Outlaw Cowboy (5 page)

“I don't mistreat animals. Mine or anyone else's, even if they aren't in my care.”

“You neglect your own, and that's a fact. It's enough to make me think you might mistreat them if given the opportunity. I know you don't like me. Maybe you'd want to mess with me that way.”

Caleb pushed away from the booth. “Fuck this,” he muttered. He'd never neglected an animal in his life. Sober. And Tyler was asking to lease land, not asking Caleb to care for his damn cows. What did a few past mistakes matter?

“You can afford to walk away from a few grand, Caleb?”

Caleb stopped and allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to turn and knock a fist into Tyler's smug face. The thought wasn't nearly as satisfying as the action would have been.

“I didn't think so. Condition two is if there's even a whiff of you screwing up, drinking, associating with the people you used to associate with, you don't get another cent from me. I won't have my animals compromised by your past and your proximity.”

“What, you think some of my old buddies are going to force-feed your cattle booze and pot in the dead of night?”

“I wouldn't put it past any of you ne'er-do-wells. Not one whiff of you having anything to do with someone with a past even half as sketchy as yours.” Tyler got out of the booth, stood in front of him, and handed out a card. “You think about it. You want to take me up on it, I need to know by tomorrow.” And with that, he waved at Georgia and then walked out of the diner.

Caleb looked down at the card.
Parker's Prized Cattle, Parker Ranch, Blue Valley, Montana.

In a fit of irritation, Caleb crushed the card in his palm, but then he shoved it in his pocket, because he wasn't stupid.

Irritated, itchy for a drink, and with a headache brewing, he left Georgia's. He wouldn't go home and drink. He'd go home and beat out his bad temper on some fence posts.

Well, it's not as if you're any good at keeping the fence between our land in good repair.
Fucking prick. Caleb hadn't had an issue with the fence that divided them from Parker land in a year.

Asshole.

“Caleb.”

If it hadn't been Mel, he would have groaned in frustration. Still, he couldn't turn to face her—she'd read through his expression too easily. “Thought you went back to the llamas.”

“Dan and I decided we have a little more time. We're going to come over and talk to Dad for a few. Just fifteen minutes or so. I haven't been out in a while, and we're halfway there. I'll give you a bit of a head start though.”

“Great.” Fan-fucking-tastic. This day just kept getting better and better.

* * *

Delia stared out the window at the bright sun. The snow was melting, and a tiny little spot of muddy grass was appearing. She'd lost track of how long she'd stared at it, willing it to expand.

It was a foolish thing. Even if all the snow melted, it was only March. More snow could come. The temperatures would remain inhospitable for weeks upon weeks. Fucking Montana.

She turned away from the window. She didn't have time for daydreaming. She needed to plan, to strategize.

There was so much to tackle, she didn't know where to start: getting Steph out or finding a way to prove to the cops she'd had nothing to do with the drugs?

She looked around the dim room, panic clawing at her chest. It seemed the more she fought it off, stuffed it down, the harder it struggled free when it saw weakness.

Focus on what's most important.

So. Steph. Because if she could get Steph out, well, whatever happened with the warrant out for her would be moot. Once Steph was out, if Delia had to do some jail time, well…it couldn't be any worse than some things she'd withstood already.

Everything felt heavy and impossible, and she wanted to curl up in the uncomfortable bed and pretend this wasn't her life.

But that didn't get things done. Planning and acting were her only real choices, so what she wanted didn't matter. There was no room for mistakes this time. Dad was a sadistic son of a bitch, but he was no idiot. At this point, he knew how and why his daughters were disappearing.

He probably had Steph under lock and key. Delia didn't think she'd ever understand why, or why Mom had accepted it, allowed it. Why…

No use in trying to figure out why. It was this cabin. It reminded her of “home” and all the dark, omnipresent weight that went with it.

She needed sunlight. She couldn't think in all this dank isolation. She needed noise and sunlight and air. Maybe she could find some little hideaway spot behind the cabin to secret herself into.

She wished futilely for some kind of notebook to write it out. Seeing her thoughts in words would help her know they were real and strong and possible. Instead, she had to make do with a mug of instant coffee warmed pitifully over a little battery-operated camping burner that had been in Caleb's box o' goodies.

She shoved her feet into her boots. The cushioned sole had long since worn down, and now it was like walking on nothing but the metal bottom. But they were her talisman, the “fuck off” engraved on those boots, an old thrift store find that she'd refused to part with.

Not that she had the means with which to part with anything. Shoes were shoes, and she would prefer these hard shoes with their lovely little message than something comfortable any day.

At least that's what she told herself.

She was rationing everything, so her coat was already on, since she refused to have a fire going in the afternoons. Besides the few logs she'd managed to pilfer wouldn't burn for very long. It was still damn cold thanks to the wind that swept down the mountains on its way to the valley, so she pulled the least conspicuous blanket from the pile.

She slipped outside, sticking close to the sides of the cabin. This side of the ranch seemed relatively untraveled, but she couldn't be too careful—not with Summer lurking who knew where.

I know what it's like.

Delia pushed away the words. People's sympathy would make her weak or careless. She'd already cried in front of Caleb and felt warmed by Summer's words. She didn't want to know what came next.

She was about to turn the corner of the front of the cabin when a strange sound stopped her. Something like a moan followed by a curse.

She pressed her back to the wood of the cabin and scanned the ranch spread out before her. In the distance, beyond a swell of land, she could see the top of the roof of the main Shaw house. There were fences and a barn in the distance to her right.

She saw no one. Not even Summer's mysterious residence, wherever that was. Maybe all she'd heard was a cow.

“Worthless piece of shit.”

Last time she checked, cows couldn't talk. She glanced at the door, then looked around again. She thought over by the main house she could make out the outline of…something. Or someone.

She should slip back inside the cabin and forget it. But there were two problems with that. First, she didn't know if moving might catch this person's attention. Second, he sounded like he was in trouble.

Not your problem, girl.

Another sound came, not a curse or a word, just a kind of pained moan and a thump. It was distorted by distance, but the clear mountain air carried sound like nothing else.

Don't do it. Don't do it.
But the voice in her head was already being drowned out by the need to do something. She placed the mug on the ground and began to head toward the figure. She stuck close to the line of pine trees someone must have planted decades ago.

When she reached the end of the trees, she could make out a man on the ground. She immediately stepped forward, completely forgetting about being on the run from the police, but she stopped abruptly when she noticed the wheelchair.

Oh hell, this had to be Caleb's father.

She glanced around, trying to discern where Summer's place was. She'd pointed in the dark, but all Delia saw was mountains and trees. Some fence posts. Nothing that could be a house.

The tone of the grunts and movements started to take on a note of panic, pain. Crap. Crap. Crap. She could not leave a wheelchair-bound man sideways and swearing.

Even if he was Caleb's father. Though Caleb would certainly offer no thank-yous for her showing her face when she was supposed to be keeping out of sight.

She took another step forward and then stopped. What if he turned her in? What if he told Caleb she'd been out and about? What if—

He moaned again, and she didn't have a choice. She had to finish walking toward him. She wasn't a martyr, but her heart and soul weren't completely black either. Helping him was the only option her conscience would allow.

“How can I help?” she asked, kneeling next to him.

He grunted as he glared at her. “Who the hell are you?”

“I…I'm a delivery person.”

His eyes swept down her outfit. An outfit that clearly did not read United States Postal Service, and Lord knew pizza didn't get delivered this far.

“I hit a rut,” he said, each word a reluctant grunt. “Right my chair for me.” It was a surly order, not one note of pleading or relief in his gravelly voice.

She blew out a breath. She just had to right his chair, then she could disappear. Maybe he'd never even mention it to Caleb. Maybe this could be a blip of Good Samaritan behavior that got hidden forever.

Ha. Ha. As if
that
ever happened.

But she helped disentangle him. “Are you hurt?”

“Fuck if I know,” he grumbled, rubbing his elbow. “Doesn't matter. Just right the damn chair.”

She got the wheelchair back into an upright position, but she had no idea how she was going to get him into it. He was a solid man, and though she made a habit of touching strangers to exert some kind of power, some kind of control, she didn't particularly want to touch Caleb's father.

It seemed one step too close to touching Caleb himself.

“Where were you trying to go?” she asked gently. Maybe there would be someone waiting for him somewhere that she could go get.

“Nowhere,” he snapped, and despite the surliness, there was a tone of guilt and secrecy in that one word.

He'd been going somewhere, and he didn't want anyone to know. That little morsel of information might help her out if he got any clue as to who she was.

She surveyed him and the chair again, but he was already pulling himself toward the chair, a strangely mesmerizing sight—a man moving his body with simply the strength of his arms.

“Hold the chair steady, girl. I ain't Superman here.”

She scurried to follow instructions.

His breath was ragged, his arms shaking, and tiny beads of sweat were popping out on his temples as he lurched himself up and into the wheelchair. She'd never know where the strength came for him to do that.

He slumped in the seat, breathing heavily for a long beat before he wearily pulled each leg onto the foot platform.

Delia didn't know what to say or what to do, so she could only stand behind his wheelchair, still grasping the handles to keep it steady.

“Well, are you going to wheel me back to the house or what?”

She inhaled sharply. She shouldn't. Self-preservation told her the thing to do was leave him here for someone who actually had an ounce of interest in his welfare. But…she couldn't. Self-preservation didn't run to hurting other people. She wouldn't let her father shape her like
that
.

But that didn't mean she had to be Suzy Nicey Nice. She was not Summer, with the sweetness all but emanating from her
I know what it's like to be on your own
s.

Delia moved in front of him in an attempt to make sure he was situated right enough she could push him back to the main house.
Crap, crap, crap.

He scowled. “Well?” he demanded.

“Typically people say please and thank you.” She had never been very good with demanding people.

“Typical don't live here,” he muttered, staring off into the distance.

Wasn't that the truth? She was about to move back behind the chair so she could get him going—push him to the house and leave so she could go back to the peace and safety of the cabin, but his sharp eyes flicked to her face.

“I know you.”

“Oh, yeah?” She wasn't sure she believed it. Oh, he thought he
might
recognize her, but the open speculation in his expression wasn't knowledge so much as suspicion. It was enough to get her moving. If she was pushing him toward the house, he couldn't study her face well enough to figure it all out.

Would the people of Blue Valley know about everything that had gone down? She'd been living with Eddie over in Bartlett, and while the gossip mill didn't seem to run between towns, they were certainly patrolled by the same group of county deputies.

Shit on a stick.

Well, in for a penny, she supposed. She pushed—and pushed and pushed—Caleb's father across the slushy ground. It took all the strength she had, but if he could pull himself into the chair, she could certainly muscle him back to the house.

She got him to the gravel of the drive that led to a detached garage. The Shaw house was impressive, if a little worse for wear. Still, she could see that it had once been something of a beauty. The rough-hewn wood had seen better days, but the upstairs porch and wraparound porch on the lower level were like a dream compared to where she came from.

As there was a much newer-looking ramp leading up the wraparound porch, Delia stopped pushing. She didn't have much more in her anyway. Her arms were shaking and the food rationing wasn't helping. She'd only had a granola bar for breakfast and it was nearly one o'clock. She needed to get back to the cabin and see what she could do with a little container of Easy Mac.

“This is where my good deed ends,” she announced, feeling weird leaving him here, but unable to do much else. She pulled her shaking arms to her chest and tried to cross them casually.