Page 3 of Stockman's Showdown

‘Penelope.’ The way he said her name, as if letting each letter dance on his tongue, while he gently tucked her hair behind her ear, had her shivering.

Lord help her, she was a fool when it came to Harry Splint.

‘Can you open those tins?’ She needed him distracted and his hands busy away from her.

He gave a cheeky wink, then dragged the two tins from their hidden grave beneath the floorboards. He flicked down the latches and lifted the lid. ‘Crikey.’

It was cash. Oodles and oodles of cash, all wrapped into neat bundles that only made her scowl.

‘I don’t believe it! Jack told me he had no money to buy me a new handbag.’ Penelope pointed to her broken purse on the kitchen table. ‘And he has all of this cash hidden under the floor.’

‘Maybe he’s saving for a house.’

‘Jack has never once mentioned a house to me. Ever. Saddles, saddlebags, stockwhips, spurs, boots, and stockman’s hats, sure,but nothing that resembled a home or anything for me.’ Instead they were in the head stockman’s house, which some called the caretaker’s cottage, that they only lived in because of Jack’s job. Because that’s what Jack Price did, he was a stockman first, and a husband last.

The sight of all that money was so infuriating, she grit her teeth. ‘What’s in the second tin?’

Harry unclipped its sturdy latches and pulled off the sticky lid. The tin was filled with paperwork and more cash.

‘Stop.’ She grabbed Harry’s hand as it was about to dive into the paperwork. His fingers were so much bigger than hers, and how easily they shifted to hold her hand, giving it a tender squeeze.

‘It’s okay, Pen.’

No, it wasn’t. ‘Jack always knows when something is out of order. Look at how he’s packed that cash, it’s all in denominational order. To go through that paperwork, we’d have to be methodical.’ It would take time, because her husband was notorious for setting little traps as telltale signs of where she’d been. And she knew them all.

But this, this was different.

She gazed at the tins full of cash. It was enough for her mind to whirl from panic to suddenly pin her hopes on a preposterous plan. ‘Harry, I need your help.’

‘To do what?’

She gripped his wrists, shifting to face the only man she’d ever loved, as hope filled her bloodstream. Once again she’d come alive, and she only did that with Harry, who had now come back—it must be for a reason. It must be for this. ‘Help me escape from my husband!’

One

Elsie Creek Station—Present Day

Ryder Riggs hadn’t meant to fall for Bree Wilde. It just happened. That feisty redhead with curves and curls, had become such an enormous influence over his life, she was impossible to ignore, no matter how hard he’d tried, even when they practically argued with each other on a daily basis.

With an outlaw attitude, Bree only ever looked at Ryder with pure disdain. Not that he could blame her, when he’d not only cut those logs to burn, but he’d also poured the fuel to start that fire.

But beneath her fearlessness, he’d seen her fierce protectiveness for those she cared about. He’d seen the extraordinary lengths she’d gone to for his brothers, and his nephew, trying to help them turn Elsie Creek Station into a home. And for that she had his respect.

But when Bree turned this old tack room, which she’d called themurder room, into his office, it pretty much sealed the way his heart felt about her.

He could blame Bree for it, blame it on the details she’d put into remodelling his office space—which they’d renamedthe boardroom—as if she understood him. And very few peopleknew who Ryder Riggs was. Not even his brothers could say they did, not after a ten-year absence.

Ryder swung open the heavy door to the room that used to be Bree’s hideaway for her illegal gin still. Now the reinforced walls were lined with custom-made gun racks, and ammunition, creating a private arsenal. The door shut whisper quiet behind him, the locking mechanism—hidden under a panel giving the appearance of just another wall—clicked into place. Inside the main room it held workbenches, his desk, and a long boardroom table the caretaker, Charlie, had made by hand.

Under the bright industrial lights, on the shiny steel workbenches Bree had built perfectly for his height, lay his latest job: Bree’s shotgun.

He’d snatched it off the wild woman a while ago, back when she was going to shoot Mia’s ex. Somehow Bree had a huge cache of shotguns stashed all over the station, and she’d already shot one guy, so she wasn’t afraid to use them, which made him pause about giving it back to her.

As an army-trained armourer, a firearms engineer, and a gunsmith in the civilian world, Ryder had completely disassembled the 1960 Winchester Model 12, with no serial numbers on it. And that was rare.

After cleaning it, he’d inspected the components for signs of wear and tear. Lubricants ensured a crucially smooth operation before it was reassembled. He didn’t have a firing range yet to test it out, but as he looked down the barrel, the line of sight was perfect. And his job was done.

He spread out a dark green blanket, soft from many years of use, and used it to wrap up Bree’s shotgun like a present.

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