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Charles Montoya stopped walking and glanced over his shoulder, a stunned expression forming on his face when he recognized just who had hailed him.
Yeah. It’s me. Surprised?
Ryan’s mouth clamped into a hard straight line as he slowed to a walk, and damned if Charles didn’t take on a polite, distant expression.
“Can I help you?” he said.
“Yes, you can. Stay away from my mother,” Ryan said as he came to a stop.
“Excuse me?”
And this was when the bluff came in, because although he knew from Cindy, his mother’s best friend, that Charles had been in contact with his mom—and that she’d been in a deep funk for days afterward—he didn’t know the nuts and bolts of the situation. As always, Lydia Madison was protecting people. Ryan. Charles. Everyone but herself.
Ryan took a step forward, putting himself close enough to his father that the guy knew he meant business. “Leave my mother alone. No contact. Understand?”
A fierce frown formed between Charles’s heavy white eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You called her, you threatened her, and if you do it again, the era of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ is over. Forever.”
Charles drew himself up in a way that told Ryan he wasn’t used to being challenged. Tough shit.
“Don’t threaten me,” he rumbled.
“Or?” Ryan asked calmly. “You’ll tell the world the truth?”
The older man’s face went brilliantly red and then, apparently unable to find a reply, he turned on his heel and stalked toward the stands. He’d made it only a few steps before he stopped dead in his tracks.
Ryan’s first thought was, What the hell? But he quickly saw exactly what had brought his father to a screeching halt. The golden son, Matt, stood about fifteen yards away, blocking Charles’s escape between two trailers.
Cool. A twisted family reunion.
Ryan started walking before he had a chance to think things through. He had a few words for his brother, too. Matt also moved forward, while Charles stayed planted, one son approaching from the front, one from the rear. Trapped.
Matt’s face was a blank mask when he stopped in front of his father, his gaze raking quickly over the old man’s face before moving on to Ryan.
“I was just explaining to your father how much his recent phone call to my mom had upset her,” Ryan said.
If he’d had any question as to whether or not Matt would automatically back his father, it was answered when his brother shot Charles a fiercely angry look.
“If it happens again,” Ryan continued, “I’ll make a call of my own.” If his mother was being harassed, then Montoya’s mother could join the fray.
“Do that,” Matt growled, “and I’ll beat the shit out of you.”
“Or try?” Ryan asked flatly before he turned his attention back to Charles, who appeared to be on the verge of a stroke, he was so red. “No more calls, you son of a bitch. Leave her alone.”
Then, having had all the family reunion he could handle for one day, he turned and stalked back toward his trailer. Neither Montoya followed him. Good thing.
He loaded PJ, locked the tack compartment, pocketed his keys. Now that his mission was accomplished, he had to stop by the rodeo office and then grab a hamburger for the road before he put a couple hundred miles between himself and his old man. If he could choke a burger down. Talk about a bad taste.
“Great run, Ryan!” a young voice called as he approached the rodeo office.
Ryan smiled and nodded at the boy dressed in chaps and carrying a red, white and blue rope. “Thanks, bud.”
He conducted his business in the rodeo office, which took about fifteen minutes longer than it should have, and got into the concession line.
People stopped and said hello as he waited, congratulating him on his run—still the winning time—and Ryan chatted with a few of them even though he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there. He’d just made it to the counter and was about to give his order when a collective gasp went up from the crowd, followed by silence. The nasty kind of silence that indicated something bad had just happened. Ryan’s gut tightened as he waited for the hubbub that would erupt when the injured cowboy got back to his feet. The crowd remained stubbornly silent.
“Oh, no,” the elderly lady in the booth gasped, craning her neck to see, but the solid gate panels blocked the view.
“Our medical team is on the scene, taking a look at this cowboy,” the announcer finally said in a reassuring voice. “As you know, these guys are the best in the business.” The ambulance rolled past the concession stand then, and the wide arena gate swung open to give access. The lady gasped again and Ryan instantly understood why.
The sorrel horse with the distinctive white spot on his side standing near the crouched group surrounding the downed cowboy belonged to the crowd favorite.
His brother. Matt Montoya.
* * *
JUST WHEN ELLIE was beginning to think the dusty single-track road was never going to end, she rounded a corner and a rustic ranch spread out in front of her in postcardlike perfection. She pulled her leased Land Rover to a halt, taking in the large red barn and several smaller outbuildings on the edge of green fields. The single-story, shake-roofed house with a porch surrounding it on three sides nestled close to a stand of evergreen trees. Cows and horses grazed in the pastures and a pair of large birds flew in lazy circles over the pond at the edge of one of the fields.
Milo had bought the place eight months ago and since then had spent a grand total of one week there, shortly after the purchase, but didn’t seem to be able to stop talking about “his ranch” to anyone who would listen. Now Ellie understood why. It was gorgeous.
Gorgeous and really, really close.
After fifteen hours of travel Ellie was more than ready for a hot bath and a bed. Ten minutes later she parked at the end of the flagstone walk, not liking the fact that the place felt as deserted up close as it had appeared from a distance. Had Angela or Milo told the staff she’d be arriving? A question Ellie hadn’t thought to ask. Ellie, who always thought of everything.
She’d been rattled lately. Disorganized. Not herself.
Ellie rang the bell. After the second ring she knocked, then, after a suitable amount of time, tried the handle. Locked. Okay. She set down her handbag and stood for a moment, hands on hips, surveying the ranch, watching for some sign of movement around the barn and outbuildings. Nothing.
Great. Her feet hurt and the small of her back ached from sitting for too long and she wanted to get inside. Now.
She started walking around the house, her heels clunking hollowly on the wooden porch, looking for another way in and wondering if she was going to have to call Angela to get the number of the caretaker. She tried the side entrance, the back entrance, the sliding door. No luck. She’d just pulled her phone from her jacket pocket when she heard the sound of an engine.
Salvation.
Ellie rounded the corner of the house in time to see a woman with long dark hair scramble out of the open Jeep.
“Miss Bradworth?” she called as she strode up the walk, her long flannel shirt flapping loosely over very worn jeans.
“Hunter,” Ellie called back. “Mrs. Bradworth is my aunt.”
“Oh.” The woman quickly crossed the distance between them, taking the porch steps two at a time. “Sorry about the wait. I didn’t know you were coming until half an hour ago.”
“Really?” How was that possible?
The woman held out a wad of keys and then, after Ellie automatically took them, shoved her hands into her back pockets. “I was in town when Walt called and got here as quickly as I could. I hope you haven’t waited for too long.”
There was nothing about the woman’s tone that was impolite, but there was nothing that was particularly friendly, either. Ellie felt rather like an interloper. Well, she was an interloper related to the owner of this place.
“Thanks for hurrying,” Ellie said, holding out her free hand. “Ms....”
“Garcia. Jessie Garcia.” Jessie met her gaze directly as they shook hands and Ellie was struck by how really gorgeous the woman was, with high cheekbones and amazing dark eyes.
“I’m Ellison Hunter. Milo and Angela’s niece.”
“Will you be staying long?”
“My stay is open-ended.”
Jessie pulled her mouth into a polite smile, yet Ellie sensed she was not pleased with the answer. Why?
Probably because life was easier when the staff had the place to themselves.
“I hope you enjoy your time here,” Jessie said coolly.
“I’m sure I will.”
“There’s no fresh food in the house, but you should be able to find some things in the freezer and pantry.”
“Thanks.”
Jessie smiled slightly then started back down the steps.
“Excuse me,” Ellie called, waiting for the woman to turn back before she said, “How can I get hold of Mr. Feldman?”
“Walt?” A shadow crossed Jessie’s face. “It’s Sunday.”
“Yes.”
“It’s his day off.”
“I see. And after that?”
“I’ll have him give you a call. Okay?”
“Thank you.”
Ellie had the distinct impression that Jessie wanted to escape and was getting annoyed at the prolonged conversation, but her tone was courteous when she said, “Anything else?”
I want to meet with the staff.... But she’d pass that along through Mr. Feldman when they got a chance to talk. “Not right now.”
“Well, have a good one.”
The woman climbed into the Jeep. It coughed once, then the engine caught and roared to life. Jessie raised a hand then turned the Jeep into a tight U and sped back down the road in the direction from which she’d come.
Ellie held up the ring of nine keys, frowned a little and then picked one at random. Surprisingly, it slid into the lock and the mechanism clicked open. A bed and a bath awaited.
Maybe her luck was changing for the better.
CHAPTER TWO
RYAN HAD HAD his share of knocks in life, but he was having a hard time recalling a day where he’d had two big emotional wallops back-to-back like this.
Right now he had no idea where his father was, what he was doing or thinking or planning—although it had better not involve his mother—but he knew exactly where his brother was: lying in a hospital with a career-ending crushed leg. Ryan was more shaken by the accident than he wanted to admit.
For almost two decades, Matt had been his fiercest roping competition, and for fifteen of those years, he’d known they were half brothers, thanks to a painful heart-to-heart with his mother after that fistfight in the rodeo grounds’ john. That conversation had explained why Matt hated him so much—because he existed.
Well, Ryan was pissed at the situation himself. They shared a father, but Matt had been the son with a father in residence. Matt had been the son with the fancy horses and trucks and trailers. He’d enjoyed the kind of easy, charmed career that money made possible—right up until a few hours ago when that charmed career had come to a screeching halt, leaving the way wide open for Ryan to take his place in the National Finals.
Ryan didn’t feel good about that at all. The short visit to his highly doped-up brother in the hospital before he’d started the drive home hadn’t helped. All Matt had been concerned about was that Ryan not call his mother.
As if.
He needed a tall beer and about ten hours of sleep. Then maybe he’d be in better condition to deal with all the shit that had gone down today.
He turned down the two-mile-long driveway leading to the Rocky View Ranch, where he’d lived and worked since graduating high school. At one time, back in his great-grandfather’s day, the ranch had encompassed more than two sections and employed a dozen people. Most of the hands had lived in the bunkhouse, but there were two staff houses with their own corrals and outbuildings located half a mile from the main house, which gave the residents some privacy. The ranch manager and his family had lived in one house and the rural schoolteacher had stayed in the other for nine months out of the year.
Now the ranch was smaller by a section, the school had been bulldozed thirty years ago, and Ryan’s friends and coworkers, Jessie and Francisco Garcia, lived in the schoolteacher’s house. Walt Feldman, who’d owned the place up until a year ago, lived in the manager’s place next door. Most of the time, he was okay with that.
Most of the time.
Ryan still lived in the small three-room homestead house behind the barn on the main ranch that he’d moved into the week after graduating college with his degree in range management. It was hot in summer, cold in winter, way too cramped and right now he wanted to get there like nobody’s business.
Jessie and Francisco’s place came into view, lit to the max. Walt’s house, an eighth of a mile away, was dark. Ryan had barely registered how much he didn’t like that when Jessie stepped out of her house and waved frantically at him before trotting down the steps as he slowed to a stop.
“We have a problem,” she said as soon as he rolled the window down. “One of the family is at the house. She came this afternoon. Walt didn’t even tell me until she was already on the property. He called me from town and I was lucky to get the keys down to her.”
Well, shit.
“Do I need to go looking for him?” he asked.
Jessie shook her head. “Francisco called just a few minutes ago. No surprise that he found him in a bar, but I’m afraid if he brings him back here, Walt might try to go to the house. Scare the lady...get himself fired.”
Ryan pressed his fingertips to his forehead. It’d been one long friggin day and he’d been looking forward to that beer and some sleep.
“All right,” he said just as a loud “Ma-a-a” sounded from inside the small house. Jessie ignored her son’s plaintive call, her dark eyes holding on Ryan’s face as she waited for him to tell her how they’d handle the situation. One thing was for certain: he didn’t want Walt anywhere near the main house while he was drunk. Sometimes Walt didn’t remember who owned the place—or that he’d basically been sold with the ranch, along with the rest of them. Once, Ryan had found him asleep in the master bedroom after one of his benders. That would never do while the family was in residence.
“Ma-a-a!” Four-year-old Jeffrey stepped out onto the porch holding his bear by one ear. “I need you!”
“Sounds like you’re needed,” Ryan said as Bella and Emmie toddled out onto the porch behind their brother, one taking hold of Jeff’s bear, the other his shirtsleeve, before they simultaneously put their thumbs in their mouths. “I’ll take care of things and see that Francisco gets back home.”
“Thanks, Ry. It’s bath night.”
Jessie stepped back and Ryan put the truck into low gear, easing the horse trailer forward as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He punched the number three with his thumb and Francisco answered almost immediately.
“Found him.”
“Drive him to my mom’s,” Ryan said. Lydia would keep Walt contained until he sobered up. “I’ll take it from there.”
