The Wrangler and the Runaway Mom

by RaeAnne Thayne

  The SAC was hedging. Colt had worked with him long enough to read the signs. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “We think Damian still has contacts on the inside. How else could he have escaped prosecution all these years?”

  He’d often thought the same thing. DeMarranville seemed to know every move the Bureau planned against him long before they made it. It was one of the most frustrating things about him.

  “You’d be working deep undercover so we can keep her whereabouts a secret,” Beckstead went on. “Only Dunbar and I would know you’re not just taking an extended vacation.”

  “Who would be my contact?”

  “Does that mean you’ll do it?” Beckstead didn’t bother to conceal his satisfaction. Like a fisherman who knew he’d just hooked his sucker, Colt thought. The analogy was an apt one. He couldn’t think of any other bait but DeMarranville enticing enough to make him give up the chance to spend time on his ranch in exchange for a summer wearing his rear out traveling to every two-bit town with a rodeo across the West.

  He gave the mountains one more regretful look then pinched at the bridge of his nose again. “Looks like I don’t have much of a choice.”

  He hung up the phone and glared at Joe Redhawk. “Don’t say a word. Not one damn word.”

  “Who me?” the Shoshone’s mouth twisted into the closest he ever came to a grin. “Looks like you owe me twenty bucks, brother.”

  “You got another one comin’ in. Busted-up shoulder.”

  At the shout from the doorway, Maggie jumped at least a foot. The bandage roll in her hand flew across the little trailer, unraveling into a gauzy mess as it sailed into the corner behind the examination table.

  “Sorry, hon.” Peg’s eyes shimmered with sympathy inside their fringe of thick black mascara. “I keep forgettin’ I’m not supposed to sneak up on you that way.”

  Maggie fought to control her breathing, the panic that spurted out of nowhere these days at loud noises or sudden movements. Would she ever stop jumping at shadows or would the fear always be lurking there, just under her skin?

  She forced a smile that quickly turned genuine as she caught sight of Peg’s ensemble for the evening—skintight hot pink jeans with a glittery western-cut shirt and matching pink tooled-leather cowboy boots. With her bleached hair and her smile as big as Texas, Peg looked like an older, lessfavorably endowed Dolly Parton.

  “It’s not your fault. I’m just a little jumpy tonight.” She retrieved the now-contaminated bandage roll from the floor and tossed it in the garbage. “Too much caffeine on the road this afternoon, I think.”

  “If you say so, darlin’.”

  She looked away from Peg’s worried frown. She knew her father’s second wife—and widow—was brimming with curiosity about why she had abandoned her new apartment and her job at the clinic so soon after Michael’s death. But to her relief, Peg hadn’t pushed for an explanation, either when a desperate Maggie called her in the middle of the night three weeks earlier or in the intervening time they had traveled the rodeo circuit together.

  Instead of answering the unspoken questions, Maggie busied herself gathering the supplies she would need to treat a cowboy with a bum shoulder.

  “How’s Nicholas?”

  “Last I checked, he was runnin’ Cheyenne ragged, and that granddaughter of mine was lovin’ every minute of it.”

  “She’s the best baby-sitter that rascal has ever had. I don’t know what we would have done without the two of you.”

  “You know I’d do anythin’ for you, darlin’. And not just for your daddy’s sake, either. God rest him.”

  The two wives of Billy Joe Rawlings couldn’t have been more different, Maggie thought, not for the first time. Her mother had been pearls and imported lace. A cultured debutante, the worst possible choice of wife for a cowboy trying to be a rodeo star. Helen had run off with Billy Joe when she was seventeen, more to spite her parents than for any grand passion, and had spent the rest of her life bitterly regretting it.

  It had been a disastrous marriage, and their divorce when Maggie was three had been a relief to everyone involved.

  Peg, on the other hand, had been perfect for her father. Even though she seemed flighty, with her flamboyant wardrobe and her ever-changing hair colors and her gaudy jewelry, Peg was the most grounded person Maggie knew. She had turned Billy Joe’s dream of being a star into something more realistic, the creation of a world-class rodeo stock company that provided animals to events across the West

  Peg was warmhearted and generous and had been more of a mother to Maggie in the six weeks each year she spent with her father than Helen had ever been.

  Feeling guilty for the thought, she jerked her mind back to her job. “So where’s my patient?”

  “He should be comin’ anytime now. Wouldn’t let ’em bring him in on the stretcher. You’d have thought the damn thing was a coffin the way he carried on.”

  She sighed. “There’s nothing like a stubborn cowboy.”

  “Nothin’ like a gorgeous one, either, and I’m telling you, this one’s a Grade A prime cut. Haven’t seen him around before and, believe me, I never forget a good-lookin’ man. I’d let this one leave his boots under my bed anytime.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  At the slow drawl, Maggie turned to find a dusty, hatless man filling the doorway, his arm pressed across his stomach at an awkward angle. Peg hadn’t exaggerated about his looks. The contrast of black hair and eyes as blue as a mountain lake was arresting, as was the cowboy’s firm jaw and thick, cry-on-me shoulders.

  If she were the sort of woman who went weak-kneed over the rugged Marlboro Man type, she would have collapsed into a boneless heap on the floor by now.

  Lucky for her, she wasn’t that sort of woman.

  Peg winked at the cowboy. “You ever get lonely,” she said on her way out of the trailer, “mine’s the green-andwhite rig with Rawlings Stock written on it in big pink letters.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” He managed a grin but Maggie recognized the lines of pain slashing the edges of the stranger’s mouth.

  “If you’ll climb up here, I can take a look at that shoulder.” She gestured to the examination table.

  “It’s just dislocated. You only need to pop it in and then I can be on my way.”

  “Why don’t you let me make my own diagnosis?”

  He shrugged and slid a Wrangler-covered hip to the table. “Whatever you say, Doc.”

  She carefully unbuttoned his colorful cotton shirt then slid his arm out of the sleeve. “I’m afraid I haven’t been paying attention to the announcer. What event were you riding? It’s too early in the evening for the bull riders, which is where I get most of my business. Does that make you a bronc buster, then?”

  He gave a gruff laugh. “Bronc buster? Do I look crazy to you?”

  She glanced at him under her eyelashes, then instantly wished she hadn’t. He looked tough as hardened steel, with that tanned skin stretching taut over hard muscle.

  She had patched up dozens of cowboys since she’d been hired. Broken wrists, pulled muscles, cuts and bruises mostly. None of the wounded glory boys had made her feel as odd as this one did—jittery, as if she really had overdosed on caffeine.

  Nerves, she tried to tell herself. That’s all it was. She was on edge, anyway, and he was just so...big. She didn’t like big men. Never had. Was it any wonder he made her uncomfortable?

  The completely inappropriate—and unwanted—tingle of awareness that slid over her out of nowhere made her speak more curtly than she normally would with a patient. “You’re here, aren’t you? I haven’t treated too many physicists on the rodeo circuit.”

  He laughed again, then winced as the movement jarred his injury. “Well, I guess I’m no physicist, but at least I’m smart enough to stick with the little guys, the ones that don’t fight back. I’m a calf roper. Wrenched my shoulder with a bad throw.”

  “Any rodeo event can be dangerous, Mr....” s
he stopped at the realization she’d just insulted a man whose name she didn’t even know.

  “McKendrick. Colt McKendnck. Call me mister and I don’t figure I’ll answer.”

  “McKendrick. As I was saying, any event can be dangerous. Even deadly, as I’m sure you know.”

  “That’s what keeps the crowds coming back,” he replied. “What does the M stand for?”

  The abrupt change of subject left her floundering. “Excuse me?”

  He glanced pointedly at her chest and she felt heat soak her cheeks. It took her several beats to realize he was referring to the silver name tag emblazoned with M. Rawlings, M.D.

  “Medical. As in medical doctor,” she replied, knowing perfectly well that wasn’t what he meant.

  He rolled his eyes. “The other one.”

  “Maggie,” she said shortly.

  “Nice to meet you, Dr. Maggie Rawlings.”

  She finished her examination in silence, aware of him watching her movements with interest. “You’re right,” she finally said. “It’s dislocated, Mr. McKendrick.”

  “Colt.”

  “Right. Colt.” She glanced at the shoulder. “I can readjust it, pop it back into the joint, but I’m afraid it’s going to be painful”

  “I know,” he said glumly. “Go ahead.”

  With true cowboy machismo, he barely winced when she stood to his side and extended his arm out. It took several attempts before the joint worked back into place but he didn’t complain.

  When she was done, he immediately rotated the shoulder. “Much better.”

  “It’s going to be inflamed and painful for a day or two. I’d advise you to take it easy.”

  “Does that mean I can’t ride tomorrow?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  He didn’t appear devastated by the news as he shrugged into his shirt and began to work the buttons one-handed. “Well, thanks, Doc. What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing. Sponsors and the rodeo association take care of my salary. It pays to keep the cowboys healthy.”

  “Makes sense to—”

  Before he could complete the sentence, the door crashed open and bounced against the wall with a bang as loud as a shotgun blast. Maggie had barely yanked her heart from her throat when a voice boomed through the trailer. “This is a stick-up, lady. Put your hands where I can see ’em and nobody gets hurt.”

  Instead of obeying, she took a deep, calming breath and frowned at the little dynamo standing in the doorway in sheepskin chaps, a denim vest and a cowboy hat two sizes too big for his blond head. Her big, bad hombre of a five-year-old had a wooden pistol aimed right at her stomach.

  “Nicholas. You know you’re not supposed to come in here when I’m working.”

  “I’m Nicky the Kid, the meanest bandito in the land.”

  “Where’s Cheyenne? And where did you get that gun?”

  He grinned, showing off the tooth he’d lost just the day before. “Grandma Peg gave it to me. She says a bandito ain’t no good to nobody unless he’s packin’ heat.”

  “Isn’t any good.” How had his grammar managed to completely degenerate in the three weeks since they had been on the circuit? He was picking up all sorts of bad habits. The next thing she knew, he’d start chewing tobacco.

  “Where’s Cheyenne?” she repeated.

  “Right here.” Peg’s fifteen-year-old granddaughter poked her head through the doorway. “Sorry, Maggie. He got away from me.”

  “I’m sure it’s not your fault. Nicky, stick with Cheyenne. No more running off. I mean it, young man.”

  “Okeydokey, Mom.” He planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek, then hopped out the door. With another apologetic smile, Cheyenne set off in hot pursuit.

  “My son,” Maggie said, when the dust cleared.

  The injured cowboy grinned. “So the doctor has a criminal hiding out on the family tree.”

  She stiffened and thought of Michael embezzling millions from his criminal clients. The cowboy was more right than he knew. After a few uncomfortable beats, she forced a smile. “That’s right. So watch your step.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that,” he said.

  Only after he had left and she was alone once again did she realize that for the first time in nearly a month she had forgotten to be afraid.

  Chapter 2

  The sunrise edged the mountains east of Cody, Wyoming, with lavender and pale coral and just a sliver of gold. From his perch on the top step of the broken-down camper the Bureau had somehow managed to round up for him, Colt sipped at his coffee and savored the cool, clean morning air as the gold began to swallow the other colors.

  Maybe this whole rodeo thing wouldn’t be such a bad gig after all. There was definitely something to be said for enjoying the morning, content with the knowledge that he would be catching the sunrise from a different place in just a few days.

  He hadn’t even minded competing the night before, right up until the moment he dislocated his shoulder.

  Last time he had been inside a rodeo arena, he’d been twenty-two years old, cocky as hell, and sure he could rope and ride anything that moved. In the intervening fourteen years, he had forgotten that hefty jolt of adrenaline that always hit right before the gate opened. He’d forgotten everything—the confusion in the chutes, the smells of leather and manure thick in the air, the heady cheers of the crowd.

  He grimaced. The crowd hadn’t cheered too long after he’d wrenched his shoulder, although he doubted anybody else but him could tell it had been deliberate.

  He had discovered that particular ability—to dislocate his shoulder on demand—when he’d been a kid. He’d used it a few times to get out of work on the Broken Spur, until he wised up and discovered it was less painful just doing the work.

  In this case the results had been worth every second of pain. He had found the perfect chance to meet Dr. Maggie Rawlings, of the sexy voice and the cool, competent hands, to begin the process of gaining her trust.

  After meeting her, he had no doubt he faced a chore as tough as roping the wind.

  Colt’s gaze darted to the trailer he had purposely parked beside the night before, in the little campground adjacent to the rodeo grounds. She probably had no idea the scruffy cowboy she had just fixed up had slept only a few feet away from her.

  If you could call it sleep. He rubbed his bum shoulder. The narrow bed—with its mattress that felt about as thick as a paper towel—had combined with his aching muscles to keep him tossing and turning most of the night.

  He’d still been awake long after the rodeo announcer called the last event, when she finally came in with her kid’s blond head snuggled in the curve of her shoulder as he slept.

  Colt had watched as she carried the boy inside her trailer, hooked to a rickety old pickup that had definitely seen better days. A few minutes later she came out alone. He had watched her open the door to the trailer and gaze up at the stars, tiny scattered pinpricks of light against the black sky.

  She looked small and vulnerable standing there, with her shoulders bowed as if they could hardly bear the weight of her head anymore.

  He’d watched her for a long time until she’d finally gone back inside her trailer, leaving him unsettled, restless.

  Beckstead never mentioned the dirty accountant’s widow had the kind of beauty that could bring a man to his knees. Delicate, fragile, with soft, translucent skin, a lush, kissable mouth and huge dark eyes. She had pulled her hair—the exact shade of a Montana wheat field in July—back into a tight, efficient braid, but stray tendrils had escaped to wisp alluringly around her face.

  The minor fact that she was the first woman he’d been attracted to in longer than he cared to remember shouldn’t make any difference in his investigation. He couldn’t let it make a difference.

  He had been on assignments involving beautiful women before. Dozens of them. But this odd protectiveness clogging his chest was definitely something new. For a minute there the night before, as her smooth, slim hands had
fussed over his injury and her clean scent of peaches and vanilla had drifted past him, he had caught the dark smudges of fear under her eyes, and he had battled a completely irrational desire to do everything he could to wipe that fear away.

  She was the subject of an investigation, he reminded himself sternly. He had a job to do and he couldn’t let himself be distracted by a beautiful woman with big needy eyes, even if she did smell like heaven.

  A small whisper of sound drew his attention back to her trailer in time to see the door open just a crack and a little figure sneak out. Her kid—what was his name? Nicholas, that was it—crept down the steps dressed in the same desperado attire he’d been wearing the evening before. With one foot on the ground, he paused and looked around furtively, as if he were preparing to rob the local bank.

  “Your mom know where you’re goin’, partner?” he asked softly.

  The kid whirled toward him, his eyes wide like he expected to find Wyatt Earp himself staring him down. When he spied Colt, his bony shoulders slumped in relief “Uh, sure she does.”

  “Honest?”

  A flush stole over the boy’s cheeks, making the freckles stand out like dots on a ladybug, and Nicholas looked down at the flattened grass. “Well, she’s still asleep. I figured I’d be back before she even woke up.”

  “Where you headin’ this early in the morning?”

  “To see the horses.” The boy walked closer, his dark eyes that were so like his mother’s bright with renewed excitement. “I’m gonna be a cowboy when I grow up. You a cowboy, mister?”

  “Sometimes,” Colt answered, truthfully enough.

  “You got your own horse and everything?”

  He fought the beginnings of a smile. “Yeah. His name is Scout. He’s stabled over at the rodeo grounds.”

  “Can I ride him sometime?”

  Colt studied the boy’s eager little face. He didn’t know much about kids, but encouraging the boy’s budding hero worship might be the perfect way to find out more information about the mother.

  A five-year-old probably wouldn’t exactly be bubbling over with information about embezzled money and phony books, but the boy might be able to provide him with a little bit of insight into their financial status, if nothing else.