Certified Cowboy. Rita Herron
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She only hoped they still had some positions open.
“Look, there’s horses!” Kenny brightened, making guilt nag at Rachel. She wanted a home for Kenny so badly she could cry. But he hadn’t had a place to call home in two years. And he barely remembered the house she’d shared with Rex.
Thank God. Hopefully that meant he’d forgotten the screaming and brutal fights.
A large two-story rustic log cabin with skylights to let in light, farmhouse decor, a metal bull outside on the lawn and fence posts designated for tying horses in front of the house appeared in her view, and her heart stuttered. A huge porch complete with rocking chairs and colorful flowers flanking the front made it feel homey and inviting. Then she spotted other log cabins strewn across the land, and realized the lodge was central to the operation but they also offered individual cabins, probably for guests or employees. From what she’d read, there were acres and acres of riding trails, ponds and camping sites for the campers.
This house, the sprawling ranch, the stables and rolling land, was the kind of place dreams were made on.
Only, she’d stopped dreaming a long time ago.
Still, she parked and grabbed her purse. Before she could go around to open the back door for Kenny, he’d unfastened his seat belt and jumped out. “Can I ride now?”
Rachel climbed from the vehicle. “No, not yet.” Rachel led him up the stone pathway to the front porch. “Now remember, Mommy has to get a job here so we can stay. So be a good boy for me, okay? And remember our game. Right now our last name is Simmons. Rachel and Kenny Simmons.”
He bobbed his head up and down. She knew the name change was confusing, but it was necessary, so she squeezed his hand, then knocked on the door.
A second later, the door opened, and Rachel could only gawk. A big rugged cowboy wearing a black Stetson with silver trim, chambray shirt, jeans, a belt buckle engraved with a bucking bull and black boots with rhinestone studs stared down at her. He was at least six-three, had shoulders so wide that he filled half the doorway, and crystal blue eyes that sparkled with a hint of the devil inside. Lady-killer eyes.
Eyes she recognized from magazine articles, newspaper stories and TV.
Johnny Long. Famous rodeo star. Bronco rider. Barrel racer. Champion bull rider. You name it, Johnny Long had done and had won it.
He was also a notorious playboy. A man who wrecked women’s hearts.
Suddenly her voice wouldn’t work.
“Howdy,” he said in a lazy Texas drawl. “Did you come to register your little boy for camp?”
Kenny pulled at her hand. “Mommy, can I do camp?”
Rachel struggled to pull herself together. “Actually, I…came to apply for a job.”
“All right.” His eyes cut over her, then he seemed to zero in on her neck, and the friendly gleam in his eyes died.
Rachel automatically adjusted the scarf she’d tied around her throat to hide the bruises Rex had left.
But it was too late. He had seen them.
Her heart hammered. If he thought she was in trouble, he probably wouldn’t hire her.
Then where would she and Kenny go?
REX CURSED AS HE TORE through the small house where his wife had lived. It had taken him half an hour to cut the damn handcuffs apart with bolt cutters, then another ten to pick the stupid lock.
He rubbed at the angry red marks on his wrists. The damn bitch would be sorry for what she’d done.
He stormed through the bedroom, ripping apart the bedding with his knife, then he slashed the mattress covering and pillows, shredding the insides just to purge his fury.
But his blood was still boiling.
Determined that she wouldn’t escape him, he raked through the small desk in the corner, searching for any clue as to where she might take his son next. He’d been chasing her for months from one small Podunk town to another, from divey hotels to rental houses to cabins not fit for a dog to live in, much less his kid.
She was turning Kenny against him. His own son looked at him as if he was a monster just because of the filthy lies that came from that woman’s mouth.
How could she do this to him?
She’d vowed to love him, to honor him and cherish him, but she’d turned on him. She’d told filthy lies about him. Used his son to bargain her way into earning sympathy from that snotty lawyer lady.
Hell, she’d probably spread her legs and slept with the bastard judge to get him to sign those damn divorce papers.
Both of them would pay for that.
Blind rage ate at him, and he jerked open the dresser drawers, yanking out the contents. Satin panties, bras, tank tops—he ripped them all to shreds and dropped the remnants on the tattered carpet. Again, he searched for a notepad, address book, brochure, anything that might tell him where she was running to this time, but found nothing except receipts for the cabin, which she’d paid for in cash.
She was learning not to leave a paper trail.
She’d pay for that, too.
Balling his hand into a fist, he raced to the kitchen and searched the drawers. No address or notes there, either.
But he found a hammer in a kitchen drawer and he slammed it against the counter, cracking the cheap surface, then used it to obliterate the glass-front china cabinet, breaking the door and smashing the dishes inside.
Then he went back to the bedroom and smashed the mirror above the dresser, then the bathroom mirror, watching as glass shattered and sprayed the floor.
His blood pounded through his veins as he headed back to his car. Heaving with unspent anger, he stepped outside in the night air. A smile curved his mouth as he removed the wedding ring she’d thrown back at him from his pocket and rubbed it between his fingers. The gold band was simple, but it was an unbroken circle, which symbolized how their lives were supposed to be entwined.
An image of Rachel wearing that white wedding dress the day they’d married at that little country chapel flashed in his mind, and he squeezed the ring so hard that his knuckles turned white.
He had put that ring on her finger and made her his wife. And she had agreed to love him until death parted them.
To hell with the judge.
Divorce papers couldn’t separate them.
Only death would.
Chapter Two
Johnny gritted his teeth at the sight of the bruises on the woman’s throat. Her long, curly black hair, which looked dyed, swirled around her neck, and she’d tied a scarf around it to hide the worst, but the purple-and-black marks were still visible and looked stark against her pale skin.
Someone had hurt her, bad.
Her husband? Boyfriend? Lover? Or a stranger?
His temper rose, his protective instincts kicking in. Having a younger sister had done that to him. Taught him to respect women, not to use his physical power to get what he wanted.
No matter what the press might have said.
He opened his mouth to ask her who had tried to choke her, but the wary look in her eyes and the way she quickly tried to cover up the bruises made him pause.
“My name is Rachel Simmons, and this is my son Kenny. I saw the ad in the paper,” she said, straightening her spine.
He sensed she wanted to look tough, but he towered over her, and soaking wet, she probably didn’t weigh a hundred and ten pounds.
“Right,