Navy SEAL's Deadly Secret (Runaway Ranch Book 1)

by Cindy Dees

  Anna groaned when she turned into the driveway at the ranch. At least fifty cars were parked between the mansion and the first big barn behind the house. Just family and friends, huh? Half of western Montana and all of Sunny Creek must be here.

  Dread settled in the pit of her stomach, and she suddenly felt an acute need for an antacid tablet or ten. She seriously considered turning her car around and leaving, but a cowboy had caught sight of her and was waving her forward into a parking spot. Not to mention she suspected Miranda Morgan would take a piece of her hide if she failed to show up today.

  Feet dragging, she trudged to the house on a crushed gravel walkway. It was a sunny day and above freezing, and the early snow had melted, leaving behind the last remnants of green grass and a lot of mud.

  She slipped into the house, which was full of noise and people, making herself as unobtrusive as possible. A few people she didn’t recognize said desultory hellos to her, and she headed for the giant kitchen where a drink station was set up. She filled a glass with sweet tea and then wandered the main floor of the mansion in amazement.

  It looked like a hotel lodge, with three-story-high vaulted ceilings held up by giant, carved wooden beams. A huge chandelier made of antlers hung down in front of a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace with a roaring blaze on its massive hearth. It was every inch a Western showpiece, elegant and casual, welcoming and intimidating as hell. A lot like its mistress, in fact.

  Anna had always felt like a fish out of water in California, but she felt like a fish trying to climb a tree in this place. She might be a Montana girl born and bred, but this... This was a whole different world.

  “Anna, there you are!”

  Miranda. Crap. Mentally wincing, Anna pasted on a smile and turned to greet her hostess. “Your home is stunning, Mrs. Morgan. It ought to be in magazines.”

  “It has been featured in several. Have you seen Brett? I made him promise to make an appearance today.”

  “No, ma’am, I haven’t seen him.”

  “If he doesn’t show up shortly, I’m driving up to that decrepit shack he insists on hiding in and dragging him down here myself,” Miranda declared.

  “I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Anna replied, feeling deep sympathy for any kid who had to grow up under this woman’s iron thumb.

  “Have you met my husband?” Miranda asked.

  “Um, not officially—”

  “Come with me,” Miranda interrupted. “John wants to meet the girl who managed to lure Brett out of his cave.”

  “I’m not sure I would describe it that way. It was more chance than anything else—”

  Miranda waved over a big, imposing man who looked to be a well-preserved sixty years or so old. He had a full head of iron-gray hair cut short on the sides, and was a solid six foot four, broad shouldered and still muscular, even if he did have a bit of a belly these days. Her initial impression was of a walking, talking, real-life John Wayne.

  “John Morgan. Pleased to meet you. Anna is it?”

  “Yes, sir. Anna Larkin.”

  “Knew your dad. Went to Vietnam with him. Good man. Too bad things didn’t work out for him and your mother.”

  Anna stared. Nobody in Sunny Creek talked about her father in anything other than hushed tones of scandal. He’d left her mother when Anna was only about five years old. “What was he like?” she blurted.

  John Morgan speared her with gray eyes that stripped her bare. “He was the kind of man who had your back. Loyal. Didn’t rat a guy out if a rule got bent or broken here and there. Hell of a shot, too. He was a sniper, you know.”

  “Really?” That was the first she’d heard of it.

  “I’ve got some pictures from ’Nam around here somewhere. If you’d like me to dig ’em up—”

  Miranda interrupted. “Not today. We’re having a party, and you’re not boring our guests with reminiscences of the good old days in Vietnam.”

  Anna looked at John Morgan regretfully, and he winked at her. “Another time, Anna. You come visit any time, and I’ll show you the stuff from our unit.”

  “That would be amazing,” she replied. Who’d have guessed her father was ever something other than a deadbeat? Did his experience in Vietnam explain why he’d left his family? Had being a sniper messed with his head? How could it not?

  “Piece of work, isn’t he?” a male voice murmured in her ear.

  She jumped and looked up at Brett, who stood behind her, watching his father dispassionately. “Both of your parents are rather...dynamic...people.”

  “If you mean pushy and overbearing, you would be correct,” he commented in amusement.

  She smiled and shrugged. “Your words. Not mine.”

  “They’re forces of nature, those two. You ought to see them fight. It’s like watching Titans do battle. I swear I hear thunder and lightning when they lock horns.”

  “No, thank you. I’m not a fan of conflict.” The words were out of her mouth before she stopped to consider them.

  “Why’s that?” Brett asked.

  “I just don’t like fighting.”

  “Can I get you a refill on your tea?”

  She gave him her glass and watched him wind his way through the crowd. He had a knack for making himself invisible to the people around him. He was incredibly adroit at avoiding conversations with people. Either that, or he was just being rude to everyone he passed by.

  He came back with her sweet tea and muttered, “You look nearly as uncomfortable as I feel. Wanna get out of here?”

  “Your mother will kill you if you leave her party early.”

  “I’ll take my chances with her. And I’m not leaving until I get some of Hank Mathers’s barbecue anyway. The man can smoke meat until it falls apart on your fork. C’mon.”

  She followed Brett outside, vividly aware of Miranda’s gaze from across the great room. Nope. Nothing got past that woman.

  Brett led her toward the sprawling barn behind the house. Two long rows of horse stalls joined by a feed room in the middle formed an H that housed upward of forty horses.

  “These are my mother’s pride and joy,” Brett murmured.

  Anna peered into the first stall and spied a beautiful quarter horse mare with heavily muscled shoulders and haunches, but with a swanlike neck and beautiful face. Big, brown eyes turned her way. “My God, she’s beautiful,” Anna breathed.

  “You have an eye for a good horse,” Brett commented. “She’s a Supreme Champion. Reining National Champion horse and mama to my mother’s favorite up-and-coming stud colt. Wanna see him?”

  “Absolutely,” Anna said eagerly.

  They walked to the other end of the stable to a big, double stall. Inside a young stallion, maybe three years old, paced restlessly. He was a bright chestnut with a white blaze from forehead to nostrils, and four white socks that highlighted his flashy movement.

  “Aren’t you a handsome devil?” Anna crooned. The colt came over, sniffed at her through the bars, then snorted and threw his head. “And you know it, too,” she added, smiling.

  “His name is Runaway Skipper. We call him Skip.”

  “He looks like he wants to stretch his legs,” she commented.

  “He hates being confined. But there’s some winter weather forecast for tonight, so he’s stuck in here,” Brett replied. He reached for a rope halter and lead rope hanging on a hook on the door. “But we can let him take a spin around the indoor riding arena.”

  Anna backed up as Brett haltered the eager horse and led him out of the stall. “Oh, Brett. He’s magnificent.”

  “Mother has high hopes for him. He should take her breeding program to the next level.”

  Anna wasn’t sure what levels were left to climb. Skip was darned near perfect as far as she could tell. She walked alongside Brett as he led the stallion through a big, sliding door into a ca
vernous riding arena that was at least the size of a football field.

  Brett unclipped the lead rope and Skip took off, tearing down the arena and kicking up his heels. Anna laughed in delight. “Look at him move! Such freedom in his shoulders. Such power in his hindquarters.”

  Brett grinned. “Do you ride?”

  “I did a lifetime ago. Before I left for California.”

  “You should come out here and ride. God knows, there are plenty of horses in need of it. Miranda has two full-time girls who do nothing but clean stalls and groom and ride her babies.”

  “That’s a kind offer, but I couldn’t. These are really expensive horses—”

  “Every horse still has to be a horse, no matter how expensive it might be. They’re beautifully trained, and they like to go out on the trails around the ranch. Come ride. Promise you will.”

  “I can’t—”

  Brett laid a finger on her lips, startling her into silence. “I’ll go with you if that makes you feel better. Next warm day we get, you’re going riding with me.”

  She stared up at him equal parts hopeful and wary. What if he didn’t keep his promise? If she got her hopes up but then was disappointed, it would hurt so much worse. She’d missed riding almost more than anything else when she left Montana.

  “It’s a deal, then,” he declared.

  “You’re as big a freight train as your mother.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She planted her fists on her hips. “You and your mother. You just roll right over anyone who gets in your path.”

  Brett laughed ruefully. “I confess that you’re correct.”

  “For the record, it’s exasperating to us normal mortals,” she declared.

  He grinned. “Yes, but we’re both so charismatic and charming that you’ll forgive us.”

  She rolled her eyes at him but was distracted by Skip trotting up to them, nostrils flared, neck arched and prancing like a foal. “That horse thinks as highly of himself as you do,” she accused.

  Brett laughed again. “I can live with the comparison. How ’bout you, old boy?”

  Skip tossed his head, spun and took off running again.

  “Men. All the same,” she observed drily.

  They watched Skip rip and tear until the colt finally wound down and started nosing around for treats out of Brett’s pocket. They put Skip away and Anna promised the colt she would bring him a carrot the next time she came to visit.

  “You’ll spoil him,” Brett commented as they headed back toward the house.

  “And what’s wrong with that? He’s special and he knows it.”

  Brett went silent at that, and Anna wondered what nerve she’d struck. For a few minutes in the barn, Brett had been warm and outgoing and friendly. Or maybe it was the prospect of going back into the party that silenced him so abruptly.

  She murmured as he reached for the door, “I’m planning to eat fast and then leave, but it’s no reflection on you. Frankly, your parents scare me.” She added, “And I’m not fond of crowds.”

  “That makes two of us,” he murmured back. “We eat, and then we bug out. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  The smoked meat and vinegary-sweet barbecue sauce baked into it were fully as tender and tasty as Miranda had promised. Huge pots of baked beans and potato salad and charred garlic bread rounded out the meal.

  She and Brett sat on the edge of the huge stone hearth to eat, balancing their plates on their knees. The fire at her back slowly roasted her, but it was the warmest she’d felt in weeks. She prayed her California-thinned blood would adapt to Montana soon because she was tired of feeling like a popsicle all the time.

  Brett was more withdrawn in the house than in the barn, but he answered her questions pleasantly enough as she asked about various features of the house and guests whom she didn’t recognize. He even volunteered a few anecdotes about some of the more colorful guests that made her laugh.

  All the while, she was acutely aware of Miranda watching the two of them. Oh, Brett’s mother was subtle about it, but the woman always managed to be facing them while in conversation with other people, and her sharp blue gaze shot to Brett any time he even shifted weight.

  Talking with Brett was like balancing on the edge of a razor. They managed to keep a conversation going, but were always in danger of falling into awkward silence. She sensed that Brett liked talking with her, but that he often had no idea what to say. She knew the feeling. After the traumas in her life, making small talk just didn’t seem important.

  Under other circumstances, Anna might have found Miranda’s interest in her full-grown son stifling. But she could respect a mother’s concern. If only her own mother had shown the same interest in her, maybe she wouldn’t have run away with Eddie and effectively ruined her own life.

  Anna ate too much and groaned as Brett lifted her empty plate off her knees. He asked, “Want some coffee or a beer?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Brett moved away and she let out the breath she’d been holding. A need to escape the confines of this house and the people in it overcame her and she headed toward the rear exit of the house.

  She’d almost reached the double French doors to the wide, stone veranda when a hand grabbed her upper arm none too gently and spun her around. She opened her mouth to tell Brett to take it easy but her throat muscles froze in the act of speaking as she saw who was holding onto her so roughly.

  “Jimbo Billingham,” she said reluctantly. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

  “What? You mean after you got away with murdering my brother?” he snarled.

  Chapter 7

  Brett returned to the living room, eager to spend more time alone with Anna away from this noisy crowd and the oppressive attention of his parents. He knew John and Miranda were worried about him, but for crying out loud, he was almost thirty years old and had been a commando for a decade. He wasn’t their little boy anymore, and he could bloody well take care of himself.

  Hearth empty.

  Where did she go? He scanned the great room quickly and spied a tiny silhouette across the room with a man looming close—very close—behind her. Not sure it was her, he started across the room, angling to one side to get a better view of the woman.

  He caught a glimpse of her face.

  Christ. That was Anna all right, and she looked like she’d seen a ghost. And not in a good way. He could see how pale she was from here, a good fifty feet away. He lengthened his stride, aggressively pushing past everyone in his way. Alarm bells clanged wildly in his head. Something was very, very wrong. She looked scared out of her mind.

  As he approached with cat-like speed and predatory intent, he saw that the man was hanging on to her, lifting her left shoulder practically to her ear with that grip on her upper arm. And the bastard just shook her a little.

  Brett lunged then, accelerating to a full sprint. In the blink of an eye, he came up behind the man and had him around the neck in a grip that would cut off all air to the guy’s brain in a matter of seconds. Brett snarled, “Let her go or die.”

  The man fought—or tried to—but Brett wasn’t a highly experienced Special Forces operative for nothing. He knew every move the bastard would try to slip from the arm around his neck, and he knew every countermove. Hell, he’d used every countermove on more hostiles than he cared to count in no-kidding, life-or-death fights.

  The guy’s hand fell away from Anna’s arm and she staggered back, looking so terrified she might faint. A need to go to her, to comfort her, warred with his desire to kill the bastard who’d laid a hand on her and scared her so bad.

  “Let him go,” Anna gasped. “You’re killing him.”

  The asshole would be turning a rather impressive shade of purple right about now, a few seconds before he passed out.

  “Please,” she begge
d.

  Brett let the guy go but gave him a hard shove that ensured the guy would be off balance and unable to turn around and launch a counterattack on him right away.

  “Brett! What on earth?” Miranda exclaimed from just behind him.

  Anna took a few more steps back, staring in horror at the guy he’d nearly strangled and then up at him. Abrupt remorse speared into Brett. Perhaps nearly killing a guest at one of his parents’ barbecues wasn’t entirely socially acceptable. Dammit. A great feeling of being a total outsider—hell, an intruder—washed over him.

  The guy he’d just attacked finally straightened and turned around, gasping for air. Jimbo Billingham? Why in the hell did he scare Anna half out of her mind like that? What did he say to her?

  Jimbo started to sputter, swearing and threatening to sue the whole damn Morgan clan.

  Whatever. Brett spun away from the guy and came up short, swearing to himself. Everyone in the whole damned room was staring at him. He turned once more and raced out the French doors, desperate to get away from all those accusing stares.

  He’d known better than to try to be around human beings.

  He all but ran for his truck, and it wasn’t until he reached for the door handle that he heard the footsteps behind him. If that son of a bitch wanted a fight, by God, he’d get one out here. He turned aggressively—

  Anna.

  “What do you want?” he bit out.

  “Same thing you do. To get away from Jimbo Billingham and all those staring people.”

  “Get in.”

  He didn’t wait for her or hold her door for her. His panic was too great for such niceties. She climbed in as he started the engine and had barely slammed her door closed before he stepped on the gas. Gravel spurted loudly from under his tires as he pointed the truck up into the mountains. Into the refuge of their cold, impersonal embrace.

  Anna was silent for the whole ride up the mountain. Which was just as well. He was too freaked out to engage in polite chitchat. God. He’d almost killed Jimbo. For holding Anna’s arm. His reaction had been out of all proportion to that of a sane man in control of himself.