Winsor, Linda (2 page)

"Was
it a sorrel... the horse that caused this?" Shep pointed to her buckled hood.

"No,
it was red."

"Sorrel
is red, Slick." At Deanna's astonished expression, he explained the
nickname away. "I saw those New York license plates and figured you to be
a city slicker."

"There
are
horses in New York," she reminded him, bristling at his condescension.
"Even in the city."

"Wherever
they are, red ones are still sorrel."

Okay,
he was teasing her, but how could a girl complain when it was done with a grin,
bracketed by lines that betrayed a longtime sense of humor? "So you know
the horse?" she returned with a wry tip of her lips. For the first time,
Deanna felt as though the uncomfortable shoe had been switched to Shepard
Jones's foot.

He
looked away for a moment and nodded. "'Fraid so. He's one of mine."
Pulling his hat down lower, as if shifting down to business, he returned his
attention to her. "Looks like I owe you. Think you can walk now?"

"Walk?
Walk where?" Deanna stalled, not the least bit certain she could. Besides,
she felt as if her head might fall off if she stood again.

Instead
of answering, Shep pulled her to her feet with a firm grip on her upper arms.
This time, it was Deanna who shouted, "Whoa!" as she grasped the
front of his shirt to keep from falling.

In
an instant, his long arms were under her, lifting her into the air with little
effort. She fell hard against his chest with a gasp, still clinging to the
loose-fitting front of the garment as if to choke him.

"What
do you think you're doing?"

"Why,
rescuing you. Isn't that what we cowboys do?"

So
he really was a cowboy... and a bit of a smart aleck. She refrained from
complaining that he was three days too late to be of any real help to her. This
little fender bender was the least of her worries. Just as she started to
relax, Deanna realized they were approaching the spotted horse, which had moved
a short distance away and stood patiently, awaiting its master.

"You've
got
to be kidding!" Her eyes widened with dubious alarm. "I...
I can't
ride."

Shep's
chuckle shook her. "You won't have to. All you have to do is sit still and
look pretty in the saddle.
I'll
do the riding."

Before
she could say another word, he placed her in the worn saddle as easily as a
carnival man puts a child upon a painted carousel steed. She wasn't overweight
by any means, but her five-foot-eight height made her self-conscious around
most men. Now that she'd seen him stand up full height, she realized that even
in heels, she wouldn't intimidate this guy. With that rumpled hat of his, he
looked to be at least six-six. Most of it was man rather than topper. He wasn't
the slump-shouldered Neanderthal she'd first taken him for, but strapping
Montana prime.

"If
you swing your leg over and ride astride, you'll be more secure, not to mention
comfortable."

Glad
that she wore linen-flax trousers instead of a skirt, Deanna complied. The
horse acted as if it had women slung over its back every day, even ones who
were so stiff with apprehension that they grazed its ears with a heel while
trying to mount.

"Take
it easy; I gotcha." His grasp on the belt of her slacks was as unrelenting
as her fear that the animal might dash off with her.

"So
does he," she managed in a shaky voice. Without taking her eye off the
horse's now laid-back ears, she sought the stirrups with the toes of her
kiltied pumps.

"He
is a she, and I'll be needing that." Shep moved her left foot forward,
just as she seated it in the stirrup. "Her name's Patch, for obvious
reasons."

"Why
not Spot?" Certain the saddle would be crowded, Deanna eased toward the
pommel as her companion slipped his boot into the stirrup to swing up behind
her, settling on the horses back to the rear of the saddle. Reaching to either
side of her, he picked up the reins from where they rested on the horse's neck.
At the soft click of his tongue, Patch turned toward the blazing bright
horizon.

"Oh,
my purse." The glaring spectacle assaulted her eyes. "And my
sunglasses. They may have fallen on the floor during the accident."

Shep
reined the horse in and slid off its back without the formality of stirrups.

Frozen
at the idea of being abandoned on what seemed to be a ton of snorting
horseflesh, Deanna watched statue-still as he rummaged through the car and
found her things. Her purse was intact, but the glasses were snapped in half at
the bridge. He handed her the first and tossed away the latter. Then, with a
running start, he vaulted up on Patch's back, Indian fashion.

The
black and white horse took a step forward and Deanna's derisive, "Show
off," erupted on a note of alarm.

"Easy,
gal...
both
of you," he consoled in an easy drawl she'd heard movie
cowpokes gentle animals with.

It
worked on the horse, but Patch was in her element. Deanna wasn't.

She
started again when her companion slapped his hat down on her head, shading her
eyes from the sun. "Thanks," she murmured, ashamed of her skittishness.
But then, how would Shep fare on the subway?

Probably
just fine. He struck her as the sort of man who, while comfortable in the
saddle, could take the city in stride. She sucked in a breath as he slipped his
arm snugly about her waist while taking up the reins with his free hand.

"Ready,
Slick?"

Ready?
That was a joke.
"Yes,
but where are we going?"

"Home.
A good meal and a bath will make a world of difference in how you feel."

And
how you smell,
she
thought, keeping her opinion to herself. Rakish and disheveled was one thing,
but Shepard Jones's horse smelled better than he did.

"In
fact, I'm looking forward to both. A week in the high country'll make a man
offend his own nose."

"I
hadn't noticed," she lied politely, so as not to wind up abandoned in the
wild by offending her rescuer. Like she could miss that mingle of horse, sweat,
and leather. Stranger still, it wasn't entirely offensive but rather made her
aware of his raw masculinity

"Well,
you're still dazed." He urged the horse forward with his knees.

Deanna's
fingers tightened on her purse. She noticed the stains on his knees, her
wariness assuaged by his easygoing charm returning. Cowboy or not, this was a
total stranger who could be taking her anywhere for any reason.

"Why
not take me into town?"

"Because,
Slick, town is an hour's ride by car. On four feet, it's a half day's
ride."

"So
take me in your Jeep."

She
felt his arm relax against her. "If that's what you want," he said,
confirming her guess that he owned such a vehicle. It fit his image. "We
can report this to the authorities. My insurance will pay for it, of course,
but I can tell you, it'll take a while to order parts for that fancy rig of
yours."

Deanna
felt the blood leave her face. Report the accident to the authorities? But then
she'd be right back where she started— in a brimming kettle of trouble that was
not of her own making.

What
had she done to deserve this? It wasn't as if she'd been a bad person since she
stopped going to her parents' church. She'd just been busy building a career in
marketing.

"If
you'd like to keep this off the record, for the sake of my insurance rates as
well as your own, I happen to know a good mechanic who might be able to get you
back on the road with used parts and a little bodywork. He's a shade-tree
genius."

"A
what?" The brush of an unshaven cheek against her ear as Shep leaned
forward to see her face snatched her out of her reflection.

There
was that grin again. This close, it was toe-curling and smelled of mildly
redeeming spearmint. Was this guy a scruffy angel or yet another trap waiting
to spring on her?

"I
said I have a friend who might be able to get your car back on the road. I'll
pay him and put you up until he's done. That way nobody needs to be called, and
my premium will remain affordable."

Nobody
needs to be called.
Deanna
sighed. "That's fine with me," she heard herself saying, even as
anxiety began to demand to know if she'd lost her mind, agreeing to stay
overnight with a complete stranger.

But
then, what was she going to do with no money, no car, and more important, no
food? She tried hard to concentrate on her predicament rather than acknowledge
the uncomfortable jarring between her temples with each step the horse took.

So
far, Shepard Jones had been as gallant, if not as polished, as his movie
counterparts. And he was a rancher. Somehow, she didn't think serial killers
lived double lives as Montana ranchers who worried about insurance rates. Maybe
his name was no coincidence. Maybe God had listened to her plea for help and
sent a shepherd—even though it had been a long time since she'd been her
parents' version of P.C.—practicing Christian. Politically correct had been
more her lifestyle since their deaths. Was this guy the kind of shepherd she
needed, or God's way of getting even for her neglect?

Deanna
clenched her purse against the pommel of the saddle as if her life depended on
them both. The pepper spray in the purse gave her small comfort. For now, she
had a place to stay, which was more than she'd had before she wound up in the
gully by the side of the dirt road. There was nothing left to do but ride off
into the sunset with her rumpled Montana cowboy and trust—not him but God.

Even
if he looked like a movie star when he was freshly scrubbed and in clean
clothes, she'd keep her eyes wide open. Deanna had been taken in by a man just
once, but it was one time too many This time she intended to live up to her new
nickname—
Slick.

Hopewell
was an odd name for the ramshackle cluster of buildings bleaching in the sun.
Hopeless was more like it. Not that the word
ranch
applied either,
Deanna thought, stiffening against Shep's wiry wall of muscle at her back. It
looked more like a—

"It's
a ghost town," he informed her, as if he'd read her thoughts. "But
don't worry. I've never seen one ghost."

"That's
very reassuring." Her situation had gone from desperate to bizarre. It was
either wisecrack or cry at this point. "Just tell me you're not a serial
killer."

Shep
laughed behind her. "I'm not a serial killer. Just a poor rancher trying
to get a small spread started."

An
hour's ride from the nearest town, he'd said, and she didn't see a Jeep. Deanna
opted to pretend that she was still back in her car and was out of her head,
dreaming all this. After what she'd been through to date, this wasn't a large
leap at all. She'd just nightmare-hopped from cops and robbers to back at the
ranch, er, ghost town.

Cod,
I know I've been a stranger, but please,
I
need help. Mama
said You'd never give a person more than she could stand, and, Lord,.. . I
can't take much more.

"Don't
worry; you won't have to bathe in a barrel. The main house is beyond the livery
stable at the end of the street, complete with indoor plumbing." Shep
pointed to a thin line of poles strung from the opposite direction with a
couple of heavy-duty overhead wires. "And we've got electricity.. . most
of the time."

Somehow
the conditional assurance of electricity didn't strike Deanna as a heavenly
response to her prayer. But she hadn't prayed in so long, maybe God wasn't
listening. Ignoring a sense of despair wedging itself between hope and
desperation, she drew on the independent reserve that had moved her up the
corporate ladder.
Think for yourself, Deanna.
She took in her rustic
surroundings with a wary eye.

Push
come to shove, she could follow the poles back to civilization like the cowboys
always followed a railroad or river. She hadn't been raised in the city for
nothing. She was a survivor. Still, try as she might, Deanna had yet to see the
home the wires connected to because of the tall high-pitched roof of the last
building on the street. Beyond it was an oasis of treetops and a working
windmill. At least the pinwheel part moved, catching a slow breeze that eluded
her.

"My
grandparents modernized the mayor's house before I was born. Then my Uncle Dan
took it over. Since I'm his only living relative, he left the whole kit and
caboodle to me." Shep guided Patch down the knoll toward the small opening
of what appeared to be a narrow main street.

The
gentle timbre of his voice failed to ease her growing alarm. She held back the
"Lucky you" that came to mind sooner than annoy the stranger carrying
her into a remote ghost town where only God knew what fate awaited her. There
weren't more than a dozen buildings. According to some of the faded signs still
left above some of the doors, there was—or had been—a boardinghouse, a dry
goods, and, of course, a saloon, with swinging doors still intact.

Eager
to get home, Patch broke into a teeth- and head-jarring trot, which Shep put an
abrupt end to. "Treat the lady nice and I'll give you an extra measure of
feed," he cajoled the animal.

Ahead
of them through the cluster of shade trees was a white clapboard house with
once red, now faded, trim straight from a
Better Homes and Gardens
nightmare
edition. The paint was cracked and peeled. The remaining screens were buckled
and patched. Well, it was in better shape than the rest of the town. Besides,
who knew? Fifty years ago, it may have gleamed fresh from its modernization,
but it was in dire need of another facelift now. Still, she could see
possibilities.. . if she lived long enough.

"Home
sweet home." Shep reined in his horse in front of the large livery stable.

Before
Deanna could agree or not, a strange figure emerged from a concrete block
building set slightly back from the street. It was a bearded man, clad much
like her rescuer, except for one critical thing: He was covered in blood—fresh
blood. As he raised his hand, the sun glanced off the meat cleaver he held.

The
sight pushed her beyond her limit, an unadulterated fear filling Deanna with
renewed strength. The scream that mustered below her heart drowned out whatever
the man said. In a flurry of kicks and blows at Shep, who tried to restrain
her, she landed on her feet in the dirt. Pain shot through her ankle as her
heel twisted beneath her, but Deanna ignored it. She hobbled away from the
startled, prancing horse that Shep abandoned in pursuit of her.

She
fumbled in her purse for the pepper spray "Stop right there or I'll
shoot!"

Shep
froze in midstep. His expression teetered somewhere between shock and
amusement. Taking a step back, hands raised, he smiled and licked a trickle of
blood from the lip she'd battered in her bid to escape.

"Slick,
you've seen too many Westerns. Though I've never seen a cowpoke kayoed by a
purse before," he added, a twinkle in his eye.

Deanna
felt the rise of heat in her cheeks, but she held her ground. "Now take
out that pistol and toss it over here..
. slowly."
Sheesh, she
did
sound like a veteran TV cowboy

"What
in tarn hill's goin' on here?" The other man, not the least intimidated by
Deanna's last stand, propped his hands at an indistinguishable waist and
addressed Shep. "I thought you lit out after that stallion."

"Ticker,
this is Miss Deanna Manetti from New York. The stallion ran her car off the
road, and by the look of it, shell be our guest for a few days." He
returned his attention to Deanna. "Or maybe not."

Ticker
—heaven help
her; that sounded like a cleaver-wielding maniacs name.

He
gave her a short nod. "Went Western on ya, did she? Reckon she looks a
mite on the high-strung side." Ticker stared at her with a bemused
expression. "Ain't they got butchers in New York, gal?"

"Butchers?"
A ghost town with a meat market? She
had
to be imagining all this.

"Ticker
and I are outfitters. The ranch is a dream on the side."

"Outfitters?"
Confused, she took in their collective appearance. Certainly not outfitters of
fashion.

"My
partner and I take hunting parties up into the high country for elk and other
game. Tick's been butchering and wrapping the last kill to ship back to our
clients."

The
other man snickered and made a tut-tutting or rather a
ticking
sound
with his tongue. "Yep, by golly, I ain't kilt no human since..." He
scratched his beard, absorbed in thought for a moment. "Since I don't know
when."

With
a mocking grin, Shep turned and started toward the open livery doors where his
horse had bolted. "Just go on back to wrapping that elk, Tick. Maybe Miss
Manetti will calm down once she sees she's not next in line for the
freezer."

Bearing
the brunt of their unabashed humor, Deanna watched until both men disappeared,
one into the block building and the other into the stables. Weak with relief,
she sank onto the remains of a plank walkway in front of the boardinghouse and
buried her face in her arms, the pepper spray suspended in her hand. Her eyes
stung from the emotional barrel race her mind had been dragged through and her
head thundered fit to burst.

If
"going Western" was another term for losing it, then she'd gone
Western in a big way punching and kicking fit for a big screen brawl. Where was
the antiviolence marketing exec whose brass and sheer inventiveness won some of
Image International's largest advertising accounts?

Men
either cowered by the wayside at Deanna's first cool assessment or retreated
after finding she had the steel to back it up. Now she wavered somewhere
between nausea and hysterics, although how someone could be so hungry and sick
to her stomach at the same time was a puzzle.

What
have
I
gotten myself into now?

Massaging
her temples, Deanna closed her eyes to the bright afternoon sun. Memory shorts
of the grueling police interrogation played havoc with already ragged emotions.
So help her, she had no idea that the bank transactions she made for C. R.
Majors were illegal. She'd never suspected a thing.

"I
made the deposits for C. R. on my way back to the office on Fridays as a favor,
so that he could make his weekly one o'clock with the board of directors,"
Deanna had defended herself to the detective who arrested her right in the
middle of a client interview.

She
and C. R. always had a long lunch together on Fridays to go over her progress
with the marketing team and, fool that she was, she'd thought that he enjoyed
her company as well, since the discussion usually involved planning a date for
the weekend. She didn't tell the police how the silver-tongued devil had
flattered his way into her heart through her work or that she'd let her guard
down at the promise of job advancement
and
romance with a man who
appreciated the brain behind an attractive face.

"And
you had no clue what was in the deposit bag Mr. Majors gave you?"
Detective Riordan demanded.

So,
instead of C. R. on the bank videotapes, it was Deanna making the transactions
that laundered illegal money through a reputable firm, once a week for the six
weeks she'd been living in Great Falls. "I had no reason to look. He was
the CEO of the company, so what right had I to question him?"

"Why
didn't he ask the Accounts Receivable manager to make the deposits?"

"She
was taking off on Fridays to get ready for a wedding. C. R. was boss over all
of us. I didn't know what from why about the company's banking procedures. I
was in marketing, not receivables. I hardly knew personnel in that department
beyond an initial introduction."

Okay,
so she did wonder at first, but C. R. had explained how the receivables
department head was taking off to plan her upcoming wedding and that he, as her
immediate superior, had offered to make the Friday bank run for her. Deanna had
thought it a sweet gesture. The police weren't as gullible as she'd been.

"You
were romantically involved with C. R. Majors, weren't you, Miss Manetti?"

"We
dated," Deanna admitted. The heat that scorched her cheeks surely told the
rest of the story To her astonishment, the detective spread an array of
photographs of her and C. R.—the afternoon at the park, a night at the theater,
the Cattleman's Club, and the AR manager's long awaited wedding last weekend.
In addition to the betrayal she already felt, violation added its two cents
worth.

"When
did you last see him?"

"There,
at the wedding." She pointed to a picture of them dancing together. She
looked like a starry-eyed idiot looking up at him. Although at the time, she'd
felt like a princess walking on air in her designer suit and matching eelskin
heels and clutch she'd purchased to complete the ensemble. She'd been clueless
that her prince charming was a weasel. "He said he'd be leaving Sunday on
a business trip to Toronto."

"And
where did you two go after the wedding?"

"You
mean you didn't get pictures of that as well?" Deanna shot back. Total
strangers had watched her. Some of her most intimate moments had been tossed in
her face on film. "C. R. took me back to my apartment. I made coffee. Then
he went home to catch an early flight." After kissing her in such a way
that she'd showered and was in bed before her heart resumed a normal beat.

Detective
Riordan fingered another picture. "Did he say when he'd be
returning?"

"Wednesday...
today."

"I
don't think so, Miss Manetti." The detective tossed the picture on the
table in front of her. "You recognize the car?"

Surrounded
by police and fire department vehicles was the burned-out frame of a Mercedes
sports car. At least Deanna thought it was. "Are you saying that's C. R.'s
car?" she asked, her voice straining past a pair of invisible hands that
choked her.

"Forensics
is trying to find enough of the body to identify," Riordan told her.
"Car bombs don't leave much to work with."

A
car bomb? Deanna had no ready reply this time. Her very breath had been kicked
out of her by the vision.

"What
we did find," the man continued, "was this little love note in your
desk drawer along with a plane ticket to Barbados."

In
C. R.'s familiar hand, the note read, "Darling, I await your arrival with
our 'investment' to begin our life together in paradise."

Out
of context, the note might have been a dream come true. Instead, it smacked of
a deception so dark, Deanna could no longer look at it.

"Your
ticket was bought by your boss the same time as his. Real cozy, eh?" the
detective taunted.

Not
knowing what to say, much less what to do, she'd just stared at the detective's
worn shoes, trapped in a nightmare of someone else's making. This wasn't really
happening to her. It couldn't be.