of obeying, she took a deep, calming breath and frowned at the little dynamo standing in the doorway in sheepskin chaps, a denim vest and a cowboy hat two sizes too big for his blond head. Her big, bad hombre of a five-year-old had a wooden pistol aimed right at her stomach.
“Nicholas. You know you’re not supposed to come in here when I’m working.”
“I’m Nicky the Kid, the meanest bandito in the land.”
“Where’s Cheyenne? And where did you get that gun?”
He grinned, showing off the tooth he’d lost just the day before. “Grandma Peg gave it to me. She says a bandito ain’t no good to nobody unless he’s packin’ heat.”
“Isn’t any good.” How had his grammar managed to completely degenerate in the three weeks since they had been on the circuit? He was picking up all sorts of bad habits. The next thing she knew, he’d start chewing tobacco.
“Where’s Cheyenne?” she repeated.
“Right here.” Peg’s fifteen-year-old granddaughter poked her head through the doorway. “Sorry, Maggie. He got away from me.”
“I’m sure it’s not your fault. Nicky, stick with Cheyenne. No more running off. I mean it, young man.”
“Okeydokey, Mom.” He planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek, then hopped out the door. With another apologetic smile, Cheyenne set off in hot pursuit.
“My son,” Maggie said, when the dust cleared.
The injured cowboy grinned. “So the doctor has a criminal hiding out on the family tree.”
She stiffened and thought of Michael embezzling millions from his criminal clients. The cowboy was more right than he knew. After a few uncomfortable beats, she forced a smile. “That’s right. So watch your step.”
“I’ll be sure to do that,” he said.
Only after he had left and she was alone once again did she realize that for the first time in nearly a month she had forgotten to be afraid.
The sunrise edged the mountains east of Cody, Wyoming, with lavender and pale coral and just a sliver of gold. From his perch on the top step of the broken-down camper the Bureau had somehow managed to round up for him, Colt sipped at his coffee and savored the cool, clean morning air as the gold began to swallow the other colors.
Maybe this whole rodeo thing wouldn’t be such a bad gig after all. There was definitely something to be said for enjoying the morning, content with the knowledge that he would be catching the sunrise from a different place in just a few days.
He hadn’t even minded competing the night before, right up until the moment he dislocated his shoulder.
Last time he had been inside a rodeo arena, he’d been twenty-two years old, cocky as hell, and sure he could rope and ride anything that moved. In the intervening fourteen years, he had forgotten that hefty jolt of adrenaline that always hit right before the gate opened. He’d forgotten everything—the confusion in the chutes, the smells of leather and manure thick in the air, the heady cheers of the crowd.
He grimaced. The crowd hadn’t cheered too long after he’d wrenched his shoulder, although he doubted anybody else but him could tell it had been deliberate.
He had discovered that particular ability—to dislocate his shoulder on demand—when he’d been a kid. He’d used it a few times to get out of work on the Broken Spur, until he wised up and discovered it was less painful just doing the work.
In this case the results had been worth every second of pain. He had found the perfect chance to meet Dr. Maggie Rawlings, of the sexy voice and the cool, competent hands, to begin the process of gaining her trust.
After meeting her, he had no doubt he faced a chore as tough as roping the wind.
Colt’s gaze darted to the trailer he had purposely parked beside the night before, in the little campground adjacent to the rodeo grounds. She probably had no idea the scruffy cowboy she had just fixed up had slept only a few feet away from her.
If you could call it sleep. He rubbed his bum shoulder. The narrow bed—with its mattress that felt about as thick as a paper towel—had combined with his aching muscles to keep him tossing and turning most of the night.
He’d still been awake long after the rodeo announcer called the last event, when she finally came in with her kid’s blond head snuggled in the curve of her shoulder as he slept.
Colt had watched as she carried the boy inside her trailer, hooked to a rickety old pickup that had definitely seen better days. A few minutes later she came out alone. He had watched her open the door to the trailer and gaze up at the stars, tiny scattered pinpricks of light against the black sky.
She looked small and vulnerable standing there, with her shoulders bowed as if they could hardly bear the weight of her head anymore.
He’d watched her for a long time until she’d finally gone back inside her trailer, leaving him unsettled, restless.
Beckstead never mentioned the dirty accountant’s widow had the kind of beauty that could bring a man to his knees. Delicate, fragile, with soft, translucent skin, a lush, kissable mouth and huge dark eyes. She had pulled her hair—the exact shade of a Montana wheat field in July—back into a tight, efficient braid, but stray tendrils had escaped to wisp alluringly around her face.
The minor fact that she was the first woman he’d been attracted to in longer than he cared to remember shouldn’t make any difference in his investigation. He couldn’t let it make a difference.
He had been on assignments involving beautiful women before. Dozens of them. But this odd protectiveness clogging his chest was definitely something new. For a minute there the night before, as her smooth, slim hands had fussed over his injury and her clean scent of peaches and vanilla had drifted past him, he had caught the dark smudges of fear under her eyes, and he had battled a completely irrational desire to do everything he could to wipe that fear away.
She was the subject of an investigation, he reminded himself sternly. He had a job to do and he couldn’t let himself be distracted by a beautiful woman with big needy eyes, even if she did smell like heaven.
A small whisper of sound drew his attention back to her trailer in time to see the door open just a crack and a little figure sneak out. Her kid—what was his name? Nicholas, that was it—crept down the steps dressed in the same desperado attire he’d been wearing the evening before. With one foot on the ground, he paused and looked around furtively, as if he were preparing to rob the local bank.
“Your mom know where you’re goin’, partner?” he asked softly.
The kid whirled toward him, his eyes wide like he expected to find Wyatt Earp himself staring him down. When he spied Colt, his bony shoulders slumped in relief “Uh, sure she does.”
“Honest?”
A flush stole over the boy’s cheeks, making the freckles stand out like dots on a ladybug, and Nicholas looked down at the flattened grass. “Well, she’s still asleep. I figured I’d be back before she even woke up.”
“Where you headin’ this early in the morning?”
“To see the horses.” The boy walked closer, his dark eyes that were so like his mother’s bright with renewed excitement. “I’m gonna be a cowboy when I grow up. You a cowboy, mister?”
“Sometimes,” Colt answered, truthfully enough.
“You got your own horse and everything?”
He fought the beginnings of a smile. “Yeah. His name is Scout. He’s stabled over at the rodeo grounds.”
“Can I ride him sometime?”