How to Handle a Cowboy (29 page)

Sierra had been looking forward to the rodeo with Ridge. He would have taken the boys behind the chutes and introduced them to some of the cowboys, and he would have explained how the different events worked. Maybe he even would have been able to keep them interested through the roping events, which made them restless and whiny.

The bucking events were better. Once each cowboy had managed to jam his heels into position, loud rock music would blare over the loudspeakers for however long he managed to stay on board. Watching cowboys twirl and spin—and sometimes fly—to the strains of Bon Jovi and Metallica was pretty entertaining.

But watching the kids was even better. They whooped, hollered, stamped their feet, and generally made themselves obnoxious, but the crowd couldn't have cared less. All the grown-ups around them were acting like kids anyway.

Once the rodeo was over, she divided the kids into two groups. One group would go ride the Cyclone and check out the midway with Gil; the other half would stay with her and stuff themselves with fair food. Then they'd switch.

By this point, she was exhausted. She hadn't slept well the night before, and keeping the kids in line with only Gil to help was tough. That had been one of Ridge's greatest charms: his effortless ability to keep the kids happy while keeping them in line. It was a balancing act, and he did it very, very well.

But she wasn't changing her mind. When she married, it would be for love and love alone.

But
you
do
love
Ridge,
a little voice inside her said.

I
only
think
I
do,
she answered.
Because
it's convenient. And what about him, with his list and his parentheses?

You
know
he
loves
you
too,
the little voice said.

She slapped that sucker down and got back to business, which at the moment consisted of a turkey-leg eating contest between Isaiah and Carter. She wasn't sure how the food races would work out later on, but for now, they kept the kids laughing and happy, and gave her a little time to think.

You're making a mistake,
the voice said.

“Hey, hold on, guys.” There was no line at the turkey leg stand, so she was able to watch the kids while she got her own.

“Okay,” she said. “Start again. This time, I'm racing too.”

There. Now she'd gotten Ridge out of her head as well as out of her hair. Because when you really went to town on a turkey leg, there was no room for anything else.

Sheriff Swaggard passed by, resplendent in his khaki uniform and matching Stetson. She shot him a cheerful wave with one greasy hand. They were at the fair, after all. It wasn't the place or the time for old grievances.

Apparently, Sheriff Swaggard felt the same way, because he sat down across the table and laughed along with them as they ate, declaring Carter the winner.

“You can tell he's a fast eater,” Isaiah said, poking his friend in the stomach. “It's all right there, just lookin' at you.”

Sierra started to admonish Isaiah for his rudeness—miraculously, it would be the first time that day—but the sheriff laughed, slapping his knee. “You got that right. Going to be a linebacker someday, aren't you? And you, you're going to play basketball.”

Both boys nodded enthusiastically and joined the sheriff in a lively conversation about sports. Sierra didn't know a thing about football or basketball, but apparently Carter knew an impressive number of statistics. Better yet, Isaiah passed judgment on every basketball player in the NBA, decrying their moral failings in such colorful terms he had the sheriff red-faced with laughter.

Why had she been so worried about him meeting the boys?

She was glad to see him take an interest in the kids as people, not potential perps. The kids seemed quite impressed by Jim's uniform and asked lots of questions about catching bad guys. But Jim suddenly seemed to be in a hurry.

“What about the other kids?” he asked. “They misbehave or something? Get stuck at home?”

“Oh, no. They're with Gil, doing the rides and the midway.”

“Yeah, lucky ducks.” Isaiah pouted.

“You'll get your chance,” she said. “We're switching off halfway through,” she explained to the sheriff.

“So the other three kids are…”

“Frankie, Josh, and Jeffrey.”

“Jeffrey,” the sheriff muttered. “Okay, then.” He rose, tugging his belt up and tucking in his shirt, all the while staring at Sierra. It would have made her uncomfortable, but Jim seemed oblivious to the rather personal nature of his adjustments.

“Let me ask you a question,” he blurted.

“Sure,” Sierra said.

“You're pretty crazy about these kids.”

She grinned. “That's not a question.”

“No.” He edged to the end of the table, signaling toward the boys. Sierra followed. “If one of their daddies showed up, you wouldn't keep them apart, would you? If you thought they loved each other, and they'd be happy together?”

Sierra chewed her lower lip a moment. “What makes you ask?”

“Just wondered. I have a friend who's got a boy this age, and they just adore each other. It got me to thinking.”

“The short answer is no, of course, I'd never keep a good parent from his child. But all my kids have families with serious problems. Most of their fathers are incarcerated, and the ones that aren't, should be.”

“You don't say.”

“That's why they're here, Jim. If one of their dads showed up, I'd have to call you for help.” She figured this wasn't the time to tell him about Mitch and how she'd called Ridge.

“Well, thanks for clearing that up.” Jim tipped his hat. “I'd better be going. It's a big crowd here, and there's almost always some kind of trouble.”

“Really?” Sierra looked around at the revelers. “It seems pretty orderly.”

“Oh, there's always something,” the sheriff said.

After racing through a dessert of funnel cakes and lemonade, Sierra wondered how the kids were going to manage any of the rides in the midway. There was no roller coaster, but there were plenty of spinning, twirling, vomit-inducing rides to shake them up and, unfortunately, empty them out.

And here was Gil, half an hour early. She'd been counting on that half hour for digestive purposes. But he looked worn to a frazzle by Frankie and Josh and…

“Where's Jeffrey?”

The look on his face was answer enough.

“You lost him.”

“Hey,” Isaiah said. “Don't be too hard on the guy. Kid's so quiet, you never know where he is.”

“Sierra, I'm sorry.” Gil looked like he was ready to cry. “He just disappeared. One minute he was there, and the next—just gone. I'd just introduced him to the sheriff, along with these other guys. And now I can't even find the sheriff to get help.”

“It's okay, Gil. I'll find him. Can you watch the kids? Maybe you could take them to the arcade?”

“Sure. They've got a real race car you can drive on a virtual track.”

The kids cheered, and Sierra handed Gil the cash she had left.

“I hope you find that kid,” Isaiah said as they left.

“Thought you didn't like him,” Carter said.

Isaiah shrugged. “He might be kinda quiet, but at least he never says anything stupid.”

Sierra waded through the crowd, looking left and right, scanning the distance even as she watched the crowds flowing past her. She searched for Jeffrey, and also for the sheriff. Gil had said he was right there. And there was something about that question he'd asked…

As she headed past the sideshow tent, a big, beefy guy in a huge cowboy hat stepped in front of her and blocked her view. Frustrated, she stepped up her pace and passed him, shooting him a dirty look as she nearly toppled a lady pushing a stroller.

He shot the look right back, and she felt her stomach flip over.

“Mitch,” she said.

“The one and only.” He leered at her and a shiver of revulsion shimmied up her spine. “Where's your little band of Indians?”

She kept on walking. She didn't need to have a conversation with Mitch. Unless…

“You missing somebody?” he asked in a mocking tone.

She turned slowly, her mind skittering through various scenarios, hoping to find one that might lead to a good resolution.

She widened her eyes and put a hand to her chest. “Yes, and I have to find him. He doesn't have his inhaler!”

“What?”

“He needs his inhaler. If he has an asthma attack, he could die!” She didn't know why Mitch wanted Jeffrey—she didn't even want to think about the possibilities—but she hoped like hell he wanted him alive.

“You got it?”

She nodded, clutching the oversized purse where she'd stuffed all the essentials for their trip—sunscreen, wipes, a small first aid kit, and an inhaler. The inhaler was Josh's, but Mitch didn't need to know that.

“Give it to me, then,” Mitch said.

“You have him?”

Mitch made a grab for the purse and she whirled away. A couple of cowboys paused.

“You all right, ma'am?”

She nodded without looking at her would-be rescuer. “Okay so far,” she said.

Looking doubtful, the cowboys blended back into the crowd, leaving her with Mitch again.

“You touch me or try to take this bag, I'll holler so loud, they'll hear me in the next county,” she said.

He shrugged. “What do I care?”

“Take me to him,” she said. “Let me give it to him and make sure he's okay. Or I'll scream, I really will, and the sheriff will come.”

“The sheriff won't help you,” Mitch said, his voice clear and cold as ice water. “The sheriff's a friend of mine.”

Sierra didn't like Sheriff Swaggard much, but she definitely couldn't see him palling around with a drug dealer from Denver. She thought of the question he'd asked, about dads and sons. There was something going on here. She wasn't sure what it was, but she'd flounder around until she figured it out.

“Oh,” she said. “I know. You're Jeffrey's dad, right? I understand how you feel. You want him to be with you.”

She knew darn well this wasn't true. Jeffrey's dad was in jail, and she had no idea how Mitch fit into the picture.

He stared at her, his little piggy eyes judging her in every way—including ways that made her very uncomfortable.

“You
are
his dad, right?” She squinted at him. “Because if you're not, I can start yelling right now. But if you're his dad, it's okay.”

Good God, she sounded simpleminded. She was pretty sure she was on the right track, though.

“It must be hard, being separated from your son,” she said, pushing a little further and hoping, praying, that he wouldn't push back.

“Yeah. Right.” He started off across the parking lot and Sierra followed, his broad back a hulking beacon as they made their way through the crowd. With the rodeo over, young families were heading home. The next rodeo started at eight, and it would draw a whole new crowd.

They finally reached the old delivery truck, parked on the far side of the parking lot. The sun glinted off the side as if it was a mirror. If Jeffrey was in there, he was one step from heat stroke. Somehow, Sierra had to get him out.

Mitch shoved a key into the padlock on the back door of the truck and raised it an inch or two.

“Hold on,” he said. “You really got an inhaler?”

Sierra rummaged in her bag and finally found it, holding it up so he could see it.

Mitch snatched the bag away. “That's all you're going to give him.”

He raised the gate about a foot. Sierra wished she hadn't looked at the sun reflecting off the side of the truck; the glare in her eyes made the dark interior of the truck totally impenetrable. She couldn't see Jeffrey—or anything else for that matter.

“Kid musta passed out,” Mitch muttered. “Go on in and see if he needs it.”

Sierra paused. Getting trapped with Jeffrey in Mitch's truck wouldn't do anyone any good. She knew where he was now. She'd memorized the plate and run through a description in her mind. She knew there were cowboys watching the entrance and exit, taking money for parking. Mitch wouldn't even make it out of the lot if she got the description to them.

But as she turned to run, Mitch grabbed her belt at the back of her jeans and tossed her, hard, into the dark cavern of the truck's delivery box. Skidding across the rough wooden floor, she slammed into the back wall as the door came down and darkness descended.

“Jeff?” she said. “Jeff, are you in here?”

If he was, he wasn't answering.

Ridge plowed through the crowd, panning the blur of faces. He couldn't remember the Grigsby rodeo ever drawing this many people. Finding Sierra in the midst of all these vacationers and thrill seekers was going to be practically impossible. But he had to find her. Had to. He'd been pulling into the Mini Mart to gas up the ranch truck when he'd spotted a familiar delivery truck parked at the pumps.

He'd pulled in to confront Mitch, determined to make sure the man drove out of town. He'd done it once, and he was sure he could do it again. But as he'd pulled in, the truck had pulled out. The station was choked with fairgoers and kids, and Ridge had been trapped. By the time he made his way out of the lot, the truck was gone.

He hadn't been able to see the driver. Maybe it wasn't Mitch. But Ridge had no doubt it was the same truck, and he seriously doubted it had come to Wynott twice by pure coincidence.

Plowing through the crowd, he craned his neck, scanning the crowd for Sierra—for that messy blond hairdo, those sharp green eyes that saw straight into his soul.

And then he saw it. A cowboy, tall and lean, with wire-rimmed glasses and a handlebar mustache, walking toward him with a kid tossed over his shoulder.

Not just any kid. Jeffrey.

It wasn't a cowboy Ridge had ever seen before. Not a neighbor or a friend, but a stranger. Not Mitch, either, but maybe a friend of his. Ridge couldn't see Jeffrey's face, but his body had the limp, hopeless look of a kid who'd fought long and hard and had to give up, and the cowboy was carrying him like a sack of potatoes.

Ridge had been angry in his life. He'd lost his temper more than once. But this got him riled up beyond anything he'd ever experienced. Balling his fists, he speeded his steps, shoving a young couple aside in his haste to get to the boy.

As he approached, he realized he couldn't just clock the guy. Jeffrey might get hurt. The best plan would be to grab his boy first then hit the guy. Hit him and hit him and trample him into the dirt, the way Twister had trampled him all those weeks ago.

But then the man grinned and hailed Ridge with a big, friendly wave.

“Hey,” he shouted. “You lookin' for this guy?”

Jeffrey stiffened, and to Ridge's surprise, he fought the cowboy as the man tried to put him down. Ridge was pretty sure the kid landed a hard right on the cowboy's jaw, but the man just laughed a little and set Jeffrey on his feet.

Ridge looked at Jeffrey and realized Sierra was right; the horses had worked a miracle. He'd forgotten how stiff and expressionless the boy's face had been the first time he'd come to the ranch, but he was reminded of it now. What he was looking at now was a boy who'd regressed even further. It looked for all the world as if the kid couldn't see what was in front of him.

Not that he was looking in front of himself. He was looking at the ground. Ridge stepped closer, and the boy's eyes traveled up from the tips of his boots, past his jeans and his belt buckle, and got to his face before there was any sign he recognized him. Even then, there was only a slight widening of the eyes and then a quick move toward him.

But instead of grabbing Ridge around the waist, the way most lost boys would, he stepped behind him and grabbed onto the back of his shirt. The only sign of emotion was the strength of his grip; the carefully tucked-in shirttail was twisted in his fist in no time.

“Where was he?” Ridge's voice was raspy, partly from emotion but partly, he realized, from disuse. Without Sierra and the boys around, he rarely had a reason to speak.

“Found him in the trailer with my roping horse, Dice.”

“In the trailer?”

“Hiding out. Didn't pick a very good spot for it, though. Dice is no pussycat, and the kid somehow got clear to the front, right under his hooves. Lucky he wasn't killed.”

“Sorry,” Ridge said.

The cowboy shook his head. “Dice is a handful even for me. He hates dogs and kids and anything under his feet, 'specially if he can't see it.” He cast a puzzled look at Jeffrey. “How'd you get past him?”

Jeffrey's grip on Ridge's shirt tightened. “His foot hurts.”

“His foot?”

“The right one, in front. It hurts a lot. That's why he's mean.”

“Yeah, okay.” The cowboy gave Ridge a quizzical look. “The horse doesn't limp or anything.”

“He doesn't want you to know,” Jeffrey said. “He wants to do stuff right. It's just that, sometimes his foot hurts so much, he can't stand it.”

“You got any idea what's wrong with it?”

Jeffrey shrugged.

“Guess there's a limit.” The cowboy turned to Ridge. “You think he's right?”

“I'd bet on it.” Ridge reached back and put an arm around Jeffrey as best he could. The boy felt stiff as a board under his hand, as if he'd turned to stone. “Look, I've got to get him back to his mom. Anything I can do for you, just holler. I owe you one.”

“Not if he's right about Dice, you don't. I've been trying to figure that one out for months. He's always been a good roping horse. Just all of a sudden got mean.” He paused, eyeing Ridge. “You're Ridge Cooper, aren't you?”

Ridge nodded. He hated this part.

“You sure could ride 'em. Sorry about what happened.”

“Thanks.”

Ridge walked in silence for a while, giving Jeffrey a chance to realize he was safe. Once he felt the boy's shoulders relax a little—a very little—he stopped and knelt down, letting the crowds flow around them.

“What happened?”

Jeffrey shrugged and looked away.

Ridge tightened his grip on the boy's shoulder. “Sorry, but that's not good enough today. I need to know what's going on. Where are Sierra and the other boys?”

Another shrug.

Ridge sucked in a deep breath.
Patience.

“Look, you're safe now. Whatever scared you, I'll protect you—but I can't do that if you don't tell me what's wrong.”

Jeffrey glanced right then left. When he looked back at Ridge, his eyes were glossy with unshed tears.

“I saw him.”

“Who?”

“Mitch.”

“Okay. How do you know Mitch? What does he want?”

Jeffrey shrugged again. “My dad worked for him. Like, selling stuff.”

“Drugs?”

Jeffrey nodded.

“Did he threaten you?”

This time, the nod was quick, exaggerated, and very affirmative. “He said if I talked, he'd kill everybody I cared about.”

Shoot. The kid had probably seen a drug deal, maybe something worse, and the guy had threatened him not to talk about it. Jeffrey had taken the threat so much to heart that he did his best not to talk at all. Ever.

“I get it. That scared you.”

“Not then. But now it does.” A single tear overflowed and slid down his cheek. He dashed it away with the back of his fist. “He saw me with Sierra. He looked at her and he made a gun with his finger.” The boy demonstrated, pointing his index finger and cocking his thumb like a trigger. “He pointed at her, and he shot her.”

“Tell you what,” Ridge said. “I'm going to hoist you up on my shoulders, and you tell me when you see anybody. Sierra, the other kids, Gil—or Mitch.”

Jeffrey's face reddened and the tears spilled over. They were silent tears, which struck Ridge as a terrible thing. No child should ever learn to cry without making a sound.

“He'll see me,” the boy said in a hoarse whisper. “And he'll see you, and he'll track you down and find you and shoot you because of
me.
”

“Jeff.” Ridge shook him gently and smiled as best he could. “You saw that night. You were looking out the window. Remember? I came to Phoenix House, and Mitch was there. Do you remember what happened?”

Jeffrey just looked at him, unable to speak, his mouth stretched shapeless by the intensity of his fear.

“He turned tail and
ran.
And that's what he'll do if he sees me here. But this time?”

He shifted Jeffrey toward him to make sure the boy was listening.

“This time, I'm going to chase him down. And I'm going to tell him that you
are
going to talk, as much as you want, and he can't stop you. And if he tries, you'll talk to the police, and he'll go to jail. Because you know what?”

Jeffrey just looked at him, but at least he looked a little more like himself. The flush had faded, and his lips just trembled the slightest bit.

“Because he's more afraid of you than you are of him. Because you know things about him that could put him in jail for a good long time. And when this is over, you're going to tell me all about them, and we'll decide together what to do. So don't you be scared of him. Not now, not ever again.”

Jeffrey nodded. When Ridge hoisted him to his shoulders, the boy's hands gripped his hair and hung on so tightly it hurt.

He didn't complain. He just started walking.

***

Sierra sat in the back of the van with her back against the wall and her knees raised in front of her. Resting her forearms on her knees, she stared at the faint shard of light that slipped through the cracks in the van's door and wondered how the hell she'd ever get out of here.

She'd felt her way around the entire perimeter and crossed the floor in a careful, methodical grid pattern, assuring herself that Jeffrey wasn't in the truck.

That meant that Jeffrey was probably still out there at the rodeo, with only Gil to protect him. No shame on Gil, but the man was in his seventies and had the muscle tone of Jerry Garcia. He was hardly a match for Mitch.

She hadn't found any tools in her search of the truck either. The temperature was approximately ninety outside, so it had to be over a hundred degrees in the box that held her prisoner. She was going to be roasted like a chicken if she didn't get out of here.

She'd hammered on the walls of her prison for a while, but despite the satisfyingly drumlike resonance of the truck's metal sides, no one responded. She'd tried shouting too. Shouting and shouting.

No one had answered.

She was resting now, and trying to stop sweating. She probably should have conserved some energy, but she'd figured
someone
would pass by and hear her. But the truck was parked in the far corner of the lot, and nobody had been anywhere near it when Mitch had thrown her inside. It might be some time before she had a chance to escape.

But she
would
escape. She would
not
let Mitch kill her or rape her, or use her to get to Jeffrey. He might outweigh her by a hundred and fifty pounds, but she would kick his ugly big behind before she let him hurt her or any of the kids.

It was really hard to do all that from inside the pitch-dark, super-heated confines of a delivery truck, though.

She wondered if he'd done anything with her purse. Hopefully, he'd put it in the truck, so the police could track her by her cell phone's GPS if she went missing long enough.

Although they'd probably find her mummified body curled in a fetal position inside an abandoned delivery truck.

No. No they wouldn't. Someone would pass by sooner or later. It just sucked that he was out there stalking Jeffrey, and all she could do was sit here and listen, as hard as she could, for a possible savior.

She had no sense of time, sitting there in the darkness. She might have been in the truck for an hour, maybe two, maybe four. It felt like four, but there was still sunlight coming in through the cracks, so it was still daylight.

She was starting to feel sick from the heat. Little sparkly flowers danced in front of her eyes, and her stomach was rebelling against all the junk food she'd ingested just before she'd seen Mitch.

The dense darkness inside the truck was starting to sparkle more and more, and the top of her head felt even hotter than the rest of her. It felt like her brains were cooking, and maybe they were. It was hot enough in there to cook an egg, she was sure. Brains were a lot like eggs, weren't they?

Don't think like that.

She headed over to the door of the truck, even though the slightest movement made the sparkling even worse. She wanted to be by the door in case Mitch opened it for any reason. She leaned against the door. If she passed out, she'd
fall
out when the door opened.

Or if she died.

Well, that was morbid. She'd better find something else to think about, like what she'd do when she got out of here. Not
if
she got out.
When
.

First of all, she would never again compete in a turkey-leg eating contest. That was number one.

Second, she'd stop worrying about petty bullshit and
live.
She'd stop trying to change the world for people she didn't even know and start loving the ones she did. The idea of never seeing Frankie or Josh or Carter or any of the other boys again was almost unbearable.

And Ridge?

Whatever happened between them from here on, she needed to tell him she loved him. Had she ever told him that?

Despite the airless heat, a chill rose along her arms. She hadn't. She'd never told him she loved him.

He'd told her. He'd asked her to marry him. But she'd never even told him she loved him.

Why?

Because
he
hadn't asked.

He hadn't asked about her motives or whether she was capable of being a decent ranch wife—which she probably wasn't. He hadn't asked for anything. While she'd been parsing his reasons and second-guessing the feelings he'd laid before her like gifts on a blanket, he'd never even asked her to say she loved him.

What the hell had she been thinking? He was the best man she knew, and he wanted to marry her. He asked for virtually nothing in return. Quibbling over the reason
why
was just plain stupid. If he didn't love her for the right reason now, she'd see to it that he did before their first year of marriage was up.