Melissa Cutler - Cowboy Justice

Sloane ruffled Tommy’s hair. “We thought we’d say hello, but we’ve got to get back to the kitchen. We’re making cookies as a welcome home present to you.”

Tommy beamed.

“That sounds great. Thank you,” Rachel said.

Sloane had come to work as a waitress at the inn’s restaurant, but had morphed into an indispensable member of the family. She’d moved in a few months back to escape her meddlesome grandmother’s house, and paid her rent by sitting for Tommy. The week before, she accepted the promotion Rachel and Amy offered her to become the overnight manager of their inn for the fall tourist season, even though she had her heart set on moving to New York City someday as a fashion designer.

Rachel knew diddly-squat about fashion, which was probably why Sloane’s wardrobe looked to her like she’d hijacked the luggage of a circus clown. Today she was done up in a neon green blouse with a neon orange flower the size of a melon tacked in the center of her chest. Rachel half expected water to squirt from the center of it.

“I got to sleep over with Uncle Kellan last night,” Tommy said, his chest puffed up with pride. “We set up sleeping bags in the kitchen, like we were camping.”

“Wow,” Rachel said. “Why the kitchen?”

He raised his arms, palms up, and looked at her like she was bonkers not to understand. “So we wouldn’t bother the guests, of course.”

“I bet you two had fun.” Kellan was Tommy’s absolute favorite grown-up in the world. Rachel wrote it off as a father figure issue, being that Kellan was the only daddy-age male in the little boy’s life. Regardless of the reason, though, Rachel was grateful that Kellan lived up to Tommy’s lofty expectations of him. Sounds like last night he’d surpassed them.

“Come on, Tommy. We’d better finish those cookies,” Sloane said. “Otherwise they won’t be much of a welcome home gift to Auntie.”

Rachel watched them disappear into the house.

“In you go, Rach,” Amy said. “You lie down and I’ll bring you lunch.”

“Think I’m going to stay out here for a little while.”

“Nice try. Now get your butt in the house.” Amy pointed through the open doorway.

Rachel backed up a step. “I’ve been cooped up in a hospital room. I don’t think I can stand to go inside another set of walls quite yet.”

To her relief, Amy didn’t argue. Instead, she gave Rachel the stink eye. “All right, but don’t do anything I wouldn’t approve of.”

Rachel grinned. “Isn’t that what I always said to you? Never worked because you made it your life’s mission to win my disapproval.”

Amy grew taller, her expression one of mock indignity. “Not lately, I hope.”

“Nah. You’re right. Not since you moved home. I’ve been real proud of the choices you’ve made.”

Amy winked. “Aw, thanks, Momma Two.”

Rachel groaned. “Good grief. It’s been a while since you or Jenna called me that, thank goodness. I’ll be in after I get my fill of fresh air.”

With a nod, Amy disappeared inside and left Rachel to her own devices, which was exactly what she needed at the moment. Or most any time, for that matter.

A raised splinter of wood on the armrest of the porch swing caught her attention. She wandered over and picked at it restlessly. As always, the swing reminded her of Vaughn—painful, arousing thoughts of the first night they’d spent together. The kiss he’d given her while they rocked on the swing in the darkness. The caresses that followed, along with the silent agreement to take it further. Right there on the porch.

The only reason she hadn’t lugged the swing into the desert and burned it to an unidentifiable lump of carbon was that it served as a reminder of the devastation that could arise from selfishness, and of the vow she made to never let it happen again. At the time, she’d thought, What the hell, I deserve a little happiness. But look where that lapse in judgment had gotten her. Look where it had gotten her mom.

She gave the swing a shove and watched it jerk and dance on its chains. To escape the darkness of her thoughts, she wandered down the stairs and around the side of the house. The sound of a forklift diverted her attention. She waved to Damon and Rudy, her newly hired ranch hands and unofficial tour guides to the inn’s guests, as they worked in the feed hold across the corral from the stable. Rudy took a few steps in her direction like he might try to talk to her, so she quickened her step. Most ranch hands she knew were strong, silent cowboy types, but Rudy could flap his lips as fast as both of Rachel’s sisters, which was saying something.

In an effort to be a kind boss, Rachel endured daily conversations with him, but she didn’t have it in her today to stand and nod while he rattled on about his singular passion—the weather. And, sweet Jesus, the man knew a lot about the weather. Not only in northeastern New Mexico, but on a global scale.

Before she realized where she was headed, she stood before the closed stable door. She slipped inside.

It was cooler in the stable than outside. Ventilation fans and swamp coolers whirred and rattled on the ceiling. Five horse heads poked over the doors of their stalls, clamoring for her attention. They stamped and shook their heads. As soon as she made eye contact with Growly Bear, he backed up with a huff and turned a circle, stamping anxiously.

Rachel approached him, her heart sinking. He’d been Lincoln’s best buddy and next-door stall neighbor for years. She stroked his neck. “I know, Growly.”

He whined quietly and pushed his nose into her neck.

She nuzzled his cheek as she continued her methodical strokes. “You don’t have to tell me. I know he’s gone.” Her gaze went to the empty stall.

Grief was nothing new to Rachel. She’d lost both her parents in the past two years. But the pointless loss of an innocent animal before its time hit her in an all-new way. Suddenly, nothing was more important than saying a final good-bye to Lincoln. She’d been too heartsick to ask Vaughn what was to be done with his body, but she suspected it was handled like any other livestock—cremated by Quay County Animal Control.

Rachel had never heard of a rancher holding a funeral for a dead horse, and she certainly wasn’t going to broadcast that she was doing it, but she and Growly Bear needed closure, and Lincoln deserved to be cried over.

“Okay, Growly. You and I are going riding.”

Saddling Growly offered its own challenges. The saddle blanket, halter, and reins were as easy as breathing to affix on the horse, but the saddle took three tries to hoist onto its back. The effort strained the skin around her wound, but despite the pain, she was too obstinate to seek help.

Once Growly was ready, she tucked a baggie of Fig Newtons in the saddlebag, along with a sky-blue ribbon from the accessory drawer Jenna had created for her horse, Disco. The plan was to stop by the west end pasture and gather dried wildflowers for a bouquet. Corny, maybe, but no one else would know.

She’d lost her favorite hat when she fell from Lincoln the day before, so she grabbed her back-up—a worn, soft cream felt Stetson with a braided leather band. She led Growly out, pausing at the door to reach above it and touch the smooth steel of the horseshoe mounted there, a gift from Kate Parrish’s father many years ago, that her father had nailed over the door with the promise it would bring her luck.

When she mounted Growly, a particularly sharp pain shot through her left arm. She ran her hand over the bandage and her fingers came back bloody. Dang it all, she’d probably ripped the scab open. Amy would strangle her tonight when she helped Rachel change the bandage and saw the damage. Oh, well. Nothing she could do to change that now.