Riley's Retribution Read online

  She wanted to say she’d call the sheriff. But she knew that would do her a fat lot of good. Sheriff Pennington had already taken Fowler’s side in a local dispute—when Tim Murch had accused Fowler’s men of stealing a cow and butchering it. Why would the sheriff be any more likely to help her?

  With as much dignity as she could muster, she turned and walked back toward the road where she’d left her truck, since she hadn’t wanted to come this far on horseback.

  She felt her breath catch and her vision cloud.

  “Oh, oh…sugar,” she muttered.

  She needed another source of income besides these guys with an army arsenal. Maybe Riley Watson was right; perhaps she should invest in some cattle and train the horses to work them. But that would involve an outlay of cash. And more men. And she’d be gambling on making a profit.

  By the time she was into the trees, tears were running down her cheeks. Angrily she swiped them away.

  She wasn’t some sissy. She had taken care of her self for a long time—when her dad had been sick and then when Edward had taken those overseas assignments, leaving her alone more than he was with her.

  A footstep behind her had her reaching for the gun she’d brought along and whirling awkwardly. Her body was starting to get in the way. She’d lost her balance last night, and she was in danger of doing it again. Cursing, she struggled to steady herself.

  “Easy.”

  To her amazement, Riley Watson caught her and steadied her again.

  “Put away the gun,” he growled.

  She did, still thinking he was the last man she expected to see out here. And the last man she wanted to see. Well, that wasn’t quite true. She would have been more alarmed to see Boone Fowler following her.

  But she wasn’t sure how to face Riley. Not after what they’d been doing the night before. She’d invited him to dinner to talk business—and ended up in his arms again. For some very heated making out. And she had to wonder if that was what she’d been thinking about all along, since the business discussion had been pretty minimal.

  “What…what are you doing here?” she gasped out.

  “I was out for a ride, and I heard shooting. I wanted to find out what was going on.”

  She fervently wished she could hide her tear-streaked face. He hesitated a moment, then stroked his finger over her cheek.

  When she made a small sound, he took her in his arms. The gesture was comforting, and she could tell he was being careful not to hold her the way he had the night before.

  His hand stroked over her back, and she wished her coat wasn’t in the way so she could feel his touch more intimately.

  With an inward groan, she banished that thought immediately.

  “That’s your tenant?” he asked in a rough voice.

  “Yes.”

  “I heard the way he was talking to you. Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “Billy heard them shooting this morning and told me. I…I came out here to get Fowler to stop the target practice. Somebody could get hurt.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then when we started talking, I could see it was dangerous to cross him.”

  “I think that’s a fair assessment.”

  “What am I going to do?” she said, then hated the needy sound of her own voice.

  “Let me help you.”

  “How?”

  “Tell me what you know about Fowler.”

  “Not much. He came to me asking to rent the buildings out here that my dad built for a…a tourist camp. I figured it was a way to get some extra money.”

  “Did you investigate him?”

  “I checked out his references, but that’s as far as it went,” she admitted. “In hindsight I realize that probably wasn’t enough.”

  Riley gave Ms. Rogers a long look. Obviously she’d been too wrapped up in her own pressing problems to pay much attention to the local news after Fowler and his men escaped from prison. And since it had been months since the prison break, other headlines had now taken precedence—primarily the war in Lukinburg. No point in freaking her out with the truth now. “You should have hired a detective agency to check him out,” he said, the advice coming out gruffer than he intended.

  “I know that now. I knew it the moment I got a good look at him!” she said savagely. “But by then it was already too late.”

  Her anguished face made him back off. “Okay.”

  “But you think I’m stupid for getting myself into this mess,” she demanded.

  He didn’t answer. He would have liked to tell her they were both in a mess. But he kept silent on that point—because he had to.

  Then he offered his own suggestion, playing fast and loose with the truth. “Maybe if I could get to know the guy, I could pick up some information you could use.”

  She raised large eyes to his. “You’d do that—for me?”

  Again he was caught in the lie that Big Sky had forced on him.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “What do you know about his habits…his social activities?”

  She looked thoughtful. “I guess he’d be suspicious of anyone who walked up and tried to say ‘howdy.’”

  He laughed. “Yeah.’” He forced his voice to remain casual. “I don’t suppose you happen to know where he hangs out in town?”

  She waited a beat, and he was afraid she wasn’t going to answer. Then she said, “I hear he likes to let down his hair at the Grizzly Bear Bar.”

  “Maybe I can go there—and pick up something useful.”

  She looked as if she was sorry she’d shared the information. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I won’t,” he said, then patted her on the shoulder like he was her uncle or something. “You go on home now.”

  “Are you patronizing me?” she demanded.

  “No. I’m doing what’s best for you,” he said, hoping like hell it would turn out to be true.

  “Okay, thanks.”

  She stood staring at him with those big eyes, and he wanted to ask what she thought about last night—about his kissing her, touching her. But he didn’t have the guts to bring that up.

  After several moments of silence, she turned and walked toward her truck.

  He watched her leave, plans forming in his mind. He had taken advantage of Courtney when she was worried and off balance. He wasn’t proud of that. Yet he told himself he was doing her a favor—getting Boone Fowler out of her hair. But he knew damn well she wasn’t going to approve of the method. In fact, her estimation of her new ranch foreman was going to go down a couple of notches. Maybe that was for the best. At least it would give her a reason not to get involved with him.

  Which was what he wanted. Right?

  Chapter Nine

  In for a penny, in for a pound, Riley thought as he pulled into a space on the street across from the Grizzly Bear Bar and ambled toward the door.

  He gave the establishment a considering look, thinking it wouldn’t win any prizes for ambiance. It was just a plain wooden building at the edge of Spur City, with a generic neon Open sign in one of the windows. And a hitching rail along the curb. At the moment no horses were tied up there. But the lot next door was full of vehicles—mostly pickup trucks and SUVs.

  A handwritten notice on the door requested no bare feet and no spitting. Well, that was certainly high class. Just the kind of bar he figured a lowlife creep like Boone Fowler frequented.

  Don’t think of him like that, Riley cautioned himself. You want to make friends with him.

  It had taken Riley two days to set up the scenario he had in mind. And he hoped everything was in place.

  Last night he’d woken up in a cold sweat, knowing his mind had gone spinning back to Fowler’s prison camp, dreaming of being held up by two men while a third punched him in the stomach.

  He hadn’t slept again. And before he’d left the ranch, he’d spent long minutes looking at his face in the mirror and comparing it to the memory of the gaunt, shaved-headed man who had staggered out
of Fowler’s prison camp.

  Well, he was going to find out pretty soon if the militia leader connected Courtney Rogers’s new ranch manager with that sorry guy.

  Get it over with, Riley ordered himself, then pulled open the door and stepped inside.

  He was immediately assaulted by the smell of cigarette smoke, sweat and beer.

  On his overseas assignments, he’d been in some scuzzy bars around the world. This one scraped the bottom of the barrel.

  A low buzz of conversation reached his ears, and over that the sound of an old Glen Campbell song on the jukebox.

  He looked down at the floor. It appeared to be about as clean as a hog pen.

  While he waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom inside the bar, he pictured Courtney’s face when she heard the news about him tomorrow.

  Warning himself he couldn’t worry about that, he brought his mind back to the business at hand.

  Squinting into the darkness, he saw an unadorned room with a bar, several wooden tables and chairs and a row of booths along one wall. The decorative accents consisted of advertising signs from beer companies.

  Men, mostly cowpokes and other ranch types were ranged around the room at the tables and at the bar. At ten in the evening there were no women. Perhaps some prostitutes would show up later.

  The militia leader and some of his cronies were occupying one of the booths in the back.

  Another man he recognized was at the bar. Stan Lewis, a guy who sometimes worked for Big Sky. According to the plan that Riley had outlined to the colonel, Lewis had flown into Billings the night before and come to Spur City.

  Riley moved next to Lewis along the scarred wooden bar. Resting one booted foot on the rail, he waited to be served, hoping he looked casual when his heart was pounding like a tom-tom.

  The barman appeared and looked him up and down before asking, “Help you?”

  “What do you have on draft?”

  From the short list, Riley selected a Coors, then bent over his glass, gulping a swig of the brew.

  Smooth, Watson. Slow down.

  He waited before taking a slow sip, then another, like a guy who can’t afford a lot to drink but wants to enjoy the atmosphere of the bar.

  Yeah, what atmosphere, he thought as he leaned against the sticky counter.

  He kept up the performance, spilling a little of the beer on his shirt so he’d smell drunker than he was.

  Taking his cue—which was Riley getting halfway through his second beer—Lewis said, “You from this one-horse town?” His tone was conversational yet had an edge of hostility.

  “For the time being,” Riley answered, downing more beer and turning slightly away from the other man like he didn’t want to get into a conversation.

  As Big Sky had planned on the phone, Lewis left him alone for a moment, then said, “So what do you think about this patch of paradise?”

  “It’s a place to work. It will do for the time being. When I’m tired of Spur City, I can move on.”

  “And in the meantime? What do you make, five dollars an hour?”

  Riley grunted.

  “Maybe you should join the army and ship out to Lukinburg.”

  “Now wait a damn minute. What the hell are you talking about?” Riley asked.

  Lewis raised his voice. “The war in Lukinburg is a good idea. We need more guys over there. Not punching cows in this frozen piece of Montana.”

  “I’m not punchin’ cows. I’m raising horses.”

  The buzz of conversation had stopped. People were listening.

  “Same difference,” Lewis muttered, then plowed ahead. “Either way, you’d be better off in Lukinburg.”

  “No way. The war is a mistake. I wouldn’t stick my nose in there—even if they paid me a million dollars.”

  “You’re a coward!” Lewis retorted.

  Riley glared at him. “Hey, since you’re so gung ho for this blasted war, why don’t you enlist?”

  Lewis scowled. “I tried but I didn’t pass the damn physical.”

  Riley leaned over his beer mug, pretending he’d had enough of the chitchat.

  “You’re not listening,” Lewis growled, reaching for him and spinning him around.

  “Get your damn hands off me,” Riley barked.

  “Make me.”

  Guys around them backed away.

  Lewis gave him an apologetic look, then slugged him on the chin—making the punch all too realistic, as far as Riley was concerned. How long had the guy been in here drinking, anyway? Or was he settling a secret grudge? Was that the real reason he’d agreed to take this assignment?

  With a growl of rage that was only partly faked, Riley slammed back, giving Lewis as good as he’d gotten.

  “Hey!” The shout came from the bartender, who reached across the bar.

  Lewis and Riley moved away—out of range. The next thing he knew, they were rolling on the floor, breathing hard and trading punches, having no problem making the fight look realistic. Maybe he’d underestimated his need to let off steam.

  He heard somebody shout, “Call the sheriff.”

  “Naw, let ’em fight. I bet on the ranch manager.”

  “Ease up, man,” Lewis muttered, through pants of breath.

  Riley tasted blood in his mouth. He was thinking they’d both had enough. But there was no way to simply back out—and have the desired effect.

  He almost shouted out in relief when someone grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him off Lewis.

  Moments later, Sheriff Pennington came crashing through the door. “What the hell is going on?” the lawman demanded as people in the bar held Riley and Lewis away from each other.

  “He started it,” Riley sputtered, feeling blood from his nose dripping down his face. Somewhere in his mind he was staring at himself in disbelief, appalled that he had put himself in this position in a lowlife bar.

  “No—he did,” Lewis shot back.

  “I think we’ll settle this down at the jail,” Pennington said as he snapped handcuffs on Riley, then Lewis.

  The moment the cuffs closed around his wrists, Riley shuddered at the thought of being locked up like a caged animal again.

  Boone Fowler, the man who had held him in captivity less than two months ago was across the room—watching him with a good bit of interest.

  Did he know this man was his former captive?

  Riley fought the sick feeling in his throat. But Fowler and his men only observed from the fringes—staying away from the center of excitement.

  Several guys who might have been deputies or simply buddies of the sheriff muscled them out of the bar. The crowd followed, talking excitedly as he and Lewis were hustled into a police cruiser.

  Riley focused his gaze straight ahead, contracting his field of vision, concentrating on making his emotions numb. The way he had in the prison camp.

  None too gently, Pennington escorted them into the sheriff’s office. “This is your first offense in town,” he growled. “If you don’t give me any trouble, I’ll turn you loose in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” he and Lewis mumbled, acting like the sorry drunks they’d played at the bar.

  Although Pennington didn’t officially book Riley, he led him to a cell and locked him in. It wouldn’t have happened that way in any big-city police department. But Big Sky had been counting on the lax procedures in Spur City.

  Riley washed his face in the small dirty sink in the cell, then lay down on a hard bunk. The blanket smelled worse than he did, so he folded it and laid it at the end of the bed. He might have tossed it on the floor, but he didn’t want Pennington to come at him for disrespecting government property or anything.

  Alone in his cell, it was impossible to hang on to the numbness he had manufactured. Suddenly he felt a terrible tightness in his chest and throat.

  This isn’t Boone Fowler’s prison camp, he told himself. But he kept glancing toward the bars, half expecting the “survivalist” to come in, scoop him up and haul hi
s ass back to the militia compound—where he could finish what he’d started a couple of months ago.

  In the darkness, he cursed Cameron Murphy for coming up with this particular plan to get Boone Fowler’s attention. What if it wasn’t even effective, and he had to go back to square one? Which was what—exactly? Riding over to the militia camp to introduce himself?

  Yeah, right. “I’m the jerk who made a fool of himself in the Grizzly Bear the other night.”

  He lay on the bunk all night, strung tight as a guitar string, somehow keeping himself from freaking out. In his saner moments, he reminded himself of why Murphy had picked him for this assignment. He was the chameleon. The man who could take on any persona. Which meant he had the best chance of convincing Boone Fowler that he’d make an excellent recruit.

  Still, as the darkness outside the barred window gave way to gray and then morning light, his tension increased. Could he really face Fowler without cringing?

  Pennington came back around 7:00 a.m.

  “There’s someone waiting to see you,” he said.

  Riley got up, assuming it was Courtney and sickened by the idea of her seeing him like this.

  But when the sheriff led him into the office, the militia leader was leaning comfortably against the desk.

  The two men exchanged a meaningful look, and Riley suddenly got the feeling that Fowler was the one calling the shots in town.

  The militia leader looked the prisoner up and down, and Riley waited to see a gun materialize in his hand.

  Instead the man shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then drawled, “Howdy.”

  “Howdy,” Riley answered, shocked that the man had used the very greeting he and Courtney had been joking about—and at the same time surprised that he was able to sound so damn normal.

  “We should have a talk,” Fowler said.

  “Sure, what about?” Riley inquired.

  “Why don’t we go where we can get comfortable?”

  Riley nodded, still not certain what was in store for him.

  RILEY WATSON WASN’T the only person in the Big Spur area who spent a sleepless night.

  One of Courtney’s hands, Billy Cramer, had been in town that evening, and he’d come back to the bunkhouse with the exciting news that the new ranch manager was in jail.