But no, this is a job. Nothing more.
Our eyes meet. For a fraction of a second, I forget what I’m supposed to be doing. “Come on, cowboy. Got to patch the whole length of this before dark.”
She jumps into the saddle as if it’s nothing. It only makes my studied mount that much more awkward. I see the skepticism flicker behind her gaze. But she says nothing, pressing her full lips into a line.
The low tones of cattle calling grow louder as we approach the herd in winter pasture.
Leonora leans forward in the saddle, counts aloud.
Stops.
“One short,” she whispers, averting her eyes.
“You sure?” It’s a stupid question. This woman’s sure of everything out here on her ranch.
“Probably drifted.” Her face is a mask, but tension rolls off her like waves of heat.
My shoulders tighten. This doesn’t look like drift.
“More reason to push hard, mend more fences,” she says quickly, spurring her mare forward.
As daylight ebbs away, I spot rising dust. A truck idles on the ridgeline—the wrong side of the boundary marker.
Leonora sees it, too, frowning but not speaking.
We don’t head back to the ranch house until well past sunset, our horses picking along in the twilight without hesitation.
“Seen a mountain lion out here lately,” she says casually. “Something to keep in mind when you’re alone.”
“You mean like this?” I ask.
“We’re not alone.”
There’s something tight under the words. Makes me want to reach out.
Not part of the job, Kincaid.
“I saw you earlier, crouched by the trough, touching tread marks, checking patterns. You noticed the tire tracks, too.”
I nod.
“That’s what we’re dealing with.” Then, she rides ahead, making me push Thunder harder to keep up.
After a quiet dinner, Leonora shows me to a guest bedroom.
“Clean towels are in the bathroom. More blankets in the closet. We start at dawn. Make yourself at home.”
Then, she heads down the dark hallway to her bedroom, disappearing. I hear the deadbolt click.
Smart woman. As far as she knows, I’m just a drifter who followed a “ranch hand wanted” sign down a long driveway.
As I place my folded clothes in the dresser, I notice a flash of light outside. At the window, I pull the curtain back a hair, watching headlights slow-roll past.
Wrong speed. Too slow to be passing through.
My badge stays buried at the bottom of the duffel. But my gun doesn’t.
Chapter
