Barbara White Daille - Rancher At Risk

He managed to ignore the dresser top and the picture frame he’d turned facedown a year ago. He could stand beside a rectangle of freshly turned soil, could stare at names and dates on a chiseled stone, but he hadn’t the willpower to look at that photo.

Again he swallowed against the bitterness threatening his molars. Leaving Montana meant walking away from every connection he had to Jan and Billy. It meant running away from the memories, too, the good ones he could barely recall anymore, blotted out by the bad ones he couldn’t forget.

A year since the accident, those memories still filled his days and occasionally woke him in the dead of night. The pity in his friends’ faces had added a few more rips to the torn-up places inside him. And last week, a drunken cowboy’s insults had pushed him to his breaking point.

His throat tightened. Despite the breeze blowing in through the open window beside the bed, sweat dotted his brow. Hands hovering above the duffel bag, he paused. Before he could argue or talk himself out of his action, could brush away or second-guess the thought, he grabbed the picture frame from the dresser and slid it, still facedown, under a pile of shirts in the bag.

He would head out late afternoon, once he’d taken care of his chores here on the ranch one last time. Once he’d swung by for a last visit to the small churchyard on Hanaman Road.

And then...

Then he’d drive to New Mexico.

Only a fool would pass up the opportunity Caleb had given him, one he’d done less than nothing to deserve. Somehow he had to undo the damage he’d done, to restore his credibility with the boss. To earn back his reputation.

The hell of it was, most of him didn’t give a damn about all that. The wonder was, a small part of him still cared enough to fight for it. Plain enough to see the unexpected reassignment would be a battle.

A trial.

A risk he couldn’t afford not to take.

* * *

ONLY A SHORT while into his solo journey, one stretch of road had started looking like any other. He drove through the night, when all the towns he came to had rolled up their sidewalks and gone to bed. Or—in the case of his arrival in Flagman’s Folly, New Mexico, sixteen hours later—hadn’t yet unrolled those sidewalks to a new day.

As he turned onto Signal Street, he figured he could describe the main thoroughfare with his eyes closed; it was almost exactly like all the other main streets in every other small town. Some stroke of luck—good luck, for a change—made sure his eyes stayed open. Up ahead of his pickup truck, a little girl darted into the roadway.

The luck stayed with him, letting reflexes take over. Lungs sucked in a breath. Ribs strained. Arms jerked in tandem with his wrench of the steering wheel, and both legs joined forces to jam the brake. Momentum hurled him against the shoulder belt and then ricocheted him back into the driver’s seat.

Far past the end of the truck’s high hood, the little girl turned around, met his eyes through the windshield and gave him an angelic smile.

As he sat there shaking his head and willing his heart to beat again, the air left his lungs in a whoosh. Other reactions washed through him, no less powerful for the delay. A tremor that shook him from head to toe. And an immediate understanding of something he’d never before believed—in moments of extreme stress, life did flash before your eyes.

Not only your own life but those of people you loved.

In the street, a slim woman hurried over to the girl. A puppy bounded across the adjacent lawn to join them and looked up, tail wagging and head cocked as if to ask what had happened.

The woman led the child back to the sidewalk—where she should’ve stayed all along. What if—?

He swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence, even in his mind. Only moments ago he’d shoved a slew of year-old questions like that from his thoughts. Now he could barely think at all.

Both hands scrabbling, he unclasped his seat belt and shoved the door open. As his feet hit the ground, he nearly choked on the smell of scorched tires. A burning sensation raced through his insides. Pain-fueled anger flared. “Lady,” he shouted, “are you crazy?”

Even from several yards away, he saw her blue eyes narrow. She spoke, but he couldn’t catch the response.

Again he shook his head, wanting to chase away the memories triggered by the near miss. Needing to focus on the here and now.

She said something else, and still he couldn’t make out the words. Obviously she was wrought up, with good reason. But that didn’t account for the blurriness of her voice.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. She’d risked her little girl’s life.... “Are you drunk?” he demanded.

“No, I am not.” She clipped off each word now, making a visible effort to speak calmly and clearly.

He frowned. Whether she denied it or not, something was up with her. “What the hell were you thinking, letting that kid run into the road?”

“I didn’t let her. She chased after her puppy, and it was too late for me to stop her.”

Too late.

Not, thank God, for this little girl.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a softer tone.

He could hear the ring of sincerity, but couldn’t shake off the visions of her child. Or his own. Under his breath he muttered what he’d been forced to learn: “Being sorry won’t save your kid.”

“I told you, it happened too fast.”

He blinked, willing to swear he hadn’t spoken loudly enough for her to hear.

Ignoring him, she turned to talk to the girl.

With neither of them paying him any mind, he sagged against the sun-warmed metal of the truck and scrubbed his hand across his mouth, glad for the chance to pull himself together.

He still couldn’t shake the images that had peppered his brain like buckshot the moment he’d seen the girl run into the street. He couldn’t stop the questions he had hoped to leave a thousand miles behind him.

Had memories flooded Jan’s mind in the seconds before the crash? From his booster chair in the backseat, had Billy seen the end coming, too?

From somewhere deep inside, he found the strength to slam a mental door shut on his thoughts. For now.

Avoiding the pair on the sidewalk, he stared down the length of the street, taking in the general store, the pharmacy and a café. When he could breathe regularly again, he checked out the lawn alongside him. The town green, evidently, judging by the formal look of the hitching posts spaced all around the property and the horse troughs overflowing with flowers decorating the walkway. It almost seemed like home.

Good thing he’d never been here before, because this would’ve been one hell of a homecoming.

And good thing he didn’t intend to stay long. Didn’t matter what his boss said about “fresh starts” and “taking a breather.” No one here but Caleb’s wife, Tess, and daughter, Nate, knew him, anyway. But even that didn’t matter. He would do his job, make things right with the man who paid his wages and move on to...who the hell cared where.

Trying to ignore the sudden stiffness in his shoulders, he focused on the building ahead of him. Tall columns held up the porch, though the structure looked sturdy enough to do without them. Beneath that sheltering roof stood a white-haired man impersonating an Elvis gone forty years past his prime.

Great. If he’d had to ruin his grand entrance, couldn’t he have done it without an audience? The irony made his shoulders grow even more rigid. A year ago he’d hounded the sheriff’s office to come up with a single witness.

Maybe the way the old man stood squinting and patting his shirt pocket meant he couldn’t see a thing without glasses.

Naturally, all his good luck had run out. Elvis pulled a toothpick out of that pocket, stuck it in the corner of his mouth and crossed his arms over his chest. The old guy looked him up and down much the way Ryan himself inspected potential ranch stock.