open at night. The inn where she was staying was located on Main Street, and a couple times she’d heard noise coming from the bar several blocks down. But it was worth it just to hear the patter of rain on the windowsill.
She sipped her coffee, anxious for the much-needed caffeine to give her a boost. Kind of a shame, really. The peace and quiet made her pleasantly mellow. She glanced into the rearview mirror. Nothing but blacktop, blue sky and woods for miles.
What the—?
She stared at the red blur until she could make out the shape of the Porsche. The car hugged the curve of the road, then raced toward her. Was he out of his mind?
Ben had been right. She didn’t have radar, but she’d bet anything he was going well over the fifty-mile speed limit. Grace started the engine and hit the flashing lights just as the car came up on her. The vehicle whizzed past.
She hesitated, torn between anger at his recklessness and a reluctance to give him another ticket. Depending on his record, it could cost him his license. But then, maybe it should. Maybe this was the lesson he needed. Either way, this was her job.
Hastily getting the truck on the road, she cursed at the spilled coffee wetting her jeans. She pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor. The older model truck didn’t have a chance of catching up to the Porsche. So it surprised her when Ben slowed and coasted until she came up behind him.
She glimpsed his dark hair as he pulled onto the shoulder, and she felt a little sadness that her uncle might be right about Ben. Mostly, though, she was mad.
Breathing deeply, she grabbed her ticket book and pen, then climbed out of the truck. She kept her sunglasses on, unwilling to let him see her anger and disappointment. Did he think he could charm her out of another ticket?
“This seems all too familiar,” she said as the tinted window lowered. “License and—” She blinked. “Trace?”
“Mornin’, Deputy,” he said with a sheepish grin.
“I thought you were Ben.” She cleared her throat, annoyed at the surge of relief she felt. “Do you know how fast you were going?”
“Too fast.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “You’re going to ticket me. I know and I deserve it. But so you don’t think I’m a total idiot, I cut loose for only a couple miles to see what the Porsche could do.” He reached into his back pocket. “I don’t usually speed, not in my truck.” His mouth curved in a boyish grin. “Not by much anyway.”
Grace watched him slide his license out of his wallet. She sighed. “I’ll give you a verbal warning,” she said, lowering the ticket book to her side.
Trace’s face lit up, and he was quick to make his license disappear. “Thanks. I mean it. You won’t catch me speeding again.”
“Good. Because next time, no mercy. Not even at five miles over.”
His expression fell. “Five,” he repeated. “Huh.”
Hiding her smile, she headed back to the truck, wondering if she dared analyze why she was so pleased the driver hadn’t been Ben.
THE TENT WAS GONE, along with the tables and chairs. Ben shouldn’t have been surprised. People in the country woke early and went right to work. He’d been one of them once.
He stood near the stable waiting for Trace to bring back the Porsche. In the bright sunlight, the Sundance looked even more run-down than it had last night. The place wasn’t an eyesore, nothing like that. In fact, their paying guests might consider the buildings quaint and rustic. And for all he knew, that was the point of not keeping things pristine. But he doubted it. The McAllisters had too much pride.
A dude ranch...
Ben still couldn’t believe it. Gavin McAllister must be turning over in his grave. He’d been a cattleman to the bone, and proud of it. But he’d been a husband and father first, and willing to do anything to take care of his own. And that had once included Ben.
Blocking the sun with his hand, he squinted down the gravel driveway. Trace had been gone awhile now. What the hell...was he halfway to Kalispell? Maybe Ben should’ve warned him about Grace. The other deputies wouldn’t ticket him. To some extent, Ben understood why she had to be a hard-ass. Still, she could’ve given him a warning.
He glanced at his watch and shook his head in amazement. Trace had been gone only seven minutes. Hardly long enough to get the Porsche revved.
No mystery what had Ben edgy. He turned to the house, wondering if Hilda was standing at a window, watching him. The chaos in the kitchen had kept him from seeing her last night. Okay, fine. Nothing would have stopped him if he’d truly wanted to see her. His sister had slung the accusation after waking him with an early call. Claudia hadn’t tried his cell phone. No, she’d rung the inn and asked someone to pound on his door at 8:00 a.m. when she knew he’d still be sleeping. Probably to punish him for not staying at the Sundance.
Claudia refused to understand he couldn’t just waltz in after a fifteen-year absence. Hilda would want to know everything that had happened to him. He’d never admit he’d had it rough in LA after leaving the Sundance. A big olive-skinned kid like him who fit a nice, neat stereotype of a freeloading illegal brought a lot of unwanted attention. For months, he’d been stopped, questioned and frisked almost daily. Sometimes the shakedowns had been warranted, most times not. So no, he wasn’t overly fond of law enforcement in any form.
It had shocked him to learn Noah Calder was sheriff of Blackfoot Falls. When they’d been kids, Noah had practically lived at the Sundance, getting into his share of trouble right alongside Ben.
Maybe he should stop by the office when he got back to town. And just maybe he’d see Grace.
Giving in to the inevitable, he started toward the house. Distracted by thoughts of Grace’s pale, creamy skin, he almost didn’t see Cole walking out of the stable.
“Hey, Ben.” He pulled off his work gloves. “I didn’t know you were here. Find me before you leave. I want to show you something.”
Ben veered his way. “What’s that?”
“It can wait,” Cole said, glancing at the house.
“We’re here now.”
Cole smiled. “Okay. Come on. It won’t take long.”
As they entered the stable Ben breathed in the familiar scents of saddle soap and leather. He was glad to see the tack wall was in primo condition.
They passed five stalls before Cole stopped and motioned with his chin. “Look familiar?”
Ben stared at the long-legged colt, noticed the identifying snip of white between the nostrils. “Is Zorro the sire?”
“Yep.” Standing with his arms folded, his feet planted wide, Cole looked on like a proud papa. “This is Milo.”
“How old?”
“Four and half months. Just been weaned.”
“You
