The Millionaire and the Cowgirl. Lisa Jackson

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СКАЧАТЬ back her tears and the trauma, at least for the moment, seemed to have passed. Sighing loudly, Caitlyn walked to the window and looked in the direction of the barn. She ran her finger along the sill. “I was thinking.” She slid her mother a sly look.

      “About?”

      “You promised me a horse for my birthday, remember?”

      “That I did, but your birthday isn’t until next spring.”

      “I know, but Christmas is before that.”

      “Still half a year away.” Six months—the same amount of time that Kyle had to spend in Wyoming.

      Together mother and daughter walked up the narrow flight of wooden stairs to Caitlyn’s tiny bedroom, the very room where Sam had spent her childhood years. She shoved open the window. A slight breeze lifted the faded curtains, carrying with it the scents of dry hay and roses from the garden. Crickets chirped, their soft chorus interrupted by an occasional moan of a lost calf or the mournful howl of a coyote high in the mountains.

      Caitlyn tumbled into her bed—the canopied twin that Sam had slept in—and tried to stifle a yawn. “Love ya,” she murmured into her pillow, in that moment looking so much like Kyle that Sam’s throat ached.

      “Me, too.” Sam kissed her daughter on one rosy cheek, but before she could snag a pair of dusty jeans and a T-shirt from the floor and depart, Caitlyn stirred.

      “Leave the light on.”

      Sam grabbed the dirty clothes, but didn’t move from the room. “Why?”

      With a lift of her shoulder, Caitlyn sighed. “Don’t know.”

      “Sure you do. You’ve slept in the dark since you were two.” The hairs at the nape of Sam’s neck lifted. “Is something wrong?” she asked, “Something more than Jenny Peterkin’s phone calls?”

      Caitlyn bit her lip, a sure sign something else was troubling her.

      Still holding on to the wrinkled laundry, Sam lowered herself to the foot of Caitlyn’s bed. “Okay, honey, stop pussyfootin’ around. What is it?”

      “I—I don’t know,” Caitlyn admitted, her face drawing into a worried pout. “Just a feeling.”

      Sam’s throat went dry. “A feeling? Of what?”

      “Like—like someone’s watching me.”

      “Someone? Who?”

      “I don’t know!” Caitlyn said, pulling the hand-pieced quilt to her neck, though it was over ninety degrees in the little room.

      “You saw someone?” Oh, dear God, was someone stalking her child? It happened to famous people in the city, but sometimes perverted creeps followed children…. Please, please, God, no!

      “I didn’t see anyone but…it’s just like, you know, when you feel that someone’s staring at you. Sometimes Zach Bellows looks at me funny, and even though his desk is behind mine and I can’t see him, I know he’s watching me. It’s creepy.”

      “Of course it is,” Sam said, her heart pumping wildly. “But if you didn’t see anyone… When did this happen?”

      “A couple of times at school, and then once when I was at the store.”

      “Was anyone with you when this happened? A friend or a teacher or someone who might have noticed who was watching you?” Sam asked, trying like hell not to panic, when her stomach was twisting into painful knots.

      Caitlyn shook her head.

      “So why are you…worried tonight?”

      Caitlyn chewed on her lip. “I—I just feel weird.”

      “Well, that does it!” Sam pasted a smile on her lips, though her insides were churning. “You’re sleeping with me. And don’t worry about anyone watching you. We’ve got the greatest watchdog in the world and—”

      “Fang?” Caitlyn laughed, the concern disappearing from her eyes.

      “Yeah, and I lock all the doors and windows at night. This is all probably just your imagination, anyway. Come on.”

      Dragging the quilt with her, Caitlyn scurried into the bedroom across the hall and jumped onto Sam’s double bed. She burrowed deep in the covers. “Can we watch TV?” she asked, a glint in her eye.

      “I thought you were tired.”

      “Please?”

      Wondering if she’d been conned by the youngest flimflam artist ever to walk the planet, Sam agreed. She double-checked the locks on the doors, made sure that Fang was in his favorite position near the base of the stairs, then stole a glance through the kitchen window to the Fortune ranch. The night, illuminated by a quarter moon, was serene, not sinister; the only immediate problem looming in their future was Kyle Fortune. Sam climbed the stairs, listening to the third step creak as it always did, but knowing that her life and Caitlyn’s would never be the same.

      Kyle swatted at a pesky horsefly with his clipboard as he walked through the stables and eyed the barrels of grain, tack, veterinary supplies, tools and bales of hay. Though it was early morning, not yet nine, he’d already been to the barn, three sheds, the machine shop and pump house. He intended to compare the notes and figures he’d scribbled down to the ledgers in the den, then input the data into the computer he’d ordered over the phone. Laptop, modem, software and printer were supposedly on their separate ways. The Fortune Ranch was finally going to join the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.

      The stables seemed musty and close, the thick air already gathering heat. Sharp odors of horse dung, sweat, urine and oiled leather mingled with the familiar scent he’d always associated with this place. Aluminum buckets, pitchforks, shovels and rakes hung from hooks on the walls. Along with the fire extinguisher was a kerosene lantern, ready to be lit should the electricity fail.

      He heard Joker, the only stallion fenced near the buildings, let out a piercing whistle. The stud was bad news, Kyle had determined, but he would miss the spotted beast when Grant decided to haul him to his place. Kyle would always associate the Appaloosa with seeing Sam again.

      With that nagging thought clogging his brain, he slid his sunglasses from his pocket and onto the bridge of his nose as he stepped outside. Harsh sunlight glinted off the metal roof of the machine shed.

      The stallion neighed again.

      “It’s okay, boy,” a kid’s voice intoned.

      Kyle stopped dead in his tracks. Balanced on the top rail of the fence was a girl—somewhere between eight and twelve, near as he could guess—talking to the damned horse. Fiery blond hair sprang from the restraint of a once-upon-a-time ponytail, and her arms and legs, sprouting from cutoff jeans and a yellow T-shirt, were tanned and long. Boots covered her feet, and dust and grime spattered her clothes. He couldn’t see her face, as she was turned the other way, concentrating on the horse.

      “What’re you doin’ here?” Kyle asked, and she visibly started, nearly toppling from her perch as she glanced over her shoulder.

      “Who’re СКАЧАТЬ