Stockman’s Showdown (The Stockmen #4)

One

Elsie Creek Station—Present Day

Ryder Riggs hadn’t meant to fall for Bree Wilde. It just happened. That feisty redhead with curves and curls, had become such an enormous influence over his life, she was impossible to ignore, no matter how hard he’d tried, even when they practically argued with each other on a daily basis.

With an outlaw attitude, Bree only ever looked at Ryder with pure disdain. Not that he could blame her, when he’d not only cut those logs to burn, but he’d also poured the fuel to start that fire.

But beneath her fearlessness, he’d seen her fierce protectiveness for those she cared about. He’d seen the extraordinary lengths she’d gone to for his brothers, and his nephew, trying to help them turn Elsie Creek Station into a home. And for that she had his respect.

But when Bree turned this old tack room, which she’d called the murder room , into his office, it pretty much sealed the way his heart felt about her.

He could blame Bree for it, blame it on the details she’d put into remodelling his office space—which they’d renamed the boardroom —as if she understood him. And very few people knew who Ryder Riggs was. Not even his brothers could say they did, not after a ten-year absence.

Ryder swung open the heavy door to the room that used to be Bree’s hideaway for her illegal gin still. Now the reinforced walls were lined with custom-made gun racks, and ammunition, creating a private arsenal. The door shut whisper quiet behind him, the locking mechanism—hidden under a panel giving the appearance of just another wall—clicked into place. Inside the main room it held workbenches, his desk, and a long boardroom table the caretaker, Charlie, had made by hand.

Under the bright industrial lights, on the shiny steel workbenches Bree had built perfectly for his height, lay his latest job: Bree’s shotgun.

He’d snatched it off the wild woman a while ago, back when she was going to shoot Mia’s ex. Somehow Bree had a huge cache of shotguns stashed all over the station, and she’d already shot one guy, so she wasn’t afraid to use them, which made him pause about giving it back to her.

As an army-trained armourer, a firearms engineer, and a gunsmith in the civilian world, Ryder had completely disassembled the 1960 Winchester Model 12, with no serial numbers on it. And that was rare.

After cleaning it, he’d inspected the components for signs of wear and tear. Lubricants ensured a crucially smooth operation before it was reassembled. He didn’t have a firing range yet to test it out, but as he looked down the barrel, the line of sight was perfect. And his job was done.

He spread out a dark green blanket, soft from many years of use, and used it to wrap up Bree’s shotgun like a present.

Then his watch pinged with an alarm.

It was time.

Tucking the wrapped shotgun under his arm, he turned off the wall of monitors that ran their surveillance cameras. He silenced the widescreen playing the business channel, then watched the large industrial lights dim. Since Bree had handed him the keys, he’d spent all his after-work hours here. He rarely went to the farmhouse anymore, except to sleep—if he slept, because his mind never stopped.

Ryder let the heavy door shut with a click behind him and pulled the key from the lock. Tucking the key into his denim pocket, he passed Bree’s latest remodelling project, which had all his brothers involved this time. It was their very own outdoor bar that ran along the back wall of their office, right next to the workshed that was Dex’s mechanical workshop, and where they parked their cars. It even included a watering trough for their horses.

The new bar was where they’d meet, drink beer and discuss work like they always did. Except they’d shifted from crowding the farmhouse’s front verandah to watch the sunrise and sunset, to one of best views of the open paddocks.

It’s where everyone was going to meet shortly as they were going on a muster to Emu Plains, and he was looking forward to it.

But first he had to deliver his gift.

Silently he jogged across to the far side of the homestead and down the long run of corrugated fencing that shielded two sides of the caretaker’s cottage, to meet the wire fence line that he effortlessly hiked over.

On his right, the lights were on in the stables where the well-trained stockhorses were waiting to be saddled. On the left stood the silent sheds that Charlie called the smithy’s workshop. In the middle, through the wooden fence rails and garden, he caught a glimpse of the open back door of the caretaker’s cottage. Bree and her grandfather’s voices carried outside on the slight pre-dawn breeze, which was perfumed by the assortment of flourishing fruits and vegetables that cleverly disguised the scents of the stables.

Ryder could have dropped off Bree’s shotgun to her, but he didn’t want the rejection or the lecture he’d cop for taking so long in returning her gun, considering he’d pinched it from her in the first place.

He liked being unseen when it came to watching over Bree, and his days in the military had trained him well. If Bree ever caught him, she’d have him for stalking while probably aiming a shotgun at him.

A surprising grin forced his lips to curve.

Only Bree did that to him. She’d make him angry, only to make him smile when he didn’t want to.

But he was doing this because he had a lot of bridges to repair with Bree, who had the knack of bringing out the worst in him, and Ryder was pretty sure the woman he loved hated him.