Carla Cassidy - Man on a Mission

“She should have bought a T-shirt or an ashtray instead,” Mark observed.

A giggle escaped April, the sound wonderfully feminine and appealing. “When I was little and we went on vacation, I collected bells.”

“I don’t have any collections ’cause I’ve never been anywhere,” Brian put in mournfully.

“You’re young. You’ve got plenty of time for collections,” Mark replied. He noticed April looking at him curiously and realized he’d been talking far too much.

As they approached the ranch, Mark drew into himself, his thoughts turning to Marietta and what information she might have had that had gotten her killed. Something was amiss at the Delaney Dude Ranch, but Mark had yet to discover exactly what it was. Every day that passed without answers only managed to feed his frustration.

The investigation into Marietta’s death and Mark’s injuries had been desultory at best by Sheriff Broder, who’d decided it was a crime of jealous rage perpetrated by a ranch hand who had subsequently disappeared.

Mark hadn’t told the sheriff what Marietta had shared with him. Her warning that it was possible the sheriff might be involved kept him mute where the specifics were concerned.

In two weeks the ranch would be jumping with guests, making his search for Marietta’s killer more complicated. And still he had nothing to go on concerning what activity Marietta had been talking about. He was beginning to wonder if his act was all for nothing.

“So, Mark, what are we going to do when we get back to the ranch?” Brian’s voice broke through Mark’s thoughts, and again Mark felt the boy’s hunger. “Maybe you could teach me to lasso?”

“Can’t,” Mark replied. “I have stuff to do this afternoon. You’re on your own for the rest of the day.”

He tried not to allow the boy’s disappointment to touch him. He had his own problems to deal with. He absolutely, positively refused to get caught up in April and Brian Cartwright.

“Brian, you can’t be bothering Mark all the time,” April told her son gently. “I’m sure he has more important things to do than teach you to throw a rope.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Mark said, hating the fact that despite his intentions, something in the boy’s eyes got to him.

“Great,” Brian agreed eagerly.

When they arrived at the cottage, April opened the trunk and handed Mark his packages. “Thanks, Mark, for the town tour and all your help.”

He nodded and pulled the hat from his bag. “Brian.” He tossed the boy the black hat.

Brian caught it with both hands, his eyes widening as he realized what he held. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “A hat just like yours.” In three long strides, he reached Mark and wrapped his arms awkwardly around Mark’s waist.

“Thanks, Mark.” Brian stepped away from him, his cheeks pinkened as if his display of affection had embarrassed him.

Mark turned to walk away, trying to ignore the sun-burst of warmth in the pit of his stomach.

“Mark.”

He paused and turned back to April. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.” He was rewarded by a smile from her that warmed him down to his toes and twisted something deep in his gut.

He suddenly realized he had to be careful. For some reason this woman and her son had the potential of touching him where he’d sworn he would never be touched again.

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