A Cowboy With Something To Hide…

On the rodeo circuit, B. J. Lambert had plenty of chances to forget about his first love. Back in Coffee Creek, it’s impossible. Savannah Moody is as irresistible to B.J. as when they were teens. He’d still do anything for her—except give up the secret he promised to keep.

Sheriff Savannah Moody knows B.J. is hiding something. Not his feelings for her—it’s obvious to both of them that the attraction is as strong as ever. But she simply can’t afford to give in. She has her sister to care for, and the family land, and B.J. might be gone tomorrow. She also has a job to do: to pursue the truth and discover what really happened eighteen years ago when a barn burned and a man died. Even if it costs her dearly….

“Could we find someplace quiet to talk?”

B.J. thought about his trailer. Too small, too intimate. “I could stand some food. Want to go out for a steak?”

She hesitated, and he could see the mistrust in her eyes. Even after all these years, it hurt.

She blamed him for what had happened to Hunter. Always a kid who invited trouble, he’d gone even more wild after the fire. He’d given up on school, found a rougher set of friends and two months later, on his and Savannah’s eighteenth birthday, had stolen money from their mother and run off to his first rodeo.

Since then he’d been traveling from one state to the other, always on the move.

On the surface—and to Savannah—it probably seemed like the two of them lived pretty similar lives. But the heavy drinking and gambling that sucked up most of Hunter’s energy was not B.J.’s scene.

“My truck is parked close.” She pointed to the visitor lot. “How about we talk there?”

Though she worded it as a question, she didn’t wait for him to answer—just started walking as if she expected him to follow.

Dear Reader,

Welcome back to Coffee Creek, Montana, where the Lamberts—a family of ranchers and cowboys—own the largest spread in Bitterroot County, all controlled by matriarch Olive Lambert. Why don’t you start by grabbing a sticky bun and coffee from the Cinnamon Stick Café? Winnie and her new baby still haven’t returned to town, but don’t worry—they soon will. And Jackson Stone will be waiting. Watch for their story in the final installment in this series, coming this October.

In the meantime, you might want to take your coffee out behind the café and enjoy the view of the creek for which the town was named. See that topaz-colored water? That’s why they call it Coffee Creek.

When you’re all done your snack, walk by the Court House, where the Sheriff’s Office is located. I suppose you’ve heard about Savannah Moody, the new sheriff? Her father was an alcoholic and gambler who lost the family’s fortune before passing away from liver disease. Her mother is in the Mountain View Care Home.

Now Savannah’s life is about to become a lot more complicated. Her first love, B. J. Lambert, is back in town. He’s done with the rodeo and ready to settle down. He’s thinking it might be with her. But there’s a little problem called “the past” that must be dealt with first!

Happy Reading,

C.J. Carmichael

www.cjcarmichael.com

Promise from

a Cowboy

C.J. Carmichael

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hard to imagine a more glamorous life than being an accountant, isn’t it? Still, C.J. Carmichael gave up the thrills of income tax forms and double-entry bookkeeping when she sold her first book in 1998. She has now written more than twenty-eight novels for Harlequin and invites you to learn more about her books, see photos of her hiking exploits and enter her surprise contests at www.cjcarmichael.com.

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Contents

Prologue

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

Excerpt

Prologue

Sheriff Savannah Moody drove up to the church and parked right at the front, next to the bridal party’s white sedan. She thought of all the people waiting inside. The white steeple was the visual focal point of Coffee Creek, Montana, but Savannah had rarely been inside.

Her father’s funeral, with the paltry attendance of less than a dozen mourners, the marriage of a close friend and then that friend’s first baby’s christening. That was pretty much it.

And now this.

With long, purposeful strides, she made her way along the sidewalk, up the stairs and to the double doors. Muffled organ music seeped out from the building’s pores—a joyous sound that soon would end.

Delivering tragic news was the hardest part of her job. Today she had to do it to a man who’d been her first love. They’d dated all through high school. She’d been so sure she’d spend the rest of her life with him.

Then he’d done something stupid, involved her brother, and the next thing she knew he’d joined the rodeo circuit, rarely making it home to Coffee Creek in the seventeen years that followed.

But he was home now. She’d seen his truck in town a few times this week. He’d returned to witness the marriage of his youngest brother, Brock.

Savannah swallowed, then took a deep breath and went in.

The organ music swelled, became something she recognized, but couldn’t name. The chatter of the waiting guests was cheerful, but edged with anxiety. Judging by the number of vehicles parked outside, at least a hundred people were waiting inside. But the vestibule was empty, so she continued toward two open doors to her right.

She’d no sooner stepped onto the blue carpet that stretched the length of the aisle, when sudden silence fell over the church. A hundred smiling, curious faces turned to face her.

They were expecting the bride.

Instead, they saw the local sheriff. And in that second expressions changed to worry, shock, concern...and fear.

“I need to talk to someone from the Lambert family.” Savannah thought her voice sounded too loud in the silent church. Sensing movement behind her, she turned to see the bridal party approaching from the rear.

First was the dark-haired bride, Winnie Hays, owner of the Cinnamon Stick Café.

Savannah had never met the redheaded bridesmaid standing a step behind Winnie, but she’d heard that a best friend from New York City had arrived in town a week ago to participate in the festivities. So this was obviously her.

The second bridesmaid was Brock’s blonde sister, Cassidy. She looked so pale, Savannah was worried she was about to faint.

Savannah turned back to the front of the church where the rest of the Lambert family was seated. Olive, matriarch of the largest ranch in the county since her husband’s death many years ago, had never hidden the fact that she looked down on Savannah and her family. Beside her was her eldest son, B.J. His eyes were on her and the penetrating gray gaze suddenly became the only thing she could focus on.

B.J. was the first to stand, so handsome and civilized in his dark gray suit. “Savannah. What happened?”

Olive stood up next, using her son’s arm for support. “Has there been an accident?”

“I’m sorry, Olive. But yes.” She had to push herself to add, “There’s been an a-accident. Jackson’s SUV hit a moose on Big Valley Road, about five miles from town.”

A collective gasp by the congregation was followed by a few seconds of stunned silence.

“Brock?” Winnie asked from behind her, voice trembling.

Savannah turned to face the bride. “I’m so sorry, Winnie. Brock was sitting in the front passenger seat—the impact point with the moose. He didn’t have a chance.”

Savannah knew the pain her words were causing and she hated it. She called on all her strength to keep calm and measured.

And then B.J. was speaking again. “What about Corb? And Jackson?”

Jackson had been taken in by the Lamberts when he was thirteen years old. And Corb was the third Lambert son, the next oldest after B.J.

“Jackson was driving, wearing his seat belt, and the air bag was able to cushion him from the worst of it. He’s badly bruised and shaken, but he’s okay. Corb was in the backseat. He should have been fine, but I’m afraid he wasn’t wearing his seat belt. As we speak he’s being medevaced to Great Falls. I can’t say how bad his injuries are. You’ll have to talk to the doctors about that.”

“Is he conscious?” B.J.’s mother asked, her eyes wide with desperation.

Again Savannah shook her head, wishing there were some way to cushion the blow. “No.”

Overcome, finally, by the shock and the horror, the bride swayed and suddenly everyone was rushing forward to help.

“We need a sweater, or a warm jacket,” the redheaded bridesmaid called out to the crowd.

A second later, a man’s suit jacket was settled over Winnie’s shoulders and Dan Farley, the local vet, was ordering the crowd to step back and give Winnie some space. The large, muscular man then picked up the bride and carried her out for some fresh air.

Savannah switched into crowd-control mode and cleared a path for Farley, the bride and the bridesmaid to exit the church. Then she supervised the orderly evacuation of the rest of the Lambert family.

B.J.’s gaze fell on hers as he passed by. Her stomach clenched at the fear and worry on his face. She almost reached out her arm to him. Then drew it back.

Once, she could have provided him comfort. But those days were over.

Chapter One

Eleven months later

B. J. Lambert was in the loading chute at the Wild Rogue Rodeo in Central Point, Oregon, about to settle all one hundred and sixty pounds of himself on the back of a horse that had been named Bucking Machine.

These were the moments B.J. lived for. As he clamped down on the adrenaline rush of anticipation and fear—and yes, there was fear, only a fool wouldn’t have at least a little—a deep calm washed over him.

Once that chute was opened, it would all be over in eight seconds. He might have the best ride of his life or be disqualified. He could end up injured, or he might stroll out of the arena as nonchalantly as if he’d just taken a walk through a park.

B.J. pulled in as much air as his lungs could hold. He knew the announcer was talking about his accomplishments, perhaps going so far as to call him one of the legends of rodeo.

After eighteen years on the circuit, the buckles and trophies tended to add up.

But B.J. wasn’t listening to any of that. His mind was focused entirely on the present and the animal he was about to ride.

“Give me your best,” he said in a low voice to Bucking Machine. “And I’ll give you mine.”

He gripped the rigging in his left hand and gave the signal he was ready. As the chute opened he settled his full weight on the gelding and the ride began.

Bucking Machine started with a wild leap and B.J. focused on making contact with the heels of his boots, marking him out to prevent disqualification.

Then, with his right hand high in the air, he matched his wits, strength and balance with those of the horse. He wasn’t so much thinking at this point as simply doing what came naturally.

The more wicked turns and kicks the horse threw at him, the happier B.J. was. Only 50 percent of his grade was based on his skills—the rest was up to the gelding.

Give me all you’ve got. I can take it.

And he did. But when the eight-second horn sounded, he lost no time in getting off. He jumped, managing to land on his feet in the dirt-packed arena.

From the volume of the crowd’s cheering, he could tell he’d had a good round. He waved his hat, specifically looking for his sister, Cassidy, and her fiancé, Dan Farley, who were also participating in the rodeo. Next he looked for his mother, sitting rigidly in the stands.

Olive did not approve of the rodeo and he didn’t kid himself that she was here to watch him perform. No, she’d driven all this way to cheer on Cassidy and Farley, whose recent engagement had pleased her so much she was willing to put aside her usual distaste for the sport.

The engagement was good news for a family that had had a hell of a rough ride this year. After Brock’s death, it had seemed nothing would ever be right again. The loss always hit B.J. hardest at night—he hadn’t had a straight eight hours of sleep in a long time.

But he was grateful that Corb had recovered from his injuries. He’d even fallen in love and married Laurel Sheridan, Winnie’s red-haired friend from New York City. Now they had a little daughter—life continued.

Winnie, however, still hadn’t returned to Coffee Creek since Brock’s funeral. She was convalescing at her parents’ farm in the Highwood area. The family had been shocked to learn that she’d been two months pregnant at the time of the accident. Now she had a little boy and B.J. wondered when he would meet him.

He’d called Winnie a few times since Brock’s death. Their conversations were always short, since neither of them knew quite what to say. They always ended the same way, with Winnie promising to return with her son to Coffee Creek one day soon.

But in the meantime, her staff and Laurel were running the Cinnamon Stick Café.

As for Jackson, nothing anyone said seemed able to lessen the guilt he felt for being the driver that day. B.J. felt bad for his foster brother and hoped that eventually time would heal his pain.

B.J. himself was no stranger to guilt. He knew that with Brock gone, it was up to him, the eldest son, to step in and help. But the rodeo had become more than a job to him over the years. It was an adrenaline addiction that kept him from thinking of a certain woman he should have forgotten a long time ago.

He gave his head a shake and reminded himself to focus. Lately his thoughts had been scattering far too easily.

“...and we have an eighty-nine for Mr. B. J. Lambert today, ladies and gentlemen. That pretty much guarantees him top standing for the Wild Rogue this year. Give it up, folks, for a gentleman who has dedicated many good years to this sport we all love...”

Tommy, one of the pick-up men, clapped his shoulder. “Well done.” A couple other competitors offered their congratulations, too, stopping him to shake his hand and make admiring comments about his ride.

Once upon a time B.J. would have enjoyed all of this. Winning was the point, right?

But today he felt flat. That moment in the chute with Bucking Machine had meant more to him than any of this.

And later, when he was called to the stage and given his check and trophy, it was all he could do to muster a smile and wave at the spectators.

His sister came running and threw out her arms for a big hug. “Way to go, B.J. We’re all so proud of you.”

Her fiancé, a man who had been his friend since they were mutton-busting age, gave him a firm handshake. “Impressive. Hell, you were the man to beat, but no one even came close.”

B.J. shrugged. “It’s what I do. You novices, though, you really kicked butt. You’re the ones who deserve the big congratulations.”

Cassidy flushed. She’d come in third in barrel racing after a six-year hiatus from the sport, while Farley, a full-time vet who competed only occasionally in the rodeo, had managed to take first place in steer wrestling. B.J. could tell he was still on a high from his great performance. B.J. remembered well the days when winning had made him feel that way, too.

Hard to say when the thrill had started to fade. Maybe when he’d noticed the other cowboys sharing their victories with girlfriends, wives and children, while he always stood on the podium alone?

“We were all pretty awesome,” Cassidy said, linking one arm around Farley, the other around her brother. His sister looked happier than he’d seen her in some time, and he was glad for her. She’d recently decided to leave behind her planned business career to work as a horse trainer and teacher with Straws Monahan. Her recent engagement to Farley was also a big reason for the glow in her smile.

“You two make a great couple,” he said.

And that’s when his mother joined the group. She was decked out in a stylish skirt and trimmed Western shirt, looking spry and fit for a woman in her sixties.

“You did well, Robert James.” The words were right, but the tone held the note of contained disapproval that he was used to hearing from his mother.

“Thanks, Mom. I’m glad you could be here.”

She nodded, then turned to her daughter. “I’m tired. Think I’ll head back to the hotel.”

“Oh.” Cassidy’s face fell. “Would you like us to come with you?”

“No. You go ahead and celebrate.” She sighed. It was the drinking and partying that accompanied rodeo that she most disapproved of. “I suppose you’ve earned the right to a little fun.”

“We’ll have fun,” Cassidy agreed. “But you know we won’t overdo the drinking. We never do.”

B.J. wondered if his sister thought she was speaking for him, too, when she said that. If so, she wasn’t being entirely honest.

“Ready to head over to the Rogue Saloon?” Cassidy asked him, once their mother had departed.

“I’ll meet you there. I promised an interview to a reporter from the Mail Tribune.” His sister didn’t look too disappointed, and neither did Farley. He was definitely the third wheel tonight. Maybe he’d just skip the party. He wasn’t much in the mood, anyway.

It turned out there were a couple of reporters waiting to interview him, and he answered their questions politely, giving the stock answers that he had memorized years ago.

He’d thought he was finished, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“B.J.?”

The nerves that ran along his spine tingled at the sound of her voice.

He turned slowly, taking the time for a good long look before he answered. Savannah—the local sheriff back home—wasn’t in uniform tonight. She was wearing her thick, dark hair long, and in her jeans, brown boots and black-and-gray shirt, she could have been just another pretty rodeo fan.

She had on silver hoop earrings and a silver star that hung from her neck by a black ribbon. But what really drew his gaze were her eyes, dark and wary.

“How are you, Savannah?” He almost couldn’t believe it was really her. For eighteen years she’d barely spoken to him—except when official duty required her to, like the day his brother Brock had died.

She shrugged, as if to say it didn’t matter how she was.

“Something’s happened,” she said.

His heart contracted painfully. “Not another accident.”

“No.” She held out her hand in a reassuring gesture. “No. Nothing like that. It’s about the fire.”

He understood immediately that she was referring to the awful night that had changed everything between them. She’d been home babysitting her little sister while he went out partying with their friends and her twin brother, Hunter.

Right from the beginning things had gone wrong. First the location. Hunter had been keen for their group to ride ATVs out to an abandoned barn on Olive’s estranged sister’s property. B.J. hadn’t felt right about it, but he’d gone along.

Then a big electrical storm had struck, spooking the girls and sending them running. Only Brock and Hunter had stayed behind to witness the barn catching fire. Not until later did they discover that a vagrant had been passed out in the loft. Rain had put out the fire before the barn burned down, but smoke inhalation killed the vagrant.

B.J. had been the one to insist on calling the authorities. He’d also done what he thought was the noble thing—taking the blame for inviting his friends out to his aunt’s barn. He’d wanted to protect his girlfriend’s brother, not ever considering that Savannah would blame him for getting Hunter in trouble.

“Isn’t that ancient history?”

“I wish.” She exhaled her annoyance. “I had a visit from a private investigator from L.A.” She frowned as a young man carrying two beers in his hands jostled her shoulder. “Could we find someplace quiet to talk?”

He thought about his trailer. Too small, too intimate. The saloon where Cassidy and Farley were headed would be noisy. “I could stand some food. Want to go out for a steak?”

She hesitated, and he could see the mistrust in her eyes. Even after all these years, it hurt.

She blamed him for what had happened to her brother. Always a kid who invited trouble, Hunter had grown even wilder after the fire. He’d given up on school, found a rougher set of friends, and two months later, on his and Savannah’s eighteenth birthday, had stolen money from their mother and run off to his first rodeo.

Since then he’d been traveling from one state to the other, always on the move.

On the surface—and to Savannah—it probably seemed as if he and Hunter lived pretty similar lives. But the heavy drinking and gambling that sucked up most of Hunter’s energy was not B.J.’s scene.

“My truck is parked close.” She pointed to the visitor lot. “How about we talk there?”

Though she worded it as a question, she didn’t wait for him to answer—just started walking as if she expected him to follow.

B.J. stood his ground. Following wasn’t something he did a lot of. But this was Savannah and he had to hear what was on her mind. With a sigh, he set off after her.

* * *

SAVANNAH COULD FEEL her phone vibrating as she moved away from B. J. Lambert. Good. She needed a distraction.

As soon as she’d started talking to him, she’d realized approaching B.J. was a mistake. She’d thought enough years had passed that he would be almost like a stranger to her now. But strangers—not even the best-looking ones—didn’t make her palms sweat.

She was a sheriff, damn it. She was supposed to be tough.

She’d come to the rodeo in the first place hoping to see her brother. But though he was registered, Hunter hadn’t shown up.

A typical Hunter move. And since he refused to own a cell phone, she had no easy way to locate him.

Talking to B.J. had been the logical next step. Until she’d looked into those knowing gray eyes of his and had felt all her insides come undone.

As she reached for her phone, she hoped B.J. would get stubborn and refuse to cooperate. But she could hear the sound of his boots scuffing along the hard-packed dirt behind her.

She’d started something now. The Lord only knew where it would end.

Savannah glanced at her phone’s display, hoping the call would be official business requiring her to leave Central Point, Oregon, right this minute. But the number was from the Mountain View Care Home back in Coffee Creek.

“Savannah Moody.”

“I can’t find my slippers.”

She tried not to sigh. The staff at the care home had been instructed to restrict her mother’s calls. But Francine Moody could be ingenious, and no one appreciated that better than Savannah.

Over the years her mother’s calls had become increasingly frequent and ever more muddled. Francine had never had the strongest hold on reality. Now it was mostly beyond her grasp.

“Mom, hang up the phone and ask Aubrey to help you find them.”

“Who’s Aubrey?”

“She feeds you dinner every evening, remember? The nice woman with the smile you say reminds you of Goldie Hawn?”

Actually, aside from her dyed blond hair and winning smile, Aubrey looked nothing like the winsome movie star. But the association seemed to help her mom’s failing memory.

“Oh, yes, Goldie Hawn. Do you remember when she—”

“Mom, I’ve got to go now, okay?” If she let her ramble on, her mother would spend the next thirty minutes rehashing the plot of some old movie. “I’ll be home again in a few days and I’ll visit you then.” She closed her phone, hoping B.J. hadn’t heard any of that. His pity about her down-and-out family was the last thing she needed.

A few steps away from her truck, Savannah pulled out her keys and clicked the unlock button. She’d just slid behind the steering wheel, when B.J. plopped himself right next to her.

She stared straight ahead, trying to adjust to his presence. But even without looking she could sense his long, muscular form beside her.

B.J. was too tall to be a cowboy, but that hadn’t stopped him from being a success at it. He had a high forehead and a strong jaw and chin, and intense gray eyes that hinted at green when the light was right.

From the first time she’d met him—at age fifteen when she’d walked into class as the new kid in town—she’d thought he was the best-looking guy she’d ever seen.

She still thought that.

Reluctantly.

Asking him to come to her truck had been a mistake. She’d thought a restaurant would be too intimate. But her cab had never felt so small, and if there’d been a table between them, at least she wouldn’t have had to sit so close that their shoulders practically touched.

The table also would have hidden the long line of his jean-clad thigh. And surely, in a restaurant, she wouldn’t have been able to hear the sound of him breathing.

“This is real cozy, but an open window would be nice.”

Quickly she inserted the key, then powered down both windows. “Sorry. This is awkward.”

“It doesn’t have to be, Savannah.”

Was he serious? She had to check his expression to be sure, but he didn’t seem to be mocking her.

“I heard your mom was in the care home in town now. How is she adjusting?”

So he had heard the call. Damn.

“Pretty good. Half the time she doesn’t really understand where she is, anyway.”

“That’s got to be tough.”

Savannah shrugged. Life with her mother had always been tough. Francine had been a flighty parent and an erratic housekeeper. But only recently had she crossed the line and become careless to the point of causing harm. Two years ago she’d flooded the main floor bathroom of their home on a twenty-acre plot of land just outside of town. The next month she’d almost set the house on fire.

“Do the doctors think she has Alzheimer’s?”

“No. She remembers some things just fine. She can tell you the exact year she planted each of the perennials in the garden at home. She’s just got...really bad judgment when it comes to everyday decisions. Her doctor insisted that she needed round-the-clock care, and since I can hardly afford that, there was no option but to send her away.”

Savannah did her best not to sound bitter. But it wasn’t easy, knowing that if Olive Lambert ever got really sick, her kids would have no trouble affording top-notch medical care.

At one time the discrepancy between the Lamberts and the Moodys hadn’t bothered her at all.

But that was before her brother’s future had been compromised by a prank that had turned into a full-blown disaster. On the surface it didn’t seem that bad. A bunch of foolish high school kids trespassing in an old barn and having an underage drinking party.

It wasn’t their fault the storm had blown in. Or that lightning had struck, setting the barn on fire.

But the presence of that vagrant in the loft troubled Savannah. It seemed too much of a coincidence. There had to be more to the story than either B.J. or her brother was letting on.

“What about Regan?” B.J. asked, continuing his polite inquiries about her family. “I heard she graduated from the University of Montana this year, same as my sister, Cassidy.”

Savannah couldn’t help but perk up at the mention of her ten-year-younger sister. “She sure did. She’s applied to medical school, too.” Every day Savannah checked the mail with a hope that bordered on desperation. She so much wanted her baby sister to have the success and respect that she deserved.

Unlike their brother, Regan had always been easy to manage. She excelled at school, never broke the rules that her sister set for her and was helpful at home, doing most of the cooking—a job Savannah disliked.

“She’ll make a great doctor,” B.J. said. “Remember how she was always trying to patch up those dolls of hers?”

Savannah started to smile as she recalled the makeshift beds with their bandaged dolls that Regan would line up on the porch railing when she played “hospital.” But the memories, although happy, only reminded her of the special role B.J. had once played in her life.

He’d been around a lot in those days. Regan had almost considered him a second brother. While she...well, she had considered him something a lot more intimate than that.

She rubbed her temple. Last thing she wanted was to rehash the night everything had changed. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a choice. “Like I was saying, I had a visit from a private investigator from Los Angeles last week.”

“Yeah?” B.J. sounded cautious.

“The investigator—her name is June Savage—was hired by a wealthy man named Morgan McBride eighteen years ago to find his runaway teenage son, Travis.”

B.J. twisted, spreading out his left arm along the back of the seat. She had his full attention now. “So we’re talking about our last year of high school?”

He’d done the math and come up with the right answer.

“Yes. Savage never did find the kid—well, not exactly a kid, he was nineteen years old when he went missing. But a few weeks ago a watch came up for sale on eBay. The watch was a McBride heirloom that hadn’t been seen since Travis ran away.”

“This is sounding complicated.”

She agreed. “Savage went to talk to the man who was selling the watch. Turns out he’d bought it at a pawn shop in Lewistown. Want to guess the year?”

“Our graduation year?”

“Right on the first try.”

B.J. frowned. “Are you saying this kid was the man who died in the fire?”

“Might be.”

“I’ve always wondered who he was.” B.J.’s voice sounded raw.

Savannah nodded. So had she. “Finding that watch caused June Savage to reopen her investigation. Previously she’d been concentrating her search in Mexico, since there had been signs pointing in that direction. This was the first time they considered Montana.”

“Montana is one thing. How did Savage narrow it down to Coffee Creek?”

“She was thorough. A search of death records for the year in question turned up the John Doe who died in that fire on Silver Creek Ranch. When she discovered that the body was roughly the same age and size as the missing McBride kid, she drove down to check it out.”

“Hell.”

“Yes. You realize, of course, that your aunt’s barn is less than an hour’s drive from Lewistown—where the watch was pawned. Here’s where it gets really interesting.” She paused a second. “The watch was sold to the pawn shop the day after the boy died.”

“How is that possible?”

“It must have been stolen. But less than twenty-four hours had passed between the time he ran away from his home in California and his death in the loft of that barn.” Which left a really short window of time when the watch could have been stolen.

B.J. swore softly. “Do you think they’ll exhume the body?”

“Shouldn’t need to. They ought to have dental records and a DNA sample on file. I’ve put through some paperwork to see if we’ve got a match. If we do, I’m guessing a state investigator will be appointed to reopen the investigation.”

“I see.”

Savannah studied his eyes, looking for more than he’d given her so far. But B.J. didn’t say anything further. Finally she’d had it.

“Damn it, B.J. Don’t you think it’s time you told me what really happened that night?”

Chapter Two

“Why?” B.J. felt sick and angry all at the same time. He’d thought about that vagrant a lot in the passing years. Who was he? What had he been doing in a barn that was so far off the beaten track, most people in Coffee Creek didn’t even know it existed?

He’d assumed the guy must be homeless. And that he had no family. It seemed logical, since no one had ever come looking for him.

But if he turned out to be this Travis McBride, then he had been someone’s son. And he’d been missed.

The pain the McBrides must have gone through just didn’t bear thinking about.

And now Savannah was on his case. “You never asked me what happened before. Never wanted to hear my side.”

She looked shocked. “That isn’t true.”

“It is.”

She shook her head. “I had to come to the sheriff’s office to pick up Hunter. I heard the reports you gave to Sheriff Smith. Your parents were there, too. We got the whole story from both you and Hunter.”

Yeah. She’d heard the “official” stories. But she’d never asked him privately about what had happened. He’d expected Savannah, of all people, would understand that he would do what he could to protect her brother. He’d done it for her, because he loved her and knew how much she worried about Hunter.

But that had been a long time ago. They were different people now.

“Right. And what makes you think I have anything to add, eighteen years after the fact?”

Savannah’s gaze faltered. She glanced down at her hands, which were clenched in fists on her lap, then back at him. “It was just a hunch.”

He shrugged. “I hear you’re a good sheriff. You should be proud of that. But you and me—we really don’t have anything to talk about. If you want to rehash what happened that night, maybe you should track down your brother.”

* * *

SAVANNAH WATCHED AS B.J. got out of her truck and started walking away. She felt empty inside, drained and tired. It had taken a lot of emotional energy to talk to him again after so many years.

He’d been so closed to her. And mad. She hadn’t expected the anger.

She glanced at her reflection in the side mirror. She looked rough. It had been a long week. Some vacation. She’d booked the time off to drive out to Oregon in the hopes of meeting up with her brother.

Besides questioning him about the fire, she’d hoped to reassure herself that he’d cut down on his drinking and was putting aside a portion of his winnings the way she’d advised him to do the last time she’d seen him.

Which had been about six months ago now.

The fact that he hadn’t shown up as expected should not have surprised and disappointed her.

Yet it had.

She knew most everyone in the world had given up on her brother. But she couldn’t. Maybe it was because they were twins and shared a special bond? But no—she and Hunter had never been especially close. How could they be when she’d always felt more like his mother than his sister?

She shifted in her seat, and now, instead of her own reflection in the mirror, she could see B.J. He had turned around to look at her. For a second their eyes met. Then he shook his head and resumed walking away.

She’d known he was registered at the Wild Rogue, too, when she’d made her plans. Maybe all along it had been him she’d wanted to see...?

“Could I really be that stupid?” She jerked the truck into gear and started to drive. It was a long way back to Coffee Creek and she had only two days of vacation left.

* * *

B.J. DIDN’T GO for the steak dinner he’d been craving. Instead, he sat in his truck and thought. He had a lot on his mind.

His brother Brock, how much he missed him and what a loss his death had been for the family ranch.

The dead guy in the loft—if Savannah was right, he now had a name and a family that was mourning his death, the way all of them were mourning Brock.

And Savannah.

She’d made him angry tonight, but their conversation had also woken up a longing deep inside him. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He didn’t understand why, after so many years, she could still make him feel this way.

Another half hour went by before he realized what he needed to do. He hitched his trailer to his truck then wheeled up to a drive-through, where he ordered a burger, fries and a large coffee. While he waited for the food, he left a message for his mother and his sister, letting them know that he’d decided to head back to Coffee Creek.

They’d be surprised, to say the least. He was booked for two more rodeos this month and Coffee Creek was definitely not part of the plan.

But his plan had just changed.

He was going home.

It was time.

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER, Savannah pulled into the acreage where she and her family had lived since they’d first moved to Coffee Creek when she was fifteen. It was a run-down, twenty-acre parcel of land with several rusty cars that her father had planned to fix up and sell, as well as an old log home in desperate need of staining and a new roof.

Once, there’d been piles of trash everywhere, too, but over the years she’d carted most of it away, either for recycling or to the dump.

She hadn’t had time to do any landscaping, though, and no money, either. For the past few years her paychecks had been divided between the monthly fees for the care home and her sister’s college. Thank goodness Regan had qualified for almost a full scholarship or the ends of her paychecks never would have met.

When people asked Savannah about the stress of being a sheriff, she never told them the truth. Her family caused her a hell of a lot more anxiety than her job.

For as long as she could remember, it had been this way.

She parked her SUV and went inside, trying not to notice the cracked lino in the kitchen and the dull walls. A coat of paint would make all the difference.

Maybe that was how she should have spent her week off work. At least then she’d have had something to show for her efforts.

A picture on the fridge showed her mother and father during happier times—Regan was sentimental and liked keeping such things. That was back before children had been on the scene and her father had been gainfully employed at his father’s oil and gas company in Dallas.

Drinking and gambling—once only occasional dalliances—had become a way of life for her dad after her grandfather died. He’d quit his oil and gas job, sure he could live off his inheritance for the rest of his life. But by the time they moved to Coffee Creek he’d squandered almost all of his investments. He’d had just enough left to buy this small acreage outside town. The idea had been to open a bed-and-breakfast.

What a laugh.

The endeavor had never gone beyond a few scribbles on a notepad.

While her mother didn’t drink or gamble, she had her own way of coping with her husband’s foibles and that was by withdrawing into her own little world—a pretty garden and her late-night movies were all Francine Moody ever seemed to care about.

Then when Savannah was sixteen her father passed away from a diseased liver. She’d already been providing most of the care for her brother and sister. But at that point she started taking care of her mother, too.

Savannah popped a frozen pasta entrée into the microwave, then gobbled it down between sips of water. She knew she should head to town and visit her mother.

But she was feeling a pull to a different place, and since there were still several hours left to the long June day, she decided to give in to it.

Rather than get back in her truck, she decided to ride the Harley that Hunter had almost finished fixing up the last time he was home.

She’d taken it to the shop to get it road-worthy, and then bought herself a leather coat and helmet. She’d always wanted a horse—something most of her neighbors took for granted—but horses were expensive to keep and the motorcycle was a close second. She enjoyed taking it out for a spin now and then.

Thirty-five minutes later, she turned the bike off the road onto a dirt boundary access lane that divided Maddie Turner’s Silver Creek Ranch from Olive Lambert’s Coffee Creek property.

The two sisters had long been estranged—for reasons even B.J. had claimed not to understand.

For about a mile Savannah drove on a track that was almost overgrown until she came to the creek that divided the Lamberts’ property from the Turners’.

The barn sat on the Turner side of the boundary, in the middle of nowhere. Once used for branding, it was now listing to one side. Most of the wood was charred from the fire, but the rain from the storm that night had saved it from being completely destroyed.

She nudged her boot under the kickstand, then left her bike parked beside an old ponderosa pine. Wading through grass that was almost waist-high in places, she heard rustling from the willows growing close to the creek.

And then she heard the distinctive sound of a horse snorting. She moved closer to the trees, to make sure.

And there he was—a handsome black gelding, all tacked up for riding and tethered to a tree near the water. “Hey, gorgeous. Where’s your owner?”

She scanned one side of the creek then the other, before turning to inspect the barn. Just then a cowboy dressed in faded jeans and a blue shirt stepped out into the sunlight.

“Well, Sheriff. Two times in one week makes for some kind of record, doesn’t it?”

She felt her heart give a leap. What the hell was B. J. Lambert doing back in Coffee Creek?

Chapter Three

B.J. had been a rodeo cowboy for almost as many years as he’d spent growing up in Coffee Creek. He’d met a lot of women in those eighteen years. None of them had ever meant to him what Savannah Moody had.

Was it because she’d been his first girl? He’d fallen for her the moment she stepped into the classroom, already beautiful at age fifteen in an unstudied, slightly exotic way that made her stand out from the crowd. Lots of the girls in Coffee Creek were blondes or toffee-colored brunettes, while Savannah’s hair was thick, wild and nearly black.

Her eyes, smoky and dark, had a mysterious, watchful quality, and her smooth olive skin and generous, full lips sent a sultry invitation that belied her cautious nature.

Her brother had similar coloring, was also tall and naturally thin, but beyond that, the resemblance ended. Hunter had been cocky, belligerent, on the lookout for trouble. In contrast, Savannah was almost always serious, never one to break a rule or stretch a boundary.

B.J. and Savannah had dated for more than two years, and in all that time she’d never let him do more than hold her hand or kiss her modestly. At parties she’d avoided drinking and smoking, which meant she’d always been the designated driver.

Her high standards had carried over into everything she did—whether it was studying or working at a part-time job, or looking after her baby sister. His friends had teased her at first, but Savannah had remained steadfast and eventually she was accepted and even respected.

He’d wanted to marry her.

And now, looking at her as a grown woman, all those old feelings were surging again.

He’d heard her motorcycle approaching and had been watching her for a while. She looked great in a fitted leather jacket and dark jeans that hugged her long, lean physique. She was almost as tall as he was.

As she walked toward him she pulled off her motorcycle helmet and her thick hair cascaded down her shoulders. He swallowed, fighting an urge to reach out and touch.

“Find anything in there?”

He caught a whiff of a fresh orange-blossom scent as she walked past him on her way to the barn. The big doors had long since fallen to the ground, leaving a gaping opening into the building. The walls sagged to the east, so much so that he felt as if one shove would topple the entire structure.

But it was sturdier than it appeared. It had to have been to have survived this long.

“Funny thing, having a barn in the middle of nowhere.”

She’d never been here before today. And until today, he had felt no wish to revisit the place where a man had died. “It was used for branding in the spring,” he explained. “Back in the days when the Turners were big into cattle, before my grandfather died.”

“When was that?” Savannah asked.

“He had a massive stroke the year before I was born. A day later, he was gone. According to his will, the land was divided between his two daughters. Mom inherited a parcel of good grazing fields that butted up to my dad’s property. Maddie Turner was left with the rest, including the house, barn and all the outbuildings.”

“Is that when the feud between them started?”

“Their relationship was already rough. But it did get worse then. Mom told Corb that Aunt Maddie didn’t let her visit their dad after he had his stroke. Twenty-four hours later he died without her having had a chance to say goodbye.”

“That’s awful.”

“Yeah. If it’s true.” B.J. knew he was supposed to be on his mother’s side, but he couldn’t help feeling skeptical.

“After her father’s death, didn’t Maddie keep raising cattle?”

“She tried. But she soon had to scale down operations. Apparently Maddie doesn’t have my mother’s head for business and she made one bad decision after another. From what I hear, she only has about fifty head now, as well as a few dogs and some chickens.”

“So this barn hasn’t been used in a long time.”

“No.”

Savannah pulled a flashlight out of the breast pocket of her jacket. “Strange she never had it torn down.”

B.J. hung back near the entrance. He’d been wishing he had brought his own flashlight and admired her foresight. She traced the beam along the building’s foundation until she came to a corner where the boards were almost entirely black: the obvious starting point of the fire.

“I guess Maddie’s had bigger problems to worry about than a falling-down barn in the middle of nowhere. But if you hadn’t shown up when you did, I might have rectified her oversight.” He pulled a pack of matches out of his pocket.

Savannah’s light flashed a line across the ground, ending up at his boots, then his face. “No way. You wouldn’t have.”

But he could tell she wasn’t sure. Fact was, neither was he. Burning down this building once and for all would have solved a lot of problems.

And he wasn’t thinking about himself here. Though she would never believe that.

Savannah returned to her investigation, trailing the light over the charred boards that led up from the corner and spread out along both the north and east walls of the barn. A good section of both had been severely burned, though the fire had never reached as high as the loft area above them.

“I wonder if Sheriff Smith had an arson team out here to investigate. There was no mention of it in the file.” She examined the blackened boards more closely. “You’d think lightning would strike at the roofline, but it doesn’t always happen that way.”

“When did you find out a man died here?” Savannah asked him.

“Not until the day after the fire.”

“That’s what Hunter said, too.”

He could see the skepticism in her gaze and he glanced away. He was remembering the morning after the fire, when his father had come into the cattle barn to give him the news about the death.

B.J. had been shocked. And afraid. He’d started to tell his dad the truth then, but Bob Lambert had shaken his head. “Don’t talk, son. I’ve been over this with the sheriff and we’ve agreed there was no way you or Hunter could have realized that guy was in the loft. Unfortunately, that poor vagrant was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Later, the medical examiner had confirmed that death had been caused by smoke inhalation. A crazy-high blood alcohol level explained why the unidentified young man hadn’t woken when the fire started.

Despite the “official story” there had been rumors. Most of them centered around Hunter Moody, who everyone agreed had always been a shady sort—just like his father.

B.J. couldn’t do much about the rumors. But he’d kept his promise to his father and remained mum about that night, never telling anyone that Hunter had been up in the loft and must have seen the vagrant.

He could have put all the blame on Hunter, but he hadn’t. He’d protected the other guy out of a sense of responsibility. He should have figured out Hunter was up to something and stopped him.

He’d kept quiet for Savannah’s sake. She had enough problems with her family. He hadn’t wanted to add another.

“You’re still not going to tell me what happened, are you?”

Mind reader. “Better ask your brother.”

She made a sound of frustration, then gave up on him and resumed her inspection of the barn. “I’d like to get a look at that loft,” she said.

He glanced up. Light was coming through gaps in the wood. “It’s probably not safe.”

“Just a quick once-over.”

“I’ll go.” He leaned some of his weight on the ladder, which was on the opposite side of the barn from where the fire had started. It didn’t feel very solid.

“Let me try it,” Savannah said. “I’m lighter.”

He gave her a “get serious” look, then, despite his better judgment, put a foot on the second rung. Half expecting the lumber to crack apart under his boot, he took another step, and another.

Anxiously Savannah gripped the bottom of the ladder. “Be careful, B.J.”

He grinned. “How many times have I heard you say that?” Glancing down, he thought he could see her smile in return. He was just about at the top now. He reached one hand from the ladder to the floor of the loft, and was about to take the final step up when he heard a loud crack and his left foot fell through rotten wood.

“B.J.!”

He grasped desperately with his free hand, managing to secure a two-hand hold on the loft, while the rest of his body swung free as the ladder disintegrated beneath him.

“Hang on, B.J.!”

“Believe me, I am.” He grunted as he worked at shifting his body weight up to the loft. “You okay down there?” He hoped she hadn’t been struck by any of the falling wood.

“I’m fine. Try swinging your legs. If you get some momentum...”

She’d no sooner said the words than he was putting them into action. And the extra momentum did help. He grunted again, pushed hard and finally was able to drag his body up to the second level.

“Look out. I’m tossing you the flashlight,” she called. He heard a thud a few feet to his right.

“Don’t stand, in case the wood is rotten up there,” Savannah added.

“Roger that.” He crawled toward the torch and, once he had it securely in hand, switched on the light and played it against the far wall. Slowly he surveyed the space, but saw nothing except a few bales of moldering hay and a pile of blankets in the far corner.

“Any signs of fire up there?”

He studied the rafters and roof for several minutes before admitting, “No. I can see where the guy died, though. There’s still a pile of blankets in the corner.”

Savannah hesitated. “I don’t imagine there can be any physical evidence worth salvaging at this point. But want to take a closer look?”

He did and was already crawling toward the corner. When he arrived, he carefully set down the torch, then picked up first one blanket, then the other. He saw nothing, but heard the clink of something metal falling to the wooden surface.

Savannah heard it, too. “What was that?”

He flashed light over the area. Something gold sparkled. “It’s some kind of coin. Should I leave it here? Or take it?”

Savannah didn’t answer for a long time. Then in a quiet voice she said, “Take it.”

He slipped the coin in his pocket. Once he’d satisfied himself that there was nothing else he hadn’t noticed, he started crawling toward the bales.

“There are some old hay bales up here. Stand back while I toss them down. They’ll probably break apart when they fall, then after you mound up the hay, I’ll jump.”

“I’ve been wondering how you were going to get down.”

“No problem,” he said, mostly out of bravado. He was looking at a fifteen-foot drop and these bales were the small, square kind.

“Okay. I’m out of the way.”

“Here they come, then.” He heaved one, then the other, over the edge. As he’d predicted, the old twine broke apart on impact and the hay spilled free onto the dirt floor.

Savannah lost no time in piling the hay into the softest landing pad possible. “I wish we had more.”

“And I wish that damn ladder hadn’t broken,” he mumbled. He’d better not break an ankle with this fool maneuver. Hobbling around in a cast wasn’t his idea of how to spend the summer months.

He sat down, letting his legs dangle over the open side of the loft. Savannah was standing back, watching.

“This is crazy,” she said. “Why don’t you wait while I drive to my place? I can be back with a proper steel ladder in under an hour.”

He didn’t fancy hanging around this loft like a damsel in distress for five more minutes, let alone an hour.

“Incoming,” he called out. Then he let the rest of his body follow his feet off the edge of the loft.

* * *

B.J. ROLLED AS HE HIT the hay pile and ended up a few feet from the tips of Savannah’s boots.

Her heart had taken a leap of its own when he’d jumped, but she managed to sound cool. “You look good down there.”

He levered his body up with his strong arms, then hopped to his feet. “Don’t push your luck, woman.”

For a moment he stood his ground, too close for comfort, making her aware of how much stronger and tougher he’d grown in the years since he’d left Coffee Creek.

Of course, she was stronger and tougher, too, but mostly in ways that couldn’t be seen.

“You all right?” she asked, trying to switch her focus from her feelings—which were ridiculously fragile right now—to his well-being.

He took a few tentative steps. “Seem to be.” He handed her the flashlight, which she hadn’t even noticed he was still carrying. Then he dug the coin out of his pocket. “What do you make of this?”

She stepped out of the barn, surprised to see that the sun was almost behind the distant Highwood Mountains to the west. She studied both sides of the coin. It looked brand-new, but was dated more than a century ago. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. I wonder if it’s valuable?”

B.J. had followed her outside and now he looked over her shoulder at the coin. “Seems like an odd thing for a young guy to have dropped out of his pocket.”

“Maybe our runaway took more than his father’s watch with him.”

“It does look like something from a collection. Maybe he planned to pawn it for cash.”

“Whoever stole the watch mustn’t have known about the coin.” She put it in her pocket. Strange this wasn’t found during the investigation. After eighteen years exposed to the elements, she was certain no fingerprints could have survived. B.J.’s handling of the coin pretty much guaranteed it. But she’d store the coin in the evidence room at the office, just in case it turned out to be significant.

She glanced back at the barn, then at B.J. She wondered what he was thinking. There had been moments, back there, where it had felt like old times between them.

She’d done a lot of thinking on the long drive home from Oregon. For so many years she’d blamed B.J. for the party, and for Hunter’s subsequent downward spiral.

She realized now that she’d been unfair.

B.J. had been good to her brother. He’d taught him to ride, and to wrestle a steer and rope a calf—all skills that Hunter still put to good use on the rodeo circuit. He’d included Hunter in their group of friends, most of whom were responsible kids who worked hard at school and were involved in sporting events in their spare time.

The wildest thing they ever did was gather at the creek bank behind Main Street to drink a few beers on weekend nights.

“That party was Hunter’s idea, wasn’t it?”

“Kind of late now.” B.J. shrugged. “But yeah.”

“Why did you lie?”

“Why do you think?” he asked quietly.

Her heart sank. There could be only one answer. “You did it for me.”

After she’d picked Hunter up from the sheriff’s office, her brother had really laid it on thick about how B.J. had insisted they all take their ATVs out to that barn. According to Hunter, B.J. was the one who’d sourced the hard liquor, as well.

She’d been so upset, she’d refused to take B.J.’s calls. And she’d avoided him at school, too.

Two months later, they’d graduated from high school—and then B.J. and Hunter were both gone.

She put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”

“Well. It was probably for the best. We were too young.”

Back then, yes. She nodded. “So how long are you home for? Where’s the next rodeo?”

“Not sure.” B.J. picked up his hat, which he’d left on a rock when he’d gone into the barn earlier. He glanced up at the sky and frowned. “Looks like a storm is blowing in.”

“That happened fast.” She thought of the other night, eighteen years ago. According to her brother, the big thunderstorm had blown in quickly then, too.

B.J. glanced at her motorbike. “You better get moving before those clouds get here.”

“You, too.”

Yet they both stood for a few seconds longer, watchful and tentative as good memories and bad battled it out. She’d come out here hoping to convince herself that the story Hunter and B.J. had told all those years ago had been true.

Instead, she was certain that there was more to the story. A lot more. And Travis McBride’s family deserved to know what it was.