Rancher and Protector. Pamela Britton
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He handed her the dark green tote.
“Thanks,” she said. “I think.” Because once he set that saddle down, something else struck her. This was real. She was about to get on a horse.
Shit.
“Should I wait for Jarrod or something?”
“Why?” Colt asked.
“Well, he’s the … the—” She’d been about to say horse expert, but realized how ludicrous that might sound, given Colt’s background. “He told me he would teach me everything I needed to know.” And he’d said it with such a gleam in his eyes that he seemed to promise other things, too. Things she had no interest in.
“Well, Jarrod isn’t here right now.”
“Yes, I am.”
Amber felt her heart thump. “Jeez,” she said, turning away from the hitching post. “I didn’t even hear you come up.”
“Gil wants to see you,” he said, eyeing Colt curiously.
“Have you two met?” she asked.
Colt shook his head. Jarrod stared at the cowboy for a long moment. The two were like sunshine and darkness. Jarrod, with his light blond hair and loose T-shirt, looked more like an engineer than a horse-handler beside Colt’s tall frame and dark-tanned body.
“Jarrod James,” he said, shaking Colt’s hand.
“Colt Sheridan.”
But Amber could tell Jarrod took an instant dislike to Colt. There was something about the way Jarrod’s shoulders were set. Something about the way his arms hung at his sides. And he didn’t smile.
“Colt’s a rancher.”
She didn’t know why she said it, except maybe she was trying to make conversation.
“Actually, I’m a rodeo cowboy,” Colt said. “I only work on ranches part-time.”
He was a rodeo man? Amber thought. That explained the aloof attitude. Her brother-in-law had ridden in rodeos. Back before he’d been arrested for drunk driving and vehicular manslaughter. She knew the type. Cocky. Arrogant. Womanizers … Too bad.
“Oh, yeah? You ever make it to the NFR?” Jarrod asked.
Frankly, Amber was amazed Jarrod even knew what the National Finals Rodeo was. She did because Logan had almost made it one year. In hindsight things had started to fall apart when he’d failed to make the mark.
“Not yet,” Colt said. “Next year.”
Jarrod huffed, conveying all too clearly, Yeah, that’s what they all say.
“Well, I better head up to Gil’s office,” Amber said.
“I’ll walk with you,” Jarrod announced.
“You coming back?” Colt asked before she could turn away.
“Depends on what Gil wants.”
Colt’s eyes narrowed. Amber knew exactly what he was thinking.
Chicken.
“YOU NEEDED TO SEE ME?” Amber said, entering Gil’s office tentatively. The way he was bent over his massive oak desk, she could see the horseshoe of hair around his shiny pate.
“Amber,” he said, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses back up his nose. “Come on in.”
They were in a centuries-old lodge, one that had been erected to house cavalry offices well over a hundred years ago. Frankly, it amazed Amber that the place was still standing, but it had been crafted in an era when things were made to last. Vaulted ceilings. Crown molding. Wood-paneled walls. The four-story building had been meticulously maintained by the County of San Francisco, and that was a good thing. It would have been a shame to let such a treasure go to waste. That had been Camp Cowboy’s selling point to the county when they’d wanted to lease the building. Apparently. As a newbie, she was still piecing together this business and how it could exist on the Presidio grounds.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Have a seat,” he said.
Gil’s office was on the bottom floor, to the left of the entrance, in a room Amber suspected had been occupied by the base commander years and years ago—or whatever the cavalry equivalent of that was. Wood-framed windows offered a stunning view of the park outside. Off in the distance was a grove of trees, and just above that, barely noticeably unless you knew what you were looking for, the tall spires of the Golden Gate Bridge.
“I received a call today,” Gil said, leaning back and making a steeple out of his fingers.
There was a chair in front of his desk. Amber sank into it. “Oh, yeah?” But she knew.
“It was from Pelican Bay.”
Her shoulders slumped. “He phoned here?”
“Care to tell me what’s going on?”
She hadn’t told Gil about Dee’s father. Hadn’t wanted to tell him. It was her own personal skeleton. All the camp director knew was that she had sole custody of her nephew. That Dee’s father was out of the picture.
“Who is he?” Gil asked.
“My nephew’s father,” Amber admitted.
The edges of Gil’s eyes crinkled as he gave that some thought. “So this is what you meant by out of the picture?”
She nodded. “He was incarcerated for involuntary manslaughter.”
Of her sister. Sharron.
And it made her physically ill to think about it. To be pulled back to that night. The call from the police. The drive to the hospital. The doctor gently breaking the news.
Frankly, jail had been too kind a punishment for her ex-brother-in-law.
“When will he get out?” Gil asked.
“He was given a five year sentence. He has two years left to serve.” But he had a parole hearing in another month. They might actually let the bastard out. And then he would fight her for custody of Dee. He’d already told her that. But she would never let that happen. She would not allow the man who killed her sister to kill her sister’s child, too.
“Okay,” Gil said. “So I should expect calls from him?”
“I told him not to phone me,” she said. “But he’s been demanding to know where Dee is.”
“You mean he doesn’t know?”
She shook her head. “Early on, he would call Dee. When Dee wouldn’t talk to him, he would get belligerent, start yelling.” And her poor nephew didn’t do well with that. Not at all. “It would upset Dee,” she explained. “I told the facility not to take his calls anymore, but when Dee’s father started making threats against the workers there …” Gosh, she hated airing her dirty laundry. “It was just easier to move Dee to a new home, especially once we figured out he was nonverbal. He’s been at Little Voices ever since, and he’s doing well. His father doesn’t need to know anything more than that.”
But one day he would be out of jail.
She closed her eyes, refusing to think of that.
“This is hard on you, isn’t it?” Gil asked.
She shrugged, trying to make light of the situation, but it was a sham. “It kills me some days,” she admitted. “But I have to have Dee’s best interest at heart.”
Gil seemed satisfied with the answer. “Well, I’ll tell the switchboard to put all calls through to you.”
“Thank you,” she said. “And if you could please make sure nobody knows Dee is my nephew …”
“Confidentiality