Ryan pressed his fingertips to his forehead. It’d been one long friggin day and he’d been looking forward to that beer and some sleep.
“All right,” he said just as a loud “Ma-a-a” sounded from inside the small house. Jessie ignored her son’s plaintive call, her dark eyes holding on Ryan’s face as she waited for him to tell her how they’d handle the situation. One thing was for certain: he didn’t want Walt anywhere near the main house while he was drunk. Sometimes Walt didn’t remember who owned the place—or that he’d basically been sold with the ranch, along with the rest of them. Once, Ryan had found him asleep in the master bedroom after one of his benders. That would never do while the family was in residence.
“Ma-a-a!” Four-year-old Jeffrey stepped out onto the porch holding his bear by one ear. “I need you!”
“Sounds like you’re needed,” Ryan said as Bella and Emmie toddled out onto the porch behind their brother, one taking hold of Jeff’s bear, the other his shirtsleeve, before they simultaneously put their thumbs in their mouths. “I’ll take care of things and see that Francisco gets back home.”
“Thanks, Ry. It’s bath night.”
Jessie stepped back and Ryan put the truck into low gear, easing the horse trailer forward as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He punched the number three with his thumb and Francisco answered almost immediately.
“Found him.”
“Drive him to my mom’s,” Ryan said. Lydia would keep Walt contained until he sobered up. “I’ll take it from there.”
“If I can get him into the truck. He can barely walk.”
“Want me to call Mitch?” Ryan asked. His bull-riding friend had helped contain Walt on a previous occasion.
“I’ll get someone here at the bar to help me.”
“All right,” Ryan said. “Let me know if you have any trouble.” As soon as he hung up, he punched his mother’s number and explained the situation.
Lydia Madison responded with a heavy sigh, which Ryan read more as resignation than annoyance. “The extra room’s ready for him.”
“Want me to come back to town, help you with him? He’s upset about the new owners coming to stay at his house.”
“Get some sleep,” Lydia said. “He’ll be okay in the morning. I’ll feed him some ham and eggs, keep him here until you or Francisco can come and get him.”
“I’ll see you then,” Ryan replied. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Get some sleep!”
He’d do his best because tomorrow was probably going to be one hell of a day. The owners would undoubtedly want to talk to Walt—they always did—and Ryan needed to make sure the guy was in decent shape for the meeting, which was never an easy task.
The hell of it was that he had no idea how long the owners planned to stay, and he was only going to be on the ranch for a few days before he had to leave again for the next rodeo halfway across the state. He didn’t want to add more to Jessie and Francisco’s workload, but the chances of Walt coming to terms with his demons by the weekend bordered on nonexistent.
Sometimes he wondered if the old man was ever going to get over having to sell the ranch. Would ever forgive himself for overextending, borrowing recklessly and then having it all come crashing down on him during a perfect storm of drought, wildfire and recession.
Enter the rich people.
If there’d been any way for Walt to support himself other than staying on as manager, Ryan would have quit and gone with him. But no one wanted to take on a seventy-year-old cowboy who’d lived on only one property for his entire life—a guy whose management methods had been behind the times until recently, which hadn’t helped when he’d started to get into trouble.
Walt blamed only the times.
Ryan never argued with him, though he had cause. Walt had been the closest thing to a real father he’d had.
Ryan rounded the last corner before the main house and, sure enough, the lights were on...seemingly all of the lights. The house was long and low, with a roofed porch on three sides. Walt’s grandfather had built the place and his father had added on. It was spacious and comfortable and Walt had always been so proud of his house—so of course Mrs. Bradworth had plans to gut the place before they took up permanent residence.
If they took up permanent residence. And lasted. Most rich transplants stayed an average of five years before the brutal Montana winters convinced them to use their hobby ranches as summer getaways and hunting camps.
Ryan rolled to a stop next to the barn. He’d already grained PJ and rubbed him down before starting the long trip home, so all he had to do was unload him and put him out into the pasture with his buddies before collapsing onto the sofa with a beer. Maybe get that sleep his mom had spoken of.
Ryan waved the horses back and led the big gelding through the gate and released him. PJ put his nose down, blew at the grass then ambled off as Ryan coiled the lead rope.
Normally he would have left the truck right where he’d parked it, but not tonight. The Bradworths had requested that there be no parked equipment in sight while they were in residence, and since Mrs. Bradworth was a bit of a stickler for rules, he didn’t want to do anything to set her off—even if he’d probably have the truck moved by the time she rolled out of bed. During the week they’d stayed, shortly after purchasing the place and saving Walt’s financial ass, he’d never known them to show signs of life before 9:00 a.m.
Ryan parked behind the barn, with only the nose of his truck offending the Bradworths’ view. He walked toward his dark house, his steps slowing before mounting the one step leading onto his porch as he caught sight of a shadow moving across the curtained bay window of the main house. A second later the shadow, obviously female, crossed again, going in the opposite direction.
Ryan stopped at his porch and stood, the rope and halter hanging from one hand, watching as the shadow moved back and forth. Back and forth.
He had a bad feeling about this.
A pacing woman was never a good sign.
* * *
THE SOUND OF the engine, followed a few minutes later by the hollow clang of a metal horse-trailer door opening, had come as a welcome relief after hours of silence. Less than five minutes after the truck had pulled in, the night was once again quiet, but Ellie felt better knowing that there was another human being within shouting range. She’d thought she’d been prepared for isolation when she’d embarked on this trip, but she hadn’t realized just how isolated she would feel in the big house surrounded by nothing but trees and fields and strange noises. The satellite TV wasn’t hooked up yet, so she had nothing to watch. The internet service was also disconnected, and her phone only worked in certain parts of the house.
Alone.
With her thoughts.
But worse than being alone, she felt disoriented. Unfocused. The only other time in her life when she’d felt this unsettled had been when her mother had dropped her off at boarding school with the clipped assurance that she’d like it there and she would make friends. Her mother had been right. She’d met Kate and bonded within a matter of days, but here she didn’t foresee any bonding occurring—not unless Jessie Garcia turned out to be a lot friendlier than she first appeared.
You didn’t come to the ranch to bond. You came to get a grip.
But here she was in her new sanctuary, where she’d assumed that the peace of the surroundings, the distance between her and Nick—the now happily married father of her baby—would give her some perspective, yet she felt exactly the same in a different environment. Angry, scared, unfocused.
The