Bucking Bronc Lodge 04 - Cowboy Cop (6 page)

Timmy actually reached up to pet the horse, and Molasses responded by gently nuzzling her nose against his hand. The sight of Timmy doing something so normal made Miles’s chest swell with hope and longing that one day he would have his little boy back, happy and laughing and playing like a child should.

Sunlight streamed through the barn, glinting off Jordan’s golden-blond hair, and for a moment he simply watched her, the feminine way she moved, the sultry way she inclined her head and laughed as the horse rubbed his nose against her own.

The protective way she gently laid a hand on his son’s shoulder as if to assure him that she cared, that he wasn’t alone.

His earlier conversation with her rolled through his head, and he realized he’d been so defensive that he hadn’t noticed much about her. He’d been too busy listening to the guilt and recriminations screaming at him, reminding him that if he’d reached Marie’s house earlier that morning, Timmy’s mother might not be dead.

But now with the solace of the ranch life echoing around them and the sun highlighting her features, her beauty suddenly struck him—not that she was perfect or model-like, but she had a simple, natural beauty that radiated from her, a sweet tenderness that made his gut clench with emotions.

And desire.

He silently cursed himself. Good God, he couldn’t let himself be attracted to this woman. She was Timmy’s counselor. A woman he needed to help his son.

Besides, what kind of man was he?

Marie had only been gone a few weeks. Even though they’d had their problems, she had been the mother of his child and he’d vowed to try to make things work with her.

Dammit. Her death lay on his conscience like a fire-breathing dragon that had to be reckoned with.

Getting justice for her murder was the only thing that would help.

That was where his focus had to be. Not on the fact that he’d like to throw Jordan down in the hay and pound himself inside her until she made the bad memories go away.

Oblivious to his wayward thoughts, Jordan glanced up and spotted him and gave him a warm smile. “There’s your father now, Timmy.” She waved at him to come over. “Miles, Timmy was just saying hello to a few of the horses.”

Miles forced thoughts of Jordan and her sexuality from his mind. This woman was off-limits and he couldn’t forget it.

“Hey, sport.” Miles closed the distance between them and ruffled his son’s hair. “I know you’ve always wanted a horse of your own. Maybe after we leave here, we’ll find us a spread and you can pick out one.”

Timmy turned his small face up toward him, and the hope Miles felt earlier slipped away like dust in the wind. His son’s eyes looked so tormented that Miles’s gut wrenched. And the fact that Timmy didn’t speak or hug him like he once would have spoke volumes for his state of mind.

He glanced up and saw Jordan watching him, and a weight lodged in his throat.

Maybe Jordan would be good for him. Maybe being here at the BBL would help.

If it didn’t, he didn’t know what the hell he would do.

He couldn’t fool himself into believing that everything would change overnight. Not Timmy’s condition. Or his own guilt.

And he couldn’t forget for a minute that Dugan and his accomplice—or copycat—posed a threat.

That getting sidetracked by Jordan wasn’t even an option.

The only thing that mattered right now was keeping Timmy safe and pinning Dugan for the cold-blooded killer he was.

* * *

J
ORDAN SPENT THE AFTERNOON
working with three other boys, each with his own set of problems, but not as deeply embedded as the trauma Timmy had experienced. Still, they were here because they needed help.

Rory Morton was eight. He’d been abandoned by his mother, who’d run off to Mexico after stealing money from her boss’s company. His father had never been in the picture.

Six-year-old Wayling Gadstone had been abused by his grandfather, who’d taken him in after his parents died in a car accident. Wayling was now a ward of the state.

And ten-year-old Malcolm Thornsby had been caught shoplifting and vandalizing property with his older brother Jerome, who belonged to a gang.

She let herself in to her cabin, tossed off her jacket, needing to rest a few minutes before dinner. But as always she paused to study the picture of her brother she kept by her bed.

He was eleven in the photograph, gangly, with dirty-blond hair and freckles and a skinned knee from in-line skating in the streets of San Antonio. He had been athletic and funny with a flair for wrapping her around his little finger.

Then their mother had passed away, he’d hit puberty and it was almost as if some other kid had invaded his body. Before, he’d been a feisty, stubborn boy, but the next year he’d turned surly, become mixed up with the wrong crowd and...been murdered.

Unable to help herself, she picked up the folder that held the articles about his death and the gang who’d killed him, her heart heavy as she studied the photographs of the two boys who were responsible.

Fourteen-year-olds who had been trying to impress their leader. Just for sport, one of them had said with a laugh.

She had stared into his eyes as the judge had sentenced him and been shocked at the calculating coldness she’d seen there. At the total lack of remorse.

Rubbing her arms to ward off a shudder, she rose and went to look out the window across the BBL. If those kids, if Richie, had had this place, maybe things would have been different for all of them. Maybe those boys wouldn’t be in prison and Richie in his grave.

Wiping tears from her eyes, she forced herself to return to the table and look over the files of the teenagers at the BBL, both the counselors and campers.

Just to be on the safe side, she studied Malcolm’s file to verify that his brother Jerome wasn’t affiliated with the B-2-8s, the gang responsible for killing her brother.
B
for bloodthirsty, two for the number of kills it took to be initiated and eight for the eight tests it took to join.

The name of the gang Malcolm’s brother had belonged to teased at her memory, but it wasn’t the B-2-8s.

She spent the next hour combing through the other files, reading through the boys’ backgrounds, looking for signs that one of them might be dangerous.

The police had agreed that it was a good idea for her to leave San Antonio for a while. And Brody had promised to check out all the campers and staff himself.

But she still had to be always on her toes in case one of them slipped through.

* * *

“
T
HIS IS OUR CABIN,”
Miles said as he and Timmy entered the two-bedroom log house. “It’s pretty rustic but that’s ranch life.”

A leather sofa draped in an afghan sat in front of the stone fireplace. Beside it two big club chairs looked comfortable enough to sleep in. The den opened into the kitchen, very country but functional, the walls and floor made of knotty pine.

Timmy seemed to take it in with the same glazed look. “Come on, bud. Your room is in here.” He gently urged Timmy into the first bedroom with a nudge to his shoulder, then he opened the curtains. The sky had a gray cast, but a dim light spilled in. “I thought you might like this one because it faces the west and has a great view of the pastures where the horses run free.”

His own room had a window facing the rolling hills as well, but also afforded him a view of the road leading onto the ranch. He couldn’t be too careful. He had to watch for trouble.

Timmy didn’t comment, but he did move to the window and stared out at the horses galloping across the pasture.

“I’m going to unpack your bag and put your stuff in the drawers,” Miles said. “Then if you want, we’ll take a short ride before dinner.”

He busied himself removing the few jeans and shirts he’d packed from the house for his son and stored them within easy reach. Then he left Timmy still watching the horses while he unpacked his own bag.

Finally he checked the refrigerator, grateful Brody had had Ms. Ellen stock it with a few items so they didn’t have to leave for every meal. A quick glance at Timmy indicated that his son hadn’t moved, so he grabbed his leather saddlebag from his Jeep and set his laptop up on the oak desk in the corner of the living room.

When Timmy went to bed tonight, he’d review the files on Dugan’s case. Maybe there was some connection they’d missed....

But he couldn’t do it with Timmy awake. So he went to Timmy’s room, took his hand and walked him to the barn. Timmy watched quietly as he saddled a paint named Spunky, then climbed in the saddle and pulled Timmy up behind him.

“Comfortable, partner?”

Timmy slid his hands around his waist, and Miles’s heart stuttered. “That’s it, hang on. Now let’s check out this spread.”

They spent the next two hours riding across the acres and acres of ranch land. Miles pointed out the cattle and explained how they herded them from pasture to pasture to make sure they had enough grass to graze, then explained how the older boys helped with roundup when they needed to do branding in the spring.

They saw deer and rabbits and other wildlife, and each time Miles slowed the horse so he and Timmy could watch the simple pleasures of nature.

“Here’s the creek where we’ll fish,” Miles said. “Maybe we can do that tomorrow. But I want you to join in with the campers while we’re here. They’ll teach you how to groom the horses, but they also play fun games like horseshoes. I think they even teach you how to shoot a bow and arrow.”

At one point, Miles helped Timmy down and they sat on a log and watched the creek water ripple across the stream. Miles skipped rocks, showing Timmy how to angle them to skim the water, but Timmy simply tossed the stones in, seemingly satisfied that the harder he threw, the deeper they sank.

Finally, what little sun was left began to set, and they rode back to the stables. Miles ached for some response from Timmy as he showed him how to wipe down the horse, but an awkward silence fell between them. Although, Timmy rallied enough to help feed and water the animals, then they headed over to the dining hall for dinner.

As soon as they entered, he spotted Jordan sitting with a crew of kids about Timmy’s age. He helped Timmy grab a plate filled with barbecue and beans and they joined her.

“Timmy, this is Rory, Wayling and Malcolm,” Jordan said, reminding him that when he was ready he’d stay in their cabin with them. “They’re going to be in your group so you guys will get to know each other well.”

Timmy looked up at them with big eyes, then nibbled on his barbecue, edging closer to Miles as if he was afraid his father might disappear any second.

Jordan met Miles’s gaze across the table, the understanding in her expression hammering home the fact that he needed her to break through to Timmy.

Damn. He didn’t like needing anyone.

Hell, any time he cared about someone, they ended up dead.

But until Timmy spoke up and identified Dugan, he’d have to allow her in their lives.

They finished dessert and walked over to the campfire. Jordan urged Timmy to join the boys, and Timmy slumped down beside Wayling, but he didn’t speak. Wayling didn’t seem to notice, though, or mind. He chattered about how excited he was to learn to ride and handed Timmy a marshmallow after he roasted it.

Timmy kept looking back at him as if he thought he’d evaporate, and Miles’s heart churned.

Before Marie’s death, Timmy had been infatuated with how Miles carried a gun. Marie had begged him to quit the sheriff’s office, constantly complaining about how dangerous it was. Timmy had heard her arguments.

Was he worried Miles might be gunned down?

After the fire was extinguished, Jordan walked with them back to Miles’s cabin. Before he took Timmy inside for bedtime, Jordan knelt beside Timmy and patted his back. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep good, little guy.”

Miles gritted his teeth. Sleep was hard for both him and his son—that was when the nightmares came.

He coaxed Timmy into his room and helped him into his pj’s and into bed. But just as he was about to leave, Timmy looked up at him and threw his arms around him. Miles’s throat clogged, and he hugged him back.

“I’m not going anywhere, sport. I promise.” He ruffled his hair. “If you need me, I’ll be in the next room.”

Timmy nodded against his chest. Progress, Miles thought.

A second later, Timmy rolled over and hugged his knees to his chest, and Miles knew he still had a long way to go.

When he made it back into the den, Jordan was waiting. “Can we step outside for some air?” Jordan asked.

He nodded. He wanted to talk as much as she did.

He jammed his hands in his pockets as they stepped outside. “Did Timmy say anything while he was with you?” he asked without preamble.

Jordan shrugged slightly. “He didn’t talk about the murder, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Miles hissed between his teeth. “Then what did you talk about?”

“We played with clay,” Jordan said.

He frowned. “What the hell does clay have to do with anything?”

Jordan smiled softly. “It’s called play therapy,” she explained. “It’s a way to allow Timmy to express his emotions. I talked and he pounded out his anger.”

That made sense.

“Miles, I need to ask you something and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way.”

He squared his shoulders. “What?”

“When I mentioned that you and Timmy probably enjoyed spending a lot of time together, he seemed to get agitated and pounded the clay harder.”

His defenses rose. “So you’re saying that I wasn’t a good father?”

Jordan frowned. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. It’s just that if something had happened between you two, it might help me understand Timmy better. Maybe you had to discipline him or you scolded him, maybe he overheard an argument between you and Marie.”

Miles whirled toward her, his pulse drumming. “He blames me for what happened,” he said gruffly.

“No, Miles, that’s not—”

“Yes, he does, Jordan, and he has every right to.” He had to pause to swallow the bile rising to his throat. “I was supposed to pick up Timmy that night to stay with me, but I stayed out late working. I thought I had a lead, but it was a dead end.” Disgust at himself made his voice hard. “Instead Dugan was watching Marie and Timmy, sending me on a wild-goose chase so he could murder them.”