Brenda Minton - Her Guardian Rancher

“Or maybe you’re just hoping Emma is there. She’s going to get tired of your version of babysitting. Or is this courting, Daron McKay–style?”

“I’m not babysitting or courting. Where did you get that? I’m...” He rubbed a hand across his cheek. Man, he needed to shave. “I’m just doing what I promised.”

Boone held up a hand to cut him off. “Stop. Andy volunteered to go with us.”

“I trusted Afiza.”

“Yeah, you did. And we trusted her brother. That doesn’t make you Emma Shaw’s keeper. It isn’t your fault Andy divorced her, or that he didn’t list her as a beneficiary.”

“You’d think his family would want to help out.”

“But they don’t,” Boone said. They’d had this conversation a hundred times before. “You can’t make sense of what doesn’t make sense, my friend. So either you keep hounding her, trying to help when she doesn’t want it. Or you walk away and let her live her life. The problem is, if you don’t mind me saying so, that you kind of like being in her life. You’re attached to Jamie. You like Art.”

“They’re pretty easy to like.” He grabbed the mail piled on his desk and started opening envelopes. A few checks they’d been waiting for.

A letter from his mom. Why would she send a letter rather than call? He slid his knife under the flap of the envelope and pulled out a card. No, it was an invitation. He glanced over it.

“Something good?” Boone asked as he got up to pour himself another cup of coffee.

“My mom, making a point.”

“What’s that?”

Daron glanced at the photograph on the front of the invitation, of a smiling blonde and her too-handsome fiancé. He opened the card and read over the details. “My ex-fiancée is getting married. This is my mom’s way of letting me know I’ve missed the boat.”

“It isn’t like there aren’t plenty of boats out there.” Boone lifted his cup of coffee in salute, and the light glinted off his wedding band.

“Spoken like a man who is tragically in love.”

“Nothing tragic about it, my friend. So, will you go?”

Daron glanced over the invitation and then shot it into the wastepaper basket. “I don’t have time for this. I’m going to run to the bank and make a deposit that will keep us solvent and help you pay off that pretty house you’ve built your wife.”

He was heading for the door when the phone rang. He waited as Boone answered. Then he waited because the call seemed serious.

“Well?”

“First-responder call.” Boone shot him a look that unsettled him.

“Who?”

“Art Lewis. He’s cut his finger pretty badly and Emma isn’t there.”

“I’ll drive on out there and make sure he’s okay,” Daron said as he headed out the door, Boone behind him.

“Might as well,” Boone agreed. “I’ll follow you in my truck.”

As they left town, the fire truck and rescue unit were leaving the rural fire station that served the Martin’s Crossing and Braswell area. Daron flipped on the first-responder light on his dash and fell in behind the emergency units.

It took less than ten minutes and he was pulling up to the small home where Emma lived with her grandfather. Art was on the porch, a towel wrapped around his hand. Daron jumped from his truck and hurried past the other first responders.

“What happened?” he asked as he reached the porch.

Art grimaced. “That tractor. I’ve been trying to get that nut loosened up for ages, and of course today it came loose and my hand slipped. I cut a hunk out of my thumb.”

Art started to unwrap his hand and show Daron and Boone, who had joined him on the front porch.

Daron stopped him. “No, that’s okay. Keep it wrapped. And you’re pale, so why don’t we take a seat and let the guys check you out?”

A first responder grinned as he stepped into the group and took over. “Art, you have a way of finding trouble. Wasn’t it just last year that you set—”

Art cut him off. “Let’s not go over the list of past sins or we’ll be here all day.”

The first responder took a look at the gash and shook his head. “You’re bleeding pretty good here, Art. I think we need to get you to Braswell.”

“Oh, don’t look so worried. I’m not going to bleed out.” Art started rewrapping the wound.

“We’re going to dress this a little better,” the first responder told him. “Let’s get you to the ambulance and we’ll be in Braswell before you know it.”

Art planted his feet on the porch. “I only called you young roosters because I thought you’d bandage it up. I didn’t expect you to haul me in.”

“Well, Art, there are just some things we can’t do in the field.” The first responder held his own, but the corner of his mouth flirted with a smile.

“I’m not in a field. I’m on my cotton-picking front porch.”

Daron laughed and earned himself a glare from the older man. “Art, I’ll call Emma. She’ll be glad you went to the hospital. Is she at Duke’s?”

“No, she had to take Jamie in to the doctor. I figured she’d be home by now, but you never know what the wait time is going to be.”

“Is Jamie still sick?” Daron asked as the first responder continued to look Art over. They had moved him to a chair.

Art glanced down at his injured hand and then back at Daron. He grimaced a bit as the first responder cleaned the wound. “Yeah, son, she’s still sick. But she’s strong and her mama has faith.” Art turned his attention back to the first responder, who now seemed to be trying to help him to his feet. “Son, I said I’m not going. I can drive myself if I need stitches.”

Boone walked up behind Art, his beat-up cowboy hat pulled low over his brow and a look on his face that told the first responders to take a step back. “Art, how about we drive you to Braswell to the ER? They can sew you up. Plus, you can check on Emma and Jamie while you’re there.”

Art pushed himself out of the chair. “Now, that’s an idea. Thank you all for coming. I’ll just take Boone’s offer and let you all go on back to your jobs, or whatever you were doing before I got you called out here.”

Daron shot Boone a look. “Really?”

Boone arched a brow and grinned. “We don’t have anything else on the calendar for today, do we?”

“No, nothing else. And we both love to get Emma riled up. Let’s go, Art.” Daron led the older man down the steps and to his truck. “You aren’t going to bleed all over my new truck, are you?”

Art stumbled a bit, but his voice, when he answered, was still strong. “I reckon if I do, you can get it cleaned up.”

Daron laughed. “Yeah, I reckon.”

The three of them crowded into the front of Daron’s truck, Art in the middle. Boone leaned back in the seat like he was in his beat-up old recliner and happy as he could be.

“Now that it’s just us,” Art started, “why don’t you tell me what you think Pete Shaw wanted the other night?”

Daron pulled onto the main road. “You knew that Pete was out there?”

“No, not at first. I heard Emma shout and then heard Pete mumble something about her trying to kill him. I was heading for my bedroom door when I heard you say something and I just figure you’re a few years younger, so you might as well handle things.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Art. And I’m not sure what Pete’s after.”

“I guess I just figured you had some idea, since you’re patrolling the place like an overworked guard dog.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Art shot him a look. “It isn’t like you can hide a pearly white Ford King Ranch like this. I’m old, I get up at night and I’ve seen you driving by like you’re keeping an eye on the place. Emma has seen you. I guess she told you to mind your own business.”