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“What’s Aunt Ella mean?”
Heat flooded Tasha’s cheeks. “Don’t ask, sweetheart. Just don’t ask.” The possibility that Cliff harbored the same sensual thoughts that had plagued Tasha since last night was unsettling. Despite what others might think of her, or how they judged her from her appearance alone, she didn’t engage in recreational sex. And developing a deeper relationship with Cliff would be beyond foolish. She was a New Yorker. He was a Montana cowboy. Speaking of which…
“How is it I got the distinct impression from what you told me that Cliff needed a nanny for his little boy, not so much a housekeeper? You wouldn’t be trying a little matchmaking in your spare time, would you, sister dear?”
“Moi? Why, whatever do you mean?”
Tasha glared at her sister. She’d been ambushed, darn it all, and she wasn’t going to stand for—
“Morning, missus.” A bowlegged cowboy had climbed the fence and dropped down beside Ella. He lifted his hat, uncovering a nearly bald head except for a curly fringe of carrot-red hair. Immediately Tasha recognized him from Ella’s wedding day—Rusty the ranch foreman.
“Hello, Rusty. Good to see you again,” Tasha said, extending her hand.
Giving her a big grin, and wiping his hand on his dusty trousers, he shook hands with her. “Welcome back to Montana, ma’am.”
“Thank you.”
Ella said, “Rusty’s been wonderful to me and Bryant. I don’t think the ranch could get along without him. I know I couldn’t.”
“You’d do jest fine.” He peered at the baby cradled in the sling across Ella’s chest. “He’s growing like a weed, ain’t he? He’ll be riding broncs with his daddy in no time, I reckon.”
Tasha shuddered at the thought, though she noted Ella didn’t seem disturbed by the possibility of her baby being tossed around on the back of a wild mustang.
“You planning to stay long, ma’am?” Rusty asked Tasha.
“Not really. In fact, I may cut my trip short.” The urge to escape Cliff’s superheated masculinity was a powerful one.
“You can’t,” Ella insisted. “How will Cliff run his campaign for sheriff if he doesn’t have someone to look after Stevie?”
“And fix his meals,” Tasha said pointedly.
“Now that boy is a real big eater, that he is,” Rusty said.
“Stevie?” Tasha questioned, momentarily confused.
“Nope, Cliff’s the one I mean. His brother, too, for that matter. Them two could put away a whole side of beef without any trouble at all when they was teenagers. Quite a sight to behold, it was. Kept their mama hopping in the kitchen, I can tell you that. I remember the time…”
He went on to describe when the adolescent twins had tried to outdo each other at Thanksgiving dinner and had been sick for days afterward. Somewhere in the middle of that story, Shane, the young man whose voice had cracked, joined in the conversation. Another couple of hired hands—Billy Bob and Dingle—sauntered over, happy to make Tasha’s acquaintance. A shorter man with a barrel chest wandered in to join the crowd.
Pretty soon Tasha noticed the cows weren’t putting up the ruckus they had been earlier. In fact, not much was happening as far as branding was concerned. The cows stood quietly chewing their cuds while the calves nursed or frolicked with their friends.
That was when both Cliff and his brother Bryant came riding into the midst of the crowd that had gathered around Tasha, cutting the men off as if they were calves being separated from their mothers.
“Gentlemen, you get paid for branding calves, not for chatting up the two prettiest women in the county.” Bryant leaned out of his saddle far enough to kiss his wife on the lips.
“What? Not the whole state?” she complained, laughing.
“Haven’t seen all the girls in the state yet, and I didn’t want to exaggerate.”
“Well, don’t you go lookin’, either, cowboy, or you’ll hear from me.”
Tasha was stunned by the exchange between husband and wife. Despite her big glasses, simple haircut and minimal makeup, Ella looked truly beautiful…and she’d shown more spark than Tasha could remember seeing in her intellectual sister. Marriage—and the love of a good man—had obviously changed her.
With a sinking heart, Tasha realized she’d very likely never have the chance to experience that kind of happy makeover. She might remain beautiful, though that would be an increasingly difficult battle as she grew older. But she’d never have that glow, the pure radiance Ella had achieved by simply being in love.
Tasha tried to suppress the envy that welled up in her but found she couldn’t. Instead, she turned away, her arm hooked over her daughter’s shoulder, and headed back toward Ella’s truck. She needed to start making calls to agents she knew in New York. She needed to get on with her life.
A few weeks was all she had promised Cliff. Even that might be too long if she wanted to protect her heart.
WHEN TASHA had driven through Reilly’s Gulch yesterday, she’d been concentrating more on finding the turnoff to the Double S than to the details of the town. Now, en route to find a grocery store to restock Cliff’s pitiful supply of fresh fruit and vegetables—and with the children pouting in the back seat because they had to leave the roundup before the last calf was branded—she cruised slowly down the main street checking out the buildings.
The local elementary school and the adjacent county building had matching flag poles out front, the flags fluttering gently in the afternoon breeze. The Cattlemen’s Association occupied a building next to what looked like abandoned railroad tracks.
The small business district didn’t look very promising, except for Sal’s Hotel, Bar and Grill at the end of the block where several pickups were parked out front. A gas station with repair bays sat opposite a feed store, a mechanic in blue overalls dozing in the sun.
Just as she spotted the grocery store, a red Mazda Miata convertible bumbled out of an alley in front of her and wheeled into the perfect angled parking space right at the door—the one she’d been planning to pull into.
She swore under her breath. The guy must be a transplanted Manhattan cab driver! At least it wasn’t the last spot in the city.
“Mommy, you’re not supposed to say bad words,” Melissa reminded her.
She glanced at her daughter in the rearview mirror. “You’re right, sweetheart. I’ll have to put another quarter in our piggy bank when we get back home.”
“We’re saving up to see The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center,” Melissa explained to Stevie.
“You wanna eat nuts?”
“No, silly. The Nutcracker’s a ballet.”
Tasha picked a parking spot two slots down from the Mazda and pulled in between a pickup and a Jeep.
“What’s a ballet?” Stevie asked as he followed Melissa out of the car.
Melissa did a pirouette on the sidewalk and pranced around on her tiptoes, showing off. Though, given she was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, the dance lacked a true classical flavor without the proper costuming. “Haven’t you ever seen a ballet?”
He jammed his hands in his pockets, hanging his head as if he’d missed something important in life. “Uh-uh.”
“Mommy, can we take Stevie to a ballet sometime?”
“I don’t think Reilly’s Gulch has those, honey.” A cultural hot spot, it wasn’t.
“Well, if it did, could we take him?” Melissa persisted.
“I suppose.” Cupping her daughter’s shoulder, she ushered her toward the grocery store and reached out for Stevie’s hand, too. “Come on, kids. We’ve got to get Stevie’s daddy something to eat for dinner.” And then she was going to have to iron, of all things. Hadn’t this place heard of dry cleaners? Or wash and wear?
An older gentleman wearing a sporty plaid beret and a frayed suit jacket met her at the grocery store entrance. He tipped his cap to her, revealing thinning white hair, and nodded toward her car.
“Mighty fine lookin’ Beamer,” he said.
“Thank you.” She considered skirting past him, but he was pretty well blocking the center of the double doors.
“That’s my Mazda.”
Vaguely recalling her sister had owned a Mazda convertible and sold it last winter, Tasha forced a smile. She resisted telling him what she thought of a man who’d steal a parking spot right out from under her nose.
“Red is nice,” she said noncomittally.
Aware of the dangers of talking to strangers, Melissa clung to her side.
Stevie charged forward. “Hi, Mr. O’Reilly.”
The older man shifted his wrinkles into a glad smile. “Hello, young Steven. Looks like you’re escorting two lovely ladies today.”
Stevie giggled. “These aren’t ladies. She’s our new housekeeper.” He pointed at Tasha, then indicated Melissa. “And she’s only a little girl, same as I’m a little boy.”
“You’re littler,” Melissa corrected. “I’m almost seven.”
Before an argument broke out, Tasha introduced herself to the gentleman, who she learned was Chester O’Reilly, descendant of the town founders, and the owner of the only franchised taxi service in Reilly’s Gulch. She thought the reason for only one such service in town was pretty obvious, but he seemed so proud of his community duties, Tasha didn’t see any reason to point out the probable lack of demand for cabs in this small town.
As she tried to excuse herself to get on with her shopping, he said, “If you decide to sell your Beamer, let me know. I’m thinking of expanding my taxi service.”
“You are?” That sounded like the height of optimism to Tasha.
“Yep. Billy Flynn turned over his ranch operations to his boys and he’s got some extra time on his hands. Figured I could keep him busy doing taxi work. Shoot, he’s only eighty-two, way too young to retire. And there’s lots of potential ’round here, you know. Only a question of time till I’m busier than flies on a fresh cow pie.”
“Yes, well…” She wrinkled her nose and mumbled something about keeping Chester in mind if she decided to sell her car while she was in town, then scooted herself and the children past him into the grocery store.
Reilly’s Gulch might lack for cultural amenities but the town certainly wasn’t short on characters. Tasha suspected Chester was only the tip of that particular iceberg.
She doubted the town was short of good-looking men, either. Unfortunately one in particular held a special attraction for her.
Clifford Swain.
Chapter Three
Cliff pulled his truck into the sheriff’s parking lot behind the combined city hall and county courthouse, a squat brick building that had been constructed in the 1930s. He’d barely had time to stop by home, shower and get dressed after his day at the roundup. He’d given Stevie a hug, said a quick hello to Tasha and her daughter, and then he’d been on his way.
Fortunately it was only a couple of weeks out of the year when he burned the candle at both ends, being both cowboy and deputy sheriff. But he owned half the Double S. Even though he never took any of the profits from the ranch—assuming there were any—he couldn’t leave his brother to do all the hard work during roundups. Besides, he kind of liked keeping his hand in the business.
Aching muscles or not, it felt good to ride hard, work harder and have something to show for his efforts.
Which was more than he could say for the success of the sheriff’s office at catching the band of rustlers who’d been plaguing the area for the past year, including the time Cliff was living in Los Angeles.
Adjusting his sidearm, he went into the office. Sheriff Colman was behind the counter talking to Deputy Andy Linear, a Barney Fife look-alike and not a whole lot smarter.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” he said. He hooked his hat on a peg and joined them at the counter where they were studying a large-scale map of the area.
Reed County encompassed some twenty thousand square miles of mostly rolling hills, grassland suitable for grazing cattle. Periodically rivers and winter creeks bisected the land, creating ravines and forming lakes and ponds. To the west, the land rose, becoming more forested. To the east was prairie country. Within the county boundaries only a few small towns existed, shown on the map as clusters of houses and often connected by nothing more than gravel roads.
“What’s up?” Cliff asked.
Larry Colman tapped the map at a spot south of Reilly’s Gulch. “Got a report of another truckload of steers picked up from the King place last night. The King ranch got hit last year, too.”
Larry had put on a good fifty pounds in the years he’d served as county sheriff. Though his body wasn’t as agile as it used to be, his mind was still alert and he was eager to get on with retirement in order to pursue his other interests—primarily opening a museum to house his old-time radio memorabilia, from Captain Midnight decoder rings to a set of broadcast tapes from early Green Hornet shows.
“You find tire tracks?” Cliff asked.
“Yep. We went out to investigate this morning first thing. An eighteen wheeler’s, rear inside left tire with a notch in it same as the other jobs.”
“And another full moon last night,” Andy pointed out.
Cliff studied the map. “That’s when they do their best work.” Last month during the full moon a ranch to the east had been victimized in the same way, the first rustling activity reported since the winter snows had melted. “Looks like it’s going to be another long summer unless we get a lead on them. Or they make a mistake.”
“These particular crooks are sneaky devils,” Larry commented. “Using a big truck like that, then poof! It vanishes into nowhere before we even get word of the missing steers.”
Andy said, “It’s just like that big TV magician who makes the Statue of Liberty and airplanes and stuff disappear. Now you see it, now you don’t.”
Cliff suspected they were hiding the truck somewhere safe between jobs, but he didn’t have a clue where that might be. So far the Double S hadn’t lost any steers. Idly he wondered how long their good luck would last.
The office door opened and in marched Winifred Bruhn, editor, publisher and sole reporter for the Reed County Register. She was also a member of the school board and the self-appointed head of the town’s morality police.
“Seems to me you folks ought to be out catching criminals instead of standing there chewing the fat.” She whipped out a notepad and slapped it on the counter. “Now then, Sheriff, what are you planning to do about those rustlers stealing the livelihoods right out from under our citizens’ noses?”
Larry exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “We’re working on it, Winnie. Like always.”
“Fine lot of good you’re doing. How many head were taken last night?” Something about her narrow nose and drooping eyebrows gave her a perpetually sour expression that made it easy to understand why she’d never married. Her shrill voice alone would be enough to scare away any man.
“The Kings figure about thirty,” Larry told her.
Winnie jotted that fact down in her notebook.
Having no interest in Winifred’s interrogation of the sheriff, Cliff eased away from the counter. The rustlers could be hiding their truck in a whole different county—hell, a different state, for that matter. If they had something more to go on, they could ask other jurisdictions to keep an eye out for the suspect vehicle. As it was, any truck going down the highway could be the one involved in the crime. But they couldn’t stop them all to check the tires. Not without probable cause.
Finished with Larry, Winifred cornered Cliff as he was riffling through Wanted flyers. “I want to know what you plan to do about the band of rustlers if you’re elected sheriff.”
“I’m likely to be elected,” he said easily, “since I’m running unopposed.”
“That might change. There’s another two days left before the filing deadline, young man, and there’s talk in town of wanting new blood in the sheriff’s office.”
“Sorry to hear that, ma’am.”
“Well, you’d best come up with a statement saying how you plan to catch those crooks. There’s folks in this county saying they won’t stand for another do-nothing sheriff.”
Irritated by Winifred’s criticism of Larry—who’d been a damn good sheriff—Cliff struggled to come up with a decent quote. Of course he planned to catch the rustlers. But in his business there were no guarantees. The voters shouldn’t ask for them, but he supposed they had the right, even when that wasn’t a fair way to make a judgment. All he could promise was to do his very best.
After what seemed like ages, Winifred left, her notebook filled with misquotes, Cliff was sure. Dealing with the Reed County Register and its star reporter wasn’t going to be the favorite part of his job as sheriff.
He was just getting ready to go out on patrol when Larry said, “Looks like you’ve got a new housekeeper.”
