Patricia Thayer - The No. 1 Sheriff in Texas

All at once tears flooded her eyes. She tried to blink them away. “I’m okay,” she lied. “I have to be.”

Brandon couldn’t stop the protective feelings he had for this woman. He wasn’t supposed to get personally involved, but Nora Donnelly made it damn difficult.

“Such a tough guy?” he said with a smile. “Let someone take care of you.” He found himself reaching out and brushing a tear from her soft cheek. His voice softened. “You don’t always have to be so strong.”

“Yes, I do,” she said.

Hearing the trembling in her voice, he pulled a blanket from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her. “Are you cold?”

“A little.”

He rubbed her arms, stirring up some warmth. She felt so delicate. He didn’t want to think about what would have happened to her if he hadn’t gotten there in time tonight. “Do you have any family I can call? Someone who can stay with you.”

She looked at him with those startling blue eyes. His throat went dry and his chest tightened.

She finally shook her head. “Maybe Millie can stay.”

“Mom?”

They both turned toward the hallway to find a small dark-haired boy in a pair of Star Wars pajamas. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

Nora held out her hand as he walked toward her. “Zach, you shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“I heard you talking.” The child’s worried gaze took Brandon in, then searched his mother’s face. “What happened?” His eyes showed fear. “Did he find you and hurt you?”

Brandon caught Nora’s panic and knew his instincts were right. So maybe this attack wasn’t one of random violence. But he didn’t want the boy to worry.

“Hi, Zach, I’m Deputy Randell. Your mother had a little accident in the parking lot at work, so I brought her home. She’s okay now. I’ve made sure of that.”

The boy looked at his mother. “You’re really okay?”

She nodded. “I hit my head, so I have to rest for a few days.” She studied her son. “Hey, I’m the one who’s supposed to take care of you. How are you feeling tonight?”

“Okay.”

She embraced the boy and Brandon could see the love between them.

“Then you should be back in bed, Zach,” she told him. “It’s late.”

The boy pulled back from the embrace and shot Brandon a glance. There was worry etched on his face, far too much for a kid aged six, maybe seven.

“Your mother is okay, son,” the deputy said. “The doctor checked her over.”

That’s when Millie came into the room, carrying a tray of mugs. “And I’ll be here, Zach,” she told him. “I’ll take care of her like I take care of you.”

Zach finally gave his mother a smile. “Okay.” He kissed her then, and let Millie take him back to his bedroom. The older woman paused at the doorway. “Nora, yours is cocoa.”

Brandon handed the mug to Nora, then took his. “He seems like a nice boy. He worries about you.”

“There’s no need.” She stared down at her mug.

He took a sip of the hot brew. “Still it’s got to be hard to raise a child on your own.”

She stiffened. “I’m doing fine like a lot of single mothers. Zach and I don’t need anyone—we have each other.”

“But what if you’d been seriously hurt tonight…or worse?” He had a hunch there was a lot more to this story. “The attacker worked you over good, Nora.” He motioned to her face. “And what he said to you, ‘You thought you could get away with it.’” He watched Nora’s face…her jaw tensed. “Statistics show that personal attacks, like the one to your face, often mean the perpetrator is familiar with his victim.”

“For the last time, Deputy, I didn’t know the man, so stop treating me like I’ve committed the crime.”

HANK BARRETT squinted into the bright, September sun. Off in the distance he spotted the familiar black truck driving under the Circle B archway. Brandon. Smiling, he stepped off the back porch to go and greet his eldest grandson. He knew that his fifteen grandkids had better things to do than come visit an old man. But this sure made his day.

Eighty years old on his last birthday, Hank had been blessed with good health. Thankful that he could still climb on a horse, he liked to supervise the ranch work rather than do it these days. And he got to spend time with his three sons, Chance, Cade and Travis. The boys might have been adopted, but he loved them as much as if they were his own blood. No more or less than his own biological daughter, Josie. They all lived close by, and all worked together.

Today with six ranches that formed the Randell Corporation, the operation was far too complicated to work without everyone doing their part. It took all six Randell brothers, along with two cousins, to run things.

Besides family, Hank’s main concern these days was to protect the mustangs that roamed the valley here. About a dozen years back he’d made sure the wild ponies would always have a home when he bought up the land to keep it from ever being developed. He wanted the serene Mustang Valley for the wild ponies, his family and the generations to come. Even after he was gone, he trusted his sons to keep that legacy.

God willing, that would be a while longer.

Hank walked toward the dusty truck as Brandon pulled up beside the barn and climbed out. The boy wasn’t dressed in his deputy’s uniform, but the standard cowboy uniform of boots, jeans and Western shirt.

“Hey, Granddad.”

“Hi, Brandon.

A grown man, Brandon didn’t hesitate to come up and embrace him in a big hug. Hank liked that.

“What brings you out here, son?”

Brandon knew he hadn’t spent much time with Hank lately. He’d been working a lot, trying to make detective. “Does your favorite grandson have to have a reason?”

“Nope. We’re just glad you came. Come in and see Ella. I bet she’s got something good cooking.”

Brandon paused. “Ella’s cooking?” It had always been a family joke that their grandmother wasn’t good in the kitchen.

Hank grinned. “Yeah. She’s been taking a class,” he assured him. “And I don’t mind sayin’ my bride is getting pretty good.”

Brandon figured it was more Hank’s love for Ella. He’d finally confessed his feelings about fifteen years ago to his one-time housekeeper. Now, he’d eat anything she put in front of him.

“If you don’t mind, could we talk first?” Brandon asked.

Hank gave a nod. “Sure. Why don’t I show you the new colt your uncle Chance brought over? We’re gonna use him in the big raffle at the rodeo next month.”

The Circle B Rodeo had gone on for years, mainly to bring neighbors together to help out with the roundup. The past few years the money from the horse raffle went to the mustang rescue program.

“You’re comin’ aren’t ya?” Hank kept a fast pace as they headed to the barn.

For his age, Hank was in good shape. He stood straight and tall, and his mud-colored Stetson covered a head of thinning white hair. His body was still trim, no extra weight around his waist. His hands might have been a little crippled from arthritis, but it didn’t stop him from working.

Brandon smiled. “Isn’t it required of all Randells to show up?”

A big grin broke out on Hank’s face. “No, just that your dad and uncles are so competitive that they would never miss it.” They came to the barn, then Brandon slid open the door and walked inside the cool structure. “And we could always use your help at the roundup. Those greenhorns that pay to come to the guest ranch seem to get themselves lost more often than a stray calf.”

Years ago, they had turned the Circle B into a working guest ranch and the roundup was the highlight of the stay.