Buch lesen: «Shotgun Surrender»
“You might have given me a chance to open your door for you.”
Dusty rolled her eyes. “You have to be kidding. Does anyone do that anymore?”
“I do when I pick up a woman,” Ty said, sounding indignant. “It’s polite.”
“I can open my own door.”
“That isn’t the point. Look, think of dating as a game with certain rituals involved. There are steps to go through in the relationship. Roles each sex plays.”
Dusty groaned. “Why does it have to be so complicated? Why can’t we just cut to the chase?”
Ty shook his head. “Sorry, but it doesn’t work that way. Anticipation adds to the excitement. It’s all part of the mating ritual. You just need to get into your role.”
Dusty scoffed. “This role you’re talking about. Tell me it doesn’t mean I have to act helpless, because I’m never going to be one of those women.”
“Lucky for you, there are men who actually like strong, independent women. But no man may be ready for you.”
Was Ty ready for her?
Shotgun Surrender
B.J. Daniels
MILLS & BOON
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This one is for Kayley Mendenhall. A ray of sunshine
for everyone who has had the honor of knowing her.
Best wishes for a bright, fun and romantic future!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A former award-winning journalist, B.J. Daniels 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 snow-boards 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
Dusty McCall—The youngest of the wild McCalls was ready for love. Only, she was looking for it in all the wrong places.
Ty Coltrane—The horse rancher knew something was wrong at the rodeo. He just didn’t realize how wrong until he realized Dusty McCall was involved.
Boone Rasmussen—He had big plans for his future and a chip on his shoulder.
Letty Arnold—The news of her adoption had hit her hard. Now all she wanted was to find her birth mother. But she got more than she asked for.
Hal Branson—The private investigator had never believed in fate—until he met Letty Arnold.
Monte Edgewood—The roughstock producer thought he had everything until he got a chance to have a famous rodeo bull.
Sierra Edgewood—She had an old husband and a wandering eye and was built for trouble.
Lamar Nichols—The cowboy was supposed to be the brawn and not the brains of the operation, but even he could see what was going on.
Waylon Dobbs—The amicable rodeo veterinarian didn’t believe in buying trouble. Unless there was something in it for him.
Devil’s Tornado—He’d gone from a mediocre rodeo bull to a star overnight. But sometimes stars fall.
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
Epilogue
Prologue
The moment the pickup rolled to a stop, Clayton T. Brooks knew he should have put this off until morning. The night was darker than the inside of an outhouse, he was half-drunk and he couldn’t see two feet in front of him.
Hell, maybe he was more than half-drunk since he was still seriously considering climbing the nearby fence and getting into a pasture with a bull that had almost killed its rider at a rodeo just a few days ago in Billings, Montana.
To make matters worse, Clayton knew he was too old for this sort of thing, not to mention physically shot from years of trying to ride the meanest, toughest bulls in the rodeo circuit.
But he’d never had the good sense to quit—until a bull messed him up so bad he was forced to. Just like now. He couldn’t quit because he’d come this far and, damn, he needed to find out if he was losing his mind. Quietly he opened his pickup door and stepped out.
He’d coasted down the last hill with his headlights out, stopping far enough from Monte Edgewood’s ranch house that he figured his truck wouldn’t be heard when he left. There was no sign of life at the Edgewood Roughstock Company ranch at this hour of the night, but he wasn’t taking any chances as he shut the pickup door as quietly as possible and headed for the pasture.
If he was right, he didn’t want to get caught out here. The whole thing had been nagging him for days. Finally tonight, he’d left the bar when it closed, climbed into his pickup and headed out of Antelope Flats. It wasn’t far to the ranch but he’d had to make a stop to get a six-pack of beer for the road.
Tonight he was going to prove himself wrong—or right—he thought as he awkwardly climbed the fence and eased down the other side. His eyes hadn’t quite adjusted to the dark. Wisps of clouds drifted low across the black canvas stretched on the horizon. A few stars twinkled millions of miles away, and a slim silver crescent moon peeked in and out.
Clayton started across the small pasture, picking his way. Just over the rise, he froze as he made out the shape of the bull dead ahead.
Devil’s Tornado was a Braford brindle-horned, one-ton bull—a breeder’s Molotov cocktail of Brahma and Hereford. The mix didn’t always turn out good bucking bulls, but it often did. The breed had ended more than a few cowboys’ careers, his included.
He stared at the huge dark shape standing just yards from him, remembering how the bull had damn near killed the rider at the Billings rodeo a few days before.
The problem was, Clayton thought he recognized the bull, not from Billings but from a town in Texas some years before. Thought he not only recognized the bull, but knew it intimately—the way only a bull rider gets to know a bull.
Unless he was losing his mind, he’d ridden this brindle down in Texas four years ago. It had been one of his last rides.
Only back then, the bull had been called Little Joe. And Little Joe had been less than an exciting ride. No tricks. Too nice to place deep on and make any prize money on.
The other bulls in the roughstock contractor’s bag hadn’t had any magic, either—the kiss of death for the roughstock contractor. Last Clayton had heard the roughstock outfit had gone belly-up.
Earlier tonight, he’d finally remembered the roughstock contractor’s name. Rasmussen. The same last name as the young man who’d showed up a few weeks ago with a handful of bulls he was subcontracting out to Monte Edgewood.
If Clayton was right—and that was what he was here to find out—then Little Joe and Devil’s Tornado were one and the same.
Except that the bull at the Billings rodeo had been a hot-tempered son-of-a-bucker who stood on its nose, hopped, skipped and spun like a top, quickly unseating the rider and nearly killing him. Nothing like the bull he’d ridden in Texas.
But Clayton was convinced this bull was Little Joe. Only with a definite personality change.
“Hey, boy,” he called softly as he advanced. “Easy, boy.”
The bull didn’t move, seemed almost mesmerized as Clayton drew closer and closer until he could see the whites of the bull’s enormous eyes.
“Hello, Little Joe.” Clayton chuckled. Damned if he hadn’t been right. Same notched ears, same crook in the tail, same brindle pattern. Little Joe was Devil’s Tornado.
Clayton stared at the docile bull, trying to make sense of it. How could one bull be so different, not only from years ago but also from just days ago?
A sliver of worry burrowed under Clayton’s skull. He definitely didn’t like what he was thinking because if he was right…
He reached back to rub his neck only an instant before he realized he was no longer alone. He hadn’t heard anyone approach from behind him, didn’t even sense the presence until it was too late.
The first blow to the back of his head stunned him, dropping him to his knees next to the bull.
He flopped over onto his back and looked up. All he could make out was a dark shape standing over him and something long and black in a gloved hand.
Clayton didn’t even get a chance to raise an arm toward off the second blow with the tire iron. The last thing he saw was the bull standing over him, the silver sickle moon reflected in the bull’s dull eyes.
Chapter One
Antelope Flats, Montana
County Rodeo Grounds
As the last cowboy picked himself up from the dirt, Dusty McCall climbed the side of the bucking horse chute.
“I want to ride,” she said quietly to the elderly cowboy running this morning’s bucking horse clinic.
Lou Whitman lifted a brow as he glanced down at the only horse left in the chute, a huge saddle bronc called The Undertaker, then back up at her.
He looked as if he was about to mention that she wasn’t signed up for this clinic. Or that The Undertaker was his rankest bucking bronc. Or that her father, Asa McCall, or one of her four brothers, would have his behind if they found out he’d let her ride. Not when she was supposed to be helping “teach” this clinic—not ride.
But he must have seen something in her expression, heard it in her tone, that changed his mind.
He smiled and, nodding slowly, handed her the chest protector and helmet. “We got one more,” he called to his crew.
She smiled her thanks at Lou as she took off her western straw hat and tossed it to one of the cowboys nearby. Slipping into the vest, she snugged down the helmet as Lou readied The Undertaker.
Swallowing any second thoughts, she lowered herself onto the saddle bronc in the chute.
None of the cowboys today had gone the required eight seconds for what was considered a legal rodeo ride.
She knew there was little chance of her being the first. Especially on the biggest, buckingest horse of the day.
She just hoped she could stay on long enough so that she wouldn’t embarrass herself. Even better, that she wouldn’t get killed!
“What’s Dusty doing in there?” one of the cowboys along the corral fence wanted to know. “Dammit, she’s just trying to show us up.”
She ignored the men hanging on the fence as she readied herself. Bucking horses were big, often part draft horse and raised to buck. This one was huge, and she knew she was in for the ride of her life.
Not that she hadn’t ridden saddle broncs before. She’d secretly taken Lou Whitman’s clinic and ridden several saddle broncs just to show her brothers. Being the youngest McCall—and a girl on top of it—she’d spent her first twenty-one years proving she could do anything her brothers could—and oftentimes ended up in the dirt.
She doubted today would be any different. While she no longer felt the need to prove anything to herself and could care less about what her four older brothers thought, she had to do this.
And for all the wrong reasons.
“Easy, boy,” she said as the horse banged around in the chute. She’d seen this horse throw some darned good cowboys in the past.
But she was going to ride him. One way or another. At least for a little while.
The horse shook his big head and snorted as he looked back at her. She could see her reflection in his eyes.
She leaned down to whisper in his ear, asking him to let her ride him, telling him how she needed this, explaining how much was at stake.
She could hear the cowboys, a low hum of voices on the corral fence. She didn’t look, but imagined in her mind one in particular on the fence watching her, his dark eyes intrigued, his interest piqued.
Her body quaking with anticipation—and a healthy dose of apprehension—she gave Lou a nod to open the gate.
In that split second as the gate swung out, she felt the horse lunge and knew The Undertaker didn’t give a damn that she was trying to impress some cowboy. This horse had his own agenda.
He shot straight up, jumped forward and came down bucking. He was big and strong and didn’t feel like being ridden—maybe especially by her. Dust churned as he bucked and twisted, kicking and lunging as he set about unseating her.
But she stayed, remembering everything she’d been taught, everything she’d been teaching this morning along with Lou. Mostly, she stuck more out of stubborn determination than anything else.
She vaguely heard the sound of cheers and jeers over the pounding of hooves—and her heart.
When she heard the eight-second horn signaling she’d completed a legal rodeo ride, she couldn’t believe it.
Too late, she remembered something her father always warned her about: pride goeth before the fall.
More than pleased with herself, she’d lost her focus for just an instant at the sound of the horn and glanced toward the fence, looking for that one cowboy. The horse made one huge lunging buck, and Dusty found herself airborne.
She hit the ground hard, the air knocked out of her. Dust rose around her in a cloud. Through it, she saw a couple cowboys jump down into the corral, one going after the horse, the other running to her.
Blinking through the dust, she tried to catch her breath as she looked up hoping to see the one cowboy she’d do just about anything to see leaning over her—Boone Rasmussen.
“You all right?” asked a deep male voice.
She focused on the man leaning over her and groaned. Ty Coltrane. The last cowboy she wanted to see right now.
“Fine,” she managed to get out, unsure of that but not about to let him know if she wasn’t.
She managed to sit up, looking around for Boone but didn’t see him. The disappointment hurt more than the hard landing. Just before she’d decided to ride the horse, she’d seen Boone drive up. She’d just assumed he would join the others on the corral fence, that for once and for all, he would actually take notice of her.
“That was really something,” Ty Coltrane commented sarcastically as he scowled down at her. Ty had been the bane of her existence since she’d been born. He raised Appaloosa horses on a ranch near her family’s Sundown Ranch and every time she turned around, he seemed to be there, witnessing some of her most embarrassing moments—and causing more than a few.
And here he was again. It never failed.
She took off the helmet, her long blond braid falling free. Ty took the helmet and motioned to the cowboy on the fence, who tossed her western straw hat he’d been holding for her. It sailed through the air, landing short.
Ty picked it up from the dirt and slapped the dust off against his jeaned thigh. “Yep, that one could go down in the record book as one of the dumber things I’ve seen you do, Slim.” He handed her the hat, shaking his head at her.
As a kid, she’d been a beanpole, all elbows and knees, and she’d taken a lot of teasing about it. It had made her self-conscious. Even when she began to develop and actually had curves, she’d kept them hidden under her brothers’ too large hand-me-down western shirts.
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, glaring at him as she shoved the hat down on her blond head, tucking the single long braid up under it as she did.
He shook his head as if she mystified him. “What possessed you to ride The Undertaker? Have you lost all sense?”
The truth was, maybe she had. She didn’t know what had gotten into her lately. Not that as a kid she hadn’t always tried to be one of the boys and ride animals she shouldn’t have. It came with being raised on an isolated ranch with four older brothers and their dumb friends.
That, and the fact that for most of her life, she’d just wanted to fit in, be one of the boys—not have them make fun of her, but treat her like one of their own.
All that had changed a few weeks ago when she’d first laid eyes on Boone Rasmussen. Suddenly, she didn’t want to blend in anymore. She didn’t want to be one of the boys. She felt things she’d only read about.
Now all she wanted was to be noticed by Boone Rasmussen.
And apparently there was no chance in hell of that ever happening.
“Here,” Ty said extending a hand to help her up.
She ignored it as she got to her feet on her own and tried not to groan as she did. She’d be sore tomorrow if she could move at all. That had been a fool thing to do, but not for the reason Ty thought. She’d only done it to get Boone’s attention. She couldn’t believe she’d been so desperate, she thought as she took off the protective vest. Ty took it as well and handed both vest and helmet to one of the cowboys along the fence.
She hated feeling desperate.
Being that desperate made her mad and disgusted with herself. But the problem was, even being raised with four older brothers, she knew nothing about men. She hadn’t dated much in high school, just a few dances or a movie. The boys she’d gone out with were like her, from God-fearing ranch families. None had been like Boone Rasmussen.
She realized that might be the problem. Boone was a man. And Boone had a reckless air about him that promised he was like no man she’d ever known.
“Nice ride,” one of the cowboys told her as she limped out of the corral.
“Don’t encourage her,” Ty said beside her.
There was a time she would have been busting with pride. She’d ridden The Undertaker. She’d stayed on the eight seconds for the horn.
But today wasn’t one of those days. The one cowboy she’d hoped to impress hadn’t even seen her ride.
“You don’t have to go telling my brothers about this,” she warned Ty.
He grunted. “I have better things to do than go running to your brothers with stories about you,” he said. “Anyway, the way you behave, it would be a full-time job.”
She shot him a narrow-eyed look, then surreptitiously glanced around for Boone Rasmussen, spotting him over by the bull corrals talking to the big burly cowboy who worked with him, Lamar something or other.
Boone didn’t even glance in her direction and obviously hadn’t seen her ride or cared. Suddenly, she felt close to tears and was spitting mad at herself.
“You sure you’re all right?” Ty asked as he reached to open her pickup door for her.
She could feel his gaze on her. “I told you I’m fine,” she snapped, fighting tears. What was wrong with her? She normally would rather swallow tacks than cry in front of him or one of her brothers.
“You’re sure you’re up to driving back to the ranch by yourself?” he asked, only making her feel worse.
She fought a swell of emotion as she climbed into the pickup seat and started to close the door.
Ty stopped her by covering her hand on the door handle with his. “Okay, Slim, that was one hell of a ride. You stayed on longer than any of those cowboys. And you rode The Undertaker. Feel better?”
She looked at him, tears welling in her eyes. He thought she was mad at him because he’d chewed her out for riding today?
She half smiled at him, filled with a sudden stab of affection. Funny, but since Boone, she even felt differently about Ty.
Unlike Boone though, Ty had blue eyes like her own. There was no mystery about Ty. She’d known him her whole life. Boone on the other hand, had dark eyes, mysterious eyes, and everything about him felt…dangerous.
“You wouldn’t understand even if I could explain it,” she said.
Ty smiled ruefully and reached out to pluck a piece of straw from a stray strand of her blond hair. “Probably not, Slim, but maybe it’s time you grew up before you break your fool neck.” He let go of her hand and she slammed the pickup door. So much for the stab of affection she’d felt for him.
Grow up? Without looking at him, she started the truck and fought the urge to roll down her window and tell him what she thought. But when she glanced over, Ty had already walked away.
She sat for a moment in a stew of her own emotions. The worst part was, Ty was right. It was definitely time for her to grow up. Too bad she didn’t have the first clue how to do that.
She shifted the pickup into gear. Boone Rasmussen was still talking to Lamar by the chutes. He didn’t look up as she pulled away.
TY MENTALLY KICKED HIMSELF all the way to his truck. He’d only come by the rodeo grounds this morning to see if Clayton T. Brooks was around. The old bull rider hadn’t shown up for work.
Everyone said Ty was a fool for hiring him. Even part-time. But Clayton was a good worker and Ty knew Clayton needed the money. Sometimes he showed up late, but he always showed for work. Until today.
“Any of you seen Clayton today?” he called to the handful of men on the corral fence. Several of the cowboys were trying to get Lou to let them ride again. Couldn’t let some little gal like Dusty McCall show them up.
“Saw him at the bar last night,” one of them called back. “He was three sheets to the wind and going on about some bull.” The cowboy shook his head. “You know Clayton. Haven’t seen him since, though.” The rest shook their heads in agreement.
“Thanks.” Ty did know Clayton. For most of his life, Clayton had ridden bulls. Now that he couldn’t ride anymore, he “talked” bulls. Or talked “bull,” as some said.
Still, Ty was worried about him. He decided to swing by Clayton’s trailer on the opposite side of town before returning to the ranch.
Dusty McCall drove past as Ty climbed into his truck. He let out a sigh as he watched her leave. All he’d done was make her mad. But the fool girl could have gotten herself killed. What had been going on with her lately?
Not your business, Coltrane.
Didn’t he know it.
In spite of himself, he smiled at the memory of her riding that saddle bronc. She was something, he thought with a shake of his head. Unfortunately, she saw him at best as the cowboy next door. At worst, as another older brother, as if she needed another one.
He shook off that train of thought like a dog shaking off water and considered what might have happened to Clayton as he started his pickup and drove into town.
Antelope Flats was a small western town with little more than a café, motel, gas station and general store. The main business was coal or coal-bed methane gas. Those who worked either in the open-pit coal mine or for the gas companies lived twenty-plus miles away in Sheridan, Wyoming, where there was a movie theater, pizza parlors, clothing stores and real grocery stores.
Between Antelope Flats and Sheridan there was nothing but sagebrush-studded hills and river bottom, and with deer, antelope, geese, ducks and a few wild turkeys along the way.
Antelope Flats had grown some with the discovery of coal-bed methane gas in the land around town. There was now a drive-in burger joint on the far edge of town, a minimall coming in and talk of a real grocery store.
Ty hoped to hell the town didn’t change too muchin the coming years. This was home. He’d been born and raised just outside of here, and he didn’t want the lifestyle to change because of progress. He knew he sounded like his father, rest his soul. But family ranches were a dying breed and Ty wanted to raise his children on the Coltrane Appaloosa Ranch just as he’d been raised.
Clayton T. Brooks had bought a piece of ground out past town and put a small travel trailer on it. The trailer had seen better days. So had the dated old pickup the bull rider drove. The truck wasn’t out front, but Ty parked in front of the trailer and got out anyway.
The sun was high in a cloudless blue sky. He could smell the cottonwoods and the river and felt the early spring heat on his back as he knocked on the trailer.
No answer.
He tried the door.
It opened. “Clayton?” he called as he stepped into the cool darkness. The inside was neater than Ty had expected it would be. Clayton’s bed at the back looked as if he’d made it before he left this morning. Or hadn’t slept in it last night. No dishes in the sink. No sign that Clayton had been here.
As Ty left, he couldn’t shake the bad feeling that had settled over him. Yesterday, Clayton had been all worked up over some bull ride he’d seen the weekend before at the Billings rodeo.
Ty hated to admit he hadn’t been listening that closely. Clayton was often worked up about something and almost always it had to do with bulls or riders or rodeo.
Was it possible Clayton had taken off to Billings because of some damn bull?
TEXAS-BORN BOONE RASMUSSEN had been cursed from birth. It was the only thing that explained why he’d been broke and down on his luck all twenty-seven years.
He left the rodeo grounds and drove the twenty miles north of town turning onto the road to the Edgewood Roughstock Company ranch. The road wound back in a good five more miles, a narrow dirt track that dropped down a series of hills and over a creek before coming to a dead end at the ranch house.
Boone could forgive those first twenty-seven years if he had some promise that the next fifty were going to be better. He was certainly due for some luck. But he’d been disappointed a few too many times to put much stock in hope. Not that his latest scheme wasn’t a damned good one.
He didn’t see Monte’s truck as he parked in the shade of the barn and glanced toward the rambling old two-story ranch house. A curtain moved on the lower floor. She’d seen him come back, was no doubt waiting for him.
He swore and tried to ignore the quickened beat of his heart or the stirring below his belt. At least he was smart enough not to get out of the truck. He glanced over at the bulls in a nearby pasture, worry gnawing at his insides, eating away at his confidence.
So far he’d done two things right—buying back a few of his father’s rodeo bulls after the old man’s death and hooking up with Monte Edgewood.
But Boone worried he would screw this up, just like he did everything else. If he hadn’t already.
He heard someone beside the truck and feared for a moment she had come out of the house after him.
With a start, he turned to find Monte Edgewood standing at the side window. Monte had been frowning, but now smiled. “You goin’ to just sit in your pickup all day?”
Boone tried to rid himself of the bitter taste in his mouth as he gave the older man what would pass for a smile and rolled down his window. Better Monte never know why Boone had been avoiding the house in his absence.
“You all right, son?” Monte asked.
Monte Edgewood had called him son since the first time they’d met behind falling-down rodeo stands in some hot, two-bit town in Texas. Boone had been all of twelve at the time. His father was kicking the crap out of him when Monte Edgewood had come along, hauled G. O. Rasmussen off and probably saved Boone’s life.
In that way, Boone supposed he owed him. But what Boone hadn’t been able to stand was the pity he’d seen in Monte’s eyes. He’d scrambled up from the dirt and run at Monte, fists flying, humiliation and anger like rocket fuel in his blood.
A huge man, Monte Edgewood had grabbed him in a bear hug, pinning his skinny flailing arms as Boone struggled furiously to hurt someone the way he’d been hurt. But Monte was having none of it.
Boone fought him, but Monte refused to let go. Finally spent, Boone collapsed in the older man’s arms. Monte released him, reached down and picked up Boone’s straw hat from the dust and handed it to him.
Then, without a word, Monte just turned and walked away. Later Boone heard that someone jumped his old man in an alley after the rodeo and kicked the living hell out of him. Boone had always suspected it had been Monte, the most nonviolent man he’d ever met.
Unfortunately, Boone had never been able to forget the pity he’d seen in Monte’s eyes that day. Nor the sour taste of humiliation. He associated both with the man because of it. Kindness was sometimes the worse cut of all, he thought.
Monte stepped back as Boone opened his door and got out. Middle age hadn’t diminished Monte’s size, nor had it slowed him down. His hair under his western hat was thick and peppered with gray, his face rugged. At fifty, Monte Edgewood was in his prime.
He owned some decent enough roughstock and quite a lot of land. Monte Edgewood seemed to have everything he needed or wanted. Unlike Boone.
But what made Monte unique was that he was without doubt the most trusting man Boone had ever met.
And that, he thought with little remorse, would be Monte’s downfall. And Boone’s good fortune.
“How’s Devil’s Tornado today?” Boone asked as they walked toward the ranch house where Monte had given him a room. He saw the curtain move and caught a glimpse of dyed blond hair.
“Son, you’ve got yourself one hell of a bull there,” Monte said, laying a hand on Boone’s shoulder as they mounted the steps.
Didn’t Boone know it.
Monte opened the screen and they stepped into the cool dimness of the house and the heady scent of perfume.
“Is that you, Monte?” Sierra Edgewood called an instant before she appeared in the kitchen doorway, a sexy silhouette as she leaned lazily against the jamb and smiled at them. “Hey, Boone.”
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