Chapter Five
Beau
Bird flu, my ass.
The good doctor’s lying abilities weren’t showing any signs of improvement.
He got a great deal of satisfaction from the surprise on her face as she watched him unlatch the cell door. This was his first kidnapping, but he knew a real lock when he saw one. What kind of ranch had a fake jail?
What had Leon gotten him into?
He limped past her—his ankle hurt like hell, but he ignored it—and poked his head into the sunshine. The light blinded him for a few seconds, and the headache, which had mostly faded, mule-kicked his skull with both heels in one last parting shot.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he said, once both eyes were in agreement again and relaying a similar message.
This wasn’t a ranch. It looked more like the set of a Quentin Tarantino movie seconds before all hell broke loose.
A single dirt path wandered in a semi-straight line between weatherbeaten buildings no architect had designed.
A lopsided sign topping a two-story log structure proclaimed it Shooters Saloon. The name fit with the overall vibe.
There was a bakery, a store, a bank, and farther down the dirt path, a smattering of houses.
Hard to say if they were occupied, but someone had to be trimming the hedges.
Mountain peaks, bristling with woodland interspersed by bald patches, spread carpet-like for miles beyond the town’s border.
A lazy river meandered nearby, its waters sparkly patches of glitter peeping between the brush and the trees.
A deep blue sky, broken by a bright yellow bull’s-eye square in the middle, hung so close to the ground he could reach out and touch it.
Only white contrails from a plane passing overhead reassured him that he hadn’t stepped into a wormhole through time or some weird Marvel multiverse. He whirled toward the doctor, who backpedaled into the wall.
“I’m supposed to be on a ranch. Where the hell am I?”
She spoke bravely enough, despite the wide eyes and slight quaver. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
His quick physical shift in direction left him light-headed.
He grabbed the door frame to steady himself, then fumbled the loaf bread.
Pain from his sprained wrist and splinted finger shot into his armpit.
He dropped his swollen ankle to the floor and yelped out a word his mother once soaped his mouth out for using.
Contract be damned. He’d fight it in court. He was so done with this.
“You need to sit down,” the good doctor said. She had the nerve to sound disapproving. “I have over-the-counter pain meds you can take. I don’t want to add a narcotic on top of—” She stopped. Reconsidered what she’d been about to say.
If she referenced his fragile mental state again, he’d lose it for sure. “On top of the avian flu.”
The only places for him to sit were the rickety chair, which currently propped open the exterior door to let in the light, and the cot in the cell. Option two was not going to happen and option one didn’t look up to the task.
“What I need is a crutch and a taxi. Not necessarily in that order,” he said. “There’s got to be a road into this place somewhere. I remember a van.” A white van. “Although I’ll take a horse and wagon if that’s the only transportation you’ve got.”
She studied him with those big, beautiful eyes, looking as trapped as he felt, but more lost for words. He would have expected greater boldness from a woman dressed in those clothes.
Friendly approach, he reminded himself. Try to find something in common with her. What if she were a hostage here, too? He couldn’t remember the name of the heiress who’d been kidnapped and ended up robbing banks with her kidnappers, but maybe this was a similar situation. What was it called?
Stockholm syndrome.
He could see Adam, the stone-cold-killer cowboy, involved in armed robbery.
“Are you a real doctor?” he asked. “Did you go to a real medical school?”
Her chin lifted. “Montana State,” she said proudly. She rescued the squashed loaf of bread and returned it to the basket. “Third in my graduating class.”
It was hard to hold his incredulity in check. “And this was the best you could do?”
That got her back up, and added almost an inch to her height, which might be five foot five inches, tops. “I’m doing just fine. I—”
A cheerful voice behind Beau cut her off before she could finish. A shadow blocked out the sun. “Hey, Belle. Problems with our guest?”
The handsomest man Beau had ever seen outside of a movie stooped to duck broad shoulders through the doorway as he entered the jail.
Chiseled features paired up in equal portions on both sides of his face.
Short brown hair, slight curl. Piercing eyes.
Firm jaw. Perfect mouth. Features far too strong to be pretty.
He wore a ball cap, not a Stetson, and work boots, not buckaroos, but there was no mistaking this guy for a city boy.
This boy was country. A young Darrell Winfield.
A Marlboro Man. He was what Leon was talking about.
No stylist had to dress him in Blake Shelton’s clothes.
Beau might be depressed if he cared, but he’d sung his last song about pickups and potholes.
Belle’s expression turned frosty, making Beau wonder what the deal was with these two.
“No problems,” she said. “Except our guest needs new accommodations.”
The newcomer took note of the open cell door. “I see. Well, I was about to spring him anyway. He’s bunking with Adam.”
Bunking with Adam? The sociopath? Beau didn’t think so.
Marlboro Man had blindingly white teeth and a friendly smile, and he unleashed them on Beau.
“Jayce Hanson. Pleased to meet you. I’m the town liaison with the county and co-owner of the Ride No More Ranch.
Big fan of yours, by the way. Loved that duet you did with the spoken word artist from Memphis.
” He exchanged glances with Belle. “I hear it was a bit of an adventure getting you here.”
That was one way to put it.
“Spoken word has it,” Beau said, “that I could be contagious. Some sort of bird flu.” He coughed for good measure.
“I’m no good to your ranch in this condition.
How about you drive me to the nearest hotel, and I’ll wait there until the FAA and AMA or whoever clear me for a flight home to New York?
Then I’ll have my agent reimburse whatever you paid for my contract. ”
Jayce waved that aside. “A few days of rest and you’ll be a new man. Adam’s on his way to help move you.”
“You’ll have to move him to my house,” Belle said, showing her first signs of spunk. “He’s under medical supervision because of that new strain of avian flu he was exposed to.”
Beau sensed a change in the force. Now they were talking. If he had to stay in this hellhole, then bunking with the good doctor got his vote.
Jayce’s smile never swayed, suggesting he wasn’t buying the bird flu story, either. “I already spoke to Adam and Benny about it, and they agreed with me. Taking care of our guest full-time is too much to expect of you.”
Beau couldn’t figure out if these two were a couple or not.
He leaned toward not, because they were far too polite with each other.
It was plain Jayce would like for them to be, though.
Maybe they were still in the early stages of romance.
Some country singer should write a song about them.
They were both beautiful. Imagine their children.
The room did a slow pirouette. “Is the earth moving?” he asked.
Belle got to him first and slipped her shoulder under his arm. She was stronger than she looked because she took on a lot of his weight. Between them, she and Jayce muscled him into the cell and onto the cot.
“Let’s not bother Adam. I’m good right where I am.” Beau closed his eyes because seeing four people where there should only be two was freaking him out.
“He has a concussion. We need to get him to the clinic.”
The good doctor sounded worried, which might have freaked him out even more, except he was too tired for the effort that would require. He’d rather they left him alone so he could sleep. The bird flu might not be bullshit after all.
“Adam says he’s fine,” Jayce said.
“Adam would know. There’s not that much difference between concussions in livestock and humans,” Belle said, and if that was sarcasm, Beau couldn’t tell.
He gave up on them both in despair. This was the most boring argument he’d ever witnessed. They might have more than their fair allotment of good looks between them, but if Marlboro Man managed to win her over, they’d have to split a personality.
“According to Benny, he requires round-the-clock care. Did you confirm the change of plans with Mavis?” Belle was asking.
Beau had no idea who Mavis was, but invoking her name got a reaction because Jayce’s tone changed. Became a pinch less assured.
“We thought we’d get Beau settled in the bunkhouse first, then let her know.”
“I’m not comfortable with going behind Mavis’s back.” The good doctor had found an argument that worked for her, and she dug her heels in.
Maybe there was hope for her yet.
“We’ll take him to my house. Then you can check with her as to whether she wants him to move to the bunkhouse with Adam or remain in my care.”
“You’re the doctor,” Jayce said.
And that was the last thing Beau heard.
*
Beau
When he quit blinking in and out of reality, circumstances had changed.
He vaguely recalled being moved—could have been by horse and wagon, could have been in a hearse—then helped into a house with so many window boxes and flowers that allergies he hadn’t known he possessed joined the party.
He also recalled other people. He’d heard their voices downstairs, although not what they were saying, mostly because he hadn’t cared.