Native Cowboy

by Rita Herron

  But Mason caught him and they fought again. Nacona slugged him in the face; blood trickled down Mason’s nose. But the sound of Cara’s crying fueled his rage and adrenaline kicked in.

  He flipped Nacona onto his back, then slammed the butt of the gun against his head so hard the man’s eyes rolled back in his head.

  Teeth clenched, he hurriedly searched to make sure he didn’t have another weapon on him, then removed the handcuffs inside his jacket, dragged the man toward a tree and handcuffed him to one of the large sturdy branches.

  A sound of pain ripped through the air, Cara’s scream, and he raced to the teepee to her.

  * * *

  CARA REMINDED HERSELF to breathe, that other women had delivered their babies alone and survived.

  But another contraction told her it was time to push, and tears spilled from her eyes. What if something went wrong? What if Nacona took her little boy and hurt him?

  What if he killed her, and she never got the chance to hold him and love him and raise him?

  Suddenly the flap door of the teepee moved, and she swallowed hard to keep from screaming at the man who’d kidnapped her. “Please, don’t hurt my son.”

  “I won’t.” The sound of the man’s voice jarred her, and she looked up and saw Mason’s face poking through the doorway.

  “Mason,” she whispered.

  He fell to his knees in front of her. “I’m here, Cara, it’s going to be all right.”

  “But Nacona—”

  “He’s alive and handcuffed to a tree,” Mason said, although his dark tone indicated he would just as soon have killed the man.

  Cara nodded, but there wasn’t time to say more. She felt as if she was ripping in two. “He’s coming now,” she said, her voice laced with panic.

  “Just tell me what to do,” Mason said calmly.

  His reassuring tone and soothing hand on hers sent a wave of emotion through her. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “I can’t believe we’re having a baby,” he said with a twitch of a smile.

  The pain intensified. “Help me get these pants off,” she said.

  Mason nodded and worked quickly to remove the garment, then she hiked her knees up. “I have to push. Can you find something clean to put under me for the baby?”

  He nodded, removed his jacket then noticed a duffel bag inside the teepee.

  “It’s his,” Cara said. “He might have supplies.”

  Cold rage swept through Mason. The SOB had been prepared to watch Cara deliver, then what would he have done?

  “Mason, hurry,” Cara whispered.

  He shook himself out of the moment, raced over to the bag. Just as she’d predicted, there were towels inside, along with a baby blanket and surgical scissors.

  He brought them all to Cara, then laid towels beneath her. She gripped her knees and began to push.

  “I see his head,” Mason shouted.

  “Good.” Cara relaxed for a moment, then braced herself again and pushed once more. Pain rocked her body, but excitement made her bear down and push again.

  “His head is out,” Mason said.

  “When you see his shoulders, gently take them and help him,” Cara instructed.

  Mason nodded, his gaze meeting hers. Love for him overwhelmed her at the depth of feeling in his expressive eyes.

  She had to get their baby here.

  She bore down, gritted her teeth and gave it her best effort. Suddenly she felt her son slip from her body.

  “I have him!” Mason shouted. “He’s here.”

  Cara listened for a cry, and panicked when she didn’t hear it. “Turn him over and massage his chest,” she said. “Make sure he’s breathing.”

  For a moment fear darkened Mason’s eyes, but he did as she said, and a second later, the sound of her baby’s cry rang out.

  It was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard.

  Then Mason wiped off the baby, wrapped him in the blanket and placed him in her arms.

  Cara kissed her son on the forehead, tears of joy blurring her eyes as Mason moved up beside her.

  “I’m going to name him Maska,” Cara said as she looked up at him. “It means that he’s strong.”

  Mason tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, touched that she’d chosen a Native American name. “Strong like his mama.” Then he pressed a kiss to the baby’s head and cradled them both in his arms.

  Cara curled up against him, grateful they had all survived.

  * * *

  MASON WAS SO MOVED by the sight of his baby in Cara’s arms that he couldn’t speak. He wanted to promise her that he’d love her and his son and take care of them forever.

  But reality interceded when he heard Nacona chanting in their Native language. “I’m going to call an ambulance and the sheriff,” Mason said.

  Cara caught his arm as if she didn’t want him to leave. But he had to.

  Nacona had to be arrested and she needed an ambulance.

  She nestled the baby to her breast and Mason swallowed, the image moving something inside him that he’d never felt before. An unbelievably strong bond and protective instinct that would never die.

  Memorizing the moment in his mind, he stepped outside, and made the call.

  But anxiety tugged at him as he waited on the ambulance and sheriff. He and Cara still hadn’t discussed their situation.

  In fact, he had no idea where his place would be in her life or his son’s.

  He only knew that he wanted to be with them.

  But how could he be a family man and do his job?

  Even if he figured out a way to make it work, could Cara forgive him for not believing in them in the first place?

  * * *

  CARA HAD NEVER FELT so emotional in her life. Between the terrifying ordeal with Nacona, her hormones, and finally holding her little son in her arms, tears flooded her eyes. Her little boy was perfect, not just ten fingers and ten toes, but he had the dark coloring, high cheekbones and black hair of his father.

  She wanted him to grow up to be just like him.

  The wail of a siren rent the night, then the ambulance arrived.

  Disappointment ballooned in Cara’s chest when Mason chose to oversee Nacona’s arrest instead of riding with her to the hospital.

  Was he pulling away already? Trying to remind her that his work would always come before her and their son?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It took forever for the sheriff to arrive and for them to transport Nacona. The sick man had lapsed into a sullen silence, content in his twisted logic that what he’d done was warranted by his vision quest.

  Mason wanted him out of his sight. Every time he thought about the fact that he’d almost killed Cara, he wanted to rip out his throat with his bare hands.

  By the time he arrived at the hospital, Cara and the baby were settled into a room. He cracked the door open a notch and peeked inside, but Cara was sleeping and so was the baby. He watched them for several minutes, soaking in the sight of her and his son.

  But the fact that they hadn’t discussed his relationship—or their relationship—made him hesitate to go inside.

  Cara and the baby were a family. But where did he fit in their lives?

  Maybe they would be better without him. His work would only bring danger and uncertainty to them.

  Yet the fact that his own father had abandoned him haunted him. How could he allow his son to grow up and think that he hadn’t wanted him?

  * * *

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Cara woke to the sound of her baby crying. A smile softened her mouth as she reached for her little boy and put him to her breast. He latched on immediately, and she stroked his soft dark hair, amazed that he was actually in her arms.

  She had never felt such happiness and love.

  Yet a sliver of sadness dampened her joy. She wanted Mason to be with her. For them to be a family.

  But he hadn’t shown up the night before, and he wasn’t here this morning.
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  She understood his job and his need the night before to make sure Nacona was locked away.

  But that had been hours ago, and he hadn’t even called. Had he decided he didn’t want a ready-made family?

  That he didn’t love her?

  She traced a finger over her baby’s cheek and blinked back tears. “I love you, little Maska.”

  And if Mason didn’t want them, her love would have to be enough.

  * * *

  MASON STUDIED THE faces of the boys around the camp, grateful they had enjoyed the lesson he’d taught them that morning. For a group of rambunctious preadolescents, they’d eagerly listened to his take on tracking and had enjoyed the hike through the deserted terrain where he’d had them practice skills.

  But as they disbanded, he thought of his own son. Just a tiny baby now, but he needed guidance.

  A man’s guidance.

  His father’s guidance.

  Dammit, what was wrong with him? Why was he here volunteering to help other people’s kids when he should be with his own today?

  Cara’s beautiful, strong, brave face flashed in his mind. She had faced down a sadistic killer and given birth to his son, and what had he done?

  Abandoned her again like a coward?

  And why? Because he was too afraid to admit that he loved her? That he needed her?

  Because he did love her more than he loved life itself.

  More than he loved his job.

  Calling himself all kinds of a fool, he climbed on his horse, rode back to his cabin, and cleaned up. He had a couple of stops to make, then he was going to tell Cara how he felt.

  He just hoped he wasn’t too late.

  * * *

  CARA HAD JUST FINISHED nursing the baby when a knock sounded at the door. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her heart sputtering as Mason poked his head inside.

  “Can I come in?”

  Hope mingled with worry as she nodded.

  Tenderness softened his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

  “Good,” Cara said, amazed that she did feel good. But then she was probably on an adrenaline high from holding her son.

  “Did you get Nacona secured?”

  The glimmer of suppressed rage in his eyes didn’t escape her. “We spent hours interrogating him last night but have all the proof we need. He’s never getting out of prison.”

  Cara tried to ignore the flutter of residual fear that the memory of the night before stirred. She wanted to recall the sweet bliss of seeing her little boy for the first time, not the trauma of being held kidnapped by a murderer.

  An awkwardness suddenly fell between them, making her wish she hadn’t asked.

  “Cara, I’m sorry I hurt you before.” Mason slowly walked over to her, and she noticed the stuffed pony in his hands. “That I didn’t come last night.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Cara asked, hoping this wasn’t his way of telling her that a relationship between them wouldn’t work now any more than it would have nearly a year ago.

  Mason made a sarcastic sound. “Because I’m a fool. I was scared.”

  “Scared of me?” Cara asked.

  He chuckled. “Scared of disappointing you.”

  He leaned over and brushed his fingers across the baby’s forehead, then placed the pony in the bassinet. “This is for you, little guy. I’m your daddy.”

  Cara’s heart swelled at the gruff sound of his voice. “Is that why you’re here?” she asked softly. “You want to be a part of our little boy’s life?”

  He turned to her, emotions tingeing his eyes. “Yes.”

  She nodded, knowing she had to accept whatever he offered. She loved him too much to do anything else.

  Then he moved over beside the bed and shocked her by dropping to one knee. “Mason?’

  He lifted his hand and she gaped at the beautiful turquoise ring laying in the palm of his hand.

  “Cara, I know I did wrong last year, but we have a baby now and I want us to do things right. Will you marry me?”

  Disappointment crowded Cara’s throat. “Mason, you don’t have to marry me to be part of Maska’s life.”

  His smile faded slightly. “You don’t want to marry me?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Cara said softly. “But I don’t want you to propose because you feel trapped or because we have a baby together.”

  Mason suddenly stood, his expression oddly tender and fiercely angry at the same time. He eased down on the side of the bed and cradled her hand in his. “Listen to me, Cara. I was a fool before.” He paused then gently kissed her fingers. “I love you. I didn’t propose because I feel trapped or because I think I should. I want us to be together.”

  Love flooded Cara’s heart. “I love you, too, Mason. I’ve loved you for a long time.”

  A grin softened the hard ridges and planes of his face. “Then marry me and let’s be a family.”

  Tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to cry. Instead, she smiled and held out her hand, and he slipped the ring on her finger.

  * * * * *

  Don’t miss the next installment of Rita Herron’s

  gripping miniseries BUCKING BRONC LODGE.

  Look for ULTIMATE COWBOY in February 2013

  wherever Harlequin Intrigue books are sold.

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  Chapter One

  Three months later

  “Dugan is out.”

  Miles’s fingers tightened around his cell phone as he wheeled his SUV around and headed toward the station. “What?”

  His superior, Lieutenant Hammond, didn’t sound happy. “Based on the Kelly woman’s murder and some technicality with the chain of evidence when they’d searched the man’s place, Dugan’s lawyer got his conviction overturned.”

  The past few weeks of tracking down clues and false leads day and night taunted him. He released a string of expletives.

  Hammond cleared his throat. “If we’d found evidence connecting Dugan to a partner, maybe things would have gone differently, but...”

  Hammond let the sentence trail off, but Miles silently finished for him. If he and Mason had found such evidence, Dugan would still be in a cell. And the world would be a safer place.

  But they’d failed.

  The day Dugan’s verdict was read flashed back. Dugan’s threat resounded in his head—you’ll pay.

  “Now that he’s back on the streets—”

  “I know. He’s going to kill again,” Miles said. And he’s probably coming after me.

  His cell phone chirped, and he glanced at the caller ID. Marie’s number.

  Damn, she was probably on his case for working again last night and missing dinner with Timmy. He’d thought he might have found a lead on the copycat, but instead he’d only chased his own tail.

  The phone chirped again.

  You’ll pay.

  Panic suddenly seized him, cutting off his breath. Dammit...what if payback meant coming after his family?

  “I have to go, Hammond.” Sweat beaded on his neck as he connected the call. “Hello?”

  Husky breathing filled the line, then a scream pierced the receiver.

  He clenched the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip. He had to clear his throat to speak. “Marie?” God, tell me you’re there....


  But the sudden silence sent a chill up his spine.

  “Marie, Timmy?”

  More breathing, this time followed by a husky laugh that sounded sinister, threatening...evil.

  Dear God, no...

  Dugan was at Marie’s house.

  He pressed the accelerator, his heart hammering as he sped around traffic and called for backup. The dispatch officer agreed to send a patrol car right away.

  A convertible nearly cut him off, and Miles slammed on his horn, nearly skimming a truck as he roared around it. Brush and shrubs sailed past, the wheels grinding on gravel as he hugged the side of the country road.

  Images of the dead women from Dugan’s crime scenes flashed in his head, and his stomach churned. No, please, no...Dugan could not be at Marie’s house. He couldn’t kill Marie...not like the other women.

  And Timmy...his son was home today with her.

  The bright Texas sun nearly blinded him as he swerved into the small neighborhood where Marie had bought a house. Christmas decorations glittered, lights twinkled from the neighboring houses, the entryways screaming with festive holiday spirit.

  Somehow they seemed macabre in the early-morning light.

  He shifted gears, brakes squealing as he rounded a curve and sped down the street. He scanned the neighboring yards, the road, the trees beyond the house, searching for Dugan.

  But everything seemed still. Quiet. A homey little neighborhood to raise a family in.

  Except he had heard that scream.

  His chest squeezed for air, and he slammed on the brakes and skidded up the drive. He threw the Jeep into Park, and held his weapon at the ready as he raced up to the front door.

  Cop instincts kicked in, and he scanned the outside of the house and yard again, but nothing looked amiss. He glanced through the front window, but the den looked normal...toys on the floor, magazines on the table, TV running with cartoons.

  Only the Christmas tree had been tipped over, ornaments scattered across the floor.

  He reached for the doorknob, and the door swung open. His breath lodged in his throat, panic knotting his insides. No sounds of holiday music or Timmy chattering.

  Gripping his weapon tighter, he inched inside, senses honed for signs of an intruder.