by Diana Palmer
He chuckled. It was the first time in years that he’d felt like laughing. “You renegade.”
“It runs in my family,” she laughed. “Where are you from?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Texas.”
“But you lived in Wyoming,” she pointed out.
“Because I thought it was the one place Lopez wouldn’t bother me. What a fool I was,” he added quietly. “If I’d come here in the first place, it might never have happened.”
“Our police are good, but…”
He glanced at her. “Don’t you know what I am? What I was?” he amended. “Eb Scott’s whole career was in the Houston papers just after he sent two of Lopez’s best men to prison for attempted murder. They mentioned that several of his old comrades live in Jacobsville now.”
“I read the papers,” she confessed. “But they didn’t mention names, you know.”
“Didn’t they?” He maneuvered a turn at a stop sign. “Eb must have called in a marker, then.”
She turned slightly toward him. “What were you?”
He didn’t even glance at her. “If the papers didn’t mention it, I won’t.”
“Were you one of those old comrades?” she persisted.
He hesitated, but only for a moment. She wasn’t a gossip. There was no good reason for not telling her. “Yes,” he said bluntly. “I was a mercenary. A professional soldier for hire to the highest bidder,” he added bitterly.
“But with principles, right?” she persisted. “I mean, you didn’t hire out to Lopez and help him run drugs.”
“Certainly not!”
“I didn’t think so.” She leaned back against her seat, weary. “It must take a lot of courage to do that sort of work. I suppose it takes a certain kind of man, as well. But why did you do it when you had a wife and child?”
He hated that damned question. He hated the answer, too.
“Well?”
She wasn’t going to quit until he told her. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Because I refused to give it up, and she got pregnant deliberately to get even with me.” He didn’t stop to think about the odd way he’d worded that, but Lisa noticed and wondered at it. “I cur tailed my work, but I helped get the goods on Lopez be fore I hung it up entirely and started ranching full-time. I’d just come back from overseas when the fire was set. It was obvious afterward that I’d been careless and let one of Lopez’s men track me back to Wyoming. I’ve had to live with it ever since.”
She studied his lean, stark profile with quiet, curious eyes. “Was it the adrenaline rush you couldn’t live with out, or was it the confinement of marriage that you couldn’t live with?”
His green eyes glittered dangerously. “You ask too damned many questions!”
She shrugged. “You started it. I had no idea that you were anything more than a rancher. Your foreman, Harley Fowler, likes to tell people that he’s one of those dashing professional soldiers, you know. But he isn’t.”
The statement surprised him. “How do you know he isn’t?” he asked.
“Because I asked him if he’d ever done the Fan Dance and he didn’t know what I was talking about.”
He stopped the truck in the middle of the road and just stared at her. “Who told you about that? Your husband?”
“He knew about the British Special Air Services, but mostly just what I told him—including that bit about the Fan Dance, one of their rigorous training tests.” She smiled self-consciously. “I guess it sounds strange, but I love reading books about them. They’re really some thing, like the French Foreign Legion, you know. A group of men so highly trained, so specialized, that they’re the scourge of terrorists the world over. They go everywhere, covertly, to rescue hostages and gather intelligence about terrorist groups.” She sighed and closed her eyes, oblivious to the expression of the man watching her. “I’d be scared to death to do anything like that, but I admire people who can. It’s a way of testing your self, isn’t it, so that you know how you react under the most deadly pressure. Most of us never face physical violence. Those men have.” Her eyes opened. “Men like you.”
He felt his cheeks go hot. She was intriguing. He began to understand why Walt had married her. “How old are you?” he asked bluntly.
“Old enough to get pregnant,” she told him pertly. “And that’s all you’re getting out of me.”
His green eyes narrowed. She was very young, there was no doubt about that. He didn’t like the idea of her being in danger. He didn’t like the idea of the man Luke Craig had sent over to look out for her, either. He was going to see about that.
“How old are you, if we’re getting personal?” she asked.
“Older than you are,” he returned mockingly.
She grimaced. “Well, you’ve got scars and lines in your face, and a little gray at your temples, but I doubt you’re over thirty-five.”
His eyebrows arched almost to his hairline.
“I’d like you to be my baby’s godfather when he’s born,” she continued bluntly. “I think Walt would have liked that, too. He spoke very highly of you, although he didn’t say much about your background. I was curious about that. Now I understand why he was so secretive.”
“I’ve never been a godfather,” he said curtly.
“That’s okay. I’ve never been a mother.” She frowned. “Come to think of it, the baby hasn’t been a baby before, either.” She looked down at her flat belly and smiled tenderly, tracing it. “We can all start even.”
“Did you love your husband?”
She looked up at him. “Did you love your wife?” she countered instantly.
He didn’t like looking at her belly, remembering. He started down the road again, at a greater speed. “She said she loved me, when we married,” he said evasively.
Poor woman, Lisa thought. And poor little boy, to die so young, and in such a horrible way. She wondered if the taciturn Mr. Parks had nightmares, and guessed that he did. His poor arm was proof that he’d tried to save his family. It must be terrible, to go on living, to be the only survivor of such a tragedy.
They pulled up in front of her dilapidated ranch house. The steps were flimsy and one of the boards was rotten. The house needed painting. The screens on the windows were torn, and the one on the screen door was half torn away. In the corral, he could hear a horse whinny. He hoped her fences were in better shape than the house.
He helped her down out of the truck and set her gently on her feet. She was rail-thin.
“Are you eating properly?” he asked abruptly as he studied her in the faint light from the porch, scowling.
“I said you could be the baby’s godfather, not mine,” she pointed out with an impish smile. “Thank you very much for the ride. Now go home, Mr. Parks.”
“Don’t I get to see this famous puppy?”
She grimaced as she walked gingerly up the steps, past the rotten one, and put her key in the lock. “He stays on the screen porch out back, and even with papers down, I expect he’s made a frightful mess… That’s odd,” she said when the door swung open without the key being turned in the lock. “I’m sure I locked this door before I… Where are you going?”
“Stay right there,” he said shortly. He opened the truck, took out the .45 automatic he always carried and cocked it on his way back onto the porch.
Her face went pale. Reading about commandos was very different from the real thing when she saw the cold metal of the pistol in his hands and realized that he was probably quite proficient in its use. The thought chilled her. Like the sight of the gun.
He put her gently to one side. “I’m not going to shoot anybody unless I get shot at,” he said reassuringly. “Stay there.”
He left her on the porch and went carefully, quietly, through the house with the pistol raised at his ear, one finger on the trigger and his other hand, in spite of its injury, supporting the butt efficiently. He swept the house, room by room, closet by closet, until he got to the bedroom and heard a sound in
side. It was only a sound, a faint whisper. There was a hint of light coming from under the door, which was just slightly ajar.
He kicked the door open, the pistol leveled the second he had a clear view of the bed.
The man’s face was a study in shock when he saw the expression on Cy Parks’s dark face and the glitter in his eyes. Bill Mason, Luke Craig’s erstwhile cowboy-on-loan, was lying on the bed in his shorts with a beer bottle in one hand. When Cy burst in the door, he sat up starkly, his bloodshot eyes blinking as he swayed. He was just drunk enough not to realize how much trouble he was in.
“You’re not Mrs. Monroe,” he drawled loudly.
“And you’re not Mr. Monroe. If you want to see daylight again, get the hell out of that bed and put your clothes on!”
“Okay. I mean yes, sir, Mr. Parks!”
The man tripped and fell, the beer bottle shattering on the floor as he sprawled nearby. “I broked it,” he moaned as he dragged himself up holding on to the bed post, “and it was my…my last one!”
“God help us! Hurry up!”
“Okay. Just let me find…my pants…” He hiccuped, tripped again and fell, moaning. “They must be here somewhere!”
Muttering darkly, Cy uncocked the pistol, put the safety on, and stuck it into the belt at his back. He went to find Lisa, who was standing impatiently on the porch.
“I saved you a shock,” he told her.
“How big a shock?”
“The great unwashed would-be lover who was waiting for you, in your bed,” he said, trying not to grin. It wasn’t really funny.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, not again,” she groaned.
“Again?”
She was made very uncomfortable by the look on his face. “Don’t even think it!” she threatened angrily. “I’m not that desperate for a man, thank you very much. He gets drunk one night a week and sleeps it off in Walt’s bed,” she muttered, oblivious to both her phrasing and his surprised look. “I lock him in, so he can’t cause me any trouble, and I let him out the next morning. He’s got a drinking problem, but he won’t get help.”
“Does Luke Craig know that?”
“If he did, he’d fire him, and the poor man has no place to go,” she began.
“He’ll have a place to go tomorrow,” he promised her with barely contained fury. “Why didn’t you say some thing?”
“I didn’t know you,” she pointed out. “And Luke meant it as a kind gesture.”
“Luke would eat him with barbecue sauce if he knew what he was doing over here!”
There was a muffled thud and then the tipsy man weaved toward the front door. “So sorry, Mrs. Monroe,” Mason drawled, sweeping off his hat and almost going down with it as he bowed. “Very sorry. I’ll be off, now.” He hesitated at the top step with one foot in the air. “Where’s my horse?” he asked blankly. “I left him out here somewhere.”
“I’ll send him to you. Go back to Craig’s ranch.”
“It’s two miles!” the cowboy wailed. “I’ll never make it!”
“Yes, you will. Get in the truck. And if you throw up in it, I’ll shoot you!” Cy promised.
The cowboy didn’t even question the threat. He tried to salute and almost fell down again. “Yes, sir, I’ll get…get right in the truck, yes, sir, right now!”
He weaved to the passenger side, opened the door and pulled himself in, slamming the door behind him.
“I’d sleep on the sofa,” Cy advised Lisa. “Until you can wash the sheets, at least.”
“His girlfriend must be nuts. No woman in her right mind would sleep with him,” she murmured darkly.
“I can see why. I’ll send a man over to the bunkhouse. And he won’t get drunk and wait for you in bed,” he added.
She chuckled. “That would be appreciated.” She hesitated. “Thanks for the ride home, Mr. Parks.”
He hesitated, his narrow green eyes appraising her. She’d taken her husband’s death pretty hard, and she had dark circles under those eyes. He hated leaving her alone. He had protective feelings for her that really disturbed him.
“I’ll want to meet that pup when I come back again.”
She managed a smile. “Okay.”
“Go in and lock the door,” he instructed.
She clutched her heating pad and her purse to her chest and glared at him, but he stared her down. Oh, well, she thought as she went inside, some men just didn’t know the meaning of diplomacy. She’d have to make allowances for that little character flaw.
He waited until she got inside and locked the door before he climbed into his truck. He wondered why she’d said Walt’s bed and not their bed. The question diverted him as he drove the intoxicated but quiet cow boy over to Luke Craig’s house and showed him to Luke. The blond rancher cursed roundly, having closed the door so that his new wife, Belinda, wouldn’t over hear.
“I’m very drunk,” the cowboy said with a lopsided grin, swaying on the porch.
“He was stripped to his shorts, waiting for Lisa in her bed,” Cy said, and he didn’t grin. “I don’t want this man sent over there again.”
“He won’t be. Good God, he’s hidden it well, hasn’t he?”
“I’m very drunk,” the cowboy repeated, and the grin widened.
“Shut up,” Cy told him. He turned back to Luke. “I’m sending one of my own men over to sleep in the bunkhouse. Can you handle him?”
“I’m veerrryy drunk,” the cowboy interjected.
“Shut up!” chorused the two men.
Belinda Jessup Craig opened the front door and peered out at the tableau. “He’s very drunk,” she pointed out, and wondered why they looked so belligerent. “You’d better bring him inside, Luke. We can sober him up in the kitchen. You can’t leave him stumbling around like that. I’ll phone the Master’s Inn and see if they’ve got room for him.” She glanced at Cy’s puzzled expression. “It’s a halfway house for alcoholics. They offer treatment and continued support.”
“She wants to save the world,” Luke muttered, but he grinned at her.
“And he wants to control it,” she shot back with a wink. “Care to come in for coffee, Mr. Parks?”
“No, thanks,” he replied. “I have to get home.”
“I’m sorry about the trouble,” Luke said.
“Your heart was in the right place. She’s special,” he added in spite of himself.
Luke smiled slowly. “Yes. She is.”
Cy cleared his throat. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Luke answered.
“Good night!” the cowboy echoed before Luke propelled him firmly into the house.
Chapter Two
Cy took his medicine and had the first good night’s sleep he’d enjoyed in days. He’d sent a capable, older cowboy over to Lisa’s ranch the night before to sleep in the bunkhouse and keep an eye on things. He’d also arranged covertly for sensitive listening equipment to be placed around her house, and for a man to monitor it full-time. He might be overly cautious, but he wasn’t taking chances with a pregnant woman. He knew Manuel Lopez’s thirst for revenge far too well. The drug lord had a nasty habit of targeting the families of people who opposed him. And Lopez might not know Lisa was pregnant. Cy wasn’t willing to risk leaving Lisa out there alone.
The next day he drove over to Lisa’s house and found her struggling with a cow in the barn, trying to pull a calf by hand. He couldn’t believe she was actually doing that!
He’d barely turned off the engine before he was out of the big sports utility vehicle and towering over her in the barn. She looked up with a grimace on her face when she realized what a temper he was in.
“Don’t you say a word, Cy Parks,” she told him at once, wiping the sweat from her forehead. “There’s nobody but me to do this, and the cow can’t wait until one of my part-timers comes in from the lower pasture. They’re dipping cattle…”
“So you’re trying to do a job that you aren’t half big enough to manage. Are you out of your mind?” he bur
st out. “You’re pregnant, for God’s sake!”
She was panting, sprawled between the cow’s legs. She glared up at him and blew a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. “Listen, I can’t afford to lose the cow or the calf…”
“Get up!” he said harshly.
She glared at him.
For all his raging temper, he reached down and lifted her tenderly to her feet, putting her firmly to one side. He got down on one knee beside the cow and looked at the situation grimly. “Have you got a calf-pull?”
She ground her teeth together. “No. It broke and I didn’t know how to fix it.”
He said a few words under his breath and went out to his truck, using the radio to call for help. Fortunately one of his men was barely two minutes away. Harley, his foreman, came roaring up beside Cy’s truck, braked and jumped out with a length of rope.
“Good man, Harley,” Cy said as he looped the rope around the calf’s feet. “If we can’t get him out our selves, we can use the winch on my truck. Ready? Pull!”
They were bathed in sweat and cursing when they managed to get the calf halfway out.
“He’s still alive,” Cy said, grinning. “Okay, let’s go again. Pull!”
Three more firm tugs and the calf slipped out. Cy cleared his nose and mouth and the little black-baldy bawled. The cow turned, gently licking away the slick birth membranes covering her calf.
“That was a near miss,” Harley observed, grinning.
“Very near.” Cy glowered at Lisa. “In more ways than one.”
“Excuse me?” Harley asked.
“It was my cow,” Lisa pointed out. “I thought I could do it by myself.”
“Pregnant, and you think you’re Samson,” he said with biting sarcasm.
She put her hands on her hips and glared up at him. “Go away!”
“Gladly. When I’ve washed my hands.”
“There’s a pump over here,” Harley reminded him, indicating it.
“You go ahead, son,” Cy muttered, glancing at his stitched arm. “I’ve got a raw wound. I’ll have to have antibacterial soap.”
