Wanted!

by JoAnn Ross

  Wanted!

  By

  JoAnn Ross

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  The Men of Whiskey River Rough, tough and sexy

  Rory Mannion: Old-fashioned, macho hero. Only county attorney Jessica Ingersoll knows exactly how old-fashioned and macho this guy is. She finds herself wanting him and a future together. But Rory is on a mission to avenge a murder over a hundred years old, one that could still get him killed…

  Clint Garvey: A typical cowboy—quiet and determined. Clint doesn't talk about the tragedies he's experienced, about losing the only woman he'd ever loved and being arrested for her murder. Everyone in Whiskey River knows about it and respects his privacy. Everyone except beautiful, impetuous Sunny. One day she just arrives at his house, claiming she's going to rescue him… Ambushed, December 1996.

  Gavin Thomas: As a writer, Gavin is able to imagine a lot of possibilities, but Tara Delaney catches him off guard. She pretends to be very straitlaced and proper, but he can sense a passion burning beneath. One he wants to untame. Untamed, October 1996.

  Three Real Western Heroes

  Unforgettable

  Author of over fifty novels, JoAnn Ross wrote her first story—a romance about two star-crossed mallard ducks—when she was just seven years old. She sold her first romance novel in 1982 and now has over eight million copies of her books in print. Her novels have been published in twenty-seven countries, including Japan, Hungary, Czech Republic and Turkey. JoAnn married her high school sweetheart—twice— and makes her home near Phoenix, Arizona.

  Books by JoAnn Ross

  HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

  537—NEVER A BRIDE (Bachelor Arms)

  541—FOR RICHER OR POORER (Bachelor Arms)

  545—THREE GROOMS AND A WEDDING (Bachelor Arms)

  562—PRIVATE PASSIONS

  585—THE OUTLAW

  605—UNTAMED (Men of Whiskey River)

  ISBN 0-373-25709-0

  WANTED!

  Copyright © 1996 by JoAnn Ross.

  Prologue

  Whiskey River, Arizona Territory

  1896

  It was the smoke that first captured his attention. Hovering low on the horizon, the thick gray cloud was at odds with the blindingly bright day.

  Rory Mannion muttered an oath and stiffened in his saddle, drawing a complaint from his bay mare, who tossed her black mane and sidestepped nervously. Having grown close to this man who'd rescued her from her brutal previous owner, she could sense his misgiving. And, more unsettling yet, his fear.

  "Easy, Belle," he crooned, leaning forward to stroke her scarred auburn neck. "Everything's all right, sweetheart."

  But his voice lacked conviction. Because deep in his gut, Rory knew better. He began galloping toward the smoke.

  The ride took a mere ten minutes, but seemed an eternity, giving him time to think. He remembered, in vivid detail, how his bride had looked three days ago when he'd left her. Her thistledown blond hair, which she always wore in a tidy braid to bed, had been a golden cloud around her shoulders, which beneath her white muslin nightdress he knew to be as smooth and white as a field of new-fallen snow. But much, much warmer.

  Although she'd tried to put on a brave front, her morning glory blue eyes had been bright with unshed tears and her voice had cracked as she'd begged him to be careful.

  In an attempt to reassure her, he'd told her not to worry. "Your husband is a lot smarter than Jack Clayton. I promise he won't kill me."

  Emilie's trembling lips had tried to hold a smile but she had shaken her head, unconvinced. She knew how evil Clayton was; her own father had been one of his innocent victims.

  She'd told him jokingly that the next time she had him in a weakened condition, she would steal his shackles and manacle him to their four-poster bed to ensure that he'd never be able to leave her again.

  Rory could understand why a new bride would want to keep her husband safely at home, but he also knew she understood that as marshall of Arizona Territory it was his job to bring the notorious hired gun to justice.

  He'd bent his head and kissed her, a long, slow, deep kiss. He remembered how the scent of lilacs emanating from her fragrant flesh had filled his head, threatening to cloud his mind. How the soft little sounds she had made as she'd pressed against him so tightly the faintest breeze couldn't have come between them, had almost eroded his resolve.

  As he'd reluctantly managed to put her a little away from him, the tears had overbrimmed her eyes, and for the first time in his life, Rory had felt like bawling himself.

  He'd watched his bride of three weeks struggle for calm, uncomfortable with the depth of emotion that ripped at his heart. He loved Emilie Cartwright Mannion, worshiped her and could not imagine living without her. "I promise, I'll be back before you know it. Safe and sound."

  And although he'd known he was playing with fire, he'd ducked his head one more time to give her a swift hot kiss, then before he could succumb to temptation, had released her and swung astride his mare.

  Rory had not looked back. There'd been no need. Because the sight of his bride, standing there in her lacy virginal white nightdress, looking so forlorn and alone, tears streaming silently down her face, was frozen in his mind, like one of the photographs for which she and her father had garnered so much fame.

  That three-day-old picture flashed before Rory's pained eyes again as he viewed his house—the cozy Cape Cod cottage he'd built for his homesick Boston-born bride-to-be, despite the fact that it looked so damn ridiculous here in Arizona—engulfed in flames fanned by the stiff high country wind.

  Rory knew, with every fiber of his being, that the fire was Black Jack's doing.

  "Emilie!" The raw anguish in his shout reverberated against the towering red rocks behind the cabin. Sunset stained the wide blue sky a bloody crimson.

  An instant later the crack of a rifle shot echoed. When he felt the burning in his back, Rory cursed viciously. And as he slid bonelessly off the mare onto the hard ground, he vowed that Black Jack Clayton would pay for his crimes.

  And somehow, whether in this life or the next, he was going to avenge his precious Emilie's brutal murder.

  1

  Whiskey River, Arizona

  The Present

  "I don't like this." Sheriff Trace Callahan leaned back in his chair and eyed the woman seated across the desk with very real concern.

  "I'm not exactly wild about it, myself," Jessica Ingersoll murmured. Her eyes and her voice remained absolutely calm, but knowing her well, Trace wasn't fooled. The quick swish of silk on silk as she crossed her legs for the third time in as many minutes revealed her nervousness.

  "But there's nothing we can do," she reminded him. "According to a jury of his peers, Eric Chapmann is an innocent man. He's free to live wherever he wants."

  "The guy's an amoral rapist who nearly killed some poor kid because she made the mistake of letting the small-town rodeo hotshot get her drunk. And then, when she threatens to turn him in, he burns down her house. I don't want the son of a bitch living in my town."

  "As for anyone thinking he's an innocent man, as a prosecuting attorney, you know as well as I do that there's a helluva difference between being declared not guilty and being innocent."

  "Granted," Jessica conceded. "Unfortunately, however we feel personally, the fact remains that I blew this case, so Chapmann goes free."

  "You didn't blow it. That sleazy eastern lawyer Chapmann's daddy brought in to defend him was so good at smoke-and-mirrors tactics, the jury couldn't tell the difference between insignificant little deta
ils and rock solid evidence. You didn't stand a chance."

  "I should have used more razzle-dazzle myself," Jessica said. She knew the verdict would still stick in her craw when she was a silver-haired old lady reduced to getting her daily courtroom fix by watching "Court TV" in the nursing home lounge. The case accusing the handsome young heir to a ranching dynasty of date rape, arson and attempted murder had garnered headlines all around the southwest.

  Despite her best efforts, the jury had taken one look at the girl in question—a skinny, not very appealing waitress at Buster's Barbecue—and decided there was no way that a young man with everything going for him would have to resort to raping such a woman. After the trial, one juror—a grizzled old cowhand in his seventies—had stated that the girl ought to be damn grateful a good-looking, wealthy guy like Chapmann was even willing to take her to bed.

  "You did great," Trace corrected. "It was the system that failed on this one, Jess. Not you."

  "Thank you, Trace. I needed to hear that. Even if it was from a biased source." She sighed and smiled at him. Then crossed her legs again.

  "And you're right. Monday morning quarterbacking never solved a thing." It also didn't erase the physical and emotional scars the young woman, who'd spent three painful months in a Phoenix burn center, would carry for the rest of her life.

  "Too bad he didn't make a run for it when I went out to the Chapmann ranch to arrest the bastard," Trace muttered. "I could have just shot him and done everyone a favor."

  "You wouldn't have killed a man in cold blood."

  "No. But if I aimed right, I sure could have made certain he never raped a girl again." He paused, thinking about the rumors that had been running rampant since last week's verdict. "I was talking with Mariah last night," he began slowly, knowing ahead of time what Jessica's reaction would be.

  "It's always nice for a husband and wife to be on speaking terms."

  "She had a suggestion."

  "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

  "She's worried about you. As am I. So, we'd both like you to come stay at the ranch."

  "I see." Jessica pretended to mull that one over. "I've always admired Mariah, but inviting your former lover to move in with the two of you is definitely proof that she's even more broad-minded than I'd thought."

  "She knows I love her," Trace said simply.

  "And she knows you didn't love me." Jessica had to smile at his distressed expression. "Relax, Callahan. What we had was great. But it wasn't the happily-ever-after, until-death-do-you-part kind of relationship you and Mariah are fortunate enough to share."

  "I'm a lucky guy," he agreed, his eyes warming as he thought of his gorgeous, sexy, talented wife who was, at this moment, undoubtedly working away on her latest screenplay in her office just off their bedroom. That idea led to another. Perhaps, Trace decided, he'd go home early.

  "Extremely lucky," Jessica agreed. "And please, thank Mariah for the offer, but I'm not going to let the two of you put me away in protective custody."

  "The guy told people he was going to teach you a lesson," Trace reminded her.

  She shrugged her silk-clad shoulders. "He's just another jailhouse braggart."

  "He said the same thing to his lawyer." The hotshot attorney may have been a slime bucket, but he'd risked his license by breaching attorney-client privilege to warn Trace about the threats before returning to his cushy Manhattan penthouse law offices.

  "Chapmann's a pathological liar," Jessica countered. "I wouldn't believe a single Word the creep said."

  "I do."

  That flat, no-nonsense tone garnered her reluctant attention. "All right," she said with a frustrated huff of breath, "I'll admit that I'm a little concerned. But I'm not going to give him any power over my life, Trace. And as much as I truly appreciate the offer, moving in with you and Mariah would be doing exactly that."

  His handsome face revealed his dissatisfaction. And his reluctant acceptance. "I told Mariah that's what you'd say."

  "And?"

  "Hell, she knew it, too. But she figured we ought to give it our best shot." He dragged his hand through his hair as he considered the unlikely friendship that had sprung up between the two women who both meant so much to him. "How about at least coming to dinner?"

  "So Mariah can have a chance at changing my mind?"

  "No. I promise, the subject won't come up."

  "Ah, so now you're claiming control over your wife. Isn't that just like a man?" This time Jessica's laugh was rich and bold. It had once possessed the power to stir his blood. These days he was able to admire it on a purely objective basis. He also thought it was a damn shame it was wasted on him.

  "You need to get married."

  "What?" She crossed her legs again and stared at him. "Where in the world did that come from?"

  "I don't know." Uncomfortable at having blurted out his thoughts, Trace shrugged. "It's just that you're a beautiful woman, Jess. And smart, and dedicated, and sexy as hell—" His voice drifted off as the devilish gleam that had suddenly come into her eyes reminded him exactly how sexy. "It just seems such a waste."

  "Perhaps to you." She stood up and smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles in her forest green silk skirt. It was late in the afternoon, but she still looked as good as she had when she'd shown up for their breakfast meeting at the Branding Iron Cafe at seven-thirty that morning. Trace had often accused her of spraying herself with Teflon before leaving the house in the morning.

  "But as I once told Mariah, I have no intention of getting married." She went around the desk and gave him a brief, friendly kiss on the cheek. "I much prefer the idea of being your kids' crotchety old-maid godmother."

  That said, she waggled her fingers. "Good night, Trace. Give your lovely wife my love."

  "What about dinner?"

  "I've got a hot date."

  "Oh?" He pretended uninterest even as he knew Mariah would be relentless in grilling him for details when he got home. "Anyone I know?"

  Jessica grinned at him from the doorway. "Orville Redenbacher and Brad Pitt. I rented Legends of the Fall for the umpteenth time and plan to pig out on popcorn and lust after the fair-haired blue-eyed boy."

  It was, she told herself as she drove home from the courthouse, a perfect evening. She might even open that bottle of champagne stashed away in the refrigerator. The one from the attorney general, anticipating her win in the Chapmann case.

  That idea sent feelings of anger and frustration surging through her.

  "No!" She slammed her hand down on the steering wheel. "This is your night for some long overdue pampering. You're not going to rehash old cases, or even think about work. You deserve this."

  Pep talk over, and eager to begin her uncharacteristic night of indulgence, she stepped on the gas, risking a speeding ticket. As she neared her house, located on the outskirts of town, she saw something lying across the road. At first glance, she thought it was a coyote that had been a bit too slow in crossing the road, but after a longer second look she realized the prone shape was a man. She slammed her foot down on the brake pedal and at the same time twisted the steering wheel.

  There was a screech of rubber on pavement, along with the acrid odor of smoke. Then the car shuddered to a sudden stop only inches from the man's outstretched arm.

  Her heart pounding painfully against her chest, Jessica unfastened her seat belt and left the car like a shot.

  He was, thank goodness, alive. She knelt down beside him and pressed her fingertips against his throat. His pulse was weak, which wasn't surprising considering the vast pool of blood he was lying in. The huge knot on his forehead was already turning a vivid magenta and blue. His eyes were closed, his lashes—so thick and curly they were wasted on a male, she thought fleetingly—rested on cheeks the unhealthy hue of ashes.

  Her well-trained, logical, lawyer's mind clicked in, and her eyes swept the area for evidence as she ran back to her car to dial 911. Then she returned to the unconscious man and held him in her arms, not mindi
ng the blood that was staining her jacket and skirt as she murmured words of encouragement.

  "It'll be okay," she said over and over again. "You'll be okay."

  Although the ambulance arrived within six minutes, the wait seemed an eternity. Trace, who'd been on his way home, arrived just as the paramedics were transferring their unconscious patient into a helicopter.

  Jessica explained how she'd nearly hit him. "If it had been just ten minutes later, it would have been dark enough that I might have run right over him."

  "Lucky for him you didn't."

  She frowned as she looked down at the pool of blood that was soaking into the asphalt. "Considering the shape the guy's in, I wouldn't exactly call him lucky. Did the paramedics tell you he was wearing a gun?"

  "Yeah." Trace nodded. "One of them said it looked like one of those replicas of the old Colt peacemaker they sell at the gun shows."

  She thought about that. "Perhaps he was taking part in some sort of reenactment?"

  "I'm going to have J.D. check out the clubs and resorts in the county and see if any of them put on a Wild West show today."

  "Good idea." The helicopter took off, the violent wind from the rotors whipping her tawny hair across her face. Jessica watched as the red running lights winked away. "I assume you're going to the Medical Center in Flagstaff to question him."

  "That's the plan."

  "I want to go with you."

  He looked down at her with surprise. "I thought you had a hot date." His own hot date with his wife, Trace thought with resignation, would have to wait.

  "Brad's going to have to wait. I nearly killed a man, Trace." Her hazel eyes were as serious as he'd ever seen them. "I want to know—need to know—that he'll be all right."