One Tough Cowboy

by Lora Leigh

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  Table of Contents

  About the Authors

  Copyright Page

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  For Piper Ann. Gammy loves you.

  —Lora

  For April and Miss Pam. Thank you for your constant encouragement and your unfailing friendship. I love you both so much.

  —Veronica

  acknowledgments

  Thanks to my co-writer, Veronica, for her patience and friendship.

  —Lora

  prologue

  Finding the middle-aged woman dead, alone in her home, was a shock that mild summer night. It damned sure wasn’t something anyone could have expected.

  Sheriff Hunter Steele stood on Dorthea Coulter’s porch and watched the EMTs solemnly wheel her covered body to the waiting ambulance.

  It was a damned shame and despite appearances, he just couldn’t go with an accidental death, or God forbid, suicide. That simply wasn’t Dottie. Yet someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make it appear it was.

  “Looks like an accident, Sheriff.” The coroner spoke finally, stepping out of the doorframe where, oddly, he’d been standing silent for a while. “The pills were right there on her bedside table.”

  Hunter didn’t reply, he just listened as the man shifted his weight from one foot to the other before continuing, “Pain medication’s a tricky thing sometimes. People forget they took ’em. Wake up still hurtin’, take more, which only confuses ’em further, and then they take even more.”

  Hunter nodded, narrowed his eyes on the coroner, catching the hint of unease in the other man’s eyes. Bill, the coroner was a squirrely, fat, little man who cleared his throat a lot when he was nervous.

  He was nervous now.

  “Yeah, older folks don’t always pay attention like they should,” Hunter stated. It wasn’t an agreement.

  “It’s sad,” the coroner agreed a little too loudly before clearing his throat again and gripping his case with both hands. “I still have to do the autopsy and all, of course. I’ll be sure to let you know if I find anything else.”

  “Thank you, Bill.” Hunter shifted his position from where he leaned against the porch post, watching as the EMT closed the ambulance doors and climbed into the cab.

  “Mayor Henderson said he’d call her kin. I guess he knows her brother’s family.” Bill sighed. “They’re from these parts, he said.”

  “The Ryders.” Hunter gave Bill a side glance. “They used to live next door there.” Hunter motioned to the two-story white house next to Dottie’s. “Moved about oh, sixteen years ago, I guess.”

  For a second, vivid blue-green eyes and a gamine grin sparkled through his memory. The flirtatious flutter of dark lashes and a woman-child destined to break hearts had regret tugging at his chest.

  Dottie’s niece, Samantha Jolene Ryder had been a wild child. She’d cried when she and her family had moved, he remembered. Staring back at him as he watched the car drive away, tears whispering down her cheeks.

  There was more to the Ryder family leaving than they told folks, though. When Dottie was questioned about why they left, she’d just smile wistfully and shake her head.

  “Oh, they’re on to bigger and better things. This wild country life ain’t for everybody, ya know.” He always noted the empty way she said those words. Defying the pleasant expression she’d presented.

  “Well, I’ll be goin’ then, Sheriff,” Bill interrupted his musings. The coroner breathed out slowly, an affected sigh. “I’ll send you my report tomorrow.”

  “You do that, Bill.” Hunter glanced at him as he started down the first step; he looked up and watched the ambulance pull out of the long driveway onto the street.

  “Sure is a shame,” Bill said, then paused, looking back at Hunter with suspicious brown eyes. “Dottie was a friend of your uncle’s too, wasn’t she?”

  Hunter nodded, his gaze moving to the little man once again. “Yeah, she was.”

  “Too bad about that too,” the coroner said, lowering his balding head as he shook it slowly. “Hunting accident like that. Older folks. Go figure.”

  “Yeah, go figure.” Hunter didn’t bother to hide his sarcasm.

  If any man he’d served with in the army had heard him say that, with just that tone of voice, they would have been watching their backs. Instead, the fat little bastard gave him a parody of a sympathetic smile before he waddled quickly down the walk to his work van. He bounced a little to gain momentum before hoisting himself into the driver’s seat.

  Bill Markham wasn’t much of a coroner. He’d been given the position by the mayor just after the old coroner resigned three years before. Hunter remembered the disgust that had filled his uncle’s voice when he’d talked about the other man.

  According to Zachariah Steele, Bill Markham was sloppy at best at the job. He should have lost his medical license years before and no doubt would have if he hadn’t retired instead. Five years later, Henderson appointed him as coroner. At the time, it simply hadn’t made sense.

  Maybe it did now, though. Hunter watched the van turn onto the street, catching up with the ambulance at the stop sign ahead.

  Three deaths in an eight-month span of time. First, the mayor’s wife, Lillian Henderson. She’d drowned in the little fishing pond not too far from her house. Accidental drowning, the coroner had ruled. Before the then-sheriff, Zachariah Steele, could protest, the body had been cremated, eliminating any chance of proving murder.

  Zachariah had still worried over it, though. Certain the woman that had held his heart as a young man had been murdered, he’d been determined to find her killer. Before Hunter could get home to help him, his uncle had allegedly killed himself accidently while out hunting. Tripped and fell. The gun went off, shooting Zachariah in the chest and killing him instantly. Zachariah had been on vacation at the time, and it had been more than a week before he’d been missed. Well, according to the deputy sheriff at the time anyway.

  Of course, all evidence of foul play, if there had been any, was gone by time the body had been found. At least that’s what the coroner’s report said.

  Strange thing, that. A man who never went hunting, to be killed while hunting. Hunting alone, as well. Zachariah owned a hunting rifle, even took it out when Hunter was home and wanted company when he went hunting. But he never fired it nor had he ever gone hunting by himself.

  “If I cain’t eat it, then I ain’t killin’ it,” his uncle had told him once, years before.

  Zachariah wasn’t fond of venison, and he was especially against eating “vermin” as he called it, like squirrel.

  Now, Dottie Coulter, who just happened to be Lillian’s and Zachariah’s closest friend, was dead as well.

  Accidental overdose, his ass.

  His teeth clenched as the two deputies that had arrived on the coroner’s heels stepped from the house.

  “Coroner has the pills,” Ray Decker, the once deputy sheriff, drawled with just a hint of disdain in his tone. “These old people need to learn how
to take their meds, I guess. Her family should have put her in a home some time ago.”

  The other, younger deputy, Shane Warren, didn’t reply. Shane didn’t often say much. He watched. The boy was a hell of a watcher. He paid attention to everything, hyperaware of his surroundings. Hunter liked that about him. It made Shane exceptionally good at his job, which made him a valuable asset to the sheriff’s department.

  “And someone needs a few of those classes the state offers on showing proper respect for the dead,” Hunter drawled. “Shall I sign you up for a few, Deputy? I certainly don’t mind.”

  Decker’s lips thinned. “Apologies, Sheriff.” His smile was all teeth and carefully veiled dislike. “I’ll be watchin’ my manners in the future.”

  “Uh-huh. You do that.” Hunter highly doubted that would ever happen. “While you’re at it, I want your report on my desk before you head home tonight.”

  “Like hell.” Decker’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t even on duty.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have arrived in uniform, Decker.” Hunter gave him a less than friendly smile, a cold one. “You should have headed on home instead of racing out here to get your nose all up in this. Now, since you put yourself on duty, you can write up that report for me. In detail, if you don’t mind.”

  “I can turn it in tomorrow morning…” Decker grumbled through his teeth.

  “Sure, and you can turn in your badge with it,” Hunter finished for him. “Do the report tonight or you won’t have a job come morning.”

  Anger flushed the other man’s face, giving it a mottled appearance as he tore his hat off, pushed back his thinning blond hair, and glared at Hunter from beady, brown eyes.

  “You cain’t fire me without the mayor sayin’ you can,” Decker reminded him before slamming the hat back on his head.

  “You don’t turn in that report, I can.” Hunter didn’t bother rising to the other man’s anger. Decker really didn’t want to see the day Hunter let his temper get riled over him. “Mayor can’t help you, Decker, if you don’t follow the rules. You showed up, in uniform, and you went through the crime scene. As senior deputy on the scene, you get to write the report. Before shift change. That’s in”—Hunter looked at his watch—“about three hours, not in the morning. I’ll be looking for it on my desk. Tonight.”

  Decker’s eyes gleamed with pure hatred before he stomped from the porch, one hand clenched on the butt of the weapon holstered at his side.

  One of these days, Hunter thought, the bastard was going to get stupid enough to think he had the balls to use that weapon.

  Hunter watched the deputy jerk open the door of his cruiser, slide behind the wheel, and slam it behind him.

  He took a toothpick from his pocket and placed it between his teeth before glancing to the other deputy. “You got something to say, Shane?”

  “He’ll not face you, Hunter,” Shane said quietly. “He’s the type to shoot a man in the back. I’d be careful.”

  “Not for a while yet,” Hunter drawled. “I wasn’t elected to this office; I was appointed, remember? Kill me off now and that governor might get a little pissed. And another accident would look awfully suspicious.”

  “Especially considering the fact the governor, your aunt Madeline, might send the National Guard in to sort it out. Sure would put a damper on killing you just yet.” Shane snorted.

  There was always that. Aunt Madeline wasn’t someone to challenge, especially where her family was concerned. And she often said how fond she was of her nephew, Hunter.

  “Whoever killed Zachariah wasn’t aware of that,” he murmured. “They forgot Zachariah had family. Powerful family. Never underestimate the power or the rage of a woman whose family is threatened or harmed, Shane. Especially when that family’s her baby brother. Remember that.”

  “Aunt Madeline even scares me,” Shane assured him, his voice quiet. “And speaking of her, she called this afternoon. Says to let you know she expects an update soon.”

  Hunter didn’t doubt that one a bit.

  “Yeah. Too bad I don’t have much of an update.” Bitterness filled him over that one. He’d been here eight months, and still, there wasn’t a shred of evidence to point to the killer.

  “Think Sami Jo will come back for the funeral?” Shane asked as he stepped closer. “Dottie was awful fond of her.”

  Sami Jo. He smiled at the nickname Sam had hated with a passion. She hadn’t been fond of being called Sam either, but he liked pushing her buttons.

  “Boy, you better not let her hear you calling her that.” Hunter gave him a sideways glance. “She could get you in trouble.”

  “And how could she do that?” Shane’s grin was a little too smug to suit Hunter.

  “Because.” Hunter stared at him from beneath the brim of his hat. “She’ll pick a fight with you, and I’ll have to step in.”

  “Hell, I don’t wanna fight her.” The suggestive tone in Shane’s voice had Hunter lifting a brow, but he stayed silent. “How come she don’t pick a fight with you? You called her Sam all the time.”

  Hunter chuckled. “That’s ’cause I’m special.” He met Shane’s gaze and dropped the smile. “And I can be a shade possessive.”

  If Sam came back, there was no way in hell he was letting another man have a chance with her. He’d already put claim on her years ago.

  Shane groaned. “Oh man, that’s not right, Hunter. You can’t pull rank that way.”

  “Watch me, kid.” Hunter stepped back to the open front door.

  Damn, this was going to break Samantha’s heart anyway. No doubt she’d be gone before the funeral ended, with her husband and kids in tow.

  “Hell, she’s probably married anyway,” Shane said as if the kid read his mind. His voice softer as he expressed Hunter’s thoughts. “I doubt she’ll stay long.”

  “Yeah, no doubt.” He stared into the house, remembering Dottie’s pride in it and the memories she had cultivated there. “Lock up for me, Shane. I’m going to head back and make sure I get that report tonight. I’m sure her family will be here come morning.”

  “Good luck on that report, Sheriff,” Shane muttered just loud enough for Hunter to hear.

  If he were lucky, Hunter thought, Decker would neglect to turn the damned thing in so he could get rid of his sorry ass. That was the problem right there, he simply wasn’t that damned lucky.

  chapter one

  Two Days Later

  Samantha wouldn’t be back if Aunt Dottie hadn’t died. Deerhaven, California, held too many bittersweet memories. Samantha didn’t have a lot of family, and in some ways the close-knit community had filled that loss. Leaving it had been heartbreaking. At the same time, there was no room to grow here when she’d been younger.

  Leaving was good in the sense that she went to college and found her niche in life. Being here, however, reminded her of what she’d left behind and what she had lost.

  Now, she was back in the home she’d never wanted to leave so long ago and facing the loss of an aunt she’d loved nearly as much as she loved her parents.

  Only hours after her aunt’s burial, she was trying to deal with the memories of her past and the aunt she’d so missed. Reminders of a happier time, when family meant everything, filled the house.

  As much as she wanted to avoid them, Samantha couldn’t ignore the people who had come to pay their respects. The gathering had begun slowly, but now the house was filled with friends of her aunt’s, and Samantha had to face them.

  In the kitchen of Dottie’s home, she found a moment of peace, such that it was. She never expected this many people would attend her aunt’s funeral, much less come by the house to offer condolences. Aunt Dottie hadn’t been very social. The woman was an enigma, really. As bold, smart, and outgoing as she was quiet and private. She had few friends, but they were those rare, ride-or-die kind of friends. And they had all died as well.

  Or so Samantha had believed. She’d obviously been wrong.

  The hushed conversations we
re muted and indiscernible, a muffled background hum that Samantha could easily tune out. That was good enough, for now. It was just a moment’s reprieve, but it helped.

  She put her hands on the counter, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

  Aunt Dottie’s home was too small for so many people and Samantha wasn’t fond of crowds. Still, it was kind of them to come. Well, some of them had genuine motives. Most of them just wanted to gather fodder for their gossip circles. Small towns were like that, and Deerhaven was notorious for it.

  Cute and quaint, her hometown was just as innocent in appearance as they come. People lifted a hand in greeting or nodded with a smile at passersby. Even so, little backwoods country towns were also known for corruption. Deerhaven was no different. It was all just a lovely cover while underneath the surface was a fetid, decaying mass of excrement.

  That was the ugly truth no one wanted exposed. Maybe because they were afraid they’d get some of that stink on them, or maybe they were afraid someone would figure out that part of it was of their own making. Keep it all shoved down and hidden.

  “Don’t trouble trouble, and trouble won’t trouble you.” Wasn’t that William Henderson’s favorite line? Mayor Henderson was the ringmaster after all. He didn’t cotton to people poking and probing around, her aunt once said. Still, even with all that nastiness, Deerhaven was home to many goodhearted people, people like Aunt Dottie.

  Gentle, fragile Aunt Dottie.

  Samantha stood five foot nine inches tall, curvy with a “sturdy” bone structure. Her aunt Dottie, an elegant and diminutive but plump woman was a giant in Samantha’s eyes. Not just her family, her mentor, her friend, Dottie was her hero.

  And now, something, no, someone had taken her hero away from her.

  Accidental overdose, the coroner’s report had read. That was bullshit. Dottie refused to take prescription pain pills, no matter the amount of pain she was suffering. She was terrified of them due to the addictions she’d seen so many others succumb to.