Reclaiming the Cowboy. Kathleen O'Brien
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there.” Dallas reached Mitch just as Alec disappeared through the side doors, leaving a trail of kicked sand behind him. Dallas patted the new pony’s neck. “How’s Rusty doing?”
“He’s fine.” Mitch stroked the pony’s flank approvingly. “But don’t make small talk. You know something. Tell me.”
Dallas continued to rub the pony’s glossy coat. He hadn’t yet met Mitch’s eyes, which was truly unnerving. Dallas was rarely daunted by uncomfortable truths. It was one of the traits that made him a good sheriff. He could deliver bad news with as much composure as he delivered the good.
“Dallas.” The drumming against Mitch’s ribs sped up. “You’re killing me here.”
Dallas finally looked straight at him. “We should probably sit down.”
Mitch didn’t argue. He waved a finger to one of the stable hands who was in the corner viewing room, talking on a cell phone. He pointed to Rusty, and the young man scurried out to take the pony away.
“Okay. Let’s go over here.” With the horse disposed of, Mitch led the way to the far side of the paddock. He opened one of the latches on the kickboards and took the first of the spectator seats on the first row of bleachers.
Dallas left an empty seat between them when he sat. He laid his hat down there with a sigh.
“We found her,” he said. “She’s alive and well. She lives in Sacramento. But...her name’s not Bonnie.”
At first, all Mitch could feel was the relief. Alive. Well. Damn, those were beautiful words.
But then the rest of Dallas’s sentence sank in. Her name’s not Bonnie. It shouldn’t have shocked him. He’d known she must’ve been using a fake name—nothing else made sense. But, as he heard it confirmed, he was glad he was sitting, as if the solid floor might have turned to swamp.
He thought of all the times he’d said her name. Laughing. Whispering. Crying into the night air.
Damn it, Bonnie, where are you?
Bonnie, Bonnie, please...
“No, of course not.” He sat up straight. “What is her name, then?”
Dallas eyed him for a minute before speaking. Mitch felt as if he were being measured, like a horse being fitted for a bit, to see how much of the truth he could take between his teeth at once.
“Annabelle Irving.”
The name was oddly anticlimactic. It meant nothing to Mitch. It was the name of a stranger.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “But who is Annabelle Irving?”
Dallas smiled. “I didn’t know, either. Apparently we’re just a couple of dumb cowboys. But with the cultured crowd she’s somebody. Her grandmother was a well-known artist, and Annabelle was her favorite subject. There’s a whole set of paintings of her called the Annabelle Oils, and collectors go nuts for them.”
Okay... Mitch rubbed the knee of his jeans. That was okay, right? An artist’s model. He could live with that. And instinctively, he could believe it. He remembered how unnaturally still and self-contained Bonnie could be. She didn’t even change her expression, sometimes for many minutes at a time. He’d once wondered whether she’d been a nun, because she seemed so accustomed to sitting in silent immobility.
But why would an artist’s model need to go on the run under an assumed name? It wasn’t as if your average person had ever heard of her. She could have shouted, “I am Annabelle Irving” from the rooftops of Silverdell, and no one would have so much as blinked.
He narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute. To match her fingerprints, you have to have a set on file, right? I mean...her prints as Annabelle Irving had to be in the system. How does an artist’s model get her prints into the database?”
One of the trainers had just brought a palomino into the paddock on a lead line. Mitch wished he could yell at her to get out and come back later. But Bell River was a working dude ranch, humming with staff, guests and wall-to-wall activities. He wasn’t going to find complete privacy anywhere.
Dallas flicked a glance toward the young woman, then bent forward, his elbows on his knees, and lowered his voice.
“She was in the system because about seven years ago, when she was eighteen, she stabbed a man with a pair of pruning shears.”
Mitch drew back. “Bullshit.” He said it too loudly, and the trainer glanced their way for one split second before studiously returning her attention to the horse. Mitch wasn’t technically anyone’s boss, but the family tie was close enough to make employees reluctant to cross him.
Dallas frowned, and Mitch shook his head roughly. “Sorry, but...stabbed a man? Like hell she did.”
“I’m afraid that part isn’t even disputed. There’s a police report. She admitted stabbing her cousin, a lawyer named Jacob Burns. She says it was self-defense, because he tried to molest her. He says they were arguing over management of the estate, which, upon her grandmother’s death, had been left to an executor.”
Mitch felt a touch of nausea roll through him. “Her cousin tried to... What the devil do they really mean by ‘molest’? He tried to rape her?”
Then he realized that, instinctively, he’d already decided Bonnie was telling the truth, not this disgusting Jacob whatever. “I mean...come on. The guy’s her cousin? That’s just sick.”
“If it happened that way.” Dallas sounded patient. “But clearly the cops didn’t buy her story. Apparently, she had a history of erratic behavior, though this is the only episode that occurred after she turned eighteen. Earlier records are sealed, because she was a juvenile. And, no, I’m not going to try to get someone to pry them open.”
“I wasn’t going to ask you to.” Mitch glared at his brother, his mind going a mile a minute. “So...what? What’s the bottom line here? You think she was running from her cousin?”
Dallas lifted his shoulders. “Don’t know. I didn’t dig any deeper. You asked for a name, and I got one. At the time, no charges were brought, so even if she thought she was running from her cousin, there’s no evidence that...”
“That what?” Mitch’s lips felt stiff.
“That Jacob Burns is dangerous. He was never arrested. He was about twenty-five at the time, just out of law school. He practices in Sacramento now, and apparently he’s a big deal. Annabelle, on the other hand...” He hesitated. “The authorities sent her for psychiatric evaluation, and she spent some time in a mental-health clinic. Just a few weeks, but—”
“But you think she’s nuts. What the hell, Dallas? You knew Bonnie. We all did. You think she’s insane?”
“No.” Dallas spoke slowly, and pity dripped from the word. He pitied Mitch, because Mitch had fallen in love with a kook. “Not insane. But maybe...troubled. You know? Maybe she’s trouble.”
Mitch thought his blood pressure must be about a thousand—he could feel his heart beating behind his eyes. He wanted to punch someone or something. He’d punch Dallas, except that he’d learned better about twenty years ago. Dallas might be a saint, but he had a right hook like a demon.
“Yeah, well, I remember what Dad said about Rowena, back in the day,” he countered acidly. “That she was trouble was the least of it.”
The minute the words came out, Mitch felt himself flushing. That was a low blow. It wasn’t fair. Mitch liked his brother’s wife, always had. And Rowena had had her reasons for acting wild. But why couldn’t Dallas see that Bonnie must have had her reasons, too?
“I’m on your side here, Mitch,” Dallas said mildly. “I thought you were through with her, anyhow.”
“I am.”