Rebecca York: Riley's Retribution

She cringed inwardly. He might be attractive and sexy and strong and reliable, but that didn’t mean she was going to climb into bed with him—again.

That “again” made her cheeks hot, even though bedding down with him had been perfectly innocent. She hoped.

She also hoped that Harold Avery, the old geezer who owned the motel hadn’t seen her. If he had, the news would be all over town. She wanted to ask what Watson had said when he’d checked in, but she kept her lips pressed together.

Damn. The knowledge that she and this man were already the subject of speculation made her want to tell him she’d changed her mind about the job. Yet she silently admitted that she’d be acting against her best interests. And she knew darn well that she wasn’t being fair to him.

It was after dark when they approached the bridge again, and she couldn’t help the little frisson of fear that slithered down her spine.

When he slowed, her gaze shot to him. “What are you doing?”

“Going up there to have a look.”

“No.” Courtney heard herself say, the one syllable coming out high and strained.

“Now that we’re not in a hurry to get to the doctor’s, I want to find out what happened.”

“The guy’s long gone. And you’ll just be poking around in the dark.”

“Maybe he left a shell casing to go along with that bullet. Maybe he dropped a cigarette butt. Or leftovers from his lunch.” Without asking permission, Watson pulled to the side of the road.

She knitted her gloved hands together, holding tight, fighting her fears. She felt exposed out here on the highway, but she knew Watson was right. If there was still some evidence up on the bridge, they ought to find out what it was before it conveniently disappeared. Not that she was accusing the sheriff of anything dishonest. But there had been too many cases around here lately where the bad guys got away.

Watson opened the glove compartment and pulled out a flashlight. Then he stepped out into the cold and closed the door quickly to keep the heat inside.

She forced herself to sit quietly while the man who might or might not be her new ranch hand scaled the bridge abutment.

The clouds had blown away, and the moon had come out. In its pale light, she saw him move with agility and grace. Under other circumstances, she might have enjoyed watching him climb.

He made it to the road, then strode onto the bridge, where he switched on the light and shone it down toward the blacktop.

When he disappeared from view below the concrete railing, she felt her breath catch. But she could still see the light moving around up there.

The man was out of sight for several minutes during which she sat in the SUV gripping the edge of the seat.

She had just decided to go look for him when he popped back into view.

From his position above the highway, he waved to her, then began to climb down

“What did you find?” she demanded when he’d slipped behind the wheel and started the engine.

“He was a careful bastard. There might have been footprints in the snow, but he scuffed them away so I can’t tell the size of his boot.”

“Any shell casings?”

“No. He took them with him. And if he drank any coffee or smoked any cigarettes, he took the leavings away, too. Like I said, he was careful—or well trained. He could be a guy with a military background,” he said, dropping the observation into the conversation, then watching her closely.

She wasn’t sure what response he expected, but she only shrugged.

Watson drove to the other side of the bridge, then stopped beside her truck.

“We should unload your supplies, before some of them disappear,” he said.

She wanted to tell him that people around here didn’t steal from each other, but she wasn’t sure if that was true anymore.

“Yes. Let me help you.”

He cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t be lifting stuff, should you?”

“Nothing heavy. But there are things I can manage.”

“Okay.” He pulled off the road in back of the truck and cut the engine, but he didn’t immediately open the door.

She sensed his tension, and she wondered suddenly if he had some additional information about the man who had been up on the bridge. In response, she felt her chest tighten.

When he spoke, his voice had turned gruff, and it took several seconds for his question to filter into her consciousness, because it was the last thing she had been expecting.

“So…have you made up your mind about hiring me?” he asked.

Riley waited for Courtney’s answer with his breath frozen in his lungs. In the hours since he’d met her, this assignment had become more than a job. Maybe because the flesh-and-blood woman was so much more complicated—so much more appealing—than the woman he’d read about in a briefing folder. She didn’t even look much like her pictures, which was why he hadn’t recognized her.

He wanted to ask her about Boone Fowler—about why she’d let a lowlife jerk like him onto her property. But he knew that was precisely the wrong approach. And it was against orders, too. Because as far as she was concerned, he didn’t know a damn thing about the militia leader. So all he could do was sit there waiting for her to decide his immediate future.

He had the feeling she was still weighing the pros and cons of her decision.

Instead of answering, she asked a question—something more specific than she’d put to him in town. “What’s the best material for a corral fence?”

So she was giving him a test. He was glad he had the background to say, “It depends on what you’re after. Looks, utility or price. Split rail is the cheapest. Those who go in for show favor white painted boards. Outside the main paddock, I like wire, with one line of electricity. To keep the stock from leaning on the fence.”

She nodded, then asked, “How do you tie a foal when you’re first training him?”

“The first few times, you want to make sure he’s not tied hard and fast. He might pull and injure his neck. I’d introduce a truck or car inner tube between him and the fence. That will act like a fat rubber band and offer some give.”

“What’s a chestnut?”

“I take it you don’t mean something roasting on an open fire? We’re talking about a horny, insensitive growth on a horse’s legs.”

“How would you treat it?”

“Trim it short and neat.”

“I guess you know horses.”

“Yeah.”

She heaved in a breath and let it out. “You have the job.”

“Thank you,” he said simply as they stood together on the frozen ground.

“You’ll sleep in the bunkhouse with the other hands,” she added, as though she felt it necessary to make it very clear that their afternoon in bed had been an aberration.

“I understand,” he answered, as he undid the hooks that held the tarp covering the supplies in the back of the pickup.

“It’s comfortable, but it’s nothing fancy.”

“I sure don’t need fancy. Just a bed and a chest of drawers will do,” he answered.

“And I assume the salary we discussed is satisfactory.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He turned his attention to the supplies. “Does it look like everything’s there?”

She carefully inspected her purchases. “Yes.”

“Good.” He opened the back of the SUV and began loading sacks of feed.

By the time they had finished, the back of his SUV was crammed to the roof, and the temperature had dropped sharply.

“Tell me about the Golden Saddle,” he said as he turned on the headlights and started down the highway again.

“Well, you already know we have twenty mares and five stallions. Most are quarter horses. But we have some Thoroughbred bloodlines, too. That might be our problem. Our prices are high, and the demand for horses like ours is falling.” She cleared her throat. “We could sell more to working cattle ranches. But that would mean we’d have to train them with cattle. And I don’t have the staff to raise both horses and cattle at the moment.”