One Night with a Red-Hot Rancher. Diana Palmer
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She was dazed and bleeding, but he’d told her how to tie the boy’s thumbs together behind his back, which she’d done while Kell picked up his cell phone and called for law enforcement. Cappie had gone to the hospital and the boy had gone to jail for assault.
With her broken arm in a sling, Cappie had testified against him, with Kell beside her in court as moral support. The sentence, even so, hadn’t been extreme. The boy drew six months’ jail time and a year’s probation. He also swore vengeance. Kell took the threat a great deal more seriously than Cappie had.
The brother and sister had a distant cousin who lived in Comanche Wells, Texas. He’d died a year ago, but the probation of the will had dragged on. Three months ago, Kell had a letter informing her that he and Cappie were inheriting a small house and a postage-stamp-size yard. But it was at least a place to live. Cappie had been uncertain about uprooting them from San Antonio, but Kell had been strangely insistent. He had a friend in nearby Jacobsville who was acquainted with a local veterinarian. Cappie could get a job there, working as a veterinary technician. So she’d given in.
She hadn’t forgotten the boy. It had been a wrench, because he was her first real love. Fortunately for her, the relationship hadn’t progressed past hot kisses and a little petting, although he’d wanted it to. That had been another sticking point: Cappie’s impeccable morals. She was out of touch with the modern world, he’d accused, from living with her overprotective big brother for so long. She needed to loosen up. Easy to say, but Cappie didn’t want a casual relationship and she said so. When he drank more than usual, he said it was her fault that he got drunk and hit her, because she kept him so frustrated.
Well, he was entitled to his opinion. Cappie didn’t share it. He’d seemed like the nicest, gentlest sort of man when she’d first met him. His sister had brought her dog to the veterinary practice where Cappie worked. He’d been sitting in the truck, letting his sister wrangle a huge German shepherd dog back outside. When he’d seen Cappie, he’d jumped out and helped. His sister had seemed surprised. Cappie didn’t notice.
After it was over, Cappie had found that at least two of her acquaintances had been subjected to the same sort of abuse by their own boyfriends. Some had been lucky, like Cappie, and disentangled themselves from the abusers. Others were trapped by fear into relationships they didn’t even want. It was hard, she decided, telling by appearance what men would be like when they got you alone. At least Dr. Rydel was obviously violent and dangerous, she told herself. Not that she wanted anything to do with him socially.
“What was that?” Kell asked.
“Oh, I was thinking about one of my bosses,” she confided. “Dr. Rydel is a holy terror. I’m scared to death of him.”
He scowled. “Surely he isn’t like Frank Bartlett?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I don’t think he’d ever hit a woman. He really isn’t the sort. He just blusters and rages and curses. He loves animals. He called the police on a man who brought in a little dog with cuts and bruises all over him. The man had beaten the dog and pretended it had fallen down stairs. Dr. Rydel knew better. He testified against the man and he went to jail.”
“Good for Dr. Rydel.” He smiled. “If he’s that nice to animals, he isn’t likely the sort of person who’d hit women,” he had to agree. “I was told by my friend that Rydel was a good sort to work for.” He frowned. “Your boyfriend kicked your cat on your first date.”
She grimaced. “And I made excuses for him.” Not long after that, her cat had vanished. She’d often wondered what had happened to him, but he returned after her boyfriend left. “Frank was so handsome, so…eligible,” she added quietly. “I guess I was flattered that a man like that would look twice at me. I’m no beauty.”
“You are. Inside.”
“You’re a nice brother. How about that soup?”
He sighed. “I’ll eat it if you’ll fix it. I’m sorry. About the way I am.”
“Like you can help it,” she muttered, and smiled. “I’ll get it started.”
He watched her walk away, thoughtful.
She brought in a tray and had her soup with him. There were just the two of them, all alone in the world. Their parents had died long ago, when she was ten. Kell, who’d been amazingly athletic and healthy in those days, had simply taken over and been a substitute parent to her. He’d been in the military, and they’d traveled all over the world. A good deal of her education had been completed through correspondent courses, although she’d seen a lot of the world. Now, Kell thought he was a burden, but what had she been for all those long years when he’d sacrificed his own social life to raise a heartbroken kid? She owed him a lot. She only wished she could do more for him.
She remembered him in his uniform, an officer, so dignified and commanding. Now, he was largely confined to bed or that wheelchair. It wasn’t even a motorized one, because they couldn’t afford it. He did continue to work, in his own fashion, at crafting a novel. It was an adventure, based on some knowledge he’d acquired from his military background and a few friends who worked, he said, in covert ops.
“How’s the book coming?” she asked.
He laughed. “Actually I think it’s going very well. I spoke to a buddy of mine in Washington about some new political strategies and robotic warfare innovations.”
“You know everybody.”
He made a face at her. “I know almost everybody.” He sighed. “I’m afraid the phone bill will be out of sight again this month. Plus I had to order some more books on Africa for the research.”
She gave him a look of pride. “I don’t care. You accomplish so much,” she said softly. “More than a lot of people in much better shape physically.”
“I don’t sleep as much as most people do,” he said wryly. “So I can work longer hours.”
“You need to talk to Dr. Coltrain about something to make you sleep.”
He sighed. “I did. He gave me a prescription.”
“Which you didn’t get filled,” she accused. “Connie, at the pharmacy, told on you.”
“We don’t have the money right now,” he said gently. “I’ll manage.”
“It’s always money,” she said miserably. “I wish I was talented and smart, like you. Maybe I could get a better-paying job.”
“You’re good at what you do,” he replied firmly. “And you love your work. Believe me, that’s a lot more important than making a big paycheck. I should know.”
She sighed as she sipped her soup. “I guess.” She gave him a quick glance. “But it would help with the bills.”
“My book is going to make us millions,” he told her with a grin. “It will hit the top of the New York Times bestseller list, I’ll be in demand for talk shows and we’ll be able to buy a new car.”
“Optimist,” she accused.
“Hey, without hope, what have we got?” He looked around with a grimace. “Unpainted walls, cracks in the paint, a car with two hundred thousand miles on it and a leaky roof.”
“Oh, darn,” she muttered, following his eyes to the yellow spot on the ceiling. “I’ll bet another one of those stupid nails worked its way out of the tin. I wish we could have afforded a shingle roof.”
“Well, tin is cheaper, and it looks nice.”
She looked at him meaningfully.
“It’s cheap, anyway,” he persisted. “Don’t you like the sound of rain on a tin roof? Just listen. It’s like music.”
It was like a tin drum, she pointed out, but he just laughed.
She smiled. “I guess you’re right. It’s better not to wish we had more than we