Wyoming Fierce. Diana Palmer

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СКАЧАТЬ because Darby would know. He knew everything that went on around the Rancho Real, or “royal ranch” in Spanish, named by the original owner, a titled gentleman from Valladolid, northwest of Madrid, Spain, who started it way back in the late 1800s.

      Darby glanced at her and grimaced. It was dark and very cold, even with the heater running and the old but serviceable coat Bodie was wearing.

      “I have an idea,” he confessed. “But if Cane ever found out I told you, I’d be standing in the unemployment line.”

      She sighed and fiddled with the fanny pack she wore in lieu of carrying around a cumbersome purse. “She must have said something about his arm.”

      He nodded faintly. “That would be my guess. He’s really sensitive about it. Funny,” he added solemnly, “I thought he was getting better.”

      “If he’d get back in therapy, mental and physical, he’d improve,” she replied.

      “Sure, but he won’t even talk about it. He’s sinking into himself,” he added quietly.

      “There goes that theoretical physics mind working overtime again,” she teased, because most people didn’t know about Darby’s degree in that field.

      He shrugged. “Hey, I just manage cattle.”

      “I’ll bet you sit around in your room at night imagining the route to a new and powerful unified field theory.” She chuckled.

      “Only on Thursdays,” he said, laughing out loud. “At least my chosen field of study doesn’t leave me covered in mud and using shovels and trowels in holes around the country.”

      “Don’t knock anthropology,” she said firmly. “We’ll find the missing link one day, and you can say you knew me before I was famous, like that guy in Egypt who’s always in documentaries about pharaohs’ tombs.” She lifted her rounded chin. “Nothing wrong with honest work.”

      He made a face. “Digging up bones.”

      “Bones can tell you a lot,” she replied.

      “So they say. Here it is,” he added, nodding toward the little out-of-the-way bar that Cane frequented. Out front was a stop sign that local drunks often used for target practice when they went driving around in four-wheel-drive vehicles late at night. Now it said “S....p.” The two middle letters were no longer recognizable.

      “They need to replace that,” she pointed out.

      “What for? Everybody knows it means stop,” he said. “Why waste good metal and paint? They’d just shoot it up again. Not much in the way of entertainment this far out in the country.”

      “Got a point, I guess.” She sighed.

      He parked in front of the bar. There were only two vehicles out there. Probably those of employees. Everybody with any sense would have left when Cane started cursing and throwing things. At least, that was the pattern.

      “I’ll keep the engine running. In case somebody called the sheriff this time,” he mused.

      “Cane and the sheriff are best friends,” she reminded him.

      “That won’t stop Cody Banks from locking him up if someone files a complaint for assault and battery,” he stated. “The law is the law, friendship notwithstanding.”

      “I guess. Maybe it would knock some sense into him.”

      He shook his head. “That’s been tried. Mallory even let him stew in a cell for two days. Finally bailed him out, and he went back and did it again that same weekend. Our black sheep there is out of control.”

      “I’ll see what I can do to rein him in,” she promised.

      She got out of the truck, ran a hand through her short black hair and grimaced. Her brown eyes were somber as she hesitated on the porch for just a minute, and then, finally, opened the door.

      The mess was bad. Tables knocked over. Chairs everywhere. One was upside down behind the bar in a pile of glass, and the place smelled like whiskey. This was going to be an expensive mess, too.

      “Cane?” she called.

      A thin man in a Hawaiian shirt peered over the bar. “Bodie? Thank God!”

      “Where is he?” she asked.

      He pointed to the bathroom.

      She went toward it. She was almost there when it slammed open and Cane walked out. His long-sleeved beige Western shirt with the fancy embroidery was stained with blood. Probably his own, she thought, noting the caked blood around his nose, which was bruised, and his square jaw. His sensual mouth had a cut just at the corner, where blood was also visible. His thick, short, slightly wavy black hair was mussed. His black eyes were bloodshot. Even in that condition, he was so attractive that he made her heart pound. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with long powerful legs encased in tight jeans; his big feet in boots that still had the mirror polish on them despite his exploits. He was thirty-four to her twenty-two, but right now, he seemed much younger.

      He glared at her. “Why do they always bring you?” he demanded.

      She shrugged. “My unusual ability to subdue charging tigers?” she suggested.

      He blinked. Then he chuckled.

      She went forward and took one of his big hands in hers. The knuckles were bruised and swollen and smeared with blood. She couldn’t tell if it was his or somebody else’s. “Mallory’s going to be mad.”

      “Mallory isn’t home,” he said in a loud whisper. He even grinned. “He and Morie went to Louisiana to see a bull. They won’t be back until tomorrow.”

      “Tank won’t be happy, either,” she added, using the nickname that family used for Dalton, the youngest brother.

      He shrugged. “Tank will be knee-deep in those old Tom Mix silent cowboy movies he likes. It’s Saturday night. He makes popcorn, takes the phone off the hook, locks himself in and saturates himself with black-and-white cinema.”

      “That’s what you should be doing, instead of wrecking bars!” she muttered.

      He sighed. “A man’s got to have some recreation, kid,” he said defensively.

      “Not this sort,” she said firmly. “Come on. Poor Sid will have to clean up this mess.”

      Sid came around the bar. He was huge, and dangerous-looking, but he kept a few steps away from Cane. “Why can’t you do this at home, Cane?” he groaned, looking around.

      “Because we’ve got delicate objets d’art in glass cabinets,” Cane replied reasonably. “Mallory would kill me.”

      Sid glared at him. “When Mr. Holsten sees the bill for replacing all this—” he waved his hand “—you may be getting a visit…”

      Cane pulled out his wallet and pressed a wad of hundreds into the bartender’s hand. “If that’s not enough, you let me know.”

      Sid grimaced. “It СКАЧАТЬ