in the winter temperatures. “Could have been either. Whoever it was must have been here first and didn’t want me to find my thermos.”
Owen waved away her offered hand and got to his feet, mouth tight, as Jack handed him his cowboy hat. “Bruce Reed. Has to be.”
Her gut told her he was correct. “No way to prove it.”
“We’ll tell the cops,” Jack said. “They can see if Reed has a motorcycle registered to him. I’ll call right now.” He took out his phone and dialed.
Ella looked over the churned leaves and the mud rutted from their attacker’s wheels. Nerves tightened in her stomach as she processed what had just happened. If Bruce Reed, or whoever that had been, was looking for the thermos, then she was right. It contained proof that she’d been abducted, proof that would force people to believe she was not a killer.
“It’s here somewhere,” she mumbled. “It has to be.”
Owen began walking slowly through the detritus. She could tell he was trying hard not to limp, but his shoulders were still hunched with pain.
“You don’t have to...” she started. His body tensed. Instinctively she knew it would wound him further just then to bring any more attention to his leg. A memory of Owen as a high school senior filled her mind, his anger at being sidelined during football season for a sprained ankle.
“I can play,” he’d snapped at her. “Team relies on me.”
“They can rely on someone else for a couple of games,” she’d told him. She still remembered the look he’d given her then, eyes steely blue, glinting with passion.
“That’s worse than the messed-up ankle.”
Owen was a man who needed to be needed, a born protector. And what happened to the protector when he couldn’t do the job anymore? She’d never asked Owen about the severity of his injury, but it had been a year since his return from Afghanistan and his limp was still detectable. Could he expect a full recovery? She wondered what would happen to Owen if the answer was no.
Forcing away the gloomy thought, she hurried on with her search, allowing him some time to collect himself, but she kept him in her peripheral vision nonetheless.
If he required medical attention, she would see to it that he got it whether he agreed or not.
* * *
After an irritating rehashing of the whole incident to Larraby and his promise to patrol the area for the motorcycle, Owen endured the search, though his leg felt like it was on fire. He purposely kept back a few steps so Ella would not hear him groan every time he bent over to probe a pile of leaves. His body craved relief so badly he could taste it.
There is no way around the pain, he told himself savagely. No more pills, so get through it. He managed to scrape along for another hour until Ella slapped a hand onto her thigh in frustration.
“It’s just not here anywhere. It couldn’t have sprouted legs and wandered off by itself. The police didn’t find it, so what could have happened to it?”
“There’s a river right down the slope past the trees. Could have rolled there and washed away.”
She groaned.
“We have to call it a day. The temperature is dropping and we’re losing the light. Mom just texted insisting I bring you to the ranch for some corn chowder.”
She looked at her feet. “Um, I should just go home and...”
“Ella,” he said firmly, waiting until she finally looked at him. “My family has known you since you were seven years old. They don’t think for one minute that you’re a killer.”
Her cheeks went petal pink. “But they know, I mean, they heard that I did some drinking in the past. Maybe...”
“Maybe nothing. We were all different people four years ago. You made your peace with the Lord. You’re forgiven.”
She sighed. “I know that in my brain, but in my heart...”
He understood. Reaching out, he touched her cheek with his fingertip, her skin as satiny as a new leaf. “I get it. Hearts take a lot longer to learn than heads, don’t they?”
She swallowed hard and he decided not to give her an opportunity to refuse, so he strode as best he could to the passenger-side door and opened it. She walked over. Just before she climbed in, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, startling him by the pleasure it sparked. Her lips were warm and soft, like the downy feathers of the new chicks his mom fussed over in the spring.
“I’m sorry, Owen. I’m sorry Bruce Reed hurt you, if that even was him.”
Not as bad as I’m gonna hurt him for putting you through this. His thoughts surprised him. Not the protectiveness—he had always been ferociously protective of friends and family—but the tenderness that was twined around it.
Ray’s sister, he reminded himself. You owe it to him to take care of her. Period.
Ray would never condone anything further between Owen and Ella. Combat vets make lousy life partners, was Ray’s mantra. Ray was a good example, having endured a divorce after only two years of marriage. Owen still held out hope that Ray and Pam would reconcile one day, for the sake of them both and their daughter, Sarah, but Ray was an adrenaline junkie, never satisfied at home, always hankering for the next mission, too battle hardened to adjust to civilian life.
Owen felt the restlessness too, sometimes, the loss of his marine career and the pain of his injury had fueled his need for pills to dull the pain. The drugs had not healed his leg, nor had they assuaged the emptiness he felt from a military career cut short. He’d only shared some of these feelings with Jack and their church pastor, a former veteran himself, who’d counseled him when he’d hit the rock bottom of his life and fueled his determination to heal and reenlist.
At least he’d thought it was rock bottom. What if this was it? Trapped in a broken body, unable to rescue Ella from a life in prison? Imagining her in that harsh world, hurt him much more than the pain in his thigh.
Not gonna happen, Thorn, make sure of that. He made up his mind to return with a metal detector at first light and find the thermos if it took him all day.
The heater in the truck eased the muscle spasms in his leg and by the time they arrived at the Gold Bar Ranch, the agony had diminished. Ella hopped out of the truck before he could open the door for her and stopped a moment at the whitewashed fence to stroke Glory’s silky muzzle. At fifteen hands high, the bay towered over her, lowering her head to accept the gentle caress.
“How’s she doing?”
Owen was training Glory to be a cutting horse for ranch owner Macy Gregory’s husband, Drake. “Good. She responds well to rein and leg pressure. Gaining some savvy with the steers and cows over at Macy’s ranch.” Macy’s outfit was in neighboring Mountain Top where she kept a couple hundred head of cattle. It was more a hobby for the woman, as her real passion was competing in show jumping while her husband tended to the workings on their ranch. He’d heard Macy had curtailed her competing due to financial problems. “Haven’t introduced Glory to any bulls yet.” It was common misconception that horses and cows were naturally at ease around each other. It was possible to
