Tough Enough

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  She throbbed with desire. She couldn’t wait any longer. Thrusting her hips upward, she met him fearlessly, with equal passion. The moment he plunged into her, she gave a startled cry, but it was one of utter pleasure, not pain. His other hand settled beneath her hips and he moved rhythmically with her. The ache dissolved into hot honey within her. This warmth of the sunlight on her flesh, his mouth seeking and molding, their breath wild and chaotic, all blended into an incredible collage of movement, sound, taste and pleasure. A white-hot explosion occurred deep within her, and Rachel threw back her head with a cry and arched hard against him. Through the haze of sensations she heard him growl like the cougar he really was. His hands were hard on her shoulders as he thrust repeatedly into her, heightening her pleasure as the volcanic release flowed wildly through her. In those moments, the world spun around them. There was only Jim, his powerful embrace, his heart thundering against hers as they clung to one another in that beautiful moment of creation between them.

  LANGUIDLY, RACHEL RELAXED in his arms in the aftermath. Barely opening her eyes, she smiled tremulously up at him. His face glistened with perspiration; his eyes were banked with desire and love for her alone. Stretching fully, Rachel lay against his muscular length, his arms around her, holding her close to him.

  “I love you,” Jim rasped as he kissed her hair, her temple and her flushed cheek. “I always have, sweet woman of mine.” And she was his. In every way. Never had Jim felt more powerful, more sure of himself as a man, as now. She was like sweet, hot honey in his arms, her body lithe, warm and trembling. How alive Rachel was! Not only was there such compassion in her, he was lucky to be able to share her passion as well. Moving several damp strands of hair from her brow, he drowned in her forest-green eyes, which danced with gold flecks. Her lips were parted, glistening and well kissed. She had a mouth he wanted to kiss forever.

  His words fell softly against her ears. Rachel sighed and closed her eyes, resting her brow against his jaw. Somewhere in the background, she heard the call of a raven far above the canyon where they lay. She felt the dappled sunlight dancing across her sated form. The breeze was like invisible hands drying and softly caressing her. More than anything, she absorbed Jim’s love, the protectiveness he naturally accorded her as she lay in his arms. This was a man whose heart, whose morals and values were worth everything to her—and then some. It didn’t matter that his last name was Cunningham. By them loving one another, Rachel thought dazedly, still lost in the memory of their lovemaking, a hundred-year-old feud no longer existed between their families.

  Moving her hand in a weak motion across his damp chest, she smiled softly. “I love you so much, darling.” She looked up into his eyes. “I’m looking forward to spending the rest of my life showing you just how much.”

  Tenderly, he caught and held her lips beneath his. It was a soft kiss meant to seal her words between them. He felt as if his heart would explode with happiness. Did anyone deserve to feel this happy? He thought not as he wrapped her tightly against him. Chuckling a little, he told her, “Well, maybe as of today, we’ll start a new family dynasty. A blend of Cunningham and Donovan blood.”

  The thought of having Jim’s baby made her feel fulfilled as never before. Rachel laughed a little. “You can’t have a feud this way, can you?”

  “No,” he answered, sighing. So much worry and strain sloughed off of him in that moment as he moved his large hand across her rounded abdomen. Rachel had wide hips and he knew she’d carry a baby easily within her. Their children. The thought brought him a sense of serenity he’d never known before this moment.

  As Jim looked down at Rachel, he cupped her cheek and whispered, “I’ll love you forever, princess. You and as many children we bring into the world because of the love we hold for one another.”

  * * * * *

  ODD MAN OUT

  B.J. DANIELS

  About the Author

  B.J. DANIELS

  B.J. Daniels wrote her first book after a career as an award-winning newspaper journalist and author of 37 published short stories. That first book, Odd Man Out, received a 4 1/2 star review from Romantic Times BOOKreviews and went on to be nominated for Best Intrigue for that year. Since then she has won numerous awards including a career achievement award for romantic suspense and numerous nominations and awards for best book.

  B.J. Daniels lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, and two Springer Spaniels, Spot and Jem. When she isn’t writing, she snowboards, camps, boats and plays tennis. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, Thriller Writers, Kiss of Death and Romance Writers of America.

  To contact her, write: B.J. Daniels, P.O. Box 1173, Malta, MT 59538 or e-mail her at bjdaniels@mtintouch.net. Check out her Web page at www.bjdaniels.com.

  DEDICATION

  To Kathrina,

  who showed me the way,

  and Kitty and Judy,

  who read every word along the way.

  Special thanks to Neil and Dani.

  Prologue

  Rain pelted the tops of the parked cars like rocks hitting tin cans. Rivulets of the icy stuff ran off the brim of J. D. Garrison’s gray Stetson as he hung back in a stand of snowy pines on a hillside overlooking the tiny Fir Ridge Cemetery. Hidden from view, he eyed the funeral service taking place beneath the swollen dark clouds covering the valley below. He’d been away far too long. He hunched deeper in his sheepskin coat, his head bent against the cold wetness of the Montana spring day, as he wished it hadn’t been death that had brought him home again.

  Half the county had turned out for Max McCallahan’s burial even in the freezing downpour. Snatches of the service reached J.D. on the hillside. He had to smile at the priest’s portrayal of the old Irish private eye. Max must be turning in his grave to hear such malarkey. Too bad the good Father didn’t just tell the truth—that Max had been a big, loud, red-faced Irishman and damned proud of it. That he’d loved his ale. And that, if the need arose, he hadn’t been one to back down from a good brawl. The truth was, the devil had danced in the old Irishman’s eyes most of the time. But there’d also been another side to Max, a gentle, loving side, that a young girl had brought out in him.

  As the priest led a prayer, J.D. studied that young girl—Max’s niece, Denver McCallahan. She was no longer a girl but she would always have that look because of her slight build. She stood under the dripping canopy at the edge of the grave, a large black felt hat hiding most of her long auburn hair and part of her face. Her manner appeared almost peaceful.

  J.D. wasn’t fooled. He knew Denver’s composure was an act. Max had been her only family; she would have killed for him. J.D.’s jaw tensed under his dark beard as the tall cowboy beside Denver slipped an arm around her shoulders. He’d have recognized the man anywhere, not only because of his blond hair and his arrogant stance, but by his trademark—the large, white Western hat now dangling from the fingers of his right hand. J.D. swore, surprised by his reaction. He didn’t like seeing Denver in the arms of his childhood friend, Pete Williams.

  J.D. looked up as an older woman joined him in the seclusion of the pines. She wore a worn wool plaid hunting jacket, Max’s, no doubt, jeans, a flannel shirt and boots.

  “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life,” Maggie said as she stepped into his arms. He hugged her to him, feeling her strength. Sturdy. That was what Max had called her. Sturdy, dependable Maggie. She’d been Max’s friend, his lover, his confidante. Although they’d never married and had lived in separate houses, Maggie had been the love of Max’s life.

  Maggie stepped back, brushing a wisp of graying brown hair from her face, a face that belied her fifty-five years. She glanced at the cemetery below them, her expression as grim as the day. Dark umbrellas huddled around the grave like ghouls. Denver moved closer to drop a single bloodred rose on her uncle’s casket. Even from the distance, J.D. could see that she’d grown up since he’d been gone. A lot of things had changed, he thought, watching her with Pete.


  “Shouldn’t we be down there at the funeral?” J.D. asked, still surprised that Maggie had suggested meeting here instead.

  “Max knew how I felt about funerals,” she said softly. “And I’d prefer Denver didn’t know you’re back in town yet.”

  His eyebrow shot up. “Why is that?”

  “There’s something you need to know before you see her.” Maggie took a breath and let it out slowly. “Denver’s in trouble.”

  He almost laughed. Ever since they were kids, Denver McCallahan had been in some sort of trouble; blame it on her fiery spirit, but it was one of the things he’d always admired about her. “What kind of trouble?” The moment he said it, he could guess. “She’s heard the rumors you told me about Max being involved in something illegal and she’s determined to clear his good name, right?”

  “You know Denver. And while she’s at it, she intends to bring his killer to justice, as well.”

  That didn’t surprise him in the least. “And I suppose you want me to keep her out of trouble while she’s doing all that?” He shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  Maggie met his gaze and he glimpsed an expression in her eyes that startled him. Anger. Cold as the granite bluffs in the distance. “I’m asking a lot more than that, J.D. I want you to keep her away from Pete Williams.”

  “You can’t be serious.” The rain fell harder, dimpling the spring snow’s rough surface. He stared at her with a puzzled frown, and realized she was serious. “Why would I do that?”

  “I know things about Pete—” She looked away. “You just have to keep him away from Denver.”

  “You’re asking the impossible.” He’d been gone for nine years and he hadn’t left on the best of terms.

  Maggie pulled her jacket around her. “Denver knows I’ve never liked Pete. She won’t listen to me.”

  J.D. watched Denver lean into Pete Williams’s embrace as the two stood alone beside the grave. “Denny won’t—” he stumbled on the childhood name he’d always called her. “Denver wouldn’t appreciate any interference in her life from me.”

  “Oh, J.D., you know how she’s always felt about you.”

  “She had a crush on me when she was sixteen, Maggie! Believe me, it didn’t last.” He remembered only too well how angry Denver had been that afternoon at Horse Butte Fire Tower when he’d told her he was leaving town. And how hurt. She’d been like a kid sister to him. He’d never forgiven himself for hurting her.

  “If anyone can handle her, it’s you,” Maggie argued.

  “I’m not sure there’s a man alive who can handle Denver McCallahan.” The umbrellas suddenly dispersed like tiny dark seeds across the snow. The rain turned to snow as the mourners headed for their cars.

  “Just promise me you’ll do everything you can to keep Pete away from her,” Maggie said. “If you don’t—” She turned to leave.

  “Wait, what are you saying?” J.D. demanded. Surely she didn’t believe Denver had anything to fear from Pete. “Give me a reason, Maggie. A damned good reason.”

  To his surprise, her eyes filled not with their usual resolve but with tears. That anger he’d glimpsed earlier mixed with pain and burned red-hot. “Pete Williams killed Max.”

  Chapter One

  Denver ducked her head to the cold and the pain as she let Pete lead her away from the cemetery. The rain had turned to snow that now fell in huge, wet flakes. She walked feeling nothing, not the ground under her feet nor Pete’s steadying hand on her elbow.

  “You’re Denver McCallahan, right?” A woman in her fifties in a long purple coat and a floppy red wool hat stepped in front of her; the woman didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m Sheila Walker with the Billings Register.” She flipped open her notebook, her pen ready. “I need to ask you some questions.”

  Pete put his arm around Denver’s shoulders. “Ms. McCallahan just buried her uncle. Now is not the time.” He tried to pass, but the reporter blocked his way, ignoring him as she turned her full attention on Denver.

  “This has to be the second worst day of your life. First your parents, now your uncle.” From a web of wrinkles, she searched Denver’s face with dark, eager eyes. “You think there’s a connection?”

  Denver stared at the woman. Her bright red lipstick was smeared and her hat drooped off one side of her head, exposing a head of wiry black-and-gray curls. A scent of perfume Denver couldn’t place hung over her like a black cloud. “My parents were killed more than twenty years ago.” The murders connected? Was the woman crazy? Pain pressed against her chest; she fought for breath. Pete pulled Denver closer and pushed on past the woman.

  “Who do you think killed your uncle?” the reporter asked, trotting alongside Denver. “Do you think it was that hitchhiker they’re looking for?”

  “Please, I can’t—” Denver fought the ever-present tears.

  “Leave her alone,” Pete interrupted in a menacing tone. They’d reached his black Chevy pickup. He opened the door for Denver and spun on the woman. “Back off, lady, or you’ll wish you had.” Climbing in beside Denver, he slammed the door in the reporter’s face.

  She tapped on the window. “The rumors about your uncle, is there any truth in them?”

  Pete started the pickup and peeled away, leaving Sheila Walker in a cloud of flying ice and snow.

  “YOU DON’T BELIEVE IT.”

  J.D. watched Pete leave with Denver in a fancy black Chevy pickup, then turned his attention back to Maggie. “That Pete murdered Max? No, I don’t believe it.” He and Pete had been friends and as close to Denver and Max as family. Through the falling snow, he could see workers pushing cold earth over Max’s casket with a finality that made his heart ache.

  “I don’t want to believe it, either,” Maggie said. “Max loved Pete. He loved you both like the brother he lost.”

  “Then how can you suspect Pete of murder?”

  She took a long, ragged breath. “The morning after Max’s murder, Denver and Pete came over. I’d made coffee and sent them into the kitchen. You remember the photograph Max took of you, Pete and Denver at the lake on her sixteenth birthday?”

  J.D. nodded; it had been right before he’d left town. He could still see Denver in the dress Max had bought her. A pale aquamarine. The same color as her eyes. “You gave me a copy of the photo.” He still had it. It reminded him of those days at the lake with Denny and Pete. Sunlight and laughter. A long-lost happiness twisted at his insides.

  “It was Max’s favorite photograph. He always carried it in his wallet,” Maggie said. “I saw it the day before he died. It was dog-eared and faded and I wanted to put it away for safekeeping, but Max wouldn’t hear of it.” She stopped; he watched her fight the painful memories. “When I went to hang up Pete’s coat, I saw a piece of the photograph sticking out of his pocket.”

  “Didn’t Pete have a copy, too?”

  She nodded. “But I’d written on the back of the one I gave Max. I could still make out the writing. It was the photo from his wallet. Only … it had been torn.” She met his gaze. “Someone had ripped you out of the picture.”

  “That’s not enough evidence to convict a man of murder.”

  “I know, especially since Pete has an alibi for the day of the murder. Supposedly he was in Missoula with his band. But I called to check. The Montana Country Club band was there, but when I described Pete to one of the cocktail waitresses, she didn’t remember him. If Pete’s good looks didn’t make an impression on her, that blue-eyed charm of his would have.”

  “That’s pretty weak, Maggie.”

  “Pete wasn’t in Missoula. I’d stake my life on it.”

  “I hope you won’t have to do that.” J.D. tugged at his collar; he wasn’t used to this kind of weather anymore.

  “I have to go,” Maggie said.

  J.D. walked with her to her Land Rover parked along the edge of the road in the pines. “It still doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “Why would Pete want to kill Max?”


  “Max wasn’t part of anything dishonest if that’s what you’re thinking.” She hugged herself against the cold wetness. “I’ll admit something was bothering him.”

  “What?”

  She shrugged and opened her car door. “If Pete finds out that I called you or that I suspect him—”

  “Dammit, Maggie, tell me why you’re so frightened. It has to be more than a hunch and an old ripped photograph.”

  She nodded, fighting more than grief. “That last week, Max was … afraid.”

  J.D. had never known the man to be afraid of anything, or anybody—no matter how big or tough they were.

  She slid into the front seat and shoved her hands into the pockets of Max’s hunting jacket. “He seemed to be looking over his shoulder as if—” She broke off and shivered. “As if something had come back to haunt him. He was obsessed with death and kept talking about his brother’s murder.”

  J.D. fought the chill that stole up his spine. “Denny’s father?”

  She nodded. “He felt responsible for encouraging Timothy to become a cop. He blamed himself for Timothy’s death.”

  “Maggie, what does that have to do with Pete?” J.D. asked.

  She shook her head as if to chase away the memories. “I haven’t told anyone this because I was afraid of what Pete would do,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “The last time I saw Max, he was furious at Pete.” She bit her lip. “I’ve never seen Max like that. He said he had to stop Pete … before someone got killed.”

  “I’M SORRY ABOUT that reporter,” Pete said as they headed south toward the town of West Yellowstone. “Are you all right?”

  Denver nodded, wondering if she’d ever be all right again. Leaning back in the seat, her hat in her lap, she watched the pines and snowfall blur by outside the window. Max dead. Murdered. It wasn’t possible. But worse yet were the rumors. She ran a finger through the water droplets beaded up on the brim of her hat, fighting the pain.