Rancher at Risk. Barbara Daille White

day trip from New Mexico to Montana said it all.

      As if reading his mind, Caleb said, “I don’t reckon I need to state the obvious.”

      “That I’ve given you no choice?” Caleb wasn’t giving him one, either. No option of staying on the ranch here in Montana. He could take the offer. Or walk.

      Raising no argument, asking no questions, he returned the reins to their peg on the wall, making sure they hung neatly in their appropriate spot. Too bad he hadn’t handled things with such care earlier in the week.

      As if in tune with his thoughts again, Caleb said, “What happened with Rod?”

      “You haven’t heard?”

      “I want to hear it from you.”

      He shrugged. “He mouthed off about folks—about the manager—not attending to business around here.”

      Caleb frowned. “He didn’t come across that way when we hired him.”

      “He was drunker than a skunk the other day,” Ryan admitted.

      “He didn’t mention that.”

      “Why would he? Doesn’t matter. He was in the right. And I did the unthinkable.” Let months of anger and frustration and plain raw pain get the best of him. He forced his hands to relax by his sides. “I threw a sucker punch at one of my men. And you’re relocating me to the new ranch.” His own actions had led to this, yet the words left a bitter taste against his back teeth.

      Caleb nodded. “For the time being. I need someone in Flagman’s Folly, and you could use a change of scenery.”

      And a change in attitude.

      More words he and the boss didn’t need to have out in the open between them. He heard them loud and all too clear.

      He heard them ringing in his ears even now, though that conversation had taken place days ago. Afterward Caleb had hustled off to the airport, but not before Ryan assured him he would see him in a few days.

      In the weak morning light of his ranch-house bedroom, Ryan fumbled in his dresser drawers, scooping up the items he would need for a temporary but indefinite stay and shoving them into the duffel bag on the bed.

      T-shirts...handkerchiefs...briefs...bandannas... And heck, why not take the Louis L’Amour paperback from the nightstand, too? The slip of paper marking his place in the book had rested between pages eight and nine for only about six months. He just couldn’t seem to focus on the damned story, no matter that over the years he’d read it so many times he had practically memorized every word.

      He managed to ignore the dresser top and the picture frame he’d turned facedown a year ago. He could stand beside a rectangle of freshly turned soil, could stare at names and dates on a chiseled stone, but he hadn’t the willpower to look at that photo.

      Again he swallowed against the bitterness threatening his molars. Leaving Montana meant walking away from every connection he had to Jan and Billy. It meant running away from the memories, too, the good ones he could barely recall anymore, blotted out by the bad ones he couldn’t forget.

      A year since the accident, those memories still filled his days and occasionally woke him in the dead of night. The pity in his friends’ faces had added a few more rips to the torn-up places inside him. And last week, a drunken cowboy’s insults had pushed him to his breaking point.

      His throat tightened. Despite the breeze blowing in through the open window beside the bed, sweat dotted his brow. Hands hovering above the duffel bag, he paused. Before he could argue or talk himself out of his action, could brush away or second-guess the thought, he grabbed the picture frame from the dresser and slid it, still facedown, under a pile of shirts in the bag.

      He would head out late afternoon, once he’d taken care of his chores here on the ranch one last time. Once he’d swung by for a last visit to the small churchyard on Hanaman Road.

      And then...

      Then he’d drive to New Mexico.

      Only a fool would pass up the opportunity Caleb had given him, one he’d done less than nothing to deserve. Somehow he had to undo the damage he’d done, to restore his credibility with the boss. To earn back his reputation.

      The hell of it was, most of him didn’t give a damn about all that. The wonder was, a small part of him still cared enough to fight for it. Plain enough to see the unexpected reassignment would be a battle.

      A trial.

      A risk he couldn’t afford not to take.

      * * *

      ONLY A SHORT while into his solo journey, one stretch of road had started looking like any other. He drove through the night, when all the towns he came to had rolled up their sidewalks and gone to bed. Or—in the case of his arrival in Flagman’s Folly, New Mexico, sixteen hours later—hadn’t yet unrolled those sidewalks to a new day.

      As he turned onto Signal Street, he figured he could describe the main thoroughfare with his eyes closed; it was almost exactly like all the other main streets in every other small town. Some stroke of luck—good luck, for a change—made sure his eyes stayed open. Up ahead of his pickup truck, a little girl darted into the roadway.

      The luck stayed with him, letting reflexes take over. Lungs sucked in a breath. Ribs strained. Arms jerked in tandem with his wrench of the steering wheel, and both legs joined forces to jam the brake. Momentum hurled him against the shoulder belt and then ricocheted him back into the driver’s seat.

      Far past the end of the truck’s high hood, the little girl turned around, met his eyes through the windshield and gave him an angelic smile.

      As he sat there shaking his head and willing his heart to beat again, the air left his lungs in a whoosh. Other reactions washed through him, no less powerful for the delay. A tremor that shook him from head to toe. And an immediate understanding of something he’d never before believed—in moments of extreme stress, life did flash before your eyes.

      Not only your own life but those of people you loved.

      In the street, a slim woman hurried over to the girl. A puppy bounded across the adjacent lawn to join them and looked up, tail wagging and head cocked as if to ask what had happened.

      The woman led the child back to the sidewalk—where she should’ve stayed all along. What if—?

      He swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence, even in his mind. Only moments ago he’d shoved a slew of year-old questions like that from his thoughts. Now he could barely think at all.

      Both hands scrabbling, he unclasped his seat belt and shoved the door open. As his feet hit the ground, he nearly choked on the smell of scorched tires. A burning sensation raced through his insides. Pain-fueled anger flared. “Lady,” he shouted, “are you crazy?”

      Even from several yards away, he saw her blue eyes narrow. She spoke, but he couldn’t catch the response.

      Again he shook his head, wanting to chase away the memories triggered by the near miss. Needing to focus on the here and now.

      She said something else, and still he couldn’t make out the words. Obviously she was wrought up, with good reason. But that didn’t account for the blurriness of her voice.

      The hairs on the back of his neck rose. She’d risked her little girl’s life.... “Are you drunk?” he demanded.

      “No, I am not.” She clipped off each word now, making a visible effort to speak calmly and clearly.

      He frowned. Whether she denied it or not, something was up with her. “What the hell were you thinking, letting that kid run into the road?”

      “I didn’t let her. She chased after her puppy, and it was too late for me to stop her.”

      Too late.

      Not, thank God, for this little girl.

      “I’m