Rebecca York - Riley's Retribution

“You didn’t mention any ‘problem’ when you advertised for a manager,” he said carefully, although he already knew that she was barely turning a profit.

“Well, that’s not the kind of thing I’d advertise, would I?” she snapped.

“Do you have any other source of income—besides the sale of horses?” he asked.

“I rent some unused buildings,” she answered.

“To whom?”

She hesitated a moment before answering, “A, um, group of…survivalists.”

“Oh, yeah?” She must be referring to Boone Fowler’s militia. So were they styling themselves as survivalists? Or was that her term for them—because she thought it was more politically correct?

She was staring hard at him. “You object to my renting to them?” she asked sharply.

He knew he’d better be careful about stepping over the line with his answer. She owned the ranch. He was her hired help.

Even so, he had to fight the impulse to tell her about his experiences in Boone Fowler’s prison camp. Instead he kept his voice even as he said, “It’s not my place to object. Not if they mind their own business.”

He wanted to ask how they happened to pick the Golden Saddle Ranch. And where—exactly—they were located on her property. But he didn’t want to seem too interested, so he held back the questions.

“The entrance to the ranch is right up ahead,” she said.

He slowed down, then turned in at a horseshoe-shaped archway.

They bumped up a gravel road that was pocked with potholes.

Floodlights illuminated the ranch yard, and he saw a low stone-and-timber house with a wide front porch, which he knew had been built early in the previous century. The structure looked solid, but in the floodlights he could see that the trim around the window frames needed painting. Probably she’d do that when she got some spare cash.

The bunkhouse and barn were nearby. And another building that he assumed was used for storage.

He pulled up in front of the house. “We should unload what you need to take inside.”

“And you can put the SUV in the storage building for the night—then unload the rest in the morning.”

“Fine.”

Apparently, some of Ms. Rogers’s hands had been listening for her to arrive, because two of them came striding toward the SUV.

One was a short, grizzled guy with the bowlegged gait of a man who has spent much of his life in the saddle. He appeared to be in his fifties. The other was taller than his companion and younger than Riley. Both men wore jeans, heavy winter coats and Western hats.

Riley and Ms. Rogers climbed out of the vehicle. The two men eyed him with undisguised interest. But it was different from the appraisal of the people in town. These guys seemed to be protective of Ms. Rogers—although that could be an act, of course.

“Jake Bradley, Kelly Manning, this is Riley Watson,” she said. “I told you I was considering him for ranch manager, and he’s going to take the job.”

“Good to meet you.” He shook hands with both of them. They helped Courtney unload her groceries. Then he drove to the storage shed and left his vehicle inside. Finally he strode to the bunkhouse.

Up close, he could see it was a little newer than the main house, but also rustic. And it was set up like a private residence, with a living room, dining room, kitchen and several bedrooms in the back. All the furniture looked comfortable but well-worn.

The man named Kelly showed him to a bedroom. “There are three bathrooms,” he said, opening several doors along the hall.

“How many hands do you have?”

“Just three at the moment. Me and Jake and Billy. They’ll be along later.”

So the ranch was understaffed. He’d have to inspect the property in the morning. There was no point in stumbling around in the dark.

Setting down his duffel bag, he longed to close the bedroom door and lie down.

Instead he squared his shoulders and followed Kelly back to the kitchen.

Jake had just taken the lid off a big pot of chili…and Riley’s stomach growled.

“That smells good.”

Jake made a grunting sound.

“So you like working for Ms. Rogers?” he asked.

“Yup,” Jake answered. Apparently he was a man of few words.

Riley scuffed his foot against a worn floorboard. “She seemed kind of hyper.”

Jake’s head snapped toward him. “She’s got a shrinking income. She’s got herself a kid to raise on her own—with the whole town acting like she did something wrong. And—”

He stopped short.

Riley wanted to ask, “And what?” But he kept his mouth shut. He should have gotten the lay of the land before coming out with any kind of strong observation. Holding up his hands, he said, “Whoa. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“You blame her for being hyper?” Jake pressed.

“I admire her—for truckin’ on. But it was a shock to find out she was pregnant.”

“Her husband was in the Special Forces. And he bought the farm on assignment in Lukinburg.”

Riley mumbled something appropriate, then changed the subject to the ranch acreage. They discussed the spread for a few minutes, then Jake said, “You want some dinner?”

“I’d appreciate it. Your chili sure does smell good.”

Kelly and Jake both joined him at the table. Billy Cramer came in during the meal, and Jake made the introductions.

Riley knew the other men were sizing him up, just like he was doing with them. Could one of them have been the man who had shot at Courtney from the bridge?

He didn’t know, but he was going to find out.

RILEY WOKE WHEN HE HEARD the hands moving around the bunkhouse. When he arrived in the kitchen twenty minutes later, the rest of them were already at the table, eating eggs, bacon and toast.

The ranch might be in financial trouble, but Courtney Rogers was feeding her men well.

A television in the corner was tuned to the weather channel. It seemed they were in for another cold, blustery day. Par for the course in Montana in winter. But at least snow wasn’t in the forecast. Of course, he’d checked the weather yesterday. And there had been no mention of snow then, either.

After eating some of the food and complimenting the chef, he turned to Kelly and said, “So, could you show me around the spread?”

The young man looked startled. “Me? Jake’s been here a lot longer.”

Jake shifted in his chair. “Go ahead. I’ll clean up here.”

Kelly nodded.

Riley dressed warmly, grabbed some carrots from the refrigerator, then followed Kelly to the barn, the most modern structure he’d seen so far on the ranch.

Unless one of the men had gotten up early and scurried over here to make sure the work area looked good for the new ranch manager, everything seemed to be up to snuff. The stalls were clean. The well-groomed horses had plenty of food and water. And the equipment in the tack room was in good condition and neatly stored.

He stopped to greet the horses in the stalls, calling them by the names on the small plates at each door and offering carrots, which were readily accepted.

They paused by a stall with a filly named Irma. A protective boot was wrapped around her left foreleg.

“What happened to her?” Riley asked.

“She overreached and bruised herself—the way they do sometimes.”

Kicked her front leg with her back, Riley mentally translated. “Yeah, that can be a problem. How are you treating the injury?”

“We started with cold hosing three times a day. Now we’re on to warm, dry bandages.”

He fed Irma a carrot, which she gobbled up, telling him her appetite was good. On a more prosperous ranch the owner might have called out the vet. But he knew it wasn’t unusual for owners to treat minor problems, which certainly saved money.