RaeAnne Thayne - The Wrangler And The Runaway Mom

He grimaced. The crowd hadn’t cheered too long after he’d wrenched his shoulder, although he doubted anybody else but him could tell it had been deliberate.

He had discovered that particular ability—to dislocate his shoulder on demand—when he’d been a kid. He’d used it a few times to get out of work on the Broken Spur, until he wised up and discovered it was less painful just doing the work.

In this case the results had been worth every second of pain. He had found the perfect chance to meet Dr. Maggie Rawlings, of the sexy voice and the cool, competent hands, to begin the process of gaining her trust.

After meeting her, he had no doubt he faced a chore as tough as roping the wind.

Colt’s gaze darted to the trailer he had purposely parked beside the night before, in the little campground adjacent to the rodeo grounds. She probably had no idea the scruffy cowboy she had just fixed up had slept only a few feet away from her.

If you could call it sleep. He rubbed his bum shoulder. The narrow bed—with its mattress that felt about as thick as a paper towel—had combined with his aching muscles to keep him tossing and turning most of the night.

He’d still been awake long after the rodeo announcer called the last event, when she finally came in with her kid’s blond head snuggled in the curve of her shoulder as he slept.

Colt had watched as she carried the boy inside her trailer, hooked to a rickety old pickup that had definitely seen better days. A few minutes later she came out alone. He had watched her open the door to the trailer and gaze up at the stars, tiny scattered pinpricks of light against the black sky.

She looked small and vulnerable standing there, with her shoulders bowed as if they could hardly bear the weight of her head anymore.

He’d watched her for a long time until she’d finally gone back inside her trailer, leaving him unsettled, restless.

Beckstead never mentioned the dirty accountant’s widow had the kind of beauty that could bring a man to his knees. Delicate, fragile, with soft, translucent skin, a lush, kissable mouth and huge dark eyes. She had pulled her hair—the exact shade of a Montana wheat field in July—back into a tight, efficient braid, but stray tendrils had escaped to wisp alluringly around her face.

The minor fact that she was the first woman he’d been attracted to in longer than he cared to remember shouldn’t make any difference in his investigation. He couldn’t let it make a difference.

He had been on assignments involving beautiful women before. Dozens of them. But this odd protectiveness clogging his chest was definitely something new. For a minute there the night before, as her smooth, slim hands had fussed over his injury and her clean scent of peaches and vanilla had drifted past him, he had caught the dark smudges of fear under her eyes, and he had battled a completely irrational desire to do everything he could to wipe that fear away.

She was the subject of an investigation, he reminded himself sternly. He had a job to do and he couldn’t let himself be distracted by a beautiful woman with big needy eyes, even if she did smell like heaven.

A small whisper of sound drew his attention back to her trailer in time to see the door open just a crack and a little figure sneak out. Her kid—what was his name? Nicholas, that was it—crept down the steps dressed in the same desperado attire he’d been wearing the evening before. With one foot on the ground, he paused and looked around furtively, as if he were preparing to rob the local bank.

“Your mom know where you’re goin’, partner?” he asked softly.

The kid whirled toward him, his eyes wide like he expected to find Wyatt Earp himself staring him down. When he spied Colt, his bony shoulders slumped in relief “Uh, sure she does.”

“Honest?”

A flush stole over the boy’s cheeks, making the freckles stand out like dots on a ladybug, and Nicholas looked down at the flattened grass. “Well, she’s still asleep. I figured I’d be back before she even woke up.”

“Where you headin’ this early in the morning?”

“To see the horses.” The boy walked closer, his dark eyes that were so like his mother’s bright with renewed excitement. “I’m gonna be a cowboy when I grow up. You a cowboy, mister?”

“Sometimes,” Colt answered, truthfully enough.

“You got your own horse and everything?”

He fought the beginnings of a smile. “Yeah. His name is Scout. He’s stabled over at the rodeo grounds.”

“Can I ride him sometime?”

Colt studied the boy’s eager little face. He didn’t know much about kids, but encouraging the boy’s budding hero worship might be the perfect way to find out more information about the mother.

A five-year-old probably wouldn’t exactly be bubbling over with information about embezzled money and phony books, but the boy might be able to provide him with a little bit of insight into their financial status, if nothing else.

It was exactly the kind of lead he should follow up on. He’d be a fool not to—a good undercover man capitalized on every advantage he could find. So why did the idea of using the kid make him feel so sleazy?

“Maybe later,” he finally said. “I think you ought to just stick around here for now. Your mom might worry if you’re not here when she gets up. Moms can be funny that way, you know.”

The boy nodded solemnly, glumly. “Yeah, I know. I’m supposed to stay with my mom or with Cheyenne all the time. Stupid, huh? I’m not a baby. Heck, I’ll be six in fifty-three days. Old enough to go plenty of places by myself.”

The impassioned speech was punctuated by a loud, mansize grumbling from the vicinity of the little boy’s stomach that had Colt biting the inside of his cheek.

“You take time for breakfast before you headed out this morning, partner?”

Nicholas shook his head. “Nope. We got nothin’ but bran muffins over there. Bran muffins stink.”

“I’d have to agree with you there.” He paused for only a moment, knowing he had no choice but to try to befriend the boy. The quicker he finished this job, the quicker he could return to the ranch to salvage what was left of his vacation.

It still left a sour taste in his mouth, but he ignored it

“I bought some doughnuts yesterday. Think you might be able to do me a favor and help me out by eating one or two?”

“What kind?”

“Powdered with raspberry filling.”

Clearly tempted, the boy looked first at his own trailer then back at him, chewing on his lip. Colt could just imagine the internal debate whirring through his head. Dr. Rawlings probably had a typical maternal—and medical—prejudice against the kind of sugary treats that lacked any nutritional value. Powdered doughnuts likely placed pretty high up on that taboo food list, which should make them damn near irresistible to a boy who would be six in just fifty-three days.

“Sure,” he finally said. “Raspberry filling’s my favorite.”

Ignoring the twinges of a conscience he thought had withered away from disuse years ago, Colt walked inside the camper and grabbed the box off the table, then as an afterthought, poured a glass of milk from the little refrigerator. Maybe the calcium in the milk would redeem him in Dr. Rawlings’s eyes for the doughnut.

Yeah, and just maybe before they rode tonight, Scout might up and decide to recite the Declaration of Independence.

Colt handed the plate and cup to the boy. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, mister.”

“You can call me Colt. I figure a guy ought to be on a first-name basis with somebody he shares a jelly doughnut with, don’t you?”

“Sure. I guess so.”

“What do folks call you?”

“My mom calls me Nicky, ’cept when she’s mad,” the boy said around a mouthful of doughnut. “When she’s mad, she calls me Nicholas Michael Prescott.”