10
As he rounded the bend in the road leading up to the Reed ranch house, Warren sat straighter in the saddle, for the first time wishing he’d forgone his favorite Raider ball cap for the Stetson he’d purchased a few years ago but seldom wore. The blazing sun overhead was only partly the reason. There was something about his prickly neighbor that made him want to cowboy up, in more ways than one. Not that he was trying to impress her or anything.
No, never that.
He neared the wooden gate surrounding the property and looked at the garden beyond it. No sign of her. The area around the barn, stables and detached garage was equally quiet. He reached the fence, dismounted and looped the horse’s reins over a post. He removed his cap, wiped the sweat from his brow and knocked on the door.
A wiry man who looked to be anywhere from sixtysomething to as old as God came to the door. Although it was warm he wore heavy denims and a flannel shirt. There was a stained white apron tied around his middle, a kerchief at his throat and a toothpick clenched between his teeth. Warren imagined that the man could have ridden with the great Bill Pickett, perhaps even been related.
The man opened the door, sharp, white eyes peering out of his weathered face. “Afternoon.”
“Afternoon, sir. Is Charli here?”
The eyes narrowed. “Who wants to know?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Warren,” he replied, holding out his hand. “Warren Drake. I own the ranch and vineyard just down the road.” He clasped a hand that felt like steady work and hard living. “And you are?”
“Griff.”
“Griff? Nice to meet you. Is Griff your first name or your last name?”
The toothpick moved from one side of Griff’s mouth to the other. “Yep.”
“Okay.” Clearly you are where Charli learned her good manners. Feeling that voicing this thought was not the best course of action, Warren decided upon another approach. “I have some news for her regarding her cattle, and the stream that’s on my land. She’s been waiting for an update. Is she here?”
Griff removed the toothpick from his mouth, raising his head a notch as he eyed Warren. “You Walter’s kin?”
“I am.” Warren smiled, unconsciously lifting his chin with pride. “He’s my grandfather. Do you know him?”
The toothpick returned to its place of prominence between the teeth. “We’ve met a time or two.”
“Was it during the time that he and Charles Reed were partners?”
Griff stepped out onto the porch, walked past Warren, and shot a perfect stream of tobacco juice into a hydrangea bush. “That’s a fine piece of horseflesh.”
“My pride and joy.” Warren joined Griff at the edge of the porch, standing by his side to admire the animal.
“Thoroughbred?”
“Arabian.”
“Can you ride him bareback?”
“I can ride any horse, saddle or not.”
Griff shot him a skeptical look before turning back toward the house. When he reached the door he placed his hand on the latch, then said without turning back around, “She’s out in the pasture, with the cowhands. Best to state your business and be gone.”
* * *
The sound of horse hooves pounding the earth drew Charli’s attention from the injured cow. She turned her head toward the sound, shielding her eyes to try to make out the rider. Over the years, she’d become so attuned to each horse and the worker who rode it that she usually knew who approached her without having to look. But not this time. The hoofbeats were too heavy and too rapid to belong to Griff and his horse, Danger. They were too authoritative to be that of cowhand Willie and his horse, Shaft. The only other workers here today were the two now with her, which meant one thing. There was a stranger on her land.
She stood, dusting off her jeans as the commanding rider came into view. A familiar feeling danced over her, but she ignored it. No way. The only horsepower he’s used to is under a hood. At once, she recognized both the quality of the horse and the skill of the rider. As they came closer, she noticed something else. The broad, hard shoulders that had occupied way too many of this week’s errant thoughts. The jutting chin and strong neck from which she’d smelled a cologne that matched its wearer—striking and bold.
It’s him.
She swallowed and willed herself to remain detached, demanded her body not to react and her stance not to waver. But not trusting her hands to behave themselves once he got within touching distance, she stooped back down to tend to the injured cow.
Warren reached the small group and climbed off the horse. He joined them. “Hello, Charli.”
“Drake,” she responded without looking up.
“What happened?” he asked, kneeling beside her.
That damnable cologne hit her nostrils at once, bringing back the memories of that night, their dance, into clearer focus. She could almost feel his hands—one clasping her own, the other hovering just above her round assets—could almost feel his breath against her neck.
She stood abruptly, walked over to her horse and pulled a cell phone from her saddlebag. Yes, she needed to make a call, but even more so, she needed to put some distance between herself and that man. “More than likely hit a plug in the dirt at the exact wrong angle,” she finally answered while scrolling through the names showing on the phone’s screen. “Looks like her leg’s broken.” She looked at one of the cowhands. He was a serious-looking young man with a slender build, his high cheekbones, hawk nose and long, silky black hair bound in a ponytail an obvious result of his Native American heritage. “Bobby, I was going to call Jim. Have him bring over the floating tank. Just on the small chance that it’s merely sprained.”
“No,” Bobby said, shaking his head. He knelt and placed a hand on the cow’s heaving side. The animal breathed slowly, steadily, as if resigned to its fate. “There is no hope for this animal.” He looked at Charli. “Do you want me to—”
“No,” Charli said, cutting him off with the soft yet firmly delivered word. “You know how we do it out here, Bobby. My cow, my kill.” Once again she walked over to her horse, this time taking a .22-gauge rifle from out of a saddle holder. She walked back over to the cow. “Bobby?”
The young man, who was still kneeling, leaned forward as if whispering in the cow’s ear. Then he stood and said something in a language that Warren did not understand. Judging from everyone’s silence, and the way the air felt around him, he would have guessed it was a prayer. Charli stepped up, the men moved back and she fired. One clean shot. Between the eyes. The cow was dead.
While the cowhands tended to the animal, Charli walked back over to her horse. Warren followed her. “What do you want, Drake?” she asked, placing the gun back in its holder.
He decided to ignore her attitude for the moment. After all, the woman had just shot a cow. “I came over to let you know that the gate arrived. The men are installing it now. It is electronic, opened
