Wyoming Fierce - By Diana Palmer Page 0,2

a bottle of very expensive floral perfume. He’d even kissed her. On the cheek, of course, like a treasured child more than like an adult. Her grandfather had worked for the Rancho Real until his health failed and he had to quit. That had been while Cane was still in the military, after the second Gulf War, before the terrible roadside bomb had robbed him of most of his left arm, and almost of his life.

She supposed Cane was fond of her. It wasn’t until last year that everyone had discovered her almost magical ability to calm him when he went on drinking sprees. Since then, when he went on benders, Bodie was recruited to fetch him home. There had been a brief period of time when he’d gone to therapy, been measured for a prosthesis and seemed to be adjusting nicely to his new life.

And then it had all gone south, for reasons nobody knew. His bar crawls had become legendary. The expense was terrible, because his brothers, Mallory and Dalton, had to pick up the expense. Cane got a monthly check from the army, but nobody could entice him to apply for disability. He went to show cattle, with a cowboy who handled the big bulls for him, and he was the idea man for the Kirk ranch. He was good at PR, worked to liaison with the national cattlemen’s lobby, kept up with current legislation that affected the cattle industry and generally was the spokesman for the Kirk ranch.

When he was sober.

Lately he wasn’t. Not a lot.

“Any idea what happened?” Bodie asked curiously, because Darby would know. He knew everything that went on around the Rancho Real, or “royal ranch” in Spanish, named by the original owner, a titled gentleman from Valladolid, northwest of Madrid, Spain, who started it way back in the late 1800s.

Darby glanced at her and grimaced. It was dark and very cold, even with the heater running and the old but serviceable coat Bodie was wearing.

“I have an idea,” he confessed. “But if Cane ever found out I told you, I’d be standing in the unemployment line.”

She sighed and fiddled with the fanny pack she wore in lieu of carrying around a cumbersome purse. “She must have said something about his arm.”

He nodded faintly. “That would be my guess. He’s really sensitive about it. Funny,” he added solemnly, “I thought he was getting better.”

“If he’d get back in therapy, mental and physical, he’d improve,” she replied.

“Sure, but he won’t even talk about it. He’s sinking into himself,” he added quietly.

“There goes that theoretical physics mind working overtime again,” she teased, because most people didn’t know about Darby’s degree in that field.

He shrugged. “Hey, I just manage cattle.”

“I’ll bet you sit around in your room at night imagining the route to a new and powerful unified field theory.” She chuckled.

“Only on Thursdays,” he said, laughing out loud. “At least my chosen field of study doesn’t leave me covered in mud and using shovels and trowels in holes around the country.”

“Don’t knock anthropology,” she said firmly. “We’ll find the missing link one day, and you can say you knew me before I was famous, like that guy in Egypt who’s always in documentaries about pharaohs’ tombs.” She lifted her rounded chin. “Nothing wrong with honest work.”

He made a face. “Digging up bones.”

“Bones can tell you a lot,” she replied.

“So they say. Here it is,” he added, nodding toward the little out-of-the-way bar that Cane frequented. Out front was a stop sign that local drunks often used for target practice when they went driving around in four-wheel-drive vehicles late at night. Now it said “S....p.” The two middle letters were no longer recognizable.

“They need to replace that,” she pointed out.

“What for? Everybody knows it means stop,” he said. “Why waste good metal and paint? They’d just shoot it up again. Not much in the way of entertainment this far out in the country.”

“Got a point, I guess.” She sighed.

He parked in front of the bar. There were only two vehicles out there. Probably those of employees. Everybody with any sense would have left when Cane started cursing and throwing things. At least, that was the pattern.

“I’ll keep the engine running. In case somebody called the sheriff this time,” he mused.

“Cane and the sheriff are best friends,” she reminded him.

“That won’t stop Cody Banks from locking him up if someone files a complaint for assault and battery,” he stated. “The law is the law, friendship notwithstanding.”

“I guess.