Page 25 of The Soldier and the Cowboy

“I wasn’t talking about them,” she said.

“What are you going to do, sneak over to Mexico and kill them all?”

She shrugged.

He faced her. “Bailey, you can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s illegal.”

“So is what they’re doing,” she said.

“But it’s murder.”

“It’s war, Cal. It’s not always black and white.”

“It’s not…” he swallowed hard. “I don’t want that. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

“Then I’ll respect your wishes. For now. But it was inevitable someone was going to take the first shot. Let the record show it was them. Excuse me, I have to clean my gun.” She shouldered her rifle and turned to go.

He watched her walk away, dread and respect comingling inside him. What if something happened to her because he’d brought her here to help? How would he live with it if she was wounded or, worse, killed? He couldn’t live with that. But what could he do? She wouldn’t back away now that she’d gotten started. She would see things through to the end, whatever end that might be.

He closed his eyes and thought of her streaking across the ranch, bareback and barefoot. He had made himself scarce when Isabel arrived, not wanting another confrontation. But he had been nearby keeping a wary eye on her, never trusting her completely anymore. He had watched Bailey one up her on her horse before jumping the fence and taking off. And it had taken everything in his power not to swing onto his own horse and follow. He felt as if he were on a precipice, trying to keep watch on too many things that could spiral disastrously out of control—Bailey, Isabel, the ranch. He was weary and, worse, he was in charge so he pulled out his phone and called someone about the truck. It was one small thing, but he felt better after it was taken care of. Maybe that was the key, totake one small step at a time until the marathon was over.

Chapter 11

The next day Bailey returned from her mid-morning patrol and heard shouting. She hurried forward and saw a group of about fifteen boys standing in the yard with Cal, shouting at him in Spanish. Cal stood out like a maypole, several feet taller than all the boys. In his hands was a football.

Bailey set down her pack. “Room for one more?”

“What do you think, boys, should we let her play?Deberíamos dejarla jugar?”

About half the boys shouted yes while the other half shouted no. “Looks like our teams just divided themselves,” Bailey said, holding her hands aloft. Cal threw her the ball, and she easily caught it, impressing the boys who had aligned themselves with her.

“I think you have a new fan club,” Cal said. “Let me know if you need me to translate.”

“I’ve got it, thanks,” she said, gathering the boys around her and making plans with them in fluent Spanish.

Cal rolled his eyes. Was there anything the woman couldn’t do? A new thought occurred to him, some way he thought he could outdo her. “Bailey, can you cook?”

“Wait until you try my paella,” she said, smiling, and he gotcaught up staring at her for a few seconds until the boys around him began to bump and jostle for his attention.

The game was intensely competitive. Cal started out as he always did, going soft in order to teach, to coach. But Bailey was having none of it. She was out for blood, and he soon caught her mania, playing rough and dirty and doing whatever it took to win, short of hurting anyone. There he had to be careful. The boys were rough and tumble but so much smaller than him he felt like Gulliver among the Lilliputians. But every time he took a dive in order not to jeopardize anyone’s safety, Bailey taunted him for it, as if it hadn’t been on purpose, as if he actually were getting too old and out of shape to play the game. Eventually his mood turned from amusement to irritation. He could only be pushed so far before he would retaliate, and she finally pushed the button enough times that he forgot himself completely and tackled her, burying her hard beneath him.

The air whooshed out of her in a rush and he had immediate regrets.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, easing slightly away from her to make sure she was still conscious and breathing.

She held up a hand and shook her head. “Fine,” she whispered. Her eyes were filled with tears of pain, and he felt like a total heel.

“No, I’m really sorry. Sometimes I get so competitive I forget my own strength.”

“My fault,” she said, taking a deeper breath.

“How is it your fault I tackled you?” he asked.

“I goaded you into it,” she said.

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