If he noticed that Clinton West, the stable manager, hung around the office more than he should, well, that was their business, not Trace’s. So long as the obvious flirtation didn’t interfere with their work, it was no never mind to him.
Vern had taken off his hat in deference to her, and wished her a good morning.
“So you must be the one with the request,” she said with a smile. “What can I do for you, Vern?”
Trace leafed through the messages on her desk while the two talked about the latest hires and getting the information to the sheriff’s office.
“I can see to that before lunch,” Miss Dorie promised.
Vern expressed his appreciation, then began backing toward the door, part of a generation that didn’t cotton to a man turning his back on a woman.
“I’ll walk you out,” Trace said, putting the messages down again.
“You want me to get Doc Nelson on the line?” Miss Dorie asked.
“I’ll see to it when I get back.”
“Remember, we’ve got the barbecue this weekend and need to nail down the odds and ends,” she called after him.
Trace closed the door behind him. While it wasn’t possible to completely prevent the stable smell from permeating the offices, there was no sense in letting in more of it than he could help.
“What do you know about Jackson and Milford?” he asked Vern.
The foreman put his hat back on and positioned it as they walked. “Not much. They’ve both worked for Johnson, and they’ve been doing good since hiring on, but beyond that, I couldn’t say.”
“Art Johnson?” he asked, recalling that it had been one of Art’s daughters who had been raped.
“That would be the one.”
Trace frowned. “Isn’t Jackson the hothead?” He remembered an incident about a week or two back. The younger man had nearly charged one of the regular ranch hands when he asked Jackson to clean up after himself.
“That’s him. But he only gets that way after he’s knocked back a couple.”
“He go out at night by himself?”
“Not as I can tell. Pretty much sticks around the place even on his nights off. Says he’s got a wife and couple kids up in Abilene, but doesn’t make much of an effort to go see ‘em.” Vern shrugged. “I’m thinking maybe family problems.”
“Maybe.” They stopped walking just outside the stable doors. “You might want to keep a closer eye on him.”
The foreman nodded. “Will do. Anything else?”
Trace’s gaze took in the hands as they finished saddling up. He spotted Jo. If his extra attention to the new men and the sheriff’s words had anything to do with their one female ranch hand, he wasn’t owning up to it. He was a concerned citizen and boss, nothing more, nothing less. And it wasn’t good business to have a rapist on the payroll.
“No, no. You go on ahead. Give me a yell on the satellite phone if you run into any problems.”
“Yes, sir.”
THE DAY OUT ON THE DUSTY, hot range had seemed longer than most. Jo took off her hat and dragged the cuff of her shirt across her sweaty forehead. Never had she been so glad to spot the Wildewood Ranch on the horizon. It was all she could do not to prod her horse into a gallop and run full out for the man who had occupied her thoughts throughout the day.
Instead, she dropped back, taking up the right flank of the herd and shouting for Scout to nip at the heels of a stubborn steer that had veered out of line.
The black-and-white border collie did his job and then came back to her. Was he favoring his back leg? It appeared so. She’d have to see if maybe he had a stone lodged in his paw.
Minutes later, the herd was in the paddock, and she was turning her horse over to a stable hand for cooling down and feeding.
Jo stripped off her gloves and called for Scout to come to her. He ran back and forth in front of the stables, pretending to direct operations, then darted toward her. She crouched down and gave him a hearty scratch behind the ears.
“Good boy. You did a great job today.” She smoothed her hand down his side and reached for his back leg. He fought her. “Whoa, easy there. Let me just have a look.”
His panting filled her ears as he reluctantly allowed her to play doctor. She ran her thumb over the pad, checking for tenderness. There was no reaction.
She released him and patted him again, accepting a single lap to the chin before he scrambled back toward the stables, where one of the hands had filled his water bowl.
“Arthritis.”
Jo slowly got up, the sound of Trace’s voice behind her making her instantly aware of everything that had passed between them the night before. “Pardon me?”
He was standing with his hands on his hips, his gaze on the dog. “The best Doc Nelson can figure is that Scout has a touch of arthritis in his back right hip.” Trace’s eyes slid to her and she caught her breath. The setting sun caught him at just the right angle, turning his brown eyes to gold. “Scout’s going on twelve years old. Most dogs his age are already retired.”
She smiled, smacking her gloves against her palm to rid them of dust before tucking them into her back jeans pocket. “But not Scout.”
“No, not Scout. Vern thinks he’ll just up and disappear while out on the range one day, and we’ll never see him again.”
Jo knew some animals were given to that wild behavior. A sort of long, final walk to the next incarnation.
“I’ve thought about putting a leash on him and keeping him at the stables…” Trace murmured, as if thinking aloud.
“No. No, don’t do that. That’ll kill him even quicker.”
“That’s what I thought, too.”
The dog in question finished slurping up water and headed back, wildly wagging his tail. Trace crouched down and Scout instantly flipped over for a thorough belly rub. Jo’s own belly suddenly felt warm. What she wouldn’t give to throw herself at Trace’s feet and have him rub her tummy…
He looked up at her from under the rim of his black hat. Hell if she didn’t think he knew exactly what was on her mind.
“Hey, Boss, you coming out to the bunkhouses for dinner?” Jackson asked as he passed.
Trace rose to his feet. “Not tonight. I have a couple of things to finish up before I call it a day.”
Jo took that as her cue to head off with the other hands, pretending she wasn’t disappointed that she wouldn’t be seeing him again that night.
Chapter Five
JO STEPPED OUT OF the small bathroom connected to her room at the far end of the bunkhouse, rubbing a towel over her wet hair. She was fully dressed, in jeans and a T-shirt, her bare feet making soft sounds against the bare wood of the floor. Once a week a cleaning person came through, but being tidy herself, she couldn’t be sure when, because she never saw her or him, only detected the scents of pine cleaner and bleach.
She picked up her watch from the dresser. Half past nine. Despite the previous evening’s activities, she wasn’t anywhere near tired. She put the watch back down and tossed the towel over the back of the desk chair.
As far as lodgings went, her room was one of the best in the long bunkhouse. It had probably been built with visiting clients in mind, and was more spacious than the others. She had little doubt that she’d been put here to