Riley's Retribution

“And I assume the salary we discussed is satisfactory.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He turned his attention to the supplies. “Does it look like everything’s there?”

She carefully inspected her purchases. “Yes.”

“Good.” He opened the back of the SUV and began loading sacks of feed.

By the time they had finished, the back of his SUV was crammed to the roof, and the temperature had dropped sharply.

“Tell me about the Golden Saddle,” he said as he turned on the headlights and started down the highway again.

“Well, you already know we have twenty mares and five stallions. Most are quarter horses. But we have some Thoroughbred bloodlines, too. That might be our problem. Our prices are high, and the demand for horses like ours is falling.” She cleared her throat. “We could sell more to working cattle ranches. But that would mean we’d have to train them with cattle. And I don’t have the staff to raise both horses and cattle at the moment.”

“You didn’t mention any ‘problem’ when you advertised for a manager,” he said carefully, although he already knew that she was barely turning a profit.

“Well, that’s not the kind of thing I’d advertise, would I?” she snapped.

“Do you have any other source of income—besides the sale of horses?” he asked.

“I rent some unused buildings,” she answered.

“To whom?”

She hesitated a moment before answering, “A, um, group of…survivalists.”

“Oh, yeah?” She must be referring to Boone Fowler’s militia. So were they styling themselves as survivalists? Or was that her term for them—because she thought it was more politically correct?

She was staring hard at him. “You object to my renting to them?” she asked sharply.

He knew he’d better be careful about stepping over the line with his answer. She owned the ranch. He was her hired help.

Even so, he had to fight the impulse to tell her about his experiences in Boone Fowler’s prison camp. Instead he kept his voice even as he said, “It’s not my place to object. Not if they mind their own business.”

He wanted to ask how they happened to pick the Golden Saddle Ranch. And where—exactly—they were located on her property. But he didn’t want to seem too interested, so he held back the questions.

“The entrance to the ranch is right up ahead,” she said.

He slowed down, then turned in at a horseshoe-shaped archway.

They bumped up a gravel road that was pocked with potholes.

Floodlights illuminated the ranch yard, and he saw a low stone-and-timber house with a wide front porch, which he knew had been built early in the previous century. The structure looked solid, but in the floodlights he could see that the trim around the window frames needed painting. Probably she’d do that when she got some spare cash.

The bunkhouse and barn were nearby. And another building that he assumed was used for storage.

He pulled up in front of the house. “We should unload what you need to take inside.”

“And you can put the SUV in the storage building for the night—then unload the rest in the morning.”

“Fine.”

Apparently, some of Ms. Rogers’s hands had been listening for her to arrive, because two of them came striding toward the SUV.

One was a short, grizzled guy with the bowlegged gait of a man who has spent much of his life in the saddle. He appeared to be in his fifties. The other was taller than his companion and younger than Riley. Both men wore jeans, heavy winter coats and Western hats.

Riley and Ms. Rogers climbed out of the vehicle. The two men eyed him with undisguised interest. But it was different from the appraisal of the people in town. These guys seemed to be protective of Ms. Rogers—although that could be an act, of course.

“Jake Bradley, Kelly Manning, this is Riley Watson,” she said. “I told you I was considering him for ranch manager, and he’s going to take the job.”

“Good to meet you.” He shook hands with both of them. They helped Courtney unload her groceries. Then he drove to the storage shed and left his vehicle inside. Finally he strode to the bunkhouse.

Up close, he could see it was a little newer than the main house, but also rustic. And it was set up like a private residence, with a living room, dining room, kitchen and several bedrooms in the back. All the furniture looked comfortable but well-worn.

The man named Kelly showed him to a bedroom. “There are three bathrooms,” he said, opening several doors along the hall.

“How many hands do you have?”

“Just three at the moment. Me and Jake and Billy. They’ll be along later.”

So the ranch was understaffed. He’d have to inspect the property in the morning. There was no point in stumbling around in the dark.

Setting down his duffel bag, he longed to close the bedroom door and lie down.

Instead he squared his shoulders and followed Kelly back to the kitchen.

Jake had just taken the lid off a big pot of chili…and Riley’s stomach growled.

“That smells good.”

Jake made a grunting sound.

“So you like working for Ms. Rogers?” he asked.

“Yup,” Jake answered. Apparently he was a man of few words.

Riley scuffed his foot against a worn floorboard. “She seemed kind of hyper.”

Jake’s head snapped toward him. “She’s got a shrinking income. She’s got herself a kid to raise on her own—with the whole town acting like she did something wrong. And—”

He stopped short.

Riley wanted to ask, “And what?” But he kept his mouth shut. He should have gotten the lay of the land before coming out with any kind of strong observation. Holding up his hands, he said, “Whoa. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“You blame her for being hyper?” Jake pressed.

“I admire her—for truckin’ on. But it was a shock to find out she was pregnant.”

“Her husband was in the Special Forces. And he bought the farm on assignment in Lukinburg.”