the trouble here; he had to deal with it. "I'll visit the Red Light."
He'd be meeting Lonny there anyway.
The way Victoria lit up, like he was doing her a grand favor, pained him. So did the relief with which she said, "Oh, good! Once we know more, then I can better decide how much to tell Papa."
Laramie climbed out of the creek, water sloshing off him and out his boots, and hoped she told Papa nothing. He did not need outraged fathers distracting him from his real job here in Sheridan, and he was already risking it. He'd kept the lady out after dark.
"I'll walk you back," he offered reluctantly, glancing in the direction Lonny had gone.
"Well, as far as the rock, anyway," she agreed, taking several squelching steps up the path that paralleled the creek. When Laramie started wetly after her, she slowed down so that he practically had to walk beside her.
Not that this was a hardship.
"But we can't go in yet," she continued, grasping her skirts to flap them a little, shaking some of the water out. "We aren't at all finished."
He tried not to stare at the quick little glimpses of her high-shoed ankles as he thought, We aren't?
"You still haven't told me why you asked me to meet you," she continued happily. "Why did you, Ross Laramie?"
Ross. He began to ache again, somewhere deep that he didn't want to know about. Meeting her had been a bad idea. He'd drawn on her. He'd put her face-to-face with a train robber. Now he was lying to her about the Red Light Saloon.
And because she called him Ross, it suddenly mattered.
She stopped walking, so suddenly that Laramie almost bumped into her. Staring down into her shadowed face, he remembered what she'd felt like pressed against him, more intimately than either of the gals he'd known sinfully, and he felt guilty for such common thoughts, too. Why had he asked to meet her?
"I forget," he lied, and felt like a damned idiot.
He feared she saw his lie, but all she said was, "Since we're here, then, will you answer a question for me?"
He shrugged one shoulder, wary. He owed her.
"Why would a stock detective spend the day looking through old newspapers?"
To his relief, he could answer that with marginal honesty. "Been rustling here before."
Victoria Garrison clapped her hands together. "I knew you were a range detective! I just knew it!" And he recalled again just how good she was at finding things out.
Good enough to not just be helpful.
She was good enough at it to be dangerous. To both of them.
Chapter Six
"Just a cowboy tracking rustlers," said Ross Laramie, sounding defensive.
But Victoria knew better, just as she knew he could not have forgotten why he asked her to meet him . . . which made the real reason all the more intriguing. "That means there are rustlers!"
Anyway, a range detective was more than that, a cowboy whose purpose was to track down rustlers. Though the term was sometimes used for hired guns, a real range detective was practically a lawman. And meeting a lawman by the creek wasn't so bad. "You were reading about old rustlers?"
He shrugged that one shoulder again. "Folks involved once ..."
Might still be involved! That was smart thinking. "You mean some rustlers from before are still around? They aren't arrested, or dead, or run out of town?"
He stared at her in the darkness, and she guessed that meant yes. Rustlers from the past might still be walking the streets of Sheridan!
Life surely had gotten interesting since he rode in.
"Do you think that man by the creek was a rustler?" She shuddered to thin k that, and felt glad that Lara mie had been beside her —well, in front of her—the whole time. Considering that it was dark, she felt glad he still was.
"No." He sounded vaguely angry. "He wasn't the type."
"There's a type? Tell me how to recognize a rustler, then, please?
He'd be meeting Lonny there anyway.
The way Victoria lit up, like he was doing her a grand favor, pained him. So did the relief with which she said, "Oh, good! Once we know more, then I can better decide how much to tell Papa."
Laramie climbed out of the creek, water sloshing off him and out his boots, and hoped she told Papa nothing. He did not need outraged fathers distracting him from his real job here in Sheridan, and he was already risking it. He'd kept the lady out after dark.
"I'll walk you back," he offered reluctantly, glancing in the direction Lonny had gone.
"Well, as far as the rock, anyway," she agreed, taking several squelching steps up the path that paralleled the creek. When Laramie started wetly after her, she slowed down so that he practically had to walk beside her.
Not that this was a hardship.
"But we can't go in yet," she continued, grasping her skirts to flap them a little, shaking some of the water out. "We aren't at all finished."
He tried not to stare at the quick little glimpses of her high-shoed ankles as he thought, We aren't?
"You still haven't told me why you asked me to meet you," she continued happily. "Why did you, Ross Laramie?"
Ross. He began to ache again, somewhere deep that he didn't want to know about. Meeting her had been a bad idea. He'd drawn on her. He'd put her face-to-face with a train robber. Now he was lying to her about the Red Light Saloon.
And because she called him Ross, it suddenly mattered.
She stopped walking, so suddenly that Laramie almost bumped into her. Staring down into her shadowed face, he remembered what she'd felt like pressed against him, more intimately than either of the gals he'd known sinfully, and he felt guilty for such common thoughts, too. Why had he asked to meet her?
"I forget," he lied, and felt like a damned idiot.
He feared she saw his lie, but all she said was, "Since we're here, then, will you answer a question for me?"
He shrugged one shoulder, wary. He owed her.
"Why would a stock detective spend the day looking through old newspapers?"
To his relief, he could answer that with marginal honesty. "Been rustling here before."
Victoria Garrison clapped her hands together. "I knew you were a range detective! I just knew it!" And he recalled again just how good she was at finding things out.
Good enough to not just be helpful.
She was good enough at it to be dangerous. To both of them.
Chapter Six
"Just a cowboy tracking rustlers," said Ross Laramie, sounding defensive.
But Victoria knew better, just as she knew he could not have forgotten why he asked her to meet him . . . which made the real reason all the more intriguing. "That means there are rustlers!"
Anyway, a range detective was more than that, a cowboy whose purpose was to track down rustlers. Though the term was sometimes used for hired guns, a real range detective was practically a lawman. And meeting a lawman by the creek wasn't so bad. "You were reading about old rustlers?"
He shrugged that one shoulder again. "Folks involved once ..."
Might still be involved! That was smart thinking. "You mean some rustlers from before are still around? They aren't arrested, or dead, or run out of town?"
He stared at her in the darkness, and she guessed that meant yes. Rustlers from the past might still be walking the streets of Sheridan!
Life surely had gotten interesting since he rode in.
"Do you think that man by the creek was a rustler?" She shuddered to thin k that, and felt glad that Lara mie had been beside her —well, in front of her—the whole time. Considering that it was dark, she felt glad he still was.
"No." He sounded vaguely angry. "He wasn't the type."
"There's a type? Tell me how to recognize a rustler, then, please?
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