The Cowboy's Deadly Reunion

by Cindy Dees

  That was it. She had no more ammunition to fire at him. Her gun was empty.

  They’d shared the best sex she’d ever had, they’d connected intensely the way they always had, they’d fallen into the perfect simpatico they shared, and he’d still walked away.

  He really was never coming back to her.

  And her heart was officially broken.

  * * *

  In Washington, DC, a laptop computer beeped an alert on the highly illegal search that had been set up the day Jessica left town without warning. Apparently, she didn’t tell anyone she was going or where—even her closest friends and family knew nothing. Damn her. Who did she think she was, running from him? She was bought and paid for. He owned her.

  He opened the computer file, which hacked the FBI search system and piggybacked upon its powerful capabilities. Her debit card had been used earlier today in some town called Sunny Creek. In Montana. Montana? Really? Did she think she could hide from him, even in some hick town across the country from him? He would use whatever means, go to any lengths to find her, no matter where she ran. And, by God, he would grab her and bring her back to where she belonged. To finish what he’d started with her. No one walked away from him like that. No woman turned her back on him!

  Wes Morgan would rue the day he’d stormed into her life to save her from him. Oh, yes. That bastard would pay, too. With his life.

  Chapter 8

  Wes worked like a fiend for the next several days, mending fences and welding the cattle chutes he would need to inoculate his herd come spring. He cleaned out and repaired the decrepit barn he’d decided to turn into a calving shed, and ran electricity to it so he could hang heat lamps for the new calves. He hauled in fresh, clean straw and filled the barn with a knee-deep layer of the stuff for the cows to be comfortable lying in and the calves to nest in for warmth.

  He never stopped moving, frantic to exhaust himself each day.

  It didn’t help. Every night when he fell into bed sore and worn-out, he still couldn’t get Jessica out of his mind. He still felt her hands roaming seductively down his body, still felt her tight internal muscles gripping him, still heard her muffled cries of ecstasy against his shoulder, felt her shivering in release around him.

  Her pleasure sliced right through him, eviscerating him. It destroyed his resolve. Made him question his sanity in turning his back on her.

  He probably owed her a thank-you for barging into his life and claiming that someone was out to kill them both. It was a stark reminder of how much she loved a good drama. So much so that she would make one up if there wasn’t already one to wallow in. He was so done with all of that. He wanted to be left alone. To live a quiet life. To raise some cattle. Pay the bills. Carve out a place for himself in the world that didn’t depend on anyone else. He was sick and tired of trying to live up to everyone else’s expectations of him. They could all go to hell.

  On the morning of the fourth day after that disastrous night with Jessica, he trudged down to the calving barn a little before dawn to check on the half-dozen cows closest to delivering.

  Cow number 19, according to her ear tag, was down on her side, straining to deliver her calf. One white hoof stuck out, encased in the semitransparent, rubbery amniotic sac. But there was no sign of the other hoof or of a pink nose.

  Crap. The calf must be cast. That was when the head turned to the side instead of entering the birth canal, or one of the legs got stuck facing backward instead of pointing down the birth canal.

  Number 19 gave another push, but it was weak. She was clearly nearing exhaustion. She must have been trying to deliver this calf for a while before Wes found her. Swearing, he yanked off his shirt and quickly sterilized his right arm by splashing it liberally with iodine. He lay down in the straw behind the cow and gently slid his hand inside the birth canal, following the calf’s leg carefully. Nope. No sign of the nose. When he was inside the cow up to nearly his shoulder, he tried to feel around for the nose and missing front foot to guide them into the birth canal.

  No luck.

  Number 19 had another weak contraction. It should have cut off the circulation in his arm, but he barely felt the squeeze. The cow was exhausted and would never deliver this calf without assistance. He backed out of her and pulled out his cell phone. He had no choice. As much as he hated to put himself in debt to his old man, he hated more the idea of losing this cow and her calf. Reluctantly, he hit the speed dial for his father.

  Predictably, John was terse. The man knew Wes would never have called him if it weren’t an emergency, nor at this ungodly early hour. “What’s wrong?”

  “Sorry to wake you so early, Dad. Is that calving vet you were going to hire at your place yet?”

  John answered with the quick alertness of a rancher—or a longtime soldier—sensing a crisis. “She got here yesterday.”

  “Any chance I could borrow her? I’ve got a cow with a cast calf and I can’t straighten out the baby. I need her help.”

  “We’ll be there as fast as we can, son.”

  Crap. He hadn’t particularly wanted his father to come with the vet. The man drove him crazy with his stubbornness, hardheadedness and sheer cussedness. The last time they’d talked it had turned into a shouting match over how Wes had let down John by leaving the Marines so abruptly and under a cloud of scandal. John had made no secret of how disappointed he was in his son, who was supposed to uphold the honor of the family name and serve with distinction.

  It had been frustrating as hell not to be able to share the details of why he’d resigned his commission. But to do so, he would have had to drag Jessica through the mud. And as much as he hated her, it still wasn’t in his DNA to throw anyone—not even a lying, deceitful, selfish woman—to the wolves.

  Not to mention, he really didn’t want his father around to witness his very first cow’s calving go badly. It would not be an auspicious start for his attempt to ranch on his own.

  He made Number 19 as comfortable as he could while he waited for the vet to arrive. Every minute that ticked by was agony for him. He couldn’t stand to see any animal suffer, nor could he afford to lose a single cow or calf. Especially not this first and most vulnerable year financially, before the ranch started producing income.

  He heard a truck rumble up the driveway and prayed the vet had gotten here in time. Number 19 was showing signs of going into shock.

  John and a tall, striking woman who might be part Asian strode into the barn. The woman was carrying a big leather satchel.

  All business, John said, “This is Sherry Hamilton. My new vet. What can we do for you?”

  Thank God. His old man was offering an unspoken truce between them to aid an animal in crisis. No strings attached. Rancher to rancher, here to help.

  Wes started to nod and then froze. A third person walked into the barn. Jessica. What the hell was she doing here?

  He didn’t have time for her right now. He turned to the vet and tersely brought her up to speed. Young cow. First calf. One hoof presenting. No nose or second front foot. Briskly Dr. Hamilton gave Number 19 an injection of a powerful muscle relaxant and donned a plastic surgical sleeve that went to her shoulder.

  “I already tried to palpate her and reposition the calf,” Wes said. “It didn’t work.”

  The vet shrugged. “I want to give it a try before I cut her open. With that muscle relaxant in her, I may have better luck.”

  Wes waited impatiently as the vet slowly and carefully felt around inside the cow. Eventually she announced, “I’ve found the nose. Now I just have to locate that other foot.”

  The cow grunted and began to push weakly as another contraction claimed her.

  “Easy, girl,” Wes crooned. “Let the doctor help you.”

  The cow’s big brown eyes fixed on him, and he continued to speak soothingly to her.

  From the other end, the vet announc
ed quietly, “I’ve got the second foot. The calf’s positioned properly now, but I’ve knocked out your cow. She won’t be able to push out the calf. We’ll have to pull it.”

  John said, “Want me to get a tractor?”

  Wes replied sharply, “No. We’ll try it by hand. I don’t want to rip up the mama any more than I have to, and I don’t want to risk killing the calf if I can avoid it.”

  John shrugged.

  On a ranch the size of Runaway, they might have the luxury of sacrificing a calf to save a cow. But here on Outlaw, every single cow and calf mattered to him. Wes was barely going to make ends meet this year if he was lucky, and if the price of feeder steers stayed halfway decent.

  “Jess, come here and talk to the cow. Rub her forehead and try to keep her attention on you.”

  Looking alarmed, Jessica nonetheless moved to the cow’s head and knelt gamely beside her.

  Wes murmured, “Keep eye contact with her and just talk to her calmly and quietly. She’s pretty drugged up at the moment, but I don’t want her to be too afraid if I can help it. Think of her as a giant, gentle dog.”

  “Got it.” Jessica started talking in a voice so sweet and mellow it would knock him out if he weren’t so damned worried about his cow and calf.

  He moved back beside the veterinarian, who had, indeed, managed to get both front hooves and a pink nose presenting properly. Using a clean towel, he took hold of one of the calf’s front legs above the ankle joint while the vet took hold of the other. Sitting in the straw and bracing their feet against Number 19ꞌs haunches, they began to pull slowly and steadily.

  As if the cow sensed help was at hand, she roused herself to attempt to push. But the humans ended up doing most of the work.

  Wes strained with all his strength, and finally the calf’s shoulders popped free of their constraints. From there, it was one more easy pull to deliver the rest of the red-and-white calf. The vet pulled the amniotic sac free of the baby and went to work examining the placenta to make sure the entire thing had also been delivered properly.

  Meanwhile, Wes rubbed the calf’s sides vigorously and heaved a mighty sigh of relief as the little heifer shook her head and drew her first breaths. Normally, the cow would stand up quickly to bathe and dry the baby, but Wes did the honors for Number 19, who was still resting.

  It took nearly an hour for Number 19 to finally get back on her feet and for Doc Hamilton to declare her none the worse for the rough delivery. All four of the humans backed off and let the little Hereford heifer figure out how to manage four legs and gravity and finally stand up, her legs splayed like a sawhorse. An adorable, fuzzy sawhorse. She took her first tottering steps, collapsed and stood again.

  In a few minutes, the calf was bumping mama’s udder and getting her first meal. Quiet slurping sounds were all that disturbed the early morning silence. Jessica smiled in wide-eyed wonder.

  Wes always felt much the same way at witnessing the birth of a new life. Calving season was hard, but it was his favorite time of year on the ranch. Even his father had a softer than usual look in his eyes.

  “I think we can safely leave mother and daughter to their own devices,” Dr. Hamilton murmured.

  Exhaustion slammed into Wes. The emotional roller coaster of the past two hours had drained him, and pulling that calf had been hard work.

  The humans left the barn and Wes invited everyone up to the house for a cup of coffee. He glanced at Jessica in time to see her look back over her shoulder toward the calving barn, one last look of awe on her face.

  “First time you’ve ever seen an animal born?” he asked her as they strode across the yard.

  She nodded.

  “Pretty miraculous stuff, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” she breathed.

  “Normally, they’re not that rough. Most times, the cow does it all herself and we humans are only spectators.”

  “I’m so glad you were there to help her,” Jessica said fervently.

  He shrugged. “Doc Hamilton saved the day.”

  The vet replied from his other side, “I couldn’t have pulled that calf by myself. She was really wedged in there. You might want to consider breeding to a smaller bull next time. You’d get smaller babies.”

  Wes pulled a face. “I bought these cows already pregnant. And you can be sure I’ll be careful when it comes time to choose my own bull.”

  They went inside, and Jessica shooed him out of the kitchen. “Go take a shower. You’re covered in gunk and straw. I know how to use the coffee maker.”

  The vet excused herself to wash up in the guest bathroom, and Wes retreated to the master bath to take a fast shower. He was disgusted to realize how eager he was to get out of the shower and back to the kitchen, however. He was done with Jessica, dammit.

  Then why was he still smiling over that look on her face as she’d watched the new calf take its first steps? Everyone reacted that way the first time they saw a baby animal born. Jessica’s reaction was nothing special. Except he’d loved seeing that look on her face. Loved sharing this most magical part of life on a ranch with her.

  What in the hell was wrong with him?

  He was just feeling all sappy and sentimental after the scare of nearly losing his first cow and calf. That was all. He steeled his resolve not to respond to Jessica. Not to let her worm her way back into his life. He knew better.

  As they sat around the kitchen table, John commented, “You ought to see what Jessica’s doing with the hunting cabin. It looks like a million bucks. You should let her redo this place.”

  Wes rolled his eyes. “Right now, I’m putting all my money into the cattle.”

  John snorted. “You have a trust fund. Use the damn thing. You can afford to fix up this house and the barns and have ten times as many head of cattle and still have money left over.”

  Wes winced. Sure enough, Jessica’s eyebrows sailed up toward her hairline. He had never let on to her that he came from any kind of money, although that cat was probably out of the bag the minute she’d set foot on Runaway Ranch. The place screamed of wealth. But it was not his home anymore.

  This place—as crappy as it was—belonged to him and him alone, bought and paid for with money he’d saved over the course of his entire military career.

  He got up from the kitchen table and carried a handful of coffee mugs over to the sink. Jessica set the coffeepot down beside him and murmured under her voice, “A trust fund, huh? Why’d you always give me so much crap about mine, then?”

  “You use yours.”

  “Why don’t you use yours?”

  He glanced over at her, his eyes narrowed. “Because I give a damn about being my own person.”

  She retreated from the sink looking stung. Good. The sooner she was out of his house and out of his life, the better. He hadn’t been kidding when he’d called her poison and an addiction.

  Thankfully, John, the vet and Jessica loaded up in John’s truck soon after that, saving him from any more awkward revelations by his father or any more unpleasant exchanges with Jessica.

  Except as the truck disappeared from view, a sense of loneliness washed over him. What was the point of building all of this if he was never going to share it with anyone? He looked around the yard at his ramshackle barns and even more ramshackle house and seriously wondered if he’d done the right thing. Maybe he should have kept right on going when he’d hit the city limits of Sunny Creek a few months ago. Maybe he would be better off far, far away from here. Away from his family. Away from Jessica and her damned, irresistible sex appeal.

  * * *

  After her eventful morning and upsetting exchange with Wes, Jessica decided to head for Hillsdale and do a little shopping for the cabin. Miranda and John had agreed on a color palette of mossy greens and light woods, and she needed to pick a fabric for the vintage sofa Charlotte had found for her yesterday and ag
reed to reupholster.

  Why hadn’t Wes ever mentioned that he had all the money he could ever want? He’d always insisted on paying for their dates and had refused to let her take him on any expensive vacations or buy him extravagant gifts because he couldn’t reciprocate in kind. But he could have all along! How hypocritical was that?

  Sure, he had issues with his father. And having met John, she could see how the man could be overbearing. Lord knew, her own father was at least as domineering and controlling as John Morgan, if not more so. If her trust fund had come from him instead of her mother, would she have been less inclined to use it?

  Nah. She would have wanted to burn through his money to punish him. But then, she was vindictive that way. Wes wasn’t. She supposed she could see how he would refuse to take handouts from his father.

  She’d been driving for perhaps twenty minutes when she heard a loud bang. Startled, she swerved a little. Another bang, and her car swerved on its own this time. Hard. The distinctive flapping-rubber-on-concrete noise of a blown tire made her groan. She eased onto the brakes and fought the steering wheel grimly as the little car fishtailed wildly. It took several long, heart-stopping seconds to wrestle it to a stop.

  Well, hell. Good thing her daddy was a Marine who believed in preparedness. He’d taught her how to change a tire well before she’d even gotten a driver’s license. She climbed out of the car and headed for the trunk. Just as she bent over to lift out the tire, something metallic pinged above her head. She looked up, startled, and spied a tiny hole in her lifted trunk hood.

  She dropped to the ground instinctively. Nope, she hadn’t been raised by a Marine for nothing. That was a freaking bullet hole!

  Replaying the noises of the last minute in her head, she decided that the gunshots had been coming from behind her. She crawled frantically around the side of the car, using it for cover from the shooter.