Cowboy's Secret Son

by Robin Perini

  “Jared King.” She tested it aloud for the first time. “So he really is a cowboy?” Courtney sagged in her chair, her body going limp with disbelief. That’s one she wouldn’t have guessed until she’d seen his image a week ago. And definitely not based on the Armani suit he’d worn all too perfectly that weekend at the Waldorf Astoria. The Stetson, flannel shirt and well-worn jeans had been her one holdout of hope that she’d been wrong.

  “Yes and no. He lives on a ranch that’s been in his family for generations. It’s on the outskirts of a small town called Carder in the southwestern part of Texas.” Joe Botelli shifted in his seat. “Several years ago oil was discovered on his property. He went from scraping by to being one of the wealthiest men in Texas. The money didn’t change his lifestyle much from what I can tell. He still spends most of his time working the cattle ranch and supplying stock to rodeos.”

  She could hardly wrap her brain around his words. Cattle, rodeo? The closest she’d ever been to either was flipping through channels on late night television and landing on an old 1940s Roy Rogers movie.

  “Is...is he married?” she asked, trying not to reveal her nerves—or her fear. After her mother had died, she’d learned never to expose her thoughts or emotions, to maintain control and dignity at all times. Hopefully the skill would keep Botelli with the discerning gaze from realizing her true vulnerability. She’d taken a huge risk asking a stranger to investigate Jared King. Right now she had to wonder what she’d opened in the proverbial Pandora’s box.

  “Widower.”

  Jared had lost his wife. Her heart quivered in sympathy—and foreboding. What if he wanted...? She couldn’t let her mind go there.

  The PI leaned back in his chair as if he couldn’t care less about her or the devastation his information had caused. “Do you want me to continue digging?”

  Courtney gripped the folder in her hand as if her future depended on its content.

  In truth, it did. Every fact she digested from the dossier would make Jared King more real. More dangerous. But she couldn’t fall apart here. “His address is inside?” she asked.

  At the man’s nod, Courtney opened her three-year-old Prada purse and slid an envelope of cash across the table. No need to create a record of this transaction. She didn’t plan on seeing the private investigator again. She’d shred his card when she arrived home. “Thank you.”

  The PI’s brow arched, but he pocketed the money and stood. “If you need anything else—”

  “I won’t.”

  At her terse response, he gave a sharp nod, rose from the table and exited the coffee shop. Courtney barely noticed him leaving. She couldn’t stop staring at the folder. For so long she’d dreaded—and wished for—this day.

  Her phone dinged. A text came through.

  Come home. Trouble.

  The oddly curt message from her housekeeper closed her throat. Courtney clasped her neck. She couldn’t breathe. The barista called out her order, but Courtney ignored the announcement. She had to get home. Without a backward glance, she raced out of the coffeehouse and flagged a taxi.

  Panicked, she dialed home.

  No answer.

  Without a second thought she called her assistant to inform her she wouldn’t be returning to the museum.

  The cab swerved through traffic. Courtney took in a slow, deep breath. Perhaps she was overreacting. Since recognizing Jared, she’d been a rigid ball of nerves.

  Despite logic trying to convince her everything was fine, her heart raced, slamming against her chest. She fought through the dread and clutched the door handle.

  Luckily traffic was lighter than normal. The moment the taxi stopped in front of her building, she threw a hundred-dollar bill at the surprised cabby and jumped out.

  “Good day, Ms. Jamison,” the doorman commented, holding the heavy glass open for her.

  Unlike normal, she couldn’t muster a smile or chitchat. Ignoring Reggie’s furrowed brow of concern, she hit the button for the elevator.

  She slipped the key card into the penthouse lock, but the familiar click didn’t sound. The door silently eased open.

  “Marilyn?” she called. “What’s wrong?”

  Courtney skidded to a halt. Her sitter lay on the living room floor, eyes staring unblinking and lifeless at the ceiling. Blood pooled around her head, seeping into her gray hair.

  She dropped to her knees, her finger slipping through the blood when she searched for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  Only a split second passed before the shock leached into Courtney’s throat. “Dylan!” Courtney tore through the living area, searching frantically. Where was her son? She grabbed the fireplace poker and gripped it tight before racing into her baby’s bedroom.

  She froze.

  The crib had been overturned, the chest of drawers upended, clothes strewn across the floor.

  Courtney whirled around. Her gaze landed on the closet door. Her stomach rolled and bile rose in her throat. Was the murderer still there? Did he have her baby?

  She picked her way through the chaos, clutching her makeshift weapon with both hands. She reached out, barely able to breathe.

  Terrified of what she’d see, unable to stop the horrifying images flying through her mind, she yanked open the door and flipped on the light.

  Her knees gave way.

  Empty.

  “Dylan, where are you?”

  She begged for a jabber a laugh, even a cry, but nothing. Within minutes she’d searched the rest of the apartment. Only one room left. Her room.

  She slammed through the door and froze. In the center of the perfectly pristine bed lay her nine-month old son, pillows penning him in a makeshift crib on the bed.

  He wasn’t moving.

  Courtney’s heart stopped. She raced over to her heart and soul, terrified of what she might find. She leaned over the peaceful countenance and her body went limp.

  “Dylan?” Courtney’s hand shook. The fireplace iron thudded to the floor. She reached out to touch her baby boy’s face.

  Her son’s chest rose and fell. He was alive.

  Choking back a sob of relief, Courtney scooped up her son with noodle-like arms. The movement caused Dylan to screw up his face and let out a loud yell.

  “What happened, baby?” She glanced around the room, but nothing else appeared to be out of place.

  Her gaze landed on Dylan’s stuffed lamb sitting on one pillow. A sheet of paper was pinned to the toy. She scanned the words in horror.

  If we wanted to kidnap him, your son would be gone.

  If we wanted to kill him, your son would be dead.

  When we come back, we WILL take him. We WILL kill him.

  Unless we receive $3,680,312.00.

  We will call you with instructions.

  If you contact the police or FBI, he will die.

  If you don’t get us the money within 72 hours, he will die.

  Don’t try to be smart. You can’t hide from us.

  With a shuddering breath, Courtney tried to comprehend what she was reading. The strange amount of money, the taunting threats. Nothing made sense.

  She gazed into Dylan’s one brown eye and one green eye, trying to smile with reassurance, all the while backing toward the door. “We have to get you out of here.”

  Bundling up the diaper bag, Courtney raced out of the apartment with one last sorrowful glance at Marilyn. What kind of monster would kill the sweet woman who loved Dylan so much?

  She hugged her child close. “I’ll keep you safe, Jelly Bean. I promise.”

  * * *

  ALMOST TWO HOURS LATER, the car service’s Mercedes pulled up in front of her father’s Greenwich, Connecticut, mansion. Courtney turned her cell phone over and over in her hand. Her thumb hovered over the emergency key. For the thousandth time on the ride there, she conside
red calling law enforcement.

  Something had stopped her once again. Maybe it was all those television programs that showed how easy it was to hack a phone call. She couldn’t take the risk. Not with Jelly Bean. The kidnapper had come into her home. Had touched her baby boy. Had killed Marilyn.

  A shiver vibrated down her arms. Part of her kept telling herself this couldn’t be happening. Threats like this were the stuff of crime novels and television shows, and yet every time she reread the note and pictured poor Marilyn lying on the floor of her penthouse, she knew it was her reality.

  Which was why she was about to make an unprecedented request. Courtney rubbed her eyes. She’d never gone to her father with an open hand, but she didn’t know where else to turn. Her job, the penthouse, everything but her salary was part of her grandmother’s trust specifically created to fund the museum. She didn’t have the money to pay the murderer what he wanted.

  She had to believe her father would give her what she needed. He had to. Even though he’d been furious—not to mention disappointed—when she’d found herself pregnant and had refused to name the father.

  She’d been too embarrassed to tell him she didn’t know the man’s name.

  “You getting out or what?” the driver asked from the front seat.

  Courtney nodded and unbuckled the car seat. She rounded the vehicle to retrieve Dylan, and the driver met her at the door. He opened it and she grabbed the carrier, careful not to jar the baby.

  “How much do I owe you—?”

  The man shook his head. “It’s been taken care of. I was asked to give you this when we arrived.” He handed her a padded envelope. Before she could open it, he jumped into the Mercedes and screeched out of the driveway.

  One look and her gut sank. She recognized the handwriting on the label. She lowered Dylan to the ground and gently tore open the envelope. She pulled out a phone with a sticky note attached.

  Keep the phone with you.

  Keep your silence. Especially from your father.

  And don’t forget, you can’t hide from us. We’ll always find you.

  The note crinkled in her grasp. How did he know so much? The words blurred on the paper. Her knees shook; her legs quivered. She nearly sank to the ground. Her gaze whipped to the now empty driveway. Was the driver blackmailing her? She shook her head. Somehow she doubted it. He wouldn’t have wanted to show his face. Besides, he’d said someone else had paid him.

  The blackmailers had made their point clear, though. She’d better follow his instructions exactly. No police, no law enforcement. She couldn’t imagine what the cops would think when they found Marilyn. She’d considered phoning in an anonymous tip, but she couldn’t risk being arrested. Not before she was certain Dylan was safe.

  “Okay, you can do this. You can do anything for Dylan.” She shoved the phone into her pocket and stumbled through the front door of the mansion. The eight-thousand-square-foot home had been in the family for four generations, the money originated from more than a few deals with Andrew Carnegie.

  Courtney had never ruminated on her family’s money much. It had always just been there. She’d never been more thankful for the privilege than she was today.

  She glanced at her son. Today the money she’d always taken for granted would save Dylan.

  She refused to consider that the first payment wouldn’t be enough to get rid of the blackmailer. One step at a time.

  The foyer’s Baccarat chandelier glittered high above her, though the butler didn’t appear out of nowhere like he usually did.

  “Fitz?” she called.

  No response. How strange.

  “Clarissa? Burbank? Anyone here?”

  Her footsteps echoed on the marble floor. Where was the rest of the staff?

  A horrific possibility hit her squarely in the chest. What if the killer had come here. Oh God.

  She started to run from room to room. No. This wasn’t right. Bare rooms, boxes, paintings missing.

  “F-father?” she called, her voice shaky. She opened the door to her mother’s old sitting room. The blank space on the wall slammed into her. The Degas painting her mother had purchased just before her death was gone.

  “Father!” she shouted again.

  “In the library.” Her father’s voice filtered through the deserted hallways.

  Something was wrong. He sounded strange, his words slurred. Courtney hurried through the double doors. A stack of boxes littered the floor. He huddled behind his mahogany desk, staring across the room as if in a trance. A half-empty bottle of cognac sat at his elbow, an empty old-fashioned Waterford glass directly in front of him.

  Carefully, she set Dylan down on the floor and ran to her father. “What’s going on?” Was he actually leaving their family home? It didn’t make sense.

  He shoved his hand through his already mussed hair and cleared his throat. “I should’ve called you sooner.” He let out a long sigh.

  She studied his bleary gaze. Drinking again. Why wasn’t she surprised? “Father, I don’t mean to be rude, but right now I need your help. For Dylan. We need three million dollars.”

  He blinked up at her, confusion lacing his eyes. He reached for the century-old bottle, poured four fingers and swigged it down. “No.”

  She couldn’t have heard him right. “You don’t understand. Please. I’ll move out of the penthouse. I’ll find somewhere else to live. But I need that money.” Panic raised her voice. He had to help. She didn’t want to reveal the threat. She couldn’t afford for her father to contact the FBI or the cops. He always wanted to fix everything. Had made it his mission to protect her from the time her mother had died.

  “It wouldn’t matter,” he said. “I’m sorry. So very, very sorry.”

  “What are you talking about?” She gripped the lapel of his coat. “I haven’t asked for anything since I started working. I make my own way—”

  He pressed a finger over her lips and gazed at her with bloodshot eyes.

  “I’d give you the money if I could, Courtney. You don’t know how much I wish I could, but I can’t.” He looked away. “All the money is gone.”

  Chapter Two

  Spring didn’t bring new beginnings to Last Chance Ranch; it choked ’em dry in the West Texas sun. Jared King had learned long ago that his family’s cattle spread richly deserved its name. It had for six generations.

  Now, he even had to fight his north-side neighbor, Ned Criswell, for water that was rightfully theirs. A never ending feud he’d tried to escape for years.

  When Jared had volunteered for the Army at eighteen, he’d been convinced he would never succumb to the ranch’s bad karma. What a young fool he’d been. After being discharged he’d brought home a beautiful young wife and pretended he could find hope where only despair had dug in roots. After Alyssa’s death, he’d finally given in to whatever mojo the half-million acres possessed. He wouldn’t try to buck destiny again.

  He tilted his Stetson against the afternoon glare and hooked his boot on the sturdy rail of the bull pen. He leveled the dead-cold stare that would have sent his ranch hands quaking and running for cover on Ned Criswell and his no-good son. The two burley men refused to back off. “You can’t keep that river dammed up. Last Chance Lake is down several feet already.”

  Ned’s face turned beet red, and he stuck out his barrel chest. “The water stays on my side of the property line until you stop those company men from traipsing across my land.”

  Jared head throbbed. They’d replayed this scene countless time over the years. The bad blood between the families stretched back decades, but Ned Criswell had become even more ruthless. And relentless. He might actually do it, just to get back at Jared’s father, even though he’d passed away years ago.

  The son, on the other hand, Chuck Criswell was all about the money. And the power.

  “The water’
s running low for my cattle,” Jared said, fighting to keep his tone reasonable for the moment. “You don’t want to take this fight any further, Ned. You know I’ll win.”

  “My father has as many friends in Austin as you do. We want what’s coming to us.” Chuck spit a wad of tobacco on the ground.

  “Shut up,” Ned said, glaring at his son.

  Even with the same goal, the two men couldn’t show a united front. A sure way to lose. Jared was fine with that.

  A loud snort sounded from the enclosure next to them. Chuck scooted away from the fence. “That bull is a menace.” He frowned. “You shouldn’t have saved him.”

  Sometimes Jared agreed. Angel Maker had earned his name. He’d nearly gored a half dozen of Jared’s best hands. The black bull from hell pawed at the dirt, giving Jared the evil eye. He’d saved the bad-tempered beast from being put down after a deadly episode at the San Antonio Rodeo earlier this year. The bull’s bloodline would solidify Jared’s place as the premier stock supplier for the Professional Bull Riders rodeo circuit. His money might come from oil and gas now, but at his heart he was still a rancher, and the rodeo was in his blood.

  Besides, Jared had a penchant for lost causes...at least those that didn’t touch his heart.

  Angel Maker butted his head against the fence. This time Ned joined his son, away from the pen. Jared bit back a smile. If the animal had wanted to do any real damage that pen wouldn’t stop him. “He likes you.”

  The older man bit out a curse. “You gonna say something to those oil guys or not?”

  “You signed a contract. They have a right to cross your land on the road.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  Yeah. He wanted more money. Jared recognized the gleam in Ned’s eye. The Criswells had a weakness for gambling—and Chuck had developed a rep for being particularly unlucky. Rumor had it that between the football play-offs, Super Bowl and the latest NCAA basketball tournament, the Criswells had cleaned out their bank accounts.

  “If you don’t knock down that dam, Ned. I’ll do it for you.”