Barbara White Daille - Rancher At Risk

Yeah, just great.

Distracted by movement, he looked toward the woman, who had turned to face him again.

A heavy feeling started in his chest and only got worse when she stalked toward him. Slim legs in below-the-knee shorts flashed gracefully but with as much determination as a filly headed for the finish line. He barely had time to take in the rest of her racehorse-lean frame before she came to a stop a yard from him. Her cheeks flushed pink with anger and her blue eyes flamed.

“I explained to Becky what happened,” she said, spacing her words, “and now I’ll explain some things to you.” She spread the fingers of one hand and ticked off each statement as she made it. “I am not drunk. I am not crazy. Becky is not my child.”

He shifted his shoulders again. She had a heck of a lot of points to get across, all on his account.

Beyond her he saw the little girl, as blond-haired as the woman in front of him. No wonder he’d taken them for mother and daughter. The child went onto one knee to pet the puppy.

“Becky is my niece. And—” the woman tapped her final finger, then curled both hands into fists and slammed them down in front of her “—I can take care of her.”

The sparks in her blue eyes made him fight not to wince. She had some justification for her anger. He wouldn’t deny that. He had good reason for getting upset, too.

But he didn’t have enough damn fingers for his list of regrets.

Yeah, at first fear had driven him. Once he saw the child was okay, relief had set in. But then, as with the drunken cowboy, he had let frustration take over.

He couldn’t lose it with her again.

“Look,” he said, “when I saw the girl, I thought—”

“We’ve covered what you thought.”

“Right. And you’ve said a mouthful about it. Or maybe a handful.” He gestured to her fists.

She looked down. Again she made a visible effort to gain control, to unclench her fingers and let her hands hang naturally by her sides. He ought to take notes.

When she met his eyes again, he gave her an unblinking stare.

“I’ve already apologized.” She spoke softly, indistinctly again, making him strain to focus on her words. “I’ll say it one more time. I’m sorry Becky ran into the road and gave you such a scare. But she wasn’t anywhere near you. You just overreacted.”

Another truth he couldn’t deny. No matter his unease about the woman, she was right. He had gone over the top with his reaction. The child had run into the road dozens of yards away from the truck, and he’d had plenty of time to come to a stop. Yet if he’d been closer to her, if he’d been distracted, if a car had come from the other direction... Too damned many ifs.

“You should have called her back,” he said flatly.

“She wouldn’t have heard me. She’s deaf.”

“Deaf?” He shifted his shoulders, trying to shake off the extra guilt her statement had added to him. He’d really messed things up today. Earlier this week. In the past few months.

Once, he’d listened to folks instead of jumping to snap decisions. It made him a better ranch foreman. A better man. Once. And now? He took a deep breath and let it out. “Look, I’m sorry—”

“Because she’s deaf.”

“No—”

“Because you realize you shouldn’t have made assumptions about me.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“You already did, didn’t you? Why else would you have asked if I was drunk?” Her words now came through to him loud and clear. Her irritation practically rang in his head.

So much for attempting to save the situation.

Frustration clawed at him, yet guilt weighed him down. As fast as everything had happened, as incensed as he had been, he had jumped to conclusions about her. Keeping his tone as level as he could, he said, “You’re jumping to a few conclusions about what I’m trying to say, too.”

When he pushed away from the side of the truck, bringing them closer, she tilted her head back, keeping their gazes locked. “If you hadn’t kept making your points and cutting me off, by now I’d have told you I’m sorry this whole thing happened.”

She blinked and stared at him for a long moment. “Well,” she said finally, “in that case, I guess we’ve both said all we needed to say.”

He watched her turn and motion to the girl, who fell into step, her hands moving, as they walked away.

The dog sat on his haunches, wagged his tail and looked at him.

A good part Labrador with some shepherd in his bloodline, the pup had a dark coat but a tan-colored face. Dark fur circled one eye as though he stood staring with an eyebrow raised in question.

In answer, Ryan shrugged.

The dog whined, his thoughts plain enough to read. Us guys ought to stick together. Tail drooping now, the pup turned and padded after the pair of females who’d left him behind.

Could things get any worse?

“Ahem.”

Startled, he turned to find the man had come down from the porch and moved to his side. Not good, letting himself get so distracted he’d given Elvis a chance to sneak up on him.

“I reckon that wasn’t the best way to start off,” the man said with a strong Texas twang. The woman’s blue eyes had flamed in irritation. The old man’s, a lighter shade of blue, seemed to bore right into him. And judging by his expression, the guy didn’t much care for what he saw.

Ryan faced him head-on, widened his stance and crossed his arms.

“Around these parts,” the man added, “folks respond better to kind words than to being called crazy.” He shifted the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “You’d best remember that if you plan on staying here for long.”

“What makes you think I’m staying?” he asked, genuinely curious. “Maybe I’m passing through.”

The man shook his head. “We’re too far from the interstate for sensible folks to detour through town. And we don’t get a lot of drop-ins all the way from Montana.”

Frowning, Ryan shot a look at the dirt-covered pickup truck behind him. Considering they stood broadsides to the vehicle, the old man couldn’t have seen the plate at the rear. “How did you figure out where I’m from?”

“Didn’t have to figure a thing. People keep me informed. They know I like to stay on top of what goes on in my town.”

Ryan stiffened. “Your town? Just who are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Don’t mind a bit. Lloyd M. Baylor.” As they shook hands, the man’s eyes squinted with his smile. “Welcome to Flagman’s Folly, Mr. Molloy.”

Ryan froze with his arm still outstretched. He hadn’t introduced himself. Instantly, he dropped his hand to his side, hoping the old man hadn’t noticed the hesitation. Not much chance of that. Those blue eyes hadn’t squinted from a smile after all but from a calculating stare.

Scrutinized like horseflesh once again—and passed over.

Just as when he’d spoken with the woman, his gut told him something wasn’t right. But this time, he wouldn’t jump to a response. Keeping his tone level, he said, “Have we met?”

“No, but I know all about you.”

“From Caleb Cantrell?” So much for a fresh start.

The older man nodded as if he’d listened in on Ryan’s thoughts. “Yep, heard all about you from Caleb. And there’s no need to get up on your high horse about it. He and I go back a long way. He trusts me just like I’ll trust you. If you don’t give me cause to do otherwise.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. And I’ll tell you something else. Flagman’s Folly is the nicest place anyone would ever want to visit, including you. Just make sure you behave accordingly and keep out of my place of business.”

The local saloon, Ryan surmised, judging by the man’s string tie and red suspenders. He gritted his teeth and tried for a grin. And promised himself he wouldn’t raise a glass in that barroom. “You’re not living up to Caleb’s talk about the town’s friendly reputation, Mr. Baylor. If that’s how you welcome newcomers, I’m surprised you have any customers at all.”