it a little longer, if you don’t mind. Are you cooking meth in this house?”
His eyes widened. “Meth! You mean drugs? No way!”
Her instincts said he was telling the truth, though she didn’t know how far she could trust her instincts these days. She lowered the mace slightly, and heard him release a quiet sigh.
“Ardis Dunaway sent me here,” she said.
“Don’t know him.”
“Obviously not,” Cheyenne said dryly. “You climbed through the bathroom window?”
He nodded. “It wasn’t latched.”
“Just because a door isn’t locked doesn’t mean you have a right to trespass on someone else’s property. Who’s Austin Barlow?”
He lowered his hands to his sides. “The mayor of Hideaway, population a thousand plus some change.”
“Who’s Willy?”
“Another ranch boy like me.”
Okay, things were beginning to make a little more sense. Not a lot, but some.
“So what are you doing here?” Cheyenne asked. “And why would the mayor call the sheriff on you?”
“Because he doesn’t like my hair and he doesn’t like my nickname, and he likes to blame the ranch boys for everything that goes wrong around here.”
“In that case, don’t you think it’s time you got back to the ranch?” she asked.
“You going to tell Dane about this?”
“I don’t even know Dane.” She waited for him to make for the door, but he just stood there in the middle of the living room. Something about this kid intrigued her—and he was definitely stalling for some reason. Were the police actually looking for him? “You never told me what you were doing in my house.”
“Thought you said it was Ardis Dunaway’s house.”
He had a good memory for names. “It is, and I’m going to sleep here tonight, so if you don’t mind—”
“No electricity.”
“Good. I like to camp out.”
“You won’t like the ghosts.”
“Right.” Ghosts?
“And you’ll have to use the old outhouse, because without electricity there’s no water.”
“That’ll be my problem, won’t it? Go home.”
Still he hesitated.
Her internal tension meter kicked back up a notch. Why wouldn’t he leave?
He glanced at the pistol she still held in her hand. “That a twenty-five caliber?”
“No.”
He nodded and gazed around the room.
“Is there something else you need to tell me?” she asked.
“This place has cockroaches.”
Lovely. “Do you plan to do something about that?”
“No, but ol’ Bertie Meyer says all you have to do is throw a few hedge apples under the house and the bugs’ll leave.”
“Who’s Bertie Meyer?”
“Your nearest neighbor. She and Red are eighty-something and going strong.”
“What’s a hedge apple?”
He frowned at her. “You sure you want to stay here? You got a lot to learn about farm life.”
“I didn’t say I was a farmer.”
“You’re moving in here? All alone? You just came out here to live all by yourself?”
She glared at him. Her hand automatically tightened around the pistol. What was his game?
“All I’m saying is, don’t you need some help carrying your things in?”
“No.”
Without turning her back to him, she reached for the front door and shoved it open wide. She hadn’t completed the task when she heard the slap of shoe leather on concrete behind her on the porch. The long spring on the screen door twanged as it opened.
“Blaze, I guess you know you’re dead.”
Cheyenne pivoted with her flashlight and her pistol as a hulking, short-haired Santa Claus in denim filled the doorway like a mafioso hit man.
He looked at the gun, then looked past Cheyenne toward the kid and lunged forward.
“No!” the kid shouted. “No, don’t shoot! He’s—”
Her scream and the contents of her pistol blasted at the same time as she scrambled away from him. The man fell backward onto the porch with a cry of agony. Cheyenne caught the rebound effect of the spray in her face. It burned like fire, blinding her.
“Dane! No!” The kid shoved past Cheyenne. “You shot him? I can’t believe you shot him!”
Chapter Nine
“I didn’t shoot him, I sprayed him.”
“This is Dane!” Blaze’s voice barely reached through the curtain of fire that scorched Dane’s face and eyes. “This is the director of the ranch, how could you do that?”
“I’m sorry, we can—”
“He wasn’t hurting anybody, he was just coming to find me and take me home. Dane, it’s okay, we’re going to get you help. Just hold on!”
Dane groaned a response, writhing in agony on the concrete.
“Help me get him to water,” the woman said. “Quickly! It’s pepper mace. If we can get to water, we can dilute the pain. Where’s the nearest—”
“Get away, I’ll take care of him myself! You just get back.” Gentle hands urged Dane to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you to the lake, it’s just down the hill. I can’t believe that crazy woman did this to you.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said again. “I didn’t know—”
“I said get back, just leave him alone! Haven’t you done enough? It’s okay, Dane, we’re going to take care of it right now,” came the tender voice Blaze used with injured or frightened animals. “Just walk with me. No, not you, lady. You just stay right here and keep that gun in its holster.”
“I need the water too, if you don’t mind,” the woman snapped. “I caught the spray in my face. It isn’t as if I do this kind of thing every day. I didn’t know it attacked everything in a five-foot—ouch!”
“Watch that hole,” Blaze said.
“Thanks.”
The cloud of pain stalked Dane as he allowed himself to be guided across the yard. His groans persisted as if as if he had no control over his voice. When they finally reached the lake, Blaze told him to kneel, then splashed the frigid water into his face.
The relief was sweeter than anything Dane had ever felt in his life. He bent forward and plunged his whole head beneath the lake’s surface, held his breath until his lungs threatened to burst, then emerged only long enough to inhale, then plunge again.
Several moments later, after the burn began to subside, he realized Blaze had gone silent. The only sound he heard was splashing.
“Blaze?”
The splashing stopped. “He left,” came the mellow feminine voice of his attacker. “Are you okay?”
“Much better. You?”
“I’m fine,