Operation: Midnight Cowboy

“It is while you’re here.”

A sharp retort hovered on her tongue, but Rachael didn’t voice it. Her beef was with Cutter, not Bo Ruskin. Still, the idea of spending the next week stuck in this room disheartened her. “So how do you spend your days here?”

“Work mostly.”

She tried again. “What kind of work?”

“I train horses. For area ranchers. Breeders. People who show them.”

She remembered seeing the horses grazing in the pasture when they’d driven up the lane to the house. “Spotted horses?”

“Appaloosas.” Looking anxious to leave, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his snug, faded jeans. “Do you know how to ride? There are some pretty trails on the ranch.”

She laughed, but it was a nervous sound. She didn’t like the fish-out-of-water sensation creeping over her. “I rode a couple of times when I was a teenager. I’m not very good at it.”

“I have a gentle mount if you want to do some exploring.”

She hadn’t ridden since she was thirteen, to be exact, and spent most of that day on her rump. “Do you have a mode of transportation that doesn’t entail hooves?”

One side of his mouth curved into a half smile. “A four-wheeler.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“If you want to take a spin, just let me or Pauline know. I’ll leave a map of the ranch on the counter for you.”

“Thank you.”

“I also have a ranch foreman. Jimmy Hargrove. He’s a little crusty, but if you need anything he’ll be happy to help you.”

Rachael studied him for a moment, her mind taking her back to the one and only time she’d met him. Michael’s funeral. She’d been so grief-stricken that day, she barely remembered. But she did remember Bo Ruskin’s eyes. When he’d approached her and offered his hand in sympathy for her loss, his gaze had reflected the same devastation she’d felt in her own heart. And at that moment, she’d known he was grieving, too.

“We’ve met once before,” she said.

“I remember.” His jaw flexed. “Mike’s funeral.”

She didn’t let herself think of those dark days often. But she found herself curious about this man’s relationship with her late husband. “He always spoke fondly of you,” she said.

His expression darkened. As if someone had flipped a switch inside him, she felt him closing himself off from her. Erecting a wall. “I’ve got to get to work.” Turning, he started toward the door. “If you need anything let me know.”

“How about a flight back to civilization?” she called out.

BY 4:00 P.M. Rachael was bouncing off the walls. She was accustomed to long work days filled with adrenaline. She was used to getting by on four or five hours of sleep for nights on end. She routinely participated in undercover operations where the heady rush of danger was the rule, not the exception.

The Dripping Springs Ranch offered none of that.

After an hour of quiet and birdsong, Rachael had had enough.

Deciding it wasn’t too late to make the best of a day that had already been mostly wasted, she slipped into a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers. Throwing a jacket and her Beretta .380 into her backpack, she headed downstairs.

She found Pauline in the kitchen, stirring a steaming pot of something spicy and savory. “It smells wonderful,” she said.

The dark-haired woman turned and gave her an assessing look. “Tamales,” she said in a perfect Spanish pronunciation.

Rachael slid onto a stool at the bar. “So how long have you worked for Bo?”

“Two years now. Since he buy the ranch.”

So he’d bought the ranch at about the same time Michael had died. She wondered if his former partner’s death had anything to do with it.

Pauline arched an eyebrow. “Are you going somewhere?”

“I thought I’d do some exploring. Bo said he would leave a map of the ranch for me.”

“I have it right here.” Wiping her hands on her apron, Pauline went to a small built-in desk and pulled a single sheet of paper from its surface. “Are you going to ride Lily?”

Rachael assumed she was referring to the gentle horse Bo had told her about. “I thought I might take the four-wheeler out for a while.”

“Ah.” Pauline crossed to the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of water. “Take these.”

“Thank you.” Rachael dropped the bottles into her backpack.

Pauline went back to the stove. “Supper is served at six o’clock sharp.”

Her stomach rumbling, Rachael took another long whiff of the air. “Believe me, I won’t be late.”

She let herself out the back door. The air was crisp, but the sun warmed her back as she took the cobblestone walk to the barn. The earthy smells of horses and hay met her when she entered. She was midway down the aisle when a commotion just outside the rear door caught her attention.

Several yards from the barn, Bo Ruskin stood in a steel, round pen with a beautiful young horse. On the end of a long rope, the horse was obviously frightened, snorting and throwing its pretty head high into the air. Dust billowed as horse and man danced on the sandy ground.

Rachael approached the round pen slowly so she wouldn’t scare the animal. She watched, mesmerized, as the horse reared, flailing its front hooves at Bo. But the cowboy stayed a safe distance away and held the rope secure. All the while, he talked to the frightened animal in a calm, lulling tone.

“Easy, boy,” he cooed. “Come on now. You can do it.”

Sweat stained the back of his shirt between his shoulder blades. Dust coated his jeans from the knees down. The horse galloped in a circle around him on the end of the rope, tugging violently. But Bo remained calm, never losing patience with the animal, his tone never altering.

“Settle down,” he whispered. “You know I’m not going to hurt you.”

Rachael had never been unduly interested in horses—just a short phase in her preteen years—but watching the lanky cowboy work the animal, she felt something unfamiliar and vaguely uncomfortable stir inside her. A feeling she didn’t want to acknowledge. A yearning she thought she’d never feel again in her lifetime.

Appalled by the realization that she was more mesmerized by the man than the horse, she stepped back into the barn and pressed her back against the stall door. What the hell was she thinking? Bo Ruskin had been her husband’s friend. He’d been there the night Michael had died. How could she feel anything for any male when only two short years had passed since her husband’s death?

A hard and ugly guilt churned in her stomach. The logical side of her brain told her the return of her hormones was a normal thing. After all, Rachael hadn’t yet seen her thirtieth birthday; her life was far from over.

But the emotional part of her psyche—the part of her that was still a mourning widow—berated that part of her for betraying the husband she’d loved and lost.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

Rachael jolted at the sound of Bo’s voice and spun to see him standing just inside the barn door. Silhouetted by the sun, his image bestowed the impression with a tough, athletic build born of hard and physical labor. He wore a large silver-and-gold buckle and a leather belt adorned with an intricate design. Lower, she caught a glimpse of a part of his anatomy she did not want to think about.