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“Tell him yourself,” McEnroe replied furiously. “I’m out of this mess—whatever the hell it is.”
With his final remark, he shook his head angrily, strode to the Jeep, climbed in and forced the vehicle into gear before starting it. The Jeep roared through the parched field, leaving a plume of dust in its wake as it disappeared through a stand of pine.
“I will,” Dani decided, once she was sure Chase McEnroe, whoever the devil he was, had left and wasn’t returning. “And that’s not all I’ll tell Johnson!” With the reins curled through the fingers of one hand, she turned the gelding toward the house and leaned forward in the saddle while gripping the unloaded rifle in her other hand.
Traitor got the message and eagerly sprinted up the slight incline toward the house. The wind whipped over Dani’s face, cooling her hot skin as the quarter horse sped toward the barn, moving effortlessly over the cracked earth.
“I won’t let them beat us,” Dani said, as if Traitor could understand her. “Not while there’s an ounce of life in my body. Caleb Johnson can hire all the new hands he wants, I won’t sell! This land belongs to me and some day it’s gonna be Cody’s!”
She thought back to the man wading in the stream. He was different from the rest of Johnson’s crew, less rough around the edges. “Just give him time,” Dani muttered, reining Traitor to a stop near the weathered barn before dismounting.
After just two weeks of working for Caleb Johnson, Chase McEnroe would forget to shave, learn to spit tobacco juice in a stream between his teeth and drink himself into a drunken stupor every Friday night at the local bar in Martinville.
“What a waste,” Dani said, shaking her head sadly as she thought about the furious man. She tied the reins of the gelding’s bridle around a fence post near the barn, removed the saddle and started brushing Traitor’s tawny coat, but thoughts of Chase kept nagging at her. She remembered his cool, blue eyes, his hard, tanned muscles, the thick thatch of dark blond hair that glinted like gold in the late summer sun and the leashed fury in his rigid stance.
“It just doesn’t make any sense,” she thought aloud, removing the bridle and giving Traitor a quick slap on the rump. With a snort, the horse took off to join the rest of the herd. Why would a man like Chase McEnroe hook up with the likes of Caleb Johnson?
* * *
Chase ground the Jeep to a halt in front of the two-storied farmhouse. Swearing loudly, he stormed into the building without bothering to knock. The sharp thud of his boots echoing on the polished hardwood floor announced to the entire household that he was back . . . and he was furious.
“Okay, Johnson,” Chase said, every nerve ending screaming with outrage as he pushed open the door of Johnson’s office and forced his way into the room. “Just what the hell have you gotten me into?”
Caleb Johnson had the audacity to smile. He didn’t look much different than he had the day that Chase had met him two and a half years ago. Johnson was still a robust man who had grown up in Montana, been prominent in local politics and acquired land around Butte for less than fifty dollars an acre. At seventy, his eyes were still an intense shade of blue, his tanned skin was nearly wrinkle-free and only the slight paunch around his middle gave any indication of his age.
“What do you mean?” Caleb was already pouring bourbon into a shot glass. He set the drink on the corner of the desk, silently offering it to Chase, and then poured another stiff shot for himself.
Chase ignored the drink and crossed his arms over his chest, pulling the fabric of his shirt tight across his rigid shoulders. “That woman! Danielle Summers. She’s got one helluva bone to pick with you and I’m not about to get into the middle of it!”
Caleb seemed almost pleased. He fingered his string tie and settled into the oxblood cushions of the leather couch. “You met her, did you?”
Chase’s eyes darkened. “Met her? She almost used my butt for target practice, for crying out loud. Look, Johnson, getting myself shot was not part of the deal!”
“She wouldn’t shoot you.”
“Easy for you to say!”
“She doesn’t like violence . . . Caleb sipped his drink and smiled.
“Like hell!”
“Dani Summers wouldn’t harm a flea.”
“Then what the hell is she doin’ out riding her property like some goddamned sentry!” Chase shook his head and pushed his sweaty hair out of his face. He saw the untouched drink on the desk, decided he needed something to calm him down, reached for the glass of bourbon and drank a long swallow. “I don’t like being threatened, Caleb.”
“ Don’t worry about Dani.”
“Don’t worry about her!” Chase was flabbergasted by the older man’s calm. He took another swallow of bourbon.
“Okay, you’re right. I won’t worry about her, because I won’t deal with her or anyone else who points a rifle in my gut! Let’s just forget the whole deal, okay?”
“No dice,” Caleb
said, “this is important.”
“So is my life.”
“ I told you; the woman detests violence. She just wants to be left alone.”
