Montana Mavericks, Books 1-4

by Diana Palmer

  “You’re kidding.”

  She leaned over and kissed his lips. “Without this little piece of paper, you never would have come to the ranch. It’s a keepsake, my love. I might not hang it on the wall, but I’m definitely going to keep it.” Her eyes took on a teasing twinkle. “And when the No Bull Ranch is famous for its marvelous cutting horses, bred and trained by that also famous handler, Luke Rivers, no less, and we’ve been rich for so long we can’t even recall when we weren’t, then I’m going to take out this ancient IOU and remember that it brought us together.”

  Luke grinned. “Incidentally, there was so much going on before we left the ranch, I don’t think anyone told you that Blackie is going to have pups.”

  Maris’s jaw dropped. “How did she get pregnant?”

  “The usual way, I suppose,” Luke said dryly.

  “But she’s the only dog for miles!”

  “Apparently not.”

  Maris settled back with a contented smile. “Do you realize that you changed my entire life?”

  “Do you realize that you changed my entire life?”

  They looked at each other for the longest time. “It was fate, wasn’t it?” Maris said softly. “We were destined to be together.”

  “I think that’s as good an explanation as any,” Luke murmured, leaning forward to kiss her sweet, sexy lips. “I wish we were alone right now.”

  “Patience, my love,” she whispered throatily. “We have the rest of our lives.”

  And indeed they did.

  Sleeping with the Enemy

  Myrna Temte

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Prologue

  Glaring at the man seated on the other side of his desk, Congressman William C. Baldwin of Montana silently cursed the day he’d let his fear of losing an election run away with his good sense. At first meeting, Jeremiah Kincaid came across as just another big, friendly rancher, a real salt-of-the-earth kind of a guy, who wore cowboy boots and a Stetson whether he was in Montana or in the nation’s capital. Surprisingly handsome for a man pushing seventy, he also had a well-earned reputation for being quite a charmer with the ladies.

  But underneath that affable good-old-country-boy exterior, lurked a greedy, bullying, unscrupulous son of a bitch who had the disposition of a rattler with a sore tooth. Baldwin loathed and feared Kincaid, but he was doing his damnedest not to let it show. What a lousy way to start the New Year.

  “Come on now, be reasonable, Jeremiah.”

  Kincaid sat back in the maroon leather wing chair and let out a derisive snort of laughter. “Reasonable? I don’t have to be reasonable, Billy boy. That’s why the Whitehorn Ranchers’ Association decided to buy a congressman.”

  “You and your associates made some contributions to my campaign, but you don’t own me,” Baldwin said.

  “The hell we don’t! I could be wrong, but I don’t think all of those contributions were exactly legal.”

  “And might I remind you, Mr. Kincaid,” Baldwin retorted, “that it was just as illegal for you to give them to me as it was for me to accept them.”

  Jeremiah laughed. “Yeah, but we’ll never get more than a slap on the wrist.” He gazed around Baldwin’s office, as if he were taking in the plush furnishings for the first time. Then he chuckled and shook his head. “This setup ain’t bad for a poor miner’s kid. Be a shame if you lost it all and had to go back to a half-assed law practice in Butte. Mighty slim pickin’s in Butte these days, from what I hear.”

  “It won’t do any good to threaten me,” Baldwin said. “I’d help you if I could, but what you’re asking is impossible.”

  Kincaid raised an eyebrow at him. “Nothing is impossible in Washington.”

  Exasperated, Baldwin picked up the letter Jeremiah had tossed in front of him half an hour ago and shook it. “This is. The Northern Cheyennes own that land. They have every legal right to refuse to renew your grazing leases.”

  Kincaid propped his elbows on the arms of his chair and laced his fingers together. “I don’t give a damn about their legal rights. My friends and I have held those leases for over forty years. We’ve put up fences and built irrigation systems and made all kinds of other improvements, and we’re not gonna hand it all over to a bunch of lazy, good-for-nothin’ Indian drunks. Hell, we should’ve exterminated all of ’em when we had the chance.”

  Some people might agree with those sentiments, Baldwin thought grimly. But only a man as rich and powerful as Jeremiah Kincaid would have the gall to say them out loud, in such a calm, implacable tone of voice.

  “Times have changed,” Baldwin said. “Every president since Nixon has endorsed the self-determination policy for Indian tribes. If the Bureau of Indian Affairs doesn’t even have the power to renew those leases, why do you expect me to have it?”

  “You’re on that subcommittee on Native American affairs, and on the appropriations committee. One of them oughta give you an opportunity to clear up this mess, if you really want to.” Kincaid tipped his head to one side and studied Baldwin for a moment, a speculative gleam entering his cold gray eyes. “But then, maybe you don’t really want to.”

  “Of course I do, Jeremiah. Why the hell wouldn’t I?”

  “I met a real pretty little Indian gal while I was out there waitin’ for you to let me in. Told me she works for you. Maybe you’ve got somethin’ extra goin’ on the side with her, and you don’t wanna tick her off.”

  “You mean Maggie Schaeffer?” It was Baldwin’s turn to laugh and shake his head. He wouldn’t have minded doing exactly what Kincaid was implying, but this time, at least, he was innocent. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m old enough to be her father.”

  Kincaid let out another one of his derisive snorts. “So? I’m old enough to be her grandpa, but if I wanted her, Billy boy, I’d have her.”

  Just the thought of a nice young gal like Maggie Schaeffer with this randy old coot turned Baldwin’s stomach. “Maggie’s one of my best research aides, Jeremiah. Our relationship is strictly professional.”

  “I don’t care whether it is or not,” Kincaid said. “Pretty as she is, it wouldn’t take much to start a few rumors flyin’ around. I don’t think your new little wife would like that. Ya know, I really like Georgina, but she doesn’t strike me as the kind of gal who’d stand by her man if he was involved in a dirty ol’ sex scandal. Do you read me?”

  “Yeah. I read you, Jeremiah.” Baldwin stood then, forcing an end to the conversation. He didn’t offer to shake Kincaid’s hand. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Kincaid got up and set his black Stetson on his head. “A smart fella like you shouldn’t have any problem gettin’ a bunch of Indians under control, especially that sorry bunch up at Laughing Horse. It’s just February now, so you’ve got four months before the June deadline, Congressman. We’ll be expecting some results.”

  The second the door snapped shut behind Kincaid, Baldwin collapsed into his chair, leaned back and closed his eyes. Damn that old man to hell and back, he knew exactly which buttons to push, which fears to exploit.

  Bill Baldwin had put in twenty years of honest government service—honest by Washington standards, anyway. He’d golfed with presidents. He’d been a hero in Vietnam. And now he’d made one lousy decision in a moment of panic, and Jeremiah Kincaid would destroy him without turning a hair if he didn’t deliver the goods.

  For a moment, Baldwin considered going public with the truth about his campaign finances. That would take some of the wind out of that old blowhard’s sails,
now wouldn’t it? He wished he still had that much nerve.

  Baldwin picked up the letter and glanced at the signature again. Well, Jackson Hawk, Tribal Attorney, whoever the hell he was, must have plenty of nerve. Jeremiah Kincaid controlled the Whitehorn Ranchers’ Association, the town of Whitehorn, and the county, too. To take the old coot on like this, Mr. Hawk had to be crazy. Either that, or he had balls like a Hereford bull.

  Unfortunately, Baldwin knew his own balls weren’t that big anymore. He was almost fifty years old, and he’d grown accustomed to the perks and privileges of his office. He liked having money and a glamorous young wife who made other men drool. And the only way he ever wanted to go back to Butte on a permanent basis was in a coffin.

  Damn it, he’d worked too hard for too long to give everything up for the sake of a few Indians who never voted. Hell, they probably wouldn’t know what to do with that land if they ever did manage to get it back from Jeremiah and the Whitehorn Ranchers’ Association. Possession was nine-tenths of the law. Of course, it wouldn’t do his image much good if the press found out he was hassling an Indian tribe.

  There had to be a way to get Jeremiah off his back without bringing the wrath of every bleeding-heart liberal in the whole damned country down on his head. If he could find an Indian to do most of the dirty work for him…maybe somebody from the Bureau of Indian Affairs who needed money. No, that wouldn’t work. The folks at the BIA had gotten way too concerned about their own image lately. What about the Bureau of Land Management? No, they wouldn’t have jurisdiction.

  When the solution finally hit him, he smacked his forehead with the heel of his palm and laughed at his own stupidity. He’d send Maggie out to Laughing Horse on a fact-finding mission, and use her research to close down that miserable place for good. The Northern Cheyenne didn’t need two reservations. Since most of them were on welfare, it wouldn’t hurt a thing if the Western Band got moved over to Lame Deer to live with the others.

  Hell, he should have thought of this before. He’d have to take his time and plan it carefully, of course. Maggie wouldn’t like it one bit when she found out what he was really doing with her work. But hey, this was politics. Rule number one in this game was, you did whatever you had to do to cover your ass. If he played his cards just right, Maggie Schaeffer would cover his nicely.

  One

  “Yes, Aunt Sally, I’m still listening,” Jackson Hawk said into the telephone receiver, rolling his eyes in fond exasperation. “Of course I’ll be polite. I’m always polite. Tell Uncle Frank he can stop nagging me any time now.”

  While Aunt Sally rattled on with a seemingly endless stream of advice, all of which he didn’t need, Jackson propped his feet on the corner of his desk and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.

  “Whoa! Ne-xohose-neheseha! Say it again in English, Aunt Sally. Yes, I’ve been studying Cheyenne again, but I can’t follow you when you talk so fast. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Oh, yeah? Tell him I said he’s been lying around like an old woman for too long. If he doesn’t like the way I’m doing his job, he’d better hurry up and get well so he can do it himself.”

  Aunt Sally dutifully relayed the message. Jackson chuckled when he heard his uncle’s outraged howl in the background. “Yeah, I thought that’d get a rise out of him.”

  A knocking sound drew Jackson’s gaze to the doorway. A pretty young woman he’d never seen before stood there, clutching a black leather briefcase. The color of her hair, skin and eyes told him she had a substantial amount of Indian blood, but the gray wool coat draped over her arm, her conservative navy blue business suit, her sensible pumps and her short, chic hairstyle made her look out of place. And there was an obvious air of tension about her that made him wonder if she’d ever set foot on a reservation before. He held up one finger to indicate that he’d just be a moment.

  “Aunt Sally, I have a visitor,” he said when his garrulous aunt paused to take a breath. “I don’t know. I don’t know that, either. I’ll call if anything important comes up. All right. Take good care of yourself, too.”

  Jackson hung up the phone, swung his feet to the floor and swiveled his chair to face the desk again. The woman still stood in the doorway, looking as if she’d rather be someplace—no, make that anyplace—else. Must be from the government. He’d guess she was a Fed, although she certainly had better-looking legs than the last one he’d had to deal with. The rest of her wasn’t too shabby, either. But a Fed was still a Fed, and it never hurt to be cautious.

  “May I help you?” he asked.

  She gave him a tentative smile. “I’m sorry I interrupted your phone call.” When Jackson merely shrugged at her apology, she continued. “I’m looking for Mr. Frank Many Horses. I believe he’s the tribal chairman?”

  “He’s on a medical leave,” Jackson said. “I’m filling in for him at the moment. And you are?”

  He’d never seen a Fed blush before, but this one did. Quite prettily, too. Then she uttered a soft, husky laugh that charmed him right down to the scuffed toes of his cowboy boots. He decided she was more cute than pretty. But on her, cute looked damn good.

  “Excuse me,” she said, stepping into the room. “I guess I’ve spent so much time alone in the Library of Congress lately, I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m Maggie Schaeffer. From Congressman Baldwin’s office in Washington.”

  Baldwin? Jackson thought, barely managing to keep a grimace of disgust off his face. What was that snake up to now? He’d never met the man personally, but he’d heard enough about him from Uncle Frank to be suspicious.

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Schaeffer?”

  “Oh, dear.” She walked closer to the desk. “You weren’t expecting me, were you, Mr., uh…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  Jackson stood and briefly shook the hand she offered. It was small and soft and delicate, and he felt oddly reluctant to let go of it. “Hawk. Jackson Hawk. I’m the tribal attorney here at Laughing Horse. And, no, I wasn’t expecting you.”

  She shot him a startled glance, as if she couldn’t believe he was really an attorney. Of course, she probably hadn’t met many male lawyers who wore their hair in braids. His jeans and faded blue sweatshirt weren’t exactly standard office attire, either. Well, tough. He didn’t live or dress by the white man’s rules anymore.

  A worried little wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. Then she squared her shoulders and gave him a rueful, lopsided grin. Damn, but she really was cute. And young. Probably only in her mid-twenties, which made her at least ten years younger than he was. Maybe that was why she worked for an S.O.B. like Baldwin—she was too young to know any better.

  “Well, I apologize again, Mr. Hawk,” she said. “Someone from the congressman’s office in Whitehorn was supposed to call and set up an appointment for me for the first of March. Obviously, there’s been a mix-up. I can come back tomorrow, if this isn’t a convenient time.”

  Jackson gestured toward the straight-backed wooden chair on the other side of his desk. “It’s as convenient as it’s ever going to get. Have a seat.” When they were both settled, he asked, “What brings you to Laughing Horse, Ms. Schaeffer?”

  “I’m sure you’re aware Congressman Baldwin serves on the House Subcommittee on Native American Affairs.”

  When he nodded, she smiled at him like a teacher rewarding a student for a correct answer. Then she went on in a brisk, businesslike tone that reminded Jackson of the years he’d spent working for a Wall Street law firm, pretending he wasn’t an Indian. Her cuteness faded; when the gist of her mission became clear, it vanished completely.

  “At the last meeting of the subcommittee, it came to the congressman’s attention that conditions here at the Laughing Horse Reservation have not improved as much as they have on Montana’s other reservations,” she said. “He’s quite concerned that we find a way to rectify the situation.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet,” Jackson muttered.

  “Excuse me?” She looked him straight in the eye, without the slighte
st hesitation.

  It was a small thing, really, just one of those funny little differences between the Indian and white cultures that had caused tons of misunderstanding. It had taken him years to learn to look whites directly in the eye when he talked to them. That she did it so well told him a lot about how thoroughly she’d been assimilated into white society. He wondered if she even knew that most traditional Indians would consider such an action rude. Well, it wasn’t his job to teach her.

  “It’s nothing. Go on, Ms. Schaeffer.”

  She shot him a doubtful look, but continued in that same irritating, businesslike tone after a moment. “My assignment is to interview some of the people here, make a list of the specific problems you’re facing and formulate recommendations for legislation. If you could call a special meeting of the tribal council—”

  “No.”

  Both of her eyebrows shot up beneath her wispy bangs. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “That’s obvious, Ms. Schaeffer. You don’t have a clue about what life is like on this or any other reservation, and neither does your boss.”

  Jackson saw sparks of anger flash in her eyes, and she opened her mouth, as if she were going to say something. But then she inhaled a deep breath and pursed her lips, obviously struggling to rein in her emotions and come up with an appropriate response. He could hardly wait to hear it.

  She spoke slowly and distinctly, as if she were choosing each word with great care. “You’re absolutely right, Mr. Hawk. Which is precisely why Congressman Baldwin has sent me here to collect data. I’ll do everything possible to avoid taking too much of your time. One or two meetings should be enough.”

  “No.”

  He saw more sparks, and heard a huffy little note of indignation in her voice when she replied. “May I ask why not?”