Amanda's Child

by Rebecca York

  “Miss Amanda?’’

  It was Ed Stanton, the foreman who had been with the family since she’d been a little girl. He’d taken her for rides on the front of his saddle when she could barely walk. And he knew as much about the operation of the ranch as her father had.

  They’d always worked closely together, with the foreman making suggestions and Dad either accepting or rejecting them.

  Then, as her father had lost his head for business matters and she’d taken over, she relied more and more on Ed’s ranching experience. But she’d yet to cross the hurdle of letting him or anybody else know about her condition.

  “Come in,’’ she called, glancing toward the box of books beside the sofa. “I’ll be right there.’’

  Carefully closing the lid, she hurried into the hall. Ed was standing in the kitchen, and she saw that the lines of his weathered face were a little more deeply etched tonight.

  “Is there a problem?’’ she asked.

  “Just thought I ought to check in with you.’’ He paused, cleared his throat. “I’ve been hoping not to bother you with this. But some of the ranchers have been talking about rustlers thinning their herds. So I’ve had the men checking the south range where we have most of our stock right now. We may have been on the hit list. There are tire tracks where it looks like a big truck pulled off our access road.’’ He scuffed his foot. “Have you had some dealings with a trucking company or something that I don’t know about?’’

  “I would have told you if I had, Ed,’’ she answered quickly.

  He nodded. “Well, I just thought I’d see if you knew anything about the truck.’’

  “I appreciate that.’’

  He stayed where he was, shifting his hat in his hands. “You want to come out with me tomorrow and see the spot I’m talkin’ about?’’

  “Of course.’’

  “I’ve got the men keeping an eye out tonight to make sure that truck doesn’t come back. Tomorrow we may want to contact Dwayne.’’

  Dwayne Thomas was the local sheriff.

  “So, if you need me for anything tonight, you know where to find me.’’

  “Sure. Thanks,’’ Amanda answered.

  He stood on the back porch for a moment as though there were more he wanted to say, then headed for the house about a hundred yards away that her father had built him. The rest of the hands lived in the bunkhouse. But Ed had rated a place of his own when he’d married twenty years ago. Unfortunately, Martha hadn’t been content to be married to a man who was never going to be the owner of the property. So she’d left Ed and taken his son with her years ago.

  Amanda stood watching until he’d disappeared from view, thankful that he was here to run the spread, but wishing he could be more direct in his recommendations tonight. His hesitation had increased the unsettled feeling she’d been struggling with all evening. Probably she should have asked more questions. But there would be plenty of time for that in the morning. Neither one of them was going anywhere. And maybe she’d even work up the gumption to tell him that there was going to be a baby on the ranch a little over five months from now.

  THE SCREEN DOOR SLAMMED behind Matt as he charged through the living room of his guest cottage, hidden behind the grandiose structure of timber and stone Roy Logan called home.

  Matt liked the modest three-room home a lot better than the mansion, where the ambience ran to enormous brass chandeliers, Remington table statues and leather upholstery. Probably Roy’d had it done up by some expensive decorator who had charged him double for every piece.

  Grateful for the seclusion of the cottage, Matt crossed to the desk and quickly gathered up the notes he’d made on Logan’s requested security evaluation. They belonged to the Randolph organization—until Logan paid for the extra work.

  Carrying them and his notebook computer into the bedroom, he pulled down the duffel bag and the briefcase he’d stowed in the closet. The papers and the notebook went into the briefcase.

  Then he started opening drawers and pulling out his clothing, figuring he had until morning before anybody was going to miss him. As he shoved shirts, pants and underwear into the bag, he thought about phoning Cam Randolph and warning headquarters that he was taking an unscheduled leave of absence. Or contacting the group informally called the Light Street Irregulars, who came to each other’s aid in time of trouble.

  But he canceled the thoughts even as they formed. He knew better than anyone else that all communications to and from the ranch were monitored. Besides, it was better that his boss and his friends back in Baltimore could honestly say that they’d had no knowledge of Matthew Forester’s intentions, if Roy Logan asked.

  He was in the bathroom tossing his razor and shaving cream in his Dopp Kit bag, when he heard footsteps crossing the plank flooring in the front room.

  “Forester?’’

  Coming back into the bedroom, Matt watched the Logan foreman poking through the contents of his duffel.

  “What are you doing?’’ Matt asked, striving to keep the sudden flash of anger out of his voice.

  “I could ask you the same question,’’ Hewitt answered, his eyes narrowing as they flicked from the bag to the open dresser drawers.

  Matt took several steps closer, deliberately crowding the smaller man as he scrambled for an explanation that would ring true with the likes of Roy Logan’s foreman. “Okay, I’ll give it to you straight. When I agreed to take this job, I thought it was strictly temporary. I didn’t know I’d be without a woman in my bed for three weeks. There’s only so much a man can take, so I’ve got a date with a hot babe in town.’’

  Hewitt gestured toward the duffel bag. “You don’t need to take most of your stuff on a date,’’ he pointed out.

  “That’s true, if all you’re expecting is a quickie. But I hit it lucky. The sweet thing asked me to move in with her.’’

  “Yeah, well, Roy wants you available when he needs you. Did you get his permission to leave?’’

  “I’m not on call twenty-four hours a day.’’ He looked at his watch, doing a good imitation of a man impatient to bed a woman. “I’ll run it by him when I come back to work in the morning.’’

  Hewitt’s eyes narrowed. “Well, suppose we run it by him now.’’

  “I don’t think so.’’ Matt tossed the bag of toiletries into the duffel and reached for the zipper.

  “You heard me and Roy talking about the Barnwell girl.’’

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Hewitt’s hand go for the gun holstered at his right hip.

  With well-honed reflexes, Matt whirled and brought his own hand down in a quick, painful chop across the other man’s wrist.

  Before Hewitt’s scream of pain faded, Matt pulled the man’s gun from his holster and tossed it onto the bed, out of reach.

  “Didn’t anybody teach you manners?’’ he growled, assuming the matter was settled as Hewitt stood there rubbing his hand.

  Apparently that wasn’t the end of it. With more finesse than Matt would have given him credit for, his opponent reached left-handed into his boot and whipped out a knife, almost simultaneously springing forward.

  Matt’s counteroffensive was instinctive. As the blade flashed toward him, he dodged to the side, then brought his fist up, putting his considerable power and speed into the punch that connected with the other man’s jaw. Then he landed another blow to his midsection.

  Hewitt went down, landing in an inert heap on the floor.

  Eyeing the foreman, Matt pondered his options. Unfortunately slitting his throat with his own knife wasn’t one of them. Neither was leaving him here in the guest cottage.

  Ripping the cord from the venetian blinds, he knelt and secured the hands and feet of the unconscious man. After testing the bonds, he pulled out one of his T-shirts and used it for a gag. Then he made a quick inspection of the foreman’s limp body, finding another knife strapped to the guy’s wrist. In the pockets were a large key ring, coins and a wallet with two hundred in cash and a f
ew credit cards. After a moment’s hesitation, Matt pocketed the cash, since it might come in handy.

  Methodically he began to turn off the lights, except for the reading lamp in the bedroom. Then he walked silently to the front of the cottage and peered out the windows. In the silver radiance of the almost full moon, the ranch looked like an illustration from a Visit Wyoming ad. If Hewitt had come with reinforcements, they weren’t in evidence.

  When he returned to the bedroom, the foreman was awake and trying unsuccessfully to free his hands.

  When he saw Matt, his eyes glittered with malice and his mouth worked, but he couldn’t get any coherent words past the gag.

  Matt stared at him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, wishing that Hewitt hadn’t jumped right on the assignment of dismissing him. Seeing the man awake and trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey on his bedroom floor brought home the consequences of his actions. Without a moment’s hesitation, he had assaulted one of Roy Logan’s most trusted employees. Never mind that it was technically self-defense. Hewitt could probably give a plausible explanation for his own actions. When he’d come to give the hired hand from Randolph Security his walking papers, the guy had gone berserk.

  And now said hired hand was getting ready to compound his crime. Well, that certainly eliminated the possibility of changing his mind about his course of action, no matter how misguided it had been in the first place. Whether he liked it or not, he was already in deep trouble.

  He’d overheard a conversation about Amanda Barnwell and decided to come to her rescue—based on feelings generated by a few brief meetings in town. Well, not just on those feelings. His chest tightened as he remembered a different decision he’d made years ago. That time the consequences had been disastrous.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe his guilt over Bethany was his real motivation, he silently admitted. Or maybe he could plead insanity.

  When he caught the foreman watching him, he forced his features to relax. “So where would be a good place to dump you?’’ he asked conversationally as he unstrapped the man’s holster and restrapped it around his own waist. He’d thought it would be bad manners to arrive armed at the Logan Ranch. Now he wished he had his own Glock instead of Hewitt’s more traditional Western piece.

  After retrieving the gun from the bed, he tested it in his hand and holstered it. With a grunt, he lifted Hewitt onto his shoulder, fireman style, and strode toward the back door.

  On the small patio, he waited for a few moments to make sure he wasn’t being observed, then he struck out for one of the miscellaneous outbuildings. From his security inventory, he knew that many were storage sheds—some more likely to be used than others. He headed for one full of light gardening equipment that had belonged to Mrs. Logan. From what he’d gathered, tending flower gardens had been one of her hobbies, and nobody had kept them up since she’d passed away more than fifteen years earlier. Apparently she’d been a gentle soul who’d lacked the backbone to stand up to her husband.

  Would Colin have turned out differently if his mother had lived? Matt wondered as he laid Hewitt not so gently on the floor, where he started to thrash around like a fish on a boat deck, making guttural sounds from behind the gag.

  Matt dragged him to the middle of the room, where several two-by-fours helped support the roof. Using some of the excess rope, he secured the prisoner to the upright.

  Puffing hard, the foreman tried to yank free. “Take it easy. You don’t want to block off your air flow,’’ Matt advised.

  The bound man quieted, but his eyes gleamed with hatred.

  “They’ll likely find you in the morning,’’ he said, hoping he was right, because he needed a few hours’ head start. The distances around here were greater than back east, and it was at least a two-hour drive to Amanda’s ranch, he knew from his survey of the surrounding area. Too bad he couldn’t just appropriate Logan’s helicopter, but that would be a bit conspicuous.

  After securing the shed door, he returned to the guest cottage for his luggage, then snorted as he pictured a description of himself on a wanted poster: “Armed and dangerous with gun and briefcase.’’

  Outside in the darkness once more, he surveyed the area again, then headed for the parking area.

  He’d been met at the airport in Gillette by Hewitt, who was driving one of the ranch’s pickups. There were several, along with a couple of SUVs and Jeeps. The keys were tagged and kept on a board inside a shed door. He took the ones to a green pickup, noted the gas level and started the engine. The noise sounded like a burst of gunfire in the stillness. But nobody challenged him as he backed up and headed for the ranch entrance road.

  Twisting the radio dial, he found a classic country station and tuned into “Ride Me on Down,’’ one of his favorite Bobby Bare songs, as he settled into the rhythm of driving, resisting the urge to go more than ten miles above the speed limit. Out here, the cops cut you some slack, but there were limits to official tolerance.

  Two hours later he breathed a little sigh as he saw the entrance to the Double B Ranch. Barnwell and Barnwell—had that been the original name?

  On the long drive he’d had plenty more time to seriously question his judgment. He’d even toyed with the idea of calling Amanda on the portable and warning her that he was on the way. But what he had to say was best said in person—partly, he admitted, because he wanted to see her reaction when he mentioned Colin Logan.

  Pressing the button that illuminated his watch dial, he saw that it was after midnight. A bad time for a neighborly visit. But there was no question of waiting until morning.

  He’d never been to the Barnwell place, and he wished he were seeing it by daylight so he could orient himself better. The scale of the house and the style were far more modest than Roy Logan’s tasteless mansion, and the surrounding grounds appeared to be neat and orderly, but he couldn’t tell much about the state of the ranch buildings in the dark.

  Pulling to the edge of the driveway, he cut the engine and climbed from the truck, stretching his long legs in the cool night air.

  He was heading for the front porch when he heard the sound of gravel crunching behind him. Before he could turn, something hard came down on the back of his head, and the world went pitch-black.

  Chapter Two

  Another sound—this time of voices—brought Matt back to groggy consciousness. Voices. He had no idea where he was or why his body felt like boiled spaghetti. But his hearing was functioning, and he glommed onto Amanda’s warm honey tones. He wanted to drift with that sweet sound, to let the warm syrup drip over his skin. But another speaker kept getting in the way.

  A guy. Who sounded a lot less sexy.

  “I don’t trust him,’’ the man was saying, his voice raspy as if he had a sore throat or he’d been smoking a pack a day for the past forty years. “What the hell is he doing here—tonight of all nights?’’ he asked querulously.

  “What’s so special about tonight?’’ Amanda asked.

  “I mean, with the rustlers and all.’’

  “Rustlers don’t come knocking at the door. I appreciate your protective instincts, Ed. But you didn’t have to hit him over the head.’’

  Hit him over the head? Was that why he felt like a concert group were performing the “Anvil Chorus’’ inside his skull? Cautiously Matt cracked his eyes. In the next second he wished fervently that he hadn’t made the effort. Instead of seeing one image, he was blessed with two—and twice the pain.

  Repressing a groan, he cautiously moved his hand, feeling something soft under his touch. A bed or a sofa, maybe. At least he wasn’t sprawled outside in the gravel.

  He lay there for several moments, hearing the voices but unable to tune them in for the moment. Or maybe he drifted from consciousness again.

  The word concussion wafted through his mind.

  The next time he tried to get a look at his surroundings, he had the good sense to open only one eyelid.

  Squinting, he saw Amanda and the other spe
aker, someone she’d called Ed, a short, compact man with a grizzled face and gray hair. The guy who’d hit him, judging from the conversation.

  He should stay focused on the guy; instead he switched his attention to Amanda. She was much easier on the eye—in profile, barefoot with her golden hair tamed in a single braid down the back of her neck. Apparently she’d been in bed, because she was dressed in a baby-blue robe. It was made of some silk fabric completely at odds with the jeans and men’s shirts she wore in town. The material clung to every feminine curve of her body, showing off the sexy fullness of her breasts and revealed the just budding swell of her abdomen. As he studied her burgeoning shape, Matt silently acknowledged the truth of Roy’s information. She was pregnant.

  His attention snapped back to the conversation when he heard his name mentioned.

  “There’s been talk in town about Forester,’’ the man called Ed was saying.

  “Right. All the women are plotting how to get him into bed.’’

  “Maybe so. But the guys don’t like him.’’

  “I never heard that.’’

  “Well, explain why he was sneaking up on the house,’’ Ed demanded.

  “It doesn’t look to me like he was sneaking. He drove right into the yard and parked in full view,’’ Amanda pointed out.

  “For a midnight social call!’’

  “Maybe he had a good reason. When he comes to, we can ask him.’’

  “I’m going to call Dwayne.’’

  Dwayne. The name was familiar. Matt’s fogged brain struggled to place it.

  “You don’t need to call the sheriff. You need to call a doctor,’’ Amanda said, worry and exasperation mingling in her tone.

  The cops. Great. Dwayne was the cops. And he was in Roy’s pocket. Cursing silently, Matt moved his hand again, reaching for the holster he’d strapped on. It was still there, but the gun was missing.

  He heard Ed’s footsteps receding and tried to push himself up. But a stab of pain in his head sent him collapsing back onto the sofa.

  Instantly Amanda knelt by the side of the sofa.