She looked straight up—into
Slate Walker’s eyes
Cassidy’s legs turned rubbery and weak, and she eased herself down onto the curb. She’d dreamed of the day she’d meet Slate again. Now it was here—and she wasn’t ready.
Her daughter had no such problem. Lindsey stared up at the big cowboy and smiled. “I fell down,” she explained.
“You sure did.” He sat by Cassidy and pulled Lindsey onto his lap. “Let’s see if there’s any damage.”
Watching them, Cassidy felt her heart would stop. Lindsey looked at Slate with open affection, and he returned her gaze with a look that was both confused and clearly warm. As if something between the two of them had connected.
“Would you like to stay with us and train our horses?” Lindsey asked him.
“Lindsey, we have to go home,” Cassidy said abruptly.
Before her daughter could say more, Cassidy scooped her off Slate’s lap and hustled her away. Lindsey’s instant trust in Slate unsettled her.
It was almost as if Lindsey had sensed Slate was her father.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
As a young girl Caroline Burnes traveled through Texas with her parents. They stopped for lunch at a small café, and Caroline decided it was the end of the trip for her. She’d always wanted to be a cowgirl—and Texas was the perfect place to be one. She would stay. Although her parents did eventually convince her to leave the café, to this day the Lone Star state continues to have special memories for her—and a special place in her heart.
Books by Caroline Burnes
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
86—THE DEADLY BREED
100—MEASURE OF DECEIT
115—PHANTOM FILLY
134—FEAR FAMILIAR*
154—THE JAGUAR’S EYE
186—DEADLY CURRENTS
204—FATAL INGREDIENTS
215—TOO FAMILIAR*
229—HOODWINKED
241—FLESH AND BLOOD
256—THRICE FAMILIAR*
267—CUTTING EDGE
277—SHADES OF FAMILIAR*
293—FAMILIAR REMEDY*
322—FAMILIAR TALE*
343—BEWITCHING FAMILIAR*
399—A CHRISTMAS KISS
409—MIDNIGHT PREY
426—FAMILIAR HEART*
452—FAMILIAR FIRE*
* Fear Familiar
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Remember Me, Cowboy
Caroline Burnes
To all my rowdy Hill Country friends—Bill,
Liz and Nancy—thanks for introducing me to Texas.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Slate Walker—He walked into the Comfort Ranch Bank to ask for a loan—and woke up with no money, accused of attempted bank robbery.
Cassidy O’Neal—Slate’s conviction left her without a fiancé—or a father for their daughter.
Lindsey O’Neal—The four-year-old’s immediate trust in Slate both pleased and worried Cassidy.
Rusty Jones—Slate’s childhood friend was quick to point the finger—as prosecuting attorney.
Cole Benson—Cassiy’s friend and neighbor won the million-dollar purse in the rodeo championships, one week after Slate’s arrest.
Amanda Best Tyree—The bank teller was the eyewitness against Slate—but how good was her vision?
Dray Tyree—Had the loan officer shot Slate to protect Amanda, or had he purposely shot an unarmed man?
Clyde Barlow—The bank president had asked Slate to meet him at noon—a very odd time for an appointment.
Sheriff Owens—Had his blindness to the truth put an innocent man behind bars?
Lucky Hill—Cassidy’s foreman knew his job—but was he working for Cassidy, or someone else?
Joker—The renegade stallion could be a million-dollar horse—if Slate could catch him before someone else shot him.
Prologue
At high noon, the parking lot of the bank was empty. Slate Walker pulled his dusty pickup truck into a space and got out. Standing beside the truck, he tucked his shirttail into his jeans and glanced down at his hand-tooled boots. They were well worn but polished and neat. He removed his Stetson and smoothed back his light brown hair. He’d been in the Comfort Ranch Bank a thousand times before, but never, literally, with his hat in his hand.
Borrowing money was a hard thing to do. Begging for it was even harder. But if he didn’t find some cash, fast, the Three Sisters Ranch would be sold on the courthouse steps in a matter of days. His mother, Mary Walker, was the last living sister, and though the doctors didn’t give her much longer to live, Slate was determined that she would die in her own bed on the ranch that she had worked and loved since birth.
Whatever it took, Slate would get the money to keep his mother in doctors and on her ranch.
After she was dead, he’d settle accounts the best way he could.
His boot heels thudded against the newly laid asphalt of the parking lot as he walked toward the bank, which had once been an old general store. He’d had dealings with Clyde Barlow in the past and had found him to be a reasonable man. A cautious man when it came to loaning out money, but Slate was certain he could put up his cow-horse, truck and trailer and get a loan for enough to keep the creditors at bay. At least until the national rodeo finals.
Slate pictured the big stallion, Mr. Twist, in his mind. If he could hang on to the blood bay bronco for an eight-second ride, he’d walk out of the arena with a million dollar purse, not to mention the side money that came with celebrity.
Slate was certain he could do it—he didn’t have a choice.
Mary Walker wasn’t the only person counting on him. He thought of Cassidy O’Neal, and his face flushed with pride. They were getting married on Sunday. He’d decided to ask Barlow for a loan large enough to cover a small honeymoon, even though Cassidy had assured him she didn’t mind waiting until they had money to spend on “luxuries.” To him, the thought of a weekend alone with Cassidy wasn’t a luxury, it was a downright necessity.
The bank door opened and Hook’em Billings walked out, cheek bulging with a plug of tobacco. “If you want money, you’ll have to pull a gun on ‘em,” Hook’em said before he spat, the ends of his waxed mustache twitching.
Hook’em had gotten his name as a bull rider in his youth. He’d been one helluva rodeo rider in the days when performers risked injury and death without a chance at the big money. But Hook’em had never seemed bitter. He’d always been like a father to Slate.
“What’s wrong?” Slate asked, set to hear one of Hook’em’s famous yarns.
“Clyde acts like I’m asking to borrow his money,” Hook’em grumbled. “I need a little to carry me over until the calf crop comes in next spring.” He spat again.
Slate felt a tug of concern. In the past, Clyde Barlow had always been generous in loaning money to the ranchers and cowboys. But the past two years had been hard on everyone, including the bank. “Can you cull your herd?” he asked.
Hook’em gave him a sour look. “I don’t guess I have a choice. You want to come over Saturday and help me round ’em up?”
“Sure,” Slate answered. Helping with a herd was something that all of the ranchers did for one another.
“I’ll make sure you don’t get bruised or too tired, what with your wedding comin’ up on Sunday.” His good spirits restored, Hook’em grinned.
“There’s not a cow on your ranch that could wear me out,” Slate said with an answering grin.
“That’s big
talk for a man who’s walking down the aisle.”
“A happy man,” Slate emphasized.
Hook’em chuckled. “A lucky man. Cassidy’s the prettiest woman in Texas. I can’t figure why she’s gone on a man like you.”
Smiling, Slate stepped past him and entered the bank. The lobby was empty, and he glanced to the right to find Clyde Barlow’s office door open, but he couldn’t get a clear view to see if the bank president was in or not. Karlie Mason, Clyde’s secretary, was not at her desk. Slate checked his watch. It was 11:57. He was three minutes early.
He took two steps forward and caught sight of Dray Tyree in his office. Dray was a part-time rodeo rider who served as the bank’s loan officer and who would sympathize with Slate’s plight. Dray knew how hard it was to make a living on the rodeo circuit. His solution had been to deploy his college business degree and finally accept a full-time job. Slate was both envious and sorry for Dray—Slate wanted the security of a job, but he couldn’t stand the idea of working for anyone other than himself.
He started over to talk with his old high school friend but realized there was someone in Dray’s office. Slate could only catch sight of the back of the visitor’s head.
“Can I help you?” a pretty bank teller asked.
Slate advanced toward the teller window where Amanda Best stood behind the old-fashioned black iron bars. She’d been behind Slate in school, and he didn’t know her well, but Amanda and Cassidy had resumed their childhood friendship when Cassidy had moved back to Comfort from Houston. In contrast to Cassidy, with her lithe blond looks, Amanda was dark and small. She had a quick smile that now flickered nervously and disappeared.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Barlow,” Slate said.
Amanda nodded. “I have to get some change.” She left her station and walked over to another counter. Ducking down, she disappeared.
Slate eased over to a display that showed the different interest rates for savings accounts. He glanced at his watch. It was 11:59. Lunch was an odd time for a banker to make an appointment, he thought for the third or fourth time. But he was glad. Cassidy was meeting him at Dobie’s Barbecue for lunch, a luxury that they seldom had time for.
A movement by the counter caught his eye, and he looked up. Amanda’s face was wide-eyed with horror. She held up both hands, staring at him as if he were a snake. “Don’t hurt me,” she said. “Please, Slate, don’t hurt me!” She pushed a cloth bag across the counter at him. “Take the money, just don’t hurt anyone.”
Slate started toward her, confused. “What are you—”
Amanda’s scream echoed off the old wood of the bank.
Slate felt as if he were in thick, wet sand. His limbs seemed weighted. He lifted his hand, a gesture of help, only to see Amanda’s fear heighten, and now he had no doubt that she was terrified of him.
“Amanda?” he said, but his question was lost in the shrill of her scream.
“Drop it, Slate!” Before he could react, he heard the report of the gun. He felt the bullet as it slammed into his head, and he felt himself fall. It seemed to take forever, his body in a free fall to the right side. The familiar decor of the bank was a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes as he went down. And when he struck the floor, it was with a final thud that brought the release of darkness.
Chapter One
As the chain-link gates topped with razor wire slowly swung open, Slate took a last lungful of prison air. He did not expect to feel anything when he walked through the gates of Huntsville Prison, but he did. Something in his chest was both painful and sweet. After four and a half years, he was once again a free man.
“I don’t want to see your sorry ass back here,” the guard called after him as he stepped through the gate to freedom.
Slate lifted a hand in farewell but didn’t turn around to look. He’d done his time, and if he could, he intended to put it behind him. His sentence to Huntsville Prison hadn’t been as hard as it might have been. From the very first, Slate had found a niche. He’d done his work and minded his own business, and he’d somehow managed to earn the respect of the prison officials as well as the other inmates. The Texas penal system had made a lot of money on the rodeos he’d organized and managed. He’d been one inmate who hadn’t cost the state a dime.
He looked for the red pickup truck Hook’em Billings said he would be driving and was surprised to see the old cowboy sitting in a comfortable sedan. The car pulled up to him, and Hook’em gave him a friendly wave. “Hop in, Slate. Time’s a’wastin’.”
When it came time for him to leave prison, there’d been no one else for Slate to call. His mother had died while he was behind bars. When the warden told him of her passing, Slate had tried to attach emotion to the image of the frail, gray-haired woman who had sat behind the rails of the courtroom during his trial. He’d felt regret at the death of a woman who was obviously devoted to him, a woman acknowledged as good by everyone who spoke her name. But all efforts to feel the past were futile.
Bitterly, he’d realized that he wouldn’t have remembered he had a mother if someone hadn’t told him.
That day, five years before, when he’d stepped into the Comfort Ranch Bank, he’d lost not only his freedom but his memory. He had not recognized a single person, and he could not remember any of his past.
“Where to?” Hook’em asked as he spun the sedan out of the parking lot and headed for open highway.
Slate was taken aback. He hadn’t thought about what he would do once he was released. The only thing that had been on his mind was figuring out if he really had attempted to rob the Comfort Ranch Bank. All the trial evidence painted him guilty, but Slate simply couldn’t justify the evidence with this own feelings.
“Why don’t you come to my place?” Hook’em suggested.
Slate nodded. There wasn’t any other choice. He had forty dollars in his pocket, no transportation and no destination.
“Things around Comfort are pretty much the same,” Hook’em said, putting the car in drive. “I’m a little older, but that’s about it. Cassidy’s as pretty as ever.”
Slate turned to look at him, no expression in his green eyes. He knew who Hook’em meant—the striking blond woman who’d sat beside the woman identified as his mother in the courtroom. Once again, the void of the past rose in front of him. The old cowboy reddened and pressed harder on the gas. “None of my business, anyway,” he mumbled. “Hey, why don’t we stop by Dobie’s and get some barbecue? That used to be your favorite hangout. Maybe if you see some of the local places, it’ll jog your memory. Never mind if some folks around town are a little stiff-actin’ at first.”
Slate didn’t answer. He had no memory of a favorite place to eat, and no interest in food. In prison he’d eaten whatever was served.
“Your mother had a beautiful funeral service, Slate. Cas—It was fitting. She’s buried out on that ridge that she loved. We can drive out there later if you’d like.”
Slate swallowed. “No, thanks.” He didn’t want to visit his mother’s grave until he had some memory of her. He’d spent the first year in prison trying to force the memories. He’d thought that if he tried hard enough, he could make them come back. But the harder he tried, the more elusive the past had grown. It was as if he’d started his life in the county jail, awakening full-grown to the realization that he had walked into a bank, pulled a gun and tried to steal money.
The horror and desperation of his actions had been brought home to him at his trial. He had nearly frightened a bank teller to death, not to mention threatening the lives of several other bank employees. Based on the testimony, he had been a real desperado.
“I got a little surprise for you,” Hook’em said. He glanced toward Slate.
“You do?” Slate didn’t know if he wanted any surprises thrown at him. This freedom thing was enough of one. In prison, he hadn’t needed a memory. He’d walked in and made his reputation. But in the outside world, he was at a complete loss. The man sitting behind the wheel of the c
ar knew more about him than he knew about himself.
Of course, he’d read the newspaper stories. He’d been a bronc rider with a little talent and a lot of luck. His had been the rising star on the national rodeo circuit before the attempted bank robbery. He was the son of Mary Walker of the Three Sisters Ranch, a woman highly respected for her ranching techniques and kindness. He’d been a good student in high school and had shown promise as a horse trainer. He knew the facts, but he didn’t own them.
“I been keeping this a surprise.” Hook’em grinned at him. “You want the surprise or the barbecue?”
Slate actually wanted to go somewhere quiet and be left alone. “Whatever you decide,” he answered.
“Let’s decide when we get to Comfort.” Hook’em pushed the car up to the maximum speed allowed as the wide open vista of the Texas countryside began to develop a gentle swelling as they headed west. “Why don’t you put the seat back and take a little nap? We’ll be home in no time.”
Slate was not tired, and he was far too keyed up to sleep, but he leaned the seat back and closed his eyes. The truth was he had nothing to say. The man beside him was obviously an old friend, but Slate didn’t have a clue what their past relationship had been like. He was as vulnerable as a newborn baby.
“Slate,” Hook’em said.
“Yeah.” He kept his eyes closed. It gave him a small sense of protection.
“There’s something been troublin’ me.”
“Yeah?”
“I saw you goin’ into the bank that mornin’, remember?”
Slate eased his eyes open. He tried hard to remember. “No, Hook’em, I don’t.”
“Well, damn!” Hook’em hit the steering wheel with his palm. “That was the problem at the trial. Whatever anybody said, you couldn’t put up a defense because you didn’t remember. If you’d had the money to hire yourself one of those Dallas lawyers, you coulda beat the rap. The gun was the only real evidence against you.”
Remember Me, Cowboy Page 1
