Shelby sighed. “That’s what my mother would have said.”
“You don’t believe her?”
“She wanted to believe in the happy, God-will-provide kind of thing, but that didn’t play out in our lives when my sister and I were younger. It took me a long time to understand.” Even when they were eating canned beans for dinner. Even when their father left after the divorce and her mother had refused to let the girls go live with him, the woman had clung to her stubborn, rose-colored view of life.
Now that Shelby wasn’t a child anymore, she had grown to respect her mother for believing God’s promises. After all, Shelby and her sister grew up just fine. She wished desperately that she could tell her mother she’d been right, to ask forgiveness for dismissing her mother’s staunch, faith-grounded optimism. Pain licked at her insides.
“She’s, um, disabled now,” Shelby said flatly. “She had a stroke that affected her brain. My sister was caring for her until we had to move her into a place with full-time nursing.”
“Is your father still around?”
“He lives in Canada. I haven’t seen him in a long time. I recently discovered that, uh, he isn’t interested in being a father, never was.”
“I’m sorry.” Evie took her hand, the skin of her palms warm and calloused and comforting.
“Me, too, but my mother did her best trying to be Mom and Dad to us.” Yet another thing she should have said before it was too late.
Evie hesitated and then took a breath. “You know, we have a lot of holiday fun around here. We host a Christmas Eve dinner for the town. I want to invite you to hang out with the Thorn clan. I mean, if you don’t have plans with your uncle.”
Shelby understood. Uncle Ken was not welcome here, for all Evie Thorn’s assurances about God making it all turn out okay. Even the matriarch of the Thorn family blamed Uncle Ken for his son’s actions.
So much for grace and forgiveness. Fine, the Arroyos didn’t need grace, especially not from this family. She detached herself from Evie’s grasp. “Thank you again. I’d better go and let you get lunch served.”
She hustled to the front door, thinking she would escape before the brothers arrived in the kitchen for lunch. Barrett met her just as she stepped outside.
“Hello,” he said politely.
She could not help but marvel at the electric blue of his eyes, the most brilliant hue, like the sky on the first day of summer vacation. His gaze seemed to pierce right through her. There was something in his look, something accusatory? Suspicious?
Distrustful, she decided. Fine. She did not trust him either, even though he had crawled into a ravine to haul her out. Her face went hot at the memory.
She held up her bundle. “Just picking up my clothes.”
“You riding the Teke?”
“Yes. My uncle doesn’t ride much anymore and Diamond needs it.”
“Spirited horse, even if she is older.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Are you implying I can’t handle her?”
He shrugged. “Just observing. I remember hearing that your uncle bought her from Hatcher’s wife a while back. Sold off a bunch of horses then.”
“I didn’t know who Uncle Ken bought her from, but I wonder why Hatcher or anybody would want to sell off a gorgeous horse like that.”
“Wouldn’t recommend asking him. You two haven’t exactly hit it off.”
She tossed her hair back. “He’s going to be seeing more of me than he likes. I’m on my way to the police station later today. I’m going to ask Officer Larraby to come with me to force Hatcher to let me into that mine this afternoon.”
“Oh.”
“What?” She stared into the implacable blue gaze. “My uncle owns the mineral rights. Legally, Hatcher can’t refuse me, and it’s Larraby’s job to uphold the law in this town, isn’t it?”
No change of expression on his face. “Uh-huh.”
“Would you care to elaborate on your ‘uh-huh’?”
“Uh-uh.”
She groaned. “You don’t talk a whole lot, do you?”
“More than my brother Jack.”
Now there was the tiny quirk to his mouth that indicated the hint of a smile.
Her annoyance ebbed. “Well, anyway, I’m going to do my job with or without Hatcher’s consent.” She reached for the door but he opened it first, ushering her outside.
“Even if it causes trouble?”
She shot him a look. “Would you stop caring for your horses if it meant trouble?”
“Never.”
“Well, then, I guess we’re on the same page.” His face did not indicate as much. “Are you, I mean, is your back okay?”
“Only scratches.”
She had the feeling Barrett would say that even if he’d nearly been cut in half. She untied Diamond and climbed into the saddle.
Barrett looked at her. His eyes were contemplative, tense. “Be careful. It’s dangerous,” he said.
“What’s dangerous? Diamond or tangling with Hatcher?”
“Take your pick,” he said.
“I can take care of myself,” she said, wishing at once that she hadn’t. Still, she did not see disdain or ridicule in his expression, only a glimmer of some emotion she could not name, buried deep.
Guiding Diamond home, pain throbbed in her temple and she tried not to think about the burning dynamite arcing toward her. Hatcher? Someone else? Who might be in the dense cover of trees watching her?
Waiting?
Barrett loaded two English saddles into the truck next to a case of homemade pickles and drove them to Hatcher’s Saddlery to be oiled and tended before the next round of riding lessons started up after the holidays. The Gold Bar offered training in both Western-and English-style riding. With Christmas Eve just a week away, the chores were piling up. He’d promised to start working on putting up the tables for the holiday dinner. He’d not felt much holiday cheer at all since Bree died, but at least he was now able to enjoy his mother’s pleasure at the festivities hosted on the ranch.
Joe Hatcher operated his saddlery out of a small building set on his sprawling acreage. A thick cluster of oak trees and shrubs screened the workshop from the residence where Hatcher lived with his daughter, Emmaline.
Barrett did not know Hatcher’s ex-wife, Cora, well. Their families hadn’t socialized much and Hatcher’s divorce happened when Barrett was too steeped in Bree’s death to pay much attention to such things. He had to believe it was hard to raise a kid alone, especially a girl who would grow into a woman just as hard to figure out as any other of her kind. Women, Barrett mused. Who could possibly understand them?
Barrett was surprised to see another truck already parked in front, a familiar fully loaded model with shiny green paint.
Ken Arroyo’s vehicle.
Barrett debated whether or not to put his truck in Reverse and return another time. Instead he sucked in a breath as he heard loud voices coming from inside the saddlery. One was Joe Hatcher’s low rumble and the other a higher-pitched, feminine