Westin's Wyoming. Alice SharpeЧитать онлайн книгу.
on the safe hidden under it. Reaching inside, his fingers closed on a small box. He stared at it a moment, then slowly tucked it in his jeans pocket as the dog watched him with deep brown eyes, tail gently wagging.
“You can’t go with me, Bonnie,” he murmured. “Not this time.”
He would pack a bag, drive to Woodwind and catch a plane. Somehow, someway, he had to find the right words, say the right thing, end this nightmare.
But first he’d call Pierce home.
Chapter One
Pierce Westin stared down at the cattle gate for a long time. Was his brain frozen, were aching muscles clouding his vision or had someone cut the chain and wrapped it back around the steel railings to make it appear it was still secure?
He swung himself off his horse, waded through the snow that had backed up against the gate and grabbed the metal with gloved hands. The last links on either end dangled loose when shaken. It had been cut, all right.
Well, maybe the winter policy had changed since he’d lived and worked on the ranch. Maybe it was always kept this way now. He’d only been back a few days—how did he know?
Except the cuts looked new. He studied the snow, both on his side of the gate and on the Bureau of Land Management side where the ranch had grazing rights. He couldn’t see any fresh tracks besides his own.
His horse, a tidy pinto named Sam, bumped Pierce’s hat off his head and whinnied softly against his neck, his exhalations forming a cloud of vapor in the cold air. Pierce caught the hat before it hit the ground and pulled it back on. Okay, okay, no time to worry about this now, he had a chopper to meet and Sam was apparently on duty to remind him of it. Back in the saddle, Pierce moved off down the canyon.
He’d been away from the ranch for most of fifteen years, hence the protesting muscles in the saddle. He wouldn’t be here now except for Cody’s call, and for a second he flashed on the situation he’d left behind in Italy. He immediately pushed aside those concerns—no use stewing about something he couldn’t change from thousands of miles away.
An hour later, Pierce reached the airfield in time to witness a huge helicopter descending from the turbulent skies—there was a storm predicted for late the next day. No point in muttering curses at Cody for leaving nothing but cryptic notes about who was arriving on the chopper, but man, it would have been nice to have a name or a reason for the visit. Even a contact number so he could cancel would have been nice.
The blades were still whirling when Pierce pulled his horse to a halt beside Jamie Dirk. Two generations of Westin men had depended on Jamie’s common sense and work ethic to keep the Open Sky running, but the old guy hadn’t changed much in the past fifteen years.
Jamie stood beside his bay mare. Pierce knew the preferred mode of transportation had shifted from horseback to ATVs over the years. He was riding the pinto for old time’s sake. He suspected Jamie was riding the mare because that was what a ranch hand was “supposed” to ride and there was little doubt that a horse was better with a cow than a machine or even a man if it came to that.
Jamie looked up at Pierce from beneath the brim of his disreputable brown hat, shifted the ever-present toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other and grumbled, “’Bout time you showed up.”
“You know anything about the gate over past Saddleback?” Pierce asked as he dismounted. His boots landed on a thin layer of day-old crunchy snow, a far cry from the three-foot drifts he’d steered clear of at higher elevations.
“The one leading to the BLM land? What were you doing all the way out there?”
“Just looking around, getting a feel for things again. It’s been a while, you know.”
“What about the gate?”
“The chain’s cut.”
Jamie’s brow wrinkled. “That’s odd.”
“I thought so, too.” Pierce tried to catch a glimpse of who might be inside the chopper. “I wish I knew who the hell we were standing here to greet.”
“Maybe I should take off and see about that gate.” The old guy was happier in a saddle than on the ground.
“Stick around,” Pierce said, handing Jamie the pinto’s reins. “These people won’t be here long, not when I explain about the storm.”
“Speaking of that storm, I sent a few of the men to the higher pastures to bring the heifers closer to the ranch. Those first-time mothers need help now and again.”
Pierce nodded. He understood Jamie was keeping him in the loop and he appreciated it, but except for that chain being cut, there wasn’t a thing he could tell Jamie that Jamie didn’t already know.
Pierce had taken a dozen steps onto the field when he heard another engine and turned to see the arrival of a ranch vehicle. The young driver looked sullen as though being asked to transport visitors was beneath him.
The sound of the helicopter door opening reclaimed Pierce’s attention and he turned in time to see a man jump out of the chopper. Dressed in black from the sunglasses plastered on an expressionless face to the leather coat strained across burly shoulders, he scanned the field like a vulture, shaved bald head reflecting what little light fought its way through the gloom. Other than the old hangar, which housed the ranch helicopter, and a wind sock whipping around as the weather picked up, there wasn’t a heck of a lot to see.
Which begged the question in Pierce’s head: What was he doing standing out here in the frickin’ cold, waiting for a bad version of Mr. T to give the place a once-over? He took a deep breath of icy air. “Welcome to—”
“Stop right there,” the man growled.
Pierce felt his forehead furrow. “Excuse me?”
“I said stop. Let me see some ID.”
The corners of Pierce’s lips lifted. “You’re kidding, right? You land on private property and then go ordering me around? Who are you?”
At that moment, a child appeared in the open door of the chopper. Hands from inside reached as if to detain him, but the boy slipped away easily, hitting the ground with a thud and taking off at a sprint, his face split with a big old grin.
All things considered, he was an astonishing-looking kid. About eight or so, bright red hair, decked out in a buckskin jacket, cowboy boots, spurs and two tin six-shooters that banged against his skinny legs as he ran. A blue cowboy hat flew out behind him, tethered by a cord around his neck.
The bald man tried a full body block, but the kid was wily and darted away until he all but slammed into Pierce’s legs.
“Whoa, partner,” Pierce said, catching the small shoulders in his hands, ignoring the twinge in his heart. Eight. That’s about how old Patrick would have been.
The child looked up at him with silver dollar eyes. “Are you a real cowboy?” he said.
Behind them, Jamie snickered and Pierce threw him a dirty look. To the boy, he said, “Of course I’m a real cowboy.” He looked the kid over and added, “From the size of those spurs, so are you.”
He glanced up from the child in time to see an older man with deep lines running down pale, gaunt cheeks standing at the chopper door. He wore a fur cap and military-looking wool coat over what appeared to be a uniform and stood like a conquering hero awaiting a ticker-tape parade. Upon making eye contact with Pierce, he nodded curtly, but when he hit the ground, he made his way toward the bald man who was in the process of slipping a very small derringer into his jacket pocket.
Pierce smiled. Not exactly the kind of weapon he would have pegged the big guy to carry. Soon the men were deep in conversation, smoke from the bodyguard’s burning cigarette wreathing their heads.
“I have six-shooters, too,” the boy said, looking up at Pierce.
Was it possible Cody