Chase speak again. “You’re right about Jessy. I would hate to learn she can’t be trusted.”
“Me too,” Laredo said. “She’s an easy woman to like.”
“I just hope she doesn’t give you reason to regret letting her know that you are armed.”
“If she is as square as I think she is, she needs to be alert for that.” He slid a wry grin in Chase’s direction. “Maybe you can teach her the ins and outs of cattle ranching, but I can teach her the skills to stay alive.”
Absently amused and inwardly pleased, Chase ran his glance over the man’s clean profile. “That sounds like you are signing on for the duration.”
“Do you have a problem with that?” Laredo countered, a faint twinkle in his blue eyes.
“Not a one.” Smiling, Chase settled back in the seat, making himself comfortable for the long ride back to Miles City.
The brown horse shuffled along at an easy trot, its rider in no hurry and bound for no particular destination. But Culley O’Rourke’s wanderings rarely had a purpose. The sole exception to that rule involved his niece Cat Calder Echohawk. Ever since his sister had been killed in that plane crash when Cat was still a teenager he had made it his mission to watch over Maggie’s daughter. But on this day Cat was at home, still enveloped in grief over her father’s recent death.
But Calder’s death was no cause for regret as far as Culley was concerned. There was a time when he had been consumed with hatred for the man. The hatred had burned itself out, though, and he had come to tolerate the man’s existence, for Cat’s sake.
Without a doubt, the years had wrought many changes in Culley O’Rourke, most notably in his appearance. His hair that had once been the glistening black of a crow had grayed to the color of a weathered barn board. His once wide shoulders had thinned and appeared permanently bowed in a protective hunch. The nervous, hair-trigger energy that had so often seemed poised on the edge of violence had faded to a constant restlessness.
It was that innate restlessness that pushed him to this endless wandering that knew no boundaries. Long ago the Triple C riders had grown used to seeing him ghosting over the ranch’s vast holdings, invariably fighting shy of any contact.
If his presence drew any comment at all, it was generally something wry like, “Saw ole Crazy Culley today, sloping out of sight behind a hill.” And it was always issued with an amused shake of the head.
Keeping to a swale in the plains and deliberately avoiding sky-lining himself on higher ground, Culley took a roundabout track toward a fence gate. He had yet to decide if he would make use of it or angle off in another direction. It would probably be the latter. Culley had never been one to travel along roads, and there was one on the other side of the fence gate.
The brown gelding pricked its ears, its nose lifting to scent the air. Culley had ridden the horse for too many years not to have learned to correctly read its body language. Something was nearby. By reading the horse’s slight variations, Culley could tell if that thing was a cow, a coyote, or a horse. This time the gelding was reacting to one of its own kind. In this particular area of the Triple C, Culley knew that if there was a horse in the area, ninety percent of the time there would be a rider, too.
Obeying his initial impulse, Culley reined in his mount. It wasn’t that he disliked other people. He simply wasn’t comfortable around them. The small talk that came so easily to others was awkward for him, almost painful.
But to avoid such situations, he had to know the rider’s location and destination so he could head in the opposite direction. It was that desire which prompted him to rein his horse up the sloping rise in the plains. He pulled up when he could see over the top of it.
A pickup and horse trailer were parked along the edge of the dirt ranch road a quarter mile distant. Near the rear of it, a
“Me too,” Laredo said. “She’s an easy woman to like.”
“I just hope she doesn’t give you reason to regret letting her know that you are armed.”
“If she is as square as I think she is, she needs to be alert for that.” He slid a wry grin in Chase’s direction. “Maybe you can teach her the ins and outs of cattle ranching, but I can teach her the skills to stay alive.”
Absently amused and inwardly pleased, Chase ran his glance over the man’s clean profile. “That sounds like you are signing on for the duration.”
“Do you have a problem with that?” Laredo countered, a faint twinkle in his blue eyes.
“Not a one.” Smiling, Chase settled back in the seat, making himself comfortable for the long ride back to Miles City.
The brown horse shuffled along at an easy trot, its rider in no hurry and bound for no particular destination. But Culley O’Rourke’s wanderings rarely had a purpose. The sole exception to that rule involved his niece Cat Calder Echohawk. Ever since his sister had been killed in that plane crash when Cat was still a teenager he had made it his mission to watch over Maggie’s daughter. But on this day Cat was at home, still enveloped in grief over her father’s recent death.
But Calder’s death was no cause for regret as far as Culley was concerned. There was a time when he had been consumed with hatred for the man. The hatred had burned itself out, though, and he had come to tolerate the man’s existence, for Cat’s sake.
Without a doubt, the years had wrought many changes in Culley O’Rourke, most notably in his appearance. His hair that had once been the glistening black of a crow had grayed to the color of a weathered barn board. His once wide shoulders had thinned and appeared permanently bowed in a protective hunch. The nervous, hair-trigger energy that had so often seemed poised on the edge of violence had faded to a constant restlessness.
It was that innate restlessness that pushed him to this endless wandering that knew no boundaries. Long ago the Triple C riders had grown used to seeing him ghosting over the ranch’s vast holdings, invariably fighting shy of any contact.
If his presence drew any comment at all, it was generally something wry like, “Saw ole Crazy Culley today, sloping out of sight behind a hill.” And it was always issued with an amused shake of the head.
Keeping to a swale in the plains and deliberately avoiding sky-lining himself on higher ground, Culley took a roundabout track toward a fence gate. He had yet to decide if he would make use of it or angle off in another direction. It would probably be the latter. Culley had never been one to travel along roads, and there was one on the other side of the fence gate.
The brown gelding pricked its ears, its nose lifting to scent the air. Culley had ridden the horse for too many years not to have learned to correctly read its body language. Something was nearby. By reading the horse’s slight variations, Culley could tell if that thing was a cow, a coyote, or a horse. This time the gelding was reacting to one of its own kind. In this particular area of the Triple C, Culley knew that if there was a horse in the area, ninety percent of the time there would be a rider, too.
Obeying his initial impulse, Culley reined in his mount. It wasn’t that he disliked other people. He simply wasn’t comfortable around them. The small talk that came so easily to others was awkward for him, almost painful.
But to avoid such situations, he had to know the rider’s location and destination so he could head in the opposite direction. It was that desire which prompted him to rein his horse up the sloping rise in the plains. He pulled up when he could see over the top of it.
A pickup and horse trailer were parked along the edge of the dirt ranch road a quarter mile distant. Near the rear of it, a
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