Undercover Cowboy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  In memory of Lynde Lakes (Mary Pauline Lakes)

  Undercover Cowboy

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  A word from the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  To save a family member she could

  pull the trigger, but to save her own life? Not sure, she prayed the urban cowboy wouldn’t test her. She wanted to order him to drop his holstered gun but feared he might try something tricky and force her hand.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead. Yet, his steady gaze showed no fear. “You’ve got it wrong. I’m here to help.”

  “Mighty nice of you, stranger,” she said, exaggerating her Texas drawl. “Don’t think I’m ungrateful, but I don’t need your help.” She leveled her narrowed gaze on him, gesturing with a slight tilt of her head at the body. “And it’s too damned late to help her.”

  He pushed his black Stetson high on his forehead. His eyes softened marginally. “Tough girl, huh?” The huskiness in his voice vibrated through her.

  “You’ve got that right,” she said, glaring at him. “You have the count of three to climb back on that sorry-looking mare and hightail it out of here. One…”

  He shifted his weight on dusty, black leather boots that looked as new as his duds. He showed no sign of leaving. An amused, reckless expression flicked over his face. “Who the devil are you anyway?”

  “I should be asking you that, except I don’t give a hoot.” Her throat felt raw. “Now git!” To her embarrassment, her voice cracked. She cocked her gun and resumed her countdown. “Two…”

  His jaw tightened. Raw sexuality and defiance radiated from the hard planes of his face and the lean lines of his body, charging the air between them. Her gun hand trembled. Fear jelled into a cold lump in her stomach. “Three…”

  In memory of Lynde Lakes (Mary Pauline Lakes)

  A loving wife, mother, grandmother and great grandmother.

  May you find lots of rainbows in the skies above.

  You are, and were and forever will be an inspiration to us all.

  Fly with the angels til we meet again.

  Undercover Cowboy

  by

  Lynde Lakes

  Ryan Ranch Trilogy

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Undercover Cowboy

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Lynde Lakes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  Previously published by Amira Press

  First Crimson Rose Edition, 2015

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0250-8

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0251-5

  Ryan Ranch Trilogy

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my supportive husband, John,

  and my readers, now friends,

  who are willing to suspend disbelief and venture into

  a world of interesting characters in intriguing

  and potentially deadly situations,

  knowing they’ll get an entertaining, satisfying,

  page-turning read.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to my Wild Rose Press Publisher Rhonda Penders, Lisa Dawn in Marketing, my editor Johanna Melaragno, and my cover artist Debbie Taylor.

  Appreciation also to the staff at Aina Haina & Kapolei Libraries.

  Chapter One

  “Twenty-one and restricted to the compound!” Sara Jane Ryan shouted to her horse. “Can you believe it? Well, I’ll show Dad.” She dug her heels a little too firmly into the coal-black quarter horse’s flanks. He sidestepped and tossed his head in protest. She stroked his silky mane. “Sorry, Demon, but Dad makes me see red—barn-on-fire red!” She blew at a wayward tendril of curly auburn hair in utter frustration.

  Her ride had taken her to the west sector of the Ryans’ south Texas ranch where tangles of mesquite trees, scrub oak, and cactus lined the well-beaten path. Since Verde Creek was on her way to her client’s ranch, she decided to stop for a swim to cool off both her temper and body. A shiver slid through her—this was exactly the kind of isolated area Dad had warned her against.

  She shook off her uneasiness. He wasn’t making her paranoid too. For years she’d stuck to his overprotective rules, but no more. If she let him get away with treating her like a child, how could she respect herself, or expect him to respect her as an adult? In the distance, she heard a high-pitched whinny. She wrinkled her forehead. Who’d be so far out in the boondocks this time of the day? She shaded her eyes from the searing midmorning sun and squinted, looking for a rider’s silhouette or rising gusts of dust. Seeing neither in any direction, she decided that the whinny must have been from a stray from the small wild herd of mustangs that roamed these parts. It comforted her to see miles of gently rolling land and the distant purple haze where mountains reached up to meet a cloudless blue sky. In her view, God had never made anything more starkly beautiful.

  Her sense of serenity faded as shadows of turkey buzzards circling overheard fell across her path. She looked up and shuddered. As useful as the buzzards were, they’d always repulsed her. She was too far out to be concerned that it might be a downed cow; apparently the scavengers had zeroed in on some other unlucky critter. Suddenly Demon rose and beat the air with his front hooves. Sara clamped her knees tight and gripped the saddle horn. “Easy, boy.” Likely the buzzards had made him nervous too.

  A loud caw cut the air. She jumped and glanced into the trees. Carrion birds waited all humped over, eyes beady and hungry. Several expanded their wings and flew to the ground to close in on something. The foul smell hit her nostrils before she saw the body of a woman lying face down in the overgrowth of mesquite.

  Her skin prickled. “Whoa, boy.” Sara Jane dismounted fast and dropped her reins to the ground knowing Demon would stay. She remembered the whinny and wondered if the woman had been thrown, and her horse had run off. Waving her arms to shoo away the birds, Sara Jane approached the body slowly, then froze in her tracks. Her eyes widened and a chill shot through her. From the back the woman looked just like her, same long, auburn hair and slender athletic build. One arm was up over her head. Sara Jane spied an Indian bracelet with three turquoise stones identical to the one her dad had designed and had special made for her thirteenth birthday. A week ago, the treasured gift had disappeared from her jewelry box. Sara Jane rubbed her arms. This was way too creepy. She felt like grabbing the bracelet and leaping back on her horse and hightailing it out of there. Fighting the urge, she bent and turned the woman over.

  The face was gone! Sara Jane screamed, jumped
back, and scrambled to her feet. She pressed her lips tight, to hold back the bile that burned in her throat. Through a haze of shock it registered—the face was cut clean away with no ragged edges. No animal had done that. She glanced around, suddenly feeling alone and vulnerable.

  She had to get out of there—now! But she couldn’t seem to move. Struggling with fear and trembling, Sara Jane didn’t hear the horse come through the grove of mesquite behind her. At the sound of a man’s succinct oath, she whirled. The guy, in his late twenties, dismounted in one fluid motion. His legs were long, powerful looking. Jeans hugged him like a sheath. With cactus-green eyes flashing, he strode toward her, muscular and dangerous looking.

  Standing as tall as her five feet, six inches would allow, she glared at him and raised an eyebrow. “Did you do this? Are you the killer drawn by that strong urge to return to the scene of the crime?” Sara Jane fought to keep the waver out of her voice.

  “What? God, no!” he said.

  Unconvinced, she slowly backed toward her horse and the saddlebag where she kept her .38.

  In a lower tone, no doubt meant to calm her into a false sense of security, he added, “I heard you scream.” His accent wasn’t Texan. That was for sure. “Don’t be afraid, miss.” He didn’t say ma’am, like a wrangler would.

  His black jeans and western shirt were new, unfaded. He shifted his weight, and she noticed the holstered gun at his side for the first time. The weapon and square-shouldered stance of this gun-toting stranger sent another shiver through her. He raked his inky hair with long fingers made for computer keys or a gun trigger, not ranch work.

  “Stay back!” she ordered, still moving away. Hot wind blew her hair about her face and lashed her body with unnerving electricity. The call of a distant hawk emphasized the isolation—and how very alone she was with this armed stranger.

  He advanced a step closer. “Take it easy. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Expect me to believe that?” Sensing she was close to Demon, she whirled, reached into her saddle bag and drew her gun. “Don’t even twitch,” she said, aiming her .38 at a point between the man’s eyes. His expression darkened—he stopped dead in his tracks. Uncle Luke had always told her when in a tough spot, narrow your eyes, bare your teeth, and bluff. If that didn’t work—shoot the bastard. To save a family member she could pull the trigger, but to save her own life? Not sure, she prayed the urban cowboy wouldn’t test her. She wanted to order him to drop his holstered gun but feared he might try something tricky and force her hand.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead. Yet, his steady gaze showed no fear. “You’ve got it wrong. I’m here to help.”

  “Mighty nice of you, stranger,” she said, exaggerating her Texas drawl. “Don’t think I’m ungrateful, but I don’t need your help.” She leveled her narrowed gaze on him, gesturing with a slight tilt of her head at the body. “And it’s too damned late to help her.”

  He pushed his black Stetson high on his forehead. His eyes softened marginally. “Tough girl, huh?” The huskiness in his voice vibrated through her.

  “You’ve got that right,” she said, glaring at him. “You have the count of three to climb back on that sorry-looking mare and hightail it out of here. One…”

  He shifted his weight on dusty, black leather boots that looked as new as his duds. He showed no sign of leaving. An amused, reckless expression flicked over his face. “Who the devil are you anyway?”

  “I should be asking you that, except I don’t give a hoot.” Her throat felt raw. “Now git!” To her embarrassment, her voice cracked. She cocked her gun and resumed her countdown. “Two…”

  His jaw tightened. Raw sexuality and defiance radiated from the hard planes of his face and the lean lines of his body, charging the air between them. Her gun hand trembled. Fear jelled into a cold lump in her stomach. “Three…” She whirled around and swung onto her horse. As she passed his mare, she slapped the animal on the rump and yelled, “Ha!” The roan took off.

  The urban cowboy’s eyes widened and he shouted, “Hey!”

  ****

  Nicholas Reed shook his head. He couldn’t believe it. That tough little cookie with the flashing sapphire-blue eyes had flipped onto her horse like a rodeo star. Her antics told him that she could easily be the young woman he had come here to protect. Matt had told him when he hand-picked him for the assignment that his daughter had been riding since she was three—even bragged that she was one of the top rodeo performers in the state—had nine championship buckles to prove it. And this little gal certainly knew her way around a horse. But probably most of these ranch girls rode well. Heat burned his neck. Damn! He’d never live it down. Imagine, letting some measly little country bumpkin get the best of him. He could’ve disarmed her easily enough, or even gotten the drop on her. But his plan had been to let the encounter play itself out. It had, but not to his satisfaction.

  Dammit. What was it? Almost a full moon or something? During a full moon strange things happened that made him want to throw in his badge for a few days and lie low, very low, until the full moon waned.

  Until he learned the name of the skittish girl, he decided to call her Rodeo Girl. Even the dead woman could be Matt’s daughter. He prayed it wasn’t, but he’d better try to identify the body. He tightened his jaw and forced himself to look again at the darkened raw flesh that once was a face. This was a sick professional job. By the clean cut, he assumed a scalpel or some other kind of surgical tool had been used. He slipped on the thin gloves he always kept handy and squatted next to the body.

  From the lack of rigor and the sickening stench of the beginning of decay, urine and feces, he guessed that she’d been there a day at least. He noticed an Indian bracelet. It looked unusual. Maybe it would lead to her identity. He pressed his thumb against the limp wrist for a moment. The skin was cold and thin to the touch, and when he released the pressure it left no mark, meaning the blood had already clotted. He checked her pockets, finding nothing but lint. Looking for clothing tags would require moving the body too much so he decided to leave that for the sheriff and his forensics team.

  Her clothing of jeans and a T-shirt that said “GO FOR IT” told him little. He picked up her hand again. She had painted her nails a metallic blue and green on alternating fingernails. The indentations on eight fingers indicated that she’d recently worn a slew of rings. Her ears were bare, but he detected a band of pricks on them. Whoever killed her must have robbed her as well—or later someone else had. But why did they leave the Indian bracelet? It looked valuable.

  The corpse and the gorgeous creature who had just ridden away in a cloud of dust had the same long, auburn hair and general build. Were they related? The girl he was here to protect had a female cousin, but Rodeo Girl didn’t act like she knew the deceased. No tears. Just a tough front to hide her shock. She was good at hiding her true emotions; only the glassiness in her eyes and the waver in her voice gave her away.

  He glanced around the bushes, and his gaze fell on a pile of leaves near the corpse’s head. They were a brownish-red. He noticed something very thick and glossy on them. A chill went through him. It couldn’t be. He brought one of the leaves to his nose and inhaled the scent of hair dye—and honey!

  Nick’s heart pounded in hard thuds. Wouldn’t it be ironic if the Bureau and their shrink had outsmarted themselves by assigning him to a case that had somehow gotten entangled with the Honey Murders case? His superiors had locked him out of the loop, but he couldn’t ignore this when it fell right into his lap. He flipped open his cell phone to alert the sheriff and the FBI. All he got was static on the line. “Dammit to hell!”

  Nick squared his shoulders and whistled for his horse, Jazgirl. He listened for the sound of hooves or a familiar whinny as his mind filled with Rodeo Girl. Based on the sketchy description Matt had provided, both the deceased and Rodeo Girl filled the bill. How many well-stacked auburn-haired girls could there be in this Godforsaken place? It seemed at least two.

  It a
ppeared that both of them, in one way or another, were going to complicate the hell out of his life. Miss Rodeo, although a looker with those big blue eyes and a figure that would stop even Hollywood traffic, was as prickly as the thorny plants he passed along the way. Just like his kid sister, Shirl. Shirl’s sassy mouth had always propelled her into scrapes and him into fights protecting her. A rush of unexpected tears blurred his vision; he blinked them away. Damn. He thought he had closed down that susceptible part of himself. To be effective in his job, he had to stay cold and detached—from now on he was through feeling!

  His thoughts boomeranged back to Rodeo Girl. The last thing he needed was to deal with a stranger bent on finding trouble, especially in this south Texas heat.

  Nick placed his thumb and forefinger into his mouth and whistled again for his horse. He’d trained Jazgirl for a month at the stables in San Dimas, the closest training facility to his apartment in LA. He wasn’t sure how she’d act now that he’d taken her away from familiar surroundings. While in training together, she’d proven to be smart and quick. But mares, like women, were known to get contrary, usually when you counted on them most. Here he was, in this no-where-land about a hundred miles north of the Mexican border, counting on a horse of all things. It’d be just his luck that, rather than hang around like she’d been taught, she’d cut out on him and make her way back to the horse-trailer he’d used to bring her here. That is, if she could find it hidden away near the line shack he’d camped out in last night. With a knot of uncertainty tightening the muscle in the back of his neck, Nick whistled for the third time—third time’s the charm, he told himself. For extra insurance, he crossed his fingers.

  ****

  Sara Jane headed for the ranch at a full gallop, kicking up a dusty curtain that failed to obscure the macabre mental image of the scene she had left behind. The horror of the faceless corpse kept hitting her like rolling sand clouds in a dust storm. The single thing that had kept her from upchucking her breakfast was her run-in with the greenhorn who’d scared the urge right out of her.