Riley's Retribution. Rebecca York

      “Any shell casings?”

      “No. He took them with him. And if he drank any coffee or smoked any cigarettes, he took the leavings away, too. Like I said, he was careful—or well trained. He could be a guy with a military background,” he said, dropping the observation into the conversation, then watching her closely.

      She wasn’t sure what response he expected, but she only shrugged.

      Watson drove to the other side of the bridge, then stopped beside her truck.

      “We should unload your supplies, before some of them disappear,” he said.

      She wanted to tell him that people around here didn’t steal from each other, but she wasn’t sure if that was true anymore.

      “Yes. Let me help you.”

      He cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t be lifting stuff, should you?”

      “Nothing heavy. But there are things I can manage.”

      “Okay.” He pulled off the road in back of the truck and cut the engine, but he didn’t immediately open the door.

      She sensed his tension, and she wondered suddenly if he had some additional information about the man who had been up on the bridge. In response, she felt her chest tighten.

      When he spoke, his voice had turned gruff, and it took several seconds for his question to filter into her consciousness, because it was the last thing she had been expecting.

      “So…have you made up your mind about hiring me?” he asked.

      Chapter Four

      Riley waited for Courtney’s answer with his breath frozen in his lungs. In the hours since he’d met her, this assignment had become more than a job. Maybe because the flesh-and-blood woman was so much more complicated—so much more appealing—than the woman he’d read about in a briefing folder. She didn’t even look much like her pictures, which was why he hadn’t recognized her.

      He wanted to ask her about Boone Fowler—about why she’d let a lowlife jerk like him onto her property. But he knew that was precisely the wrong approach. And it was against orders, too. Because as far as she was concerned, he didn’t know a damn thing about the militia leader. So all he could do was sit there waiting for her to decide his immediate future.

      He had the feeling she was still weighing the pros and cons of her decision.

      Instead of answering, she asked a question—something more specific than she’d put to him in town. “What’s the best material for a corral fence?”

      So she was giving him a test. He was glad he had the background to say, “It depends on what you’re after. Looks, utility or price. Split rail is the cheapest. Those who go in for show favor white painted boards. Outside the main paddock, I like wire, with one line of electricity. To keep the stock from leaning on the fence.”

      She nodded, then asked, “How do you tie a foal when you’re first training him?”

      “The first few times, you want to make sure he’s not tied hard and fast. He might pull and injure his neck. I’d introduce a truck or car inner tube between him and the fence. That will act like a fat rubber band and offer some give.”

      “What’s a chestnut?”

      “I take it you don’t mean something roasting on an open fire? We’re talking about a horny, insensitive growth on a horse’s legs.”

      “How would you treat it?”

      “Trim it short and neat.”

      “I guess you know horses.”

      “Yeah.”

      She heaved in a breath and let it out. “You have the job.”

      “Thank you,” he said simply as they stood together on the frozen ground.

      “You’ll sleep in the bunkhouse with the other hands,” she added, as though she felt it necessary to make it very clear that their afternoon in bed had been an aberration.

      “I understand,” he answered, as he undid the hooks that held the tarp covering the supplies in the back of the pickup.

      “It’s comfortable, but it’s nothing fancy.”

      “I sure don’t need fancy. Just a bed and a chest of drawers will do,” he answered.

      “And I assume the salary we discussed is satisfactory.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” He turned his attention to the supplies. “Does it look like everything’s there?”

      She carefully inspected her purchases. “Yes.”

      “Good.” He opened the back of the SUV and began loading sacks of feed.

      By the time they had finished, the back of his SUV was crammed to the roof, and the temperature had dropped sharply.

      “Tell me about the Golden Saddle,” he said as he turned on the headlights and started down the highway again.

      “Well, you already know we have twenty mares and five stallions. Most are quarter horses. But we have some Thoroughbred bloodlines, too. That might be our problem. Our prices are high, and the demand for horses like ours is falling.” She cleared her throat. “We could sell more to working cattle ranches. But that would mean we’d have to train them with cattle. And I don’t have the staff to raise both horses and cattle at the moment.”

      “You didn’t mention any ‘problem’ when you advertised for a manager,” he said carefully, although he already knew that she was barely turning a profit.

      “Well, that’s not the kind of thing I’d advertise, would I?” she snapped.

      “Do you have any other source of income—besides the sale of horses?” he asked.

      “I rent some unused buildings,” she answered.

      “To whom?”

      She hesitated a moment before answering, “A, um, group of…survivalists.”

      “Oh, yeah?” She must be referring to Boone Fowler’s militia. So were they styling themselves as survivalists? Or was that her term for them—because she thought it was more politically correct?

      She was staring hard at him. “You object to my renting to them?” she asked sharply.

      He knew he’d better be careful about stepping over the line with his answer. She owned the ranch. He was her hired help.

      Even so, he had to fight the impulse to tell her about his experiences in Boone Fowler’s prison camp. Instead he kept his voice even as he said, “It’s not my place to object. Not if they mind their own business.”

      He wanted to ask how they happened to pick the Golden Saddle Ranch. And where—exactly—they were located on her property. But he didn’t want to seem too interested, so he held back the questions.

      “The entrance to the ranch is right up ahead,” she said.

      He slowed down, then turned in at a horseshoe-shaped archway.

      They bumped up a gravel road that was pocked with potholes.

      Floodlights illuminated the ranch yard, and he saw a low stone-and-timber house with a wide front porch, which he knew had been built early in the previous century. The structure looked solid, but in the floodlights he could see that the trim around the window frames needed painting. Probably she’d do that when she got some spare cash.

      The bunkhouse and barn were nearby. And another building that he assumed was used for storage.

      He pulled up in front of the house. “We should unload what you need to take inside.”

      “And you can put the SUV in the storage building for the night—then unload