Women like her were damned dangerous.

J.T. mentally shook his head. Regina Holland had the ability to make a man want to wring her neck one minute and take her in his arms and comfort her the next.

Earlier he’d thought her beaten, close to crying, ready to cave in. He saw now that she didn’t fall to defeat easily. He’d not only underestimated her tenacity, but he also found himself admiring it and at the same time fearing it. How far would the woman go to get what she wanted?

She looked up at him, resolve burning again in those eyes like a hot blue flame. He shouldn’t be surprised by anything this woman did, but he found himself surprised over and over again. He’d never met anyone like her and hoped he never did again….

Cowboy Accomplice
B.J. Daniels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

B.J. Daniels’s lifelong dream was to write books. After a career as an award-winning newspaper journalist, she wrote and sold thirty-seven short stories before she finally wrote her first book. Since then she has won numerous awards, including a career achievement award for romantic suspense. B.J. lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, three springer spaniels, Zoey, Scout and Spot, and a temperamental tomcat named Jeff. For more information on her books, check out her Web site at www.bjdaniels.com. She loves to hear from readers. Write to her at P.O. Box 183, Bozeman, MT 59771.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

J.T. McCall—The rancher has trouble—six hundred head of cattle to round up…and a woman after his “assets.”

Regina “Reggie” Holland—She always went after what she wanted.

Buck Brannigan—The elderly ranch foreman hired the crew for the late-season cattle drive. How could he know that the camp cook can’t cook and one of the cowhands is a killer with a deadly grudge?

Will Jarvis—The oldest of the ranch hands seems to be watching—and waiting. But for what?

Cotton Heywood—The blond cowboy had no idea what would be waiting for him at the cow camp.

Slim Walker—Is it just a coincidence that the tall lanky cowhand had been at the other deadly McCall roundup?

Nevada Black—Of the bunch, this tough-looking cowhand seems the most likely to be a killer.

Luke Adams—Is it possible the baby-faced ranch hand looks more innocent than he is?

Roy Shields—He’s the quietest of the six and possibly the deadliest.

This book is for my cousin Sandra Johnson Olinger.

Last summer she came to Montana, bringing with her all the memories of a summer we spent camped on Hebgen Lake so many years ago. Thank you, Sandy. And thanks for listening to the stories I wrote in the tent beside the lake when we were kids and encouraging me to follow my dream. There is nothing like family. Thanks for reminding me of that.

Contents

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Prologue

Outside Mexico City

He sat on the edge of the bed in the dim mirrorless room, his face swathed in bandages, his mind several thousand miles away. He’d been waiting more years, through more surgeries and more pain than his mind could stand. When he closed his eyes he could still hear the crackle of the flames, feel the intense heat, smell his searing flesh.

“Señor Smith?”

He turned to see Dr. Ramon, a small, nervous white-cloaked figure, framed in the doorway.

“Are you ready?” the doctor asked in Spanish as he stepped in, the door closing behind him.

Ready? He’d been ready for years. He said nothing as the plastic surgeon pulled back the curtain. Sunlight streamed into the room, momentarily blinding him. He closed his eyes as Dr. Ramon put down a black medical bag on the edge of the bed beside him.

Slowly, carefully, the doctor began to peel away the bandages, his fingers trembling. They both knew what was at stake here.

Señor Smith as he was called here closed his eyes, having given up hope a long time ago that his face might ever be normal again.

A cool breeze caressed his cheek as the last bandage fell away. With a pain far greater than any physical one he’d ever known, he opened his eyes.

The doctor had stepped back and was now studying his handiwork, his face expressionless. “You are a new man,” he said finally, his gaze skittering away at the intensity of his patient’s look.

Señor Smith had heard such words before. He didn’t want or need false hope. False hope had gotten other even more prestigious surgeons killed.

He reached his hand out for the mirror he knew the doctor had brought in his bag. His hand was steady as he took it. Hope made a person tremble. He had nothing but fear at what monstrous visage he would now see in the glass.

Slowly he held up the hand mirror and stared into the face of the new stranger he found there. To his surprise, this stranger wasn’t hideous. Nor was he handsome. He was…average. The face of a man no one would look at twice on a street corner or across a crowded room.

He could feel the doctor waiting for his reaction, perhaps by now having heard what had happened to the other surgeons.

“It is perfect,” he said, looking from the mirror to Dr. Ramon.

The doctor breathed a ragged sigh of relief. “Bueno, bueno. You are free to leave, Señor.” He picked up his bag from the bed. “Vaya con dias.” Go with God.

Señor Smith nodded and looked in the mirror again at his new face. He would go all right, only he wouldn’t be going with God. He’d been to hell and right now he’d sell his soul just to go home again.

Except he’d sold his soul years ago, he thought with a rueful smile. He was going home. And with a face no one would ever recognize, a body that had become hard and lean.

Like the Phoenix rising from the ashes, he had survived it all with only one dream in mind. Vengeance.

He couldn’t wait to see the look of surprise on J. T. McCall’s face. J.T. wouldn’t see him coming. Until it was too late.

Chapter One

Outside Antelope Flats, Montana

Regina Holland glared down the empty two-lane highway, wishing a car would appear. Wishing anything would appear. Even a horse-drawn wagon. She was beyond being picky at this point.

But of course there wasn’t any traffic now. She kicked the flat tire on her rented red convertible with the toe of her high heel and instantly regretted it when she saw the dark smudge of black on her expensive red shoe. She cursed her luck as she bent down to thumb at the smudge.

She’d been in the state for three days and her luck had gone from bad to worse. It had seemed such a simple task in the beginning. How hard could it be to find a cowboy in Montana? She had two weeks to find him. If she failed, she could kiss her dream goodbye. Everything was riding on this. Her entire future.

Regina knew exactly what she wanted and as was her character, she wasn’t about to quit until she got it. Somewhere in Montana was her cowboy. All she had to do was find him.

Straightening, she tugged down the skirt of her expensive designer suit and scowled at the tire. Oh, she’d found her share of cowboys all right. Men of every size, shape and disposition but definitely not “The One.”

But right now she swore she’d take the first cowboy who drove up with a jack and the wherewithal to change her tire. Unfortunately, it didn’t look like any were going to come riding up. No John Wayne on the horizon. Not even a rodeo clown. The highway was empty and she could see both ways for miles.

A pickup had come by but hadn’t stopped even when she’d tried to wave down the man behind the wheel. He’d acted as if he hadn’t seen her. So much for western hospitality.

A few miles away, she thought she could make out a couple of buildings, possibly a town. Not much of one from what she could see, but at least it looked like something.

She could walk in this heat and these heels or—she glanced at the bag of tools she’d found in the trunk—or she could try to change the tire herself.

She looked down the highway again. Heat rose off the blacktop and an intense sun beat down from an all-too-expansive clear blue sky. She knew the moment she started to walk in these heels, vultures would begin to circle.

She picked up the bag of tools with two well-manicured fingers, spilling an assortment of metal objects onto the ground. How hard could it be to change a tire? She had degrees in business and advertising from Berkeley, for crying out loud.

Twenty minutes, and two chipped nails later, Regina knew how hard it could be. Impossible. She was squatting by the tire, trying to figure out how to get the stupid bolts off, when she heard the sound of a truck coming up the road. It appeared like a mirage, a large dirty brown shape floating on the highway’s heat waves.

Regina didn’t know how long she’d been squatting by the flat tire, but she found that her muscles had permanently locked in that pitiful crouched position. She could only lift an arm and wave frantically as the vehicle bore down on her.

The truck roared past and she thought for one horrible moment, that the driver wouldn’t stop. To her relief, she heard the screech of brakes, heard the truck pull over a dozen yards in front of her car. She was bent over assessing a run in her silk stockings when she heard the driver approach.

A pair of boots and the bottom of a pair of jeans stepped into her line of vision. Both the boots and the jeans were worn and muddy. At least she hoped that was mud. The boots stopped before they reached her, then turned away. For one awful moment she thought he was leaving. Instead he called to someone she assumed was back at his truck.

“I told you to stay there, Jennie,” he ordered gruffly. “Do as I tell you for once or next time I’m leaving you at home.”

Her gaze and her eyebrow came up at the same time. She’d heard some Montana men still bossed their wives but he should be ashamed, talking to a woman like that.

She thought about telling him so in no uncertain terms. Then she remembered her flat tire and bit her glossed lower lip as the man swiveled back around to her.

“Need some help?” he asked in a soft western drawl.

Great voice. Regina took in the cowboy with a trained eye starting at his boots, noting with professional detachment the way he filled out his jeans. Muscled thighs. Long legs. She let her gaze travel up those legs past the slim hips, the narrow waist, to the man’s wide chest. Nice. Real nice. His broad shoulders beneath the western shirt literally blocked out the sun.

His face was in shadow under his battered black cowboy hat. Didn’t the good guys always wear white hats?

“Oh, I could definitely use some help,” Regina said, a little breathless, trying not to flutter her lashes. How far would she go to get this tire changed? She hated to think.

He shoved back his hat. Handsome too, if you liked that rough around the edges type. Such a waste since it wasn’t his strong masculine jaw, his spacious shoulders or his seductively low voice that she was looking for.

“If you’ve got air in your spare, it shouldn’t take but a few minutes,” he said and stepped past her to bend over to inspect her tire.

Regina sucked in a breath as she eyed the man’s posterior. It was positively perfect. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.” She practically shouted in glee, amazed at her change of luck. She’d found him. The One.

J. T. MCCALL went to work changing the tire and trying to hide his amusement. He’d been having a bad day, actually a bad couple of months, but he had to admit this little distraction was definitely elevating his mood.

He hadn’t believed it when he’d first seen her dressed all in red, wearing the loftiest pair of high heels he’d ever seen, standing beside a matching red convertible in the middle of nowhere.

What was a woman dressed like that doing just outside Antelope Flats, Montana? Boy was she lost.

He flicked a look at her over his shoulder, mentally shaking his head. Wait until he told Buck, his elderly ranch foreman, about this. Buck wasn’t going to believe it.

He felt her gaze on him as he made short work of changing the tire. “Where ya headed?” he asked, unable to curb his curiosity.

“Antelope Flats.”

“Really?” He couldn’t imagine what business this woman could possibly have in the tiny ranching town up the road. It was so small it didn’t even have cable TV. For J.T., after weeks on the ranch, it was the big city but for this woman— “All done.”

He loaded the flat tire and the tools into the trunk and slammed the lid, then took another good look at her as he wiped his dirty hands on his jeans. She was definitely easy on the eyes.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” she gushed.

“My pleasure.” He figured she’d try to slip him money but he’d be darned if he’d take even the price of a cold beer at the Mello Dee. No, just seeing her the way she looked right now was plenty thanks. Standing there, teetering on her heels in the middle of the highway, a lock of her dark hair fleeing from her tight little no-nonsense French roll or whatever women called those things, and a smudge of dirt on that perfectly made-up face.

“I’d like to do something for you,” she said.

He shook his head. “Consider it your welcome to Antelope Flats.”

“You’re from here?” she asked, eyeing him speculatively.

“Ranch just back up the road. Name’s J. T. McCall,” he said, not sure he liked the way she was looking at him. He started to step around her.

“Really, I must insist. You’ve been so kind,” she said quickly, blocking his exit. “In fact, I have something in mind.”

He raised a brow and grinned, telling himself this wasn’t happening and if it was, no one would believe it.

“Of course, I’d have to see you in the saddle,” she added.

“I beg your pardon?”

Her eyes widened. “You do ride a horse, don’t you?”

Torn between feeling insulted and curious about where she was headed with this, he said, “I guess you could say I ride.”

“Good.” She looked pleased. “Because I’m in Montana looking for a cowboy.” She flashed him a flawless smile, all teeth, all perfect. “And I think you’re that cowboy.”

If she thought he’d be thrilled to hear this, she was sadly mistaken. He’d already encountered one city girl who’d come to Montana looking for a real-life cowboy. Once was plenty enough.

“I appreciate the thought,” he said more politely than he felt, “But, I’m not your cowboy.” He started past her.

She caught his arm with one of those well-manicured hands, the nails the same red as her outfit. The hand was white as new snow, the skin soft-looking. This woman hadn’t done one day of hard manual labor in her life.

“Wait,” she cried. “You don’t know what I’m offering you.”

“I’m afraid I do,” he said, carefully removing her hand from his arm. “No offense, but I’m just not interested.”

“No!” she cried. “That’s not it.” Frowning, she brushed back a lock of hair and put another dark smudge on her cheek. The imperfection made her more appealing somehow.

“I’m looking for a cowboy to do a television commercial for my jeans company, not—” She waved a hand through the air, her cheeks flushed.

She wanted him for a blue jeans commercial?

“You understand that you’d have to audition,” she explained. “I can’t promise that you’d make the cut but—”

“Audition?”

“To see how you look on a horse.” She narrowed her gaze at him as if she was worried he wasn’t getting it.

Oh, he was getting it all right.

“You see, it would be a close-up shot,” she said, hurrying on. “Your face wouldn’t show, just your—” She glanced below his elk horn belt buckle.

He followed her gaze, shocked. “My what?”

“Your…backside. It would be a close-up of it in the jeans on the horse. Your posterior, which I might add, is perfect. For the commercial,” she quickly amended.

Well, now he really was insulted. He’d never had a woman proposition him before. Well, at least not like this. And he realized he didn’t like it. She was sizing him up like a piece of beef on the hoof. Or maybe he just didn’t like the fact that she was only interested in his “southend.”

“Thanks just the same,” he said as he tipped his hat. He and his perfect posterior were leaving.

She seemed surprised. “But the commercial will be shown on national television,” she said trotting unsteadily along beside him toward his truck. “You’d be paid, of course, and you’d get to keep the jeans.”

“Get paid and get to keep the jeans?” he asked sarcastically.

“Yes,” she said smiling. “And if it worked out, this could lead to all kinds of opportunities. This could open the door for a whole new career for you, Mr. McCall.”

He almost stopped walking to tell her what he thought, but he was trying to be a gentleman. That’s why he’d pulled his truck over to help her in the first place.

“Wait,” she cried. “At least let me give you my card.”

“Lady, I hate to be rude, but I really don’t have time for this,” he said turning back to her, but she’d already trotted back to get her card for him.

He waited at the rear of his muddy flatbed truck, shaking his head in wonder. “I’m not going to change my mind,” he called to her, not sure if the woman heard him, but doubting she would listen anyway.

He watched her lean into the car, providing him with a nice view of her tight-skirted bottom. Now that backside would make a wonderful commercial, he thought, momentarily distracted.

Before he could stop her, she’d rushed back to thrust her card into his hand. “I really think you should reconsider. This commercial pays more than you probably make in a year chasing cows,” she said taking in his attire—and his truck.

That did it. He glanced down at the card, just long enough to see her name. Regina Holland. Regina? What kind of name was that? And her address. Los Angeles. He should have known.

“Listen up, Reggie, I happen to like chasing cows. And right now I have six hundred head to chase down from summer pasture, my camp cook is out with a broken leg and I don’t want my butt anywhere but in a saddle heading into the high country before dark. Is that clear enough for you?”

He shoved the card—now slightly crumpled from being balled in his fist—back into her hand and went to his truck, jerking open the door.

“Reggie?” he heard her mutter behind him. Then she called after him: “Perhaps you should discuss it with your wife Jenny.”

His wife? He shook his head. “Good girl, Jennie,” he said, patting the mutt before pushing her over to her side of the pickup seat. “What would make the woman think I was married to a mongrel dog?” He had a feeling he should be even more insulted.

Glancing back as he pulled out onto the highway, he saw that Regina Holland was standing in the middle of the road, looking as lost as when he’d found her. His irritation dissolved and he chuckled to himself as he shifted into second and put some distance between him and the red sports car.

No, he thought shaking his head, no one was going to believe this. Not that anyone would ever hear about it. He sure had no intention of ever telling a living soul now that he realized what the woman wanted. Perfect behind, his butt. He’d never live down the razzing he’d get. Never in a million years.

He topped a rise in the road and Regina Holland disappeared from his rearview mirror. Gone, if not forgotten.

All morning he’d been trying not to stew and he had a hell of a lot to stew over. Something was going on at the ranch and had been even before his mother returned. For almost all of his thirty-six years, he’d been led to believe that his mother was dead. Hell, he and his brother Cash, the only two of the McCall kids who actually remembered their mother, had been putting flowers on her grave every Sunday.

Then out of the blue, Shelby McCall shows up at the ranch and announces she’s not only alive, but that she and Asa cooked up her demise because they couldn’t live with each other and yet didn’t want the kids to have the stigma of divorce hanging over them.

J.T. had never heard such bull in his life. On top of that, he and his three brothers had always thought that their little sister Dusty was the result of an affair their father had had years ago.

Turned out, Dusty was the result of Asa and Shelby getting together to “discuss” things.

Well, now Shelby was back at the ranch, tongues were waggling in three counties, his brother Cash, the sheriff, was trying to keep them both from going to prison for fraud, Dusty wasn’t speaking to either of their parents and something was up between Shelby and Asa.

J.T. hadn’t been able to put his finger on it. But he’d seen the looks that passed between them. He had a bad feeling they had another secret that would make the first pale in comparison.

If all of that wasn’t bad enough, his brother Rourke had gotten out of prison a few months ago, come home, stirred things up good when he not only fell in love, but also cleared his name by finding the real killer who’d helped send him to prison eleven years ago.

The McCalls had always been the talk at the Longhorn Café in town. J.T. knew it was one of the reasons his brother Cash had become sheriff. He was tired of being one of the “wild” McCalls.

Of the bunch, J.T. looked like a saint. Probably because he’d had to take over the running of the ranch after Asa’s heart attack. Rourke had been in prison, Cash was sheriff and his little brother Brandon was too busy sowing his oats.

Some days, J.T. resented the hell out of the family’s reputation because everyone still painted all the McCalls with the same brush. The McCalls were the cowboys that fathers warned their daughters about. Western born and bred, they were a rough-and-tumble bunch, no doubt about that. Always fighting amongst themselves like a den of wildcats, but joining together in times of trouble.

And J.T. had a bad feeling this was a time of trouble as he drove toward Antelope Flats.

This morning a neighboring rancher had told him he’d seen something “odd” on their adjoining summer range in the Bighorn Mountains a week ago.

“It was one of your cows,” Bob Humphries said after the two of them were seated in the Sundown Ranch office, the door closed. “Something had killed it.”

Losing cattle to mountain lions, grizzlies or wolves wasn’t that uncommon. He wondered why Bob had driven all the way out to the ranch to tell him this.

Bob met his gaze. “An animal didn’t kill that cow,” he said as if he could tell what J.T. was thinking. “It had been burned.”

J.T. sucked in a breath, pulse pounding, the weight on his chest like a Mac truck.

“It reminded me of what happened about ten years ago,” Bob said, worry furrowing his brow. “But those fellows are dead, right?”

J.T. could only nod.

“I suppose it could have been lightning,” Bob said, still looking worried. “But I thought I should tell you since you’re headed up there today.”

Now as he neared town, J.T. glanced toward the Bighorns. The long range of mountains glistened against the cloudless blue sky.

He’d always loved this time of the year and looked forward to leaving the heat of the valley for the cool of the cow camp miles from a road. He liked the hard work of gathering the cattle and driving them back down to the ranch, but it was the camp’s isolation that always appealed to him the most. No phone. No electricity. Nothing but the peace and quiet of the mountains, long hours in the saddle, sacking out at night in the line shack while the men slept in wall tents. The sound of the campfire, men talking cattle, the quiet that a man could find in the darkness of night up there.

But as he looked at the mountains where he would be spending the next few days, an icy chill skittered up his spine.

He shook it off and thought instead of the woman in red who’d wanted his butt. Much better than thinking about the dead men who had haunted his dreams for the past nine years.

REGINA STOOD in the middle of the blacktop, her face as red as her outfit. Jenny was a dog! The first time she’d glanced toward the truck, all she’d caught was a glimpse of red hair in the front seat. The back window was so muddy—

She felt sick. She knew she shouldn’t have tried to do business in the middle of the highway. But the cowboy was perfect and she’d just wanted to get him before he got away.

If he looked as good in a saddle as he did bent over her flat tire, he would launch the jeans line and she could write her own ticket. She’d known she wanted a real cowboy. Not one of those Hollywood models. No, she needed the real thing, shot in his environment with panoramic views of the real west, cattle and all, behind his perfect behind.

And she’d found just the man for the job.

And she’d just let him walk away.

Not a chance, she thought as she looked after the truck. She’d never backed down from a challenge in her life. And her life had been rife with challenges, she thought. Getting this man to do the commercial was child’s play given the other obstacles in her life that she’d overcome.

She’d been too confident that he’d accept her offer, she thought as she walked back to the rental car. She fought the urge to chase him down and set him straight on a few things. His rejection stung, especially when he’d thought she was offering herself. But she’d been rejected before. Not quite so offhandedly though.

She climbed in, dropped the visor and looked in the mirror, shocked at her appearance. Wiping furiously she tried to get the greasy smudges off her cheek with a tissue. Her clothing was wrinkled, her makeup a mess, her hair in disarray.

He must have thought she was a nutcase. That’s why he’d turned down her offer. The way she looked, she didn’t blame him for not believing her. And she’d probably come on a little strong. But she’d been so grateful to him for changing her tire—and his posterior had been so perfect….

She tucked a wayward strand of hair back behind her ear. Maybe she shouldn’t have told him he had to audition. But she’d only said that so he wouldn’t know how much she wanted him. She was pretty sure she could get this guy for a song. Coming in way under budget wouldn’t hurt. Everything was riding on this.

Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed Way Out West Jeans. No service. What kind of place was this?

She started the car and looked down the highway, barely able to make out the rear end of the man’s truck disappearing into the distance. What were her chances of finding another one like him?

She knew the answer to that. Whereas finding him again wouldn’t be a problem. She’d seen the logo on the side of the muddy truck. Sundown Ranch. And he’d told her where he was headed. A cattle roundup in the mountains. Could she have asked for anything more ideal?

After he knew that her offer was legit, he’d be grateful that she’d tracked him down. Only a fool would turn down a chance like the one she was giving him.

She smiled as she headed toward Antelope Flats. Even if he still thought he didn’t want to be the new “look” of Way Out West Jeans, she’d change his mind. The man had no idea what lengths she would go to—especially when she was desperate—to get what she wanted.

But he was about to find out, she thought, as she drove into the small western town and spotted a phone booth. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen one of those.

Getting out of the car, she stepped into the glass-sided booth and dialed the company’s 800-number.

“I found the perfect butt,” she said when Anthony answered.

“Gina, darling, you know what that kind of talk does to me,” he joked. Anthony was gay, her best friend and the best head of advertising she’d ever known. “So when do I get to meet him?”

“He’s a bit rough around the edges,” she hedged.

“You are making my mouth water.”

She laughed. “He’s straight. As an arrow.”

“You’re sure?”

She couldn’t say how she knew, but yes, “I’m sure. There is one tiny little problem.”

“I don’t like the sound of this. You know what a tight deadline we’re under here, darling.”

“He needs a little convincing.”

“Oh, well, then I’m not worried,” he said, sounding relieved. “No man can turn you down.”

She hoped he was right about that. “I’ll call again as soon as I have the contract in hand,” she told him. “It might take a couple of days. Also there is no cell phone service here.”

“Ta-ta, darling. Call when you have the contract in hand.”

She smiled as she hung up and looked down the street. Parked not a block away was a newer pickup with the same Sundown Ranch logo on the side. Getting back into her rental car she drove down the block and parked next to the truck. It sat in front of what appeared to be the only restaurant in town, the Longhorn Café.

Regina put the top up on the convertible and after locking it, headed toward the café entrance. Just as she started to open the door, a man came out, startling her.

Their gazes met. Something about him seemed familiar. He pushed past her, skipping out onto the sidewalk without even an “excuse me.”

She stared after him, trying to remember where she’d seen him before, and then it hit her. He was the man who’d driven right past her on the highway, the one she’d tried to flag down to help her with her flat tire. He hadn’t paid any more attention to her then than he did now as he disappeared into the general mercantile next door. How rude.

Fortunately not all Montana men were like him, she thought, as she stepped into the café and glanced around for the man she imagined would be driving the Sundown Ranch pickup outside.

The café was nearly empty except for one large round table at the back. Its half-dozen occupants had looked up as she’d entered and were still watching her with interest as she started toward the older man in western wear and a white cowboy hat sitting at the table with the younger cowboys.

“Am I correct in my presumption that you are the gentleman driving that vehicle?” Regina inquired.

He was a large man, strong-looking, his face weathered, heavy gray brow over kind brown eyes and his western clothing freshly laundered and ironed, distinguishing him from the other men at the table. He had a thick gray mustache that drooped at each end. He looked like someone’s grandfather.

He pushed back his cowboy hat and blinked at her before glancing out the window at the Sundown Ranch pickup. When he looked at her again, he blushed. “Ah…um that’s my truck if that’s what you’re asking, miss.”

The younger cowboys at the table were nudging each other and grinning as if they hadn’t seen a woman for a while.

She ignored them as she held out her hand to the distinguished elderly cowboy. “I’m Regina Holland and you’re…?”

“Buck Brannigan,” he stammered. “Foreman of the Sundown Ranch.”

She flashed him a smile. “Just the man I was looking for.”

Chapter Two

Later that evening as J.T. rode his horse up to the cow camp high in the Bighorn Mountains, he decided to check out the dead cow Bob Humphries had told him about. Mostly, he hoped to put his mind to rest.

He’d left his new puppy Jennie at home. The other two older ranch dogs had gone with his sister Dusty and his dad to round up the smaller herd of longhorn cattle they kept on another range. He missed having at least one dog with him on the roundup but the new puppy wasn’t trained to round up cattle and he’d have had to be watching Jennie all the time to make sure she didn’t get into trouble.

He had enough to worry about. He’d had to leave the hiring of the roundup cow hands and cook up to ranch foreman Buck Brannigan.

Buck had assured him he had it covered. J.T. should have been relieved to hear this but something in Buck’s tone had caused him concern. Finding good hands this late in the fall was tough and finding a good cook was next to impossible, especially around Antelope Flats.

J.T. hated to think what men Buck had come up with given that most of the hands he normally used for roundup from summer range had already moved on by now.

He should have had the cattle down weeks ago. But his brother Rourke hadn’t just fallen in love with Longhorn Café owner Cassidy Miller. The two had gotten married. If it hadn’t been for the wedding, J.T. would have gotten the cattle down from the high country earlier. But Rourke had asked him to be his best man and the wedding had been only last week.

As he rode higher into the mountains, he saw his breath and swore he could almost smell snow in the air. In this country, the weather could change in a heartbeat and often did. Once the snow started in the fall, it often stayed in the high mountains until spring. With luck he could get the six hundred head of cattle rounded up and down before winter set in.

But as he neared the spot where Bob had seen the dead cow, J.T. wasn’t feeling particularly lucky.

The late-afternoon sun felt warm on his back as it bled through the pines. He caught the scent of burned grass on the breeze before he saw the edge of the charred area.

He drew his horse up and dismounted. Over the years, there’d been days he had pushed what had happened that fall at the cow camp out of his mind. Murder was hard to forget. But this had been more horrifying than murder. Much more.

And it had started with one dead cow.

He ground tied his horse and walked through the deep golden grass. On the ride up, he’d convinced himself that lightning had killed the cow. Although rare, it happened sometimes, especially in an open area like this high on a mountainside. Much better to believe it was just a freak occurrence of nature than the work of some deranged man.

But as he neared the burned grass, he saw that the cow was gone. There were tracks where it had been dragged off. He shuddered, remembering the burned man who had also been dragged off into the woods and the grizzly tracks they’d found nearby.

J.T. glanced toward the dense pines. It was too late to go looking for the cow, even if he’d been so inclined. He turned and walked back to his horse, anxious to get to the line camp before dark.

As he rode deeper into the Bighorns, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching him. Maybe even tracking him. An animal? Or a man?

He didn’t relax until he glimpsed the light of the campfire through the pines. The men had built a fire in the pit in an open area between the wall tents and the line shack. Shadows pooled black under the cool dark pines and the familiar scent of the crackling fire drifted on the breeze, beckoning him with warmth and light.

Everything looked just as it had for years. The two wall tents were pitched a good distance to the right of the fire pit. The cook’s cabin, a log structure almost hidden by the pines, sat back some off to the right. The ranch hands slept on cots in the tents. The boss and foreman took the bunks in the cabin with the cook.

Past the campfire and down the hillside sat the hulking outline of the old stock truck. He was glad to see that the truck had made it up the rough trail. It would probably be its last year. He’d put off buying another truck because this one had been doing roundups almost as long as he had and there was something about that that he liked.

As he turned his horse toward the corrals, he felt his earlier unease settle over him like a chill. Something was very wrong. The camp was too quiet. Usually the hands would be standing around the campfire, talking about cattle or horses, telling tales and arguing about something. And typically, his foreman would be right in the middle of it, Buck’s big deep bellow carrying out over the pines like a welcoming greeting.

Instead, the men were whispering among themselves and Buck was nowhere to be seen.

Riding over to the corral, he dismounted. Something had happened and whatever it was, it must not be good. The cowhands’ horses milled in the corral. Eight horses, six the hands had ridden up individually during the day from the trailhead. The two extra horses Buck had brought up in the stock truck.

As J.T. began to unsaddle his horse, Buck came out of the line shack and headed toward him as if he’d been waiting anxiously for his arrival. Not a good sign. J.T. tried to read the look on the elderly foreman’s weathered face. Worry? Guilt? Or a little of both? Whatever it was, J.T. feared it spelled trouble.

He waited for his foreman to bring him the bad news as he busied himself unsaddling his horse. His first thought was that Buck had lied about finding a camp cook. Their regular one had broken his leg riding some fool mechanical bull. Without a camp cook, they’d be forced to eat Buck’s cooking, which was no option at all. Ranch hands worked better on a full stomach and there was a lot less grumbling.

Buck’s cooking was so bad that the men would want to lynch J.T. from the nearest tree within a day, so Buck damned sure better have gotten them a cook.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” he asked as Buck sidled up to the corral fence.

A mountain of a man, large, gruff and more capable than any hand J.T. had ever known, Buck had been with the Sundown Ranch since before J.T. was born. Buck was family and family meant everything to a McCall.

But J.T. swore that if Buck hadn’t found a cook he’d shoot him.

“What makes you think somethin’s wrong?” Buck asked, taking the defensive, another bad sign.

J.T. wished he didn’t know Buck so well as he studied the older man in the dim light that spilled through the trees from the campfire. He would have sworn that the men over by the fire were straining to hear what was being said. Oh yeah, J.T. didn’t like this at all.

He stepped closer to Buck, not wanting to be overheard, and realized he’d been mistaken. The look on the foreman’s face wasn’t worry. Nor guilt. Buck looked sheepish.

J.T. swore. He couldn’t help but remember Buck’s cockiness a few days earlier: “I’ll find you a camp cook or eat my hat.”

“Tell me you found a cook,” J.T. demanded, trying to keep his voice down.

“Well, I need to talk to you about that,” Buck said.

If it came down to a choice, he’d rather eat Buck’s hat than Buck’s cooking. “What’s to talk about? You either hired a cook or you didn’t.”

“Have I ever not done something I said I would?” Buck demanded.

J.T. shot him a let’s-not-go-there look and counted heads around the campfire. Six men sitting on up-ended logs around the fire, all as silent as falling snow. An owl hooted in a treetop close by. Behind him, one of the horses in the corral whinnied in answer.

“Do I know any of the men you hired?” he asked Buck, that earlier uneasiness turning to dread as he let his horse loose in the corral with the others.

“A couple. I was lucky to find any. Hell, I had one lined up but he got hurt in a bar fight and another one—”

“I wish I hadn’t asked.” He could tell by the foreman’s excuses that he’d had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to get six hands together for this roundup. He hated to think how bad the six might be.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said, hefting his saddle and saddlebag with his gear in it, as he headed for the campfire.

The men all got to their feet as J.T. approached with Buck trailing along behind him.

“Evenin’,” he said to the assortment of men standing around the campfire resting his saddle and saddlebag on a log by the fire. “I’m J. T. McCall.” At a glance, he’d seen the men ranged from late twenties to late thirties. They seemed to study him with interest.

“Luke Adams.” A thirty-something, slim cowboy held out his hand.

J.T. took it, feeling that he knew the man. At thirty-six, J.T. had been doing roundups for thirty years so the faces of past cowhands sometimes blurred in his memory as did most of the cattle drives. But something about this man…. “You worked for us before?”

Luke seemed surprised he would remember. “Almost ten years ago.”

The memory fell into place, dropping like his heart in his chest. Luke Adams had been one of the cowhands who’d left camp after the first trouble nine years ago. Luke had been one of the smart ones.

While J.T. had never been superstitious, it still gave him an odd feeling that one of the cowhands from that tragic cattle roundup had signed on for this year’s.

“I haven’t seen you around Antelope Flats,” J.T. said, wondering where Luke had been all these years.

Luke shook his head. “Went down to New Mexico for a while.”

He nodded, feeling uneasy as he studied him in the firelight before moving to the next man.

“Roy Shields,” the man next to Luke said quietly, then awkwardly pulled off his hat before sticking out his hand. Roy was slim and wiry-looking with thin red hair, early to late thirties, one of those people it was hard to tell his age.

His grip was strong but not callused. He looked like a cowhand, one of the quiet ones that seldom gave him any trouble. But how did the saying go, still waters run deep? Roy could have been familiar. The man hurriedly shook his hand, keeping his eyes downcast. J.T. made a note to watch him.

“Cotton Heywood,” the next man said eagerly reaching to shake J.T.’s hand. He was one of the local ranch hands who worked in the area. He had a full head of white-blond hair, which explained his nickname.

“Good to see you again, Cotton,” J.T. said, trying to remember the latest scuttlebutt he’d heard about the man. Cotton had gotten into some kind of trouble at another rancher’s cow camp, but for the life of him, J.T. couldn’t remember what. He seldom paid any attention to rancher gossip, but now he wished he had.

J.T. looked to the next man.

“Nevada Black,” said a strong-looking man with dark hair and eyes. His hand wasn’t callused either. He gave J.T. a knowing smirk. “That’s my real name. I was born at a blackjack table.”

“You have any experience on cattle roundups?” J.T. asked.

“I took a few years off, but I’ve been rounding up cattle since I was a boy,” Nevada said. He rattled off a series of ranches in Nevada and northern California where he’d worked.

J.T. nodded and looked to the next man.

“Slim Walker,” said the gangly cowboy. He held out his hand and when J.T. took it, he couldn’t stop himself from pulling back. Slim nodded, then stretched out both hands in the firelight for everyone to see. “Burned them. Got knocked into a campfire at a kegger.” He shrugged. “Gave up drinking after that.”

J.T. barely heard the man over his thundering pulse. He tried to hide his embarrassment and quickly looked to the last man.

The sixth cowhand stood back a little from the fire as if he’d been watching J.T. make his way around to him and waiting.

“Will Jarvis,” he said slowly stepping forward, removing his hat. He had thin brown hair and was the oldest of the bunch, late thirties like J.T. himself.

J.T. studied the man’s face as he shook his hand. Something about him was familiar but he couldn’t put his finger on it. The man’s hand was smooth and cool. He was no ranch hand. Buck really had been desperate.

“Glad you’re all here,” J.T. said, not sure of that at all as he tried to shake the bad feeling that had been with him from the moment Bob Humphries told him about the dead, burned cow. “We have a lot of cattle to round up over the next few days. I suggest you turn in right after supper. We start at first light.”

As he glanced toward the cabin, he realized he didn’t smell food cooking, just smoke, and shot a look at Buck before picking up his saddle and gear and heading in that direction.

Behind him, he had the strangest feeling that the men around the fire were not only watching him, but also waiting for something to happen.

“Maybe we should talk for a minute before you go into the cabin,” Buck said as he caught up to him.

“Why is that, Buck?” he asked without slowing his stride. J.T. had always liked to get whatever was waiting for him over with as quickly as possible. “If you got a cook, then what—” The rest of his words died on his lips as he saw the camp cook through the cabin window. “What the—”

“Now, boss—”

J.T. shoved his saddle and gear at Buck without a word and, with long purposeful strides, stormed across the porch and into the line shack. “What are you doing here?”

It was a stupid question since Reggie whatever-her-name-was stood at the cookstove with a pan in her hand. She was dressed in fancy western wear, all spanking new and all in that same shade of red that had blinded him on the road earlier today.

“You know each other?” Buck asked in surprise from the doorway.

J.T. swung around long enough to slam the door—with Buck on the other side of it. Slowly, trying to control his temper, he turned back to the woman standing in his line shack. “What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she asked. “I wanted to give you another chance to reconsider my offer so I hired on as your camp cook.” She held out her hand. “Regina Holland. I wasn’t sure you remembered from my card.”

He ignored her hand. He could not believe the woman’s nerve. Had she no sense at all? Coming up to his cow camp after him? And worse, signing on as the cook. Women didn’t belong in a cow camp. He was going to kill Buck.

“Listen, lady, it is one thing to be cute on the highway but not in my line camp,” he snapped. She really had no idea what she’d done. Or who she was dealing with.

“I’m not being cute,” she said, frowning as she lowered her hand. “I’m very serious.”

She couldn’t have looked less serious in that urban cowboy getup if she’d tried. “I already turned down your offer flat,” he ground out from between gritted teeth as he tried to keep his voice down. “All of your offers. How much more plain can I be?”

He knew the men outside were straining to hear what was going on. A woman in cow camp? Worse, a woman who looked like this? A woman with designs that had nothing to do with cooking. A recipe for disaster if there ever was one.

She lifted her chin, standing her ground as she looked up at him. Without her high heels, he towered over her. He also outweighed her by almost a hundred pounds. But she didn’t seem to notice—or care.

“You didn’t give me a chance back on the highway today,” she said, seemingly unconcerned by the ferocious angry scowl he was giving her. “If you’d just listen to what I’m willing to give you—”

“You listen to me, Reggie,” he said, biting off each word as he stepped closer. “I told you I’m—”

“This is an opportunity—”

“…not interested and I’m not going to—”

“…that doesn’t come—”

“…change my mind and I don’t want to hear—”

“…along every day—”

“Reggie!” he shouted, forgetting how important it was to keep their conversation private.

She flinched but still had the audacity to mutter, “…of the year. And it’s Regina,” she snapped. “Not Reggie, McCall.”

McCall? He swore under his breath.

She took a breath. “Couldn’t we just start over?” She gave him a breathtaking smile and spoke in a soft seductive tone. “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot.”

He recalled how odd the men had been acting around the campfire. A knife of alarm buried itself in his chest. Had she already announced what she was doing here? He told himself he wouldn’t be responsible for what he did to her.

“Did you say anything to the men about…” He couldn’t bring himself to say the words given that Buck probably had his ear to the door not to even mention the cowhands eavesdropping around the fire. He needed these men to look up to him over the next few days, to respect him and follow his orders without fail. He didn’t need them checking out his butt and laughing behind his back.

“About my offer?” she asked with wide-eyed innocence.

He’d wring her pretty little neck. “So help me, if you said one word—”

“I haven’t told anyone.”

“Not even Buck?”

She shook her head.

He hated to think what story she’d concocted to get Buck to give her the cook job. His instant relief that she hadn’t told everyone was short-lived. She hadn’t told anyone yet. “Get your things. You’re going back to town. Now.”

“At least give me a chance to apologize,” she said touching his sleeve. He pulled free, stepping back to ward her off. “I’m sorry. When I heard you talking to Jenny, I just assumed she was your wife.”

He groaned, remembering telling his new puppy Jennie to stay in the pickup or be left at home. That’s why Reggie thought Jennie was his wife? And just when he thought she couldn’t insult him further.

“I also want to apologize for assuming by your attire and truck that you were a poor cowhand—”

“Stop while you’re behind,” J.T. snapped, instantly regretting his unfortunate choice of word.

She flushed. She was trying so hard he almost felt sorry for her. Almost. “I don’t see why you’re so upset,” she said, actually sounding puzzled. “I’m offering you fame.”

Just what he always wanted. A famous butt. “And I’m offering you a chance to clear out of here before—”

“If I could just make you realize what an asset you have in your—”

“All right, Ms. Holland!” There was no getting through to this woman. “The answer is no. I accept all of your…apologies. But the answer is still no. So since there is nothing else for you here—”

He was so close to her that he could smell her perfume. Something expensive and unforgettable. Her eyes were the color of the Montana sky. He dragged his gaze away to the floor and noticed that even her boots were red! She had “dude” written all over her and looked as out of place as a fancy skyscraper on this mountaintop. But what really graveled him was that she looked as sexy in this getup as she had in the expensive suit earlier.

“What’s with you and red?” he had to ask.

She looked down at her outfit. She really did fit the western shirt nicely. “It’s my signature color.”

He should have known.

“Well, unless you want your signature color to be dirt-brown I suggest you step away from that cookstove.”

She didn’t move. “You don’t like red?”

How had he gotten sidetracked from the real issue here to red? He didn’t care if the woman wore nothing at all. He groaned as his imagination flashed on that image.

“I want you to just get back in your—” He looked out the window to the pines below the line shack suddenly realizing he had no idea how she’d gotten here. No way could she drive here in her sports car. It took one hell of a four-wheel drive truck to make it up the rough trail to the camp—and only in good weather. Once it rained or snowed—

“How did you get up here?” he asked, his heart in his throat.

“I rode up in the supply truck with Buck.”

She could have told him Martians had dropped her off at the camp and he would have been less skeptical. “Buck brought you up?” Had Buck lost his mind? The only way to get rid of her would be to send her down on horseback or drive all the way back down the mountain in the supply truck. J.T. swore under his breath.

Well, at least no harm had really been done, he told himself. He would lose Buck for half a day but this situation could be resolved.

“Buck?” he called. The door to the cabin instantly opened and Buck stuck his head in the door. “Go start the truck. You’re taking Ms. Holland back to town.”

Buck shot a sympathetic glance to Reggie, but had the good sense not to argue before he ducked back out the door.

“I don’t think you realize how important this is. Can’t we please discuss it like rational adults?”

“No. Get your stuff. You’re out of here.”

“What will you do for a camp cook?” she asked.

“We’ll manage.”

She studied him for a moment, fire in her eyes, then turned and went to the set of bunk beds in the corner. A huge expensive suitcase was open on one of the lower bunks. He caught sight of a bunch of frilly lingerie. He groaned inwardly. A woman like this in a cow camp? He was going to kill Buck.

“I wish you would reconsider,” she said, looking close to tears. “This could open all kinds of doors for you. It could very well make you famous. Everyone wants fifteen minutes of fame.”

“Not this man. Or his butt.” He moved beside her, closed the suitcase and picked it up. “Shall we?” he said, motioning toward the door.

Before she could move, Buck opened the cabin door. “Boss?” His face was pale and drawn as he motioned J.T. over. Worse, Buck only called him boss when there was trouble.

Now what?

“The truck won’t start,” Buck said. “When I looked under the hood—”

J.T. didn’t wait for the rest. He shoved past the foreman and headed down the hillside to the old stock truck. That truck had never let him down even when it was forty below zero and blizzarding outside. He could hear Buck behind him, muttering to himself.

Buck had left the hood up, a flashlight lay across the top of the radiator. J.T. picked it up and shone it at the engine and swore.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Buck said. “Someone took the distributor cap.”

Was it possible someone had taken the part as a joke? This sort of thing was definitely not funny. Any fool knew there could be an emergency that would prevent one of them from riding out of here on horseback and they would need the truck to get out.

J.T. turned slowly to look at Buck. “You don’t know anything about this?”

Buck looked shocked by the question. “Why would I do something this stupid?”

To help that woman in my line shack. But he knew Buck was right. He wouldn’t do anything this dangerous. Not even for a beautiful woman.

“I was thinking about the last time something like this happened,” Buck said quietly, glancing toward the campfire. “The truck had been disabled that time too, right?” Buck hadn’t been on that roundup nine years ago. But like everyone else in four states, he’d heard about it.

“The tires were slashed,” J.T. said. The method used was different, but the end result was the same. “And the hands involved are all dead.” One crazy, two greedy fools. All dying horrible deaths. And for what? He glanced toward the line shack. “This has to be that woman’s doing. She’s the only one who benefits from this—and the only one who doesn’t realize how dangerous it is.” She’d already proved how low she would stoop to get what she wanted. She’d done this to prevent him from sending her packing.

“You’re right,” Buck said, sounding relieved.

This had to be her doing. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the cow Bob Humphries had found. Also Reggie didn’t look like the kind of woman who would know a distributor cap from a hubcap, he thought, remembering how she hadn’t even been able to change her own tire. But in hindsight, that had probably just been a ruse to get him to stop and help her.

Had to be Reggie’s doing, J.T. told himself as he slammed the hood. He refused to think something else was going on here and that she wasn’t the only one who didn’t want any of them leaving here.

But as he headed for the cabin, he felt his skin crawl as he glanced past the camp into the darkness of the pines and imagined someone hiding out there watching them, waiting to pick them off one by one. Just like last time.

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