Fern Michaels - Heartbreak Ranch

“You mean like he did last night?”

Walker’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Amy stood up and closed the door. Behind the door, hanging by the strap from a nail were his field glasses. She lifted them off and walked over to him, the glasses swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

“I believe you left these behind,” she said, dropping them into his lap. “Toddy found them and brought them to me.”

Walker picked them up, slung the strap around his shoulder and jumped to his feet. “I can explain,” he said, reaching for her.

“Don’t touch me, you—you Peeping Tom!” She turned away and he grabbed her arm.

“All right. I admit I was watchin’ you, but dammit, Amy, I have a right to know what you’re up to. Sure as I’m standing here, there’s something fishy about my pa signing Heartbreak Ranch over to your ma, and I think you know what it is!”

Amy stiffened. “I don’t know anything more than what I told you,” she returned in a tone that was anything but convincing.

He released her. “So you say, which is why I wired a friend of mine, a Pinkerton man, to take the case.”

“A Pinkerton man?” Amy’s throat felt dry. “You hired a detective?”

Walker’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. It seemed the only way to find out what’s going on with my pa.”

His words were followed by a stern silence. Amy had to stop herself from filling in the void with a confession. Only by force of will did she succeed.

Walker drew a breath. “So that’s where we stand.”

Stand? Amy felt as if her knees were going to buckle. A Pinkerton man! She’d heard how efficient they were at tracking down outlaws and train robbers and how cold they could be when it came to dispensing justice. What were the chances of the man discovering that Sam Heart had been shanghaied? Better than the chances that he wouldn’t!

Amy clasped her hands, trying to think. According to the journal, only Howard Evans and a pretty waiter girl named Felice had known of her mother’s plan. Amy was certain Howard would never say anything, but what about Felice? Obviously, her mother had considered Felice to be a trusted employee, but was she?

“I expect an answer in a couple of weeks,” Walker said, breaking the tense silence. Amy frowned at him, distracted from her thoughts. “Until then, I intend to continue running this ranch the way I always have.”

Amy managed a stiff nod. “Of course,” she replied. A couple of weeks. It wasn’t much time and yet she knew it would seem like a lifetime.

It will be all right, ma chère. You must trust your mama.

Amy glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see her mother standing there, poised and in control. But Bella was gone. And wasn’t coming back. Amy had to accept that, no matter how she felt, or what she thought she heard.

Trust me, my Amy. I will always be here for you.

Amy’s body tensed. “Did you hear anything?” she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she crossed the floor to her bedroom, opened the door and peered inside. The only sign of her mother was the painted image above her bed.

“No,” Walker answered. “Why?”

Hearing the jangle of Walker’s spurs, Amy quickly pulled the door closed. Like a dutiful sentry she stood in front of it. “My imagination,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders, hoping her air of nonchalance would divert him. She could not allow Walker to see the painting. The picture represented her mother’s life—first as a prostitute, then as a madam, who had bedded so many clients that she didn’t know who Amy’s father was.

Walker simply wouldn’t understand.

“What’s in there?” He took a step toward her.

Panic rose inside her but she forced herself to appear calm and stepped directly in front of him, blocking his path. “It’s just my bedroom,” she told him, as if that was explanation enough. He hesitated but a moment, then moved to go around her. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Heart,” she said, placing her hand upon his chest to halt him, “but some things simply aren’t done. You do not enter a lady’s bedroom without an invitation.” The words were no sooner out than Amy realized exactly where the reprimand had come from. Her mother had taught all her protégées that rule—no customer was allowed entry into a girl’s bedroom without explicit permission. Such formality was intended to eliminate disastrous surprises, as well as protect what little privacy the girls had.

Much to Amy’s relief, Walker didn’t argue. He seemed at a loss for words, even embarrassed.

“Well, I...I guess I’d better go.”

“Yes, I guess you’d better.”

He strode to the front door, then jerked it open. “Thanks for the biscuits,” he said over his shoulder, though he didn’t sound thankful at all.

Amy pursed her lips in a tight smile. “My pleasure.”

She followed behind him, then stood on the threshold, watching as he slowly made his way to the edge of the porch. He stopped before he reached the steps and looked north toward Havilah. After a moment, he turned and faced her.

Amy raised a defensive brow. “Yes?” she prompted. “Was there something you forgot?”

He looked her square in the eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “My backbone.” Walker wrapped his hand around the porch post. “Look, I’m not real good at tea and biscuit manners, but I’m no monster, either. The reason I rode down here was because...well...we got off to a bad start the other day and now...well, here we go again. It seems we can’t talk without gettin’ all riled up at each other.”

Was he apologizing? Amy searched his handsome face but couldn’t seem to get past his eyes. Such beautiful eyes for a man. So expressive. A girl could lose her heart just gazing into them.

He nudged his hat up his forehead. “So anyway...I got somethin’ to say and I don’t want to leave here till I’ve said it.”

He wasn’t apologizing, she realized. But he seemed to be making a genuine effort to talk to her in a reasonable manner, which was better than sarcasm and a Pinkerton threat.

“All right. I’m listening.” Curious but guarded, Amy crossed her arms in front of her and leaned against the door frame. She avoided looking into his eyes.

Walker sat sideways on the porch rail, his right leg bent at the knee. “I don’t know anything about you ’cept what little you’ve told me and what I can see with my own eyes,” he began. His gaze ran up, then down the length of her body as he spoke. “And what I see is you’re a lady. You’ll never make it out here on your own. Ranchin’ and cattle—that’s men’s work. I’ve only known one woman cattle rancher, and believe me, she was no lady.”

“Mr. Heart—”

“Call me Walker,” he interrupted, “and let me finish.” His polite insistence cut her off and kept her quiet. “I don’t want you to take this wrong—like I’m tryin’ to scare you off or somethin’.” He removed his hat and set it on the crook of his knee. “Heartbreak Ranch...well, it’s...my life and I’m not going to give it up without a fight.”

“I don’t blame you,” she replied. She had been here only a few days and already she had fallen in love with the vast expanse of grazing land and the surrounding mountains. She could imagine how he felt, thinking he might lose it all and not even know why. She looked away, feeling guilty for her deceit.

“What’s wrong?” He left the porch rail and came toward her.

Amy took an unconscious step back. “Nothing’s wrong.” But, in truth, Walker’s honest admission of his feelings left her drained of all energy and fight. “I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep particularly well last night.”

“Sure you’re not comin’ down with somethin’?”