no law against a man sitting in his car, and it was still possible he was just an ordinary guy who didn’t want to make the long drive back to Denver. She didn’t have any proof that he was after one of the boys.

  But why else would he want to know their names? And why did she have that itch between her shoulder blades that told her trouble was coming?

  She strained her ears for the sound of Ridge’s pickup.

  Crickets. Just crickets and a faint breeze tickling the trees.

  “How far away did you say he lived?” Riley asked.

  “Pretty far,” Sierra admitted. “He’s a rancher.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He’s teaching the boys to ride.”

  “So he’s, like, a cowboy?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Are you, um, involved?”

  Sierra shook her head. She had been involved with Ridge—very involved—for one night. But that night was over and so was their relationship—what little there’d been.

  “Can you see me with a cowboy?” She let out a laugh, praying it didn’t sound as fake as it felt. “Definitely not my type.”

  “Maybe he’s mine.”

  “What?”

  “My type.”

  Sierra turned, stunned by Riley’s wistful tone. Cowboys hadn’t ever been her own cup of tea, but they’d been as far from Riley’s type as a friendly beagle puppy from a pit bull. Riley liked the bad boys, which was one reason she’d never been able to get her life together.

  “A guy like that would take care of you, you know?” Riley stared dreamily into space. “Maybe I could get a horse or something. Have a couple of kids. It feels safe out here.”

  Sierra looked out at the ominous truck parked at the curb and wondered what it was that Mitch “delivered.”

  “It’s not feeling very safe right now.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. And some straight arrow would bore me to death.” Riley gave Sierra a sly little smile. “You sure you don’t like him?”

  “I like him a little.” Sierra’s smile trembled at the corners, but hopefully Riley wouldn’t notice she was holding in a secret. “But I don’t think he’s looking for anybody to take care of.”

  ***

  Ridge saw the battered delivery truck the moment he swung around the curve and passed the municipal building. A couple of lights were on in nearby houses—Ed Boone’s apartment over the hardware store and Wayne Elkins’s. So he’d have backup if he needed it.

  He pulled up behind the truck and shut off the pickup’s engine, jerking the hand brake into place. Spilling out of his vehicle with swift moves honed through a lifetime sliding off roping horses, he saw the driver jerk his head up toward the rearview mirror and tense his shoulders. But by the time his target was ready to move, Ridge had already wrenched open the driver’s door.

  “Son of a bitch!” The guy had been lounging against the door with his legs stretched across both seats. When Ridge opened the door, he nearly fell backward onto the road.

  It was lucky Ridge had caught the guy at a disadvantage, because he was broad-shouldered and meaty, with a bald head shaped like a lumpy potato. Flailing to regain his balance, the guy stumbled out of the car and stood to his full height. Six foot four, Ridge figured. Maybe five. Those muscles were clearly honed by a weight-lifting regimen. Bulging veins traced tortuous paths just under the skin.

  “What the hell you doing?” the stranger bellowed.

  A few more lights flicked on nearby, and a door creaked across the street as a neighbor stepped out onto a darkened porch.

  “That’s what I was about to ask you.” Ridge stood with one hip cocked, holding the Winchester at his side in a casual grip. The big man’s eyes flicked to the shotgun and then to Ridge’s face. The gaze was appraising, as if he was trying to figure out if Ridge would really use the gun.

  Ridge stared the guy down. For a long moment, the confrontation could have gone either way, but evidently he’d put enough steel in his eyes to discourage whatever resistance the stranger had in mind.

  The man lifted his eyebrows, grimaced, and wiped the back of his thick neck with one hand. “I dunno. I brought some, um, my girlf
riend out here, and now…” He waved toward Phoenix House. The windows were dark, but Ridge caught the sway of a curtain in an upstairs window and knew Sierra was there.

  “You’d better find someplace else to figure it out.” Ridge nodded toward the homes across the street. Shadowy men stood in several doorways, all watching. In the darkness, you couldn’t tell they were all pushing eighty; all that mattered was their watchful posture and the confident way they held their weapons. A lot had changed since the Gunsmoke days of the West, but one thing stayed the same: in small towns, folks stuck together. And everybody had a shotgun in the front closet.

  Ed, half-hidden by the shadows under the awning of the hardware store, racked a shell into the chamber of his weapon. The hard clack of the bolt cut through the night almost like a shot.

  The man looked Ridge up and down as if searching for a badge and sneered when his gaze lit on his battered Stetson. “You the sheriff here or something?”

  “Or something.” Ridge touched the brim in wry salute. “You really want to stick around and find out?”

  He waved toward Ed and then at Wayne, who racked his own gun at the signal. Down the street, another cartridge slid home.

  The outsider curled his lip.

  “I don’t need trouble. But I’ll be back. You can bet on that.”

  “Fine with me,” Ridge said. “Strangers are always welcome in Wynott. Just make sure you stay away from those girls.”

  “I’m not interested in the girls,” the man sneered. “That little blond is a piece of work. She—”

  Ridge cut him off. “So, what exactly are you interested in? Little boys?”

  Most men would have thrown a punch at that suggestion or at least slung a curse. But the bald-headed man just climbed into the truck and cranked it to life, revving the engine in an empty display of machismo. The engine coughed, sputtered, and nearly died before he got it going again.

  As he pulled out from the curb and careened down the street, Ridge heard the creak of a sash opening. A gray-haired woman leaned out of a second-story window across the street.