His chest pinched at the remembrance of those carefree days. What he wouldn’t give to have just a fraction of that untroubled life back.
A beefy hand clamped on his shoulder, followed by the sour, sweaty odor of Mack Custer. “Think you could’ve done better, old man?”
Jericho shrugged and tried to loosen the knot inside. “Probably.”
Custer laughed, his rounded middle wobbling beneath a too-tight shirt that outlined the dark sweat spots under his arms and on his chest. “Ain’t nobody beat Buster Bliss yet.”
Bliss? Jericho returned his attention to the short, slim man.
“You know him?” Custer homed in on the fellow too. “He kin of yours or something?”
“I don’t have any relatives left.” Aside from his dad. But no one out in the West knew about Elijah Bliss, and it was better if things stayed that way.
Buster Bliss trotted to the other two contestants and shook their hands. “Well, Buster might be puny,” Custer continued, “but he sure does bring in the crowds.”
And the money.
Custer had always been a gambler, even when Jericho had been the foreman of Elkhorn Ranch. Jericho wouldn’t have chosen the man to replace him, but the boss had given Custer the job anyway, even though Jericho had recommended several others.
Buster Bliss finished shaking hands with his competitors. Then he tipped his hat toward the crowd before ambling toward the barn.
Jericho narrowed his eyes on the fellow, taking in the patched trousers with frayed hems. The rear end hung over his frame, clearly too big. His boots were clunky and his shirt baggy, almost as if he were playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes.
The brim of his hat shadowed his face, large spectacles shielded his eyes, and a dusty layer of charcoal coated his skin. Was he trying to hide himself, make himself appear older and more manly?
If so, he’d done a terrible job. There was no concealing the youthful, delicate lines of his face. How old was he? Sixteen? Maybe seventeen? No doubt the kid had been teased for looking so feminine.
“Where’s this Buster Bliss from?” Jericho asked.
“Denver.” Custer stuffed his hands into his pockets and jangled the silver dollars he’d already collected. “A schoolteacher. Been comin’ up here on the weekends to compete.”
Jericho nodded and kept his expression from revealing anything—something he’d always been good at, just like his dad. The kid wasn’t a schoolteacher. That was obvious. He was too young to have gone to teacher’s training. And he wasn’t from Denver. That was obvious too. A fellow like him wouldn’t have the means to ride up into the high country every weekend.
“So what brings you back to the area?” Custer eyed him warily, almost as if he feared Jericho might demand his job as foreman back.
He’d anticipated the questions, had known he needed to have an excuse for being there, like he always did whenever he hunted for a criminal. This time, if he told people he was just visiting, he’d chance stirring up lots of questions, since he didn’t have a good reason to just visit.
No doubt Rodney James was already expecting a bounty hunter to be coming after him. If the crook got even a whiff that a new lawman was now in the area, he’d take off before Jericho could figure out where he was.
There was too much riding on this hunt, and Jericho had to keep it as secret as possible for as long as possible. The only thing to do was tell everyone he’d missed the West—which was true—and then start making efforts to buy land. It was the most believable tale he’d been able to come up with.
He leaned against the barn again and tried for a casual pose. “Always wanted a ranch of my own. Heard Steele’s selling land for a fair price and figured it’s time to settle down.”
“He’s sold off the best.” Custer spat a glob of tobacco juice into the dirt at their feet. “What’s left ain’t worth piddle.”
Jericho had heard that too. The truth was, it didn’t matter what the quality of the land was like. Once he ferreted out his prey, he had no intention of staying. But in the meantime, he needed a way to mingle in the community without drawing suspicion.
“Guess a man’s got to start somewhere.” Jericho glanced at the distant range and the disappearing sun.
“There’s still homesteading land in the western parts of the territory.” Custer watched him too intently.
“Won’t be long before the railroad is finished up here and runs into Denver. Can’t turn down the chance to have easier access to eastern markets.”
Custer’s eyes widened as though he’d never considered the possibility. “Reckon that makes a whole lot of sense.”
Jericho watched from the corner of his eye as Buster Bliss took his silver dollar, tucked it into his pocket, and started toward a horse tied up at a hitching post. With each step, the lingering crowd congratulated Buster, but his movements and greetings in response were stilted and forced.
Something wasn’t right. Jericho felt it down to his bones, though he couldn’t explain exactly why.
As if sensing the scrutiny, the man paused in unwinding the lead line of his horse and cast a glance at Jericho. The last rays of sunlight illuminated the man’s eyes behind his spectacles. Big brown eyes. Beautiful big brown eyes he’d recognize anywhere. They belonged to the one and only Ivy McQuaid.
His pulse took off like a runaway train engine. But he forced himself to glance away nonchalantly, as if she was just another boring ranch hand.
No wonder her dismount had seemed familiar. No wonder she appeared so feminine. No wonder she was out of place in that clothing.
Blazing smoke. What was she doing here dressed up as a man?
His mind couldn’t work quickly enough, and before he knew what was happening, Ivy had mounted her horse and was heading away from the ranch to the north toward Fairplay. Why wasn’t she heading east, toward Healing Springs? Wasn’t she living there anymore?
He could hardly hear what Custer was telling him about the benefits of the railroad. All he could think about was Ivy, the fact that she’d been the idiot on the backs of the horses during the Roman-style race. She’d put herself in grave danger. Didn’t she realize that?
His blood turned cold as he pictured her dangling between the two animals, about ready to fall to her death. What had she been thinking? As usual, she probably hadn’t been thinking. She was still foolish and impulsive and wild.
And as usual, none of her brothers knew what she was up to. If Flynn had any idea Ivy was running around South Park and entering the cowhand competitions, he’d give her a whupping she wouldn’t soon forget.
But the truth was, Ivy had never listened to her brothers, had always been headstrong. And she apparently hadn’t changed one bit.
Jericho’s body turned rigid with the need to ride after her and hand her a whupping of his own. At the very least, he intended to let her know she wasn’t fooling him with her disguise and that if she didn’t put a stop to her shenanigans, he’d go directly to Flynn.
By the time he managed to find an excuse to take his leave from Elkhorn Ranch, she had at least a thirty-minute lead. With darkness settling in earnest, it was harder to track her. He trailed her far enough to know she’d taken a circuitous route—to make a show of riding toward Kenosha Pass—but had eventually headed around to Healing Springs Ranch.