Dropping The Hammer. Joanna Wayne
concerning cases she’d been involved with. Eric Fitch Jr. had come by while she was collecting her personal belongings and tried to talk her into staying, assuring her he’d cleared the offer with his dad.
He’d offered a raise. She’d been tempted, but not enough to stay.
Lost in her thoughts again, she almost missed the Double K’s metal gate and had to throw on her brakes to keep from passing it by. She made the turn too fast, skidding across a wet patch of grass that bordered the ranch road.
She slowed and stopped at the closed and latched gate. Esther had talked about putting in an automatic gate opener to save herself having to get out in the weather. Obviously that was still on her to-do list. Neither weather nor much else slowed down Esther Kavanaugh.
Rachel switched the gear to Park but kept the motor running. She’d opened the door and was about to climb from behind the wheel when she was startled by the clattering engine noise of another vehicle.
She checked the rearview mirror. An old, mud-encrusted pickup truck had made the turn and had followed her to the gate. The male driver stopped mere inches behind her, blocking her between his front bumper and the closed gate.
She jerked her door closed and pushed the lock button. Her heart pounded against the walls of her chest. Her lungs burned. Her stomach churned sickeningly.
The driver got out of his truck and started toward her. She switched the gear to Drive and poised her foot on the accelerator. If he so much as touched her car, she would ram through the gate, knocking it from its hinges. She wouldn’t stop until she reached Esther’s house.
As the man neared, he smiled and tipped his gray Stetson. Nothing about him looked dangerous. His smile was anything but threatening. Telling herself that only barely eased her surge of apprehension.
She clutched the steering wheel so tight her knuckles turned white.
The cowboy sauntered past her locked door, walked to the front of her car and unlatched the gate. He was opening the door for her. She took a deep breath and let her fingers relax their hold on the steering wheel.
The gate swung open and the cowboy motioned her through—an extremely good-looking cowboy, though she hadn’t noticed that before. She lowered her window and waved as she drove past him.
Her pulse was back to near normal by the time she reached the rambling ranch house. The sight of Esther’s house had a further calming effect on her.
Colorful pillows adorned the wide porch swing. Painted rocking chairs were pulled up to a round table topped with a pot of colorful pansies. A clump of sweet alyssum huddled next to the steps. Winter jasmine climbed the railings on the north end of the porch.
Rachel parked in the gravel drive on the far side of the house, a recent addition that kept visitors from dodging mud holes on mornings such as this.
Once more, the cowboy parked behind her. This time she waited for him to get out of the truck. The unwarranted panic attack had passed.
“Thanks for handling the gate chores,” she said.
“My pleasure.” He pointed to his worn Western boots. “Those high-heeled fancy boots you’re wearing don’t look like they’d take too well to mud. These goat-ropers are made for chunking through whatever they face.”
“Goat-roper?”
“Just a term. I don’t really rope goats in them—not that I couldn’t.”
“I’ll bet.”
He extended his hand. “Luke Dawkins. The prodigal son of Alfred Dawkins, returning to Winding Creek for duty.”
She slid her hand into his much larger one. An unexpected wave of awareness zinged through her. That frightened her almost as much as her initial reaction to him had. “Rachel Maxwell. I’m Sydney Lawrence’s sister, just visiting—no duty.”
She waited for the look of pity that frequently followed the act of telling anyone her name. There was none. Evidently he didn’t know of her past. The chances were slim to none she could keep it that way.
They started up the wide wooden steps to the porch together. Their arms brushed. Her first impulse was to pull away from him. She didn’t.
Before she had time to ring the bell, the door opened and Sydney appeared, with Esther a step behind. “You made it,” Esther said.
Sidney spotted Luke and looked shocked. “And you bought a guest.”
“Not intentionally,” Luke said. “I’m just a stray who followed her home. Luke Dawkins.”
“A prodigal son,” Rachel offered to fill a sudden, awkward silence on Sydney’s part.
“Well, of course you are,” Esther said, pushing to the front. “You haven’t changed a bit, Luke, except for that facial hair. Just threw me off that you arrived with our Rachel.”
“What can I say? When a beautiful woman shows up, I don’t argue with fate.”
“You’re in your dad’s truck,” Esther said, leaning over to look past them. “Hope that’s not all you have to get around in. To hear Alfred tell it, it only runs half the time.”
“I was afraid it wouldn’t make it here,” Luke admitted. “But I have my own truck back at the ranch, so if this one makes it back home, I’ll park it and leave it until I can get it tuned up.”
Luke touched a hand to the small of Rachel’s back as they stepped inside.
Once again, her nerves zinged.
It couldn’t get any crazier than this.
Luke’s ego took a blow. He was definitely the odd man out where the two sisters were concerned. They were both talking at once, the topics changing as fast as if this were a game-show lightning round. He didn’t even try to keep up.
Within ten minutes Sydney and Rachel excused themselves to go wrap gifts for an afternoon baby shower. Luke watched Rachel walk away. She was hot as a bonfire and there was no gold band on her ring finger.
If he were planning to stick around awhile, he’d hit on her big-time, though she was probably miles out of his league. But as soon as he figured out what to do about his father and the Arrowhead Hills Ranch, he was out of here.
Unless Alfred kicked him out sooner.
“It’s good to have you here in my house again after so many years,” Esther said once they were alone. “You’ve grown into a fine-looking young man. Your mother would have been mighty proud of you.”
“Thanks. Being here reminds me of her.”
“She was a very special woman, one of the best friends I’ve had in my life, even though she was a couple of decades younger and had four times the energy I did. I miss her to this day, but it’s probably not the best time for going all syrupy. I know you’re here to talk about Alfred’s problems.”
“I am,” he agreed. “I still don’t know much more than what you told me on the phone. The rehab center is not big on giving out information other than what’s on his chart. Assisted shower at eight. Occupational therapy scheduled for one. That and other equally unhelpful info.”
“Did you talk to the medical supervisor where he’s staying or the doctor who cared for him in the hospital?”
“I’ve talked to both with equally worthless results. The doctor quoted some medical jargon to describe the stroke and possible causes but didn’t give me anything definite on the prognosis. He insisted there was no way to be certain at this point if or how long Alfred would need permanent care. I’m supposed to meet with the medical supervisor this afternoon.”
“You’re driving to San Antonio today?”