Bad Boy Rancher

“What? How?” his mother exclaimed.

“Javi, go to your room,” Sofia ordered.

“But—” he protested.

“Now.” James pointed at the stairs, and Javi scurried up them.

When they heard his bedroom door shut, James said, “They blame Jesse for bringing those murderers to town and claim the Fresh Start residents might do the same.”

Justin swore a blue streak, finishing with, “Of all the small-minded, hypocritical, overreactionary talk I’ve ever heard. We need to stop this.” His thumb twitched over his beer’s tab, but didn’t bend it back. It felt like a grenade—pull the pin and boom.

He needed to be alert for this conversation. Not numb.

“We’ll speak at the meeting.” James swept Sofia’s swollen feet onto his lap and rubbed them.

“That might help, but I’m not sure it’ll be enough,” worried Ma. “The lady who’s running it—what’s her name?”

“Brielle Thompson,” Justin supplied, thinking of the saintly warrior he’d gone toe to toe with days ago. She was a fighter. He set the beer down on the coffee table.

“Right.” His mother pulled off her glasses and polished them with the bottom of her yellow shirt. It coordinated with the polka dots in her headband and on her socks. Some people collected dolls. Some were into antique cars. His mother obsessed about matching her outfits, her furnishings, even her car accessories right down to the ocean-blue air freshener in the same shade as her sedan. She called it a lifestyle choice. “As a stranger,” she continued, “and a city girl, I’m not sure our neighbors will listen to her.”

Fired up, Justin bolted to his feet. “I’ll make them listen to her.”

“How are you going to do that?” Sofia asked, her eyes closed as James kneaded her insoles.

“I’m going over to Fresh Start to figure that out. Can anyone give me a ride?”

“Me.” Jewel bussed their ma on the cheek then hustled to join him. “I have plans in town anyway.”

“Wouldn’t be to hear Heath Loveland play at the Barnsider?” James teased.

“I’m going for the wings,” she huffed, then grabbed her coat and flounced out the door.

Justin and James grinned at each other. They loved tweaking their tough, tomboy sister about her supposed crush on one of their archrivals. Dubbed the “sensitive cowboy” by swooning ladies who flocked to his local gigs, Heath was the youngest in his family, like Jewel. Sometimes, given her extreme defensiveness, Justin and his brothers wondered if they might be right about Jewel liking Heath after all, crazy as that’d be.

“Take care now,” he heard his mother call as he jammed on his hat, shoved his arms in his jacket and flung himself out the door. Beer forgotten.

Fifteen minutes later he tromped up the steps to the old Greyson place. Its owner had raised a few cattle as a hobby and stabled horses, until recent years when hard times forced him to sell. The new owner, an investment banker looking to shelter money, rumor had it, had bought the place lock, stock and barrel. And it most recently had become the home of Fresh Start.

“Anybody here?” he called, opening the front door when no one answered his knock. He stepped inside just as Brielle emerged from a room to his left.

“What are you doing here?” Then—“Was the door unlocked?”

For some contrary reason, her hostile tone slapped a wide smile on his face. He swept off his hat and bowed slightly, all old-school, country-boy charm. “Yes, it was. And it’s nice to see you, too.”

“Can’t say the same, but come in. Doreen, please contact maintenance to have them check and reset the security keypad,” she called then turned back the way she came.

He followed her into a small, sterile-looking room, admiring the sway of her trim hips beneath a modest skirt that flowed nearly to her ankles. Today, the silky lavender material of her shirt buttoned at each wrist and twisted into a bow at her neck. With all this covering up, maybe it was a wonder he found an inch of her to be attracted to. Yet his eyes stuck to her like she was flypaper. He stroked his beard, his own form of concealment.

“Please. Sit.”

He folded himself into a chair and watched as she strode behind her desk and sat, her back so straight, he bet he could plumb an entire building off it. A hectic red colored her cheeks and brought out the mint of her magnetic eyes.

“What can I do for you?”

“It’s more what I can do for you.”

Her lips quirked, and he found himself mesmerized by the fuller bottom lip, imagining its softness...its taste...

“And what would that be?”

“Heard about the town hall meeting next week, and I wanted to help.”

She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Seemed like you thought the clinic was a waste of time last time we talked.”

He dropped his eyes at her piercing gaze. With one look, she turned him into glass, see-through and potentially breakable. It was a damn uncomfortable feeling.

“It is for me. But other people...”

“If you don’t believe in what we do, how can you convince others?”

“I—I do believe you can make a difference. Just—you know—not with me.”

“And you’re in the habit of pronouncing judgments on things you know nothing about?”

His mouth dropped open. No. That was know-it-all James. “Look. I’m just beyond help is all.”

Her expression softened. “No one’s beyond help unless they put themselves out of reach.” He followed her eyes to a set of dog tags stowed in a paper clip tray.

“Are those yours?”

Suddenly she hurried from the room, rubbing her eye as if she’d gotten something in it. He glimpsed the anguish, the inner torment he’d spotted the night of the accident. It stirred his protective instincts. What kept her up at night?

Curiosity overruled politeness, and he leaned forward, grabbed the metal discs and read the inscription.

Pelton

William R.

4763888912

O Pos

Protestant