How to Handle a Cowboy (8 page)

He'd have to help her out all he could.

“I know folks like you tend to think the best of people, but sometimes that can be a little naive,” he said. “Maybe you and me ought to get together some evening, have a little talk about things over a nice dinner.” He reached over and patted her hand to reassure her that he understood that she couldn't help how she was. “I think I can help you learn a few things about life, and maybe about some other things too.”

He expected her to melt at the thought of a date with the town sheriff, but instead she leaned over the desk and struck like a snake.

“How can I be naive, Officer? I've probably seen a lot more of life as a social worker in Denver than you ever dreamed of as a small-town cop.”

So she was going to pull that city-smarts thing. It was true that he'd like to be in the big city rather than stuck out here in the boondocks. But this was the job he had, and he did it to the best of his ability. That was more than you could say for most men.

She shoved her chair back and stood. “Well, I appreciate your stopping by.”

She obviously wanted him to leave, and he sure as heck didn't mind. He made sure his shoes hit the hardwood floor with a sharp, authoritative sound to show her who was boss.

***

Sierra figured she'd probably made an enemy of the sheriff. That was the only reason she could think of why he'd want to ruin her hardwood floors with the black streaks his shoes left on the finish. Either she or Gil would spend an hour on their knees getting those off.

But she still had to be nice. Damn it.

“I appreciate your warning,” she said. “I'll be sure and run a background check on Ridge Cooper as soon as possible.”

“You'd need access to the state databases for that.” He hitched up his pants and adjusted the buckle on his belt. “But you can always ask me if you need information.”

“Actually, we contract for the state, so we have access to all the information we need—arrests, convictions, warrants, the works.”

“Oh.” He cleared his throat and thrust his hands in his pockets. “Well, you may not find any actual arrests.”

“Oh. I thought you said—”

“I'm not sure he ever actually got caught for anything.”

Sierra smiled to herself. After his hasty and rather rude exit the day before, she didn't care whether Ridge Cooper was a good man or not. Really. She didn't care one bit. But it was nice to know she could trust her instincts.

This guy had some kind of beef with him, that was all. Probably a lot of people did. He was rude and curt and infuriatingly attractive.

As for the sheriff, not even his clean-cut looks and shiny shoes could put him in the “good” category. He seemed to be more than willing to smear someone's reputation, so she'd better keep him on her side.

“Well, I really do appreciate the warning,” she said as they came to the door. “Just know that you don't need to worry about my boys. They're good kids.”

“I hope so.” He shook his head pessimistically as he left. “I truly do.”

Sierra watched him strut down the steps and waited for his pants to catch on fire.

Liar.

He didn't hope her kids were good. He hoped they'd do something wrong, so he could flex his law enforcement muscle. She'd better keep the boys in line. With people like Sheriff Swaggard stirring up trouble, it was going to take some kind of magic to turn this little town into a friendly place for them.

She was just about to close the door when he turned around.

“About that dinner, though…”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I'm afraid I've sworn off that kind of thing. I'm focusing on my career right now.”

She couldn't hear what he was mumbling under his breath as he returned to his bicycle, threw a leg over the back, and pedaled away—but she was sure it wasn't good.

Later that afternoon, Sierra was hunched over her computer, inputting reports from the boys' teachers. They basically said Isaiah talked too much and Jeffrey not enough.

No news flash there.

“You want some help?” Isaiah plopped down in front of the desk and shot her a winning smile.

“No. Go do your math, buddy.”

“Maybe I did it already, so I could help you with this stuff.”

Phoenix House's records were mostly paperless, except for the boys' earliest reports. Isaiah grabbed for a file and there was a brief wrestling match, which Sierra easily won. She wasn't in great shape, but she could take a nine-year-old any day of the week. It was only when they ganged up on her that she was in trouble.

“The files are confidential,” she said. “You know that.”

“I just wanna see Jeffrey's file. I want to see what makes that kid so screwy.”

She bunched up the papers on her desk and shoved them in a file drawer. She'd have to reorganize them later. Sometimes it seemed like the harder she worked, the behind-er she got.

Now she was starting to sound like Sheriff Swaggard.

“You may
not
see the file, and Jeffrey is
not
screwy,” she told Isaiah.

“Kid hasn't said a word for a week.” Isaiah crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. “Makes him screwy in my book.”

He had a point. Jeffrey had talked very little when he'd arrived, but now he'd fallen completely silent. She'd hoped Phoenix House would have the opposite effect.

“Maybe that's because you do enough talking for three kids. And speaking of books…”

Isaiah shoved out his lower lip and looked up at her as if he'd just lost his dog and his best friend too.

“I wanted to help you,” he said. “And besides, I need adult supervision.”

Sierra smothered a smile. She could not understand how any parent could choose drugs and crime over a child as bright and funny as Isaiah, even if the kid did drive her crazy.

The phone rang and she had to wrestle Isaiah for it. When she answered, she was out of breath.

“Hello?”

There was a long silence. Uh-oh. She knew that silence as well as if the caller had spoken.

“Phoenix House,” she said.

“That's better,” Mike Malloy said. “You might be out in the boondocks there, but we're still professionals. Remember that.”

Her boss was a fine one to lecture anyone about professionalism. She'd bet money he had his feet on the desk of his office in Cheyenne at this very moment, and she was sure his eyes were scanning the hall outside his door for any passing skirt—the shorter the better.

“I'm sorry, Mike. I—hold on.” She covered the receiver with her hand. “Isaiah, go do your homework.”

“But—”

“Isaiah,
now.
” She resisted the urge to snap at him. “Please.”

As he slouched off, she took her hand off the phone.

“What was that?” Mike's voice was sharp.

“Just one of the boys.”

He heaved a long-suffering sigh, as if she'd just frayed his last nerve. “Sierra, what is one of the boys doing in your office?”

“He was offering to help. It's fine, Mike.”

“I hope you're maintaining authority over these kids,” he said. “You must
always
be in charge. That's the challenge of this position. You need to maintain authority at all times. If you can't do that…”

He let his voice trail off, but they both knew how the threat ended. This was Mike Malloy's management style. Sometimes she wished she'd gotten the job in Denver she'd applied for before Mike had offered her the position here.

Oh, who was she kidding. She wished that
all
the time. It had been a state job, one that would have given her the power to make and execute policy for thousands of foster children in her home state, which had a population almost ten times that of Wyoming. She could do far more good in a job like that than she could here in Wynott, stuck in the back of beyond with just five kids to care for. She tried to tell herself that the world could be saved one child at a time, but it would take an awfully big army of social workers to do it this way.

Besides, in the state job, she wouldn't have to deal with Mike.

But though she'd made it through three interviews, the state of Colorado had chosen another candidate. Since then, she'd racked her brain trying to figure out what she'd done wrong. Sadly, her conclusion was that she might have come off as too compassionate.

“You there, Sierra?”

“I'm here. And don't worry, Mike. I'm maintaining authority.”

“I hope so. You're not their friend; you're their supervisor.”

Only Mike would begrudge motherless, fatherless children a friend.

There was a rustling on the other end of the line, and she pictured him dropping his feet to the floor and leaning forward, elbows on the desk. “So did my buddy Ridge stop by?”

Relief made her slouch low in her chair. Apparently Mike hadn't talked to Ridge, so he didn't know about the closet incident.

Yet.

“Yes, he was here.”

“Good. You set a date to take the kids out to the ranch, then?”

“No.” She took a deep breath. What could she tell him?
He
caressed
me
in
the
closet
and
then
he
got
spooked
and
left?
How could she explain what had happened when she didn't understand it herself?

But she was in charge of Phoenix House, and that made her responsible for the safety of the kids. If she didn't feel they were safe with Ridge Cooper, she just needed to say so.

Clearing her throat, she channeled Hillary Clinton, Margaret Thatcher, Katharine Hepburn, and every other strong, steel-jawed woman she could think of. “I felt it would be a mistake. Rodeo is a dangerous sport, and there are virtually no medical services in the area. If one of the kids got hurt, it would take an hour to get to a hospital. Maybe more.”

“Hell, Sierra, he's not going to put them on bucking bulls.”

Sierra almost giggled. When he talked about Ridge Cooper, Mike took on a John Wayne drawl. But she could hardly poke fun, since she tended to drool whenever his name came up. Drawl, drool—one way or another, Ridge Cooper was an inspiration to everyone.

“He's just gonna teach 'em to twirl a rope, maybe put 'em up on a horse,” Mike said.

“Mr. Cooper and I discussed the issue, and we agreed it was best not to proceed.”

Mike didn't respond. He often used silence as a weapon, but Sierra knew how to play that game too. If you let the silence stretch long enough, the other person felt compelled to fill it—and generally babbled their way into some kind of trouble. It was a little like a staring contest. If you were really determined to win, you won.

Finally, Mike spoke. She pumped her fist in the air, even though there was no one there to see it.

“Let me get this straight. You told Ridge Cooper that we don't want his help?”

Hmm. That was definitely not babbling.

“I thought you wanted to make these kids part of the community, give 'em a hometown, all that stuff. And then the most important man in the community offers to help, and you tell him no. I don't get it, Sierra.”

“To be honest, Mr. Cooper himself didn't seem very enthusiastic about the idea.”

There.
That put her and Ridge on one side, and Mike on the other side—the losing side.

She tilted her chair back and put her feet, clad in high-heeled boots, on the desk, mirroring the position Mike always took when he barked out orders on the phone. It was silly, but it made her feel in charge.

“Cooper was plenty enthusiastic when I talked to him,” Mike said. “I don't know what you did to piss him off, but it sounds like I'll have to take care of it.”

Click.

So much for being in charge.

Mike would call Ridge, who would tell him all about the closet incident and about losing the kids. And then Mike would call Sierra back and say those three little words.

You. Are. Fired.

And then she'd have to go back to her job search, back to filling out applications online, back to waiting for the phone to ring and “dressing for success”—which meant wearing boring business suits she'd never wear to an actual job. She had some savings, but she had no place to live, and most of her money was locked up in her 401k.

She could always live with her mother for a while.

Yeah, right.

Sierra loved her mom. She really did. But ever since Sierra's dad had walked out on them, Marie Dunn had been determined to pound into Sierra's stubborn head the belief that all men everywhere were bad to the bone. Not only had she bad-mouthed Sierra's dates, she'd also disparaged every male teacher or professor she'd ever had and pointed out the flaws of strange men passing on the street. It was a miracle Sierra wasn't twisted for life.

Heck, maybe she was. Maybe her attraction to Ridge Cooper was a form of rebellion. Because she could guarantee that her mother would not approve of him, especially since he was possibly the manliest man Sierra had ever met.

She leaned forward and rested her forehead on the desk, barely resisting the urge to give her brain a couple of good bangs on the hard wood. She might as well just sit there, she decided, and wait for Mike to call back and fire her.

She lifted her head reluctantly when she heard shuffling footsteps in the hall. Isaiah stuck his head in the doorway.

“You okay?”

She sighed. “I'm okay.”

He stood squarely in the doorway, his fists on his hips. He looked like a tiny version of a military general.

“You don't look okay.”

She couldn't help laughing a little. “That's not a very nice thing to say to a woman.”

“I don't mean you don't look pretty. You always look pretty. But you look sad. You got boyfriend trouble?”

She shook her head.

“You sure? I know you really liked that cowboy yesterday, and he just walked off like it was nothing. Which was weird, 'cause he liked you too.”

The shrill sound of the phone interrupted their conversation—thank goodness.

“See?” Isaiah said. “There he is. I told you he liked you.”

She picked up the receiver. If only life were as simple as that. If only this was Ridge Cooper, apologizing for his rudeness and making everything okay.

But no. It would be Mike.

She lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hello.” The voice was deep. Masculine. Definitely not Mike. It was deep, like Ridge's, but it didn't have quite the same effect. Maybe she'd become immune.

“Ridge?”

The man chuckled. Nope. Not Ridge. When Ridge chuckled, she felt it deep down inside.

“No, this is his brother. Shane King, from Decker Ranch.”

His brother. Another cowboy?

“I'm calling for Ridge,” the man said. “He wanted to schedule a ranch visit for the kids. We thought maybe riding lessons would be a good start. No rodeo stuff at first. I thought maybe Saturday would work.”

Whoever Shane King was, she wanted to kiss him. He'd just solved all her problems in a few short sentences.

“Um, Saturday would be great.”

“You know how to get here?”

“I have a GPS. What's the address?”

He chuckled again. “We don't do addresses out here. You got a pen and paper?”

“Sure.” She fumbled through her desk until she found a piece of scratch paper and a pen that worked then copied down the cowboy's complex litany of directions. Apparently, navigating Wyoming's backcountry was all about landmarks: a stop sign at the first turn, a washout at the second, then a place where the road forked and turned to dirt. There was a big old cottonwood at the last turn. She wrote it all down carefully. The last thing she wanted to do was get lost on the remote country roads with a van full of kids.

“What time should we come?”

“Let's say ten o'clock,” he said. “That give you time enough to round 'em up? I heard you have a pretty wild bunch out there.”

“We'll be there,” she promised. “I'll see you at ten on Saturday.”

“Oh, you won't see me. Ridge is on his own with this one.” There was still a note of humor in his tone. “Try not to spook him, okay? He's scared of women.”