How to Handle a Cowboy (9 page)

Sierra slid behind the wheel of the van feeling capable and competent for a change. The situation in Wynott was wreaking havoc with her self-esteem. She wanted her boys to be part of the community, but she couldn't even fit in herself. People were polite, but she saw the way they looked at her, and she'd noticed that conversations often came to a sudden halt at her approach. She knew she didn't talk right, and she certainly didn't dress right. The only time she felt truly at home was when she was with the boys.

But for once, things were going her way. She'd called Mike back and told him she'd scheduled this expedition to the ranch. He'd sounded surprised that she'd solved the problem so quickly. She could have sworn he almost let a compliment slip out, but he caught himself just in time. Still, her job was safe for the moment.

And that wasn't the only phone call she'd gotten. She had a lot to think about, and some important decisions to make. Unfortunately, this long drive wasn't going to give her any quiet moments to think. By the time she spotted the old cottonwood noted in the directions, she was hot, tired, and ready to explode if the boys had one more tussle. The ride had been long, and naturally the van had no air-conditioning. The state of Wyoming might be getting rich from energy development, but they'd cut funding for children's services to the bone.

“Man, it's like Death Valley or something. There's nowhere to go out here,” Carter observed.

Isaiah nodded. “Nowhere.”

Sierra figured if nothing else got accomplished today, at least the boys would realize just how far they were from civilization. If any of them had had visions of running away from Wynott, the endless bleak vistas that surrounded the town had smothered those dreams in dirt, rocks, and sagebrush.

“I'm
bored
,” Frankie said.

Just two days earlier, the boys had been fantasizing about road trips to Vegas. Now they were whining about an hour-long drive.

Maybe that was because there was almost nothing to look at. Once they left Wynott behind, yellowing fields alternated with brown stretches dotted with sagebrush. Occasional cows dotted the landscape, contained by ancient barbed wire that sagged on the crooked fence posts that lined the road. Once they saw an oil derrick slowly nodding its oversized head like a wise, rusty bird—
yes, yes, yes
. That was good for about two minutes of conversation, and then the boys lapsed into default road-trip mode, which consisted of battling over precious territory in the backseat, fighting over who was breathing on whom, and arguing about every nonsensical thing they could think of.

“Aren't you looking forward to riding horses?” Sierra asked.

“No,” came the chorus from the backseat.

“You're probably scared to ride horses,” Isaiah said.

“Nuh-uh,” came the answering shout. “
You're
scared.”

She did her best to shut out the racket and concentrate on driving. Adult intervention only made their fights worse. At least they were interacting in a way that was normal for kids their age. All of them but Jeffrey, who sat in sullen silence in the far backseat. If Jeffrey argued, she'd pound the steering wheel and cheer. Sierra knew his past had given him a million reasons to be afraid of everything. Horses were nothing compared to the dragons he'd fought.

The landscape got more interesting after a while, with rock formations rising from the ground like rugged islands and distant hills hinting at the mountains beyond. They finally passed an old, rickety homestead that looked uninhabited. The place's siding was bleached to a uniform shade of gray, and crooked windows and a sagging porch gave it a lopsided look. It stood at the foot of the rugged hills, which, on closer inspection, proved to be layers of rock lifted during some cataclysmic geological event that must have occurred jillions of years ago. The drive leading to the old place was a sketchy two-track choked with weeds. It extended beyond the house and disappeared into the rocky distance.

“Look at that old house,” Carter said. “I bet it's haunted.”

“Nuh-uh,” Josh said. “Ghosts aren't real.”

“Yeah, they are.”

The tussle that followed forced Sierra to pull over until peace was restored. As she restarted the van, she told the boys to keep an eye out for the ranch.

“Mr. Cooper's place should be somewhere right along here,” she said. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

“Gross. Peeling your eyes,” Carter said happily.

“Like grapes,” added Frankie.

“Yeah, gross.”

They bounced along the uneven pavement, dodging potholes and scanning the sides of the road for any sign of the Decker Ranch while the boys discussed various methods of peeling eyeballs. After ten minutes, Sierra got the uneasy feeling they must have passed the ranch, but how could they have missed it? The road was a straight shot with no turns in sight and so featureless that any buildings would have stuck out as surely as the tumbledown house.

Thank God for cell phones.

She pulled over and dialed the number Shane had given her. Ridge picked up on the first ring. She could tell it was Ridge and not Shane because he sounded so surly.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Ridge? It's Sierra.”

There was a long silence.

“Sierra,” he finally said.

Good thing she'd gotten over her little crush on the guy. It sounded like he'd completely forgotten who she was.

But she didn't mind. Not one bit. She'd pretty much forgotten him too. She vaguely remembered the way he'd helped find the kids and the way he'd been so understanding with Josh. And, to be completely honest, she had a near-perfect recollection of the way his butt looked in those jeans.

But the caress in the closet? It was like that had never happened.

She reached up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Sierra?” He really had no memory of her at all.

“Sierra Dunn. You know. From Phoenix House?”

“Oh. Right. Phoenix House.”

“Yeah. Hey, listen. I think we're lost.”

“Lost where?”

“If I knew where, I wouldn't be lost. We must be almost to your place, I guess. Or maybe we passed it.”

“You're on your way
here
?”

“Yes.” Where did he think she was going—the Emerald City of Oz? “Did I wake you up or something?”

“'Course not. It's almost ten in the morning. Why are you coming here?”

“For the riding lessons.”

The boys, who had been bickering in the back, fell quiet as he failed to answer. She hadn't expected a warm welcome from Mr. Congeniality, but she deserved better than this. The
kids
deserved better than this. Unless…

“Your brother Shane called me. He didn't tell you, did he?”

She winced as he let loose a particularly foul expletive into the phone. “Shane put you up to this?”

She wrenched off her seat belt and opened the door of the van, signaling for the kids to stay put as she hopped out. Leaning on a fence post, she clamped the phone to her ear and resisted the urge to swear right back at him.

“Nobody ‘put me up' to anything,” she said. “Your brother called and scheduled a visit. Today, ten o'clock. I've got five kids in a van headed your way if we can just figure out where you are.”

“Well, forget it,” he said. “I'm sorry Shane did that to you, because he left this morning for Amarillo.”

She grabbed the wire that was stapled to the fence and clenched her fist. Unfortunately, it was barbed wire, and the rusty twist of metal bit deeply into her hand. She stifled another curse.

“Listen, Mr. Cooper,” she said. “I've got a van full of kids and a ten o'clock appointment. I might be able to forget it, but these kids won't. They're expecting to ride horses this morning, and I'm
not
turning around.”

“Well, shit.” He heaved a heavy sigh. “Where are you?”

She described the view from the fence—a flat-topped mesa, a cluster of pine trees, a distinctive rock formation to her right.

“You missed it,” he said. “You went too far.”

“That's impossible,” she said. “The only building we've seen was an old house with a crooked porch.”

“Yeah, that's it,” he said.

That's it?

A cold, sinking feeling gripped Sierra's heart and dropped it down into her stomach. That was
it
?

The guy had looked okay. Sure, he'd been dressed, um, casually, and that hat was downright disreputable, but she'd figured that was normal for a cowboy. He hadn't looked like he was homeless, but if that house was his, he'd be on the streets soon, because the next storm that came along would blow the place down.

Maybe Sheriff Swaggard was right about Ridge. Surely no decent man would live in a place that looked like the country version of an inner-city crack house.

She patted her pocket, where she'd put her little Nikon camera. Mike had ordered her to come here, despite her reservations. She'd be sure to take lots of pictures of that house. If she documented everything, she hopefully wouldn't be in too much trouble if one of the kids got hurt.

She got back in the van and made a careful K turn, scanning the road for traffic. You could see for miles, but this seemed like the kind of road where people would drive way too fast. She could see some James Dean–type testing a shiny, new sports car on the long, straight stretch, pushing ninety, ninety-five, a hundred…

She wished she could do that. Drive away from this place at a hundred miles per hour.

Anything rather than deal with this day.

Ridge clutched the pickup's steering wheel as he bounced down the ranch drive, steering around the potholes and washouts right into the trap his brother had set for him.

He should have known Shane was up to something. Slipping out of the Phoenix House noose had been way too easy, and now he knew why. Shane hadn't had any intention of letting Ridge escape. He'd probably gotten on the horn the minute Ridge had walked away, calling Sierra and setting up this ambush.

He pulled to a stop at the end of the drive and peered down the long road to the left, wondering how the hell she'd missed the place. It wasn't like there were a whole lot of ranch roads off County Road 130. They always gave directions the same way, telling visitors the ranch was right after the cottonwood.

Shane probably should have mentioned the old homestead at the foot of the drive, because Sierra probably didn't know what a cottonwood was. And she probably couldn't take a van full of kids up the drive to the ranch either. It was a steep, pitted road that toiled up a rocky hill then dropped into the lush valley where the ranch sat against a snow-covered mountain backdrop. There hadn't been a lot of coming and going since Bill died, so the drive was so overgrown with weeds it was practically invisible. Further up, the ruts and washouts formed by last month's rain had hardened in the hot sun, making it tough to travel with anything less than four-wheel drive.

Rolling down the window, he dangled his arm against the side of the truck. He'd spent the morning working his way out of his own rut by shoveling out stalls, hosing down the barn floor, and disinfecting water buckets. He was dressed like a hobo, in torn jeans and shirt, and he could feel straw pricking at the back of his neck, which was damp with sweat.

Well, at least the kids would get to see what a true American cowboy's life was like. No Roy Rogers romance here. This was the real thing.

He wondered if Sierra knew enough to dress right for riding. She probably didn't own a pair of cowboy boots, and those high-heeled contraptions definitely wouldn't work. That was okay, though. Irene had taught riding for years, and Bill had taken over her students after she passed away. They'd always kept spare boots for the students. Ridge and his brothers had never moved them from the place Bill had left them, lined up against the wall just inside the front door.

Hopefully Sierra would have the sense to wear jeans, and not that skinny little skirt she'd had on the other day. It had been all right for playing chicken in the closet, though. More than all right…

Down, boy.
He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He had to admit Shane was right; he needed something to do, something to occupy his mind. Maybe then his imagination wouldn't have spent most of last night and half of this morning giving him guided tours of Sierra Dunn. He'd shimmied her out of that leather jacket right at the start, and then he'd plucked at the memory of the tiny buttons that lined the front of that sexy top over and over. He'd speculated on the plumpness of her lips and the firmness of her breasts all night long.

He'd better rope those thoughts and hog-tie them in some dark place, or she'd see his fantasies flaming in his eyes every time he looked at her.

As he edged the truck forward, a cloud of dust in the distance resolved itself into a white van, the kind day cares and churches used. He could see Sierra's silhouette behind the wheel and the boys slouched in the seats behind her.

He waved them to a parking area in front of the old house. Easing the van carefully over the rocks and weeds, she lurched to a stop. Immediately, the side door of the van opened and a pile of kids tumbled out.

He expected them to run around, go nuts. Kids that age had a lot of energy, and he remembered feeling so pent up on long road trips that he'd wanted to take off running anywhere, tear off to the horizon, running for the sake of running.

But these kids just stood there in a little knot, looking around with wide, frightened eyes. Ridge's border collies leaped out of his truck bed and trotted up with their tails swishing in greeting, but the kids edged even closer together, eyeing the animals warily.

City kids. How could he have forgotten what it was like? They'd probably never seen dogs like his or the kind of wide-open spaces that surrounded them today. Heck, for all he knew, they'd never seen grass that didn't have to struggle up through cracks in the sidewalk.

Sierra was right. He might not want them here, but there was no way they could disappoint these kids. The boys didn't know it, but they needed this—a chance to breathe the fresh air and run free under the big sky. Moving from the city to the country could change a boy completely. Ridge knew that for a fact.

When the dogs started a flanking maneuver and got that determined look in their eye that was unique to herding dogs, Ridge flashed a hand signal and they obediently trotted to his side.

“These are the Tweedles,” he said to the kids. “Tweedledum and Tweedledee.”

“
Alice
in
Wonderland.
” Josh shoved his glasses up his nose with that characteristic grimace. “Those are the little fat guys Alice meets.” He eyed the dogs warily. “Your dogs aren't fat.”

“They were when they were pups, and they'd always rather play than get things done. I call 'em Dum and Dee.” Ridge knelt and ran his fingers through the coarse hair over Dum's shoulders. “You want to say hi?”

Josh tentatively reached a hand toward Dum, who leaped to greet him. The kid skittered backward.

“Ha!” said Isaiah. “You're scared of a stupid dog.”

Ridge noticed the boy wasn't exactly eager to pet the dog himself.

“No I'm not.” Josh tried again, and this time he didn't pull back when the dog reacted. He was rewarded with a slurp of the animal's pink tongue. Not to be outdone, Dee was soon jostling for a pat. The two dogs would have knocked the kid down if Ridge hadn't let out a sharp command that made them drop to an instantaneous down-stay.

It had a similar effect on Josh, who backed away and stood with the others.

“Sorry. They're just happy to see you.” Ridge set his hands on his hips and surveyed the group, including Sierra. She had indeed worn jeans—tight, skinny-legged ones, with a white tank top that hugged her subtle curves.

A white tank top and jeans—the ultimate weapon against male resistance. He was going to
kill
Shane.

“Guys, this is Mr. Cooper.”

“Ridge,” he said.

She looked from the old homestead to him and then back again, flashing him a tentative smile. “Thanks for having us. We're excited to spend a day in the country. Right, guys?”

“Don't have a whole lot of choice,” Isaiah mumbled. “Country's all there is around here.”

She nudged him with her foot. Ridge was surprised to see that the foot was clad in a pointy-toed cowboy boot. It had a stacked heel that was a little too high and was embroidered with lots of fussy little flowers, but it would work for riding.

“Let's remember our manners,” she said.

The kids murmured something that might have been a greeting and edged a little closer together, bunching like cattle surrounded by wolves.

“How is everybody?” Ridge figured he'd better remember his own manners.

The boys mumbled a little more and shifted their feet, glancing from side to side as if something might leap out from behind the crooked clumps of sagebrush and attack them.

He led them across the rocky yard, past the old house. Sierra was taking pictures like crazy. He wasn't surprised; tourists often stopped to photograph the place. Apparently folks found old rattletrap houses picturesque, and he supposed the old homestead did have historic significance. It had been the ranch's original claim shack back in the late 1800s. Subsequent generations had added on to it, but no one had lived in it since the seventies.

There was a lot of history around here, including some that Sierra needed to know.

“Did you know Phoenix House was a children's home once before?” he asked her.

She nodded. “The Wynott Home for Children. I heard it got shut down.” She glanced at the boys then gave Ridge a significant look. “I heard why. It's not like that anymore.”

He knew that. He could tell Sierra cared about the kids. But the woman who'd run the home before had made a good impression on the public too. It had taken some brave kids and a concerned citizen to uncover what had really been going on.

He shut down those thoughts and turned his attention back to the boys.

“Why don't you guys line up in front of the house for a group photo?” he suggested.

“Great idea!” Sierra was sure enthusiastic about picture taking. It was kind of nice that she cared enough to take them. He didn't have any pictures of himself at that age.

“Give me the camera,” he said. “I'll take it, so you can get in the picture.”

She whipped the camera away like it was made of gold and he was a street thief. “No, no. Let's get
you
in it with them! You stand there, on the porch. Josh, you stand in front. Isaiah, you're taller, so get back there with Mr. Cooper. Perfect. Now smile!”

He stood behind the kids as ordered. He couldn't see their faces, but he'd bet his best boots not one of them cracked a smile.

***

Sierra needed to get out of here. She'd had plenty of pictures to prove that Mike had gotten her—and more importantly, the kids—into a dicey situation. The photos were made even more effective by the image of Ridge glowering from under his battered cowboy hat. He looked even more disreputable than he had the other day in the closet.

Unfortunately, disreputable worked for her. Though she'd been shocked by his appearance, she was having trouble behaving herself. He was wearing what was left of a worn denim shirt. The sleeves had been ripped off along with one of the breast pockets, and most of the buttons were missing—which meant she got a tantalizing glimpse of tight abs every once in a while.

The deep tan, the way his muscles swelled from the torn sleeves of his shirt… This was the American workingman at his best.

Focus
on
his
face. Focus on his face.

His hat was the same one he'd worn the other day, only it looked like a couple of horses and maybe a buffalo had had a go at trampling it into the dirt. His jeans were completely blown out at the knees. As a matter of fact, he wasn't wearing one intact piece of clothing.

Unless his underwear…

Focus
on
his
face.

No, focus on the
kids
. They were roaming around now, so she should probably get them back in the van and on the road. The place was a festival of potential puncture wounds. She looked down at the cut on her hand and noticed three nails protruding from the porch rail beside it. Plus there were those feral-looking dogs, who had scared up a couple of rodents that shot out of the shrubbery surrounding the house. She was pretty sure they'd been rabbits, but they could have been rats.

She glanced at Ridge, trying to figure out how to leave gracefully, but he was stroking one of the dogs and smiling, which made crow's-feet appear at the corners of his eyes. She felt her face warm in a slow, hot blush.

What was wrong with her? She was drooling over crow's-feet. Crow's-feet were wrinkles, for God's sake.

And the man seemed to like dogs better than people. He was kind to the boys, but he'd basically ignored her since that to-do in the closet.

He stood and walked the boys over to the truck. At a wave of his hand, the dogs leaped into the bed of the truck and sat, swishing their tails and grinning. Now that they'd stopped their endless running and circling, Sierra could see they were actually handsome animals, black-and-white mirror images of each other.

“Pile in,” Ridge said.

“You want
us
to ride in the truck?” Isaiah asked. “Like the
dogs
?”

“Unless you want to walk,” Ridge said. “No way that van's going to make it up the drive.” He gestured toward a weed-choked two-track, which curved around a rock outcropping and disappeared into the hills.

“Wait a minute,” Sierra said. “Where are you taking us?”

“To the ranch.” He grinned. “You didn't think this was it, did you?”

“No, I—no,” she lied. “Of course not.”

“This was the original claim shack. The house is back there.” He gestured toward the rutted road he'd come from. Great. He could take them back there and kill them and nobody would ever know.

“The road hasn't been graded in a while, and we had a hailstorm the other night, that washed it out in a few places,” he said.

“Is there another way to go?”

“North entrance is easier, but it's about a half hour out of your way,” he said.

Sierra considered a half hour stuck in the van with the kids and headed for the truck. He could kill her if he wanted.

“You can ride in the cab,” Ridge said. “You boys, get in the back.”

Carter didn't need to be invited twice. He vaulted up into the truck bed and stationed himself at the front, his elbows resting on the top of the cab.

“Come on, guys. This is cool.”

Jeffrey had climbed halfway onto the tailgate when Sierra held up a hand to stop him.

“Come on, Sierra!” Frankie clambered into the bed of the truck. “It'll be fun!”

“We can't.”

Ridge shot her a disbelieving look. “Don't tell me. No seat belts?”

“Exactly. It's not safe.”

He scowled. “We're not going far.”

She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him. “Ninety percent of accidents happen within a mile of home.”

He muttered something unintelligible and turned away, leaving her to face the five hopeful boys in the back of the truck. They offered up their best pleading smiles, no doubt honed on adults far tougher than she'd ever been.