Red Thunder Reckoning. Sylvie Kurtz
“I know. That’s no excuse either.”
His feelings had run too deep, too fast. He’d pushed Kent into the river and everything had gone to hell.
Fifteen years of near-vegetation.
His flash of temper had changed all of their lives. It had altered the course of Kent’s. It had turned Ellen’s into a living nightmare.
“Nina was right,” he told the dog. “I have debts that need paying.”
Blue bumped at Kevin’s hand with his nose.
His brother deserved an apology—and would get one—but if Kent chose to run him out of town, Kevin could never repay Ellen.
He kicked a stone. Blue chased it through the rough grass, but skidded to a halt at the bank. The stone sank hard and fast into the water. Blue boomeranged back to Kevin’s side.
Kevin scraped a hand along his jaw, over his cheek. Time and the river had changed his face. “My own twin probably couldn’t recognize me.”
Blue cocked his head, offered a paw.
“No one else in Gabenburg knows me.”
His main concern was helping Ellen. Someone was trying to steal another dream from her. He couldn’t let that happen. She’d lost too much already. He had to do everything in his power to see her hang on to it—even if it meant he had to hire himself out as her ranch hand.
He’d deal with his debt to Kent later.
“If I show up on her front door and say I’m Kyle Makepeace, do you think she’d even hear me out?” The pain of the imagined rejection squeezed him hard.
Blue licked his hand.
“No,” Kevin said, scratching Blue behind the ear. “She’s better off thinking of me as Kevin Ransom rather than the boy who’s responsible for those fifteen years of near vegetation.”
Hunching his shoulders, he turned away from the river. He motioned to Blue and headed for his truck.
First he needed more information. Then he needed a plan.
The truth could wait until he’d repaired a bit of the damage he’d created.
TESSA BANCROFT PEERED inside the empty trailer, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. The stale stink of horse manure and hay assaulted her nostrils and made her sneeze. Her voice bounced against the metal walls. “Where are the horses?”
“She no let me load them,” the burly Mexican said.
Gilberto Ramirez didn’t even have to nerve to look her in the eye when he told her of his failure. The poor excuse of a man gazed at his well-worn boots and held his battered straw hat in both hands. Deportation, she suddenly realized, held more fear for him than her wrath.
“She could not tell you no. Don’t you understand that?” Tessa could barely control the impatience rattling through her. First the good doctor had failed in his mission. He’d actually sided with the Paxton woman and agreed the horses were too hurt to transport. Now this. She thrust out a hand. “Give me the writ.”
Gilberto’s forehead wrinkled in confusion.
“The piece of paper,” she said, swallowing back the half-dozen epithets on the tip of her tongue.
“I give to her—like you say.”
She wanted to tear her hair out by the roots. Throwing up her hands, she pounded down the ramp. “I’m surrounded by incompetent fools!”
Her step faltered. Ellen Paxton was a woman alone. How much would it take to prove her incompetent? Tessa swallowed a smile. Incompetence. That was the answer to protecting the project.
“You,” she said to Gilberto, “come with me. Let’s see if you can do something right for a change.”
She marched to the high-tech barn that served as the project’s headquarters. Barging into an office, she startled the mousy technician entering data into the computer. “Get me Judge Dalton on the phone.”
When the girl simply blinked at her, Tessa plunked the Rolodex in front of her. “Now.”
What was the point of influence if you couldn’t exploit it?
ELLEN HAD BARELY started the evening feed when she heard a truck chugging up the road. Instantly wary, she put the grain bucket down in the middle of the concrete aisle and went to the barn door. Few people came this way unless she invited them. Bancroft’s attempt to retrieve the horses was still fresh in her mind. Her body stiffened, ready for another battle. Shading her eyes against the sun, she watched the truck’s approach.
Pudge, the Shetland pony with the foundered feet, had never missed a meal and didn’t plan on making this a first. He made his displeasure at the wait known with a series of snorts and the thumping of his well-padded rump against the stall wall.
“In a minute,” she said, distracted. At least it wasn’t a trailer. The white truck looked too plain to belong to the flashy Double B outfit. But if it wasn’t one of Bancroft’s minions, who was it?
The truck stopped at the electric gate. A man and a dog exited. When he couldn’t find a latch, he crawled through the metal bars and hiked up her driveway.
Despite the sun’s heat, a shiver skated through her. Backlit by the sun, with the wind stirring dirt around his feet, he made her think of an opening scene in a spaghetti western. Hero lighting, Kyle had called it. The man walked over the uneven grade with the power and grace of a sure-footed horse, but something about him also made her want to run for cover. Maybe it was the black T-shirt on such a hot day. Maybe it was the way his black baseball cap shaded his features. Maybe it was the air of menace around his canine companion.
The dog, with its tan-patched throat and legs, and gray-flecked coat, reminded her of a hyena. Even the blue bandanna wrapped around its neck couldn’t soften the feral air of the beast. Its eyes sported a worried and tentative look—almost as if she was the one who needed fearing.
“Ms. Paxton.” The man extended a hand toward her. The tanned fingers and work-roughened palm hung in midair.
How did he know her name? She took a step back, careful to keep plenty of room between them.
“My name’s Kevin Ransom.” He let his hand fall back to his side. “I heard you’re looking to hire a ranch hand.”
With his black hair and his keen dark eyes, he wasn’t the hero of this show. He could easily have played the villain in one of those old-time westerns Kyle had liked to watch. There was something unsettling about the coarse chiseling of his features and the way the scars veined his skin like the wrong side of a crooked seam. From the raspy sound of his drawl, she guessed he’d suffered some sort of damage to his vocal chords.
His appearance was enough to make even the most genial person leery. But it was his penetrating gaze that sent another frisson of warning down her spine.
There was something a little too timely about his arrival. And she’d never liked coincidences. Was Bancroft planting a mole because she’d refused him access to the horses this morning? If so, why had he sent someone who would frighten her? Was this “ranch hand” meant as an intimidation tactic?
A glance to the side showed her a pitchfork leaning against a post. Not much of a weapon, but she could reach it in two steps—if she didn’t trip over her own feet first. Tension still affected her ability to move in spite of the weekly physical therapy sessions.
Why hadn’t she thought to get a rifle? Or a guard dog? Or an alarm system of some sort? But she didn’t have anything worth stealing—not even her ragged band of horses would interest a normal thief. Until today, she’d felt safe in her little corner of the world. “Who told you I was hiring?”
“Ms. Conover down at the Bread and Butter bakery. I’ve got experience with horses.”
Taryn