The Cowboy

by Joan Johnston

  “If she’s that unhappy, why does she stay with Dad?” Trace challenged.

  “To punish him.”

  Trace was taken aback. “Explain that.”

  “As long as she stays married to Dad, he can’t have the woman he really loves.”

  “Lauren Creed.”

  Owen nodded. “I figure Dad’s loved her all along.”

  “Then why did he marry Mom?” Trace demanded.

  “Why do you suppose?”

  “The land,” Trace said flatly.

  “Yep. Fifty thousand acres of DeWitt grassland.”

  “Is there any physical evidence against Mom? Anything to tie her to Jesse Creed’s death that could be used in court to convict her of murder?”

  “Nothing,” Owen said. “There’s no proof of any kind that she was involved. If Handy refuses to talk, if he’s willing to take the blame, there’s nothing to tie her to Jesse’s murder.”

  Trace shifted uncomfortably in his seat, still stunned at the enormity of the accusations being made against his mother. “You’re guessing. You have no proof.”

  “Are you willing to take the chance if I’m wrong?” Owen asked, glancing at Trace.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I’ve called Clay and asked him to come home, so we can have a family meeting and decide what to do. He said he could make it tomorrow night.”

  “Are you planning to confront Mom?” Trace asked.

  “That’s the general idea.”

  “Are you going to invite Summer to be a part of this witch hunt?”

  “She’s old enough to handle the truth.”

  “I can’t believe we’re having this discussion,” Trace said. “We don’t even know for certain if Mom’s responsible!”

  “Ever heard of circumstantial evidence? It all points to Mom. Not enough to convict her in court, but enough to prove to me that she’s guilty.”

  “What if you’re wrong about Mom?”

  Owen turned to him and said, “Then Dad’s guilty.”

  “Shit.”

  Trace was having a hard time believing either of his parents could have arranged to have someone murdered. But Owen seemed certain one or the other of them had. “I suppose you’re going to be the one asking the questions.”

  “It’s what I do,” Owen said.

  “And you’ll be able to tell which one’s guilty from their answers?”

  Owen nodded.

  “Then what?”

  “If it’s Mom, like I believe it is, we need to lock her away somewhere.”

  “Lock her away? Where? For how long?” Trace asked.

  “We put her somewhere she can get psychiatric help—until she’s no longer homicidal,” Owen said.

  “Who decides that?”

  “The doctors at whatever sanitarium we put her in.”

  “What if she denies being guilty?” Trace asked.

  “I’m sure she will,” Owen replied.

  “Why can’t we just hire someone to keep an eye on her?” Trace suggested.

  “Mom needs help, Trace. She had a man killed. We can’t leave her free.”

  “You really think she’d try again to kill Lauren Creed?”

  “Why not? Jesse’s death hasn’t solved her problem.”

  Trace rubbed a hand across his forehead. “This is a nightmare.”

  “I guess after this, you and Callie won’t be tying the knot anytime soon,” Owen said.

  “Callie and I got married yesterday.”

  Owen hit the brakes, and the Jeep skidded and swerved before he regained control. “Holy shit!” Owen gave a startled laugh, then grinned. “Well, big brother, you can still surprise me.”

  “Eli is my son.”

  The grin faded, and Owen stared at him so long Trace finally said, “Keep your eyes on the road.”

  Owen refocused his gaze on the asphalt road. “I thought the kid looked familiar. I should have figured it out sooner. So what happens now?”

  Trace sighed. “You mean, after we have our mother committed for having Callie’s father killed? I suppose I’ll try to mend fences with my wife. If that’s possible.”

  “And if you can’t?”

  “I’ll head back to Australia … and take my son with me.”

  “Callie Monroe isn’t going to stand for that.”

  “She doesn’t have much choice.”

  “What about the kid? Does he want to go with you?”

  Acid churned in Trace’s stomach. “I haven’t asked him yet.”

  Owen whistled. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks. I’m going to need it. What time is this family meeting tomorrow night?” Trace asked.

  “I’m arranging for everyone to come to the library at seven.”

  Trace frowned. “I just had a thought. What if Mom gets a lawyer and fights us?”

  “Dad can make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  “What makes you think he’ll cooperate?”

  Owen’s gaze was cynical, his mouth set in a bitter line. “I’m sure Dad will take whatever measures are necessary to protect the woman he loves.”

  Callie didn’t think Trace would dare to show his face at Three Oaks anytime soon, not even to consummate their marriage, as he’d promised he would. When he appeared at the kitchen door at suppertime, acting as though nothing had happened, she couldn’t believe her eyes.

  “Hey, Trace, you’re late,” Eli called to him from the supper table. “I made a plate for you and put it in the oven.”

  Callie had let Eli do it, even though she’d been certain Trace wasn’t coming back, because she’d wanted to postpone explaining to her children why Trace Blackthorne had vanished suddenly from their lives. They were too young to hear Owen’s news about their grandfather’s death until it was absolutely necessary. Thank goodness she hadn’t put them through that sort of agony for nothing. Here Trace was, bold as brass.

  Fortunately, her mother wasn’t at the table. She’d been devastated when Callie related Owen’s news and hadn’t come out of her room since. Luke had also taken the news badly and roared off in one of the pickups. He would work off his frustration tearing around back roads and giving the differential a workout. It wasn’t the safest way of getting rid of anger, but at least it didn’t endanger anyone else.

  Callie didn’t volunteer to put Trace’s plate on the table, but he apparently didn’t expect her to, since he grabbed a pot holder and retrieved it himself.

  “Did you give Hickory a good rubdown after our ride?” Trace asked as he seated himself across from Eli.

  “Yessir,” Eli said.

  Callie stiffened as the words of respect came pouring out of Eli’s mouth with all the naturalness they’d had when Nolan was still alive. “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she said with asperity.

  “It wasn’t full,” Eli protested.

  “It wasn’t full,” Hannah concurred through a mouthful of food. “I brushed my pony, too,” she told Trace.

  “Good for you, Hannah,” Trace said.

  Callie watched the smile split Hannah’s face as Trace ruffled her golden curls. If only he wasn’t a Blackthorne. If only she wasn’t a Creed. If only his father hadn’t arranged to murder hers. How could they get past such a calamity? How could she ever leave her mother and Sam alone to deal with a man who was willing to commit murder to get what he wanted?

  Callie noticed Trace wasn’t any more capable of swallowing food than she was.

  “It’s getting late,” he said, as he shoved his crumbled-up meat loaf around the plate with his fork one last time. “You two kids better get on upstairs and start getting ready for bed.”

  “Will you tuck me in?” Hannah asked.

  “Will you tuck me in?” Eli asked.

  Callie gasped. She couldn’t help it. What better sign of Eli’s acceptance could Trace have than that simple request? Even she hadn’t been allowed to tuck her son into bed since Nolan’s death. She saw the stunned pleasure in Trace’s eyes, the sudden glis
ten of tears as he realized the significance of Eli’s plea.

  “Sure, son,” Trace said.

  Callie’s throat tightened painfully as their eyes met. Well, you’ve got what you wanted. Your son trusts you. He respects you. How long do you think that’s going to last after you tell him you’re taking him away from me and Hannah and everyone else he loves at Three Oaks?

  Hannah tugged on Trace’s sleeve and insisted, “Me, too, Trace. Tuck me in, too.”

  Trace shifted his gaze to the little girl, and said, “You bet, sprite.”

  Her children shoved themselves away from the table and raced upstairs, now anxious for the bedtime ritual that had been so difficult following Nolan’s death.

  “They’re going to be devastated when you leave,” she said past the knot in her throat.

  “Then come with me,” he said quietly.

  Callie didn’t bother to answer, simply stood and began clearing the dishes from the table. She felt Trace walk up behind her as she stood at the sink, saw how he’d trapped her when his palms flattened on the counter on either side of her.

  “I need you, Callie. There’s an empty place inside me that only you can fill.”

  Callie bit back a moan as he kissed her nape. His words were fresh, cool water to a thirsting soul.

  “What’s happened between our parents has nothing to do with you and me,” he whispered in her ear. “I told you that eleven years ago, and it’s just as true today.”

  Callie heard the censure in his voice. “So, I made one mistake, I better not make another? Is that what you’re saying?” She managed to turn within the frame of his arms, so they were facing one another. “I made the only choice I could, Trace.”

  “You made the easy choice,” he accused.

  “You think it was easy leaving you?” she cried. “I nearly died. I—” She cut herself off, stunned at what she’d revealed.

  His hands left the counter and circled her waist, as his mouth met hers in the gentlest of touches. “Me, too, Callie,” he admitted. “Me, too. I don’t want to die again. Come with me. Please.”

  His mouth devoured hers, ravaged hers, took as though it were the last time they would ever touch or taste or share the wonder of a kiss together. They were so lost in each other that they didn’t hear Eli’s footsteps. Didn’t know he was there until he spoke.

  “Sheesh.”

  They broke apart like teenagers caught necking in church.

  “Eli!” Callie exclaimed. “What are you doing sneaking up on us like that?”

  “I didn’t sneak up.” He smirked at Trace. “You guys were too busy to notice me.”

  It dawned on Callie that Eli didn’t seem surprised—or upset—to find them kissing. She knew Eli had never witnessed her and Nolan kissing like that, because she and Nolan had never shared that kind of passion. She couldn’t help feeling relieved, but also a little sad. “What do you want?” she asked breathlessly.

  Eli rubbed his chin and turned to Trace. “I think maybe I need a shave. What do you think?”

  Callie watched as Trace reached out in all seriousness to brush his hand against Eli’s baby-smooth jaw, then rubbed his hand along his own cheek, bristling with a day’s growth of heavy black stubble.

  “I think maybe we could both use one,” Trace said, shooting a look at Callie.

  “Yeah, Mom,” Eli said with a mischievous grin. “Otherwise it’s going to tickle when Trace starts up kissing you again.”

  Callie felt her face turning red. “Shoo! Both of you. I’ve got dishes to wash.”

  Trace ushered Eli out the kitchen door, but paused to say, “I’ll see you later. In bed.” Then he was gone.

  Callie put her hands against her rosy cheeks and let out an exasperated sigh. The nerve of him, presuming that she was going to lie in bed and let him make love to her after everything that had happened today.

  “I need you, Callie. There’s an empty place inside me that only you can fill.”

  Callie felt her insides draw up tight. He needed her. And God help her, she wanted him. Yes, tonight she’d have him. Because far too soon, he’d be gone forever.

  She found Trace waiting for her in her bedroom.

  “This night has been a long time in coming,” he said. “I want it to be special.”

  Callie wondered what he had in mind. Trace had long ago taken her virginity, and they’d made love numerous times since he’d returned to Bitter Creek. “What’s different about tonight?” she asked.

  “It’s our first night as man and wife. That means something, Callie. It means we belong to each other before God and the State of Texas. For as long as we both shall live.”

  Callie managed a tremulous smile. “If you say so.”

  “That’s the way it is.”

  His touch was certainly different. More possessive. And more reverent.

  “You’re really and truly mine now, Callie,” he said, as his hands caressed her. Cherished her. Honored her. “The children of your body will bear my name, will carry my blood.”

  “And your eyes and nose and mouth,” she teased.

  “Your eyes,” he countered, as he stared into them.

  He joined them swiftly but took his time bringing her to climax, loving her with his hands and mouth. Touching her as though he’d never done it before, as though this were the very first time. She felt his callused hands on her breasts and then his mouth, as he suckled her.

  “You’re so beautiful, Callie. So lovely.”

  She let herself be loved. And she gave love in return. Trace was right. Things were different. She was no longer Callie Creed Monroe. Now she was a Blackthorne, too.

  Chapter 18

  TRACE ARRIVED AT THE LIBRARY DOOR PREcisely at seven o’clock, but the room—which smelled of hundred-year-old leather-bound books and his father’s expensive Cuban cigars—was empty. He wondered if the meeting had been moved somewhere else and had turned back to search the rest of the house, when his father crossed the threshold.

  “Where is everybody?” Blackjack asked.

  “I thought maybe the meeting had been moved,” Trace said. “Guess I was just the first one here.”

  “What’s this all about?” Blackjack asked.

  Trace frowned. “You mean Owen didn’t tell you?”

  “He said he had something important to discuss with the family and that your mother and I needed to be here at seven o’clock. He said it wasn’t something he could talk about over the phone.”

  “Where is Mom?” Trace asked.

  “She had a meeting of the hospital board at six. She said she’d be here as soon as she could.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Trace muttered.

  “Do you know why Owen called this meeting?” Blackjack asked, as he crossed to his desk and retrieved a cigar from the humidor.

  “I do, but I think it might be better if Owen tells you.”

  “Does it have anything to do with Russell Handy being arrested for the murder of Jesse Creed?” Blackjack asked, as he clipped his cigar. He picked up a lighter Trace knew was a gift from a former Texas governor and lit the Monte Cristo.

  “It does.” Trace refused to sit in one of the two chairs in front of the desk. They were purposely lower than the desk, leaving whoever was sitting there feeling smaller and less powerful than the person behind the desk. He crossed instead to the stone fireplace and perched on the arm of a nearby wing chair.

  Trace waited for Blackjack to quiz him about what he knew or to profess his innocence. He did neither, simply sat back in the brass-studded swivel chair, put his boot-heels up on the desk, and puffed on his cigar.

  Trace stared at the door, wondering where everyone else was, wishing his father would say something, and resisting the urge to ask if he was guilty of having Jesse Creed murdered.

  “How are you and Callie Monroe getting along?” his father asked.

  Trace debated whether to admit the truth, then decided he had to tell his father about his marriage sooner or later, and
this seemed to be the night for confessions. “Callie and I got married in Mexico a couple of days ago.”

  Blackjack’s feet came down and he sat up straight in his chair, his palms flat on the desk. “Why the hell didn’t you let me know? This is great news!”

  “You’re not going to be getting your hands on Three Oaks through me and Callie, Dad. I signed a prenuptial agreement that prevents me from ever—”

  “Without seeing my lawyer?”

  “I have my own lawyer,” Trace said.

  Blackjack snorted in disgust. “You never did learn to go for the jugular. When I married your mother—”

  “Don’t talk about her. Don’t talk about your marriage.”

  Blackjack raised a brow in surprise. “What’s your problem?”

  Trace wasn’t going to discuss the subject. He was going to let Owen ask the questions. “I’m leaving after Christmas, Dad. I’m going back to Australia.”

  “To work as a cowboy on some other man’s spread?” Blackjack said in disgust. “Don’t think I haven’t known where you’ve been these past seven years. I hired someone to track you down. It took him a while to find you, but he did.”

  Trace flushed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I figured you’d come home sooner or later.”

  “I’m leaving after Christmas, Dad. And I’m not coming back.”

  “You say that now—”

  “When he died, Alex Blackthorne left me his cattle station. I don’t want Bitter Creek, Dad. It’s yours.”

  His father stared at him in disbelief. “I can’t manage this place by myself anymore. My heart—”

  “Your heart’s just fine. I’ve done some investigating of my own, Dad. After the bypass surgery you had, your heart’s as good as new. It’ll stay that way so long as you don’t smoke and you eat right and you take it easy on the liquor.”

  “Hmmph. Doctors don’t know everything.”

  “Summer would love to help you out with the ranch,” Trace said.

  “I’ve got a husband picked out for her. She’ll be leaving to go live with him.”

  “Does Summer know about that?”

  “He knows about Summer. That’s enough for now. I’ll tell her when the time is right.”

  “I’m leaving, Dad,” Trace repeated. “Bitter Creek is yours, not mine.”