The Trouble with Texas Cowboys (Burnt Boot, Texas #2)(49)

“Yes, sir, I will,” Sawyer said.

“Y’all want me and Bessie to take you on to wherever you live?”

Sawyer shook his head. “Bessie needs to get on back home. It’s not that far for us to walk, and my legs need some stretchin’.”

*

It felt normal when Sawyer tucked her hand inside his as they started toward the bunkhouse. But then they’d gone past the simply friendship stage a while back. She wasn’t sure when, because it had kind of snuck up on her. Thinking about it didn’t scare her, but felt as right and comfortable as her hand in his.

She stopped so quick that he’d taken two more steps and dropped her hand before he saw what she was pointing at. He shook his head. It must be a mirage, because he was so weary, but there sat his truck, not a dent in it, no slashed tires, not even a busted taillight.

“Your truck,” she whispered. “Don’t touch it. The police will want to check for fingerprints.”

“We’re not calling the police,” he said. “And besides, they were all wearing gloves, so they wouldn’t have left fingerprints. This isn’t the Hatfields and McCoys. They would have already brought out the rifles and killed each other. That’s the way folks fought in those days. This is the Gallaghers and Brennans, and they do things different.”

He opened the door, found all three of his guns safely hidden away, his billfold, pickup keys, her purse, and both of their cell phones on the passenger’s seat. He was more convinced than ever that the Brennans did the job so they could swoop in and rescue Jill and she’d be indebted to them. Then the Gallaghers found out about it and figured they’d steal the Brennans’ thunder with the same plan. Why else would someone drive his truck home? Hell, a car thief wouldn’t even know where he lived. And why would they leave all the money, credit cards, and three high-dollar pistols in the truck? Yes, ma’am, it was the workings of the pig war, and if he could prove a single bit of it, they’d all be in jail for what they’d put Jill through.

She had her hands out, reaching for her purse and phone when he turned around with them. “You’re right about calling the police. Other than Tilly, who would back us up? And no one would ever believe such a wild story. I’m glad to have my purse and phone back. I need a shower, and then I might feel like a whole woman again. But believe me, Sawyer, they are going to pay for this shit.”

“I figured you’d want a long bath,” he said.

“That would take too much time. I’ll be quiet, I promise.”

He opened the bunkhouse door for her. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You should have the first shower, since it’s your bathroom and since you let me snooze almost the whole way home,” she said. “So go on, and I’ll be quiet while I get cleaned up. I’ll even tiptoe when I’m done so I won’t wake you.”

“You go first. I’ll get the sofa ready and find the golf channel.” He grinned.

“And lock the door?”

“Little paranoid now, are you? They won’t try that tactic again. They’ll be holed up in their fortresses, plannin’ the next move. But for peace of mind, I will lock the door.”

She made a run through her bedroom, shedding her boots and coat and picking up underpants, flannel pajama pants, and an oversized sleep shirt. Then she grabbed her travel pack, a carryall that hung on the back of a door and contained shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste, a hairbrush, and her own shower gel and lotion.

She looked in the mirror before she got in the shower and gasped, “Oh. My. God.”

Makeup smeared, hair a total mess with hay still sticking in it, bags under her eyes. She quickly shucked off her jeans, shirt, and underwear, all of which still bore the smell of beer and cigarette smoke, and sighed when the pulsating hot water hit her tired and sore muscles. She tried to be quick, but it took three times of lather, rinse, and repeat before her hair quit shedding hay and the water ran clear. After seeing her reflection, she scrubbed her body down twice with shower gel and hoped the stink of sleeping in a barn that smelled of rat piss and cows was finally gone.

Now you bitch about the sleeping quarters, her inner voice said. Last night you were glad to have a roof over your head.

“Oh, hush,” she said aloud. “A roof didn’t keep it from smelling bad.”

She took time to towel dry her hair and run a brush through it, to recheck her reflection and sigh when the bags hadn’t disappeared from under her eyes, and get dressed before she left the bathroom.

“I started the fire so you wouldn’t freeze. I’ll get the sofa bed ready when I get out. My phone is turned off and charging. You might want to do the same with yours,” Sawyer said.

She sat down on the edge of Sawyer’s bed to wait for him. Together they would make the sofa into a bed when he finished his shower. It wasn’t that she couldn’t do that job alone, but that she was too damn tired to want to.

The heat was taking its own good time getting from the living area into his bedroom, and the wood floor was cold. She pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around her knees. Her toes were like icicles, sending shivers all the way up to her hair, still damp from the shower. Maybe she’d get warm if she pulled the fleecy blanket on top of his bed up over her. It would be a means only to get warm. Now, getting under the covers would be a different thing.