wouldn’t have one, would you? A name, that is?”
“Josie Wales,” she said, this time without hesitation.
No harm in giving him a name that wasn’t even hers. The initials were right. She’d grabbed at the first thing that came to her mind. Still, she looked away from him and busied herself shushing Miss Kitty back into her carrier.
“Josie Wales?” He seemed about ready to challenge her, then said, “I’m Bart Quarrels over from the Curly-Q.”
Figuring the Curly-Q must be a local ranch, she nodded, lifted the occupied carrier once more and said, “I’d better be on my way, then.”
“Guess you’d better. I could give you a ride.”
“Not necessary. I like walking.” But a niggling at her conscience kept her from starting right off. “Hey, uh, Bart…Miss Kitty and I thank you for the rescue even if we didn’t need one.”
“I live to serve,” Bart said dryly.
Grinning despite herself, Josie set off, wondering how she was going to explain the cat to Alcina—not to mention the lack of those groceries she’d set out for.
BART WATCHED JOSIE WALES rush down the street, cat carrier in hand. Something odd about the woman. He couldn’t quite pin it down, but something was definitely off.
Had she been afraid of him simply because he’d given her a scare? Instinct and more than a dozen years in law enforcement told him there was more.
Having filled his gas tank and bought half a dozen rolls of film for Lainey, he’d merely been taking a good look around before going back to the Curly-Q when he’d spotted Josie walking down the street.
She’d seemed…furtive. He couldn’t describe her demeanor any other way.
Cop instincts kicking in, he’d watched her. And when she’d disappeared into the abandoned building, he’d naturally followed to see exactly what she’d been up to. Not that it was any of his business in the first place, he reminded himself as he climbed into the four-by-four.
He had to shake away her vulnerable yet spunky image. He had no business prying into her life any more than she had business in his. He’d turned in his deputy’s badge—at least figuratively—to work the Curly-Q. And he’d better get back to the ranch and his kids—as far as Bart was concerned, his only responsibilities in the foreseeable future.
EMMETT QUARRELS grinned to himself as he listened to the house come alive around him. Thunking footsteps…raised voices…blasting music, if a body could call it that. Sweet, sweet sounds.
For too many years, it had been just him rattling around these rooms until he was nigh sick unto death of his own miserable company. If not for Felice,he would long ago have gone stark, raving mad. But Felice, as fond as he was of her, wasn’t family.
And if he hadn’t done something drastic, he might never have seen his grandkids again, now that their mother was gone. Sara, Bart’s late wife, had always done right by him—he’d say that for her.
His three boys had all abandoned him and the Curly-Q years ago like each of their mothers had before them, but he’d finally fixed that.
Not that he’d had a choice in the matter.
Now they would all come home like their mothers never had.
A soft knock at the door startled him out of his reclining chair, where he’d been reading his latest Modern Rancher Magazine.
“That you, Felice?”
“No, Pa, it’s me, Bart.”
Heart lurching, Emmett quickly dropped the magazine and slid onto the made four-poster bed, pulling the afghan Felice had crocheted for him last Christmas up to his waist.
“C’mon in, son.”
The door swung open and in stepped his oldest. With his thick dark hair, deep blue eyes, and a six-foot-plus, muscular physique that only hinted at his real strength, Barton was the spitting image of Emmett himself when he’d been young. And, though his oldest would never admit it, they were a lot more alike than mere looks conveyed.
“Pa.”
Those blue eyes were searching him far more closely than made Emmett comfortable. He pulled the afghan a little higher and mumbled, “You’re looking fit, son.”
“And you’re looking better’n I expected.”
“I have my good days as well as bad.” Emmett coughed, the sound more of a wheeze than anything of substance. “Doc says I’m almost ready to get back to work…uh, nothing strenuous, of course.”
As Barton stepped closer to the bed, his foot connected with the dropped magazine. It went scooting across the floor with a noisy flutter of pages. He bent over to retrieve it, and when he straightened, gaze connecting with the cover, his expression changed slightly.
He rolled the magazine and tapped it against his free hand as he moved even closer so he could stare directly down at his father. “I thought you were dying.”
“Thought…or wished?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Sounds like,” Emmett grumbled. He couldn’t remember the last time soft words had passed between them.
“Your legal eagle Howard Stiles said your health was preventing you from running the ranch,” his son persisted. “And that you had a limited time left.”
Maybe Barton did want him dead, Emmett thought with growing sadness. Then he and his brothers could have the ranch like he had promised…without the old man who’d made it what it once was…and who had obviously made them so miserable they refused to be around him unless there was something financial in it for them.
Had he been such a terrible parent?
Not wanting to think too hard on it, he muttered, “Seventy is a step closer to God than you are.”
“You can’t ever know about that for certain.”
From the quick flash of pain crossing Barton’s features, Emmett figured his son was thinking about the way his wife had been taken…and her barely half his own advanced age. Sometimes, life just wasn’t fair.
“I’m sorry about Sara, son,” Emmett said with a stiff sincerity he didn’t often share. “I would’ve been at the funeral if I could’ve.”
“You were sick that far back?” His son’s gaze narrowed on him. “And you didn’t say anything?”
Big troubles on the Curly-Q had kept Emmett from the funeral in Albuquerque, but again he hedged. “What? You think a heart gives out…” He snapped his fingers. “…just like that?” He’d kept the problems from his boys—figured they wouldn’t willingly walk into a viper’s pit—but they’d get the picture soon enough.
“No, of course not.” But Barton’s expression didn’t grow any less suspicious.
“A
