McCullen's Secret Son

Brett stroked her hair and rubbed slow circles along her back. For the first time in years, Willow felt safe—cared for…

But he was only being nice. When she told him the truth about Sam, there was no telling how he’d act. He might hate her.

“Willow,” Brett said softly. “You’ve got to tell me what’s wrong. What happened?”

She sucked in a sharp breath and wiped at her eyes. Brett produced a handkerchief and slipped it into her hands. She wiped her face, then looked up into his.

He had the darkest, most gorgeous green eyes she’d ever seen.

She wanted to soak in his features, but looking at that handsome, strong face only reminded her of her little boy, who looked so much like him that it hurt.

He rubbed her arms with his hands. “Willow, talk to me.”

“I…don’t know where to begin.”

“You said it was a matter of life and death. I noticed the pickup truck outside and the crunched bike. Is that what this is about?”

“I wish it was that simple.”

McCullen’s Secret Son

Rita Herron

RITA HERRON, a USA TODAY bestselling author, wrote her first book when she was twelve, but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former kindergarten teacher and workshop leader, she traded storytelling to kids for writing romance, and now she writes romantic comedies and romantic suspense. Rita lives in Georgia with her family. She loves to hear from readers, so please write her at PO Box 921225, Norcross, GA 30092-1225, USA, or visit her website, www.ritaherron.com.

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To Aunt Nelda,

for her love of cowboys!

Love, Rita

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

The last place Brett McCullen wanted to be was back in Pistol Whip, especially on the McCullen ranch.

He pulled down the long drive to his family’s ranch, Horseshoe Creek, his leg throbbing from his most recent fall. Damn, he loved rodeo and riding.

But maybe at thirty, he was getting too old to bust his butt on the circuit. And last week when he’d woken up in bed with one of the groupies, some hot, busty blonde named Brandy or Fifi—hell, after a while, they all sounded and looked the same—he’d realized that not a soul in the damn world really cared about him.

Or knew the Brett underneath.

Maybe because he was good at the show. Play the part of the bad boy. The fearless rider. The charmer who smiled at the camera and got laid every night.

Easier than getting real and chancing getting hurt.

He cut the lights and stared at the farmhouse for a minute, memories suffusing him. He could see him and his brothers, playing horseshoes, practicing roping on the fence posts, riding horses in the pasture, tagging along with their daddy on a cattle drive.

His oldest brother, Maddox, was always the responsible one—and his father’s favorite. Ray, two years younger than Brett, was the hellion, the one who landed in trouble, the one who butted heads with their father.

Brett could never live up to his old man’s expectations, so he figured why try? Life should be fun. Women, horseback riding, rodeos—it was the stuff dreams were made of.

So he’d left home ten years ago to pursue those dreams and hadn’t questioned his decision since.

But Maddox’s phone call had thrown him for a loop. How could he deny his father’s last request?

Hell, it wasn’t like he hadn’t loved his old man. He was probably more like him than Maddox or Ray. He’d always thought his father had a wild streak in him, that maybe he’d regretted settling down.

Brett hadn’t wanted to make the same mistake.

He walked up the porch steps and reached for the doorknob, then stepped inside, back into a well of family memories that reminded him of all the holidays he’d missed.

Last year, he’d seen daddies shopping with their kids for Christmas trees, and mothers and kids at the park, and couples strolling in the moonlight, and he’d felt alone.

Mama Mary, his dad’s housekeeper and cook and the woman who’d taken care of him and his brothers after their mother passed, waddled in and wrapped him into a hug.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Mama Mary said with a hearty laugh.

Brett buried his head in her big arms, emotions churning through him. He’d forgotten how much he loved Mama Mary, how she could make anything feel all right with a hug and her homemade cooking.

She leaned back to examine him, and patted his flat belly.

“Boy, you’ve gotten skinny. My biscuits and gravy will fix that.”

He laughed. Mama Mary thought she could fix any problem with a big meal. “I’ve missed you,” he said, his voice gruff.

She blinked away tears and ushered him into the kitchen. The room hadn’t changed at all—still the checkered curtains and pine table, the plate of sausage and bacon left from breakfast. And as far back as he could remember, she’d always had a cake or pie waiting.

“Sit down now and eat. Then you can see your daddy.” She waved him to a chair, and he sank into it. Dread over the upcoming reunion with his father tightened his stomach. Grateful to have a few minutes before he had to confront him, he accepted the peach cobbler and coffee with a smile.

Without warning, the back door opened and his little brother, Ray, stood in the threshold of the door. Ray, with that sullen scowl and cutting eyes. Ray, who always seemed to be mad about something.

Ray gave a clipped nod to acknowledge him, then Mama Mary swept him into a hug, as well. “Oh, my goodness, I can’t tell you how much it warms my heart to have you boys back in my kitchen.”

Brett gritted his teeth. It wouldn’t be for long, though. As soon as he heard what his father had to say, he was back on the road.

A tense silence stretched between them as Mama Mary pushed Ray into a chair and handed him some pie and coffee. Just like they did when they were little, Brett and Ray both obeyed and ate.

“Maddox is on his way home now,” Mama Mary said as she refilled their coffee.

Brett and Ray exchanged a furtive look. While the two of them hadn’t always seen eye to eye, Ray and Maddox had clashed big-time.

Brett had always felt the sting of his big brother’s disapproval. According to Maddox, Brett didn’t just leave but ran at the least hint of trouble.

Footsteps echoed from the front, and Brett braced himself as Maddox stepped into the kitchen, his big shoulders squared, that take-charge attitude wafting off him.

“Now, boys,” Mama Mary said before any of them could start tangling. “Your daddy had a rough night. He’s anxious to see you, so you’d best get upstairs.”

An awkwardness filled the air, but Brett and Ray both stood. His brothers were here for one reason, and none of them liked it.

“I’ll go first.” Brett mustered up a smile. Pathetic that he’d rather face his father on his deathbed than his brothers.

Ray and Maddox followed, but they waited in the hall as he entered his father’s bedroom.

The moment he spotted his father lying in the bed, pale, the veins in his forehead bulging, an oxygen tube in his nose, he nearly fell to his knees with sorrow and regret. He should have at least checked in every now and then.

Although he had come back once five years ago. And he’d hooked up with Willow James. But that night with her had confused the hell out of him, and then he’d fought with Maddox the next day and left again.

“Brett, God, boy, it’s good to see you.”

Emotions welled in Brett’s chest, but he forced himself to walk over to his father’s bed.

“Sit down a spell,” his father said. “We need to talk.”

Brett claimed the wooden chair by the bed, and braced himself for a good dressing-down.

“I want you to know that I’m proud of you, son.”

Proud was the last thing he’d expected his father to say.

“But I should have come back more,” he blurted.

His father shook his head, what was left of his hair sticking up in white patches. “No, I should have come to some of your rodeos. I kept up with you, though. You’re just as talented as I always thought you’d be.”

Brett looked in his father’s eyes. Joe McCullen looked weak, like he might fade into death any second. But there was no judgment or anger there.

“I’m glad you followed your dreams,” his father said in a hoarse voice. “If you’d stayed here and worked the ranch, you’d have felt smothered and hated me for holding you back.”

Brett’s lungs squeezed for air. His father actually understood him. That was a surprising revelation.

“But there is something you need to take care of while you’re here. You remember Willow?”

Brett went very still. How could he have forgotten her? She was his first love, the only woman he’d ever loved. But his father had discouraged him from getting too involved with her when he was younger.

So he’d left Pistol Whip, chasing a more exciting lifestyle.

Willow had wasted no time in moving on...and getting married.

She even had a child.

Her last name was what, now? Howard?

“Brett?”

“Yes, I remember her,” he said through clenched teeth. “I heard she’s married and has a family.” That was the real reason he hadn’t returned to Pistol Whip more often.

It hurt too damn much to see her with another man.

“That girl’s got troubles.”

Brett stiffened. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I was wrong to encourage you to break up with her,” his father murmured. “I’ve made my mistakes, son. I don’t want you to do the same.”

His father reached out a shaky hand, and Brett took it, chilled by his cold skin.

“Promise me you’ll check on her and her boy,” his father murmured.

“That’s the reason you wanted to see me?”

“Yes.” His father coughed. “Now send Ray in here. I need to talk to him.”

Brett squeezed his father’s hand, then headed to the door. If his father wanted him to check on Willow, something bad must have happened to her.

His heart hammered at the thought of seeing her again. But he couldn’t refuse his father’s wishes.

He’d pay her a visit and make sure she was okay. Then he’d get the hell out of Pistol Whip again.

When his father was gone, there was no reason for him to stick around.

Three days later

BRETT MCCULLEN WAS back in town.

Willow James, Willow Howard technically, although she was no longer using her married name, rubbed her chest as if the gesture could actually soothe the ache in her heart. Brett was the only man she’d ever loved. Ever would love.

But he’d walked away from her years ago and never looked back.

She sat in her car at the edge of the graveyard like a voyeur to the family as they said their final goodbyes to their father, Joe. Part of her wanted to go to Brett and comfort him for his loss.

But a seed of bitterness still niggled at her for the way he’d deserted her. And for the life he’d led since.

He’d always been footloose and fancy-free, a bad-boy charmer who could sweet-talk any girl into doing whatever he wanted.

He’d taken her virginity and her heart with him when he’d left Pistol Whip to chase his dreams of becoming a famous rodeo star.

He’d also chased plenty of other women.

Her heart squeezed with pain again. She’d seen the news footage, the magazine articles and pictures of his awards and conquests.

She’d told herself it didn’t matter. She had the best part of him anyway—his son.

Sam.

A little boy Brett knew nothing about.

If Brett saw Sam in town, would he realize the truth? After all, Sam had Brett’s deep brown eyes. That cleft in his chin.

The same streak of stubbornness and the love of riding.

A shadow fell across the graveyard, storm clouds gathering, and the crowd began to disperse. She spotted Brett shaking hands with several locals, his brothers doing the same. Then he lifted his head and looked across the graveyard, and for a moment, she thought he was looking straight at her. That he saw her car.

But a second later, Mama Mary loped over and put her arm around him, and Brett turned back to the people gathered at the service.

Chastising herself for being foolish enough to still care for him after the way he’d hurt her, she started the engine and drove toward her house. She didn’t have to worry about Brett. He’d bounce back in the saddle in a day or two and be just fine.

But she had problems of her own.

Not just financial worries, but a no-good husband who she was scared to death of.

Dread filled her as she drove through town and ventured down the side street to the tiny house she’d rented. Her biggest mistake in life was marrying Leo Howard, but she’d been pregnant and on the rebound and had wanted a father for her son.

Leo was no father, though.

Well, at first he’d claimed he was. He’d promised her security and love and a home for her and her little boy.

But as time wore on, she realized Leo had secrets and an agenda of his own.

They hadn’t lived together in over three years, but last night he’d come back to town.

Hopefully he had the divorce papers with him, so she could get him out of her life once and for all.

Mentally ticking off her to-do list, she delivered three quilts she’d custom made from orders taken at the antiques store, Vintage Treasures, where she displayed some of her work. When she’d had Sam, she’d known she had to do something to make a living, and sewing was the only skill she had. She’d learned to make clothes, window treatments and quilts from her grandmother, and now she’d turned it into a business.

She did some grocery shopping, then dropped off the rent check. Earlier, she’d left Sam at her neighbor’s house, hoping to meet with Leo alone.

She pulled in the drive, noting that Leo had parked his beat-up pickup halfway on the lawn, and that he’d run over Sam’s bicycle. Poor Sam. He deserved so much better.

Furious at his carelessness, she threw her Jeep into Park, climbed out and let herself in the house, calling Leo’s name as she walked through the kitchen/living room combination, then down the hall to the bedrooms.

When Leo didn’t answer, dread filled. He was probably passed out drunk.

Fortified by her resolve to tell him to leave the signed divorce papers so she’d be rid of him for good, she strode to the bedroom. The room was dark, the air reeking of the scent of booze.

Just as she’d feared, Leo was in bed, the covers rumpled, a bottle of bourbon on the bedside table.

Anger churned through her, and she crossed the room, disgusted that he’d passed out in her house. She leaned over to shake him and wake him up, but she felt something sticky and wet on her hand.

She jerked the covers off his face, a scream lodging in her throat. Leo’s eyes stared up at her, wide and vacant.

And there was blood.

It was everywhere, soaking his shirt and the sheets...

Leo was dead.

Chapter Two

Willow backed away from the bed in horror. The acrid odor of death swirled around her. There was so much blood...all over Leo’s chest. His fingers. Streaking his face where he must have wiped his hand across his cheek.

Nausea rose to her throat, but she swallowed it back, her mind racing.

Leo was...really dead. God...he’d said he was in trouble, but he hadn’t mentioned that someone was after him...

She had to get help. Call the police.

Sheriff McCullen.

Her head swam as she fumbled for the phone, but her hand was sticky with blood where she’d touched the bedding.

She trembled, ran into the bathroom and turned on the water, desperate to cleanse herself of the ugly smell. She scrubbed her hand with soap, reality returning through the fog of shock.

Where was the killer? Was he still in the house?

She froze, straining as she listened for signs of an intruder, but the house seemed eerily silent.

Sam... Lord help me. Her neighbor would probably drop Sam off any minute. She couldn’t let him come home to this.

Panicked, she dried her hands, then ran for the phone again. But a shadow moved across the room, and she suddenly realized she wasn’t alone.

Terrified, she dived for the phone, but the figure lunged at her and grabbed her from behind. Willow screamed and tried to run, but he wrapped big beefy hands around her and immobilized her.

His rough beard scraped her jaw as he leaned close to her ear. “You aren’t going to call the cops.”

Fear shot through her. “No, no police.”

He tightened his grip around her, choking the air from her lungs. “If you do, you’ll end up like your husband.”

Willow shook her head. “Let me go and I promise I’ll do whatever you say.”

A nasty chuckle rumbled in her ear. “Oh, you’ll do what we want, Willow. That is, if you want to see your little boy again.”

“What?” Willow gasped.

He twisted her head back painfully, as if he was going to snap her neck. She tried to breathe, but the air was trapped in her lungs. “Please...don’t hurt him.”

“That’s up to you.” He shoved her head forward, and she felt the barrel of his gun at the back of her head. “We’ll be in touch with instructions.”

Then he slammed the butt of the gun against her head. Pain shot through her skull, and the world spun, the room growing dark as she collapsed.

* * *

BRETT HAD MUDDLED his way through the funeral and tacked on his polite semicelebrity smile as the neighbors offered condolences and shared the casseroles that had been dropped off.

He didn’t know why people ate when they were grieving, but Mama Mary kept forcing food and tea in his hands, and he didn’t have the energy to argue. He’d grown accustomed to cameras, to putting on a happy face when his body was screaming in pain from an injury he’d sustained from a bull ride.

He could certainly do it today.

“Thank you for coming,” he said as he shook another hand.

Betty Bane’s daughter Mandy slipped up beside him and gave him a flirtatious smile. She looked as if she’d just graduated high school. Jailbait. “Hey, Brett, I’m so sorry about your daddy.”

“Thanks.” He started to step away, but she raised her cell phone. “I know it may not be a good time, but can I get a selfie with you? My friends won’t believe I actually touched the Brett McCullen!”

She giggled and plastered her face so close to his that her cheek brushed his. “Smile, Brett!”

Unbelievable. She wanted him to pose. To pretend he hadn’t just buried his old man.

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from telling her she was shallow and insensitive, then extricated himself as soon as she got the shot. He shoved his plate on the counter, wove through the crowd and stepped outside, then strode toward the stable.

He wanted to be alone. Needed a horse beneath him, the fresh air blowing in his face and the wild rugged land of Horseshoe Creek to make him forget about the man he and his brothers had just put six feet under.

Or...he could take a trip down to The Silver Bullet, the honky-tonk in town, and drown his sorrow in booze and a woman.

But the thought of any female other than the one he’d left behind in Pistol Whip didn’t appeal to him. Besides, if the press got wind he was there, they’d plaster his picture all over the place. And he didn’t need that right now. Didn’t want them following him to the ranch or intruding on his brothers.

A heaviness weighed in his chest, and he saddled up a black gelding, climbed atop and sent the horse into a sprint. Storm clouds had rolled in earlier, casting a grayness to the sky and adding to the bleakness of the day.

He missed the stars, but a sliver of moonlight wove between the clouds and streaked the land with golden rays, just enough to remind him how beautiful and peaceful the rugged land was.

To the west lay the mountains, and he pictured the wild mustangs running free. He could practically hear the sound of their hoofs beating the ground as the horses galloped over the terrain.

Cattle grazed in the pastures, and the creek gurgled nearby, bringing back memories of working a cattle drive when he was young, of campfires with his father and brothers, of fishing in Horseshoe Creek.

He’d also taken Willow for rides across this land. They’d had a picnic by the creek and skinny-dipped one night and then...made love.

It was the sweetest moment he’d ever had with a woman. Willow had been young and shy and innocent, but so damn beautiful that, even as the voice in his head cautioned him not to take her, he’d stripped her clothes anyway.

They’d made love like wild animals, needy and hungry, as if they might never be touched like that again.

But he and his brothers had been fighting for months. His father had started drinking and carousing the bars, restless, too. He’d met him at the door one night when he’d been in the barn with Willow, and warned Brett that if he ever wanted to follow his dreams, he needed to leave Willow alone.

His father’s heart-to-heart, a rarity for the two of them, had lit a fire inside him and he’d had to scratch that wandering itch. Like his father said, if he didn’t pursue rodeo, he’d always wonder if he’d missed out.

That was ten years ago—the first time he’d left. He’d only been back once since, five years ago. Then he’d seen Willow again...

He climbed off the horse, tied him to a tree by the creek, then walked down to the bank, sat down, picked up a stone and skipped it across the water. The sound of the creek gurgling mingled sweetly with the sound of Willow’s voice calling his name in the moonlight when they’d made love right here under the stars.

He’d made it in the rodeo circuit now. He had fame and belt buckles and more women than any man had a right to have had.

But as he mourned his father, he realized that in leaving, he’d missed something, too.