Renegade: Rodeo Knights, A Western Romance Novel (SEAL Team: Disavowed Book 5)

by Laura Marie Altom

  “I think so?” She squeezed his hand. How could a person ever really feel good about discovering her father had pled guilty to murder? During the time she’d been held by Mark and Cal—who both currently awaited trial, the ranch had been turned into an official crime scene. That mystery box she’d found in her father’s closet had been filled with souvenirs. The thought made acid churn in her stomach, but she forced herself to hold it together. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to see her father again, but at least this once, for her own peace of mind, she needed—deserved—to get the whole story from him.

  She and Sawyer had been staying on the reservation in his mom’s trailer. They were still fixing it up, but they were happy. Finally, at peace.

  A guard unlocked an iron gate that led to a hall with many doors. He stopped beside the third one, waving a pass card over a locking mechanism. With a click, it opened. He led them into a windowless beige room with no furniture save for six metal chairs and a metal table that was bolted to the concrete floor.

  Her father and the man she presumed to be his lawyer sat at the table’s far end.

  “Thank you,” Delilah said.

  The grim-faced guard nodded.

  “Filly!” Walter’s face lit up.

  She sat across from him. Still holding Sawyer’s hand, pain and confusion rendered her unable to even say her father’s name.

  Introductions were made by the lawyer, then it was finally time to have her questions answered.

  “Why?” was all she could think to ask.

  “It’s complicated.” Walter dropped his gaze to his cuffed hands and chained ankles. “I’m not even sure. My mother was a barrel racer. Lightning fast and pretty as a picture. She looked a lot like you. But that’s where the similarity ended. She was a fast woman—if you get my meaning. I remember different men sleeping over every night. A constant parade of dirty sex coming in and out of our one-bedroom apartment.” Having paled, he forced a deep, shuddering breath. “Night after night, I’d pretend to be asleep on the sofa when she would howl and moan and these men—filthy pigs—had their way with her over and over again. I hated it. I hated her. One night . . .” He hunched over, pressing his forehead to the metal table. “One of those men touched me. He didn’t just want to be with my mom, but me, too. He started visiting a lot—three or four nights a week. He paid her big money. Hundreds and hundreds of dollars and she was so happy . . .” He continued talking into the table, as if the shame of looking up might be too great to bear. “That man did heinous, unspeakable things to me and I hated him, but I hated my mom even more. More men came. She turned my body into a business. I was only eight years old.” He turned away from them, retching onto the floor.

  His lawyer poured him a plastic cup of water from a plastic pitcher. “Slow down if you want. Take a few deep breaths.”

  Silent tears streamed down Delilah’s cheeks.

  “I’m okay,” Walter finally said. He’d reverted to talking into the table. “I lost count of how many men there were. We moved to a fancy Houston apartment. The men now wore suits. This went on until I reached my teens, and one day I just didn’t go home after school. For a while, I lived on the streets. I got pretty good at begging or picking pockets, but there was never enough. I sold myself. My soul. The money was amazing—good enough that I was able to step outside myself whenever I performed certain acts or was used. One day a cowboy wanted to rent me for the whole night. He took me to a rodeo and I saw a queen and she looked just like Momma and I knew—I just knew this was a sign from God that I needed to kill her, so I did. I strangled her, but then I made her real pretty. And I branded her, so she’d never forget it was me. I hated her. I loved her. I also branded myself.” He sat up. It was difficult for him with the wrist restraints, but he raised his shirt. There were four brands on his stomach.

  One for each of the women he’d killed?

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” he asked. “How Mark had his vengeance on me for killing his mom, when all along, I was killing mine.” He sipped more water. “Delilah, you need to know that I met your mother and she healed me. I loved her. I love you. And I swear, I never killed again. A few years later, I got word my mom died in a fiery small plane crash and I believed that to be a fitting end. But then Mark came along and I suspected he was somehow dirty dealing me, but I could never prove it. That detective? Adam? He told me Mark’s game. How Jersey was in on it. How they’d even imitated my killing style. Mark even killed that poor woman down in Amarillo. It’s awful. I know what I did was wrong, and I deserve to be punished. But you, Delilah . . . You never deserved any of this. I’m sorry.” He looked to Sawyer. “I’m sorry to you, too, young man. Not that it’s an excuse, but sometimes my guilt ate at me so bad that I lashed out at everyone. It was the only way to make myself sane. To stop myself from once again killing.” The flood of words stopped. He sat higher in his chair, but hung his head as if exhaustion had him on the verge of falling asleep sitting up.

  “Guard!” the lawyer called. “The prisoner would like to return to his cell.”

  “C-can I hug you?” Delilah asked.

  Her father nodded. “I’d like nothing more. I love you, Filly.”

  “I love you, too.”

  For twenty minutes after her father left, Delilah clung to Sawyer, pouring out her grief through tears and words and most of all . . . unconditional love.

  Epilogue

  Three Months Later, Starfish Cove, Turks & Caicos

  SAWYER PULLED DELILAH into his arms. They stood on a vast, moonlit stretch of sand all alone save for the waves’ gentle lapping. “How are you, Mrs. Crow?”

  “Blissfully happy, Mr. Crow.”

  They kissed. It somehow felt different. Better. After all the storms they’d weathered, they now stood on what would hopefully be the lee side of life.

  Walter was still behind bars and awaited his trial and sentencing, but he’d volunteered to be part of a program for psychiatrists to study the mind of a serial killer. Because of this, he was expected to serve life in prison with no chance of parole.

  “Was our wedding to your liking?”

  “It was perfect—except for Briggs. I think he’s still mad at me for ditching him.”

  Sawyer winced. “So am I. Let’s not do that again.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Like your gift?” He raised her wrist, kissing the white crystal-covered horse charm dangling from a slim gold chain. Sawyer had helped Harding pull strings and raise funds. Powder Puff would be waiting for Delilah when they returned home.

  “Like my gift?” He adored her bubbly laugh. “I’m more like over the moon ecstatic. Let’s hope she and Smoky Joe don’t mind sharing their trailer.”

  “No kidding. I’ve had enough drama.”

  “Amen.” She sobered at the memory of all they’d been through. The friends and loved ones they’d lost. But smiled at their shared future’s brilliance. “I still have one gift to give you.”

  “I already have my Rolex. Trust me, babe, that’s plenty.” They’d gotten a ton of money back from Mark. More was expected after his trial.

  “I know, but this is a little thing. A really little thing.”

  He laughed, nuzzling her neck. “Considering the size of your bikini, and the fact that you have nothing in your hands, it would have to be very little.”

  Her adorable grin made his chest swell with pride. Would he ever grow tired of the simple pleasure of looking at her? No. “Well? How long are you going to keep me waiting?”

  “Mmm . . . probably about six more months.”

  Scrunching his brow, he said, “Wait—I’m not following you.”

  “Really, Sawyer? Six months? Think about it. What’s three plus six?”

  “Nine. But—oooooh. Wait. You’re not?”

  She nodded. “I’m three months along. I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure the baby is healthy and my doctor assures me everything looks perfect.”

  “You’re really pregnant?”

&nbs
p; “One hundred percent.”

  “Wow . . .” He arched his neck, tipping his face toward the moon. “We’re having a baby!”

  Laughing, she went in for a hug, but he swooped her into his arms. “Where are we going?” she asked when he turned back from the shore. “Thought we were skinny dipping?”

  “And subject my baby to a possible shark attack or a rogue stingray or sea snake or sailfish stabbing?”

  She kissed his cheek. “You do know you’re crazy?”

  “Crazy for you.”

  Back in their beachside cabana, Sawyer’s cell buzzed so much it nearly fell off the bedside table.

  “Don’t answer,” Delilah said.

  “I wouldn’t, but what if it’s work?”

  “You’re on your honeymoon. Work can wait.”

  “I know, but this will just take a sec.” He swiped to answer the call. “Yo, Briggs. What’s up?”

  “Sorry to crash your night, but you know how you owe me a pretty big favor?”

  Sawyer sighed. “Come on, man. I’m kind of busy.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry, but this can’t be helped. Remember that hottie I met on vacation? The one with the exotic blue eyes. Her name is India?”

  “Uh huh . . .”

  “In an amazing coincidence, she’s in a bit of a jam, and you’ll never guess where she is?”

  “Turks & Caicos?”

  “You must have ESP. First thing in the morning let’s meet up.”

  “Why?” Sawyer gazed longingly toward his new bride who lounged on the bed in a tantalizing position.

  “We’re going diving—shipwreck diving to be more precise. But she’s struggling with modern-day pirates, so I kinda promised we’d help . . .”

  Look for FORSAKEN, Book Six in my SEAL Team: Disavowed series!

  Available now for preorder! Keep reading for a sneak peek . . .

  FORSAKEN

  SEAL Team: Disavowed

  Book Six

  Laura Marie Altom

  1

  Two nautical miles east of Little Palm Cay, Turks & Caicos

  SHARKS. EVERYWHERE. SO much blood…

  India Fanning released air from her buoyancy regulator, descending to the North Atlantic’s sandy bottom to a depth of twenty-two feet. With her back against a coral tower, she waved to her cousin, Turtle—nicknamed because he spent more time beneath the turquoise waters surrounding their island home than in their family gift shop where they were both due to start the evening shift in thirty minutes. A cruise ship was in port, which meant hundreds of rushed T-shirt buyers.

  From her vantage, gazing up through crystal clear turquoise water, she clearly made out the feeding frenzy’s cause. The crew of a forty-foot fishing trawler tossed bucket after bucket of chum over the hull. The blood served as a shark dinner bell, calling them in by the dozens. Black and gray-tip reefs, a lemon, even a couple bull. A hammerhead hung back at a cautious distance.

  She considered herself an experienced diver. Not much rattled her. But this . . .

  Forcing her breathing to slow she checked her dive computer’s air gauge. Thirteen minutes remained. From her current location, the surface was only a minute swim. Piece of cake—except for navigating through the undulating mass of black-eyed monsters snapping their jaws with enough force for the chilling sound to carry through the water.

  What was wrong with those chumming assholes? The diver down flag bobbing on its blaze-orange buoy was visible a mere ten feet from Turtle’s boat.

  Pulse racing, she waved again at her cousin who seemed oblivious to anything but his new toy. He’d been saving for months for an underwater metal detector and in the week since its arrival, she felt as if they’d put in more dive time than they had in the last few years combined. The Turks were famous for shipwrecks and Turtle was determined to buck family tradition by making his fortune on gold doubloons as opposed to tourist dollars.

  The more chum hit the water, the more frenzied the sharks grew. Foul-tempered, competing with much nipping and thrashing at assorted fish heads and tails and bony remains left after filleting. Smaller sharks had begun feeding on the scarps sinking to the sandy bottom.

  Heart pounding, when a three-foot gray turned to her, India slammed his nose with the heel of her hand.

  He thankfully got the hint and swerved right.

  India followed the coral wall where it joined with another in the shape of a Y. Local dive shops brought first-time divers with freshly earned C-cards to the spot for not only its abundance of colorful coral and fish, but because of the unmistakable shape that made for an easily seen rendezvous point.

  A particularly nasty barrel-chested bull shark rammed the hull of Turtle’s prized Boston Whaler. The thump’s concussive force against the fiberglass hull of his fifteen-foot baby was at least enough to have gotten her cousin’s attention—but not in a good way. Instead of descending from the threat, the notorious hardhead showed his fury with the shark and chumming bastards by wildly swinging his detector’s wand, clearing a path for him to reach the surface.

  Turtle, no!

  India’s chest ached from the effort of rapid-fire inhalations through her regulator. Air bubbles surrounded her, impeding her view. There was so much blood. What was happening? A masculine cry of terror spiraled through the water like a bullet, piercing India’s soul.

  She wanted to look away, but couldn’t.

  Time froze. Sunbeams sliced through the horror of Turtle’s shredded body parts—his left foot, right arm—sinking only to be snapped between scissoring jaws.

  India threw-up into her regulator, then switched to her back-up.

  By the time she’d composed herself enough to force her breathing to slow, her dive computer beeped a low air warning. With her current location a few good kicks from the surface, finding air wasn’t as big of a problem as forcing herself to actually move. Despite balmy water, her limbs felt frozen. Incapable of the slightest shift.

  The beeping grew frantic.

  Overhead, fewer sharks circled, but the fishing vessel remained. Someone aboard turned on music. Reggae celebrated her cousin’s death. Something besides blood was tossed overboard. Plop. Muted laughter sank to her depth along with an empty beer bottle—Kalik.

  Surely the men had witnessed Turtle die. Why hadn’t they been on the radio? Calling for help? Realization dawned, but her panicked, grief-stricken mind had grown as sluggish as her body. Could she take this a step further and assume the men knew Turtle? Wanted him to die? Had they followed him from the marina? If so, they knew she was down here.

  They weren’t fishermen, but monsters. What could Turtle have possibly done to deserve such a horrific end? Were they hanging around to ensure she also died?

  Terror constricted her throat, cramped her already leaden limbs. Her heart pounded in tandem with the dive computer’s urgent warning.

  If she didn’t act fast, she would die down here.

  Her mother’s warm brown eyes and welcoming smile flashed before her. Her father’s gentle strength and unconditional love. Her grandparents. Aunts and Uncles. She didn’t want to die. There was still so much left to do. Expand the family shop. Maybe college? Find love. Welcome children into her beautiful world. Snapshots flipped through her head, faster and faster until the images were no longer recognizable beyond shock’s kaleidoscopic blur.

  What little air remained in her tank tasted thin and stale.

  Move! her mind screamed.

  Her eyes could only focus on a scrap of Turtle’s tropical-print swim trunks.

  Moooove!

  India wanted to. Planned to. Very soon. When the men and sharks left.

  But when her lungs next reached for air . . .

  There was none.

  More Books in the Rodeo Knights Series

  DEADLY FIRES by Margaret Daley

  THE BULL RIDER’S PLEDGE by Marin Thomas

  SWEET MONTANA SKY by Lisa Mondello

  KNIGHT MOVES by Lenora Worth

  COWBOY CHARADE by Ba
rbara McMahon

  HER COWBOY HERO by Debra Clopton

  WILD AND RECKLESS by Cathy McDavid

  RENEGADE by Laura Marie Altom

  HER REBEL COWBOY by Stephanie Rowe

  RIDE THE RIVER by Patricia McLinn

  www.rodeoknights.com

  Dear Reader—

  Thanks so much for reading Sawyer and Delilah’s story! Hope you’re also enjoying the other titles in the Rodeo Knights series, as well as those in SEAL Team: Disavowed. If you have a chance, leaving even the simplest one-line review would be a great help to each author whose work you’ve enjoyed.

  Wanna know why Delilah is a barrel racer? Keep reading . . . LOL!!

  As a kid, I LOVED to read!! I somehow landed on titles featuring girls having wonderful adventures at boarding schools and summer-long camps and dude ranches. More than anything, I wanted to go to Swiss boarding school. Barring that, any camp would do. I became a certified camp junkie! When I was in seventh grade, my parents delivered the most freakishly amazing gift EVER!!! They’d signed me up for a two-week stay at Skull Hill dude ranch in Claremore, Oklahoma.

  We lived in Springdale, Arkansas at the time, and there were only two-lane roads leading to this then desolate kid-oasis. The drive took forever, but upon arrival at a grassy wonderland surrounded by forest, I was shown my cabin and met my fellow cowgirls. Best of all, I was introduced to my horse, a gentle old paint named, Smoky Joe. He was my new soulmate. We took long trail rides and learned saddling and horse grooming basics. Best of all, we learned barrel racing. I was good--and I mean GOOD!! LOL!! Smoky and I won every race!!