Heart Of A Lawman

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 man starts realizing he can’t do what he used to, that he doesn’t have the physical stamina he once had, and he figures the years are catching up to him, is all. But one day, he realizes that’s just the tip of the iceberg,” Emmett said ruefully. “That he’s in serious trouble…trouble that he can’t fix by himself…”

“Pa, exactly how long have you been failing?”

“Long enough I don’t want to talk about it…if you don’t mind.”

Though Emmett could tell the boy did mind, he had the grace to back off. At least for now. Emmett figured it was a temporary reprieve, that Barton was merely holding his questions for later.

BART UNROLLED Pa’s Modern Rancher Magazine and stared at the cover. Sick the old man might be, but he hadn’t lost his interest in the thing he loved best—his spread. Not wanting that to be an insurmountable problem between them, he figured he’d better nip any problems in the bud right away.

“Listen, Pa, before I get the kids all settled in here for good, we gotta get something straight between us.”

“What would that be?”

Locking his gaze with his father’s in a no-nonsense way, he said, “That, from now on, I’m in charge.”

In a too-obvious attempt to sidestep the issue, Emmett said, “Reed and Chance always looked up to you. They won’t give you any trouble.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about.”

Shifting under his son’s stare, Emmett coughed again, this time with more intensity. Bart tried not to let his father’s illness get to him. He had to be tough as nails or this wasn’t going to work. He couldn’t let Pa call the shots here. And it was in his nature to be suspicious of anything that seemed too good to be true.

Emmett said, “The fate of both the Curly-Q and Silver Springs rests on your shoulders, son.”

“Silver Springs? Whoa! Stiles didn’t say anything about that, Pa.” Barton threw the magazine onto the nightstand that his father had built with his own two hands. “It’s not part of the deal.”

“The deal is to get the Curly-Q back on its feet and keep it that way. A healthy Silver Springs will be good for the ranch and vice-versa, especially since half of the property there is tied up in the family corporation papers. A town needs law and order, and you’re the only one with any experience in that area.”

“We’re talking about a ghost town, Pa!”

“One that never should’ve gone the way it did,” Emmett muttered. “It was a stagecoach stop on the Santa Fe Trail, for pity’s sake! We can’t abandon a piece of living history! If not for poor planning—”

“Try a changed economy!” Bart cut in. “A mine that closed down when it played out! A railroad that stopped running through the damn place!”