She was hopeful the meal would go well until she realized that without Mama there to keep the conversation going, there would be no conversation. Hicks rarely spoke anyway, so that was no loss. Alejandro had his mind elsewhere, and Dalton just kept his head down and ate as much as he could, as quickly as he could.
And she’d dressed up for this? She looked from one to the other and shook her head. It was like they were in a race to see who could eat the fastest and last the longest without speaking, and each was determined to win. A collection of mutes.
It was the longest and quietest meal she had ever suffered through.
* * *
Sunday morning. The ranch workers had the day off, the good churchgoers were off warming their pews, and the horses had eaten. Dalton was turning them out into the pasture and thinking about how pretty Raney had looked the previous night, when he was startled by a sudden eruption of gunfire.
For an instant, his mind flashed back to the desert. His heart lurched. Panic stole his breath. Then it penetrated his brain that he was in Texas, not Iraq, and the sound he’d heard wasn’t the quick staccato burst of a rifle on full-auto, but the spaced-out report of a semiautomatic handgun. Nearby. In the brush along the creek, not far from the paddock fence line.
Furious that someone would shoot so close to the house and barn, he shoved his way through the spooked horses and vaulted the fence. Taking a roundabout route so he could come through trees that would offer cover, he sprinted toward the creek.
As he ran, he counted fifteen shots. Not the boom of a .45. More like the pop of a lighter round, like a .38 or a 9mm. A pause to reload, then more firing. He counted as he moved closer, saw a clearing through the trees ahead, and waited. At the sound of the fifteenth shot, he stepped out of the brush.
A woman stood less than twenty feet away, her back to him. A pistol was holstered at her hip and she was thumbing rounds into a magazine. She wore yellow-tinted safety glasses and noise-blocking headphones over a baseball cap.
He recognized the cap and the blond-streaked ponytail poking through the hole in the back of it.
Raney.
“Hey!” he shouted, and charged toward her.
She whirled, ponytail flying, her hand dropping to the gun. When she saw who it was, she pulled off the glasses and shoved the headphones back on her head. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m asking you the same thing.” He waved a hand in the direction of the pasture. “You do know there are horses over there, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. That’s why I’m out here.” She dropped the headphones and shooting glasses into an army surplus ammo can by her feet, then pulled out the gun and slapped in the magazine.
Dalton watched her, his nerves settling now that he knew there was no immediate danger. But he still didn’t know why she would pull such a stupid stunt.
She slid the loaded gun—maybe a Glock 19, or HK VP9—back into the holster. “Why are you out here?” she asked.
“Curiosity. Now that I know it was you shooting, do you mind telling me why? It was spooking the horses.”
“That was the point.” Seeing his confusion, she laughed.
It rocked him back. She hadn’t laughed often, especially around him, but it was worth the wait. Even with no makeup, a sunburned nose, and her beautiful hair hidden by a dusty ball cap, she was a knockout when she smiled.
“Not all our horses will make it into the show ring,” she explained. “Most will end up as working horses. And working horses on a Texas ranch need to get accustomed to shooting.”
Dalton knew that and felt foolish that he’d been so rattled by the gunfire he hadn’t figured it out sooner. They’d put their own horses through a similar process. Hoping to cover his lapse, he shifted subjects. “That a Glock 19?” He motioned to the pistol on her hip.
“It is.” She pulled it from the holster and held it out, butt first. “Want to try it?”
Dalton shook his head. “I fired all the guns I’ll ever want to in Iraq.”
With a shrug, she reholstered the pistol. Her gaze flicked over him. “I guess if you’re built the way you are, you don’t need a gun for protection.”
“Do you?” It bothered him to think that she might. Just because he was done with guns, didn’t mean he was against women arming themselves for protection. Or anyone else, for that matter. As long as they got training to go with it.
“Not yet.” She bent down, closed the hinged lid on the ammo can, secured the latch, then straightened, the metal handle in her hand. “But if the occasion arises, I’ll be ready.”
Dalton didn’t doubt it.
She started toward the creek.
He walked beside her, matching his pace to hers. It wasn’t a hardship. Even though she was half a foot shorter than he was, she had long legs and stepped out with authority. So much authority, in fact, he knew better than to offer to carry the ammo can. It was never wise for a man to underestimate the sensitivities of an armed woman.
“Do you plan on working Rosco today?” she asked.
“I do.” Dalton grinned down at her. “He’s a hell of a horse. We bring him along right and keep him healthy, he might earn you a lot of money someday.”
She smiled back, almost knocking him off his stride. “That’s the plan.”
And right then Dalton realized it was going to be a lot harder than he’d thought, working around this woman. He’d have to keep
