RaeAnne Thayne - The Wrangler And The Runaway Mom

Prescott, not Rawlings, the alias the embezzler’s widow was using on the rodeo circuit. Either she hadn’t explained to her son that they needed to use a different last name for a while or he was too young to grasp the concept. If the boy chattered this freely with everyone, DeMarranville and his crew would have no trouble tracking her down.

Maybe they already had.

A vague sense of unease scratched between his shoulder blades and he scanned the cluster of campers and horse trailers. No one else was out this early in the morning, but that still didn’t make him feel any better.

He turned back to the boy, shaking off the disquiet. “So you want to be a cowboy, do you?”

“Yep. My mom says maybe someday I can get my very own horse. Not back in San Fra’cisco, but somewhere else.”

“You lived in San Francisco? That’s quite a ways from here. You miss it much?”

Nicky nodded and bit off another chunk of doughnut. “I had a race car bed and a great big tree house, with a trapdoor and a treasure box. My mom helped me build it. She says maybe we can build another one at our new house.”

“Where are you moving to?”

His thin shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Don’t know. My mom says we’ll know when we get there. We’re playin’ gypsies this summer, she said.” He paused for a moment. “Hey, what’s a gypsy?”

“Somebody who travels around a lot.”

“That’s what we’re bein’, all right.”

“What about your dad? Did he help you build the tree house, too?”

A sad look crossed the little boy’s face. “No. I asked him to, but he never had time. He died.”

Before Colt could answer, the door to the trailer across the way banged open, hitting the aluminum skin, then ricocheting closed. It was instantly shoved open again and a frantic voice resounded in the morning air.

“Nicky? Nicky!”

Maggie stood barefoot in the doorway in an oversize T-shirt that just skimmed her knees. Her wheat-colored hair looked soft and crumpled, in direct contrast to her terrified gaze scouring the surroundings in every direction and her chest heaving in panic like she’d just outrun the meanest bull on the circuit.

Colt could tell exactly when she spied them, because a vast relief poured into those deep brown eyes, followed quickly by the beginnings of anger.

“Nicholas Michael Pres—” she faltered for just a moment “—Rawlings. What are you doing out here?”

“Eatin’ breakfast with my pal Colt.” The boy mumbled, taking another bite.

She sent a scathing look in Colt’s direction, whether at him or at the box of doughnuts in his hand he didn’t want to hazard a guess.

He nodded politely, deciding an aw-shucks demeanor might be the best course of action. “Mornin’, Doc.”

“Good morning,” she snapped, then turned back to her son. “We have talked about this, young man. You know the rules. I have to know where you are all the time.”

Nicky, in the middle of a swallow of milk that left a white mustache on his upper lip, sent her a bewildered look. “You know ’xactly where I am. Right here.”

“I didn’t know where you were when I woke up. All kinds of terrible things went through my head.”

A mischievous gleam appeared in his eyes. “Like that big ugly aliens came down in a UFO and grabbed me and took me back to their planet so I could be their slave and wash their dirty socks and stuff?”

“Something like that. A little less dramatic, maybe.” Her stern expression softened, and she pushed a lock of hair out of her son’s eyes. “You really scared me, bud. Don’t do that again, okay? Wake me up before you go outside next time.”

“Okay. Can I finish breakfast with Colt? He said maybe sometime he’d let me ride his horse. His name’s Scout.”

“I’m sure Mr. McKendrick has things to do this morning,” she said, her voice coated with a thin, crackly layer of frost.

“Not really. If the boy wants to see the horse, I’d be glad to take him down to the pens.”

“Please, Mom? I’ll come right back, I promise.”

“Not right now. Maybe I can find time to take you down to see the horses later.”

“But Mom... ”

“Later, Nicholas. You’re still in trouble for breaking the rules. Now go inside and wash your hands and face.”

The boy opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again at the implacable look on his mother’s face, a look even Colt could recognize. Smart kid, he thought, then grinned when Nicky trudged up the three metal steps of their trailer with his bottom lip jutting out in a pout a rock star would have envied.

As soon as her son was out of sight, Maggie turned back to Colt. She looked about eighteen years old in that T-shirt, he thought. That didn’t stop him from being curious about what was beneath it.

“How is it?”

He blinked at her. “How’s what?”

She looked at him like he’d taken a hard spill from a horse and landed on his head. “Your shoulder. I asked how your shoulder is feeling this morning.”

“Oh. Good. It’s good. I was thinking maybe I’d ride tonight after all, since I’m feeling just fine this morning. What do you think?”

“I think it would be extremely foolish, unless you want to reinjure your shoulder.”

“Maybe I’ll see how I’m feeling later.”

“That’s your decision, of course.” She paused for a moment, as if weighing her words, then spoke stiffly. “Look, Mr. McKendrick. Colt. I don’t want you to take this wrong, but I would appreciate it very much if you would stay away from my son.”

He stared at her. Where the hell did that come from? “I just gave him a jelly doughnut and told him he could take a ride on my horse some time, Doc. It’s not like I offered him a fifth of Jack Daniels and some smokes.”

She frowned. “I realize that. It’s just that he’s at a vulnerable stage right now. He—he lost his father recently.”

“I’m sorry.” What emotion triggered those shadows in her eyes, those lines around her mouth? Grief for the husband she had lost or fear of the men who had killed him?

He was willing to bet it was the latter. According to the dossier Lane had provided him with, she and the late accountant had been at the starting gate of what had been shaping up to be a nasty divorce.

She looked away for a moment, and when she turned back, the clouds were gone. With a cool nod she acknowledged his condolences. “Even though his father wasn’t very... involved in his upbringing, Nicky has taken his death hard. I’m afraid he’s looking for a male role model.”

“Lots of boys dream about being cowboys. I don’t see that there’s any harm in that.”

“I’m afraid I do. He’s an impressionable little boy and he doesn’t need a—a saddle bum filling his head with all sorts of nonsense about the Code of the West and a cowboy’s honor.”

So much for trying to ingratiate himself with her through a friendship with her son. He opened his mouth to defend himself but she went on as if she didn’t notice.

“He’s been through enough. Please don’t compound a little boy’s pain by encouraging a friendship that will only end in heartbreak when you move on to the next rodeo.”

With that she turned and walked into her trailer, leaving him frowning behind her.

* * *

She had sounded like an absolute idiot.

Later that night—after she’d taped a couple of bruised ribs, set a broken arm and bandaged a nasty gash from the wrong end of a bull on the final night of the rodeo—Maggie lay in her narrow bed in the trailer and replayed her conversation with Colt McKendrick.

Please don’t compound a little boy’s pain by encouraging a friendship that will only end in heartbreak when you move on to the next rodeo.