The Wrangler. Lindsay McKenna
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driver: Griff McPherson. But who was the woman with him? Curt couldn’t place her. His focus shifted to the flatbed now backed up next to his rig.
“Well, well,” he said to himself as he saw Griff get out. “He’s finally got a real job….”
Val eased out of the truck. The door squealed as she shut it. Turning around and seeing Curt Downing on the platform, she frowned. Great. She recognized his features from many years ago, and since her return Gus had been warning her about him. He’d been the rebellious son of Red Downing who had taken over his parents’ ranch after their deaths. Since then, Gus had told her, he’d become a local kingpin and made it known to everyone how filthy rich he was. With so many ranchers struggling just to make ends meet, Val couldn’t stand to see the arrogant look on his face. It turned her stomach.
She walked around the front of the truck to Griff.
“You start putting bales on the truck. I’ll pay Andy for them in the store.”
Griff nodded. He knew the way things worked around here. “No problem,” he said as he tugged on his elk-skin gloves and scooped up the two hooks from behind the seat. Val was all business. She hadn’t talked much on their drive to the Emporium. While he wished she’d be a little warmer, Griff understood better why she continued to be standoffish.
Looking up at the platform that swirled with wranglers, Griff saw Curt standing off to one side. The red-haired cowboy stared belligerently back at him. In addition to the FBI fingering him as a suspect, Griff disliked Downing because he was a cheat and a liar. He’d heard from Slade’s wife, Jordana, that he’d tried to hit Thor with a crop during the endurance contest. Downing had forced her off the trail and was well-known for such underhanded tricks. Word had it that other endurance riders had been at the end of his attacks, too. And Downing always did his dirty work out of the sight of judges so no one had proof. And in the world of endurance riding, it had to be seen to be believed by the judges.
Mounting the stairs, Griff saw Downing’s brown eyes go steely. He was Slade’s brother and there was automatic hate between them as a result. Griff had never done anything to Downing, but this man couldn’t separate them. He was a McPherson therefore, to be distrusted. Griff met his hard gaze with one of his own as he stepped onto the busy platform. He wasn’t going to make small talk with this bastard.
“Hey, McPherson, you finally get a gig?” Downing asked in a pleasant tone.
Griff halted about six feet away from the rancher. “Don’t you have better things to do, Downing?” He saw Downing’s mouth curve into a rueful smile.
“No, not really. Looks like you got a red-haired filly in that truck. Who is she?”
Anger moved through Griff. He saw the arrogant smile increase across Downing’s full lips. “That’s Val Hunter, owner of the Bar H.”
Brows rising, Downing said, “What?”
Seeing shock register on the man’s face, Griff moved past him and got on with the business of hauling fifty bales of grass hay to his flatbed. Griff figured few people knew Val had returned home. Chuckling to himself, he hooked the first bale and wrestled it out to the flatbed. He was sure Gwen Garner, the owner of the quilt store, would know. That was the place to go if anyone wanted to find out what was going on in Jackson Hole. He wondered if Downing would take a drive over there to talk with her. Probably.
Val emerged from the Horse Emporium. The sun was warm upon her shoulders. She looked toward the hay platform, filled with hardworking, sweaty men. What she didn’t like seeing was Curt Downing. He was such a pain in the ass.
Val retrieved her elk-skin gloves from the truck, intending to arrange the bales Griff had delivered to the truck.
“Hey!” Downing called, walking over to the edge of the platform.
Val looked up and frowned. “Yes?” she called, pulling on her gloves.
“I’m Curt Downing. You must be Val Hunter? Gus’s granddaughter, right?”
She hated even making small talk with this bastard. Hauling herself up into the bed of the truck, Val said, “Yes, I am. Excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
Nostrils flaring, Downing watched as she turned her back to him. Despite his anger at her affront, he watched the woman with interest, perusing her long, lean body. She was in fine shape as she moved those bales around, lifting them without a problem. Not only that, she was damn good-looking. When did she get into town? And why was she suddenly back? Rubbing his chin, Downing decided he’d have to make a call on Gwen Garner. She’d know a lot more. And it was obvious that Val wasn’t interested in talking to him. Too bad, Downing thought. He’d seen no ring on her left hand before she’d pulled on her work gloves. Maybe she came back because the Bar H was going belly-up? Curt had wanted to buy the two-hundred-acre ranch for a long time now. It was strategic to his valley-wide plans.
Moving down the stairs, he quickly walked to his red Chevy pickup and climbed in. While the mice were away, the cat could play. It was time he gave Gus Hunter a little visit.
* * *
GUS HEARD THE POUNDING on the screen door. She was in the kitchen making cookies when the harsh sound echoed down the hall.
“Hold your horses!” she yelled, wiping off her hands and grabbing her cane. Who could it be? Val and Griff had left an hour ago to get supplies in town.
Hobbling down the hall, she saw a tall, broad-shouldered man standing at the door. Lifting her upper lip into a snarl, Gus quickly recognized him. She shoved the screen door open, making him leap back.
“What the hell you doin’ here?”
Curt doffed his cowboy hat in deference to the small woman glaring up at him. “Why, Miss Gus, I thought I’d drop by and say hello.” Downing held up a sack. “I brought us some lattes. I thought we might sit out here on your porch and chat a spell?” Curt saw the silver-haired woman sneer at him. Oh, he knew Gus was a red-hot pistol. She spoke her mind and didn’t care at all about diplomacy. He added a hopeful smile and gave her a pleading look. “Please?”
Snorting softly, Gus let the screen door slam shut behind her. “You listen to me, you young whippersnapper, I’m not interested in sellin’ the Bar H! That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Curt ambled over to the small table near the swing at the end of the enclosed porch. “Why, Miss Gus, you misunderstand my intentions,” he said in a soothing voice. Setting the sack down, Curt opened it up and placed two Starbucks coffee cups on the table. “I was at the Horse Emporium just now and I saw your truck. Griff McPherson was driving it.” He walked over and offered one to Gus. “I was surprised. I wanted to make sure that he hadn’t stolen it from you.” Curt congratulated himself on planting seeds in her mind that McPherson was not to be trusted.
“Get that crappy coffee outta my face!” She raised her cane and threatened to strike the cup out of Downing’s hand. “I like real coffee! Not that citified stuff!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Miss Gus.” Curt feigned a hurt look. He quickly placed the cups back into the sack. “Might you invite me in for a real cup of coffee, then?” He added a warm smile along with a coaxing look he hoped would melt her anger.
Gus scowled. “I’d rather invite a pissed-off rattler in to dine with me, Downing.”
He looked up and placed his hand over his heart. “Miss Gus, you hurt me to the quick.”
“You can’t hurt a rock.”
Downing had always respected her spunk. Prodding Gus was like prodding a bull elk in heat: you knew he would get angry and charge. “Now, Miss Gus, I came out here with concern for you. That was your flatbed I saw at the Horse Emporium?”
“Of course it was! And what business is that of yours? You aren’t Gwen Garner! I don’t mind speaking to her, but you, I don’t trust any further than I could throw you.”
Curt smiled inwardly. The old woman’s