Chapter Twelve
Sydney strode into her bedroom, her footsteps echoing off the wooden floor, and tossed the overnight case onto the rumpled bed with a frustrated thud.
“Damn that man,” she muttered under her breath, her voice tinged with indignation.
“Of course, he wants to let them get probation, it’s not his horse they took.
” She drew in a deep breath, trying to steady herself as tears began to spill down her flushed cheeks.
Her heart ached with a fierce longing for justice; she wanted those thieves to pay for their crime.
No one should escape unscathed from horse theft or any form of rustling.
As a livestock agent, he should be the first to understand that.
She let herself fall back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling, tracing invisible patterns in the plaster.
Was she wrong for wanting them to face the consequences of their actions?
First offense or not, they had stolen a horse.
Not a pen from a store, not a trivial piece of candy, a horse.
Her horse. The thought of it twisted her insides with anger and betrayal.
Determined to shake off the cloud of emotion, she sat up abruptly, her resolve hardening.
She decided to retreat to her sofa, seeking solace in solitude and try to forget about Agent Caysen Anderson for a while.
The soft cushions promised a small refuge where she could curl up, alone with her thoughts, and leave the turmoil behind, if only for a moment.
The following morning, Sydney found herself reluctantly prying her eyes open, the warmth of her bed cocooning her in a tempting embrace.
But the day’s duties awaited her. With a reluctant sigh, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cool touch of the floor beneath her feet.
She had to spend a few hours working in the barn, cleaning the saddles, before heading into town to check the inventory at the bookstore.
The idea of a cup of coffee lured her to the kitchen like a siren’s call.
She put the K-cup into the machine, pushed the button and watched as the dark liquid poured into her favorite ceramic mug.
Steam curled upward as she inhaled deeply, the bitter-sweet fragrance promising to chase away the cobwebs of sleep clinging to her mind.
Later, while she shoveled up the soiled straw in the barn, surrounded by the musty-sweet perfume of hay. She spotted one of her ranch hands approaching. His long-legged gait left distinctive prints in the dusty concrete floor.
“Ms. Wright,” he greeted, lifting calloused fingers to touch the frayed edge of his sweat-stained Stetson, its once-black crown now faded to the color of weak coffee.
“Good morning, Cactus,” she replied, as she smiled. “Your face is practically glowing this morning.”
Cactus’s weather-beaten face split into a grin. “Rhonda’s pregnant. Found out yesterday.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful news! Boy or girl? Do you have a preference?”
“Shoot, I’d be happy with either, long as it has ten fingers and ten toes,” he drawled, rocking back on the worn heels of his scuffed boots.
“Please tell Rhonda I’m thrilled for you both. She must be over the moon. ”
“Yes, ma’am, she surely is. I’m taking Rodriguez and the new kid, what’s-his-name, up to the north pasture.
That last blizzard dumped nearly three feet, and I want to check if any of the wire’s came down,” he explained, squinting toward the distant mountains, their peaks still capped with brilliant white.
“Be safe out there.” She cautioned.
“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded solemnly, eyes momentarily shadowed beneath his hat brim. He pivoted on his heel and ambled toward the tack room, each footfall producing a soft crunch against the scattered straw.
Sydney watched his retreating figure, remembering the day five years ago when he’d shown up looking for work, rail-thin and desperate but with honest eyes.
She’d never regretted hiring him, though she sometimes forgot his given name, since everyone from The Feed Store clerk to the local sheriff knew him only as Cactus.
When Billy finally hung up his spurs, Cactus would step into the foreman position as naturally as slipping on a well-worn glove and Ezra would be manager.
She pictured Cactus cradling a newborn, teaching a toddler to ride, and knew in her bones that he and Rhonda would raise that child right.
After finishing her chores in the barn, Sydney leaned her pitchfork against a stack of golden hay bales. A heady blend of damp hay, rich earth, and faint ammonia from the stalls clung to her clothes. A stray beam of late afternoon sun sifted through the dusty slats overhead.
She strode from the barn, climbed the steps, sat on a bench and removed her muck boots, then opened the door and stepped over the threshold into the house, she was greeted by a rush of comforting warmth, a gentle shift from the biting chill just beyond the door.
She shrugged free of her flannel work shirt, running a hand through her hair as memories of the day’s tension tightened at the back of her mind.
She’d half hoped to feel better, but Caysen still hadn’t called.
Her chest tightened at the thought; two young men had brazenly stolen her horse, and he wanted to argue that they deserved probation and community service.
How could he fail to see the wrong in that?
Sydney crossed the room to the bathroom, its porcelain tub gleaming under a row of ceiling lights.
Turning the chrome dial sent a ribbon of steaming water cascading down the tiled wall.
She undressed slowly, each layer sliding off to puddle on the cool tile floor and stepped into the stall.
The hot water struck her shoulders, easing the ache out of her back and hips.
Steam curled around her like a gauzy veil as she worked shampoo into her hair, the lather thick and scented faintly of strawberry.
Body wash followed, its creamy suds perfuming the air with hints of lavender and mint.
When she finally shut off the flow, the room filled with a last hiss of escaping steam.
Reaching for a plush, oversized towel, she wrapped herself in its soft, absorbent embrace and padded across the rug to the wooden vanity.
With a gentle whirr, the hairdryer sprung to life, its warm breeze teasing her damp strands into a silky gloss.
Once her hair lay smoothly around her shoulders, she set the dryer aside and retreated to her bedroom’s wardrobe.
She chose a pair of well-worn jeans, then pulled on a cozy forest-green sweater.
Its wool fibers felt like a gentle caress.
In the kitchen, she pulled on her cowboy boots, slipped into her insulated coat, and tugged a knitted beanie over her ears.
Grabbing her leather purse, she stepped onto the porch, locking the door behind her.
She slid into her SUV and pressed the seat-warmer button. A small smile curved her lips as heat seeped through the leather, thawing the last of the morning’s frost.
“Blessed heated seats,” she murmured, watching her breath plume in the cold air as she drove out to the road.
Snow blanketed the quiet town in muted white; footprints and tire tracks crisscrossed the sidewalks and street like a fading labyrinth.
She found a spot across from the bookstore, maneuvered between snowbanks, and killed the engine.
Bundled against the cold, she crossed the street, the snow crunching under her boots.
Before she reached the shop’s frosted windows, she glanced toward the courthouse and wondered if Caysen had made it in that morning.
Angry thoughts swirled at the injustice of his stance, but she drew a deep breath and pushed open the glass door.
The bell above the door tinkled as she entered, and the warm, musty scent of old paper and polished wood embraced her. Beth looked up from behind the counter, a welcoming smile brightening her face. “Hey, Sydney.”
“It’s a ghost town today,” Sydney said, shrugging off her coat and held onto it. Snowflakes melted on the floor beneath her boots, sending small puddles across the hardwood.
“I almost stayed home,” Beth admitted. “I wasn’t sure about the roads.”
“You could have called,” Sydney said lightly. “I’d have come run the store for you. ”
“Thanks.” Beth grinned. “But I’m here now. I made a list of the books we’ve run low on.” She slid a neatly folded sheet of paper across the counter.
Sydney unfolded it, scanning the titles in neat columns. “Great. I’ll contact the distributors.”
“If you need me, I’ll be right here.”
Nodding, Sydney retreated to her office at the back of the store. She removed her beanie, shook out her hair, and draped both hat and coat over the hook beside her door. Settling behind her desk, she surveyed the stack of order forms, and realized she’d be on the phone for the rest of the day.
The following morning dawned bright and clear, winter sunlight fracturing like diamonds across ice-laden branches, though the bitter air still nipped at her flushed cheeks with tiny teeth.
It was her turn to muck the stalls, and she savored the ritual, even the backbreaking labor that left her muscles trembling reminded her she was part of something bigger than herself.
She grabbed the wheelbarrow with its worn wooden handles, the four-pronged pitchfork, and a sturdy pair of leather gloves stiffened by years of manure and hay, then headed toward the weathered stalls.
Two hours later, she stood at the entrance to the mulch bin, shovel in hand, wiping a glistening line of sweat from her furrowed brow.
Crystalline drifts like miniature mountain ranges lay against the barn’s boards, and each labored exhalation erupted in little clouds that dissipated into the frigid air.
“Why am I sweating in this bone-chilling weather?” she muttered through chattering teeth.
“Talking to yourself now, Sydney?” came a familiar voice.