Operation: Midnight Cowboy. Linda Castillo

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      “You’ve got the guestroom upstairs.”

      Rachael followed him up the staircase to a narrow hall with five doors. They passed three bedrooms and a large bathroom equipped with an antique claw-footed tub.

      The fourth bedroom was small but comfortable with terra-cotta paint, fresh white wainscoting and an intricately made quilt on the twin-size bed. A feminine touch graced the room and she found herself wondering about his decorator. “This is nice,” she said.

      “Pauline cooks and cleans a couple of times a week. I let her furnish the room about a year ago.”

      “She did a good job.” She wondered about his relationship with Pauline.

      He looked large and out of place in the small room, like a wild animal that was trapped indoors.

      “I make tortillas and tamales for dinner, Señor Ruskin,” came a female voice from the hall.

      Rachael spun to find a small, dark-eyed woman at the door. She wore a full skirt, denim vest—and cowboy boots. Her eyes widened when they landed on Rachael. “Hello.”

      Bo cleared his throat. “Pauline, this is Rachael Armitage.” His gaze flicked to Rachael. “Pauline Ortegon runs the house and just about everything else here at Dripping Springs.”

      “Nice to meet you,” Rachael said.

      The woman was fiftyish with long black hair shot with silver and pulled into a ponytail that reached all the way to the waistband of her skirt. Turquoise earrings in the shape of horses dangled from her lobes. The only thing missing, Rachael thought, was the gun belt and six-shooter.

      “Welcome to Dripping Springs Ranch,” Pauline said with a strong Spanish accent.

      “Rachael’s going to be staying with us a few days,” Bo said.

      “Oh.” The woman’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Questions flitted in her eyes, but she did not voice them. “In that case, I will bring clean linens and soaps.” She started toward the door, but turned before going through it. “I make tamales and tortillas for tonight for supper.”

      “Thank you,” Bo said.

      Nodding, she left the room.

      Rachael looked down at the small bed, wishing she was anywhere but here. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful about staying here,” she said. “I appreciate your putting me up.”

      “I owe Cutter a favor.” His smile looked more like a grimace. “This ought to even things up.”

      A shadow passed over his eyes at the mention of the favor. Rachael wondered what the debt was. “You must owe him big time, since you’re no longer an agent.”

      “Cutter and I go way back. He wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t seriously worried about your safety.” He motioned toward the window and the ranch spread out beyond. “He knew the ranch would be the perfect place for you to lay low.”

      “Laying low isn’t my style,” she muttered.

      “It is while you’re here.”

      A sharp retort hovered on her tongue, but Rachael didn’t voice it. Her beef was with Cutter, not Bo Ruskin. Still, the idea of spending the next week stuck in this room disheartened her. “So how do you spend your days here?”

      “Work mostly.”

      She tried again. “What kind of work?”

      “I train horses. For area ranchers. Breeders. People who show them.”

      She remembered seeing the horses grazing in the pasture when they’d driven up the lane to the house. “Spotted horses?”

      “Appaloosas.” Looking anxious to leave, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his snug, faded jeans. “Do you know how to ride? There are some pretty trails on the ranch.”

      She laughed, but it was a nervous sound. She didn’t like the fish-out-of-water sensation creeping over her. “I rode a couple of times when I was a teenager. I’m not very good at it.”

      “I have a gentle mount if you want to do some exploring.”

      She hadn’t ridden since she was thirteen, to be exact, and spent most of that day on her rump. “Do you have a mode of transportation that doesn’t entail hooves?”

      One side of his mouth curved into a half smile. “A four-wheeler.”

      “Now you’re talking.”

      “If you want to take a spin, just let me or Pauline know. I’ll leave a map of the ranch on the counter for you.”

      “Thank you.”

      “I also have a ranch foreman. Jimmy Hargrove. He’s a little crusty, but if you need anything he’ll be happy to help you.”

      Rachael studied him for a moment, her mind taking her back to the one and only time she’d met him. Michael’s funeral. She’d been so grief-stricken that day, she barely remembered. But she did remember Bo Ruskin’s eyes. When he’d approached her and offered his hand in sympathy for her loss, his gaze had reflected the same devastation she’d felt in her own heart. And at that moment, she’d known he was grieving, too.

      “We’ve met once before,” she said.

      “I remember.” His jaw flexed. “Mike’s funeral.”

      She didn’t let herself think of those dark days often. But she found herself curious about this man’s relationship with her late husband. “He always spoke fondly of you,” she said.

      His expression darkened. As if someone had flipped a switch inside him, she felt him closing himself off from her. Erecting a wall. “I’ve got to get to work.” Turning, he started toward the door. “If you need anything let me know.”

      “How about a flight back to civilization?” she called out.

      BY 4:00 P.M. Rachael was bouncing off the walls. She was accustomed to long work days filled with adrenaline. She was used to getting by on four or five hours of sleep for nights on end. She routinely participated in undercover operations where the heady rush of danger was the rule, not the exception.

      The Dripping Springs Ranch offered none of that.

      After an hour of quiet and birdsong, Rachael had had enough.

      Deciding it wasn’t too late to make the best of a day that had already been mostly wasted, she slipped into a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers. Throwing a jacket and her Beretta .380 into her backpack, she headed downstairs.

      She found Pauline in the kitchen, stirring a steaming pot of something spicy and savory. “It smells wonderful,” she said.

      The dark-haired woman turned and gave her an assessing look. “Tamales,” she said in a perfect Spanish pronunciation.

      Rachael slid onto a stool at СКАЧАТЬ