Home > Strength Under Fire (Silver Creek #3)(5)

Strength Under Fire (Silver Creek #3)(5)
Author: Lindsay McKenna

Relief flowed sweetly through Colin as he turned on the ignition, the massive truck engine coming to life. As a wrangler, there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do around a ranch, and he was well-known for his mechanical knowledge of engines, heavy equipment operation, and carpentry.

As the truck rolled out of the driveway, he headed toward the entrance, making a left turn, having to take this load through Silver Creek. He knew where the Wildflower Ranch was. Often, last summer, he headed to the desolate ranch and hiked into the mountains at the back of it. When his PTSD got bad, going into the woods calmed his anxiety and his stress levels lowered.

He recalled the small ranch’s history, aware of a family claiming it in the 1900s. Now, this woman, Dana Scott, had bought it. Who was she? How old was she? Knowing nothing about her made him curious. He hoped she was someone who was easy to get along with. Chase hadn’t said anything about her personality at all. Still, he knew Mary Bishop well enough that she had an eye for good, loyal people who worked hard, were honest and easygoing.

He mentally crossed his fingers, turning onto the main road with his load. The sun was bright and he pulled down the visor, not having his dark glasses with him. Pulling the brim of his Stetson a little lower, he headed out for his new job. What would it be like? Could he do it? Always concerned his PTSD symptoms might interfere, he had no idea if Dana Scott was aware of his unseen wounds.

There was plenty for Colin to worry about as he drove through downtown Silver Creek on a Monday morning at eight a.m. Mary had hired Dana Scott yesterday. Less than twenty-four hours later, he was bringing her all the farm equipment she could handle. The question he had was: How much did she really know about farming? Because of his PTSD, Colin was a loner. He didn’t do well in groups of people and especially, not a crowd. He was fairly good on one-on-ones, but if this woman hadn’t a clue about farming, he saw that as a hurdle he wasn’t sure he could leap.

As he left the busy morning commute into Silver Creek by those who worked in the industrious little town, Colin pressed down on the accelerator. The ranch was eight miles west of the town on a two-lane asphalt highway. Not that far.

He wiped his upper lip with the back of his elk-skin gloved hand. Feeling anxious, he recognized all the symptoms starting to accumulate in him, making his stomach seize up, his heart pounding a little harder in his chest. He was going to have a woman for a boss, not a man. That was going to take some adjustment, because most of his life he had been around and worked only with men. Trying to tell himself that Mary Bishop, a woman, literally ran everything on Three Bars, her son Chase taking care of the ranch while she took care of everything else, hadn’t proved to be a hurdle at all to him. He’d met Mary many times and genuinely respected her type A personality. He always liked the deviltry he saw dancing in her eyes, that quick smile and the way she would pat a person’s shoulder, as if they were a well-loved family member. And no one was more generous than Mary was. Colin had seen her fund a number of start-up businesses for small business owners right here in the valley. She wasn’t afraid to invest in people, and believe in them heart and soul.

Was there any possibility that Dana Scott was like that?

 

 

Chapter 2

Dana got her first look at her wrangler-on-loan as he slowly pulled up in a long flatbed. The nine a.m. sun was bright and strong in a cloudless sky. It was around forty-five degrees outside and she wore her heavy denim jacket. He wore a black Stetson hat, the same color as his military-short hair and maybe two-day growth of beard on his lean, hard-looking face.

When he rolled down the window, lifting his gloved hand toward her in a silent hello, she drew in a breath. He had the most startling blue eyes! The thick fringe of lashes did nothing but accentuate the color. She’d seen that kind of blue eyes in a famous Hollywood star, Paul Newman. It took away some of her initial reaction that he was hard, because his mouth was well shaped and the corners moved upward, hinting that he laughed or perhaps had a good sense of humor. Forewarned that he had PTSD, he didn’t appear anxious to her. The tan on his face, she was sure, had come from being outside a lot. She lifted her hand to him.

The flatbed truck braked and the engine turned off. Curious about the wrangler, she walked toward the cab, which was near the log cabin. The door opened and she saw he was tall and wiry, not thin, but there was tight muscling from continuous work, she would bet, underneath that blue-and-white plaid shirt he wore. The cuffs on the long sleeves had been unbuttoned and rolled up a couple of times, revealing the dark hair across his forearms. When he turned to her after closing the door on the truck, Dana relaxed more.

There was an intensity to him that was palpable; almost as if he were some big cat, like a jaguar or leopard, beneath his skin. He did not scare her. Just the opposite. It was a sense she had and it made her understand that he was all warrior. Not a peacemaker. Even the way he moved in her direction, taking off his gloves and stuffing them in a back pocket of his Levi’s, he possessed a boneless grace that told her even more of his unspoken lethality. What was that saying? You scratch a man’s skin and just beneath it one found a warrior? Or something like that. It fit this wrangler.

His Levi’s were well-worn, his cowboy boots scuffed, scarred from many years in the trenches of demanding work around a ranch. The leather belt around his waist carried a Buck knife, which was common in his kind of work.

He removed his hat and halted about six feet from her.

“I’m Colin Gallagher. Mr. Bishop sent me up here to bring you some farm machinery.” He turned slightly, pointing in the direction of the flatbed. Returning his gaze to her, he said, “And I’m here to help you any way that I can, ma’am.”

“I’m Dana Scott, Mr. Gallagher.” She thrust out her hand toward him. He took it, but she noticed he didn’t crush her bones, just a nice, firm handshake.

“Call me Colin, ma’am. I don’t stand on a lot of ceremony.”

She smiled slightly. “Mary Bishop got riled when I kept calling her ‘ma’am,’ but I’m not going to get upset. Just call me Dana. I’m not much on PC stuff, either.” Her hand tingled after they ended their handshake. He reminded her of the dark knight in a story she’d read when in high school; a knight without family, pledging loyalty only to the serfs and peasants who needed protecting from their many enemies. She’d read that book and fallen in love with the anti-hero knight. Colin reminded her of that character in spades.

She sensed a tension in him that wasn’t obvious in his body language or face. Maybe it was the PTSD he wrestled with every day of his life? Her heart grew sad over that realization.

“That’s a nice name, Dana,” he said, nodding. “Where would you like me to put the tractor and other equipment?”

She walked with him over to the truck. “How old is that John Deere tractor, Colin?” She stared up at it. He came and stood nearby, lifting his hat, running his fingers through his hair and then settling it back on his head. “I honestly don’t know. What I can tell you is it belonged to Mr. Bishop, Chase’s father. When he died, it was still used on certain areas of the ranch. When Chase came home from the military about three years ago, his mother, Mary, put him in charge of the ranch. He loved this old Deere,” he said, gesturing toward it. “While it doesn’t have electronics or work on computer programs or apps, it’s a reliable, hardworking piece of machinery.” He gave her a glance. “Chase said you came from a farm family. Am I assuming you did all kinds of this type of work, too?”

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