Cowgirl in High Heels

Charles Montoya stopped walking and glanced over his shoulder, a stunned expression forming on his face when he recognized just who had hailed him.

Yeah. It’s me. Surprised?

Ryan’s mouth clamped into a hard straight line as he slowed to a walk, and damned if Charles didn’t take on a polite, distant expression.

“Can I help you?” he said.

“Yes, you can. Stay away from my mother,” Ryan said as he came to a stop.

“Excuse me?”

And this was when the bluff came in, because although he knew from Cindy, his mother’s best friend, that Charles had been in contact with his mom—and that she’d been in a deep funk for days afterward—he didn’t know the nuts and bolts of the situation. As always, Lydia Madison was protecting people. Ryan. Charles. Everyone but herself.

Ryan took a step forward, putting himself close enough to his father that the guy knew he meant business. “Leave my mother alone. No contact. Understand?”

A fierce frown formed between Charles’s heavy white eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t bullshit me. You called her, you threatened her, and if you do it again, the era of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ is over. Forever.”

Charles drew himself up in a way that told Ryan he wasn’t used to being challenged. Tough shit.

“Don’t threaten me,” he rumbled.

“Or?” Ryan asked calmly. “You’ll tell the world the truth?”

The older man’s face went brilliantly red and then, apparently unable to find a reply, he turned on his heel and stalked toward the stands. He’d made it only a few steps before he stopped dead in his tracks.

Ryan’s first thought was, What the hell? But he quickly saw exactly what had brought his father to a screeching halt. The golden son, Matt, stood about fifteen yards away, blocking Charles’s escape between two trailers.

Cool. A twisted family reunion.

Ryan started walking before he had a chance to think things through. He had a few words for his brother, too. Matt also moved forward, while Charles stayed planted, one son approaching from the front, one from the rear. Trapped.

Matt’s face was a blank mask when he stopped in front of his father, his gaze raking quickly over the old man’s face before moving on to Ryan.

“I was just explaining to your father how much his recent phone call to my mom had upset her,” Ryan said.

If he’d had any question as to whether or not Matt would automatically back his father, it was answered when his brother shot Charles a fiercely angry look.

“If it happens again,” Ryan continued, “I’ll make a call of my own.” If his mother was being harassed, then Montoya’s mother could join the fray.

“Do that,” Matt growled, “and I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

“Or try?” Ryan asked flatly before he turned his attention back to Charles, who appeared to be on the verge of a stroke, he was so red. “No more calls, you son of a bitch. Leave her alone.”

Then, having had all the family reunion he could handle for one day, he turned and stalked back toward his trailer. Neither Montoya followed him. Good thing.

He loaded PJ, locked the tack compartment, pocketed his keys. Now that his mission was accomplished, he had to stop by the rodeo office and then grab a hamburger for the road before he put a couple hundred miles between himself and his old man. If he could choke a burger down. Talk about a bad taste.

“Great run, Ryan!” a young voice called as he approached the rodeo office.

Ryan smiled and nodded at the boy dressed in chaps and carrying a red, white and blue rope. “Thanks, bud.”

He conducted his business in the rodeo office, which took about fifteen minutes longer than it should have, and got into the concession line.

People stopped and said hello as he waited, congratulating him on his run—still the winning time—and Ryan chatted with a few of them even though he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there. He’d just made it to the counter and was about to give his order when a collective gasp went up from the crowd, followed by silence. The nasty kind of silence that indicated something bad had just happened. Ryan’s gut tightened as he waited for the hubbub that would erupt when the injured cowboy got back to his feet. The crowd remained stubbornly silent.

“Oh, no,” the elderly lady in the booth gasped, craning her neck to see, but the solid gate panels blocked the view.

“Our medical team is on the scene, taking a look at this cowboy,” the announcer finally said in a reassuring voice. “As you know, these guys are the best in the business.” The ambulance rolled past the concession stand then, and the wide arena gate swung open to give access. The lady gasped again and Ryan instantly understood why.

The sorrel horse with the distinctive white spot on his side standing near the crouched group surrounding the downed cowboy belonged to the crowd favorite.

His brother. Matt Montoya.

* * *

JUST WHEN ELLIE was beginning to think the dusty single-track road was never going to end, she rounded a corner and a rustic ranch spread out in front of her in postcardlike perfection. She pulled her leased Land Rover to a halt, taking in the large red barn and several smaller outbuildings on the edge of green fields. The single-story, shake-roofed house with a porch surrounding it on three sides nestled close to a stand of evergreen trees. Cows and horses grazed in the pastures and a pair of large birds flew in lazy circles over the pond at the edge of one of the fields.

Milo had bought the place eight months ago and since then had spent a grand total of one week there, shortly after the purchase, but didn’t seem to be able to stop talking about “his ranch” to anyone who would listen. Now Ellie understood why. It was gorgeous.

Gorgeous and really, really close.

After fifteen hours of travel Ellie was more than ready for a hot bath and a bed. Ten minutes later she parked at the end of the flagstone walk, not liking the fact that the place felt as deserted up close as it had appeared from a distance. Had Angela or Milo told the staff she’d be arriving? A question Ellie hadn’t thought to ask. Ellie, who always thought of everything.

She’d been rattled lately. Disorganized. Not herself.

Ellie rang the bell. After the second ring she knocked, then, after a suitable amount of time, tried the handle. Locked. Okay. She set down her handbag and stood for a moment, hands on hips, surveying the ranch, watching for some sign of movement around the barn and outbuildings. Nothing.

Great. Her feet hurt and the small of her back ached from sitting for too long and she wanted to get inside. Now.

She started walking around the house, her heels clunking hollowly on the wooden porch, looking for another way in and wondering if she was going to have to call Angela to get the number of the caretaker. She tried the side entrance, the back entrance, the sliding door. No luck. She’d just pulled her phone from her jacket pocket when she heard the sound of an engine.

Salvation.

Ellie rounded the corner of the house in time to see a woman with long dark hair scramble out of the open Jeep.

“Miss Bradworth?” she called as she strode up the walk, her long flannel shirt flapping loosely over very worn jeans.

“Hunter,” Ellie called back. “Mrs. Bradworth is my aunt.”

“Oh.” The woman quickly crossed the distance between them, taking the porch steps two at a time. “Sorry about the wait. I didn’t know you were coming until half an hour ago.”

“Really?” How was that possible?

The woman held out a wad of keys and then, after Ellie automatically took them, shoved her hands into her back pockets. “I was in town when Walt called and got here as quickly as I could. I hope you haven’t waited for too long.”

There was nothing about the woman’s tone that was impolite, but there was nothing that was particularly friendly, either. Ellie felt rather like an interloper. Well, she was an interloper related to the owner of this place.