Melissa Cutler - Cowboy Justice

It seemed that the harder he fought against her hold on him, the worse her grip around his heart got. Striding through the parking lot, then the lobby, he thought again about the secret picture she’d taken of him, and couldn’t help but wonder if that feeling was mutual.

Rachel’s assessment of her suite being like a jail cell didn’t change the next day. That is, it didn’t change until she’d waited hours for the nurses to organize her paperwork and find a doctor to sign off on her release papers. By then, she’d concluded it would’ve been easier to get released from prison than checked out of a hospital.

Adding to her anxiousness to get home was her commitment to avoiding any more surprise run-ins with Vaughn. He’d made a brief, awkward appearance in the doorway that morning while a nurse was removing her IV. His eyes were tired, his expression gravely serious, and his uniform wrinkled, giving the impression he’d never made it home to change or sleep the night before. Even still, the mere sight of him sent her insides haywire. Then she’d jumped at the sting of pain as the nurse pulled the needle free of her arm, and her hospital gown slipped off her shoulder. She’d scrambled to cover herself, and when she’d looked up again, he was gone.

Amy drove her home and prattled the whole hour drive. Rachel was happy to let her talk, especially since she didn’t seem overly concerned with whether Rachel was paying the least bit of attention to what she said, which gave Rachel plenty of opportunity to let her mind wander.

It was past lunchtime when Amy made the turn off the highway and under the wooden heritage farm inn sign that marked the road to their sprawling ranch house. A smaller sign on a fence post declared:inn closed june through august . local dish restaurant open year-round . friday and saturday for dinner, sunday for brunch.

Rachel rolled the window down and angled her face into the wind, inhaling her favorite scent in the world—her land. She could close her eyes and know the month by the way the alfalfa smelled, raw in its newness or crisp and ready for harvest, or by the bloom of cholla bushes. Even dirt smelled different in winter than summer, the scorched earth of August turning pungent with moisture by November as rain-and snowstorms swept through the high desert.

When Amy’s conversation topic came around to the farm’s safety, Rachel sat up a little straighter and tuned in.

“I’ve got to admit, I was worried about something bad happening last night, but it was quiet,” Amy said. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Deputy Binderman stopped by this morning at first light to check on us, but he’d come and gone before the guests woke, so we didn’t have to worry about explaining the presence of a squad car in the driveway.”

“Good. I’m glad he checked on you. Remind me again what the guests’ names are before we get home.”

“The Westenbergs are Gary and Barbara, with their kids, April and Billy.”

“Are those the teenagers?”

“No. You’re thinking of the Moores. Howard and Elsie are the parents. Christina and Robbie are the teens.”

Rachel grimaced, sorry she’d asked. She didn’t mind sharing her home with the inn’s guests as much as she’d thought she would. She wasn’t inside all that often to begin with, and whenever she needed space, there was plenty of open pasture outside her door.

But with so many folks coming and going, she was hard-pressed to remember anyone’s faces, much less their names. Amy gave her a daily briefing, but mostly, she got a free pass from being a hostess as long as she stuck to the role of resident cowgirl. She’d practically worked up a Texas drawl with all the howdys and y’alls she tossed around in front of the guests.

It was just her luck that when the travel magazine sent a journalist to review Heritage Farm in February, she highlighted Rachel as one of the main spectacles, or as the journalist called her, “A real live cowgirl who looked plucked from the history books of the Wild West.” Rachel didn’t think cowgirls plucked out of history would be carrying cell phones and GPS navigators on their belts, but there was no arguing with the uptick in business the farm received once the article came out. Never in a million years would she have guessed the financial future of her ranch hinged in part on her abilities as an actress. Such was life.

At least she’d get an acting break when the inn closed for the summer months.

“We’ve kept a real close eye on them,” Amy said.

“Who?”

“The Westenbergs and Moores, silly. That pain medication you’re on is making you loopy.”

Rachel grunted. She didn’t have the heart to tell Amy she wasn’t on any pain meds, and her lack of focus was more because she talked so dang much that Rachel couldn’t help but activate her mental mute button.

“. . . and Kellan and I gave the workers a big speech about not letting them wander off too far. Today they went on a tour of Chris and Lisa’s dairy, then Mr. Dixon was taking them to Main Street for some shopping.”

The inn had been Jenna’s idea, the restaurant, Amy’s. Their father’s death a year and a half ago left the sisters with a pile of bills and no money to pay them with, so Jenna proposed the transformation of their home into a dude ranch as a way to save the property from foreclosure.

Rachel had vehemently opposed the idea. She’d argued that she needed solitude—her mental health downright required it—and having their home crawling with tourists sounded like hell on earth. More importantly, if the sisters got busy creating a new business, Rachel had argued, who would keep an eye on Mom?

What a bitter piece of irony that question turned out to be.

“What are you thinking about?” Amy asked, cutting into Rachel’s thoughts.

She blinked, looking around. She hadn’t noticed the car had stopped in front of their house. “Nothin’. Why?”

“You were staring at the porch, scowling. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of remodeling it. I know it could use a fresh coat of paint, but we’ve got enough going on with the wedding in less than three months.”

She took the out Amy provided. “Needs more than a coat of paint. The wood’s rotting through on some of those rails. You say it doesn’t matter for the wedding, but half the Catcher Creek population is going to be here. For most of them, it’ll be the first time they see our inn. I’ll feel better if the place is up to snuff.”

Amy waggled a finger. “No home improvement projects until your arm heals, got it?”

“Hmph.”

“Promise me you’ll take it easy for a few days. I want to hear you say the words.”

Rachel unbuckled her seat belt with her left arm to prove the pain was no match for her iron will, but she could barely stifle a moan as a cloud of pain thundered along her shoulder and down her spine. “All right. I promise.” She rubbed the pain from her arm. “Since when are you so bossy?”

“Since the resident bossy-pants got shot yesterday.”

“I’m not that bossy.”

Amy stepped out of the car with a tsk of protest and preceded Rachel to the front door.

Sloane Delgado and Tommy met them on the porch. Tommy, Jenna’s five-year-old son, looked nervous. He held tight to Sloane’s hand, his eyes as huge as coffee cups. Given the way Jenna and Amy had blubbered over her yesterday, Tommy probably thought her arm had fallen off or she was dying.

“Hey, Tommy,” she said with her best smile.

“Are you okay, Auntie?”

She knelt and took his hands. “Never better, buddy. I got a scratch on my arm is all. The doctors put a Band-Aid on it.” She held her bandaged arm up as evidence. “See? It’s nothing. Doesn’t even hurt anymore.” He was a smart kid, so he probably didn’t buy her flippant explanation, but he did relax at her words.