“Nobody tells me what to do.” With a fierce swing, Snake shattered the beer bottle against the nearest tree and retained the jagged top as a weapon.
Cat stifled a scream and jumped to her feet. Her first instinct was to run for help, but Snake Larson stood between her and the town hall.
“Don’t worry, Cat.” Ryan’s voice was calm. “Stay out of the way. I’ll take care of this.”
Cat’s heart caught in her throat. Ryan was tall, but Snake towered several inches above him and outweighed him by almost a hundred pounds. From all accounts Cat remembered, Snake also fought dirty. Plenty of men in the area bore the scars of Snake’s wrath.
With a howl of rage, Snake charged Ryan. The Marine stepped deftly aside, and the bully plowed headfirst into the trunk of an ancient maple. He straightened for a moment, shook his head as if to clear it, then crumpled into a heap at the foot of the tree.
“We’d better call the paramedics,” Ryan said. “He probably gave himself a concussion.”
Ryan had won the fight without throwing a punch.
Cat moved to his side. While she was grateful for his physical prowess, she was sick with disappointment over the way the night had ended. She’d planned for every contingency.
Except Snake Larson.
Ryan seemed to know her thoughts. “Don’t let that drunk spoil your fun. I’ve had a great time.”
“Me, too.”
Before she realized what was happening, she had found herself in Ryan’s arms. His fleeting kiss had been swift and gentle but filled with promises of much more to come.
Before his leave was over, he’d made good on those promises. Later, when he’d returned from Kuwait, he’d asked her to marry him. She hadn’t hesitated to agree. And although Ryan hadn’t lived long enough to know it, during that last blissful leave, their daughter, Megan, had been conceived.
Cat closed her eyes and issued a silent prayer of thanks for her beautiful daughter, the unexpected blessing that had given Cat and her father a reason to endure after Ryan and Marc had died. More than a reason to endure, Cat thought. Megan was her whole life. Cat couldn’t think of anything she wouldn’t do for her daughter.
Ryan’s daughter.
Stiff from sitting so long on the porch, Cat set aside her cold coffee and tugged her jacket closer. She’d never forget those special weeks over five years ago that she and Ryan had spent together before he left for Tabari, especially the first time they’d made love—
The whine of an engine straining on a steep grade and the clash of changing gears jerked her from her recollections, and anger flashed through her. Besides Megan, memories of Ryan were all she had, and she resented anything that interrupted her reminiscence. Pushing to her feet, she watched the unfamiliar vehicle approach.
The battered pickup pulled to a stop before the front gate, and the driver stepped out. Even in the gloom of the gathering twilight, Cat immediately recognized the huge man’s threatening silhouette.
Snake Larson.
She shivered with the unearthly awareness that her trip down memory lane had conjured up the last person in the world she wanted to see.
“Hello, Snake,” she called as he swaggered toward the porch. “What are you doing back from Billings? I heard you’ve been working a construction job down there the last few years.”
He grinned, teeth gleaming yellow in the dim light. “Job’s finally finished. I’ve come home to work trails for the Forest Service this summer.”
At the bottom of the steps, he stopped and removed his hat. His eyes, small and unpleasant, at least looked clear. He didn’t act drunk, either, but with Snake, the difference between sobriety and inebriation was hard to discern. He was infamous for his volatile moods, unpredictable escapades and an amazing capacity for holding his liquor.
“Good to see you again, Cat.”
“If you’ve come to visit Dad, I’ll get him.” She started toward the door.
“Don’t bother,” Snake called. “It’s you I’m looking for.”
“Why?” A sudden chill enveloped her.
“It’s been five years since your fiancé was killed. Figured you might be ready to get out a bit.”
She suppressed a shudder. “I don’t think so.”
“We can drive over to Bonner’s Ferry. Have us some steaks and a few beers. Dance a bit. Kick up your heels. Surely you’re ready to quit moping by now. And your daddy can baby-sit that bastard brat of yours.”
His attitude was the same surly mix of arrogance, conceit and insensitivity for which he’d always been famous, and Cat struggled to rein in her flaring temper at the man’s deliberate crudeness.
She forced a smile. “You’ve made a wasted trip. I’ve had supper already, and I have to work tomorrow.”
Snake’s fleshy face twisted in a snarl, and his tongue flicked across his thick lips. “So, the rumors are true.”
“What rumors?”
“That you’re going to marry that weakling of a high school principal, Todd Brewster.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Snake, nor half of what you see, as my daddy always told me.”
He started up the porch steps. “Well, if you’re not marrying Brewster, there’s no harm in your riding over to Bonner’s Ferry with me. We’ll skip the steaks and cut straight to the beers and dancing.”
In spite of her attempts to contain it, her anger ignited. “What part of no don’t you understand? I’m not going anywhere with you. I have classes to teach tomorrow and papers to grade tonight.”
“Damn, Cat, what’s the fun of being a teacher if you can’t break the rules?”
Snake lumbered across the porch toward her, and she was struck by two distinctly opposite reactions. The first was a sense of déjà vu so clear and indelible she expected Ryan to appear at any second, wrench Snake’s arm behind his back and send him flying headlong off the porch. The second was the terrible realization that this time she was on her own, with her back to the porch wall and Snake Larson bearing down on her like the Great Northern Express whose tracks ran through High Valley’s lower forty.
He was so close, she could smell his whiskey-laced breath. The man, unpredictable at best when sober, meaner than his deadliest namesake when drinking, apparently already had several shots under his belt. Claustrophobia closed in on her, clamping down on her lungs, making her struggle for air. She gauged her chances of making a break inside before he could grab her, and they weren’t good.
Suddenly, the screen door slammed. Snake glanced toward the noise, then stopped his advance and took a few awkward steps backward.
“Evening, Mr. Erickson,” Snake mumbled, with a look on his face like a kid who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Hello, Snake.”
Her father stood in front of the door, his Winchester rifle cradled casually in the crook of his arm. Gabe’s reputation for handling the weapon with extraordinary speed and accuracy was legendary throughout the county. From the suddenly respectful expression on Snake’s face, Cat knew her tormentor was aware of her father’s skill. Even though the tragic events of the past had left Gabriel sunken and prematurely aged, nothing had affected his proficiency with a gun.
“What do you want here, Snake?” Gabriel demanded.
Snake turned the brim of his hat in his hands, mangling its shape. “Came to ask Cat dancing.”
“And what did she say?”
“Said she can’t.”
“Guess you’ll be leaving then, won’t you?”
One-handed, Gabriel cocked the lever of the rifle and pointed it toward Snake.
Snake rammed on his battered Stetson, lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender and eased off the porch and down the steps. He took the path at a trot without a backward glance, but at the gate, either his courage or his liquor kicked in, because he turned and shouted, “You ain’t seen the last of me.”
“Get out of here, Snake,” her father warned, “before I fill your truck—and your worthless
hide—full of holes.”
Muttering a string of foul curses, Snake wrenched open the door of his pickup, climbed inside and started the engine. Grinding the gears, he circled the truck in the road in front of the house, knocking a section of picket fence flat in the process. With his engine screaming in protest and his tires spewing dust, he gunned down the road toward town.
Cat couldn’t stop shaking, more from anger than from fright. Her father put his arm around her and led her inside.
“I made some fresh coffee,” he said. “How ’bout I pour us both a cup?”
“You think he meant it?” Cat asked, following her father into the kitchen.
“About coming back?” Gabriel shook his head. “We’re forty miles from town. Why would he waste his time?”
Pure, unadulterated meanness, Cat thought, but she kept her opinion to herself.
Under the bright lights of the kitchen, the heavy toll on Gabe of working the ranch alone the last five years was even more pronounced. His thick, golden hair had turned white soon after her mother died, but since the embassy bombing, her father had seemed to shrink and waste away before her eyes. The only times he laughed were when he played with his granddaughter. Cat didn’t want to cause him more worry by voicing her concerns about Snake Larson.
She had no doubt that Snake would make good on his promise to return, and she intended to stay ready and remain on guard. Marc had taught her to shoot years ago. Tomorrow, she’d start target practice again.
She couldn’t count on Ryan to protect her this time. A sob threatened to break loose from her throat. Ryan, unlike Snake Larson, would never be coming back to High Valley Ranch. The terrorist bomb in Tabari five years ago had made sure of that.
They hadn’t even found enough of Ryan to send home to bury.
Chapter Two
At the same time Cat Erickson was having coffee in the ranch kitchen with her father, halfway around the world an infuriated Ryan Christopher burst into Colonel Barker’s office at the reconstructed Tabarian embassy. He slammed the door behind him and stormed the commanding officer’s desk.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Ryan shouted.
Cool under fire, the colonel, every inch the military man with his buzz haircut, freshly pressed uniform, lean physique and unflappable calm, motioned his unexpected visitor toward a chair. “Have a seat, Trace, and calm down.”
Ryan gripped the front edge of the desk and leaned toward the colonel, eyes flashing, face flushed with rage. “My name’s not Trace, and you know it, dammit,” he yelled.
“Stand down, soldier,” Barker snapped with authority. “You’re way out of line.”
“You can’t give me orders.” The veins pulsed at Ryan’s temples, and his knuckles turned white where they clutched the desk. “My enlistment expired four years ago. I don’t have to answer to you or the Marines. But you damn well owe me an explanation.”
Barker stood and drew himself to his full height, still several inches shorter than Ryan, but what he lacked in stature, he made up for in severity. He riveted steely gray eyes on the younger man without blinking.
“Here’s the way it is,” he said with ruthless calm, one hand poised above the button on his intercom. “You can either sit down and talk this out quietly, or I’ll have you escorted to the brig. Which is it going to be?”
Ryan struggled for self-control. His entire world had been thrown off-kilter just moments before, and he hadn’t yet regained his balance. After what had just happened, he doubted he ever would. Taking a deep breath, he eased himself into the chair in front of Colonel Barker’s desk.
Barker resumed his seat, but the stiffness didn’t leave his posture. He eyed Ryan warily, as if his visitor were a bomb with a short fuse.
“When did your memory return?” Barker asked.
“This morning at the palace,” Ryan said. “I’d just finished dressing when I banged my head against an open cabinet door. My memories came back in a rush.”
Until that moment, Ryan had believed he was Trace Gallagher, an American who’d been working for over five years as a bodyguard to Prince Asim. A man who’d lost his memory when a bomb exploded while he was guarding the prince, who was visiting the American embassy.
“And everything came back?” Barker asked. “All your memories?”
Barker’s tension had heightened visibly with his question, like a spring coiled too tight, and Ryan couldn’t help wondering why his sudden cure from five years of amnesia would place his usually ice-cool commanding officer in such an apprehensive state.
The colonel leaned forward, seeming to hold his breath for Ryan’s answer.
“No, sir, not everything. I can’t remember the last few days before the bombing.”
“Damn!” Barker slammed his fist on his desk.
Since threats hadn’t gained him the response he wanted, Ryan decided on a new tack. Politeness.
“May I use an embassy phone, sir? When I told Prince Asim my memory had returned, he refused to let me place a call and demanded I report to you first. I have to call my fiancée.”
Barker shook his head. “Sorry, Trace, you’ll have to be debriefed before you can contact anyone.”
“But Catherine—”
“No calls. That’s final.”
Ryan slumped in his chair in exasperation. Earlier, when his memory had returned, his first thought had been of Catherine Erickson, his beautiful and endearing Cat, his Kalila with eyes the color of Montana’s big sky, hair the hue of aspen leaves in autumn and contagious laughter that made his heart sing. He’d had no contact with her since before the bombing, and he couldn’t wait to hear her voice again.
Abandoned at birth, shifted from one stranger’s home to another throughout his childhood, Ryan had never felt he truly belonged anywhere—until he fell in love with Cat. Her acceptance of him with all his flaws, her unfailing ability to make him laugh, the dreams and goals they had shared together made him realize that wherever Cat was, was home.
At this minute, he’d never been so homesick in his life.
“If she’s waited five years,” the colonel said gruffly, “she can wait a few more hours.”
“If she’s waited?” Ryan glanced sharply at the officer. “Doesn’t Cat know I’m alive?”
Baxter leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers across his barrel chest. “You’re not going to like what I have to say, but if you’ll hear me out, you’ll understand.”
A premonition shivered down Ryan’s backbone. He’d already suffered one severe shock this morning, learning he wasn’t the man he’d thought he’d been for the past five years. What if something had happened to Cat?
“Cat’s okay, isn’t she?”
“As far as we know,” Barker replied, “but we’ll get to her later. First, tell me exactly how much you remember from before the bombing.”
Ryan sat back in his chair, took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Among his recovered memories was his awareness that Colonel Barker had his own way of operating. Ryan would have to allow events to unfold at his commanding officer’s pace. As much as he wanted to know about Cat, to place that call and hear her voice, to reassure himself that she was all right, he’d have to answer Barker’s questions first.
Ryan closed his eyes and tried to remember. “My last clear memory before the bombing was the day you met with Marc Erickson and me to alert us to a possible terrorist attack. You feared someone inside the embassy was in league with the terrorists and you wanted us to identify them.”
“As it turned out, I was right. The attack was an inside job.” Barker rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That meeting was about ten days prior to the bombing. You don’t remember anything after that?”
“There’s a huge gap, sir. My next memories are of hospitals and doctors. But Marc can tell you everything about those missing days before the attack. You know how closely we worked together.”
Barker grew ominously still. “I’m afraid Marc can’t help us.”
/> A sudden foreboding filled Ryan with dread. “Why not?”
“Erickson’s dead.”
Pierced with grief for his friend, Ryan sank deeper in his chair and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t block out the pain. He forced himself to meet Barker’s sympathetic gaze. “Killed in the bombing?”
Barker shook his head. “Assassinated.”
“What?” The officer’s response took Ryan by surprise, and he jerked upright.
The colonel rose from his chair with obvious effort, as if the world lay heavily on his shoulders. He circled his desk and perched on its edge in front of Ryan. “The day of the bombing Erickson was in the bazaar. He called on his cell phone to alert me to clear the building. Said he’d fill me in on the details later.”
His expression grim, Barker stared past Ryan toward the windows that overlooked the desert. “We began the evacuation instantly, but we didn’t have enough time to get everyone out before the bomb, already planted in the embassy, blew. It undoubtedly was an inside job. Those closest to the ambassador’s office suffered the highest casualties.”
Ryan nodded. He couldn’t remember the event, but he’d read the news reports. Ninety-eight people had died that day, and scores had been seriously wounded.
“In the chaos that followed,” Barker continued, “I temporarily forgot about Erickson, but three Marines who’d been off duty when the bomb exploded stumbled across him as they were rushing to the embassy. He was lying in a deserted alley, and he’d been shot in the back.”
“So he never had a chance to tell you what he’d learned about the terrorists or how he knew about the bomb?”
“He spoke briefly to the men who found him before he lost consciousness.” Barker fixed Ryan with a probing stare. “His last words were, ‘Ask Ryan. He knows who did this.’”
Ryan fought to speak past the lump in his throat. “He never regained consciousness?”
“He slipped into a coma, and even though he hung on for over a year, he was never able to tell us anything more.”
Montana Secrets Page 3