Jeannie Watt - Cowgirl in High Heels

So she had that to deal with, too.

“Kate...my decision is made. I’m going to Montana. It’s what I want to do.”

“I don’t believe you,” Kate replied. “Quitting your job, moving to a foreign environment, holding out on your best friend.... You don’t have a dreaded disease, do you?”

“No disease. Just a need for a change. And some privacy.”

Kate sighed into the phone. “All right,” she said sullenly. “Go to Montana. Keep me in the dark.”

“It isn’t like I won’t be back,” Ellie said, relieved that her friend was finally showing signs of backing off. “I have to finish packing. I’m running late and I won’t make my flight if I have to keep answering calls.”

“No more calls.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s okay.”

Her words were followed by an awkward silence as if they were both waiting for the other to hang up first, and then Kate said, “You know I have your back.”

“You always have,” Ellie replied, forcing the words over the lump forming in her throat. Stupid hormone-induced emotions. “I’ll talk to you soon.” And then she did hang up. Fast.

For a moment she stared down at her suitcase, blinking against the tears, before she regained control and started packing again, her movements quick and automatic.

Her new job was bogus—or at least it had started out that way. When her aunt had first suggested that Ellie go to work for them at their new ranch in Montana, her initial instinct had been to say no. It had been more than obvious that Angela was trumping up a way to rescue her niece from the consequences of her actions—something Ellie’s own mother would have never done. Besides, Milo had a ranch consultant coming in later that summer to evaluate, so why would he need her? Easy answer. He didn’t.

But for the first time in her life Ellie had no plan, no idea what her next move would or should be. After several days of considering her alternatives—paying rent from savings while she looked for another job in a tight market, trying to find a position that would work with single motherhood, coming to terms with her pregnancy—she’d realized that she was damned fortunate to have this opportunity. It gave her time, although she hated admitting she needed that time.

So three days ago she’d called her uncle Milo and hammered out a deal. She’d travel to Montana and familiarize herself with the ranch, which was still being managed by the original owner, before the consultant arrived. Milo had seemed relieved, saying that while the consultant came highly recommended, he’d feel better if he had another set of eyes there—Ellie’s eyes. The person he was most concerned about was the former owner, now the uncommunicative ranch manager. On the one hand, he didn’t want to let the guy go if he was the best man to run the place, but on the other, the guy was hell to deal with.

Ellie assured Milo she’d take care of matters. That was what she did, after all—take care of matters, evaluate staff, make hiring and firing decisions. Between her and the consultant, they should have the ranch in decent shape by the time Milo retired.

She closed her suitcase and locked the latches. This was not going to be an escape. It was going to be a mission.

* * *

THE ARENA WAS muddy as hell. Ryan Madison shook out his loop, found the sweet spot and gripped it tightly as he urged his black gelding, PJ, into the roping box.

“Come on, Ryan. You can do it!” A female voice broke through his concentration, but he instantly tuned her out.

Focus.

PJ’s body tensed as the calf was pushed forward into position. Ryan sent up a quick prayer, then nodded. The chute clanged open, the calf shot out and after that it was autopilot.

PJ caught up with the calf and squeezed in on him as Ryan dropped the loop over the animal’s neck and dallied around the saddle horn, dismounting almost before PJ had skidded to a stop in the mud. He flanked the calf, a heavy, squirming heifer, dodging a foot as the calf hit the ground before grabbing that same foot, holding it with the two front feet with one hand and making his wraps with the other. Two wraps and a half hitch.

Ryan jumped to his feet, hands in the air. PJ eased forward, slacking the rope stretched between the saddle horn and the calf. He held his breath as the calf squirmed and bucked, and then the judge dropped his flag.

Ryan bent to loosen the rope on the calf’s neck before releasing the animal’s feet from the wraps of the pigging string. The calf jumped up and loped to the far end of the arena as Ryan remounted the gelding, coiling his muddy rope.

He was vaguely aware of the announcer giving his time—the best that day so far—and cheers from the crowd as he exited the arena; he nodded at some of his acquaintances. Smiled even though he didn’t feel like smiling, despite a decent run.

Somewhere in the warm-up crowd was his half brother, Matt Montoya, who had every intention of stealing this purse away from him.

Have at it, Ryan thought as he rode through the crowd and then headed for his trailer. His run had been pretty damned close to perfect, especially in a muddy arena.

Once at the trailer, he tied PJ and pulled the saddle off. The horse was done for the day, but Ryan wasn’t. He had a mission ahead of him that he was not looking forward to, but one that couldn’t be avoided. He needed to talk to his father.

It was a good-size rodeo, but Charles Montoya tended to show up in the competitor’s area to congratulate his legitimate son after a good run. Ryan had purposely parked his trailer within sight of his brother’s, although under normal circumstances, they avoided any proximity with one another. In fact, they’d never actually spoken since the fistfight in the rodeo grounds’ bathroom just after he’d turned fifteen.

After PJ was taken care of, Ryan sat on the trailer fender where he had a decent view of Montoya’s trailer, and began his vigil. Matt would make his run within the hour and then, hopefully—

Score.

Charles Montoya was a tall man with a full head of silver hair. Hard to miss in a crowd, and even harder to miss as he headed for Matt’s trailer. Ryan, vaguely aware of his heart rate bumping up, just as it did when he was about to rope, pushed off the trailer and started toward the man who, after finding Matt’s trailer deserted, reversed course toward the stands. Ryan knew he probably wasn’t going to have another semiprivate opportunity such as this anytime in the near future, so he started to jog after him.

“Excuse me,” he called, when he really wanted to say, “Hold up, asshole.”

Charles Montoya stopped walking and glanced over his shoulder, a stunned expression forming on his face when he recognized just who had hailed him.

Yeah. It’s me. Surprised?

Ryan’s mouth clamped into a hard straight line as he slowed to a walk, and damned if Charles didn’t take on a polite, distant expression.

“Can I help you?” he said.

“Yes, you can. Stay away from my mother,” Ryan said as he came to a stop.

“Excuse me?”

And this was when the bluff came in, because although he knew from Cindy, his mother’s best friend, that Charles had been in contact with his mom—and that she’d been in a deep funk for days afterward—he didn’t know the nuts and bolts of the situation. As always, Lydia Madison was protecting people. Ryan. Charles. Everyone but herself.

Ryan took a step forward, putting himself close enough to his father that the guy knew he meant business. “Leave my mother alone. No contact. Understand?”

A fierce frown formed between Charles’s heavy white eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t bullshit me. You called her, you threatened her, and if you do it again, the era of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ is over. Forever.”