Operation: Midnight Cowboy. Linda Castillo
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year, especially the part about her not wanting to be there. But Rachael couldn’t think of how to change the situation. Without losing her job, anyway.
Raising her hand, she displayed a small gap between her thumb and forefinger. “I was this close to nailing Karas.”
“From what I hear, Karas came that close to killing you.”
“I got into a scrape,” she conceded. “But what agent hasn’t over the years? Cutter overreacted.”
Bo Ruskin looked away from his driving, his expression telling her he wasn’t impressed by her wrath—and that he didn’t necessarily agree with her.
Their vehicle passed beneath a steel pipe arch bearing a sign that read Dripping Springs Ranch. Beyond, a white clapboard house and several outbuildings stood prettily against an endless blue sky. Within the confines of a neat pipe fence, several spotted horses looked up from their grazing.
“So what do you do out here?” Rachael asked, taking in the barns and fenced corrals.
One side of his mouth curved. “You mean out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“Well…yeah.”
“I train and breed horses, mostly.” He parked in front of the garage and killed the engine. “Run fences. Repair the outbuildings when the wind kicks up.”
“Seems…quiet.”
“It is.”
“Do you ever miss being an agent?”
His eyes darkened for a fraction of a second. “Nope.”
A man of few words, she thought. Probably a good thing at this point because she didn’t feel much like talking. She wasn’t sure she’d like what he had to say, anyway. Maybe they’d get along after all.
Or maybe not.
He hefted her single suitcase from the back and carried it to the front door of the house. Rachael had never been a fan of anything country, but the house made a lovely picture against the backdrop of crisp blue sky and purple-hued mountains. A railed porch wrapped around the front of the house. Geraniums grew in profusion from an old wooden barrel that had been split in half and filled with soil. A dinner bell dangled from a hook just outside the door. Beyond, an old-fashioned porch swing rocked in the breeze.
The screen door squeaked when he opened it. Rachael stepped into a large, open living room adorned with rustic furniture and lots of rough-hewn wood beams. A Native American rug graced a pine floor. Beyond was a small but well-appointed kitchen and a window that offered a stunning view of the mountains.
“That’s Bareback Mountain.”
“It’s lovely.”
“You’ve got the guestroom upstairs.”
Rachael followed him up the staircase to a narrow hall with five doors. They passed three bedrooms and a large bathroom equipped with an antique claw-footed tub.
The fourth bedroom was small but comfortable with terra-cotta paint, fresh white wainscoting and an intricately made quilt on the twin-size bed. A feminine touch graced the room and she found herself wondering about his decorator. “This is nice,” she said.
“Pauline cooks and cleans a couple of times a week. I let her furnish the room about a year ago.”
“She did a good job.” She wondered about his relationship with Pauline.
He looked large and out of place in the small room, like a wild animal that was trapped indoors.
“I make tortillas and tamales for dinner, Señor Ruskin,” came a female voice from the hall.
Rachael spun to find a small, dark-eyed woman at the door. She wore a full skirt, denim vest—and cowboy boots. Her eyes widened when they landed on Rachael. “Hello.”
Bo cleared his throat. “Pauline, this is Rachael Armitage.” His gaze flicked to Rachael. “Pauline Ortegon runs the house and just about everything else here at Dripping Springs.”
“Nice to meet you,” Rachael said.
The woman was fiftyish with long black hair shot with silver and pulled into a ponytail that reached all the way to the waistband of her skirt. Turquoise earrings in the shape of horses dangled from her lobes. The only thing missing, Rachael thought, was the gun belt and six-shooter.
“Welcome to Dripping Springs Ranch,” Pauline said with a strong Spanish accent.
“Rachael’s going to be staying with us a few days,” Bo said.
“Oh.” The woman’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Questions flitted in her eyes, but she did not voice them. “In that case, I will bring clean linens and soaps.” She started toward the door, but turned before going through it. “I make tamales and tortillas for tonight for supper.”
“Thank you,” Bo said.
Nodding, she left the room.
Rachael looked down at the small bed, wishing she was anywhere but here. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful about staying here,” she said. “I appreciate your putting me up.”
“I owe Cutter a favor.” His smile looked more like a grimace. “This ought to even things up.”
A shadow passed over his eyes at the mention of the favor. Rachael wondered what the debt was. “You must owe him big time, since you’re no longer an agent.”
“Cutter and I go way back. He wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t seriously worried about your safety.” He motioned toward the window and the ranch spread out beyond. “He knew the ranch would be the perfect place for you to lay low.”
“Laying low isn’t my style,” she muttered.
“It is while you’re here.”
A sharp retort hovered on her tongue, but Rachael didn’t voice it. Her beef was with Cutter, not Bo Ruskin. Still, the idea of spending the next week stuck in this room disheartened her. “So how do you spend your days here?”
“Work mostly.”
She tried again. “What kind of work?”
“I train horses. For area ranchers. Breeders. People who show them.”
She remembered seeing the horses grazing in the pasture when they’d driven up the lane to the house. “Spotted horses?”
“Appaloosas.” Looking anxious to leave, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his snug, faded jeans. “Do you know how to ride? There are some pretty trails on the ranch.”
She laughed, but it was a nervous sound. She didn’t like the fish-out-of-water sensation creeping over her. “I rode a couple of times when I was a teenager. I’m not very good at it.”
“I have a gentle mount if you want to do some exploring.”
She hadn’t ridden since she was thirteen, to be exact, and spent most of that day on her rump. “Do you have a mode of transportation that doesn’t entail hooves?”
One side of his mouth curved into a half smile. “A four-wheeler.”
“Now you’re talking.”
“If you want to take a spin, just let me or Pauline know. I’ll leave a map of the ranch on the counter for you.”
“Thank you.”
“I also have a ranch foreman. Jimmy Hargrove. He’s a little crusty, but if you need anything he’ll be happy to help you.”
Rachael studied him for a moment, her mind taking her back to the one and only time she’d met him. Michael’s funeral. She’d been so grief-stricken that day, she barely remembered. But she did remember Bo Ruskin’s eyes. When he’d approached her and offered his hand in sympathy for her loss, his gaze had reflected the same devastation she’d