Dana Mentink - Cowboy Christmas Guardian

“Road’s still blocked to our ranch,” Owen told him. “Cops said they’ll circle around and meet you at Arroyo’s place.”

Arroyo’s place. He’d rather crawl through a cactus field, but he could not think of any way out of it. “Okay,” he said.

“Need backup?”

“Nah, thanks, though.”

He pocketed the phone and joined Shelby, who was examining the remains of her car.

“As soon as I get the horses back, we’ll go to your uncle’s place. Cops will meet us there.”

She stared gloomily at the wrecked vehicle. “My first new car.”

He decided it was not the time to tell her a nice half-ton pickup might have held up better than her flimsy foreign-made tin can.

His mother’s voice rang through his memory. In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin: but he that refraineth his lips is wise. He’d had to copy that proverb out as punishment a number of times when he was a kid. All the Thorn brothers had, except Jack, who was so quiet no one ever knew what he was thinking.

And then there was the youngest Thorn. Their mother would probably still be having Keegan write out Bible verses if she could get him to do it. Barrett didn’t figure Keegan would ever master the art of restraint.

He heard no sign at all that the person who had tossed the dynamite was still around, so he figured it was okay to leave Shelby there while he went after the horses. Titan wouldn’t have gone too far and Lady would stay with him. Horses weren’t as smart as humans, but they knew the survival basics.

Retrieving his hat from the ground and shaking off a sprinkling of glass and dirt, he put it on and headed for the trees. He was surprised to find that Shelby was following him.

“I...I figured I’d help,” she said.

Help? That surprised him. Maybe she was scared to be left alone, but she seemed like the kind who wasn’t scared of much.

A memory came back to him so strong it cut his heart in two. His wife, Bree, was the bravest woman he’d known, but she’d been petrified of snakes. The day a little gopher snake wriggled into the kitchen, she’d leaped onto Barrett’s back piggyback-style, hollering for him to get rid of it. He’d been laughing so hard tears had run down his face.

A drop of rain splatted his cheek and he realized he was standing still. Shelby was looking at him inquiringly.

“Are you okay?” she said softly.

“Just thinking.” He turned away and she laid her hand very gently on his shoulder.

“Wait a minute. You’re bleeding. I think you got cut by some flying glass.”

He shrugged. “It’s okay.”

But she did not let go. Instead she lifted the bottom edge of his jacket. He felt her fingers graze over his back, the sting of the cool air against the cut at odds with the softness of her touch.

“It doesn’t look deep, but it needs bandaging.”

He was caught there, wanting to pull away, yet part of him wished to stay, to accept the comfort of her gentle fingers, a connection he had not experienced in a very long time. Blinking, he cleared his throat, moving just enough that she let go of his jacket.

“There,” he said, relief pouring through him. “There’s Titan.” He whistled and the horse approached, with Lady following a pace behind. He took the reins and patted the horse. “It’s all right, buddy. The dynamite scared all of us.”

Lady was composed enough to allow Shelby to mount. When Barrett was astride Titan, they headed along the muddy trail toward Ken Arroyo’s property.

He had not spoken to Ken since the trial when Devon was imprisoned for killing Bree. Ken had bought his son the fancy car and given him all the money he needed to enable his party-boy lifestyle. As far as Barrett was concerned, Ken might as well have bought his good-for-nothing son the liquor that he guzzled before getting behind the wheel.

Anger lit inside Barrett’s gut like a burning coal, just as hot as it had been since his wife was taken from him.

Would he be able to keep his mouth shut to prevent the ire from spilling out like acid?

Just keep quiet, he told himself as they picked their way toward the house of his enemy.

* * *

Shelby was lost in thought as they followed the trail to her uncle’s property. Who would want to throw her in the trunk of her car and then toss a stick of dynamite at her? It had to be Joe Hatcher. He had threatened to kill her, hadn’t he? But what would he gain except to keep her out of the mine and buy himself a whole lot of unwanted attention?

As they neared the ranch, she could see Barrett straighten. His back must be hurting. Her fingers tingled at the memory of his strong muscles. The man despised her uncle, yet he’d twice bailed her out of a terrible situation. It must be that cowboy-honor thing.

She felt a deep-down ache in her temple behind her left eye. Migraine or a residual pain from her attack? No time to ponder that as the big ranch house loomed before them.

Uncle Ken had built the home thirty years before, as a summer place for him and his wife, Opal, but Opal had died in childbirth.

Uncle Ken lived most of the year on the east coast with Devon, tending to his commercial real estate business and summering at the California ranch until Devon was fifteen. Summers there had been idyllic. The three of them—Shelby, her sister, Erin, and Devon—rode horses, drank lemonade and caught frogs in the creek.

She’d envied Devon for his situation. It was so different from her own, as a child of a single mother who quaked with fear when the monthly bills came due. She wondered how Devon was faring now. State prison was a world removed from his comfortable home with Uncle Ken.

A police car was parked in front of the two-story house on the wide circular drive. Barrett looped the reins around a split rail fence. Uncle Ken was an equine fanatic and he kept three horses in the back pasture even though he rarely rode anymore, leaving their care to an employee, but she figured Barrett wasn’t about to make himself or his own horses at home on Uncle Ken’s ranch.

His son killed my wife.

She’d not seen Devon since his high school graduation, the happy kid with the wide smile. How differently Barrett must see him, the killer of his wife. She had no idea how the next few minutes would go as she reached the front door. Barrett followed her in, lingering a few paces behind.

The lamps in the front parlor illuminated a well-appointed front room with sleek leather furniture and richly hued area rugs, not a Christmas decoration to be seen anywhere. Uncle Ken was deep in conversation with a young police officer whose close-cropped hair and rain slicker were damp. Her uncle broke off and wrapped Shelby in a hug, his wide face flushed with emotion.

“I can’t believe what’s happened to you. Are you okay? Are you hurt at all?”

“No,” she said, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “I’m okay, thanks to Mr. Thorn.”

Barrett grimaced.

Uncle Ken’s mouth twitched as he looked at Barrett. “Thank you,” he said quietly, “for taking care of my niece.”

Barrett shrugged, hands jammed into his pockets, avoiding eye contact. His jaw was tight, shoulders tense.

The police officer introduced himself to Shelby. “I’m Chris Larraby. I’ll be handling your case. I spoke to Joe Hatcher. He was upset about the trespassing, but he says he had nothing to do with locking you in your trunk.”

“Well, now we’ve got a stick of dynamite thrown into the mix,” Shelby said. “You can ask him about that.”

“Did either of you see who threw it?”

Barrett shook his head.

“I didn’t see a thing either,” Shelby added.

“It had to be Hatcher,” Uncle Ken said. “He made threats.”

“Doesn’t prove anything,” Barrett said.