All For A Cowboy. Jeannie Watt

      CHAPTER TWO

      JORDAN MADE IT as far as Wisconsin before trouble struck in the form of a faulty alternator. Since it was impossible to travel without headlights, he’d stopped in the first town he’d hit at dusk. On a Saturday evening. When no garages were open, or even due to be open, until Monday.

      The first night he’d slept in his car in a campground, putting the seat down to open up the cargo space and make just enough room for him to almost stretch out. The second night he thought, Screw it, and rented the cheapest motel room he could find, smuggled Clyde in and settled for the night. Less than three hours later he woke up fighting, his breath coming in short, painful gasps, his body covered with sweat.

      Shoving the tangled sheets aside, Jordan stumbled out of bed, his head swimming as he regained his feet.

      Whoa, shit.

      Jordan wiped the sweat off first his forehead and then his upper lip with what was left of his now-healed hand, feeling the unwelcome scrape of overly dry skin across his damp face. He paced to the window and stopped, staring at the brown plaid drapes. Clyde shadowed his movement, keeping a distance away, as if not wanting to crowd him.

      The dog understood.

      Jordan tried to clear his throat, found it impossible on the first try. He hadn’t cried out. Usually he woke up yelling, but not this time. This time he’d felt as if he was drowning. Suffocating as water filled his lungs.

      What the hell?

      He turned away from the window, scrubbing both hands over his face. It’d been months since he’d had a nightmare, months since he’d cautiously weaned himself off the prazosin, which had been prescribed to help him deal with the symptoms of post-traumatic stress and had stopped the dreams cold.

      There was no point in going back to bed, so Jordan slumped down into the uncomfortable armchair next to the window and stared into space until Clyde jumped up into his lap.

      The dream had to be stress related. The alternator. The trip home. Having no means of support except for his disability check. All of his instincts were still urging him to go back to Montana. He needed to go home.

      But since his dad was dead, what was he going home to?

      The question had niggled at him more than once on the drive and he had no answer to it. Maybe it was because the High Camp, the remote ranch he and his dad had co-owned, was one of the few places where he’d felt a modicum of peace after Miranda had come into his life; it was the one thing she hadn’t poisoned. Not that she hadn’t tried. When he’d proposed to Becky Christopher just before he’d gone into the service, Miranda was the one who’d suggested that he and his father create a formal lease, so that Hank could continue to farm the land if something happened to Jordan and Becky inherited. She’d referred to Jordan’s possible demise so often that he’d gone overseas with the distinct feeling that Miranda hoped something did happen to him.

      Well, Miranda had gotten her wish shortly after Becky had called it quits—and he was still suspicious about Miranda’s influence with his former fiancée. Something bad had happened to Jordan, but he hadn’t died. His father had, so now he owned the place outright and there wasn’t one freaking thing she could do about it.

      It took three days to get the alternator repaired, then Jordan made it as far as North Dakota before finally pulling off the highway and following the frontage road until he found a gravel lane leading off into the hills. He followed it for a ways, then pulled off. Clyde woke up as he slowed to a stop and they both stepped outside to pee before once again making themselves as comfortable as possible in the Subaru. Jordan debated before reaching for the bottle of pills in his jacket pocket. He’d hate himself in the morning when he couldn’t wake up, but he’d hate himself more if he woke up in a cold sweat gasping for air in an hour or two. He’d wait until he got home, then wean himself off the pills once again.

      * * *

      SHAE CLOSED HER apartment door and let her designer bag drop to the floor with a thud. Would it have killed any of the people she’d cold-called to give her a smidgen of encouragement?

      Apparently so, because even the people she knew well—come to think of it, especially the people she knew well—had been pretty damned blunt about the possibility of employment. True, her firm had been unique, combining real estate and guest-ranch management together, but as far as she could see, that gave her experience in two fields, which should have doubled the job opportunities. Not so. Three days of looking and not much hope. Meanwhile, bills for things she’d forgotten buying had started trickling in. She needed to find a job before the trickle became a flood.

      The way people had reacted to her cold calls, even the ones on her father’s list, made her wonder if word of why she’d been let go had spread through the small real-estate community. Had Miranda blackballed her?

      And if so, why? It wasn’t as though she’d done anything heinous.

      Shae reached into the fridge to pull out her last bottle of chardonnay. She’d just started working on the cork when a knock sounded on her door.

      Opportunity, perhaps?

      Her mouth twisted as she pulled the cork before abandoning the bottle and crossing the living room to look through the peephole. Her younger brother, Brant, stood on the other side.

      Shae opened the door and without hesitation walked into her brother’s arms, hugging him close. His arms closed around her and for a moment they just stood. The last time Shae could remember him hugging her was when she’d lost the Miss Rodeo Montana crown by one and a half points. She’d needed moral support then and she needed it now.

      “How was Texas?” she asked as she eased out of his embrace.

      “Flat and humid, but I won some money.” He pulled off his hat as he walked into her apartment. “I hear you’ve had some life changes since Liv’s wedding.”

      Shae nodded as she closed the door behind him. “Want a beer?” she asked.

      “You know I do.” He put his hat on the table, then took a seat on the sofa while Shae went to the fridge.

      “Is Black Butte okay?” she called. She had two bottles left and once those were gone, yet another reminder of her three-year relationship with Reed would be history. After that she never wanted to see another bottle of Black Butte Porter again.

      “Fine,” he called. She popped the top on the beer, poured herself a glass of chardonnay—although at this point in the day she could have easily chugged from the bottle—and brought both out into the living room. Brant took the beer from her, lifting it in a salute as he always did when they drank together. Shae did the same, glad that he didn’t feel the need to toast anything in particular. What could she toast right now? Here’s to all the sucky things that are happening?

      “Want to talk?” her brother asked.

      “No,” she said candidly. “But I will.” She took a sip of wine, which was sweeter than she liked, but adequate for helping her through yet another recital of how her life had gone so terribly wrong. “I got dumped and lost my job.”

      Brant looked at her over the top of the bottle. “Anything else?”

      “I can’t find another job?” She sank back farther into the sofa cushions, staring across the room. “Bills I’d forgotten I had are starting to pile up?”

      “What happened with your old job?”