The Cowboy and the Lady Page 3

  “Oh,” Ryan mumbled, looking away. He shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, lifting up bony shoulders. “Still a lame name,” he muttered not quite under his breath.

  Jackson pretended not to hear. “The bunkhouse is right over there,” he pointed out.

  “Yeah? So what? Why would I want to know where the stupid bunkhouse is?” Ryan asked, the same uncooperative attitude radiating from every word.

  “Because that’s where you’ll be staying,” Jackson said. Inwardly, he was braced for a confrontation between the teen and himself.

  Ryan’s deep brown eyes darkened to an unsettling murky hue. “The hell I am.”

  “You’d better get to work soon, Ryan. You’ve already got several fines—and counting—against you,” Jackson informed him. “Garrett, why don’t you take Ryan here—” he nodded at the teen “—and introduce him to the others?”

  “Others?” Ryan repeated. “Is this where you bring out a bunch of robotlike zombies and tell me they’re going to be my new best friends and roommates? Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

  “Ryan, apologize right now, do you hear me?” Debi ordered. Her words might as well have been in Japanese for all the impression they made on Ryan. Watching her brother being taken in hand had her looking both relieved and tense.

  “Ryan, drop the attitude,” Jackson told him. “You’ll find it a whole lot easier to get along with everyone if you do.”

  Ryan drew himself up to his full six-foot-two height. “Maybe I don’t want to get along with ‘everyone,’” he retorted.

  Jackson looked at the teenager, his expression saying that he knew better than Ryan what was good for him.

  But for now, he merely shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he told Ryan. Jackson turned toward the distraught-looking young woman he had spoken to on the phone several days ago. He could feel that protective streak that had turned his life around coming out. “Why don’t you come with me to the main house and we’ll go over a few things?” he suggested.

  She looked over her shoulder back to the bunkhouse. Garrett was already herding her brother over to the structure.

  “Debi!” Ryan called out. It was clearly a call for help.

  It killed her not to answer her brother. Debi worked her lower lip for a second before asking Jackson, “Is he really going to be staying in that barn?” she asked uncertainly.

  “It’s the bunkhouse,” Jackson corrected politely, trying not to make her feel foolish for getting her terms confused. “And back in the day, that was where ranch hands used to live. It’s been renovated a couple of times since then. Don’t worry, the wind doesn’t whistle through the mismatched slates.” The corners of his mouth curved slightly. “The bunkhouse also has proper heating in the winter and even air-conditioning for the summer. All the comforts of home,” he added.

  Apparently, Ryan wasn’t the only family member who needed structure and reassurance, Jackson thought. Ryan’s sister had all the signs of someone who was very close to the breaking point and was struggling to hold everything together, if only for appearance’s sake.

  “If home is a bunkhouse,” Debi interjected. It obviously seemed incongruous to her.

  “A renovated bunkhouse,” Jackson reminded her with an indulgent smile. “Don’t worry, your brother will be just fine.”

  Well, if nothing else, Ryan had certainly proven that he was a survivor, she thought—if only in body. His spirit was another matter entirely. But then, that was why she had brought Ryan here. To “fix” that part of him.

  “Right now, I think I’m more worried about you and your brother,” she said.

  “Why?” Jackson asked, curious. This, he had to admit, was a first, someone bringing him a lost soul to set straight and being worried about the effect of that person on him. “Is Ryan violent?” The teen seemed more crafty than violent, but it paid to be safe—just in case.

  “Oh, no, nothing like that,” Debi was quick to clarify. “Under all that, he’s basically a good kid—but I’ll be the first to admit that Ryan is more than the average handful.”

  “If he wasn’t,” Jackson pointed out as they made their way to the main house, “then he wouldn’t be here—and neither would you.”

  “True,” Debi readily agreed—and then she flushed slightly, realizing what the man with her had to think. “I’m sorry if I sound like I’m being overly protective, but I’m the only family that Ryan has left and I don’t feel like I’ve been doing a very good job of raising him lately.” She looked over her shoulder again in the direction her brother had gone as he left the area.

  She spotted him with Garrett. The two were headed for the bunkhouse. Garrett had one arm around her brother’s shoulders—most likely, in her estimation, to keep Ryan from darting off. Not that there was anywhere for him to go, she thought. The ranch was some distance from the stamp-sized town they had driven through.

  “He’ll be all right,” Jackson assured her. “Garrett hasn’t lost a ranch hand yet.”

  “Is that what you call the boys who come here?” she asked, thinking it wasn’t exactly an accurate label for them. After all, they were here to be reformed, not to work on the ranch, right?

  She looked at Jackson, waiting for him to clarify things. What he said made her more confused. The man seemed very nice, but nice didn’t get things done and besides, “nice” could also be a facade. That was the way it had been with John. And it had fooled her completely.

  “I found that ‘ranch hand’ is rather a neutral title and, when you come right down to it, the boys do work on the ranch. My office is right in here,” he told her as he opened the door for her.

  She was going to ask him more about having the boys work on his ranch—had she just supplied him with two more hands to do his bidding?—but when he opened the door to his ranch house without using a key, her attention was diverted in an entirely different direction.

  “Your door’s not locked,” she said in surprise.

  He heard the wonder in her voice and suppressed a smile. He knew exactly what she had to be thinking. “No, it’s not.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?” she asked. “I mean, if you and your brother are outside, working, isn’t that like waving temptation right in front of the boys that you’re trying to reform?”

  “They’re on the honor system,” he explained, closing the door behind her. “I want them to know that we trust them to do the right thing. You have to give trust in order to get it. Around here, the boys keep each other honest. For the most part, the ones who have been here the longest set an example and watch over the ones who came in last.”

  She looked at him skeptically. “That sounds a little risky.”

  “We find it works,” he told her. “And just for the record, ‘I’ don’t reform them. What we do here is present them with the right set of circumstances so that they can reform themselves. Most of the time I find that if I expect the best from the teens who come here, they eventually try to live up to my expectations.”

  Debi looked around. The living room she had just walked into was exactly what she would have expected: open and massive, with very masculine-looking leather furniture, creased with age and use. The sofas—there were two—were arranged around a brick fireplace. The ceiling was vaulted with wooden beams running through the length of it. The only concession to the present was the skylight. Without it, she had a feeling that the room would have a dungeonlike atmosphere.

  The rustic feel of the decor seem like pure Texas. Debi really had no idea why that would make her feel safe, but it did.

  Maybe it had to do with the man beside her. There was something about his manner that gave her hope and made her feel that everything was going to work out.

  She knew she wasn’t being realistic, but then, she’d never been in this sort of situation before.

  Realizing that sh
e’d fallen behind as he was walking through the room, Debi stepped up her pace and caught up to Jackson just as he entered a far more cluttered room that she assumed was his office.

  “Sounds good in theory,” she acknowledged, referring to his ideas about trust.

  “Works in practice, too,” he told her with just the tiniest bit of pride evident in his cadence.

  Sweeping a number of files, oversized envelopes and a few other miscellaneous things off a chair, Jackson nodded toward it. He deposited the armload of paraphernalia on the nearest flat surface.

  “Please, sit,” he requested.

  Debi did as he asked, perching on the edge of the seat. She appeared as if she was ready to jump to her feet at any given moment for any given reason, he noted.

  This woman was wound up as tightly as her brother. Maybe more so. Undoubtedly because she was constantly on her guard and vigilant for the next thing to go wrong. And he had a feeling that she was doing it alone. She’d said she was the teen’s only family.

  “So,” Jackson began as he sat down in his late uncle’s overstuffed, black leather chair. It creaked ever so slightly in protest due to its age. To Jackson, the sound was like a greeting from an old friend. “What do you think is Ryan’s story?”

  Debi blinked, caught completely off guard. His wording confused her. Did he believe she wasn’t involved in her brother’s life and could only make a wild guess as to why he was the way he was? Her problem was she was too involved in her brother’s story.

  “Excuse me?” she demanded, forgetting all about feeling as if she had failed her brother.

  Jackson patiently explained the meaning behind his question. “Every parent or guardian who comes to us usually has some sort of a theory as to why the boy they brought to us is the way he is. They give me a backstory and I take it from there. Sometimes they’re right, sometimes they’re wrong. Not everything is black or white.” He leaned back in the chair. The motion was accompanied by another pronounced creak. “What’s Ryan’s backstory?”

  He did think she wasn’t involved, Debi thought. She set out to show this man how wrong he was by giving him a summarized version of Ryan’s life.

  “As a little boy, Ryan was almost perfect,” she recalled fondly. “Never talked back, went to school without a single word of protest. Kept his room neat, ate whatever was on his plate. Did his homework and got excellent grades. He was almost too good,” she added wistfully, wishing fervently for those days to be back again.

  No one was ever too good, but he refrained from commenting on that. Instead, Jackson gently urged the woman on. “And then...?”

  It took her a moment to begin. Remembering still hurt beyond words. “And then, three years ago, he was involved in a car accident. He was in the car with my parents.” A lump formed in her throat, the way it always did. “They were coming out to visit me—I was away at college.”

  She would forever feel guilty about that. Guilty about selecting her college strictly because that was where John was going. If she’d attended a college close to home, the way her parents had hoped, this wouldn’t have happened.

  “Except that they never made it,” she said after a beat, forcing the words out. “A truck hauling tires or car batteries or something like that sideswiped them.” She had no idea why it bothered her that she didn’t have all the details down, but it did. “The car went off the side of the road, tumbled twice and when it was over...” Her voice shook as she continued. “My parents were both dead.” Taking a breath, she continued, “And Ryan was in ICU. They kept him in the hospital for almost a month. Even when he got out, he had to have physical therapy treatments for the next six months.”

  Jackson listened quietly. When she paused, he took the opportunity to comment. “Sounds like he had a pretty hard time of it.”

  Debi took in a long, shaky breath. It hadn’t exactly been a walk in the park for her, either. But this wasn’t about her, she reminded herself sternly. It was about Ryan. About saving Ryan.

  “He did,” she answered. “He kept asking me why he was the one who got to live and they had to die.” A rueful smile touched her lips. “That was while he was still talking to me. But that got to be less and less and then the only time we talked at all was when I was nagging him to do his homework and stop cutting classes.” The sigh escaped before she could stop it. “I guess you could say that they were one-way conversations.”

  He was all too familiar with that—from both sides of the divide, he thought.

  “What brought you here to The Healing Ranch?” he asked her. When Debi looked at him, confused, he explained, “It’s usually the last straw or the one thing that a parent or guardian just couldn’t allow to let slide.”

  She steeled herself as she began to answer the man’s question. “I had to bail Ryan out of jail. He ditched school and was hanging around with a couple of guys I kept telling him to avoid. One of them stole a car.” She had a pretty good idea which one had done it, but Ryan refused to confirm her suspicions. “According to what another one of the ‘boys’ said, the guy claimed he was ‘borrowing’ it just for a quick joy ride. The owner reported the car missing and the police managed to track it down fairly quickly. The boys were all apprehended.”

  Age-wise they were still all children to her, not young men on their way to compiling serious criminal records.

  “But first they had to chase them through half the city.” She didn’t want to make excuses for her brother, but she did want Jackson to know the complete truth. “Ryan didn’t steal the car, but he knew it didn’t belong to the kid behind the wheel. He should have never gotten into the car knowing that.” This time, she didn’t even bother trying to suppress her sigh or her distress. “He used to make better decisions than that,” she told the man sitting opposite her.

  A lone tear slid down her cheek. She could feel it and the fact that it was there annoyed Debi to no end. She didn’t want to be a stereotypical female, crying because the situation was out of her control. She couldn’t, wouldn’t tolerate any pity.

  Using the back of her hand, she wiped away the incriminating stain from her cheek.

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “I’m just a little tired after that long trip.”

  Rather than comment on what they both knew was an extremely lightweight excuse, Jackson took the box of tissues he’d kept on his desk and pushed it over toward the young woman.

  He watched her pull one out, his attention focused on her hand. Her left hand. There was no ring on her ring finger—but there was a very light tan line indicating that there’d been a ring there not all that long ago.

  “Did your marriage break up over that?” he asked her gently.

  Debi raised her eyes to his in wonder as she felt the air in her lungs come to a standstill.

  How did he know?

  Chapter Three

  Debi stared at the man sitting across from her. Had Sheila called him to set things up for her? She hadn’t mentioned anything, but if her coworker and friend hadn’t called this man, then how did Jackson know about the current state, or non-state, of her marriage?

  “Excuse me?” she said in a voice filled with disbelief.

  Even as he asked the question, Jackson was fairly certain that he already knew the answer. Whoever this woman’s husband had been, the man was clearly an idiot. Two minutes into their interview, he could tell that Deborah Kincannon was a kind, caring person. That she seemed to be temporarily in over her head was beside the point. That sort of thing happened to everyone at one point or another. It certainly had to his stepmother.

  The fact that Ryan’s sister was exceedingly attractive in a sweet, comfortable sort of way wasn’t exactly a hardship, either. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that her choice in men, or at least in this man, left something to be desired.

  “Did your marriage brea
k up over that?” he repeated. Jackson could almost hear the way the scene had played out. “Your husband said he’d had enough of your brother’s actions and told you to wash your hands of him, am I right?”

  Debi could feel herself growing pale. The second this man said the words, she remembered the awful scenario and how it had drained her.

  Her mouth felt dry as she asked, “How did you...?” Her voice trailed off as she looked at Jackson incredulously.

  “Your ring finger,” he answered, nodding at her left hand. “There’s a slight tan line around it, like you’d had a ring on there for a while—until just recently.”

  Debi nodded and looked down at her left ring finger. It still felt strange not to see her wedding ring there. She hadn’t taken the ring off since the day she’d gotten married, not even to clean it. She’d found a way to accomplish that while the ring remained on her finger. But now there seemed to be no point in continuing to wear it. If she did, it would not only be perpetuating a lie, it would also remind her that she had wasted all those years of her life, loving a man who was more a fabrication than real flesh and blood.

  The John Kincannon she had loved hadn’t existed, except perhaps in her mind.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, she couldn’t help thinking. There had been signs. Why hadn’t she allowed them to register?

  She supposed the answer lay in the fact that she just couldn’t admit to herself that she could have been so wrong about a person for so many years. A person she had given up so much for. A person who had inadvertently caused her to sacrifice her parents’ lives. So when warning signs had raised their heads, she’d ignored them, pretending that they didn’t exist. Whenever she found herself stumbling across another warning sign, she’d just pretended that it was a little rough patch and everything was all right. How wrong she’d been.

  Debi cleared her throat and sat a little straighter in her seat.

  “I don’t see how that would matter, one way or another,” she finally replied, sounding somewhat removed and formal.