“Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying!” Anna sniffed.

Oh, hell. Being raised with three brothers by his dad, Brandon didn’t have a clue what to do when it came to women. Well, at least not the crying part.

He put a tentative hand on Anna’s shoulder. “It’s going to be all right.”

She shot him a look that told him that was an obvious lie.

“Okay, it’s not going to be all right.” He put his arm all the way around her. “But it could be worse. We could have been shot.”

Still crying but laughing, too, she leaned back to look at him. “You always see the silver lining in every cloud, don’t you?”

Not always, but definitely right now with her in his arms.

He hated how good it felt to hold her. Just his luck that the first woman who made him feel like this was not only wanted by the law, but was also his family’s sworn enemy.

High-Caliber Cowboy
B.J. Daniels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A former award-winning journalist, B.J. had thirty-six short stories published before her first romantic suspense, Odd Man Out, came out in 1995. Her book Premeditated Marriage won Romantic Times Best Intrigue award for 2002 and she received a Career Achievement Award for Romantic Suspense. B.J. lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, three springer spaniels, Zoey, Scout and Spot, and a temperamental tomcat named Jeff. She is a member of Kiss of Death, the Bozeman Writer’s Group and Romance Writers of America. When she isn’t writing, she snowboards in the winters and camps, water-skis and plays tennis in the summers. To contact her, write: P.O. Box 183, Bozeman, MT 59771 or look for her online at www.bjdaniels.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Anna Austin—She came to Montana determined not to let anyone keep her from the truth—including the cowboy she’d dreamed of for years.

Brandon McCall—The cowboy was just trying to escape his legacy—until he met his destiny one dark night.

Emma Ingles—She had the perfect job, except for the occasional cries she heard coming from the locked wing.

Mason VanHorn—For years he’d hidden the truth about the past. Now someone is digging up those painful memories….

Dr. Niles French—He sold his soul years ago. Now he is old and tired of doing Mason VanHorn’s dirty work. But what price will he have to pay to get out from the man’s death grip?

Josh Davidson—He would do anything for his boss the doc…even kill.

Lenore Johnson—The private investigator took on the case knowing it might be dangerous. She just didn’t realize how dangerous.

Dr. Porter Ivers—All he wanted was to comfort his sick wife in her final days. After giving his life to the Antelope Flats Clinic, was a little peace too much to ask?

Dr. Taylor Ivers—An overachiever, she’d followed in her father’s footsteps and became the daughter he’d always dreamed of. Or had she?

Sheriff Cash McCall—He had one too many murders on his hands and everywhere he turned, he found his brother in the thick of it.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter One

Saturday night

Emma Ingles loved the night shift. Tonight, she’d fallen asleep watching an old Western on the little TV in the office, her feet up on the desk, her mouth open.

She was a bulky woman, with bad feet and little ambition, who looked much tougher than she was. But she’d found the perfect job for a woman in her late fifties. Well, almost the perfect job.

She woke in midsnore. Startled, she sat up, her feet hitting the floor with a slap as she looked around. She muted the movie and glanced at the clock. Just a little after 3:00 a.m.

Listening, she was relieved to hear nothing, which was exactly what she should have heard since she was completely alone in the huge old building. At least, she was supposed to be.

Warily, she glanced through the glass-and-mesh window that looked out on the worn linoleum-tile hallway. In the dim light, her gaze wandered down to the chained, locked double doors to the wing that had housed the violent patients, the criminally insane.

Please, not tonight. There were times she swore she heard cries coming from that wing. That’s why she kept the TV cranked up loud enough to drown out any noises, real or imagined. The wing had been empty for twenty years now—and locked up tight. If that’s where the sound had come from no way was she going down there to investigate—even if she’d had a key.

The backdoor buzzer went off, making her jump. That must be what had awakened her. But who would be ringing the buzzer at this hour? Her boss, Realtor Frank Yarrow, was in charge of selling the building and would have called or maybe come to the front door if there were an emergency of some kind.

But she couldn’t even see him driving up here at three in the morning. The former Brookside Mental Institution was at the end of a winding dirt road, the monstrous three-story brick building perched like a vulture on the mountainside, ten miles from town. Isolated, hidden, forgotten. For sale.

Given the history of this place, the only people who came up here, especially at night, were kids. They’d get a six-pack and drive up from Antelope Flats, Montana, or from Sheridan, Wyoming, which was about fifteen miles farther south.

After a few beers, they’d dare each other to prove how brave they were by chucking a few rocks through the windows or painting some stupid graffiti on the worn bricks. They never rang the buzzer. Probably because few people even knew it existed.

Emma realized she hadn’t heard a car, not that she could have over the shoot-’em-up western on TV with the volume turned up.

The buzzer sounded again. Had to be kids. Some punk kids trying to give her a hard time.

Well, she’d set them straight. She hauled herself up from the chair, picked up the heavy-duty flashlight and opened the door to the dark hallway. Scaring kids was another of the perks that came with the job.

There was only one small light on at the end of each corridor to give the place the appearance of not being completely abandoned. She closed her office door, pitching the hallway where she stood into blackness and waited for her eyes to adjust.

Behind her, there was the faint glow of light coming from her office window that looked out into the foyer. But in front of her was nothing but darkness.

She padded down the gloomy hall to where the building made a ninety-degree turn to the left into another corridor that eventually led to the back door. It was an odd-shaped building, with a wing off each side of the entry that jutted straight back, making a U of sorts behind the place where there had once been an old orchard.

The trees were now all dead, the bare limbs a web of twisted dark wood.

Emma made a point of never going around back. The place was scary enough. That’s why she was surprised kids would go around there to ring the buzzer.

Well, they were in for a surprise. She’d give them a good scare. Then she’d go back to sleep.

As she turned the corner and looked down the corridor, she saw that the light at the end had burned out again. But a car with the headlights on was parked outside and she could make out the silhouette of a person through the steel mesh covering the back-door window.

The shape was large. Not a kid. A big man, from the size of him. She felt the first niggling of real fear. What could he want at this hour?

The buzzer sounded again, this time more insistent.

Emma had never been very intuitive, but something told her not to answer the door.

Go back to the office, call the sheriff in Antelope Flats.

She told herself that if the man at the back door had a good reason to be here, he’d have called first. He wouldn’t have just shown up at this hour of the night. And he would have used the front door.

She started to turn back toward her office to make that call when she heard what sounded like the front door opening. She froze, telling herself she must have imagined it. She’d checked to make sure the front door was locked before she went to sleep.

Cool night air rushed around her thick ankles. Someone had come in the front door!

How was that possible? As far as she knew, there were only three keys: one for herself, one for the Realtor and one for the other night watchman, Karl, the man she was filling in for tonight. The Realtor hated to come out here even in daylight. No way would he be here at this hour!

Until that moment, she’d never considered that anyone who used to work here might still have a key since the locks wouldn’t have been changed in the vacant building.

She heard the front door close in a soft whoosh and then footfalls headed down the hall in her direction.

Her fear spiked. She couldn’t get back to the office without running into whoever had just come in.

From the quick pace of the footsteps, the person headed her way would soon turn the corner and see her. Panicked, she ducked into one of the empty rooms and immediately realized her mistake. The room was small, rectangular and windowless, with no place to hide.

She started to close the door. It made a creaking sound. She froze, even more shaken at the thought of what she’d almost done. The doors locked automatically with no way to open them from the inside. So even if she hadn’t left her keys on her desk in the office, she wouldn’t have been able to get out.

She could hear footsteps, close now, and didn’t dare move even if there had been enough room to hide behind the partially closed door.

Flattening herself as best as she could against the wall in the pitch-black room, Emma held her breath and watched the dim corridor, praying whoever it was wouldn’t look this way.

The footfalls hurried past as the buzzer sounded again. She got only a fleeting look at the man. Tall, dressed in a long black coat, a dark fedora covering all of his hair except for a little gray at the side. She had never seen him before.

The buzzer started to sound again but was cut off in midbuzz. She heard a key being inserted in the lock. The back door banged open.

“I thought I told you not to ring the bell,” snapped a voice Emma had heard before. The man had called a few days ago. She remembered because no one ever called while she was on the night shift.

He’d demanded information without even bothering to tell her who was calling. She hadn’t liked his attitude—that sharp edge of authority she’d always resented.

“I’m sorry, who is this?” she’d demanded, and waited until he’d finally snapped “Dr. French.”

He’d asked if anyone was there besides her. She’d told him that was none of his business. Well, did she know what had happened to the patient records? Were they in storage? Or had someone taken them? Could he come up and look for them?

She told him she didn’t know anything about any files and no one was allowed in the building at night, that he should talk to the Realtor.

He’d become angry and hung up, but she hadn’t forgotten his voice. Or the way he’d made her feel. Small.

“You were supposed to wait,” Dr. French snapped at the man at the back door.

“She was starting to wake up and you said not to give her any more of the drug,” the other man answered in a deep gravelly voice Emma didn’t recognize.

“Get her in here,” Dr. French ordered. “Where is the man you said would be here?”

“Karl? Don’t know. Haven’t seen him yet.”

There was a metal clank and then Dr. French said, “You made sure there will be no trace of her?”

“I did just as you said. Got rid of everything. Including her rental car.”

Emma didn’t move, didn’t breathe, but her heart was pounding so hard she feared they would hear it and discover her. They thought Karl was working tonight. Because Karl was supposed to be working tonight. If she hadn’t needed the money when he’d asked her to fill in at the last minute—

“There’s a car parked out front,” Dr. French said. “It must belong to your friend.”

“Guess so, though I thought he drove a truck.”

The back door closed in a whoosh, automatically locking. Emma heard another clank and then footsteps coming down the corridor toward the room where she was hiding. Something squeaked as they moved.

Out of the corner of her eye Emma saw the doctor and a large burly-looking man roll a wheelchair past, one of the tires squeaking on the linoleum. The burly man had a bad case of bed-hair, his mousy brown hair sticking out at all angles.

Emma only glimpsed the woman slumped in the wheelchair with her head lolling to one side. She wore a long coat, slacks and penny loafers. Her chin-length dyed auburn hair hid most of her face. She clearly wasn’t from around this area.

The wheelchair squeaked down the hall to the echo of the men’s footsteps. Emma waited until she heard them turn the corner and start down the hall toward her office before she moved.

Her first instinct was to run down the corridor, out the back door. Except all the doors in the building locked automatically and had to be opened from the inside with a key, a precaution from when patients roamed these halls.

And she’d left her keys on her desk, not needing them to scare away a few kids through the window at the back door.

She would have to hide in the building.

Unless she could get to her keys.

She stole down the corridor, trying not to make a sound. At the corner, she sneaked a look down the hallway toward her office.

The two men had stopped with the wheelchair at the locked section that had once been reserved for the criminally insane.

The chain and lock on the doors rattled. She watched as Dr. French inserted a key. The chain fell away with a clatter that reverberated through the building. Afraid to move, she watched the doctor hold the door open for the wheelchair.

He had a key? Even she didn’t have a key to that area and had been told it was only a long corridor of padded, soundproof rooms best left locked up.

Emma waited until the men disappeared through the doors, the burly one wheeling the woman into the second door on the right. The number on the door read 9B. What was it she’d heard about 9B, something terrible. Oh God. She had to get out of here.

If she moved fast, she could get to her office, get the keys to the front door—and her car. The doctor had seen it parked out front. He knew she was here. She had no choice. But if she could reach her car and get away…

She hadn’t gotten but a few yards when she heard the squeak of the wheelchair; a slightly different sound echoed. They were already coming back!

Panic immobilized her. Down the dim hallway, she saw the burly man back out of the room with the empty wheelchair. She had to move fast. They would be looking for her, wondering where she was, what she’d witnessed. After all, she wasn’t supposed to be working tonight.

But where could she go? Not the patient rooms. If they caught her hiding in the dark in one of them, they’d know she’d heard their conversation.

Where?

She caught sight of the ladies’ room just a few doors up the hall in the same direction as the men. Run! Except she couldn’t run. She couldn’t even walk fast because of her feet and years of inactivity. But she managed a lunging shuffle, her heart thundering in her chest—a clumsy, terrifying run for her life.

As the doctor came out of the room and closed 9B’s door, Emma shoved open the ladies’ room door and stumbled into the windowless blackness. Frantically, she felt her way to one of the four stalls.

Stumbling into the cold metal stall, she closed the door, locked it and, quaking with fear, sat down on the toilet.

All she could hear was the pounding of her pulse in her ears and the echo of panting. She had to quit gasping for breath. They would hear her. The place was old and empty. Every sound echoed through it. If she could hear them, they could hear her. She had to get control, had to think.

She held her breath for a moment and listened. The snick of a lock followed the rattle of the chain on the doors to the closed wing. She let out the breath she’d been holding. It came out as a sob. She clutched her hand over her mouth, breathing fast through her nose.

From where she sat, she could see through the crack along the edge of the stall to the lighter gap under the bathroom door.

The empty wheelchair squeaked down the hall along with the sound of the men’s footfalls. She held her breath as a shadow darkened the gap under the ladies’ room door. They were directly outside. Had they seen her? Did they know she was in here?

“Looks like Karl’s here somewhere,” said the burly one. “We interrupted his dinner.”

Her sandwich! She’d left it half-eaten on her desk when she’d fallen asleep. She’d also left the light on in her office, the TV on, the volume turned low.

“Karl carries a purse?” Dr. French asked in a tone heavy with sarcasm.

Her heart stopped. She’d left her purse on the desk. Her purse!

“Dammit, Davidson, I thought you said Karl was definitely working tonight,” Dr. French snapped.

“He said he was.”

The older man made a disgusted sound.

Emma couldn’t hold her breath much longer. Tears burned her eyes. They knew she was in the building. They would look for her. She had to think of something. Some way out of here.

Closing her eyes tightly, she waited. Over the pounding of her pulse, she heard the squeak of the wheelchair growing fainter and fainter as it moved down the corridor away from her.

She waited until she heard the back door close before she moved. Opening her eyes, she forced herself to leave the stall. A dim light filled the gap under the door. No shadows. She pushed open the door.

They were gone.

She leaned back against the wall, weak with relief.

The hallway was empty.

She heard the sound of the back door opening and closing. A car engine revved, the sound growing dimmer.

Her legs were like water and she feared she might be sick as she shuffled back to her office, trying not to hurry in case anyone was watching her. She didn’t look behind her down the hall. Nor did she glance toward the locked wing where the men had taken the woman.

At her partially closed office door, she braced herself and pushed. The door swung noiselessly open. Her heart lodged in her throat as she looked to her chair.

Dr. French wasn’t sitting in it, as she’d expected he would be.

The office was empty.

The movie was over on the small TV. Her half-eaten sandwich was still on the edge of the desk along with her Big Gulp-size diet cola and her purse.

She began to cry from relief as she hurriedly closed and locked the door behind her. Stumbling to her chair, she dropped into it, her muscles no longer able to hold her up.

She was safe.

They were gone.

She could pretend she’d never seen them.

But could she pretend she didn’t know there was a woman locked in one of the padded, soundproof rooms down the hall? And wouldn’t the men return for her?

Emma reached for the remote and shut off the TV. She should call someone. The sheriff. But then she would have to stay here alone until he arrived.

Not if she called from home. She didn’t live far from here. Just a few miles down the river toward Wyoming.

She picked up her purse and reached for her kitten key chain with the keys to the doors out of here.

The keys were gone.

Panic sent her blood pressure into orbit. She couldn’t get out until she found the keys. She bent, thinking she must have knocked them to the floor.

But as she bent over, the hairs rose on the back of her neck.

In slow motion she lifted her head, then turned by degrees to look behind her through the office window to the hallway.

Dr. French smiled and held up her keys.

Chapter Two

Monday night

Two nights later

Brandon McCall couldn’t keep his eyes open. He’d driven every road on this section of the ranch and, like all the other nights, he hadn’t seen a thing. Not a track in the soft earth. Not a light flickering down in the sagebrush. Not a soul.

Tonight a storm was blowing in. Lightning splintered the horizon and thunder rumbled in the distance as dark clouds washed across the wild landscape, from the Bighorn Mountains over the rolling foothills to the tall cottonwoods of the river bottom.

The first raindrops startled him, hitting the roof of his pickup like hail. He stopped on a hill, turned off the engine and killed the lights.

Taking off his Stetson, he laid it over the steering wheel and stretched his long legs across the bench seat, careful not to get his muddy western boots on the upholstery.

He had a good view of the ranch below him and knew there were a half-dozen other men on watch tonight in other areas, waiting for vandals.

Unfortunately there was too much country, and even Mason VanHorn, as rich as he was, couldn’t afford to hire enough men to patrol his entire ranch.

Something moved in the darkness, making him sit up a little. A stand of pine trees swayed in the stormy darkness. He watched for a moment, then leaned back again. False alarm. But he didn’t take his eyes off the spot.

It looked like another long, boring night since he doubted the vandal was dedicated enough to come out in this weather. This was southeastern Montana, coal country, and coalbed methane gas had turned out to be the accidental by-product of the huge, open-pit coal mining to the south. The thick coal seams were saturated with water, which, when pumped out, produced gas that bubbled up like an opened bottle of cola.

With big money in natural gas, thousands of wells had sprung up almost overnight, causing controversy in the ranching communities. Some landowners had cashed in, opting to have the shallow wells dug on their property. Others, like Brandon’s father, Asa, would die before he’d have one on his ranch.

The real battles had less to do with traditional uses of the land and more to do with environmental concerns, though. By extracting the gas from the water, something had to be done with all the water, which was considered too salty for irrigation but was being dumped into the Tongue River. The drilling was also said to lower the water table, leaving some ranch wells high and dry.

Mason VanHorn had the most gas wells and was the most outspoken in favor of the drilling. Because of that, he’d become the target of protesters on more than one occasion.

And that was how Brandon McCall had gotten a night job on the VanHorn spread. He’d been in the Longhorn Café in Antelope Flats the day the new VanHorn Ranch manager, Red Hudson, had come in looking for men to patrol the ranch at night.

Fortunately for Brandon, Red didn’t seem to know about a long-standing feud between the VanHorns and the McCalls and Brandon hadn’t brought it up. He’d hired on, needing the money. While he worked some on his family ranch at the other end of the river valley, that job didn’t pay like this one.

The irony was that his little sister Dusty thought he had a girlfriend and that’s why he dragged in like a tomcat just before dawn every day.

He wished. No, this was his little secret. And given the generations of bad blood between the McCalls and the VanHorns, Brandon would be out of a job—or worse—once ranch owner Mason VanHorn found out. He hated to think how VanHorn would take it when he found out he had a McCall on his payroll.

Something moved again in a stand of pines below him. The wind and something else.

He sat all the way up.

A slim, dark figure stood motionless at the edge of the pines. He stared so hard he was almost convinced it was a trick of the light from the storm.

The wind whipped at the trees. Rain slanted down, pelting the hood, pouring down the windshield. He turned on the wipers, squinting into the driving rain and darkness.

This had been monotonous boring work—until last night when several of the wells had actually been vandalized. Nothing serious, just a lame protest attempt, and patrols had been stepped up.

Red had made it clear he wanted the vandal caught at all costs. And now it looked as if the vandal was planning to hit one of the wells in Brandon’s section.

The presumed vandal sprinted out from the pines, running fast and low as he wove his way through the tall sage and the rain. He wore all black, even the stocking cap on his head. From this distance, he appeared slightly built, like a teenager. A teenager on a mission, since he had what appeared to be a crowbar in one hand.

The vandal disappeared over a rise.

Brandon slapped a hand on the steering wheel with a curse. If he started the pickup, the vandal would hear it and no doubt take off on him. Brandon needed to catch him in the act.

He had no choice. He was going to have to go after him through the pouring rain and darkness. He’d be lucky if he didn’t break his leg or worse, as dark as it was.

Pulling on his coat, he snugged on his Stetson, quietly opened the pickup door and reached back to pull the shotgun from the gun rack behind the seat. Not that he planned to shoot anyone. Especially if it really did turn out to be some teenager with a cause.

But it was always better to have a weapon and not need it than the other way around.

Rain slashed down, stinging his face as he loped down the hillside, winding his way through the sagebrush until he reached the rise where he’d last seen him. In a crouch, the shotgun in both hands, he topped the rise and squinted through the rain and darkness.

At first, he didn’t see anything. Coalbed methane wells were fairly unobtrusive. Not a bunch of rigging like oil wells. The wellheads were covered with a tan box about the size of a large air-conditioning unit. The boxes dotted the landscape to the north past the ranch complex, but there were none near the house.

He scanned the half-dozen wells he could see. No sign of anyone. Frowning, he wondered if the vandal might have doubled back, having purposely drawn him away from his pickup. Brandon had been so sure the vandal hadn’t seen him where he was parked.

But as Brandon started to look behind him, he caught movement down the hillside toward the ranch house itself and the large stand of pine trees behind it.

The VanHorn Ranch was nothing like Brandon’s family’s Sundown Ranch, which was family-owned and run with a main house and the barns nearby.

The VanHorn Ranch was run by hired help, so the main ranch house sat back a half mile from a cluster of buildings that housed the ranch office, the bunkhouses and the ranch manager’s house.

The rustic main ranch house was long and narrow, tucked back into the hillside and banked in the back by pines. Mason VanHorn lived in the house all alone after, according to local scuttlebutt, his wife had run off and he’d alienated his only two offspring.

The vandal disappeared into the pines at the back of the ranch house, the crowbar glinting in the dim light.

This time of the morning, there were no lights on in the small compound down the road from the ranch house, and few vehicles, since most of the men were out riding the huge ranch’s perimeter.

The ranch house was even more deserted since Mason VanHorn had flown to Gillette, Wyoming, two days ago for a gas convention and would be gone for at least another forty-eight hours.

Red had promised a large bonus to any man who caught the vandals or anyone else trespassing on the VanHorn Ranch before the boss got home.

And now Brandon had one in his sights.

A bank of clouds crushed out the light of the moon. Brandon moved, running fast. Had their vandal gone from wells to an even bigger prize: VanHorn’s house?

Brandon reached the trees and stopped, moving slowly through the darkness of the dense pines to the back of the house. The guy was nowhere in sight, but Brandon heard the snap of rain-soaked curtains in the wind and spotted the open window.

He thought about radioing for backup, but just the sound of the radio might warn the intruder. At the window, he raised the glass higher to accommodate his height of six-four, and climbed into what appeared to be a bathroom, since he found himself standing in a large tub, the wet curtains flapping behind him in the wind.

Standing perfectly still, he listened for any sign of the vandal. The bathroom door was open and he could see light coming from down the hall.

Moving cautiously, he stepped out of the tub to the doorway. Across the hall, he could see what was clearly a little girl’s room. A spoiled little girl’s room, from the frilly canopy bed to the inordinate amount of stuffed animals filling the room. It surprised him, since a little girl hadn’t lived in this house in years.

He ventured out into the hall, hoping Mason VanHorn didn’t come home early and catch him here. He cringed at the thought of the rancher finding a reviled McCall not only in his house, but dripping on his hall rug.

The flickering faint glow of a flashlight spilled from the last open door on the hallway. He froze, listening. It sounded like someone was opening and closing file cabinet drawers.

He crept toward the sound and the flickering light, moving cautiously, the shotgun in his hands.

As he neared the open doorway, he could hear the intruder riffling through papers, opening and closing desk doors. What was he looking for? Wouldn’t a vandal just start tearing up the place? Spray-paint the walls with words of protest instead of going through files?

He stopped as the house fell silent. At the sound of a metallic tick, tick, tick, Brandon stepped into the room¸ the barrel of the shotgun leading the way as he wondered what the vandal had done with the crowbar he’d been carrying. Hopefully he’d left it out in the rain after breaking in through the bathroom window.

The vandal had his back to him, the flashlight beam focused on the dial of a wall safe.

Brandon reached over and hit the light switch. “Freeze!”

The figure froze.

The room was one of those fancy home offices with the massive wooden desk, the expensive leather chair, a nice oak file cabinet and a brushed copper desk lamp with a Tiffany shade. Nice.

The person behind the desk with his back to Brandon was smaller framed than he’d first thought—and from the shape, definitely not a teenager. Nor a man. The hourglass figure was all female and only accentuated by the tight black bodysuit she wore. A long lock of dark hair had escaped the black stocking cap and now hung dripping down her back.

“You caught me,” she said in a silken voice as she turned, one hand holding the flashlight she’d had pointed on the safe, the other empty.

She was in her late twenties to early thirties with wide brown eyes, striking features and the kind of innocence that did something to a man.

“Put down the flashlight. Gently,” he ordered.

She gave him a look as if she thought he was being overly cautious, but did as he asked.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

She blinked. “I was about to open the safe.”

“I can see that. Why are you breaking into Mr. VanHorn’s safe?” he asked impatiently.

Her face was flushed from exertion and wet from the rain, her errant lock of hair soaked. “I wanted to see what was inside?”

“Do you think this is funny?” he demanded reaching for the two-way radio to call this in.

“No,” she said quickly. “I’m just nervous. This is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this.”

His hand stopped shy of the radio. “You’re in a world of trouble.” More than she knew, once he called the ranch manager….

She nodded, a slight tremble of her lips and an edgy flicker of her gaze toward the door giving away her tension. She should have been scared since he was holding a shotgun on her, had caught her red-handed trying to break into his employer’s safe and she had no way out.

“Do you have to hold that gun on me?” she asked, her big brown eyes wide with fear. “I’m not armed. You can search me if you don’t believe me.”

It was a nice offer but he shook his head and swung the barrel of the gun downward away from her. Hell, he could see every curve of her body in that outfit she was wearing. It was time to radio Red Hudson, the ranch manager. His instructions had been quite clear. “No authorities. We handle our own affairs on this ranch.”

Resting the shotgun in the crook of his arm, he stepped deeper into the room and unclipped the two-way radio at his hip.

“Please don’t call anyone,” she pleaded, motioning toward the radio. “I was just out here trying to get a story. I’m a reporter.”

He held the radio but didn’t press the key to talk. “A reporter?” He hadn’t expected that. “Odd way to get a story, by vandalizing and breaking into a man’s property.”

“I didn’t know of any other way since a man like Mason VanHorn, with his kind of power, requires desperate measures,” she said. “He can buy all the cowboys he needs to keep his secrets.” She gave him a look as if to say he was proof of that.

“Mason didn’t buy me.”

“I thought you worked for him,” she said.

“I’m just night security.”

She nodded, but clearly believed he was one of VanHorn’s henchmen.

Brandon swore under his breath, upset that she had the wrong impression of him—and yet reminding himself that this woman was a criminal under the law. He didn’t have to explain himself to her.

He started to raise the radio.

“What does he pay you?” she asked quickly. “I can’t pay you much but—”

“I’m not for hire. Look, if this is your first offense, the judge will probably go easy on you.”

She sounded close to tears when she said, “You know if you turn me over to Mason VanHorn, I will never see the local law, let alone a courtroom.”

He hated that she was right. VanHorn would take care of this in his own way. Brandon didn’t want to think what the rancher would do to this woman.

“I need to sit down,” she said suddenly, and swung her hip up onto the edge of the desk before he had a chance to tell her not to move. “I’m sorry. I can stand if you want.”

She slid off the corner of the desk, a movement as graceful as a dancer’s. A movement designed to distract, to hide her true intention.

He never saw it coming. Never actually saw her grab the brushed-copper desk lamp. Never saw it in the air until he was forced to raise the shotgun to deflect the blow.

The lamp hit the barrel in a loud clash of metals. The bulb broke, showering him in fine glass. He ducked instinctively as the lamp clattered to the floor and he dropped the two-way radio.

He opened his eyes, feeling the broken glass on his cheeks, wanting to brush it off, but resisting the urge.

He darted a look behind the desk. She was gone. Not that he’d really expected her to still be standing there.

He whirled and rushed to the doorway, the shotgun still in his hands. Stopping at the threshold, he looked both ways down the hall in case she was waiting with another weapon.

The hall was empty.

He rushed toward the bathroom. Would she go out the way she’d come in?

The bathroom was dark. The window still open. The wet curtain billowing in with the wind and rain. He lunged toward the dark opening, determined to catch her. She’d been fast, but he was faster.

He’d only taken a step into the room when he was hit from behind. Pain radiated through his head. She must have been hiding in the room across the hall.

It was his last thought as the white tile floor came up at him just before the darkness.

ANNA HATED that she’d had to hit him and hoped it hadn’t been too hard. But he’d given her no choice. She couldn’t let him turn her in. Especially before she got what she’d come for.

Hurriedly, she moved back down the hall. She’d found the combination taped under the center drawer of the desk, having discovered a long time ago that men like Mason VanHorn changed their combinations all the time out of paranoia.

But because of that, they had trouble remembering the new combination, had to hide it someplace so it would be handy.

Back down the hall, she stepped around the broken lamp and glass and went to the safe again. She spotted the two-way radio and kicked it behind the curtain.

Starting over after the earlier surprise interruption, she turned the dial, hoping she’d bought herself enough time to finish what she’d started. She began to dial in the numbers she’d memorized.

She’d known she might get caught in the house tonight. There was always that chance. But she’d never dreamed the man holding the gun on her would be Brandon McCall.

She tried not to think about him lying on the floor in the bathroom. She was angry enough to hit him again. And to think that at one time she’d had fantasies about the kind of cowboy Brandon McCall would grow up to be. Definitely not a cowboy doing Mason VanHorn’s dirty work.

The tumblers thunked into place and after a moment, the safe door swung open. She heard a groan from down the hall in the bathroom and was glad he was alive, but sorry he was coming around already. She hadn’t wanted to kill him, just keep him out of her hair; if she could just finish here and get away without having to hit him again—or him shoot her.

Standing on her tiptoes, she peered into the safe debating whether to take everything or try to go through it here and chance getting caught again.

The question turned out to be moot. She stared into the cold dark cavity. The safe was empty. Not just empty, but dusty inside except for the spot where there’d been something. Unfortunately, that something was gone.

Another groan from down the hallway.

Tears burned her eyes. Mason VanHorn had moved the papers. She was too late.

She turned, blinded by hot tears of anger and frustration, and started out the door. A thought stopped her. She hurried back to his desk. Earlier she’d searched it, the desk drawers and the file cabinets, but hadn’t found what she was looking for.

Now she picked up the phone and hit redial on a hunch. If he’d taken the precaution to clean out the safe, he might have taken other precautions, as well.

After four rings, a voice mail message picked up. “You’ve reached Dr. Niles French. Leave a number and I’ll get back to you.”

Dr. French. She clutched the phone, sick to her stomach. She heard stirring down the hall. Another groan. Move. Get out. Now! Fear paralyzed her. Dr. French.

A groan down the hall.

Hurriedly, she scribbled down the phone number on the display, her hands shaking. If the last call Mason VanHorn had made was to Dr. French, then she knew she was in trouble.

Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. She thought she might pass out if she didn’t get out of this room. Out of this house. She could hear more stirring down the hall in the bathroom. He was coming around.

She couldn’t go out that way. She moved to the window at the far side of the desk, fumbled the lock open and lifted the frame. Kicking out the screen, she shoved a leg out and climbed up, teetering on the windowsill for a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness before she dropped to the ground.

Footsteps in the hall. Hurry! She practically threw herself out the open window, hit the wet slick ground and fell, her leggings instantly muddy and soaked.

Scrambling to her feet, she ran through the pouring rain to the lofty pine trees and the cover they afforded. She streaked across the grassy hillside to the creek bed and the cottonwoods. Following the creek, she ran to where she’d hidden her vehicle earlier. She didn’t look back, afraid she’d see Brandon McCall’s handsome face—and his shotgun pointed at her heart.

She was soaked to the skin and chilled as she climbed behind the wheel, started the engine and peeled out. All she wanted right now was to get back to the motel and climb into a tub of hot water. She didn’t want to think about the empty safe. About the call to Dr. French. She didn’t want to think about what she’d learned tonight about Mason VanHorn. Or Brandon McCall.

Her hands were shaking as she drove as fast as she could toward the highway, needing to put distance between her and the VanHorn Ranch.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. Not about Mason VanHorn. Or about Brandon McCall. But she was. She’d thought she’d seen something promising in Brandon McCall years ago, but it seemed she had been as wrong about him as she was Mason VanHorn.

Slamming her hand down on the steering wheel, she warned herself not to let this get personal. She laughed at the thought. After years of specializing in digging up dirt, she was good at what she did. She’d written the book on detachment when it came to her job—to her life.

But this wasn’t just any investigation. And she could no longer pretend it was. It had suddenly gotten damn personal.

At the two-lane highway, she turned south on the road from Antelope Flats, Montana, to Sheridan, Wyoming. Since her arrival, she’d seen little traffic on this stretch, even in the daytime, except for an occasional coal mine or gas worker, a rancher heading for Sheridan or a fisherman coming up from Wyoming headed for the Tongue River Reservoir. But nobody at this hour of the night.

She watched her rearview mirror expecting to see at least one set of headlights behind her on the rain-slick highway. Instead there was only darkness. At least for the moment. The storm snuffed out all light from the moon or stars, turning the Tongue River to pewter as it followed her over the border into Wyoming.

Her plan had worked, for all the good it had done her. Vandalizing the coalbed methane wells had gotten everyone away from the ranch house. Well, almost everyone.

At least it had gotten her what she wanted—inside the ranch house—inside the safe.

Tears burned her eyes. If Mason VanHorn had cleaned out the safe, did that mean he’d destroyed the evidence? Did that mean she’d never be able to get to the truth?

She rubbed a hand over her wet face and stared past the clacking windshield wipers at the rainy highway. Exhaustion pulled at her. She was wet and tired and cold and discouraged. She’d almost gotten caught tonight, but the fact it had been Brandon McCall made it all the worse.

He hadn’t recognized her, she knew she should be thankful for that. But even that hurt. He hadn’t remembered her. But she’d remembered him. That should have told her everything she needed to know. Obviously he hadn’t been as taken with her as she had been with him all those years ago.

She’d thought about what it would be like to run into him. Just not on the VanHorn Ranch. Not working for the enemy. The long-running feud between the McCalls and the VanHorns aside, she’d expected better of him.

She crossed the river as the highway meandered to Sheridan, Wyoming, fighting her disappointment. Angry with herself for ever thinking he might be different from other men she’d known. Even more angry that, over the years, she’d held him up as the kind of man she would want in her life.

How ridiculous was that? He’d been little more than a boy. She couldn’t know what kind of man he would grow into. But she thought she’d known. Obviously she’d seen something in Brandon McCall that hadn’t existed.

She felt sick. Men just kept letting her down. What did that say about them? Or her?

How she would have loved to drive straight to the airport and fly home. But she couldn’t leave. Hers wasn’t the only life at stake here and this wasn’t the first investigation where she’d run into trouble. She was known for hanging in until she got what she was after.

Even if she could have let Mason VanHorn get away with what she knew he’d done, she had Lenore Johnson to think about. When she’d hired the private investigator, she’d warned Lenore how dangerous this was going to be.

Now Lenore was missing. Presumed dead, if Mason VanHorn or Dr. French found out that she’d been asking questions about them.

If Lenore Johnson had failed, Anna knew she had even less chance of finding out the truth. But she had to try to find Lenore, try to help her if she was still alive. How, though, could she find out the truth with everything—and everyone—against her?

Along with Brandon McCall, every ranch hand at the VanHorn Ranch would be looking for her now, including Mason VanHorn himself once he returned from Gillette.

She glanced in the rearview mirror again. Nothing but rain and darkness behind her. The same in front of her. She hadn’t been followed. But she wasn’t safe. She wouldn’t be safe and she couldn’t help Lenore until she could get the goods on Mason VanHorn. She desperately needed leverage. She’d thought she would find it in his office safe, that he would keep it where he could get to it, that he needed it as desperately as she did.

If she was right, then the evidence was at the house—just not in the safe. She would have to go back. Tomorrow night, once it got dark.

She’d have to get back into that house, even knowing that they’d all be waiting for her. All the ranch hands and hired thugs. Mason VanHorn, if he heard about tonight—and Brandon McCall.

And if she was really unlucky, the man she feared the most, Dr. French.

Chapter Three

Tuesday

Sheriff Cash McCall had just gotten to his office when the phone rang.

“This is Johnson Investigations in Richmond, Virginia,” said a woman with a wonderful Southern accent.

“I’m calling in regard to Lenore Johnson. She is in your area on an investigation and we haven’t received word from her for several days. She had made a prior arrangement to call yesterday afternoon at a set time. She did not call. We have reason to believe she might have met with foul play.”

An investigator all the way from Virginia? “I can’t file a missing person’s report for forty-eight hours on an adult, but I would be happy to take the information,” Cash told her.

“We’d appreciate that. Because of the nature of our business, I’m afraid I can’t give you the details of the investigation. However, I can tell you where she was staying, the make and model of the car she was driving and give you her description.”

“All right.” Had she been a tourist, Cash wouldn’t even have done that much in the first forty-eight hours. Usually people just lost track of time and forgot to call. But since she was an investigator… And since he was a nice guy who had taken this job to help people…

“She was staying at the Shady Rest Motor Inn in Sheridan. The rental car was a dark green Dodge Dakota, license MT 3-178649. Ms. Johnson is forty-six years old, five-foot-seven, auburn hair, chin-length, slim build, brown eyes. She was armed.”

“This investigation,” Cash asked. “She considered it dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s all you can tell me.”

“At this point. If we haven’t heard from her in forty-eight hours, I will be happy to disclose additional information. That will give me time to contact our client.”

“Your client? Who you also can’t divulge at this point,” Cash said.

“That is correct.”

He groaned inwardly. “But you’ll call me if you hear from her.”

“Of course. At once. We greatly appreciate your assistance, Sheriff.” She gave him her number and hung up.

Cash called information in Richmond, Virginia, and asked for Johnson Investigations. Same number as the woman had given him.

He had just hung up when he got the call from the Antelope Flats Clinic. He was surprised—and instantly worried—when he heard Dr. Porter Ivers’s stern voice.

“You might want to come down here,” the elderly doctor said….

BRANDON WAS SITTING UP on the gurney at the Antelope Flats Clinic when his brother came in.

“How’s the head?” Cash asked.

Brandon swore under his breath. Dr. Ivers must have called him after Brandon had come stumbling in, bleeding all over the floor.

“Better.” His head hurt like hell. But nothing like his pride.

“You weren’t in that bar fight out at the Mello Dee, were you?” Cash asked. “I’m looking for the guys who tore up the place last night.”

“Nah.” If he told Cash about last night, he’d have to tell him about the night security job at VanHorn Ranch. He already knew his brother’s response to that.

Nor could Brandon tell him about the vandalisms out there since VanHorn hadn’t reported them. As sheriff, Cash would have to pay Mason VanHorn a visit, demanding to know why he hadn’t been called—and warning VanHorn not to take the law into his own hands.

Once Brandon’s name came up, VanHorn would be beside himself to think he’d had a McCall working for him. Heads would roll. And Brandon—if not shot—would be out of a job. And the VanHorns and McCalls would be at it again.

But Brandon didn’t kid himself. None of that was why he couldn’t tell his brother. This was about salvaging some of his pride and that meant getting the vandal in his sights again. Hell, he’d been so close to her that he’d smelled her perfume, seen the hint of perspiration on her upper lip, knew the exact shade of her honey-brown eyes.

Unfortunately, he’d fallen for her helpless reporter act and had a sore head to prove it.

If he told Cash the truth, he’d never get a chance to catch the woman. And he would catch her. He was counting on seeing her again. His gut told him she hadn’t left town, that even though she’d gotten into the safe, she wasn’t finished with Mason VanHorn. And this time, Brandon would be waiting for her.

“So how’d you get your head bashed in?” Cash asked. He had his sheriff face on, which Brandon knew meant he’d keep at it until he got the truth out of him. Or something close.

“It was stupid,” Brandon said sheepishly, looking down at the floor. He’d perfected this look over the years after getting caught in countless shenanigans. All the McCall boys got into trouble. It was almost a tradition. And as the youngest McCall male, he’d had to sow his share of oats, as well. But at thirty-three, he was taking the longest to straighten up.

He looked at the floor and said, “There was this bull out in a pasture and there was this woman…”

Cash groaned. “You were showing off. This woman have anything to do with why you’ve been staying out all night for days on end?”

“’Fraid so.”

Cash shook his head but smiled. “Our little sister thinks it’s serious.”

It was serious all right. Just not in the way eighteen-year-old Dusty thought. “Yeah, that Dusty’s a real authority on romance,” Brandon quipped.

“Doc says you don’t have a concussion.”

“Just a few stitches,” Brandon said, trying to play it down.

“Twelve is more than a few. What’d you hit?”

“Must have found the only rock in the field when I came off the bull,” Brandon said. “But, hell, big brother, you had more stitches than that when you were young.”

“When I was young? I’m only a few years older than you. And I can still kick your butt.”

Brandon grinned. “Might have to see about that someday.” He quickly changed the subject. “Heard Molly’s back from visiting her mom in Florida.” Molly was the woman his brother had fallen in love with and from what Brandon had seen, Cash was more than serious about her. “Is that weddin’ bells I hear? Bet Shelby’s already bought a mother-of-the-groom dress for the wedding.”

Shelby was their mother, but after not being part of their lives for more than thirty years and suddenly returning, her five now-grown children couldn’t bring themselves to call her mother.

“You tryin’ to change the subject?” Cash asked, eyeing him.

“I don’t want to talk about my love life, okay?” His nonexistent love life, especially.

“Neither do I,” Cash said. “You want me to call J.T. and tell him you won’t be doing any work at the ranch today?”

“That would be great,” Brandon said, sincerely touched. Cash was offering the equivalent of an olive branch. “You know J.T. He’ll think I busted my head open on a rock only to get out of work.”

Cash returned his smile. Their oldest brother, J.T., could be a little intense when it came to the ranch. But J.T. had mellowed some since his recent marriage. A woman was exactly what J.T. had needed.

“With Rourke back, they should be able to manage without you for a few days,” Cash said.

Brandon grinned, seeing that his brother was getting him a few days off to recuperate—and spend time with his lady. “You romantic, you. You’re okay, Cash, no matter what the rest of the family says about you,” he joked.

“I got work to do,” Cash said, and turned to leave.

“Thanks,” Brandon said to his brother’s back. He felt a little guilty about keeping things from Cash. But not guilty enough to confess just yet.

Once he caught the woman from last night, he’d collect his bonus and tell Cash everything. Once VanHorn got wind of everything, the job would be over anyway.

Dr. Ivers came back into the emergency room. He had a frown on his face, as if disgusted with the whole bunch of McCall boys. He’d been stitching up McCall boys from long before Brandon was born. The doc had tried to retire but couldn’t seem to make it stick and was only becoming more cantankerous. Kind of reminded Brandon of his father. But then Asa McCall had always been cantankerous and just plain hard to get along with.

That is until recently, when his wife Shelby returned from the dead. Brandon shook off the thought. He didn’t want to think about what was going on between his parents.

“You’re free to go,” Dr. Ivers said, handing Brandon a prescription for painkillers. He checked the bandage on the back of Brandon’s head, adding, “I don’t want to see you back in here. Don’t you have something better to do that get banged up in the middle of the night?” He shook his head again. “Good thing you McCalls are a hardheaded bunch.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Brandon said, reaching for his cowboy hat. He placed it gingerly on his head, wincing a little.

“You’re going to have a scar,” said a female voice from the doorway.

“Won’t be my first scar,” Brandon said with a grin.

“Hi, Taylor.”

“That’s Dr. Taylor Ivers to you,” the old doc snapped. Taylor was Dr. and Mrs. Porter Ivers’s surprise late-in-life child. She had followed in her father’s footsteps, something that Brandon could see pleased the old doc greatly.

Taylor held out her hand. “Hello, Brandon.” He took it, not surprised by her firm handshake. She was all business. He hadn’t seen her since she was a skinny kid with braces and glasses. She hadn’t changed that much, except she had perfectly straight teeth and must have worn contacts.

She’d been one of those gifted kids who went to a special private school, graduating high school at fifteen, college at eighteen and medical school at twenty-two. Last he’d heard, she’d done her residency at some cutting-edge hospital down south.

“You planning to take over for your dad?” he asked her, joking.

“She has bigger fish to fry,” Dr. Ivers snapped. “She’s not getting stuck here.”

“I’ll be staying for a while,” Taylor said, glancing at her father. “My mother isn’t well.”

“I’m sorry,” he answered quickly.

“I want to be near my parents right now,” Taylor said, and turned to her father, “You have a phone call.”

“I’ll take it in my office.” He looked at Brandon. “I’d tell you to take it easy, but I know it would be a waste of breath.” The old doc turned and left without another word.

As Brandon slid off the gurney and headed for the door, Taylor busied herself putting away the equipment her father had used to patch him up.

Brandon left with only one thing on his mind—the woman who’d wounded his pride. The flesh injury would heal.

ANNA’S ATTEMPTS to find out if Brandon McCall had been taken to the Antelope Flats Clinic had failed miserably.

As an investigative reporter, she knew a few tricks for getting information. But the woman she spoke to at the clinic, a Dr. Taylor Ivers, wasn’t falling for any of them.

Anna hung up, hoping McCall was all right. She’d hit him with a cast-iron cowgirl doorstop. Her disappointment in him aside, she hoped it hadn’t hurt him too badly.

She stepped out onto the deck overlooking the Tongue River Reservoir and rubbed the back of her neck, angry with herself for worrying about him. He worked for Mason VanHorn! That should tell her what kind of man he was. More than likely, he deserved anything she gave him.

The morning breeze whispered in the pines and rippled the water’s green surface below her into a glittering chop. She could see a half-dozen boats along the red cliffs of the lake and wished she were on the water.

Closing her eyes, she breathed in the smell of the lake and almost thought she felt a memory stir her. She and her father fishing in a small boat, just the two of them, on a summer day, the soft slap of the water against the side of the boat, the steady thrum of the motor, the pull of the rod in her hand.

She knew it couldn’t possibly be a memory. She’d never gone fishing with her father. She’d barely known him. At her first boarding school, she’d told everyone that her parents were both dead. In a way, it was true. They were both dead to her.

Going back inside the cabin, she wondered why she hadn’t thought to rent a cabin on the lake in the first place. Staying at a motel, even in Sheridan, Wyoming, even miles from the VanHorn Ranch, had been risky. Here on the lake at this time of year, she could blend in.

In a few hours, when it warmed up, the lake would be alive with the whine of boat motors roaring around, the smell of fires from the campground across the water and wonderful sounds of laughter and voices.

And according to the records she’d uncovered, just down the lake was a piece of recently acquired land that was now part of the VanHorn Ranch. Not exactly lake-front property in the true sense. It was swampy, with lots of trees standing knee-deep in the water with the lake up. The land wasn’t used for anything except the wild horses Mason VanHorn had collected before there were laws preventing it.

This morning, after a sleepless night, she’d come up with a plan. Unfortunately, she could do little until almost dark and she’d never been good at waiting.

She tried her cell phone and still couldn’t get any service in this remote part of the state. Giving up, she picked up the phone in the cabin and dialed the Virginia number.

“Johnson Investigations,” a female voice answered.

“I’m Anna Austin—”

“Ms. Austin, I’m sorry but if you’re calling for Lenore, she still hasn’t called in. As a matter of fact, we have contacted the sheriff in Antelope Flats.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I wanted to give you my permission to reveal the nature of her business here and who she was working for,” Anna said. “I’m worried about her.”

“We’re concerned, as well, but the sheriff said no missing person’s report can be filed for forty-eight hours,” the receptionist said. “He has agreed to keep an eye out for her but can do nothing more at this point.”

Forty-eight hours. “I’m going to do my best to find her in the meantime.” She gave the receptionist the number at the cabin and hung up.

She had hired Lenore Johnson to verify some information she’d received. Lenore had called two days ago to say that at least some of the information was correct. She hadn’t wanted to discuss the case over the phone, adding she had another lead to check out before she flew back. Anna had told her she would be flying out and Lenore had given her the name of the motel where she was staying in Sheridan, Wyoming.

But when Anna reached Sheridan, she’d discovered that Lenore had left the motel without checking out, taking everything with her, and hadn’t been seen since.

Anna’s gaze went to the manila envelope where she’d dropped it beside the phone. The letter inside had been lost in the mail for nine years.

A part of her wished it had stayed lost.

Sitting down, she picked up the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper from inside. The barely legible words had been written in a trembling feeble hand. An elderly woman’s deathbed confession.

At first, Anna had thought the woman must have been senile. None of it could be true.

But she’d been wrong. At least some it was true, or Lenore Johnson wouldn’t be missing.

Carefully, Anna slipped the letter back inside the envelope and, getting up, hid it under the cushion of the chair. She knew she was being paranoid, but it was the only evidence she had. Even if it was worthless in a court of law without proof to back it up, she didn’t want to lose it.

Had the private investigator found the proof? Or had she just asked too many questions?

Anna shivered, hugging herself as she thought of Lenore Johnson. Lenore had known going in just how dangerous this was, and she was trained for this kind of trouble. If she had failed…

Anna knew she was completely out of her league. Not that she would let that stop her. Nothing could stop her. She would find out the truth, because she knew it was still on that ranch. Too many people had been involved in the cover-up. Mason VanHorn couldn’t be sure the others would keep quiet. He would have evidence he could use to ensure they would never talk. He would keep that evidence close to him, so if all else failed, he could get it and destroy it. If it came to that. She didn’t think he felt that threatened yet.

So the evidence had to be in the ranch house. She had to find it and she couldn’t count on him being gone for long. Once he heard about the break-in, he might come back. Or he might just put more guards on the house, assured that he could protect himself and the evidence.

She had to get back into that ranch house. Only this time, she would need a major diversion—something more than vandalizing a few wellheads.

And this time, everyone would be looking for her after Brandon McCall told them what she looked like. At least he didn’t know her name. Nor would she be easy to find.

As she looked across at the marina, she knew she had just raised the stakes and was about to gamble everything. There was no turning back now, no matter who got in the way. Even Brandon McCall.

She would find out the truth. Even if it destroyed them all.

MASON VANHORN PICKED UP the broken lamp in his office and hurled it across the room. It crashed into the wall, dropping with a clatter.

Red Hudson winced but had the good sense not to say a word. The ranch manager had noticed tracks in the mud behind the house, had investigated and called him. Mason had driven home at once, disbelieving that anyone would be stupid enough to break into his house. When he got his hands on the bastard—

“They came in through the window in the bathroom,” Red said behind him. “Had to know you weren’t going to be home.”

“They?” Mason turned to look at him. Red was a big man with a shock of bright red hair, thus the nickname. Mason knew he could count on Red’s loyalty because he had just enough on the man to ensure Red would never turn on him.

But unfortunately, Red had a little something on him, as well, which meant he couldn’t control him like he could the other men. Red could be pushed, but Mason wasn’t sure how far.

“I found two sets of tracks coming and going,” Red said. “One could be a small man. The other large.”

“I thought you hired extra men to make sure the ranch was secure,” he snapped.

Red nodded. “But we were expecting the wells to be hit, not the house.”

“If that’s your excuse—”

“It’s not an excuse,” Red said, an edge to his voice.

Mason opened one of the file cabinets, then slammed it. “You’re saying there are two vandals?”

Red shook his head. “This isn’t the work of a vandal. The house wasn’t torn up. These guys were looking for something.”

Mason didn’t look at him.

“Why do I get the feeling you know what they were looking for?” Red swore. “If I’d known the house might be hit, I would have put some men on it. Whatever was in the safe—”

“It was empty.”

Red shook his head. “So you knew they were coming.”

Mason didn’t have to explain himself to anyone. He’d cleaned out the safe as a precaution. He’d never dreamed anyone would actually break into the house. He wanted to turn his fury on Red, to fire him, to send him packing, but he knew this wasn’t Red’s fault. It was his own.

Moving to the desk, he stared down, suddenly afraid he might have left something incriminating lying around. Living alone, with no one having access to his office, had made him careless, he realized.

“I want guards around the house until further notice,” he ordered. “I want those bastards caught and brought to me.”

Red met his gaze. “You think they’ll come back?” he asked in surprise.

“Just do it and stop questioning me,” Mason snapped.

The ranch manager nodded slowly. “I’ll put my best men on the house. But if you really want to catch them, you need to go back to Gillette. If they have a reason to hit the house again, they won’t be foolish enough to do it with you here.”

Mason couldn’t argue Red’s logic but he had no intention of going anywhere. “I’ll make everyone think I’ve gone back to Gillette, but I intend to be here tonight when they come back.”

“Suit yourself, but it could be dangerous.”

Mason laughed. “Only for the bastards who broke into my house.”

“It would make my job easier if you’d tell me what they’re looking for.”

“What makes you think I want to make your job easier? And get someone to clean up this mess.” Mason turned and stormed out of his office.

Something caught his eye from down the hall. A drop of blood on the carpet. He felt a chill. Was it possible one of the burglars had been hurt breaking in? He knelt down to inspect the spot. It was right in front of his son’s open bedroom door.

He still thought of the room as Holt’s even though his son would never use it again. He’d heard rumors that Holt was in California, Florida, even Alaska. He didn’t care where he was as long as he never had to lay eyes on him again. His own son had stolen from him—shamed him.

He clenched his fist at the memory. He’d built everything for Holt, his only son, the heir who would one day take over the vast empire he’d built. Now Holt was gone and Mason had seen to it that his son would never get a penny.

He closed the bedroom door. He should have cleaned it out the moment he learned of Holt’s betrayal. Should have had everything in it burned.

He moved down the hall, following the droplets of blood and stopped at his daughter’s bedroom door, seeing at once that things weren’t as they should have been.

One of the stuffed animals on the bed had been moved. He knew because that rag doll had been in the same place for the past twenty years—exactly where Chrissy had left it.

That stupid part-time housekeeper he’d hired must have moved it when she cleaned the room. He’d have Red fire her.

He stepped to the bed, picked up the rag doll. Honey. That’s what Chrissy had called it from the day he’d given it to her. He brought the doll to his face, smelled it as if he thought Chrissy’s baby-girl scent would still be in the worn fabric. But of course, it wasn’t.

He put Honey back where she belonged—between the teddy bears—and tried to picture his precious daughter in this room, but it was too heartbreaking.

“Mr. VanHorn?”

He turned from the room, practically fleeing down the hall to where Red stood, giving orders on the phone to whoever was doing the cleanup.

“I found some blood,” Mason said the moment Red got off the phone.

The ranch manager nodded. “There’s some on the bathroom floor and the windowsill, too. One of them must have gotten injured breaking in.”

What had happened here last night? “Who did you have watching the wells behind the ranch house?” Mason asked.

“One of my best men. Brandon McCall.”

Mason couldn’t speak. He started shaking so hard he thought he was having a seizure. Brandon McCall was working security on his ranch? A McCall on VanHorn soil? “Fire him immediately!”

“He’s one of my best men,” Red said, staring at him in stunned surprise.

“He’s a McCall.” It had never dawned on Mason to tell Red never to hire a McCall. But more to the point, what the hell would a McCall be doing working on this ranch? Only one explanation presented itself. “No. Don’t fire him. Bring him to me. Now!”

He stormed back down the hall to the bathroom, stooping to pick up the iron cowgirl doorstop on the floor. As he lifted it, he saw the dried blood. “Get me McCall,” he yelled back at Red, feeling as if he still might have that seizure.

HEAD ACHING, Brandon set out to find the woman vandal. He started in Antelope Flats, cruising down Main Street, keeping his eye out for her. Antelope Flats was a tiny western town in the corner of southeastern Montana. Tiny and isolated, just the way he liked it.

He’d been born here and lived his whole life on the family ranch north of town. This was his stomping grounds and he knew this part of the country better than anyone. If the woman was still around, he’d find her.

Not that he expected to see her walking down the street. She was much too smart for that. But he thought he might see her car. He’d picked up an accent last night that he couldn’t place, but one thing was clear: she wasn’t from around here. That meant she was driving either a car with out-of-state plates or a rental car.

There were a few vehicles in front of his sister-in-law’s Longhorn Café, the only café in town. But he recognized all of them. Most were pickups, since Antelope Flats was born a ranching town. A few of the trucks were from the coal mine down the road, tall antennae with red flags on top so they could be seen in the open-pit mines.

Antelope Flats had only one motel on the edge of town, the Lariat. He drove out there, but wasn’t surprised to see that the parking lot was empty. Anyone who had stayed here last night was already gone.

He found Leticia Arnold in the apartment at the back of the office making what smelled like corncakes.

She saw him and motioned for him to come into the kitchen. “Want some pancakes?”

“No, thanks.” Leticia was his sister Dusty’s best friend. After high school graduation, while Dusty had opted to stay and work the ranch, Leticia had taken over running the motel so her elderly parents could move to Arizona. Leticia had been a late-in-life baby, the Arnolds’ only child.

“I’m looking for a woman,” he said, pulling up a chair as she sat down in front of a tall stack of corn-cakes. Leticia was thin as a stick with a wide toothy smile and all cowgirl.

She grinned up at him. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for you to say that?”

He laughed. He liked Leticia’s sense of humor. “I’m too old for you.”

“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”

He reached over and took a bite of her pancakes.

“Wow, you’re a pretty good cook. Maybe I’ll reconsider,” he joked.

“You wish. You’re right, you’re too old for me,” she said, trying to sound disappointed.

“You probably have some rodeo cowboy you’ve got your sights on anyway,” he said.

She looked surprised. “Did Dusty tell you that?”

He laughed and shook his head. His sister Dusty never told him anything, but he knew that the two friends had been hitting every rodeo within driving distance and he doubted they were going there for the fried bread.

He described the woman he’d seen last night as Leticia ate her pancakes and then got up to cook a few more.

“She didn’t stay here, but there are tons of motels down in Sheridan you could try. What happened to your head?”

“I thought I was smarter than I was.”

She laughed. “I could have told you that and saved you a lot of pain.” She put the last batch of corncakes onto a plate. “So this woman made a lasting impression on you and yet you don’t know where to find her?” She laughed. “A bad-boy McCall chasing a woman? She must really be something.”

If you considered a scar on the back of his head a lasting impression. “Let’s just say I’m looking forward to seeing her again.”

“Then you’re going to need your strength,” she said, sliding the plate of pancakes over to him. “Dusty told me that you had a woman in your life.”

“Did she now,” he said, seeing that Leticia was just dying to call his sister and tell her he’d been by asking about a woman. No way around that. Let Dusty think she was right and that he’d fallen in love. Better than the truth.

SHERIFF CASH MCCALL made a few calls to Sheridan about the private investigator. He’d just hung up when he got a call from the Wyoming Highway Patrol.

“We’ve got a body just over the state line a few feet,” the patrolman said. “Looks like she’s yours since she’s in Montana. Her car’s parked along the road. Appears to have fallen down the embankment. Ended up at the edge of the river in the rocks.”

“Have you called the coroner yet?” Cash asked.

“Raymond’s on his way. He said he would stay at the scene and wait for you. We’ve got a semi overturned in the southbound lane between here and Gillette.”

“Go ahead and respond. I’m on my way. You ID the body?” Cash asked. He hoped it wasn’t a local. This was the part of his job he hated. Before the day was out, he could be banging on a door somewhere in the county to inform a relative that their loved one was dead. He also hoped it wasn’t the missing Lenore Johnson.

“A woman. I’d say about sixty. The car is locked, keys in the ignition. Her purse is inside along with what looks like a half-empty fifth of vodka. I didn’t attempt to open the car—did run the plates, though. The car is registered to an Emma Ingles.”

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