Riley's Retribution. Rebecca York

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      He stopped to greet the horses in the stalls, calling them by the names on the small plates at each door and offering carrots, which were readily accepted.

      They paused by a stall with a filly named Irma. A protective boot was wrapped around her left foreleg.

      “What happened to her?” Riley asked.

      “She overreached and bruised herself—the way they do sometimes.”

      Kicked her front leg with her back, Riley mentally translated. “Yeah, that can be a problem. How are you treating the injury?”

      “We started with cold hosing three times a day. Now we’re on to warm, dry bandages.”

      He fed Irma a carrot, which she gobbled up, telling him her appetite was good. On a more prosperous ranch the owner might have called out the vet. But he knew it wasn’t unusual for owners to treat minor problems, which certainly saved money.

      Another filly named Buttercup was obviously very pregnant.

      “When is she due?” Riley asked.

      “In a few weeks.”

      They discussed some of the other horses, then Riley continued on his fact-finding mission. “Who’s been running things?”

      “Jake.”

      “He’s doing a good job.” He hesitated for a moment. “So, would he resent someone taking over?”

      Kelly scuffed his foot against the hard-packed dirt. “I guess you’ll have to ask him.”

      Yeah, sure.

      “Has there been any vandalism at the ranch?”

      Kelly looked uncomfortable.

      “What?” Riley pressed.

      “We got some renters. They’re using the back forty for a garbage dump.”

      “What renters?”

      “Ask the boss lady.”

      “Okay,” Riley answered, then cleared his throat. “I noticed she took some flack in town. Do the men on the ranch—” he stopped and fumbled for what to say “—support her.”

      “Everybody here now is on her side.”

      “Now?” Riley probed.

      “There was a guy here—Greg Nichols. He made some…nasty comments.”

      “To her face?”

      “Not likely. But they got back to her, and she asked him to leave.”

      “Would Nichols make trouble for her?” Riley was thinking of the man who had shot at her from the bridge. If he knew her routine, he could have lain in wait for her. Or someone out here could have called him.

      “Maybe.”

      “What does he look like?”

      “Blond hair. Blue eyes. A big scar on his right cheek.”

      So he’d be easy to spot, Riley mused.

      They finished the tour back at the barn. Riley could go to the house and start perusing the books. But he didn’t want to barge in on Ms. Rogers. Their first meeting had been pretty crazy. Maybe he should give her some space. And himself, too. Taking the coward’s route, he decided to have a look around some of the ranch acreage. He found himself wondering if he’d find any signs of the guy named Greg Nichols. What if he were hiding out on the ranch? Was he watching Courtney’s activities?

      With a silent curse he reminded himself he wasn’t supposed to be looking for Nichols. He was supposed to locate Boone Fowler’s militia group so he could report back to Big Sky.

      Of course, Nichols could be with Fowler. So maybe if he found the militia group, he’d kill two birds with one stone.

      AFTER SADDLING UP a stallion named Monty, he rode east across a shallow river into rugged country with rolling hills covered by dry grass. Rugged snowcapped mountains rose in the background like sentinels.

      But he could easily skirt the patches of snow that still lay in the valley shadows.

      Of course, the ranch encompassed almost ten thousand acres, so there was a lot of territory to cover. But Big Sky had done aerial surveillance and pinpointed some areas to investigate.

      He brought Monty to a halt and turned in the saddle, taking in the wide-open spaces that stretched around him. Out here, he and the horse might have been the only two living creatures in the world.

      After two hours on the range, he found nothing out of the ordinary. So he headed back, then spent the rest of the day asking more questions, unobtrusively watching the men do their jobs and giving the horses a more thorough inspection. And all the time he was aware of Ms. Rogers’s absence.

      That evening he joined the rest of the hands at dinner, working hard to convey the impression that he was a regular guy who just wanted to fit in to the established patterns of the Golden Saddle Ranch.

      But when he went to sleep, he had no control over his unconscious mind. He dreamed about Courtney. Dreamed about holding her in his arms in a bed the way he had in that motel room. Only, in his sleep, the encounter hadn’t been quite so innocent. He’d started taking her clothes off, like a man uncovering buried treasure. And her hands had moved just as eagerly over him.

      He woke up angry with himself. In practical terms he was thinking that probably he should have gone out and gotten laid before he took this job. Then he wouldn’t be so focused on Courtney Rogers. She fascinated him. Exasperated him. Attracted him. She’d been ready to defend herself when she thought he was the guy who’d taken a shot at her. But she was hiding out from her own ranch manager.

      COURTNEY STEPPED BACK from the window. She’d been watching for Riley Watson, and he’d just stridden across the ranch yard and into the barn.

      He had an unsettling effect on her, like no one she’d ever met. He was so damn self-contained, yet below the surface she could sense his mind working.

      Too bad he was the sexiest man she’d met in a long time. That was another major problem. He had made her feel hot and needy, just from the way he looked at her.

      And she knew that he found her attractive. That was part of the lure of the man for her—the exhilaration of knowing that he was responding to her, even in her condition.

      Her lips firmed. She should be focused on the baby, not some cowboy who had just stepped into her life. Or was she so eager for attention, that she glommed on to the first guy who came along?

      She stalked down the hall, then stopped short at the room that she was fixing up as a nursery. For Emily. Or maybe Hannah. She wasn’t sure of the name yet, and she hated not being able to discuss her choices with anyone.

      She stroked her hand over her abdomen. “What do you think, Emily? Do you like that name? Or is Hannah better?”

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