Winsor, Linda (5 page)

Ticker
grinned. "Reckon I did at that." He rubbed his ear.

"Wasn't
sure I'd hear right again after she squealed like a stuck pig." He looked
toward the house. "She stayin' over?"

"From
the looks of her car, not much choice," Shep said. "I'll take her
into town tomorrow. Maybe I can get her a bus ticket to Great Falls till her
car's fixed."

"Excitable
little filly, ain't she?"

"Seems
so." Shep glanced back toward the house at the end of the street. Behind
it, the mountains colored the skyline with a dark jagged edge, above which a
few cloven clouds reflected the rising moon. He loved to study the sky's
canvas, which was ever changing, ever beautiful, whether fierce or fair.

Tonight
he hardly noticed. His mind's eye was fixed on an oval face with lake blue eyes
deep enough to dive into—except when they looked at him from the safe side of a
can of pepper spray. Then they were blue ice, frozen in a mixture of fear and
fight like those of a cornered animal. He let out a deep breath, as if to rid
himself of the spell they'd somehow cast upon him.

"So
it's like that, is it?"

Shep
cut a sharp eye at his friend. "Like what?"

Ticker
spat to the side and grinned. "Last time I heard you sigh like that, you
was lookin' at the red stallion. Now it's a horse of a different color."

Blue.
Shep closed the gate on that stray thought right away. "Nonsense. Tomorrow,
she's out of here, one way or another."

The
last thing he needed in his relatively happy life on the range was a woman,
especially one city born and bred. His ex-fiancee had soured him on the
sophistication that had once intrigued him.

"A
man can't stay out of the race forever, ya know. A horse is nice and a dog is
fine, but there's somethin' about a female that makes a man complete...
leastways, if she's a good 'un like my Mary Ann."

Ticker's
wife had nursed Sue Jones through her long ordeal with a stroke. When Aunt Sue
died, it was no surprise. But no one was prepared when Mary Ann Deerfield fell
ill and succumbed to cancer a few months later.

"An'
speakin' of critters, I gotta pick up Smoky from Doc Marine's place. Maybe that
pup'll think twice the next time he comes across a porkypine."

"You
going to take him with you on roundup?"

Ticker
hired out every spring for roundup at the neighboring cattle ranch for extra
money While they split the outfitting income, Shep couldn't afford to pay his
friend for his ready hand with the ranching endeavor. Tick graciously called it
an even trade for land rent, but Shep knew better. If he let it, the free
helping hand would bother him, but a man had to crawl before he could walk.

Shep
had to repair the place before he could hire men to round up decent stock to
start training. With his bum knee cutting short his successful career with the
U.S. Marshals and ending his engagement to the woman with whom he planned to
spend his life, Shep figured he had the rest of his life to fulfill the only
dream that had survived a perpetrator's bullet. Meanwhile, his disability paid
for the essentials. And someday, he'd do a good deed in turn for Tick or
someone else.

"...if
you don't mind," Ticker answered, drawing Shep back from the past.

Shep
processed the words he'd heard but not registered, catching up.
Take care of
'im
till I git back.
"Sure thing. The dog spends as much
time at my place as yours."

Smoky
was part Border collie, part shepherd, and all overgrown pup. Unlike his mother,
a fine cattle dog of mixed blood, Smoky was given to bouts of playfulness,
forgetting his responsibilities in bringing stray steers or horses back in line
when they tried to break from the herd.

"Reckon
I'll feed 'im in the morning, 'fore I leave. He'll find you."

A
shapely silhouette appeared in the front door of the house.

Ticker
started with that ticking thing he did with his tongue. Sometimes it was funny;
other times, it was downright annoying.

"If
there's anything left of you in the mornin', that is." His friend launched
into a leisurely walk down the main street toward his trailer.

"You're
an ornery son of a prairie biscuit," Shep called after him. Ticker
answered with a wave, not bothering to look back.

When
Shep looked back at the door, Deanna had disappeared.
Lord, I don't need Ms,
he prayed as he started for the house. But then, she'd be gone tomorrow. He
was just giving her his bed for the night, not sharing it. How could being a
Good Samaritan for one night hurt anything?

Smoky
chased the trailer behind Tickers truck to the end of Hopewell's main street
the following morning, yipping at his master as if to say, "Hey, you
forgot something!" But when the truck didn't stop, the dog sat and watched
the vehicle disappear. Shep knew how the animal felt. Ellen Sanderson had left
him in the dust much the same way.

His
fiancée refused to understand why Shep couldn't settle for a desk job in the
D.C. office. She hadn't really known him at all. When she refused to even
consider heading west with him to pursue his dream of horse ranching, he knew
their love had been based on the false shine of the social life they'd shared.
They took a great picture together—the diplomatic darling and her gussied-up
escort—but the relationship had been no deeper than the paper the picture was
printed on.

Shep
bent down as Smoky trotted up to him for consolation. "Cheer up,
partner." He scratched the shepherd mix behind the ears. "At least
Ticker's coming back."

Big
city and Big Sky just didn't mix. Much as Shep had enjoyed the excitement of
being a U.S. Marshal, he'd never really been at home in the East.

"Tell
you what, Smoke. You watch out for me and I'll watch out for you. How's
that?"

The
dog barked and wagged his tail. Whether it was because he agreed or was just
glad for the attention was anyone's guess. Shep dodged a generous lick and
straightened, looking at the house.

"What
say we go see if our guest is stirring yet?"

Smoky
fell in behind Shep's long stride with an uncannily timed yip. Either the dog
actually understood the English language or he was the best con artist Shep had
ever seen. The subject had been a source of debate between Tick and Shep on
more than one occasion.

No
one answered when he entered the kitchen-family room and said, "Anybody
home?"

The
breakfast he'd cooked and left on the pilot warmer of the gas, stove hadn't
been touched. The coffee was still at the same level in the carafe after he'd
helped himself to a second cup before heading out to do chores. With a scowl,
he glanced toward the closed bedroom door where Smoky acted as if he'd picked
up a new scent, waiting poised, ears alert.

"Time
to wake sleeping beauty," Shep quipped with a half curl of a smile.

He
struck the door with three sharp knocks. "Hey, Slick, day's a wastin'!"

Smoky's
lazy-tipped ears cocked as Shep placed his ear to the door. Not a sound. His
lips thinned. Deanna's headache had returned when he came back to the house
after speaking to Tick last night. Shep fixed her an ice bag for the knot at
the hairline of her forehead, scrounged up a pair of new pajamas still in its
plastic sleeve, then sent her to bed. Should he have kept her awake? Maybe the
concussion was worse than it appeared.

He
slammed his fist against the door, shaking it in its frame. "Deanna, rise
and shine!"

Smoky,
equally emboldened by a sense that something was amiss, added his two cents
worth with a bark.

Shep
gave his guest thirty seconds to respond before trying the doorknob. It was
locked. How, he had no idea, since the old iron box lock had been painted open
for decades. He stepped back, preparing to kick the door in when his better
sense took over. Why bust the frame and risk injuring his foot in a battle with
the time-petrified wood when nothing but a flimsy screen would be far more
accommodating?

Rushing
outside, Shep made straight for the open bedroom window with Smoky on his
heels. Peering in, he made out a still lump of a figure smothered by the covers
and pillows.

"Hey,
rise and shine!"

The
bed never so much as twitched in response. His pulse accelerating with concern,
Shep produced his pocketknife and cut away the screen. Slinging it aside, he
heaved himself through the window and did a head roll into the room over a pair
of discarded high heels. Ignoring the pierce of the heels into the muscles of
his back, he came to his feet and stepped toward the bed where a slender arm,
swimming in pajamas, curled over a pillow covering what he assumed to be her
head.

"Deanna?"

He
knelt on the edge of the mattress. But as he reached for the pillow, the
mattress shifted without warning from beneath him with an explosive whoosh.
Unable to stop his forward momentum, Shep sprawled across Deanna, bringing her
to life with a blood-curdling scream. A pillowed fist struck him full across
the jaw. A knee came up with alarming accuracy, blanketed but sharp enough to
trigger the instinct to retreat.

"It's
okay; it's just
me!"

A
telltale
hiss from Shep's left brought him back across the struggling, shrieking figure,
pinning her to the bed.
Not the pepper spray!
With all his strength, he
held the threatening sound down with a pillow.

"It's
just me," he shouted over Deanna's muffled screams. "I'm
not
going
to hurt you! I promise. Now let the spray go, or we'll both get hit."

A
mumbled "What?" came from under another pillow.

"Let
go of the pepper spray before it gets us both. I'm not going to hurt you,"
Shep repeated, his voice taut with strained patience. He'd have sent a male
perp to la-la land by now.

It
took a few seconds for his words to penetrate the obvious panic of the wildcat
struggling in the tangle of blankets and pillows. And like a wildcat, Deanna
Manetti packed more punch for the pound than appeared possible.

The
kicking, punching, writhing, and hissing stopped.

"L...let
me go. I...I'm soaked!"

Soaked?
Rather
than question what he thought he heard, Shep continued his clipped instruction.
"I'm going to roll off you right now. You slip your arm out from under the
pillow with the pepper spray and get up." His succinct and calm manner was
a far cry from what he was feeling. He wavered somewhere between the urge to
strangle his guest and relief that she was evidently fit as a fiddle.

The
moment she was free, Deanna scrambled out of the bed. Snagging her foot in a
knot of sheets, she stumbled and caught herself on the tall gun cabinet,
rattling the contents. The glass doors had cost him a fortune. Thankfully, the
metal reinforcement paid for itself, but the rocking of the base on the uneven
flooring reminded Shep that he really needed to balance that thing. His focus
shifted from the rocking tower of his prized collection to the young woman
trying to steady it.

"Great—"
she dropped the pepper spray canister to steady it—"I get to be the first
gun accident where I'm crushed rather than shot by the bloomin' things."

Speechless,
Shep stared at his guest. She was swimming in his pajamas, quite literally
where they clung to one arm and shoulder as though she'd been hosed down. Water
even dripped on the floor. "You
are
soaked."

"What,
are you deaf as well as dumb?" Deanna snatched something from her ear—a
wire of some sort. She cast a furtive glance from the locked door to the
window, where remnants of the screen hanging from its frame explained his
entrance before he could. "You
broke
in? Why?"

Shep
eased to his feet, eyeing the pepper spray still within reach. "Because
you didn't answer me when I knocked." Wait a minute. Why was
he
on
the defensive in his own house? "Why on earth did you lock the door? I
thought I'd proved that I wasn't going to assault you."

"New
Yorkers know better than to trust anybody... especially if said person seems
too good to be true, which is usually
not
the case."

Her
upper lip was stiff, but the lower one gave her away. Not that it needed to.
He'd seen the stark terror now thawing in her eyes. He forced the indignation
eating at him from his voice. "You had a headache and a nasty lump on your
forehead last night. I thought you were unconscious or something when you
didn't answer," he explained. "So I broke in, but when I knelt on the
edge of the bed to check you—"

Bewilderment
claiming him, Shep tossed the covers back. There, lying in a wet circle was the
ice bag he'd given her. A hint of humor tugged at the corner of his mouth as
the facts all came together. "I guess I put my knee on that and
slipped."

He
glanced at Deanna to see her staring at the thing as well. She squeezed some of
the water out of the pajama on her shoulder before raising her gaze to his with
a sheepish grin. It tugged at the cutest nose he'd ever seen. "I didn't
hear you because I was using the earphones on your transistor radio to shut out
all the noise last night."

The
transition of a sleepy, frightened little girl in need of comfort turning to
imp played havoc with his thoughts. "What nose...
noise?"
Her
vulnerability and his desire to assuage it made him stammer, setting off alarms
along the wall protecting his emotions.

Her
mouth twitched in yet another beguiling pose, sending his thoughts and
reactions tumbling over each other like inept cops in a silent film. Suddenly,
she stared past him, murmuring a startled, "Oh!"

Desperate
for any distraction, Shep glanced over his shoulder in time to see Smoky bound
through the window. He caught the yapping dog as it lunged up on the bed toward
Deanna. "Whoa, boy. She's a friend."

Not
that Smoky was acting anything more than excited and friendly. Nonetheless,
Deanna appeared relieved and grateful for Shep's intervention, rewarding him
with yet another smile.

"Where
did he come from?"

"Smoky,
meet Deanna Manetti. Deanna, meet Smoky He's Tick's dog. I'm taking care of him
till Tick gets back from the Double J's roundup. He's all bark and no bite...
least I've never seen any bite in him. The most danger he poses is kissing you
to death." Shep's pulse tripped. "Slobber drowning."

Slobber
drowning?
Sheesh,
he was babbling like a pimple-faced boy on his first date. But then, the sight
of Deanna standing in his pajamas, her shiny shoulder-length hair tousled, was
hard to ignore. Half little girl, half imp, and all woman...

Shep
turned away, tugging Smoky gently by the collar. He was thinking like some kind
of pervert. "I'll fix you some more breakfast while you get dressed. Then
we'll go into town and check on your car."

"More
breakfast?" she asked as he struggled with one hand to slide the lock to
the open position. How in blazes had she broken it loose from layers of paint?
It finally gave with a loud click.

"I
imagine the egg I fixed earlier is hard as a pine knot. I'll make
another."

"Just
put it in a sandwich."

"Whatever
suits," he said, drawing the door closed behind him as if he couldn't do
it fast enough. At Smoky's whine of a sigh, he glanced at the dog's quizzical
look. "Don't even ask." Shep let go of the collar and retreated to
the kitchen like a scalded hound.

***

The
Jeep hit a bump in the road just as Deanna swallowed the last of her sandwich.
When she had emerged from the bedroom after the bizarre wake-up call, her host
had been eager to be on their way, so she grabbed a cup of coffee to go and ate
on the way No matter how hard she tried, she'd been unable to ignore the furry
companion that had followed her every step since she left from the bedroom. On
her way to the vehicle, she'd parted with half of her food. She couldn't help
it. Unable to have pets in her New York apartment, she was a sucker for those
pleading eyes.

"There's
where you ran off the road." Shep pointed out her window as they drove by
a dry embankment that looked as if a bite had been taken from it.

After
a good night's sleep and a hearty meal, the surroundings were a far cry from
the inhospitable landscape she remembered. All Deanna recalled were road,
horse, and wilderness. She'd felt like King David must have when his friends
turned against him, the sole living creature in an unfriendly wilderness,
wondering why God wasn't hearing his pleas for help. Odd that the story would
come to mind now. She hadn't thought of her old Sunday school lessons in years.
But then she hadn't been in this much of a mess in years either.

Today
the pastureland to the right and left of the dirt road seemed greener than the
day before. She even spotted a scatter of cattle grazing on a gradual rise that
swept toward the tree and rock covered hills beyond.

"This
road leads up to a hunting lodge in the high country," Shep told her.
"And dollars to donuts that's where that renegade stallion is right now,
running with the mustangs." He shot a begrudging look at the scene fading
behind them in the rearview mirror.

"I
thought the mustangs were protected." Deanna had read something about that
in
National Geographic,
hadn't she?

"They
are, but the red isn't one of them. He was born and bred at Hopewell. He just
likes to run with the wild crowd." Shep smirked over his stab at humor.
"A lot of ranches let the bulk of their remuda of work horses run in the
hills until spring roundup. Then the hands round them up and remind them of
their training for a few days before the real work begins."