get any more paying customers tonight in this downpour. Everybody’s home propping their feet under their own table.”
“Yeah. Too bad we didn’t get this rain about August when my grass was dying from the drought.”
“Well, then we wouldn’t be living in south Texas, would we?”
Gus grabbed a couple of beef patties from the cooler and plopped them onto the hot grill. They spit and sputtered, and Langley’s stomach reacted appropriately. He’d have preferred to be one of the folks with their feet stretched under their own table tonight, but if he had to be out, Gus was as good company as any. Actually, better than most he’d talked to today. At least Gus didn’t have any complaints he wanted to report to the acting sheriff.
Three days into his new role and Langley was eager to hand the lawman’s duties back to Branson. He’d never wanted to be deputized again, but he was the only available man with any kind of experience. He’d worked as deputy for almost a year right after he’d graduated from college and filled in from time to time since then.
But he had lost his taste for the work. Now he liked running the ranch, tending his cattle, researching the latest methods for producing the best beef in the most economical fashion.
But the Randolphs always stuck together, so he couldn’t very well turn down his brother’s request to fill in for him for two weeks while he honeymooned. Branson had his young deputy, Gordon, on the payroll, but Gordon claimed he wasn’t ready to take charge just yet. That left the job of acting sheriff to Langley.
The bell over the door tinkled, and Langley stretched his neck and looked around. Gus had been wrong when he’d said no one would be out in the storm. One more person had ventured out. A stranger. Drenched, but still attractive enough to make any red-blooded male take notice. He was no exception.
She raked a handful of wet hair from her face, tucking it behind her right ear before crossing her arms over her chest. The pose successfully hid the soft mounds of her breasts that the wet T-shirt had revealed. What she couldn’t hide were the tinges of purple and dark blue, remnants of bruises that covered her face and arms. Instinctively, Langley’s guard went up.
The woman stepped toward the counter. “Can I help you?” Gus asked. “You surely didn’t come out in this thunderstorm for a burger and fries.”
“No, I’m looking for the sheriff. I was told he might be able to help me. Do you know where I could find him?”
Trouble. Langley knew it the way a man knows his horse is about to buck or that the branding iron is not quite hot enough to do the job. He didn’t know how he knew it. He just did.
He slid from his stool. “I’m Langley Randolph,” he said, “the county sheriff—at least I am this week. What can I do for you?”
“I hate to ask on a night like this, but I’d appreciate a lift to the Running Deer Ranch.”
He studied the woman. Even soaked through to the skin, she had a sophistication about her. And an accent he didn’t recognize. “Do you have business at the Running Deer?”
She nodded. “I’m Danielle, Milton Maccabbe’s niece. I’m here to see him.”
Langley ran his hands deep into his front pockets, debating with himself on how he should tell the dripping stranger with a strange accent that the man she was planning to visit had died two weeks ago. “I’d be happy to give you a ride, but—”
“Good,” she broke in. “I’m anxious to get out there and I’m without transportation.”
“Then how did you get to Kelman? We’re a long walk from nowhere.”
“I came by bus.”
So that explained why she was soaking wet. Kelman didn’t have a regular bus station, but if there was someone to pick up or let off, the bus stopped at Phil Klinger’s feed store. But it was half past seven. The place would be locked up tight this time of night.
“The driver suggested I call the sheriff from the pay phone where he dropped me off, but it wasn’t working. I guess the storm knocked it out. I saw the sign for the café and took a chance it would be open.” She hugged her arms more tightly around her. “I didn’t expect to be lucky enough to walk right into the sheriff.”
“If Langley hadn’t been here, I’d have given you a ride,” Gus hastened to assure her. “We Texans don’t leave a woman on her own if we can help it.”
“I’ll drive you wherever you’d like to go,” Langley said. “But I’d like to eat that burger Gus is cooking before I take off in the storm again. You might like to do the same. Gus makes the best burger in south Texas.”
“The best burger in all of Texas,” Gus corrected.
The woman turned toward the sound of the sputtering meat, her eyes wide. But she shook her head and directed her gaze back at him. “I’m not hungry, but you go ahead. I’ll wait and eat something at the ranch.”
Of course, she expected to have dinner with her uncle. Which meant he couldn’t put off the inevitable. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Langley said, deciding the straight approach was the best.
“What kind of bad news?”
Langley swallowed hard and wished there was a way around what he had to say. But there wasn’t. “Milton Maccabbe died a couple of weeks ago.”
She lowered her head and directed her gaze to the toes of her muddy tennis shoes. “I knew he was sick,” she said. “I just hadn’t heard that he’d died.”
“In his sleep. The doctor said it was a peaceful way to go.”
“I’m glad. I just wish I’d been here.”
Her voice cracked on the words, but she didn’t cry. For the first time in a long time, Langley wished he was more like his brothers, wished that talking to strange women came easier to him. Instead, he was standing around like an awkward schoolboy, wondering if he should say something more or offer a shoulder to cry on.
Finally, she broke the silence. “Who’s staying at the ranch now to look after the cattle?”
“Joshua Kincaid’s hands are taking care of the place. Milton was foreman at Kincaid’s ranch before he retired and bought the Running Deer. But no one lives there. The place is deserted once the sun goes down.”
“Then I’d still appreciate a ride to the ranch, if you don’t mind.”
“It’s not the sort of place to visit at night,” Langley advised.
“I won’t be visiting. I’ll be moving in.”
Langley rocked back on his heels. His gaze lowered from her dripping hair to the wet clothes that clung to her body like a second skin and then back to her bruised face. “I’m not sure I heard you right,” he said, knowing that he had but hoping he was wrong.
“If Uncle Milton is dead, then the ranch is mine. He left it to me. I have it in writing.”
“Are you a rancher?”
“No, but I
