A Measure Of Love. Lindsay McKenna

      Chapter One

      Jessie, we need your help.”

      She was working on the latest figures that had been called in by her ranchers for the Colorado-Wyoming mustang population. No one ever needed her help. Or if they did, it wasn’t often. They had stuck her away in a small cubicle at the end of the hall of a huge federal building in the heart of bureaucracy in Washington, D.C.

      Raising her head, she pushed the thick, heavy strands of blond hair across her shoulder and looked up. Mr. Humphries, second-in-command of the Bureau of Land Management, stood before her.

      “Yes, sir?” Immediately her palms became damp, and she tried to inconspicuously pull them off the desk and into her lap, where he couldn’t see them.

      Humphries cleared his throat. “Er, well, that is…come with me. This is most urgent.”

      Jessie’s heart began to pound in her breast as she hesitantly rose. Something was wrong. Mr. Humphries, who normally looked like a pit bull waiting to bite someone, was shifting from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable.

      As Jessie followed him down the brightly lit halls, her curiosity got the most of her. She had been working for the BLM since her divorce. Part of the Department of Interior, the BLM dealt with anything having to do with mustangs. At the time she had applied, they had been looking for someone who could oversee the important project of assigning newly captured mustangs to people who wanted them. They had promised her travel, excitement and field work. That had been five years ago. She had never left her small, dingy office, but it didn’t matter. Placing the unseen mustangs with good, loving homes had become her focus in life. That and coordinating investigations into anything having to do with the wild animals. From her office, she sent the BLM’s agents out all over the U.S.

      “In here, Jessie,” Humphries said, holding open the door to a conference room.

      Jessie smoothed her light wool heather skirt against her hips as she entered. At one end of the twenty-seat conference table was Joe Allen, one of her field representatives. He didn’t look happy, and barely gave her a nod of recognition when she entered the room. Jessie managed a weak smile, knowing something serious must have happened. She automatically flexed her fingers, realizing it was her head, not Joe’s, that was on the chopping block if Joe had fouled up his assignment in some way.

      “Sit down, Jessie. Over there.”

      She sat, giving Joe a warm smile of welcome. Joe raised his hand, but his hazel gaze was on Humphries, who remained standing in front of them.

      “Now, Jessie, a situation of grave importance has come up.” He cleared his throat, his gray brows falling into a V over his narrowed brown eyes. “You sent Allen here to investigate a rancher out in Colorado after we received an anonymous phone call that Mr. Kincaid, owner of the Triple K, was shooting mustangs.”

      Jessie’s lips parted. “Yes, sir, I remember the incident.” Her cinnamon-colored eyes widened slightly as she prepared for Humphries’s blustering tirade.

      Humphries glared over at Joe. “To say the least, he and Mr. Kincaid didn’t get along. As a matter of fact, Kincaid had the gall to literally throw him off Triple K property. Isn’t that right, Allen?”

      Joe, who was a slender man of thirty-five, nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”

      Humphries cleared his throat again. “Well, go on, tell her the rest.”

      “Yes, sir.” Joe turned his attention to Jessie. “I treated the Kincaid case like any other. When I got to the ranch, Mr. Kincaid was in a foul mood. When I discreetly asked him to let me investigate the matter, he turned ugly. He started questioning me and making allegations that the BLM was acting like a jackass.”

      “Mr. Kincaid did that?” Jessie interrupted. She had talked to Sam Kincaid on several occasions several years before and had liked the terse rancher.

      Joe nodded weakly.

      Jessie couldn’t contain her surprise. “But Mr. Humphries, the Kincaids have been staunch supporters of environmental protection, and they’ve always worked with us on the mustangs. According to my files, and I’ve got a thick one on the Triple K, Mr. Kincaid is on our side.”

      “That was Sam Kincaid,” Humphries corrected. “This is his son, Rafe, who’s running things now. And obviously a lot differently. Well, go on, Allen.”

      “When I asked for Kincaid’s cooperation, he asked if I had a search warrant. I said no. He demanded to know what the investigation was for. Well, naturally, I couldn’t tell him. I just told him that we wanted to inspect the northern boundary of his property, where it butts up against the federal reserve. He didn’t trust me or my intentions. Instead of allowing me to go up there to see if I could find any mustang carcasses, he threw me off the ranch and told me that if I came back I’d be staring down the barrel