Must Love Horses. Vicki Tharp

      Dale cut to the chase. “What does this mean for us?”

      “We hope nothing.” St. John picked up his hat again, stared down at the sheriff’s insignia on the front and said, “We hope they steer clear of our corner of the world, but we want everyone to keep a lookout, to report anything or anyone unusual, to stay safe, vigilant, and above all else, leave the law enforcement to those sworn to uphold the law.”

      That last bit was directed at Mac and Bryan. Mac shifted uncomfortably but held the sheriff’s gaze. Boomer’s mouth went flat and Sidney saw the heat rise in his eyes. What was that all about?

      “We—” Dale started.

      “Just so we’re clear, Sheriff…” Bryan glanced at Dale as if concerned he’d overstepped his place, but Dale nodded for him to continue.

      Bryan didn’t raise his voice, but the sharp steel wrapping his words could slice iron. “We take care of our own at this ranch. We will protect ourselves. With or without or in spite of law enforcement.”

      “Now look here—”

      “I think Boomer made our position clear, St. John,” Dale said, as if he were the sheriff putting his deputy back in his place. “You know our history. You know what happened with your predecessor.”

      Sidney got the impression the sheriff hadn’t needed the reminder. He picked up his hat, palmed the crown, and planted it squarely on his head. “I have worked my a—” St. John caught himself, his lips going flat with the effort to keep what he was going to say tucked inside. “I have worked very hard these past two years rebuilding this department—”

      “No one says you haven’t, son,” Dale said. “But there’s a lot of land out there and very few of you. Even if you are on our side.”

      St. John grimaced and snugged his hat on tighter. He nodded once to the group then turned on his heel and strode out the screen door. The hinges screeched and the frame slapped back against the jamb.

      Sidney glanced around the table. Bryan and Santos tucked back into their food. Mac pushed her half-eaten plate away and kneaded her left shoulder as if she were trying to relieve some pain. Lottie pushed her eggs around like a four-year-old trying to make it look like she was eating. Dale threw back the last of his coffee and swallowed hard.

      “What was that all about?” Sidney asked.

      CHAPTER TWO

      Boomer rubbed at the hair standing up on the back of his neck. Lottie started clearing the half-eaten food from the kitchen table. Dale stood to help. Santos slathered another biscuit with honey, shoved it into his mouth, and vamoosed, leaving Boomer, Mac, and Sidney at the table.

      Nobody jumped to answer Sidney’s question about what had happened with the sheriff.

      “You wanna tell her?” Boomer asked Mac.

      “You’ll have plenty of time to fill her in on your way to Rock Springs.”

      Rock Springs? “Wait. What?”

      “Dale got an earlier appointment at the Wild Horse Holding Facility. At noon.”

      “I thought you and I were going tomorrow,” Boomer said.

      “Dale wants Sidney to pick the string she wants to train.”

      “Wait. What?” Sidney sounded like Mini-Me, only a few octaves higher. “I don’t know what you want. What if I get the exact opposite of what you need?”

      Mac smiled at Boomer, but to him it came off as a better-you-than-me kind of smile. “Boomer knows.”

      “So do you.” In return, he gave her his best you-can’t-do-this-to-a-buddy stare, but it did nothing. “I have a load of lumber for the cabins coming in this morning.”

      “And I’m meeting Hank—my husband,” she added for Sidney’s benefit, “in Cheyenne. Besides, I have all my fingers and toes. Pretty sure I can add up lumber to make sure we got everything we ordered.”

      “Not funny.” He chuckled in response to her jab about his toes. At least Mac ribbed him about his leg. Much better than people who avoided the obvious. His leg was a part of him. Or more like it, not a part of him anymore.

      Mac glanced at her watch. “Tic-toc, Marine.”

      “Yeah, yeah,” he groused. She may have married into boss-dom. She may have even saved his sorry ass in Iraq. But that meant it was his duty to give her a hard time. Someone had to keep her grounded.

      He turned his attention to Sidney. “Finished? It’s a three-hour drive and we gotta get the trailer prepped and hooked up.”

      Sidney stood, her chair scraping against the floor. Bryan swallowed one last swig of coffee—he missed the splash of whiskey he normally put in his morning brew when no one was looking—and gave Lottie and Dale a nod as he and Sidney headed out the kitchen door. He was feeling a little more like a teacher on a class field trip than a ranch hand.

      After they’d spread a thick layer of shavings in the back of the stock trailer and hooked it to the truck, Boomer waited in the crook of the open driver’s door. Sidney had wanted to change clothes before the drive down.

      He glanced down at his jeans and army green T-shirt with “Marines” in big letters stenciled across his chest and a hole in the left armpit. It wasn’t like the horses cared what they wore. Besides, it was a tiny armpit hole and it was his favorite T-shirt.

      The sun warmed his cheeks. His nerves buzzed and his stump crawled with the niggling sensation of ants that made his skin feel a size too small. Boomer reached into the inside pocket of his jean jacket, pulled out a flask, and threw back a quick swig. The Glenmorangie went down smooth—a soothing trail down the back of his throat.

      His nerves settled almost instantly. The ants died. His skin returned to normal size. The alcohol hadn’t had time to hit his bloodstream. Placebo effect? Didn’t matter. The how and why were unimportant.

      He turned as he replaced the flask. Sidney stood two feet away with an expression he couldn’t read—he didn’t know her well enough. Had she seen him take a drink? He thumbed a wintergreen Lifesaver from his front pocket and slipped it into his mouth. He stifled the shudder. Lifesavers after whiskey. He’d almost rather lick a horny toad.

      She held her hand out to him, not saying a word, but watching him the way his mother used to when she was waiting to catch him in a lie. He thumbed another mint from the roll and plopped it into her hand. If he was going to pretend innocence, he was going full monty, as his Brit brothers-in-arms back in Fallujah used to say.

      She plopped the mint into her mouth and he turned back to the truck.

      “Not so fast.” She had her hand held out again, one eyebrow raised.

      If she wanted a sip from his flask, she was out of luck. That thing wasn’t big enough to even last him the day. He reached into his front pocket and plunked the half-eaten roll of candy onto her palm.

      She slipped them into her pocket and cleared her throat. Loudly. “Keys.”

      She wasn’t asking.

      He turned away. The whiskey had made the ants go away, but one swallow wasn’t nearly enough to dull his irritation with her. “I can drive with the prosthetic.”

      “It isn’t the prosthetic I’m worried about.” She reached out, slid her hand into his jacket, pulled out the flask, and tossed it into the bed of the truck.

      “What the hell?”

      “Keys.” Her tone flatlined.

      “I’m not drunk.”

      “Didn’t say you were.”

      “For the sake of argument, let’s say I prefer to drive.” Still the hand. Outstretched. The fingertips wiggling in a give-it-here gesture.

      “One