Czytaj książkę: «Cowboy Under Siege»
“Let me work for you, Cole. You know I can handle the ranch.”
“That’s not the issue, Bethany.” She could run rings around most of his hands.
“Then what is the issue?”
“Whoever’s killing my cows is armed. Dangerous.” And if she came across that shooter in the field … His belly contracted with dread.
“They haven’t hurt any people, have they?”
When he didn’t answer, she stepped closer. “Exactly what do you think is going to happen?”
He folded his arms, refusing to say. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her—at least in this.
“There’s something you aren’t saying,” she said slowly. “Something else has happened, more than the cows.”
He exhaled, knowing he might as well tell her the truth.
About the Author
GAIL BARRETT always knew she’d be a writer. Then one day, she discovered a Mills & Boon® novel in a bookstore—and knew she was destined to write romance. Her books have won numerous awards, including a National Readers’ Choice Award and Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart.
She currently lives in western Maryland. Readers can contact her through her website, www.gailbarrett.com.
Cowboy Under Siege
Gail Barrett
MILLS & BOON
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To John, my own Montana hero.
Acknowledgments:
I’d like to thank the following people for their extraordinary help with this book: Elle Kennedy and Judith Sandbrook for their invaluable input and critiques; René Tanner at Montana State University for explaining how their library system works; Caroline Sullivan and Dorothy Archer for their nursing help; Russ Howe, for information on pharmaceutical companies; Rebecca May-Henson and Mary Jo Archer for patiently answering my questions about horses and bloat; Piper Rome and John K. Barrett for information about weapons. Please note that any mistakes are definitely my own!
And a very special thank-you to Patience Bloom, Keyren Gerlach, and the rest of the Mills & Boon® family for including me in this project. Marie, Beth, Carla, Elle, and Cindy—you ladies rock!
Chapter 1
The sharp report of a gunshot cracked through the afternoon stillness, the echo reverberating through the rolling rangeland and scattering the sparrows on the barbed-wire fence. Cole Kelley jerked up his head and fixed his gaze on the parched brown hills marking the southern boundary of his ranch. Four more shots barked out in quick succession, execution-style. Then a deep, ringing silence gripped the land.
Cole stood dead still, every sense hyperalert, his attention locked on the hills. Nothing moved. No wisp of dust blurred the cloudless sky. Only the dried grass rippled and bowed, paying homage to the perpetual Montana wind.
But coming close on the heels of his sister’s abduction, those shots could only mean one thing—trouble.
His pulse kicked into a sprint.
Cole released his hold on his fencing pliers, yanked off his leather work gloves and tugged the cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans. He speed dialed the bunkhouse, relieved he could pick up a signal on the twelve-thousand-acre ranch.
“I just heard gunfire,” he said when one of his ranch hands, Earl Runningcrane, answered the phone. “I’m in the south section along Honey Creek. Who’ve we got working nearby?”
“Nobody. They’re all in the northeast section, stacking the rest of the hay.”
Just as he’d expected. Then who had fired shots on his land?
“All right,” he said. “I’m going to investigate. Stand by in case I need help.”
A profound sense of uneasiness unfurling inside him, Cole gathered up his fencing tools and whistled softly for Mitzy, the border collie chasing rabbits nearby. He loped through the grass to his pickup truck, the tension that had dogged him for the past two weeks ratcheting higher yet.
There was an outside chance those shots had come from a hunter, but deer season didn’t start for another week. And with the danger currently stalking his family …
Cole yanked open the truck door, waited a heartbeat for the dog to leap inside, then slid in beside her and turned the key. “Hold on,” he warned as she pointed her nose out the open passenger side window to scent the breeze. “We’re moving out fast.”
He shifted into gear and gunned the engine, causing the pickup to fishtail on the gravel road. Then he stomped his boot to the floorboard and sped toward the Bar Lazy K’s southern boundary, giving rise to a billowing plume of dust.
Those shots could be a coincidence—someone shooting at targets, local teens fooling around. But Cole’s gut warned him that he wasn’t going to like what he found. Ever since his father’s infidelities had hit the tabloids, creating a national media sensation, his family had been under siege.
Dealing with the press was annoying enough. Reporters tramped over Cole’s land for a glimpse of the senator. Paparazzi massed outside the ranch gates like flies over roadkill, their numbers swelling every time another of Hank’s mistresses came to light—six so far, proving his father had ignored his wedding vows as easily as he’d forgotten his kids. Photographers had even hovered over the house in helicopters, vying for a shot they could sell to the tabloids, until Cole took out a restraining order to stop them from terrifying the cows.
But there was a darker, far more sinister element seeking his father, unknown enemies who’d threatened his life. And two weeks ago, in a bid to force the senator out of hiding, they’d abducted Cole’s sister, Lana, throwing the family into a panic and dramatically upping the stakes.
His jaw clenched tight at the thought of his kidnapped sister, Cole sped up the hill at the corner of his ranch. At the top he hit the brakes, waited for the dust to clear, then scanned the surrounding terrain. Antelope watched from a rise in the distance. Gnarled fence posts stood at the edge of his property like sentinels against the cobalt-blue sky. The gravel road ribboned across the hills toward the Absaroka Mountains, the wide-open rangeland giving way to clusters of pines.
There wasn’t a person or vehicle in sight.
His nerves taut, Cole leaped from the truck, grabbed his rifle from the gun rack behind his seat, and chambered a round. Then, keeping Mitzy beside him, he waded through the grass toward the fence. The wind bore down, carrying with it the faint sound of lowing cows.
He reached his barbed-wire fence, and Honey Creek came into view below him, a sparkling streak meandering through his neighbor’s unmowed alfalfa fields. Still nothing. His heart beating fast, he ran his gaze over the treeless hillsides, then turned his attention to the grass trampled down around the gate. Someone had recently been here, but who?
The foreboding inside him increasing, he unhooked the barbed wire gate and dragged it aside, then followed the line of crushed grass to the slope of the hill. He swept his gaze to the river bottom where he’d pastured his cattle—stalling on three black cows lying motionless in the sun.
He curled his hands. Anger flared inside him like a wildfire on a brush-choked hill. Someone had deliberately slaughtered his cattle. But why?
Furious at the senseless loss, he searched the grass around his feet and found a brass casing glinting in the sun. He examined the markings—300 RUM. Powerful enough to take down big game—or several defenseless cows.
Struggling to control his temper, he stormed down the hill, scanning the slopes for the remainder of his herd. Insects buzzed in the midday heat. The warm wind brushed his face. He glanced upriver and finally caught a glimpse of the scattered cows. They’d crashed through the barbed-wire fence and crossed the creek into his neighbor’s alfalfa. Now he had to chase them out before they died of bloat.
Disgusted, he tugged out his cell phone and called the bunkhouse again. “It’s me,” he said when Earl picked up. “We’ve got several dead cows.”
“Someone shot them?”
“Yeah.” And then the coward had run away. “The rest of the herd broke through the fence and got into Del Harvey’s alfalfa. I need several men here fast. Have them bring extra barbed wire and stomach tubes, just in case. And tell Kenny to bring the front loader to haul away the dead cows.”
“Kenny went to the Bozeman airport,” his ranch hand said. “He’s picking up Rusty’s daughter. She’s flying in from Chicago for a couple of weeks.”
The muscles of Cole’s stomach tightened. Bethany Moore. This was all he needed. He swore and closed his eyes. But Bethany was no longer his business. Their affair had ended years ago.
“You there, boss?” the cowboy asked.
“Yeah, I’m here.” Cole blew out his breath and massaged his eyes. “Just make sure someone brings the front loader. And call the sheriff, Wes Colton. I want him to take a look at this.”
Cole disconnected the call, determined to keep his mind off Bethany and the past. She’d made her choices. She’d left Montana. She’d left him. But he hadn’t expected anything else. He’d learned early in life that people never stayed. The only thing he could depend on was his land.
Turning his thoughts firmly back to his herd, he returned to his truck, placed his rifle in the gun rack, and climbed into the cab. He had to work quickly to drive the surviving cattle back across the creek. Mitzy could keep them safely corralled until the men repaired the fence.
Still furious, he cranked the engine. He glanced in his rearview mirror, waited until Mitzy jumped into the open truck bed, then steered his pickup off the road. He bumped and jostled across the field and through the gate, still barely able to keep his temper in check.
He didn’t understand this senseless destruction. And he sure as hell didn’t need it. Not when his foreman had broken his leg, leaving him shorthanded. Not when his sister had been abducted and the FBI didn’t have any leads. And not when he was smack in the middle of the fall roundup, when the future of the Bar Lazy K Ranch—and the livelihood of a dozen men—depended on him getting a thousand healthy cattle to market in the next two weeks. An entire year of work boiled down to this single paycheck, and every cow, every pound they gained or lost, could make or break the ranch.
He splashed the truck through the shallow creek bed and drove up the opposite bank. Even worse, he still had a hundred head stranded in the mountains he leased for summer pasture. He needed to hightail it up there to rescue them before the predicted snowstorm moved in, instead of wasting time hauling dead cows.
Scowling, he steered around the trio of carcasses, appalled again by the pointless waste. And fierce resolve hardened inside him, an iron vise gripping his gut. He’d put up with the paparazzi. He’d put up with his self-absorbed father and his bodyguards hanging around. But this was different. This was personal, a direct assault on his ranch.
But whoever had done this had underestimated him badly. The Bar Lazy K meant everything to Cole. This ranch was what he did, who he was. It wasn’t just his livelihood, it was his soul. And anyone trying to harm it had better watch out. Because if they wanted war, they’d get it.
But he intended to win.
“What do you mean, she died?” Bethany Moore stood at the luggage carousel at the Bozeman airport, her cell phone pressed to her ear. “How? When? She was fine last night when I gave her the evening dose.” Her seventy-year-old patient had been smiling, showing off photos of her granddaughter. How could she have suddenly died?
“They’re looking into it,” Adam Kopenski, the lead doctor administering the trial, said. “I’ll let you know what I hear.”
“Poor Mrs. Bolter. Her poor family.” A lump thickened Bethany’s throat. “I’ll come right back. I’ll have to check the flights, but I’m sure I can get there by tomorrow morning.”
“There’s no point returning,” Adam said. “There’s nothing you can do here. The hospital is looking into it, and I can answer any questions they have.”
“I know, but—”
“Bethany, forget it. I told you, I’ve got everything under control. There’s no reason for you to come back.”
Bethany sighed. Adam was right, but she still felt torn. As head nurse in the drug trial, the patients’ safety was her chief concern. “All right, but promise you’ll call as soon as you hear anything. Day or night. Don’t worry about the time difference.”
“I will. And try not to worry. I’m sure it’s just one of those things. Now enjoy your vacation. Eat some buffalo burgers and relax.”
She forced a smile, trying not to think of Frances Bolter’s kind blue eyes. “It’s beef on a cattle ranch. Not buffalo.”
“Whatever. Just have fun. You work too hard. And I promise I’ll keep you informed.”
“Thanks, Adam.” She meant it. She owed her friend big-time. Not only had he put in a good word for her, helping get her appointed head nurse on the study—a huge advance to her career—but his lively wit had kept her entertained on many a lonely night.
But despite Adam’s reassurance, she couldn’t put the woman out of her mind. She clicked off her phone and stuck it in her purse just as her hunter-green suitcase pushed through the carousel’s plastic flaps. She couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong. The Preston-Werner Clinic had a stellar reputation. Adam had screened the patients meticulously for the trials. And Bethany’s fellow nurses were all top-notch.
She sighed and pressed her fingertips to her eyes, gritty from the 3:00 a.m. wake-up to make her flight. Adam was right, though. There wasn’t much she could do about Mrs. Bolter’s death now. And she wasn’t naive. She’d lost an occasional patient during the years she’d been a nurse. Still, it was never easy, especially with a patient that sweet.
Besides, her father needed her here in Montana, even if he’d insisted he was all right. He’d fallen off his horse and broken his leg—not an easy injury to recover from at sixty-eight years of age.
Her suitcase began to draw closer. Bethany skirted a man in cowboy boots, hefted it from the carousel, and wheeled it across the luggage-claim area to the tall glass doors. Once outside, she blinked in the afternoon sunshine, Bethany walked past the stone pillars to the end of the sidewalk where she stopped to wait for her ride.
Relax, Adam had told her. She inhaled, filling her lungs with the dry mountain air, and willed her tension to ease—not hard to do since Bozeman’s small regional airport had none of the frenzy of O’Hare. There were no shuttle buses spewing exhaust, no constant stream of traffic, no frantic people rushing to catch their flights—just a deserted parking lot dotted with rental cars and an occasional passenger strolling past.
She scanned the mountains ringing the horizon—the Bridger Mountains to the north, the Madison front of the Rockies to the west—their huge peaks dusted with snow. It always amazed her how far she could see out west without humidity hazing the air. Looking up, she spotted a lone hawk riding the currents, and a soothing peace settled inside. She loved the wide open spaces of the land where she’d grown up.
Then a man drove past in a pickup truck and shot her a hostile glare. She stiffened, trying not to let it affect her, but her fleeting sense of harmony disappeared. That right there was the reason she’d moved back east—because of people like him. To them, she was a Native American first, an individual second. Even having a Caucasian mother hadn’t helped her fit in. At least in the anonymity of Chicago, she had the freedom to be herself.
And frankly, there’d been nothing to hold her here after high school. No family, aside from her father. No man, not after Cole Kelley made it clear where his priorities lay.
Her stomach turned over at the thought of Cole. In the past she’d managed to avoid him during her visits home to Maple Cove—but that was before her father had become the foreman on his ranch. Now that her father lived in a cabin on the Bar Lazy K, she was bound to run into Cole.
But maybe not. October was roundup time, the busiest time of the year. Cole would be loading cattle, shipping them to market. If she was lucky, she’d never see him around.
And if she did … So what? Cole was ancient history. He’d made his choice—his land over her—and she no longer cared. She had a great life in Chicago—a cozy apartment, good friends, a fabulous job despite the current setback. If she’d hoped for more at one time—if she’d longed for a family and marriage to Cole—she’d learned the futility of that. There was no point dreaming for things she couldn’t have.
A new Ford pickup pulled up to the curb, and she waved to the driver, Kenny Greene, a former high school classmate and a cowboy on Cole’s ranch. Determined to forget Cole—and her worries in Chicago—she tossed her suitcase into the back of the shiny pickup and climbed into the passenger seat.
For the next two weeks she was on vacation. She would bake her father chokecherry pies, sit on his porch swing and read and go for long rides on his horse while he napped. The Bar Lazy K had twelve thousand acres to get lost in, more if she rode onto government land. She’d never see Cole Kelley or even give him another thought.
She hoped.
Late that evening, Cole pulled into his yard and parked in the fluorescent halo pooling from the pole light next to the barn. More light poured from the ranch house, glinting from the floor-to-ceiling windows like honeyed-gold.
He cut the engine, a deep weariness seeping through his bones, and sighed. Damn, he was tired. He’d put in another sixteen-hour day. He tossed his leather work gloves onto the dashboard and massaged his throbbing temples, still unable to believe that he’d lost those cows.
It made no sense. None of his neighbors would have done it. They were all on friendly terms. In fact, the neighbor who owned the alfalfa was trying to sell Cole his thousand-acre spread—if Cole could swing the down payment when he sold his cows.
And he couldn’t imagine his father’s mistresses shooting the cattle. Shooting Hank, definitely. Cole was surprised his mother hadn’t done that years ago. But to kill the cows?
Still, he’d bet his ranch the killings were related to his father. He couldn’t prove it, but given the problems plaguing his family, no other explanation fit.
His back aching, Cole climbed out of the truck and rotated his stiff shoulders, then bent to pet Domino, who’d joined Mitzy in circling his feet. He’d reported the shooting to the sheriff. He’d herded the surviving cows back into their pasture and strung new wire on the fence. And tomorrow, he’d have his men check every cow on every inch of the twenty-square-mile ranch.
He just hoped he could get those cattle to market before that predicted cold front moved in—or anything else went wrong.
A soft whine drew his gaze. “Hey, Ace.” He stooped and scratched the gray-muzzled, fifteen-year-old border collie who thumped his tail and licked his hand. Ace had retired from chasing cows when his eyesight failed and now spent his days in the house, pampered by the ranch’s cook and housekeeper, Hannah Brown. But, retired or not, the old dog still faithfully greeted Cole whenever he came home.
The other two dogs, not to be ignored, leaped against Cole and butted his hand. Cole laughed and ruffled their fur. When he straightened, they bounded off, heading for their food bowls, no doubt.
His own stomach growled, and he shot a longing glance at the ranch house, wanting nothing more than a cold beer, a hot meal and some long-overdue oblivion in his king-size bed. But he had a lame colt to check on first.
He strode to the barn, the sight of the freshly painted corral easing his tension a notch. His grandmother had built the lavish ranch house on the family homestead, its soaring ceilings and two-story windows more suited to Aspen than Maple Cove. But the barn … Fierce satisfaction surged inside him. That was Cole’s contribution, the first thing he’d remodeled when he and his brother Dylan had bought the place. He’d added a dozen horse stalls, created more heated space to birth calves. He’d also upgraded the pens and loading chutes, satisfied that he now had a modern outfit to tend his stock.
He opened the wide barn door, greeted by the familiar scent of hay. A soft light came from the nearest stall where his ranch foreman kept his horse.
“Rusty?” he called out, his exasperation rising. The stubborn man was supposed to be lying in bed with his broken leg propped up, not fooling around with his horse.
He swung open the gate to the stall, expecting to see his old foreman hobbling on his crutches and cast. Instead, a woman stood with her back to him, brushing Rusty’s chestnut mare.
Bethany Moore. Cole abruptly came to a stop. Even after a dozen years, the sight of her straight black hair shimmering in the lamp light and those long, slender legs in her tight blue jeans knocked his heart off course.
She whipped around, and her black, fathomless eyes met his, giving his pulse an erratic beat. He scanned her full, sultry lips, her high, exotic cheekbones, the feminine curves of her breasts. And damned if she didn’t still get to him, even after all these years. From her dusky skin and erotic mouth to the intelligence in her sooty eyes, she called to something inside him, appealing to him in a visceral, primitive way.
And memories flashed back before he could stop them—Bethany riding beside him into the mountains, her satiny hair streaming behind her like a sensual flag. Bethany digging with him for arrowheads, her white teeth flashing as she laughed. Bethany poised above him, her tawny skin bathed by moonlight as they made love beneath the stars.
As a teenager, she’d burned him alive. She’d sparked a craving in him he couldn’t resist. And he’d never experienced anything remotely like it since.
Realizing he was already half aroused, he scowled. After the day he’d had, Bethany was the last person he needed to deal with. “What are you doing here?” he said, his voice roughened by fatigue.
Her full mouth flattened. She flicked her head, swinging her long, straight hair over her back. “Brushing my father’s horse.”
Obviously. His frown deepened. She lifted her chin, her eyes sparking fire, a sure indication that he’d ticked her off. Then she hung up the brush on a peg in the stall and pushed past him out the door, her soft scent curling around him like a taunt. “Bethany …”
She spun around. “I’m only here to take care of my father, okay? I’m not going to bother you.”
The hell she wouldn’t. Just seeing her stirred up feelings he didn’t want to deal with, memories he had no desire to relive. His temples suddenly pounding, he crossed his arms. “I was just surprised to see you. I never expected you to come back to Maple Cove, considering how anxious you were to leave.”
“Anxious?” She shot him an incredulous look. “I had no choice. You knew I couldn’t stay here.”
She meant she wouldn’t stay. But no one ever did. His own temper rising, he lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It was none of my business what you did.”
“Yes, you made that clear.” She shook her head, and a weary look replaced the temper in her eyes. “Don’t worry, Cole. I’m only here for the next two weeks. I’ll be sure to stay out of your way.” She turned on her heel and stalked from the barn, her boots rapping the cement floor.
He watched her go, a dull ache battering his skull. Hell. He’d screwed that up royally, putting the perfect cap on an already lousy day.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. And he hadn’t meant to dredge up the past. She’d just caught him off guard. He was exhausted, hungry, worried about his ranch and his sister. He’d needed time to prepare.
But maybe it was for the best if she was mad. He didn’t need more complications in his life—and she’d only leave again. Besides, they weren’t exactly friends, despite the attraction he still felt. They were former classmates, former lovers … former everything. Whatever they’d shared was over, and there was nothing left to say.
Nothing except sorry. He dragged his hand over his face with a sigh. He owed her an apology, all right. No matter what his mood, she hadn’t deserved to have her head chewed off. But he’d deal with that in the morning.
And then he’d stay as far from Bethany—and temptation—as he could.
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