How to Handle a Cowboy (15 page)

Sierra cocked a head toward the front room. “Did you hear Mitch's truck start up?”

Riley shook her head.

“Stay here.”

Sierra headed for the front window. Brushing back the curtain, she was dismayed to see the truck still sitting at the curb, with the bulky silhouette of Mitch at the wheel.

“He's still out there.”

Riley got up and looked over her shoulder as Sierra edged the curtain aside again. The lights had come on in a few neighboring houses. Sierra really didn't want to frighten the neighbors by striding out there with her gun drawn.

“Is there a sheriff or somebody you can call?” Riley asked.

Sierra could just see Sheriff Swaggard pedaling up on his bicycle to take on Delivery Truck Man. “This isn't
Gunsmoke
,” she said. “There's no Matt Dillon here. Our sheriff—well, he's not much use.”

She glanced back out the window and studied the shadowy man at the wheel of the derelict car. Suddenly the darkness that had seemed so velvety and warm an hour ago seemed deep and dangerous.

“But there is somebody I can call.” She let the curtain swing shut and grabbed her cell phone. “I'll call him right now.”

Ridge had spent the whole night twisting and turning in bed, first on one side, then on his back, then the other side, turning around and around again, with thoughts of Sierra tumbling through his mind. He felt like a pig on a spit.

So when the phone rang, it didn't jerk him out of a sound sleep, only out of a waking dream, one where he and Sierra were out in the barn taking a literal and very pleasurable roll in the hay.

“Ridge?”

It should have surprised him to hear her voice, but it seemed the most natural thing in the world. She sounded worried, though. He sat up, raking his free hand through his hair.

“What's wrong?”

“My friend Riley's here, and I think the guy who brought her is after one of the kids.”

He sat up so fast he felt light-headed.

“Which one? Why? Where is he now?”

“I don't know. He's out front, in a big old truck. He won't leave. I could go out there and talk to him but…”

“No. I'll be right there.” He reached for the T-shirt and jeans he'd shed hours earlier.

“Thanks.” Some of the tension had drained out of her voice, but it was back when she spoke again. “Ridge? Just so you know, he's really big. And I don't know what he might do.”

“You got a gun?”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “Um… yes.”

“What about Riley?”

She would have laughed except her mouth was so dry she couldn't. “No. Riley does not have a gun.”

He struggled to hold the phone to one ear then the other, as he stepped into his jeans and flailed around with a suddenly uncooperative shirt.

“Just sit tight,” he said. “I'll be right there.”

He finally conquered the shirt then toed into his boots, struggling to seat his heel when one of them went on crooked. He was in the hall in a heartbeat, snagging his Carhartt jacket off the hook. Opening the door, he almost closed it behind him before he realized he didn't have a gun himself. He had no idea what kind of situation he was walking into. The guy in the truck was probably just some citified loser, but Sierra had sounded panicked—and he had a feeling it took more than some wannabe tough guy to scare her.

Dodging back inside, he opened the hall closet and rummaged through the accumulated detritus of a generation of ranchers: scuffed boots, a couple of horse blankets, gloves and hats and heavy socks, all tossed in willy-nilly. No one had cleaned out the closet since Irene had passed. He'd have to clean it out next chance he got. It was damn near impossible to find anything.

With the wide sweep of a breaststroke swimmer, he parted the jackets hanging from the rod and found what he was looking for: Bill's old Winchester and a box of shells. Pocketing the ammo, he tucked the gun under his arm and set off into the night.

***

Sierra and Riley had moved to the upstairs hall to make it less obvious they were watching Mitch. Sierra couldn't tell if his eyes were open, but he'd turned sideways in the front seat so he faced them, with his back against the driver's side door. His arms were folded across his chest, and his legs were crossed at the ankles. It sure looked like he was watching, but his face was hidden by shadows.

There was no law against a man sitting in his car, and it was still possible he was just an ordinary guy who didn't want to make the long drive back to Denver. She didn't have any proof that he was after one of the boys.

But why else would he want to know their names? And why did she have that itch between her shoulder blades that told her trouble was coming?

She strained her ears for the sound of Ridge's pickup.

Crickets. Just crickets and a faint breeze tickling the trees.

“How far away did you say he lived?” Riley asked.

“Pretty far,” Sierra admitted. “He's a rancher.”

“How do you know him?”

“He's teaching the boys to ride.”

“So he's, like, a cowboy?”

“Sure is.”

“Are you, um,
involved
?”

Sierra shook her head. She had been involved with Ridge—
very
involved—for one night. But that night was over and so was their relationship—what little there'd been.

“Can you see me with a cowboy?” She let out a laugh, praying it didn't sound as fake as it felt. “Definitely not my type.”

“Maybe he's mine.”

“What?”

“My type.”

Sierra turned, stunned by Riley's wistful tone. Cowboys hadn't ever been her own cup of tea, but they'd been as far from Riley's type as a friendly beagle puppy from a pit bull. Riley liked the bad boys, which was one reason she'd never been able to get her life together.

“A guy like that would take care of you, you know?” Riley stared dreamily into space. “Maybe I could get a horse or something. Have a couple of kids. It feels safe out here.”

Sierra looked out at the ominous truck parked at the curb and wondered what it was that Mitch “delivered.”

“It's not feeling very safe right now.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right. And some straight arrow would bore me to death.” Riley gave Sierra a sly little smile. “You
sure
you don't like him?”

“I like him a little.” Sierra's smile trembled at the corners, but hopefully Riley wouldn't notice she was holding in a secret. “But I don't think he's looking for anybody to take care of.”

***

Ridge saw the battered delivery truck the moment he swung around the curve and passed the municipal building. A couple of lights were on in nearby houses—Ed Boone's apartment over the hardware store and Wayne Elkins's. So he'd have backup if he needed it.

He pulled up behind the truck and shut off the pickup's engine, jerking the hand brake into place. Spilling out of his vehicle with swift moves honed through a lifetime sliding off roping horses, he saw the driver jerk his head up toward the rearview mirror and tense his shoulders. But by the time his target was ready to move, Ridge had already wrenched open the driver's door.

“Son of a bitch!” The guy had been lounging against the door with his legs stretched across both seats. When Ridge opened the door, he nearly fell backward onto the road.

It was lucky Ridge had caught the guy at a disadvantage, because he was broad-shouldered and meaty, with a bald head shaped like a lumpy potato. Flailing to regain his balance, the guy stumbled out of the car and stood to his full height. Six foot four, Ridge figured. Maybe five. Those muscles were clearly honed by a weight-lifting regimen. Bulging veins traced tortuous paths just under the skin.

“What the hell you doing?” the stranger bellowed.

A few more lights flicked on nearby, and a door creaked across the street as a neighbor stepped out onto a darkened porch.

“That's what I was about to ask you.” Ridge stood with one hip cocked, holding the Winchester at his side in a casual grip. The big man's eyes flicked to the shotgun and then to Ridge's face. The gaze was appraising, as if he was trying to figure out if Ridge would really use the gun.

Ridge stared the guy down. For a long moment, the confrontation could have gone either way, but evidently he'd put enough steel in his eyes to discourage whatever resistance the stranger had in mind.

The man lifted his eyebrows, grimaced, and wiped the back of his thick neck with one hand. “I dunno. I brought some, um, my girlfriend out here, and now…” He waved toward Phoenix House. The windows were dark, but Ridge caught the sway of a curtain in an upstairs window and knew Sierra was there.

“You'd better find someplace else to figure it out.” Ridge nodded toward the homes across the street. Shadowy men stood in several doorways, all watching. In the darkness, you couldn't tell they were all pushing eighty; all that mattered was their watchful posture and the confident way they held their weapons. A lot had changed since the
Gunsmoke
days of the West, but one thing stayed the same: in small towns, folks stuck together. And everybody had a shotgun in the front closet.

Ed, half-hidden by the shadows under the awning of the hardware store, racked a shell into the chamber of his weapon. The hard clack of the bolt cut through the night almost like a shot.

The man looked Ridge up and down as if searching for a badge and sneered when his gaze lit on his battered Stetson. “You the sheriff here or something?”

“Or something.” Ridge touched the brim in wry salute. “You really want to stick around and find out?”

He waved toward Ed and then at Wayne, who racked his own gun at the signal. Down the street, another cartridge slid home.

The outsider curled his lip.

“I don't need trouble. But I'll be back. You can bet on that.”

“Fine with me,” Ridge said. “Strangers are always welcome in Wynott. Just make sure you stay away from those girls.”

“I'm not interested in the girls,” the man sneered. “That little blond is a piece of work. She—”

Ridge cut him off. “So, what exactly are you interested in? Little boys?”

Most men would have thrown a punch at that suggestion or at least slung a curse. But the bald-headed man just climbed into the truck and cranked it to life, revving the engine in an empty display of machismo. The engine coughed, sputtered, and nearly died before he got it going again.

As he pulled out from the curb and careened down the street, Ridge heard the creak of a sash opening. A gray-haired woman leaned out of a second-story window across the street.

“Lawd's sake!” Her voice was high and quavering.

“Sorry, Mrs. Carson,” he said. “All clear now. Go back to sleep.”

“Well, I'll try.” She put a self-conscious hand to her curler-bedecked head. “Is that Ridge Decker?”

He ignored the fact that she'd given him Bill's last name. Most people thought of him and his brothers as the Decker boys, and that was fine with him.

“Yes, ma'am.”

She rested her elbows on the sill. “You're playing white knight to that girl with all the children, aren't you?”

“Ellie, leave the man alone,” groused a creaky voice from inside the house. “Come on back to bed and quit your gossiping.”

“That's a mighty big family for a man to take on, is all I'm saying.”

Ridge gave her a grin and tipped his hat. The women in Wynott married him off every time a woman under forty turned up. He was surprised they'd linked him to Sierra so fast, though. She must be doing something right to lose her outsider status so quickly.

She'd sure done something right as far as he was concerned. Lots of things. The only thing she'd done wrong was to say she wouldn't do it again.

Climbing back in his truck, he cranked the engine and set off in the direction the wheezing, coughing delivery van had gone. It wasn't tough to track it by the racket it made, and Ridge made sure it swung onto the interstate before he executed a quick illegal U-turn and rode slowly back through town.

He tipped his hat at a few straggling neighbors who were heading back into their houses then slowed as he passed Phoenix House. A light was on in the front room now, and he knew Sierra would let him in if he stopped. She'd be warm and welcoming since he'd helped her out, and he'd get to meet the famous Riley.

But then, the famous Riley would scuttle any chance he had of getting Sierra alone. Plus there were the kids.

He wondered if the noise of the confrontation had wakened them. Probably. That engine had been loud enough to wake a dozen senior citizens. So why weren't the kids out on the porch hoping for a fight or leaning out the windows? When he was their age, nothing would have kept him inside when there was trouble brewing.

He glanced up at the bedroom windows and spotted one small face peering from behind a curtain, but the boy—Jeffrey, he was sure—dodged back into the darkness as he passed.

Tapping the horn, Ridge pressed the accelerator and motored off toward home, trying not to think about the things that could make a bunch of ten-year-old boys hide at the sound of a little late-night excitement.

Sierra let the curtain fall back into place and turned away from the window, doing her best to hide her disappointment from Riley.

Why hadn't Ridge come inside?

It was just as well, with Riley here. She doubted she could hide her feelings, and she didn't want her friend to know how she felt about the rancher down the road. Heck, she didn't want the rancher himself to know. Although she hadn't been able to define the feelings he'd stirred in her the other night, she knew they were stronger than they should be.

Still, she would have liked to thank him. She was sure she'd hauled him out of a sound sleep, because cowboys always slept soundly, didn't they? They lived pure, wholesome lives, and they always beat the bad guys.

She tilted the curtain again and glanced outside. Porch lights were on all up and down the street, but as she watched they flicked off one by one. The old man who ran the hardware store limped into his house with a gun cradled in his arms. Ed Boone, that was his name. He spent half his time on the bench out in front of his store with a couple of other old men, chatting and watching what little of the world passed through Wynott.

The window next door creaked then slid shut. That was Mrs. Carson, who had brought over a casserole on Sierra's first day. She was apparently the town's unofficial welcome wagon, and probably its chief gossip as well.

Great. She'd rousted the two neighbors most likely to spread the story.

“Isn't your cowboy coming in?” Riley asked.

“He's not
my
cowboy.” Sierra tried to smile, but it was impossible to hide her disappointment.

“Oh, boy.” Riley sounded more like her old self than she had all night as she gave Sierra a sharp jab with her elbow. “You
do
like him. You like him a
lot.
”

“No, I—I just feel bad that he had to come all the way out here.”

“The look on your face when he was getting rid of Mitch was definitely not the
feeling
bad
look,” Riley said, laughing. “It was the
oh-my-God-do-I-have-the-hots-for-you
look.”

“Well, sure.” Sierra lifted her shoulders in what she hoped was a casual shrug. “I mean, who wouldn't? You saw him.”

“Sure did. And
I
wouldn't.” Riley tossed her head. “I mean, come on. Did you see that hat? The boots? The guy's a redneck. I mean, he has a
pickup
truck
. With a
gun
rack
.” She shook her head. “Not your type. Not long-term, anyway. But short-term…” She made a happy humming sound.

Sierra did
not
want to continue this conversation, but she couldn't help defending herself. “I don't do short-term.”

Riley bit her lip and looked away, and Sierra wished she could take the words back. Riley didn't seem to be capable of a relationship that lasted more than a week, but what had Sierra done with Ridge if she “didn't do short-term”? It wasn't like there was any long-term potential in her relationship with a small-town cowboy.

Maybe she should tell Riley she actually had fallen into bed with Ridge. Maybe it would make her feel better.

“I…”

She couldn't do it, couldn't talk about it. Last night might have been short-term, but it had still been special and somehow sacred. It might be crazy, but the night had been precious and it was hers. It didn't belong out here in the real world.

“There's nothing going on between me and Ridge.” The lie made something in her stomach twist. Guilt, she guessed. It would have to pile up on top of the rest of her guilt about Riley. There was plenty in there to keep it company.

From the first time she'd met Riley's family, Sierra had known there was something off about Riley's stepfather. He looked at his daughter too long and touched her too much. Finally, she'd confronted Riley and found out the truth. He'd abused her once. Twice, actually.

Riley had begged Sierra to keep the abuse a secret. She'd cried and raged and sworn she'd never tell Sierra anything about her life ever again if she went to the authorities. Foolishly, Sierra had weakened, worried about what would happen if Riley had no one to share her secrets with.

Riley had claimed it never happened again, but Sierra knew now that the abuse had continued. It hadn't been an isolated incident, something that had happened once or twice and been forgotten. It had been a constant in Riley's life, the dark force that had driven her to rebel in every way she could conceive of: drinking, drugs, bad boys, you name it. She'd spun into a downward spiral that had turned her from a beautiful, intelligent girl into a broken woman who might never be fully healed—all because the one person she'd confided in had failed to step in and save her.

That guilt had driven Sierra ever since—first into law enforcement, in the hopes she could put people like Riley's stepfather away, and then into social work, where she thought she might be able to help children escape their abusers. She was doing that now, but the guilt wouldn't go away. It sat deep inside her, so heavy sometimes it stole her breath.

“Actually, Ridge and I discussed the possibility of a relationship and realized it was better to keep it strictly professional.” There. Now, that was true.

“Why not? Are you not good enough for Mr. Perfect Cowboy or something?”

“No, it's not that.”

Sierra pretended to examine a tear in the sofa's vinyl cover so she wouldn't have to look at her friend. But she'd already seen the mulish expression that set Riley's chin and thinned her lips. She was not giving up on this line of questioning.

“Well, what is it, then? The sparks are flying off you two like lightning strikes. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were already doing it.”

Sierra flinched, catching herself half a second too late.

“Whoa, Nellie!” Riley rested her elbows on her knees and laced her fingers together to prop up her chin. She looked like a kid at story time. “You did. You
did
! I thought your relationship was ‘strictly professional.'” She lowered her voice mockingly on the last two words.

“It is.”

“Only if you've taken up a new line of work.” Riley bounced in the chair again, unable to contain her glee. In spite of all she'd been through, she could still be a big kid sometimes.

“Don't look so happy about it,” Sierra said. “It was a huge mistake. I can't start up that kind of relationship here. I'm not staying here.”

“You're not?”

“No. I got a job down in Colorado. I start in about five weeks.”

“Oh.” Riley stared down at the floor. “That's too bad.”

“No it's not!” Sierra bounced on the sofa, surprised and a little frustrated that Riley didn't share her excitement. “It's great. It's a really good job. I'll be able to do so much more good work there.”

“That's good, I guess. I just think this little town's kind of cute. And it feels so safe.”

The fact that Riley felt safe so soon after the episode with Mitch offered a hint of what her life had been like with her mother.

“I guess it's not your kind of place, though,” Riley said. “It would be hard to save the world from here.”

“I'm not trying to save the
world
,” Sierra said. “Just the kids. But this isn't
your
kind of place either.” She congratulated herself on the smooth segue. “So what are your plans?”

Riley closed her eyes and gave an elegant, one-shouldered shrug. She was so graceful, so beautiful in her pale, fragile way. What if her life had been different? What if someone had intervened, reported her parents to the authorities, gotten her out of the terrible situation that had ruined her childhood and stolen her soul?

What if she'd had a different mentor, one who knew better than to keep secrets? One who knew it was worth losing Riley's trust to save her life?

“Stop worrying about me, Sierra.” Riley gave her an old-style Riley grin, lopsided and childlike. “I'm a big girl now. I really am.” She gave Sierra a hard, assessing look. “Actually, I'm not sure you're worried about me. I think you're worried about that cowboy.”

Sierra
was
worried about Ridge. She was happy to spend time here with Riley, but she felt as if a part of herself had followed Ridge out of town, over the hills and valleys, around the sweeping turns and straightaways that led to the Decker Ranch.

She was also worried about Riley, and about Jeffrey and about the safety of the boys now that Mitch—whoever he was—had found them.

She gave her friend a wan smile. “I'm worried about everything,” she said.

“Yeah,” Riley said. “Big news flash there.”

Sierra rose. “Let's go to bed.”

She settled Riley on the sofa in her little sitting room and went to check on the kids. Josh and Isaiah slept soundly, Josh lit by a shaft of moonlight. His face was open and relaxed in sleep, and she thought she could see the man he might become if life didn't harden him too much. Isaiah lay straight as a soldier, the covers barely wrinkled.

In the next room, Carter sprawled like a fallen angel, his round face cherubic in sleep. He was the only boy without a roommate, and the soft but endless snores filling the room reminded Sierra why. In the third bedroom, Frankie was sprawled in a nest of twisted sheets and blankets, his dark hair curling like flames around his face. Jeffrey, as always, was turned toward the wall, his face hidden by the blankets. Even in sleep he defended himself against the world.

Next to his bed sat the pink cowboy boots with the Converse shoes beside them. She stood awhile and watched him. She hoped he was riding Ridge's big yellow horse in his dreams, riding away from his troubled past into a future as golden as the animal's gleaming coat.

She wished she could find golden horses for all of them. For Frankie and Carter, Josh and Isaiah. For Jeffrey. For Riley. Maybe even for herself—but she didn't want to ride away until she was certain, without any doubt, that every one of them had already mounted up and ridden off to some safe forever.

Or did she? Taking that new job was her choice and only hers. She could rationalize all she wanted about doing good in the wider world. Nothing changed the fact that she was abandoning these kids she'd come to love, tossing their fragile futures into the hands of some stranger.

***

Ridge headed to town feeling refreshed and revitalized for the first time in months. Watching the road disappear under his wheels, he looked out at a blue sky that for once seemed to promise good things, rather than another interminable day to be lived through. He was no longer a man without a future.

He knew where he was going but getting there was going to be a challenge. He'd have to jump through a lot of hoops to become a foster parent, and he needed to know what the hoops were and how high he'd have to jump. The only person he knew who had that kind of knowledge was Sierra Dunn.

That's why he'd rushed through his chores so he could head to Wynott to see her. It had nothing to do with the fact that she'd interrupted every waking thought for the past week and haunted every one of his dreams.

As he rolled into Wynott, he realized he'd better think of a few other excuses for other folks too. He didn't want to water the Wynott gossip vine, which burst into bloom at the slightest hint of news.

Breakfast at the Red Dawg was a good start. People had driven farther than twenty miles for Wayne's breakfast burritos. He could always say he had a craving.

Then he bought a few items at Boone's Hardware. He was careful not to even look at Phoenix House, though he was so distracted by its white-painted, gingerbread-frosted bulk just across the street that he couldn't think of anything to buy. A rancher always needed
something
at a hardware store but danged if Ridge could remember what problems had come up this week that might need nailing, mending, rewiring, or screwing.

Screwing…
He shoved the ugly word aside. What he and Sierra had done couldn't be described by an ugly word like that.

“So who was he?”

“He?”

Jolted back to reality, Ridge couldn't figure out what Ed was talking about. Sierra was no “he,” and nobody could ever mistake her for one.

“Who was who?”

“Guy in the ugly truck last night.” Ed rang up the box of screws Ridge shoved across the counter. It was a ridiculously Freudian thing to buy, but hey, screws always came in handy.

“Don't know,” Ridge said. “He was making the girls over at Phoenix House nervous, so I chased him away. That's about it.”

“How'd you happen to be in town at that hour?”

Fortunately, Ridge had finally remembered what he needed, and it was easy to fake absorption in the task of choosing a latch for Sluefoot's stall. The old horse had mastered most of what Ed carried and needed a new challenge. Ridge figured stall latches were to Sluefoot what crossword puzzles were to people.

Some out-of-towners came in and kept Ed busy, so Ridge managed to make his escape and cross the street to the house without further questions—until Mrs. Carson hailed him from her front porch.

“You calling on Sierra?” she asked.

Ridge quickly shook his head. In Mrs. Carson's generation, “calling on” a woman had implications that could get the whole town talking. “Seeing” was the next step. He didn't know what step he was on right now. Ed would call it “sniffing around.” Wayne, over at the Red Dawg, would have a far more graphic word for it. It was a good thing the men weren't in on the conversation, because Ridge would have to punch Wayne for that one.

“Ridge?” Mrs. Carson peered into his face, her brow wrinkled with concern.

“Oh. Sorry,” he said. “No. I'm just—just coming by on business,” he said.