The Cowboy’s Hidden Agenda

by Kathleen Creighton

  She felt his muscles tense and his back bow as he lowered her onto the bed and followed her down. Once again they tore at each other’s clothes. And thank heaven for the snaps on his borrowed Western-style shirt, because she was far too impatient for the intricacies of buttons. Wrenching his shirt apart and lifting herself into its folds, she scored his chest with her teeth and laved it with her tongue like one famished. Yes, famished. They were like starving survivors, half-mad with hunger, desperate to fill and be filled, caring nothing for taste and texture, smell and touch.

  All they wanted then was the quickest avenue, the swiftest access to that complete coupling they’d denied themselves thus far. And clothing was a frail and incon sequential barrier. Bracing himself on one hand, Bronco raked Lauren’s jeans over her hips, then left her struggling to free her legs while he yanked at his own stubborn jeans fastening. Barely freed of that restriction, barely sheathed, he felt her legs come around him and her body open to him, and then he was fitting himself to her yielding softness and at long last driving himself home. Too suddenly, too violently for her, he knew it must be-yet he heard her cry blend with his, felt it wrenched, as his was, from deep inside, and knew it for a groan of pure relief, of primitive triumph and savage joy.

  It was an explosion-noisy, shocking, devastating, and quickly over. Over in a few thunderous heartbeats, and yet it seemed to John Bracco that in the space of those heartbeats his old life had passed and a new one begun. So this is what it feels like, he thought, awed and humbled, quaking inside.

  “That’s once,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss Lauren’s tear-drenched eyes, the tip of her nose, her quivering lips. “For number two we’ve got all night.” Rolling onto his side, he gathered her into his arms and held her tightly against his heart, and felt neither wonder nor concern when she began to sob as if her heart was breaking.

  Oh, yes, her heart was breaking, she was sure of it. How could it not be? No heart could possibly hold together when it was filled to bursting with overwhelming joy…and utter despair.

  Morning came, incredibly, in spite of all Lauren’s efforts to convince herself the night could last forever. But, she wondered, which was the fantasy-last night or this?

  This was Bronco, sitting at the little wooden table, naked except for a motel towel knotted around his hips, long hair streaming down his back, casually reading the newspaper and eating graham crackers dipped in milk. She watched him from the bathroom doorway as she toweled her hair dry, quivering inside with wonder as she thought about the Bronco she’d danced with that long-ago night, barely a week ago now, in Smoky Joe’s. That lying, beer-drinking, brawling charmer in the red shirt. Who is the real Johnny Bronco?

  Confusion and anger welled up inside her-then broke apart like a wave on a rock in a breathtaking burst of revelation. The real Johnny Bronco? But wait-hadn’t she been with this man day and night for days? She’d seen him angry and joyful, tired and teasing, tough and tender, vulnerable and strong-and not once had she seen even a glimpse of that other Bronco. Suddenly she knew beyond any doubt that this man, the Bronco here with her now, the man who’d saved her life, made her angry, made her cry, made her fall in hopeless love with him, was the real one. The other Bronco-that, it seemed to her now, had been artificial, unreal. Almost like an actor playing a role.

  In the folds of the towel she caught her breath in a gasp of shock, as with that realization so many others fell into place, like a toppling trail of dominoes. Beer-drinking? But he hadn’t smelled of beer! She remembered thinking how wonderful he smelled-of herbal soap and horses and leather and man. And his room at the ranch-almost military in its neatness. She’d thought then-no, she’d felt-nothing so tidy as thought-that there was something about Johnny Bronco that didn’t fit.

  Something, a lot of things. Like the way he talked, sometimes like an educated man, sometimes like a cop or a soldier, almost never like a roughshod cowboy who’d been kicked out of just about everywhere, including the U.S. Army!

  And what about that shaver? This morning she’d stood and watched him scrape away a week’s worth of beard with bar soap and a throwaway razor, and had teased him about maybe needing tweezers, instead. Why would a man with almost no beard carry an electric shaver with him in his saddlebag to a wilderness camp? What could that possibly mean? Her mind, nurtured on spy novels and James Bond movies, instantly conjured up intriguing possibilities. She hadn’t found a gun-maybe the shaver had actually been a weapon of some kind!

  Oh, all right, that was another of her romantic notions. But it didn’t change the fact that there were things about John Bracco that didn’t add up.

  In the space of a few moments her suspicion had hardened into certainty: the man she loved was not who he seemed to be.

  He looked up just then and saw her watching him, and his eyebrows dipped low in a frown. As if to compensate for that, his voice was low, almost gentle, as he asked, “Just about ready to go?”

  “Just about.” She nodded toward the paper, which he’d quickly folded away, as if, she thought, to shield it from her eyes. “Is that the article on the raid? I read it while you were in the shower.” She paused, looking into his eyes, straining to see beyond their glittering black surface. “You must be relieved to hear Gil McCullough managed to get away.” But, she thought, he doesn’t look relieved, or angry, or triumphant. Instead, he looked worried.

  For a long moment he stared at her, a moment filled with silence and suspicion. Then, “Yeah,” he said, and sweeping the folded newspaper from the table, dropped it into the wastebasket near his feet. He picked up the carton of milk and offered it to her, and when she shook her head, drank the last few swallows and dropped it on top of the newspaper. “We’d best be going,” he said softly. “It’s a long way to Dallas.”

  The Dallas Convention Center was a circus of activity, simmering in the heat of late afternoon. Flags and banners and red-white-and-blue bunting floated in the sunshine like streamers at a carnival. In the crowd milling about the com plex was an atmosphere of celebration, but of anticlimax, too. The job they’d come to do had been done; the party had chosen its candidate and now it was party time.

  Bronco and Lauren sat in Frank’s dusty pickup, parked in a passenger-loading zone just outside the ring of security that surrounded the convention center. And security was heavy, no doubt about it. Bronco was glad to see that nobody seemed to be taking any chances, and he wondered how much of that had to do with the fact that Gil McCullough was still out there somewhere and now carrying a serious grudge.

  “This is as far as I go,” he said to Lauren, though his eyes were fixed on the gleaming bronze statues of longhorn steers that marched across a landscaped area near the main entrance. He couldn’t look at her. For his sake and for hers, he couldn’t let her see the desperation in his eyes. He knew she had feelings for him. Maybe even thought she was in love with him, which was probably natural enough after all they’d been through together. But she’d get over it, now that she was back where she belonged. Of that he had no doubt whatsoever.

  He couldn’t let himself doubt that. If he did, he’d never be able to let her go.

  “Then I guess it’s time to say goodbye,” Lauren said. Though she didn’t look at him when she did, fixing her gaze, instead, on some big bronze statues of cattle. She couldn’t let him see her eyes, knowing they’d surely reflect her new determination and resolve. She knew what was on his mind, knew perfectly well he planned to drop her off and then slip away to rejoin his precious SOL. Well, he might not know it, but he hadn’t seen the last of Lauren Elizabeth Brown-no way, José.

  Protected and fortified by that conviction, she moved in a strange sort of unreality, feeling nothing at all, not even the door handle in her hand. “So long. Thank you for everything…” She left the words floating behind her as she slipped from the truck, aware that she’d closed the door, but not hearing it slam. Weightless as a balloon, she drifted across the street, not feeling the pavement under her feet. People move
d around her, but she didn’t really see them. They were like shadows, flitting on the edges of a dream.

  Bronco watched her cross the concourse on a wavering track that would take her inevitably out of his life. Forever. His eyes were fixed on her with such intensity that they burned in their sockets-as her image was burned on his retinas and on his heart. Forever.

  So focused was his attention on the woman that he failed to notice immediately the two figures moving in a purposeful diagonal intended to cut her off before she could reach the net of security around the convention center. When he did, alerted by some sixth sense-whether instinct or training he’d never know-he wasn’t even conscious of surprise. Somehow it seemed natural, even expected, that they should all wash up together in this same place, like debris from the same flood.

  But even before those thoughts had formed in his mind, he was moving to intercept them-the man he’d called his friend and commander, Gil McCullough, and his lieutenant, Ron Masters.

  He couldn’t help but notice they were dressed in Dallas camouflage now-brand-new Western-style suits, boots and cowboy hats. He didn’t think Lauren had noticed them at all.

  “Hey, Gil. Ron,” he said, and watched the two men jerk, halt and spin toward him, and Ron’s hand reach inside his jacket. A few yards away he saw Lauren stop and turn a dazed look toward him, as if she’d been sleepwalking and awoken too suddenly.

  “Johnny!” In fractions of seconds, McCullough’s gaunt face registered shock, then gladness…dimmed with suspicion as he took in the significance of Bronco’s presence there…and finally dissolved into grief-stricken rage. His lips pulled back from clenched teeth and tears glittered in his eyes as he grated out hoarsely, “I trusted you, boy. I gave you a chance.”

  “I know,” Bronco said quietly. “I know.” He was motioning to Lauren-Go! Run! But he could see her frozen there, eyes staring, like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

  Then he looked at Ron Masters. Ron’s teeth were bared, too-in a smile. And the glitter in his eyes wasn’t tears, but the cold madness of a killer. And the gun he’d pulled from his jacket was in his hand now and pointed straight at Lauren.

  Despite the flood of adrenaline raging inside him, Bronco’s voice was calm. “Give it up, Ron. You can’t win this one. It’s all over.” And he was moving swiftly toward Lauren, knowing he couldn’t move swiftly enough, even if he’d had wings.

  He saw Ron’s eyes flare with a cold deadly light and felt himself hurling through the air. He prayed he’d get to Lauren in time to stop the bullet.

  He heard Gil’s voice scream, “No!” and an instant later the deafening sound of the gunshot. His arms closed around Lauren and they went down hard together, the impact with the ground so stunning it was a second or two before he knew they hadn’t been hit. His whole body braced for a second shot, and when it didn’t come, he looked over his shoulder just in time to see Gil McCullough, hands still clutching Ron Masters’s arms, crumple slowly to the ground.

  Dimly, Bronco heard shouts, footsteps running from all directions. Ron Masters stared down at the body at his feet, then looked quickly from side to side, assessing his position. He jammed the gun back inside his jacket and took off running.

  “You okay?” Bronco said to Lauren as he eased away from her. When she nodded, he pulled himself to his feet and took off after Ron. Took him out with a flying tackle and a couple of the moves he’d learned in ranger school. Seconds later he was on his knees in a pool of blood, and Gil McCullough’s head was in his lap.

  Gil was trying to speak to him. “Take it easy,” Bronco growled. “You’re gonna be okay. Just take it easy.”

  “You…were like a son to me, Johnny.”

  “I know,” Bronco whispered. “I know.” After a moment he put his hand over Gil McCullough’s eyes and gently closed them.

  Lauren pulled herself slowly and painfully to a sitting position. She felt hollow. Cold. As if they belonged to someone else, she held up her scraped hands and stared at them, then gaped in surprise at the torn knees of her jeans. Her chin was throbbing-she touched it absently with a finger.

  All around her people were running, shouting. People were reaching down to help her to her feet, asking questions. A short distance away she could see Bronco, crouched over Gil McCullough, who wasn’t moving. She called to him, shaking off the hands that were trying to help her. “Bronco-Johnny!”

  Then at last he was there beside her, holding her by the arms, but not gently. His face was that of a stranger as he thrust her into the hands of a man in a dark suit with the words, “This is Rhett Brown’s daughter. Get her to him-now!”

  With a startled exclamation, the man in the suit pulled a photograph out of his jacket pocket and stared at it, then at Lauren, then at the photo again. The next thing she knew she was surrounded by men in suits and she was being hurried along, hurried away from the scene faster even than she could walk. And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t catch even one more glimpse of the man known as Johnny Bronco.

  In a hotel room somewhere in Texas, Agent John Bracco was watching television. The evening news was on, with a recap of the convention that had just wrapped up in Dallas. The sound was turned low on the presidential candidate’s acceptance speech, and Bronco’s eyes were fixed on the people standing behind him on the podium. Rhett’s entire family were there, it looked like. His brother and sister and their spouses, his dark-haired wife, Dixie, and his two blond children-tall good-looking Ethan, tall beautiful Lauren, with a scrape on her chin.

  He was staring at that scrape and his heart was knocking against his ribs when he heard a knocking at the door. The maid, he supposed, with the extra towels he’d asked for. Just to make sure, though, he looked through the peephole. He growled, “What the hell?” and yanked open the door. He caught a whiff of green apples as Lauren walked calmly past him and into the room.

  He carefully closed the door. Then, for a minute or two he didn’t say anything. He was too busy fighting the joy that threatened to engulf him, and afraid his voice might squeak like a boy’s if he tried to speak. When he was sure he could do it calmly-but not looking at her, walking away from her, stalling for time-he said, “How did you find me?”

  Her voice was soft and ironic, without a tremor. “I may not be the president’s daughter yet. But I am the daughter of the former attorney general. I have my resources.”

  He gave his short dry huff of laughter. “I knew I shouldn’t have underestimated you.”

  There was a moment of silence. When she spoke again it was in a whisper, and now her voice did tremble. “Why couldn’t you just have told me?”

  He turned and looked at her then. Her eyes were brimming with tears and her chin was jutted out at a belligerent angle. The scrape on her chin made her expression seem unbearably poignant to him. He shrugged and said in a voice that was gravelly with guilt, “Ah, you know-thou shalt not blow thy cover.” Knowing it was a cop-out. Knowing it was nowhere near enough.

  “I knew something about you wasn’t right.” She was suddenly fierce and angry. “I told you, remember? It just took me a while to figure out what it was.”

  He’d always been more comfortable with her temper than her tears. Smiling, he said, “What gave me away?”

  “You smelled good,” she said with a grudging sniff, and couldn’t resist smiling back-with triumph. “No booze.”

  Bronco made a tsking sound with his tongue. “Never should have danced with you,” he murmured, reaching out a hand to touch her chin. And then his fingers just naturally curved on around her jaw to the back of her neck, under the wild-grass ripple of her hair.

  “That’s my line,” she protested, resisting him. But only very briefly.

  It was much later when she was finally able to pull herself away from him again. She didn’t want to-she’d come prepared to stay, unless, of course, he’d thrown her out the door. But she was back firmly rooted in reality now, and there were things she had to know.

&nbs
p; “So what happens now?” she asked him, her heart trembling inside her. “Do you go back? Undercover?” And if you do, how will I ever live until you surface again?

  He shook his head. His voice sounded dry as dust. “Can’t-not after my picture was splashed all over the evening news. Not with SOL, anyway.” He paused, then took a breath and said brusquely, “I’m sort of thinking about local law enforcement. Thought maybe it’s time I gave something back to my father’s people. My people.” He coughed. Made a small gesture with his hand, but didn’t touch her. “What about you? You ready to go back to being the good little girl?” His smile was crooked. “After all, you’re gonna be the president’s daughter.”

  Her face hurt when she tried to smile. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see about that.” Then she shrugged and looked away. I won’t ask, she thought. I can’t ask. Some things were just impossible for a woman with an ounce of pride. “I don’t know,” she said dully. “Go back to being a lawyer, I guess. It’s what I know, what I’m good at.”

  There was a long, long pause. Pulses pounded and hopes and fears sang in the air between them like the whine of locusts on a summer evening.

  Then Bronco spoke softly, “Apaches need lawyers too.”

  Lauren’s eyes snapped to his face, his fierce and beautiful warrior’s face. And in his glowing black eyes she saw it at last-the look of love and longing she’d hoped for, prayed for, risked so much for and come so far to find.

  KATHLEEN CREIGHTON

  has roots deep in the California soil, but has relocated to South Carolina. As a child, she enjoyed listening to old timers’ tales, and her fascination with the past only deepened as she grew older. Today, she says she is interested in everything-art, music, gardening, zoology, anthropology and history-but people are at the top of her list. She also has a lifelong passion for writing, and now combines her two loves in romance novels.