Mr Taken

In a split second, everything could have really gone downhill. The driver’s grim face and demeanor were far from friendly. So much so, Colter was thankful he had not climbed down to confront them about the dog that had appeared from nowhere in front of his vehicle. He watched in relief as the trucker drove past them with a curt wave and the taillights vanished in the distance. The last thing he needed, especially in his quest to impress Whitney, was a run-in with a hard-edged stranger.

Whitney Barstow hadn’t been his mother’s employee for very long. From his recollection, it had been exactly three months since she set foot on his mother’s porch and asked for any job that didn’t involve the care and maintenance of horses. At the time, he had thought it was odd anyone would want to come to a ranch and not work with the animals, but he had let it go—everyone had their quirks. Besides, every time he caught a glimpse of her gray eyes, they made him nearly forget his name, not to mention any of her faults. To him, she was perfect, even the way she seemed to be constantly annoyed by him.

He glanced over at her as she stared into the grates of the cattle guard. “It’s okay, sweet puppy. We’re going to get you out. Don’t worry,” she cooed, her voice taking on the same soft edge she must have used with small children.

Colter smiled as she looked up at him and the sunlight caught in her hair and made it shine like each strand was spun out of gold. “What are we going to do?” she asked, motioning toward the grate.

The steel bars had been bent, apparently just enough for a small pooch to fall between. Yet instead of staying where they could simply pull it, the dog had wedged itself deep into the corner of the trough beneath. The pup shook as it stood on the collection of cracked ice and looked up at them, its eyes rimmed with white. It had to have been cold down there, and the poor creature was ill-prepared, with its short hair and low body fat, to withstand frigid temperatures for long. They’d have to act fast.

He stood up and rushed toward the barn. “I’ll grab the tractor,” he called over his shoulder.

She nodded but turned back to the dog. “Come here, baby.”

He didn’t know a great deal about the little animal that looked like a Chihuahua, but he did know that no amount of calling was going to get that dog to come to her. A dog like that was notorious for being a one-person animal. According to one guest he’d talked to, who had owned a similar dog, that was the allure—to have an animal that fawned over only its owner. It was like owning the cat of the dog world.

The barn doors gave a loud grind of metal on metal as he slid them open. He took in a deep breath. He loved the smell of animals almost as much as he loved the animals themselves. Most people might have found the scent of feed, sweat and grime too much, but for a firefighter like him, it was the perfume of life—and it reminded him how lucky he was to have the opportunity to live it. It wasn’t like the smell of ash. He’d read poem after poem that likened the scent of ash to renewal, but it never drew images of a phoenix to his mind; rather, it only reminded him of the feeling of what it was to lose and be destroyed from the inside out.

He grabbed a steel chain and the keys that hung on the wall just inside the door, and made his way back outside to the tractor parked just under the overhang.

The tractor started with a chug and a sputter. The old beast fought hard to start, thanks to the cold, but it had been through a lot. He pressed it forward and moved it out of its parking spot by the barn. The vehicle made groans and grumbles that sounded like promises of many more years of service. His parents had done a good job with the place, always setting everything up to last not just their lifetime, but for generations to come. It was hard to imagine that his parents used to have a life before—lives that didn’t revolve around the comings and goings of the ranch, its guests and the foster kids who had passed in and out of their doors.

They had spent their lives giving everything they had to this place. He could have said the same things about his intention as a firefighter; he undoubtedly would give everything he had to his job, and the lives he would affect, but it wasn’t the same. His job and lifestyle were finite. As soon as his body gave out and he was no longer physically able to do the job, someone new, younger would come in and take his place. In fact, as soon as he walked out of the station’s doors, it would be like he had never really been there at all—likely only the people whose lives he’d touched would have any lasting thoughts of him.

He blew a warm breath of air onto his chilling fingers as he drove the tractor around the corner and onto the driveway. Maybe he was wrong in thinking that he had nothing in common with the phoenix. Maybe he had simply already risen from the ashes of a firefighter who had served before him, and when he aged out, another would take his place to renew their battalion.

The thought didn’t upset him—it was an unspoken reality of their lifestyle—but when compared to his parents’ lifestyle he couldn’t help wondering if he had made the wrong choice. In all reality, he had only ever pulled one person out of a burning building, and it had been the town drunk after he had passed out with a cigarette listing from his lips. Most of his calls were accidents on the highway, grass fires and medical emergencies. If he had stayed on the ranch, he could have helped build the place up and worked on creating a legacy for his family for generations to come. As it was, none of his brothers had ever spoken of what would come.

What would come. Even with the roar of the tractor’s engine, the words echoed within him. If things continued going as they had been doing over the last few months, there wouldn’t be anything left to worry about. Reservations for the upcoming month had been tapering off rapidly. If they didn’t turn things around, by next summer they would be unable to support the overhead it took to keep the ranch up and running.

He hated being the pessimistic type, so he tried to push aside his concerns. Things were never as bad as they appeared. For him, it always seemed like things had a way of working out. Hopefully the same could be said for the ranch. At least this month they had Yule Night.

Maybe if Yule Night went especially well, it could lighten some of his parents’ burden. The last thing they needed after the murders was money troubles. It wasn’t his job, but he would do everything in his power to make sure that the ranch would stay afloat—especially if that meant he could save puppies and look every part of a hero to the one woman he wanted to like him.

Whitney stood up and waved him to bring the tractor closer. She really was incredibly beautiful. She stretched, moving her shoulders back as she pressed her hands against her hips. As he looked at where her hands touched her round curves, he wished those hands could be his. It would be incredible to feel the touch of her skin, to run his fingers down the round arch of her hips and over the strong muscles that adorned her thighs.

She was so strong. Not just physically, but emotionally, as well. In fact, she had always made a point of being so strong that he barely knew anything about her past. She kept things so close to her chest that he longed to know more, to get her to trust him enough that she would open up. As it was, all he knew about her was that she had originally been from Kentucky—but that was only thanks to the fact that he had managed to catch a quick glimpse of her application on his mother’s desk before she was hired.

Why was she so closed off? For a moment he wondered if she was hiding from something or someone, or if it was more that she was hiding something from them. No one came to nowhere, Montana, and hid on a ranch unless there was something in their lives, or in their past, that they were running away from.

Maybe one day, if he was lucky, she would open up to him. Though, just because everything seemed to work out in the end for him, he’d never call himself lucky—and that would be exactly what it would take to make Whitney think of him as anything more than just another source of annoyance.

“What took you so long?” she asked as he climbed down from the tractor and laid the chains over his shoulder.

He didn’t know what was worse: the heaviness of the chains that dug into his skin or the disgust that tore through him from her gaze. He hadn’t been gone more than a couple of minutes, yet he understood more than anyone that when there was an emergency, time seemed to slow down. Minutes turned into millennia, and those were the kinds of minutes which had a way of driving a person to madness.

He smiled, hoping some of the contempt she must have been feeling for him would dissipate. “I guess I could have put the tractor in third gear, but the way I see it, that dog ain’t going nowhere.”

She shook her head and turned away from him. Yeah, she hated him. She looked back and reached out. “Hand me the chain. We need to get the dog out of here before it gets hypothermic.”

“Here,” he said, handing her one end of the chain. “Hook this to the tractor’s bucket. I’ll get the guard.”

She took the chain and did as he instructed while he made his way over to the cattle guard and peered in at the little dog. It looked up at him and whimpered. The sound made his gut ache and he wrapped the chain around the steel so that when he raised the bucket on the machine, it would lift the gate straight up and away from the dog. He’d have to be careful to avoid hurting the animal. Something like this could get a little hairy. One little slip, one weak link in the chain, and everything could go to hell in a handbasket in just a few seconds.

He secured the chain and made his way back to the tractor. In one smooth, slow motion he raised the tractor’s bucket. The chain clinked and pulled taut, and he motioned to Whitney. “Ready?”

She gave him a thumbs-up.

He lifted the bucket higher, and the tractor shifted slightly as it fought to bring up the heavy grate that was frozen to the ground. With a pop of ice and the metallic twang, the grate pried loose from the concrete and the tractor hoisted it into the air. He rolled the machine back a few feet, just to be safe in case the chain broke. No one would get hurt, not on his watch.

He ran over to the dog and lifted it up from its den of ice. The pup was shivering and panting with fear. He ran his fingers down the animal, trying to reassure the terrified creature.

Whitney stood beside him and looked at him for a moment and smiled. There was an unexpected warmth in her eyes as she looked at him and then down at the dog. As he sent her a soft smile, she looked away—almost too quickly, as though she was avoiding his gaze. She reached down and opened up the buttons of her Western-style red shirt. “Here, let me have her,” she said, motioning for the animal.

“You’re a good dog,” he said, handing her over to Whitney.

Ever so carefully, as though she were handling a fragile Fabergé egg, she moved the dog against her skin; but not before he caught a glimpse of her red bra, a red that perfectly matched the color of her plaid shirt. His mind instinctively moved to thoughts of what rested beneath her jeans. She was probably the kind of woman who always wore matching underwear. He closed his eyes as the image of her standing in front of him in only her lingerie flashed through his mind. His body coursed to life.

It was just lust. That was all this was. Or maybe it was just that she seemed so far out of his league that he couldn’t help wanting her.

“Hey,” she said, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Hmm?” he asked, trying to look at anything but the little spot of exposed flesh of her stomach just above the dog where, if she moved just right, he was sure he could have seen more of her forbidden bra.

“Want a beer?” She pointed to something resting in the snow not far from the other side of the cattle guard.

He jumped over the gaping trench and leaned down to take a closer look. There, sitting in the fresh snow, was a green glass Heineken bottle. Jammed into the opening was a cloth, and inside was liquid. Picking it up, he pulled the cloth out and took a quick sniff. The pungent, chemical-laced aroma of gas cut through his senses like a knife.

He stuffed the rag back into the bottle and stared at the thing in his hand for a moment as Whitney came over to stand by his side.

He shouldn’t have touched it. He never should have picked the dang thing up. Now his fingerprints were all over it.

“What is it?” she asked.

He glanced over at her and contemplated telling her the truth, but he didn’t want to get her upset over something that may turn out to be nothing. Yet he couldn’t keep the truth from her forever. It couldn’t be helped.

“Unfortunately, it ain’t beer,” he said, lifting it a bit higher. “What it is is what we call a Molotov cocktail.”

Her jaw dropped and she moved to grab it, but he pulled it away. If he was right, her fingerprints didn’t need to be anywhere near this thing.

“You can’t be serious. Why...? Who?” She stared at the bottle, but let her hands drop to her sides.

His thoughts moved to the guy in the blue truck. He hadn’t seen the man drop anything out of the window, but that bottle hadn’t been there long. Or maybe Colter was wrong and someone else had come, chickened out and left the flammable grenade as a warning.

Either way, it looked as though someone had planned to act against the ranch. More, someone had wanted to hurt the place and the ones he loved.

Chapter Three

Whitney wasn’t the kind who got scared easily, but seeing that bottle in Colter’s hand had made every hair on her body stand on end. There were any number of people, thanks to the news of the deaths and the kidnapping, who had a bone to pick with Dunrovin; yet it just didn’t make sense to her that someone would come here with the intention of making things worse. Why throw a bomb? Why harm those who worked here? None of the people who currently worked or lived on the ranch were guilty of any wrongdoing.

Well, at least any wrongdoing when it came to the ranch. She couldn’t think about her past, not when it came to this. She bit the inside of her cheek as she mindlessly petted the dog that was safely tucked into her shirt.

“Do you think we should call the police?” she asked, tilting her chin in the direction of the dangerous object.

Colter sighed. “We probably should, but I’m not sure that having any more police out to the ranch is a great idea right now. Maybe this is nothing. Maybe it was just something someone had in the back of their pickup and it just bounced out as they drove over the cattle guard. Maybe it’s just spare gas or something, you know.”

His feeble attempt to make her feel better didn’t work. She could hear the lie in his voice. They both knew all too well this wasn’t just some innocuous thing. This was someone’s failed effort to cause damage.

Yet to a certain degree she agreed with him. The last thing the place needed was more negative press. Even though his brother Wyatt was a deputy for the local sheriff’s office, it didn’t mean they would be able to keep this thing under wraps. If they called 911, everyone in the county would hear about the latest development in the melodrama that the ranch was becoming. But if they didn’t inform the police, there wouldn’t be a record of it, and if something else happened...

She swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat.

Nothing else would happen. They had gotten the person responsible for the murders. They might have had a bad track record, and a bit of a target on their backs, but that didn’t mean the entire world wanted to take them down. Maybe it was just someone’s spare gas.

“Is there oil in it?” she asked, motioning to the green Heineken bottle.

He glanced down at the bottle and swirled it around, the green glass looking darker, almost as if the liquid inside had a slight red hue. “Yeah, I think so. Why?”

She smiled and some of her fears dissipated. “You know... Maybe someone was just passing through. Maybe you were right. I mean, if it’s a mixed gas—”

“It could be for a chain saw. Maybe they were going out onto the federal lands behind the ranch looking for a Christmas tree or something,” Colter said, finishing her sentence. “You are freaking amazing, you know that?”

She smiled and tried not to notice the way her heart sped up when he looked at her like that. She tried to reaffirm that her self-esteem wasn’t dependent on his approval, but no matter how hard she tried to convince herself, she couldn’t fully accept it as truth. He was so darn cute, and when he smiled, it made some of the sharp edges of her dislike soften. He wasn’t as bad as she had assumed. If anything, he had a way of making people relax; and that was just the kind of person she needed in her life. Though he couldn’t know that. Nothing could happen between them. Not now, not ever. She needed to stay independent, indifferent.

“I’m not amazing.” Even to her, she sounded coy. The last thing she wanted him to think was that she was playing some kind of demure game to get him to fall in love. She wasn’t and would never be that kind of woman—a woman who belonged more on the debutante circuit, the kind who could turn on the Southern charm with the simple wave of a hand.

He slipped his hand into hers and she stared at it in shock for a moment before letting go of him and turning away. He couldn’t like her. She couldn’t like him. If he knew the truth, he would want nothing to do with her.

“Wait. I’m sorry, Whit,” he called after her, but she didn’t slow down as she made her way back to the office.

She couldn’t let herself turn around. She couldn’t let him see the look in her eyes that she was sure was there—a look which begged for him to touch her; more, to love her with every part of his soul. She desperately wanted a love like that, but just because she wanted something, that didn’t mean that she should have it. Not when she might or might not have been done running.

The dog scrambled out of her shirt and jumped to the floor as soon as she closed the door to her office. The poor thing was covered in dirt and muck, and a piece of what looked like chewed gum was stuck to its ribs. The little thing rushed over to Milo’s bed and snuggled into the pile of blankets. She was never going to be able to explain what had happened to the owners if they found out.

If they found out.

She couldn’t tell them. No. She chuckled as she thought about all the Nos that were suddenly entering her life. Everywhere she turned, every choice she had to make came to that stark end. No.

Things really hadn’t changed that much from Kentucky.

When she was home in Louisville, it had been the same. She had told her parents she was leaving, that she was never coming back, that she was following her gut—and every word had been met with the same “No.” But they hadn’t understood. They had thought it was only out of some selfish need to spread her wings after everything that had happened with Frank. They hadn’t known the whole truth, a truth that haunted her every move and threatened to rear its ugly head and reenter her life as long as she stayed there.

And maybe part of it had been the fact that she wanted so much more. She wanted to be around horses again—not close enough to touch, but close. Once you had a love for the animals, there was no turning your back to it, no matter what kind of pain had come from them in the past.

She pressed her back against the office door and closed her eyes. No. She couldn’t dig up the past. No.

There was a knock on the door, and it sent vibrations down her spine. She turned around to see Colter standing there, looking at her through the glass.

Why couldn’t he get the message that she just wanted him to leave her alone?

Instead of opening the door, she pulled down the shade so he couldn’t see her. She couldn’t deal with him right now. And seeing him look at her like that, like there was something more than friendship budding between them, it tore at her heart. If something happened...she’d have to run. She’d have to leave this place. She couldn’t reveal her past to him or to anyone. She couldn’t allow her feelings to make her vulnerable.

“I get it—I have chapped hands,” he said with a laugh, and what she assumed was his best attempt at relieving the tension between them, but he was wrong if he thought it would be that easy.

“Or maybe it’s not my hands, but you just don’t want to talk to me,” he continued. “That’s fine. I just wanted you to know that everything is back in place and the cattle guard is down. If you need anything just let me know. I’m going to stick around and help my dad.” He stood still, almost as if he was waiting for her to answer, but she said nothing.

After a few long seconds, she heard the sounds of his heavy footfalls as he made his way off the porch. She was tempted to peek out from behind the curtain to see where he was going, if he’d finally gotten the message that she wasn’t interested, but she stopped herself. She had to be strong.

The phone rang, and she had never been more grateful for the obnoxious sound.

“Dunrovin Ranch Guest Services. This is—”

“We need more towels,” a woman said in a shrill voice, cutting her off.

She glanced down at the room number that lit up the phone’s screen. Of course it was Ms. Fancy Pants. She bit the side of her cheek as she thought of all the comebacks she would have liked to say.

“Absolutely, ma’am. I’ll have one of our staff bring them to you. Is there anything else you will be needing?”

There was the rumble of a truck and the squeak of brakes from the parking area.

“Where is the nearest club? We wanted to go dancing. You know...honky-tonking, or whatever you rednecks call it.”

She swallowed back her anger, only letting a sardonic chuckle slip past. “Ma’am, the only club we have out here is a sandwich. But if you are looking for a bar, we have several. There’s the Dog House, which is about five miles from here. It’s mostly locals, but on the weekends they usually have a few people dancing.” But it was a far cry from the country-style bar that always seemed to fill the movie screens in which everyone was dancing and there was a mechanical bull in the corner. The Dog House was one step away from being somebody’s garage. In fact, it would have made sense if that was what the place had once been.

Ms. Fancy Pants sighed so loudly that Whitney wondered if the woman had put her mouth directly on the mouthpiece. “I guess it will have to do. And I won’t even bother asking about restaurants. I’d rather go hungry than eat anything this town has to offer.”

Whitney’s dislike for the woman mounted with each of the woman’s passing syllables.

“We’ll be right over.” She hung up the phone, unable to listen to the woman’s prattling for another second.

There wasn’t a snowflake’s chance in July that she was going to face the woman who’d just called. She dialed the number for the housekeeper, but the phone rang and rang, and she left the girl who was supposed to be working a message about the towels.

She set down the phone and stared at it for a moment. On second thought, maybe she could ask Colter to help. He didn’t work for the ranch, but if he was as interested in her as he seemed to be, he might jump at the chance to come to her aid; and it might get him out of her hair for a bit and give her the time she needed to get back to center about him and her feelings.

She sighed, content with her plan, as she opened the door. There was a black Chevy truck parked in the lot, and a tall, thin blonde had her arms draped around Colter’s neck. As Whitney watched, the woman threw her head back with a laugh so high and perfect that it bounced around the courtyard until it was finally, thankfully swallowed up by the dark barn.

It was stupid to stand there and watch as the woman flipped her hair and then ran her fingers over the edges of Colter’s jacket collar, but she couldn’t make sense of what was happening. Sure, the woman was coming on to him. Whitney could understand a woman’s attraction to the trim firefighter with a gift when it came to making people at ease, but she couldn’t understand the swell of jealousy and unease that filled her as she watched.