Winsor, Linda (10 page)

By
the time Shep rode into the stable yard on Patch, a scrumptious smelling
meatloaf simmered in the oven, surrounded by small red potatoes and some onions
Deanna had pulled from the garden at the side of the ranch house. Stomach
growling, she glanced once more at the simply set table, now adorned with some
wildflowers that grew along the gardens edge, and popped the tray of homemade
biscuits into the oven to cook with the finishing main dish.

"Never
put the bread in until you see the whites of their eyes," she said in
satisfaction as she hurried to let her barking companion out.

As
she followed Smoky to the livery entrance where Shep tied up his steed, both
were covered in trail dust.

Deanna
didn't have to guess the reason for the grim line of Shep's mouth. There was no
sign of the stallion he'd set out to bring in. "Got away, huh?"

"Yep."

Shoving
his hat up from a furrowed brow, Shep raised the stirrup to unfasten the girth.
Patch shuddered when he lifted the saddle and blanket off her back, revealing
sweat-soaked hair matted in little ripples and swirls. The horse nuzzled him,
almost in a consoling manner as he removed her bridle.

"Ah,
I know, girl." He rubbed her neck with broad, capable hands. "You're
disappointed, too. We're gonna knock him on his backside one of these
days."

Deanna
watched the exchange between horse and master and felt an odd pang of envy.
Then, catching herself, she rolled her eyes toward the cobweb-infested ceiling
of the barn. She'd reached an all-time low, envying a horse... after spending
the afternoon talking to a dog. She'd be a flaming Dr. Doolittle before she got
out of this mess.

"Maybe
a nice hot supper will make you feel better," she suggested with mustered
cheer.

"Can't
hurt."

Now
that
was better. Her stomach acted up again, but this time it was from
the apologetic grin directed at her.

"Matter
of fact, it sounds downright tempting. If it's half as good as it smells, you
got yourself a job."

All
Deanna smelled was hay, horse, and sweat-soaked leather, but she accepted the
compliment eagerly and prayed Shep was right. She'd thrown it together from the
memory of watching her mother and grandmothers in the kitchen—soup mix and
breadcrumbs in the meatloaf with ketchup for a topping. And of course, the meal
wouldn't be complete without biscuits like Gram used to make. If Shep had
cookbooks, they were well hidden.

"So
the rope didn't hold, huh?"

"The
rope held." Shep tossed a scoop full of grain through a feeding window
into Patch's stall.

"Maybe
Patch isn't fast enough," she offered, envisioning the smaller horse
trying to catch the bolting red. Since Shep was gone all afternoon, he must
have given the stallion a good chase. "Did you hurt your leg?" she
inquired upon seeing him wince when he picked up a dusty green hose curled in
the dirt.

"Nah,
it's an old war wound that acts up when I do more running than riding."

"You
were in a war?"

"Figure
of speech. As for Patch," he continued, "I'll put her up against the
stallion in the
long
run any day Some horses are built for speed and
others for endurance. But speed wasn't the problem."

Shep
lifted the handle of the faucet. Water poured from the hose nozzle into a
galvanized trough. "Nope, that renegade kicked the old gate to pieces. The
rope was the
only
thing that held. I'd hoped he would keep, at least
until I could get back there. I spent most of the time tracking him up into the
hills. At least he's away from the roads. All I need is another accident to
account for. No offense," he added quickly.

"None—"
Deanna finished with a shriek, jumping back from the brimming hose he offered
her.

"Want
a drink?"

She
shook her head.

"You
gotta get over that nervousness. The horses can sense it and it'll affect them
too."

Under
her watchful eye, Shep helped himself to a few hearty gulps before turning off
the flow. Where it had washed away the dust from his face looked like a clown's
smile of tanned whisker-stubbled flesh. Instinctively, Deanna traced it with
her finger.

"Bozo
the cowpoke. Cute!" she teased, before catching herself. She took a step
back, striking the post where the saddle hung, and would have stumbled had Shep
not been fast on his feet, wrapping an arm around her waist to steady her.

"Whoa,
Slick! Didn't anyone ever tell you horsing around in a barn can get you in
trouble?"

"More
than I'm in already?" she shot back, her throat suddenly in need of that
drink of water. And she thought the temperature normally dropped as the sun
started down. This close to Shep Jones, hers rivaled high noon.

"Never
can tell."

Deanna's
ears roared. At first she thought it was the blood rushing to her face, but
Shep's disconcerting attention switched to something beyond her in the ranch
yard. She glanced over her shoulder to see a pickup come to a stop, driven by
another man wearing a Western hat.

The
moment Shep's arm left her waist, she moved away with a guilty flush. Giving
her a surreptitious wink, he turned to meet the visitor climbing out of the
truck cab.

"Clyde
Barrett, you old dogface, what brings you to these parts?"

"I
tried to raise you on the radio," the older man answered with a grin at
Deanna, "but this city gal said you weren't in."

She
stepped forward under the simultaneous appraisal of her companions. "I'm
sorry, but I'm not much of a radio operator. I didn't mean to hang up on
you."

The
man laughed and brushed aside her apology with a wave of his hand. "You
didn't hang up, ma'am. You just didn't give me a chance to get a word in."

"But
I held down the button."

Their
visitor chuckled. "Shep, if you're going to keep this little gal around,
you gotta teach her how to use a radio so she can earn her license... or break
down and git a phone." Clyde's pained grimace at the latter suggestion
told Deanna she was in the company of another Stone Age remnant.

"I
see what you mean," Shep said. "If you hold down the button, Slick,
the person on the other end can't transmit. You only hold the button down to
speak, then let it go so you can hear the answer."

"I'm
so sorry I feel like a dunce." As many police movies as she'd watched, she
should have been able to figure that out.

"Shoot,
Miss—"

"Manetti,"
Shep filled in for his friend, offering an apologetic look to Deanna for
forgetting his manners. "Clyde Barrett, this is Deanna Manetti from the
Big Apple."

"From
what little I heard, I figured she was from someplace like that." Clyde
extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Manetti. I don't reckon a
city gal like you would know her way around a radio. We hams are a dyin'
breed."

"My
pleasure, Mr. Barrett." Deanna raised her brow in confusion. "But I
thought you said your name was Charlie on the radio."

"That's
the phonetic alphabet we use for our call sign. Mine's kilo-seven-lima-oscar-X
ray... K7LOX," Shep said.

"Oh
shine, boy, she can call me Charlie anytime. Been called a lot worse,"
Clyde snickered.

"Did
you come out here to flirt or just to hold up my first home-cooked meal in a
coon's age?"

"My
biscuits!" Deanna gasped. Without so much as an adieu, she sped off toward
the house at a full run, her only comfort being that the smoke alarm she'd
wiped off earlier hadn't gone off... yet.

***

"She's
a flighty filly, ain't she?"

"A
thoroughbred for sure." Shep's gaze lingered after Deanna's hasty retreat
until she disappeared inside the house with the slam of the screen door.
"Long-legged, sleek, and swift," he added with an unwitting sigh.

And
too full of cute and spunk for his good. If Deanna had been one of his buddies,
he'd have clapped her hard on the back in his rush of excitement and maybe
shaken her arm till it was about to fall off. Instead, he kissed her, dumb as a
drowning goose in the rain. A peck on the cheek was innocent enough until that
unguarded glance at her lips called for something more intimate. Not that he
even had feelings for her, he argued with himself.

Clyde
snatched Shep from the stew of his thoughts with a smug snort. "Boy, you
got that same
gotta have
look in your eye as you get when you talk about
that stallion Dan turned loose in the hills."

Shep
groaned inwardly. He'd learned early on that there was no point in arguing with
the old lawman. As a kid, Shep came to know the sheriff of Buffalo Butte—and
vice versa— while doing civic duty for shooting out the town's only stoplight
with his new air rifle. Every Saturday that summer, Shep had to clean the
sheriff's office and jail. Aunt Sue blamed his fascination with law enforcement
on the bond that formed between the juvenile and the lawman.

"Maybe,
but I know where to draw the line." Yes, exactly where he'd drawn it. And
twice now, he'd come within a fool's breath of crossing it. If he hadn't caught
sight of the rope when he did...

The
annoying smirk on Clyde's lips showed he was no more fooled than Shep himself.
"Well, that's good to hear."

There
was something about Deanna that went beyond physical attraction, something a
lot scarier than chemistry That quirky accent and seeing the West through her
incredulous city eyes made him laugh—something he'd begun to think he'd
forgotten how to do. Then there was that vulnerability behind her spunky,
wiseacre veneer that beckoned to his protective instincts like a silent but
dangerous come
hither.

He
knew nothing about Deanna Manetti, but what Shep did know was enough. The
sooner she was gone, the better. What could God have possibly been thinking in
sending him another Ellen, unsuited to the hard life he loved? Hadn't he given
it all over to God—his hurt, his disappointment?

"Maisy
brought over one of her pies to my office..." Clyde was saying in the
background of Shep's introspection. A body never could rush the aging sheriff
when he was bound on visiting.

Granted,
Shep knew the Bible bit that said as he treated the stranger in need, so he
treated Jesus himself, but was he being asked to plough the same heart ground
all over again? He'd barely recovered from the first time.

"I
tell you, that husband of hers has a handful, but he eats good."

Although
Deanna wasn't exactly like Ellen, another voice cropped up, drawing Shep deeper
into thought. The feisty New Yorker adapted quickly enough today, even if she
did nearly drop his transmission on the ground. Ellen wouldn't have even tried.
And Deanna liked country music...

"...I'd
no more finished the last bite when the phone rang," Clyde droned on.

Shep
checked himself. Never mind what God was thinking; what was he thinking? Spunk
or no, a future out here with someone like Deanna was as futile as building a
house on sand... and he'd eaten enough grit in the collapse of his previous
relationship to last a lifetime. His best bet was to stick with the stallion
for any kind of future. Horses he understood.

"...thinkin'
she's in a heap of trouble and I'd just hate to see you get throwed
again."

Clyde's
remark jerked Shep from his tail-chasing introspection. "What?"

"I
said, I'm glad to hear it, 'cause I'm thinkin' she's in a heap of trouble, and
I'd hate to see you get throwed again. You know," the sheriff teased,
"like off a horse?"

Trouble.
Shep
heard the word. His brain processed it, but he still stared at Clyde as though
it were Greek. Shep gave himself a mental shake. "What kind of
trouble?" It wasn't like he hadn't suspected
something,
so why did
he feel like he'd just been mule-kicked in the belly?

Lord,
I told You this was more than I was up to. I have every reason to be leery of
this mess.

"Not
sure." His friend shrugged, hooking his thumbs in his waistband. "But
the DEA is sending someone here to talk to you about her. My office, tomorrow,
first thing in the mornin'."

Drug
Enforcement Agency? Now Shep knew there was more to Deanna's problems than a
lovers' spat or an overbearing boyfriend. Bob Holloway's inquiry on his behalf
must have triggered the Feds' interest. Still, she certainly didn't look or act
like a user or a pusher—no needle marks along the soft, slender length of her
arms. But then neither had the last witness he'd been assigned to protect. The
grim reality was that Clyde's news also explained the reason behind the fear
that Shep sensed beneath her feisty exterior.

"So
who's after her, the law, a cartel, or both?" If it was the law, she'd be
okay. Otherwise, Deanna was a murder victim waiting to happen.

Clyde
sighed, scuffing the dirt with his polished shoe. "I told you all I know,
son."