Cowboy Lies

by Lynde Lakes

  Matt tightened his hands around the mug until his flesh felt like it might split. Damn it. Luke and Parker were digging their spurs deeper into his side with each passing day, driving him loco. He gave them jobs, which they seldom completed, and he put up with their tomfoolery. And for what?

  Alfonso regarded Matt, and the sympathy Matt saw on his foreman’s face made him cringe. He hadn’t known his misery was so obvious. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, patron. You’ve been a saint with those two. No one blames you.”

  Matt clenched his teeth. Alfonso was wrong about that. The men resented the double standard of hard-line leadership with them, and bend-over-backward leniency with his brothers.

  “A friendly tip, mi amigo. Next time, don’t send those two together. They just egg each other on.”

  Matt laughed without humor. “I know, but I hoped that just once—” He’d known the risk he was taking, but he’d sent his brothers away so they wouldn’t spill the beans to Molly. After the auction, they were supposed to go out to the west sector and round up late calves and strays. That would’ve kept them busy and out of the way for several weeks.

  Alfonso gave Matt an affectionate grin. “Like me, amigo, you love your family. Maybe too much.”

  ****

  Under a moonlit sky, heading for the office in the barn to catch up on paperwork, Matt rode Gold King at a slow pace along the fence line with Alfonso’s words still echoing in his head. Was it love or guilt behind the extra leeway he’d given his brothers?

  He frowned and cursed under his breath. He’d give a year of his life not to be caught in the triangle between his brothers and his parents. Matt couldn’t blame his parents for signing the ranch over to him. After his dad’s second heart attack, his parents wanted out from under the ranch and away from the high stress of dealing with two screw-up sons and their constant problems. Now the folks were enjoying life in a retirement community in Florida. And he was stuck here.

  Their decision had affected his career, and he’d gone into semi-retirement. Now he’d been dragged back into the middle of things and was being pulled in several directions. He had his duty to the Feds, which was all tangled up in his desire to protect Molly and her baby, and duty to the family which included duty to the ranch and handling his brothers. He hoped he didn’t crack under the pressure.

  After the documents were signed, Luke and Parker got even harder to deal with. Matt understood it, but he sure as hell resented it. He’d been running the ranch with Alfonso’s help for the last five years anyway. Even when away on FBI assignments, he had to keep daily hands-on contact, and keeping all the various sacks of manure from splitting wide open was taking its toll. Damn it, he’d never wanted all the responsibility of the ranch, and he’d be glad to share it with Parker and Luke, if they ever shaped up.

  It scared Matt that sometimes, underneath his tight control, he felt just like them. Edgy. Restless. Wild. Of his two brothers, he was more like Luke, the youngest, a rebel and a scrapper, and Matt did constant battle with that side of himself. In a search for intrigue and his own identity, he’d gone into undercover fieldwork for the federal government. Even that pursuit of danger and justice was wearing thin.

  In the last few years, he’d thought that if he could just find the right woman to share his life with, everything would be okay. He’d settle down and start a family. But his, perhaps unreasonable, pickiness and his fear of making a mistake kept him single. That might have turned out for the best because between his Fed job and the ranch, he had no time to be a husband and father anyway.

  He forced a chuckle. Why should he make just one gal miserable when he could give a whole passel of fillies good times? Big talk. He hadn’t been with anyone since Molly. She was the one who came closest to making him chuck all the old fears. He loved her soft heart, her honesty, and the magic that sizzled between them when they were together. He knew his feelings about her, about his whole damned life, defied logic. If Molly hadn’t had to go into the Witness Protection Program, and if he could’ve dumped all his responsibilities, he would’ve chucked his worries about passing on the family weakness and married her. Perhaps it was a good thing the obstacles had stood in their way. It was best to go on fighting relationships with women. He gripped the reins until the leather cut into his palms. Damn the fear. Because of it, he’d no doubt end up alone.

  Matt shook his head. He faced danger every day in his FBI work, and he never feared dying—just dying alone like Grandfather Worland. Grandpa, a drinker, gambler, and always broke, had no doubt provided the pattern for the family weakness. Matt had loved the old man, pitied him, but he’d never admired him. Matt’s throat constricted. What if he, like his brothers, had some of Grandpa’s irresponsible genes? Only constant, rigid control would keep him from fouling up like the patriarchal drunkard—a fate, in Matt’s mind, worse than death.

  ****

  It was dark outside, and Molly hadn’t seen Matt since suppertime. If she hadn’t had her own agenda, she might have resented being left alone for so long without an explanation. Instead, his absence worked in her favor. Molly tapped the wood panel at the back of her closet until she heard a hollow sound. She loosened the paneling enough to slip her hand into the space and hid the velvet pouch containing the three coins in the small cubbyhole. After tapping the wood back in place with the handle of a screwdriver, she slipped the tool and the mysterious phone number into the back of her lingerie drawer to keep them handy for quick use.

  She started at Sara Jane’s sudden cries. “Coming, sweetie,” she called, rushing down the hall to the nursery. When she lifted Sara Jane from the crib, it was obvious the baby needed changing. Molly took care of the job in quick order. Then, with Sara Jane in her arms, she headed for the kitchen, got a bottle from the refrigerator, and heated it.

  Molly returned to the nursery and settled into the well-worn rocking chair to feed Sara Jane. In rhythm with the creaking chair, something elusive dipped in and out of the shadowy edges of Molly’s mind. Why couldn’t she bring it forward? Despite what Matt had told her of their supposed life together, she couldn’t quite believe him, but was uncertain why.

  From the radio Molly had left on in the adjoining room, Chris Isaak belted out a country ballad, and Molly hummed the melody. Blast it. She had to discover who she was. Maybe she and Sara Jane had a wonderful life waiting for them somewhere. Perhaps, if she made a mental list of what she knew about herself, something new might shake out. She needed logic, consistency, and definition in her life, and damn it, that Neanderthal cowboy who claimed to be her husband wasn’t giving it to her.

  She had an urge to write everything down. She had a strong feeling that paper and pen would provide the connection to her past that she needed. Right after she rocked Sara Jane back to sleep, she would find some paper.

  She looked down at Sara Jane sucking on the nipple of the bottle. Overwhelming love burst forth, and she knew she’d die to protect this baby. It was with that thought that something dark and menacing slid across the edges of her memory. She shivered. Was Sara Jane in danger? The baby’s eyelids drooped and closed. Her mouth stilled, and Molly rocked her a few more minutes before putting her back into the crib.

  Molly headed back to the kitchen and rummaged through the small desk by the counter. She came up with a pen and pad and began to write with fierce, unleashed passion. Although she wrote nothing but questions, it felt so right to get something—anything—down on paper.

  What was her philosophy of life? “Show no fear,” echoed in her head. Did she have something to fear? Matt? She knew by her anger at his evasions that truth was very important to her, and she sensed Matt was withholding it from her. Why?

  Something icy curled through her, and it occurred to her that she was a little afraid of the answer. Her wedding ring glinted. She had the oddest feeling that slipping the ring on her finger had affected Matt on some deep level. He had gotten all choked, and his eyes looked like those of a man going off a high dive for the first ti
me. What did that mean? Was he very much in love with her? Or was their marriage a sham? Had she guessed the truth earlier, that being married to him was what had caused the supposed stress which had led to her temporary amnesia? He said he was her husband, yet in her gut that revelation didn’t quite ring true. So who was he? Who was Matt Ryan within the depths of his soul?

  His facade of sometimes dictator, sometimes nice guy confused her as much as her own identity. She’d just scratched the surface of Matt Ryan, and found herself intrigued and frightened. Yet, something buried within her hungered to know all the facets of this complicated man.

  First, she had to figure out who she was. Oh, God. What if she couldn’t find herself? What if she had to stay in this nowhere-land, in this emptiness without memories, where she only had stories about herself—perhaps manufactured by Matt for his own purposes? She felt so adrift and disconnected from the world. Why? She couldn’t give up. Wouldn’t give up. Please, God, don’t let me crash into a blank wall.

  The phone number she’d found might be a clue. She needed a phone. Matt couldn’t run a working ranch like this without phone contact. She made a mental note to look in the bunkhouse and the office in the barn—

  Loud banging on the side door startled her. She hurried across the kitchen into the mud room and listened at the door, while wishing for a peephole. It was dark outside and late for callers. “Who is it?” she asked, hating the tremor in her voice.

  Maybe with the persistent banging, the caller couldn’t hear her. If the person didn’t stop that racket, Sara Jane would wake up, darn it! Molly looked around for a weapon to protect herself and the sleeping baby. Why did she think they needed protection?

  She considered the row of gleaming knives in the wall holder. A chill shot up her spine when an image of blood-spattered walls darted into her mind. The image came and went so fast, she couldn’t draw a bead on it, but she knew she didn’t want to touch the knives. She grabbed the handle of the pan of water she’d put on to heat for tea and held it tight, ready to fling the liquid if she had to.

  Molly opened the door and gasped at the sight of the man standing before her. Under his black hat, tipped high on his forehead, his face was a collage of blue bruises and bloody abrasions. He had a swollen red welt along his jaw and a wicked cut that zigzagged up to his left eye and oozed blood, which had splattered his white western shirt with crimson splotches.

  Beneath the bruised, lacerated face and swollen eye, he bore a striking resemblance to Matt. The man was younger and leaner, but they were stallions from the same mare. She set aside the pan of boiling water. She wouldn’t need protection against the man she assumed was Matt’s younger brother. Why didn’t he have his own key? Considering the shape he was in, perhaps he’d lost it. Maybe the brothers weren’t on good terms.

  “Where’s Matt?” he slurred. “I need his help.” He reeked of whiskey and sweat. His eyes were glassy. “I gotta sit down,” he said, lunging forward across the threshold into her arms.

  It was too late to decide if she wanted to ask him in. Stumbling, he took her with him as he propelled toward the kitchen, his weight draped over her, using her as an unwilling crutch. At the kitchen table, she pulled out a straight-backed chair, and he slumped into it, relieving Molly of her considerable burden. She snagged his hat and set it aside, out of his reach.

  “Hey, gimme that back. A cowboy’s naked without his hat.”

  She needed the hat off to get to his wounds. “A gentleman takes his hat off in the house,” she said, hoping to tease him into forgetting his cowboy nonsense.

  He grinned. It was lopsided, comical. “Who sez I’m a gent, sweet thing?”

  Unwilling to pursue that risky subject, she lifted his chin and examined the damage. “You’re banged up pretty bad, friend.”

  “Name’s Luke, sweet stuff,” he drawled. His tanned face seemed to pale under the artificial light, and he was sweating. “Got any beer?”

  “Alcohol’s the last thing you need, Luke. After I get you fixed up, I’ll brew you some strong coffee.” She dampened a hand towel and wiped the blood from his face, while trying to determine how badly he was hurt.

  He measured Molly, as though he had trouble focusing his eyes. “Hey, pretty nurse, wanta kiss my hurts?” He snaked his hands around her waist as if they belonged there. He was young and cocky with a serious case of what-a-stud-I-am fever.

  “Clearly you’re not as badly hurt as you look,” she said, twisting away. “What happened to you, anyway?”

  “Li’l disagreement over an ace of spades.”

  He reached for her again. She stepped back and got some ice from the refrigerator, wrapped it in a towel, and handed it to him. “Put this on your eye. It’ll help reduce the swelling.” She glared at him and shook a finger in his face. “And stay put. I’ll get something for those cuts.”

  She returned in quick order with disinfectant and cotton balls she’d found in the downstairs bathroom and went to work on his face. The gash was wide and still oozed blood. “You might need stitches. Is there a doctor nearby?”

  He laughed. “There’s a vet on the ranch. But I want you to take care of me.” He yanked Molly down on his lap and tried to kiss her.

  “No!” Molly struggled, but she couldn’t get loose. For someone who looked like a bull had kicked him repeatedly in the face, he was frisky as a colt and dangerous as a wild stallion. “Look, cowboy,” she said, ready to hurt him if she had to, “let go or—”

  Behind Luke, Matt charged through the door from the mud room full tilt. He lifted Molly away, and grabbed the drunken cowboy by the scuff of his neck. “Damn you, Luke. When a woman says no, she means no! Got that?” Matt drew his fist back, ready to pound what was left of Luke’s face into mush.

  “Matt, don’t!” Molly said. “Luke’s face can’t take any more punishment. And I’m okay.”

  Tension crackled in the air. Matt’s arm remained poised for battle, but he looked at Luke’s face as if seeing it for the first time. He shoved him back into the chair, showing no gentleness, but the glint of anger in his earth-brown eyes waned.

  A strand of Luke’s hair had fallen across his forehead, which made him look boyish and vulnerable.

  Matt’s glare gentled, then hardened again. “Molly,” he growled, “this is my brother Luke.” He glared daggers at his brother. “In the future, keep your dirty paws off my wife.” Matt’s low, hoarse drawl rumbled through Molly like distant thunder, making her knees weak.

  Luke’s mouth fell open. “Wife!”

  Matt grabbed Luke’s chin and squeezed it. “Yeah, wife.”

  Molly’s ears perked up. Shouldn’t Matt’s brother know about the marriage if she and Matt were married?

  Tilting his head, Matt examined Luke’s face. “You need stitches. Haul your sorry butt out of that chair and let’s have the doc take a look. You don’t want permanent scars on that pretty-boy face.” Matt draped Luke’s arm around his neck and helped him to his feet. He snagged Luke’s hat from the table and shoved it on Luke’s head. The rolled brim of Matt’s own hat shaded his expression.

  Molly watched in dismay. In their hip-hugging faded blue Levi’s and black Stetsons, the brothers staggered out the door without another word to her. She felt like an outsider, closed out by a relationship she didn’t understand. One minute Matt was ready to pound his brother into mincemeat, the next he was his best buddy.

  Damn Matt, he was leaving her again without even a good-bye. Again? She jumped on the word like a starving lioness would leap on her prey. Had Matt left her before? Was that why she got so angry every time she looked at him?

  He’d told her very little about their relationship. What kind of man was she married to? Was he a heavy drinker like his brother? She remembered the locked liquor cabinet. She felt mixed emotions about him—anger, fear, curiosity, and—as much as she hated to admit it—even attraction. But she didn’t feel married.

  Chapter Three

  Molly fought the dream at first, then fo
und herself giving into it. Silvery moonlight highlighted their nude bodies. Matt traced a hand down her throat, and everything stilled inside. His touch, though tender, caught her in an unyielding hold. He kissed her and the warm, soft pressure lulled her into willing submission. She reveled in the lean hardness of him as she trailed her fingers over his broad, muscular back, chest, shoulders, and then entwined them in his hair to pull him closer. She felt the drive of their dual madness. He ravaged her mouth, and she drew him deeper unable to get enough of him. A moist throbbing in her core pulsed hot and insistent.

  “Matt, now please!”

  Her cry woke her to a world of sunshine beaming through a slit in the drapes. She burned with desire—her face with embarrassment. What if someone had heard her? Oh, God, what if Matt heard me? She didn’t want to want him. Husband or not, he was a stranger, a controlling stranger who might be dangerous.

  She leaped from the bed and headed for the shower. She turned on the cold water full blast. After regaining a smidgen of control, she dressed and headed for the nursery. The crib was empty! Instant panic gripped her. Why did an empty crib always set her heart to pounding?

  Sara Jane is fine, she told herself, even as she dashed to the kitchen. Relief shot through her, and she began to breathe again when she found her baby propped in the high chair. She looked adorable in that cotton sleeper and bib, her face all smiles, drooling a bit. Love, powerful and all-consuming, squeezed Molly’s heart. Barely glancing at Tita, she wiped away the drool with a nearby washcloth. The empty bowl and empty bottle told her that Tita had fed Sara Jane. Molly lifted the baby from the chair and, holding the little one so tight that the tot wriggled in protest, Molly hugged and kissed her.

  “Good morning, señora,” Tita said, smiling.

  “Er…Good morning,” Molly said. Tita is talking to me! Stunned, Molly returned Sara Jane to the high chair, wondering what had happened since yesterday.

  “Señor Matt said to let you sleep in.” Tita poured orange juice and coffee then pulled out a chair and gestured to it. “Por favor, sit down.”