by Em Petrova
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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Something About a Bounty Hunter
Copyright Em Petrova 2018
Ebook Edition
Electronic book publication 2018
All rights reserved. Any violation of this will be prosecuted by the law.
Wes Roshannon, bounty hunter extraordinaire, always gets his man, but he’s having a tough time looking for the father he never knew. A lead takes him to the doorstep of a local, very private biker club where admittance is exclusive. And can be downright dangerous. Wes is used to putting it all on the line, until he’s blindsided by a vision with long dark hair and flashing eyes.
Stormy thought she was content living in the shadow of the Bighorns giving her dad’s biker club its name, wrapped in the safety of a group she’s come to think of as family. That’s until the big man, asking questions and raking her with his steel gray eyes, has her thinking of living her life on her own terms, away from watchful eyes and parental concern.
Wes is far too involved with the gorgeous brunette to be intimidated by her biker family, and not even her growly, overbearing father will keep Wes away from her. But when he hunts a bail jumper right to the club’s front door, he’s torn between love, loyalty and the law.
Something About a Bounty Hunter
by
Em Petrova
Chapter One
If there was one thing Aunt Winter didn’t approve of it was Wes’s motorcycle parked in the driveway. She said the engine spooked the chickens and they wouldn’t lay the following day. She claimed the horses were bad-tempered after Wes drove “that thing.”
But none of it was true. She just hated what his motorcycle meant and associated it with losing her sister.
Halfway up the driveway to the ranch, he cut the engine and swung his leg over to walk the bike in so Aunt Winter didn’t have anything to complain about. He hadn’t been home in too long and he wasn’t out to cause trouble.
He dragged in a deep breath of the ranch air, a mix of country living mixed with the mountains. He could never put words to what it smelled like other than home, and he was glad to be here.
The big house where he’d grown up with his twin cousins was unchanged. Same with the barn. But one of the outbuildings had a new roof, which only gave him a sore spot in his chest that could only be guilt.
He should have been here to help with the roof. Hopefully one of his cousins had assisted Uncle Matthias in the construction.
As he approached the house, he heard the low cluck of Aunt Winter’s chickens. Since he and his cousins had grown and moved out, she treated those chickens like kids, spoiling them on special grain and even talking to them in baby voices. She said it made them lay the biggest, best eggs, but he knew better. She missed the boys she’d raised—and that gave him more of a guilt complex.
Using the heel of his heavy black boots, he flipped down the kickstand and ensured his bike was safely balanced before turning for the house.
A welcoming front porch and many windows in the front of the home beckoned. The thought of home-cooking reminded his stomach he was at Eagle Crest too.
The door opened and his aunt stepped onto the porch, hand to her brow, shielding her eyes against the bright spring sun.
“Hello, Aunt Winter.” His voice was dusky from thirst and disuse. He’d been riding too long. His search had taken him far this time.
Her jaw dropped and then she leaped off the porch steps like a schoolgirl. He caught her as she threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, my dear Wes! I thought I heard that motorcycle engine, but then it stopped and I wondered if I’d imagined it. It’s been so long since you’ve been home.”
He hugged her hard, aware that she was rounder than he’d last seen her but the same old aunt who’d raised him like a son.
She planted a kiss on his cheek and stepped back to look at him.
Study him, more like. She started at his heavy boots, not cowboy boots, and moved to his leather chaps, not his worn jeans, up to leather jacket, not his plaid shirt, and ending at his helmet. Most definitely not his black Stetson.
She made a sound like a sigh.
“I like you better in your hat. I think there’s one upstairs in your closet.”
He had to admit he preferred his hat too. He couldn’t count the times he reached to tug on the brim, only to find his head bare. Living among bikers, he wanted to fit in. Turning up like the cowboy he was wouldn’t have many doors opening to him, and he definitely would not be getting the answers he’d been seeking these many months.
“I’ve got my hat in my saddlebag. I’ll wear it to dinner.”
She slapped at his arm. “Oh you will not wear it to the table. You know better!”
He chuckled.
“Teaser. Always trying to give me heart attacks your entire childhood, I swear. But I must have done something right—look how you turned out. If anything, I fed you well.” She gave his six-two frame another once-over.
“I’m glad to be home. Where’s Uncle Matthias?”
She waved at the ranch. “You know him. Could be checking the herd at this time of day. Why don’t you get changed and then ride out and see if you can bring him back for dinner?”
He knew her suggestion was partly for selfish reasons. She hated seeing him in biker garb, and he had to admit those soft, worn jeans and flannel shirt sounded good about now. He grabbed his stuff out of the saddlebag and then followed her inside.
“How’re Judd and Aiden?” He kept in touch with his cousins. As a bounty hunter, Wes needed info on bail jumpers at times and Judd and Aiden, both lawmen, sometimes helped out.
“Your cousins are well. Their wives too. Amaryllis is about to pop out that baby any minute and still the woman refuses to stay home. She goes with Aiden on every single call.”
Aiden and Amaryllis shared a passion for investigating cattle thefts around the state and Wes could see her dragging a baby along with them once it was born.
“And Judd and Cecily?” he prompted.
“No baby bumps in sight yet.” Aunt Winter tsked like it was a crime they didn’t have another grandbaby in the chute yet.
“All in good time,” Wes said. She stepped aside and he put his foot on the bottom step leading up to his bedroom. “They coming up this weekend?”
Aunt Winter’s eyes twinkled, and he thought he spotted a tear in the corner of one. Now that made him feel really bad. He needed to make a better effort to come home more often. It was too easy to get caught up in his own life. Between hunting fugitives and his personal searches of every motorcycle club in the tristate area, he didn’t have a lot of down time.
“The whole crew will be home for dinner. I am a happy woman.” She eyed Wes. “I’ll be happier to see you in your own clothes.”
“These are my own clothes,” he said gently. He understood why she hated the bikers—she blamed them for taking her sister, Wes’s mother, and turning her away from her family. In the end, she’d died far from home and Aunt Winter had never forgiven the bikers for it.
Before she could comment more on his leather, he started up the stairs. “I’ll change and then go find Uncle Matthias.”
A few minutes later he slipped outside without his aunt fussing over his appearance. His comfortable Stetson shaded his eyes
and he hardly had to squint into the sun as he strode to the barn.
The scents of horse and hay brought a smile to his face and his shoulders relaxed. He went down the line of stalls, greeting each horse there. They’d been well-exercised all morning and were now getting comfy. But his favorite mare was always up for a gallop.
He opened the stall door and she pushed forward, nudging him hard in the shoulder. He reached up to stroke her mane. “I know I haven’t been here to ride you much, have I? I’m sorry.”
The horse answered with a soft whicker. While he tacked her up to ride, the animal stood completely still, patiently waiting. He led her out the door and swung into the saddle. A whoop gathered in his chest but he didn’t release the sound. Instead, he put his boots to flanks and took off across the field.
He rode for ten minutes, looping around the land and just staring at the steel-blue mountains in the distance. Being on horseback was an entirely different rush from being on two wheels. Though in his mind, they were equal.
He loved the bikers he’d met and lived with. He might not have found his father among them yet, but he had no doubt he’d eventually locate him. He wasn’t a legend for hunting men for nothing. Not many people could hide from Wes. If only his aunt would come clean with him and tell him exactly which club his mother had belonged to, he’d be able to find his father in a blink.
Aunt Winter was beyond stubborn on that front, and Wes had learned that pushing caused her pain.
Up ahead, he caught the jingle of a harness, the sound carrying back to him on the breeze. He lay over the horse’s neck and kicked it up into high gear. Running flat out through the high grasses that whispered with each hoofbeat. His own pulse added to the music of home.
When he caught up to his uncle, he found himself smiling. After a tense week of trying to get a group of bikers to trust him enough to give him answers about his father, he’d managed to get three fugitives back into custody. Damn, he’d needed this time to unwind.
Though he’d count it as one of his busier weeks, it was nothing as rough as his stint in the government. Top secret, talk-and-be-killed stuff. No one in his family knew about his time in Operation Freedom Flag, but he suspected Judd knew. As sheriff, he had access to a lot of intel and lawmen talked to other lawmen.
He turned his thoughts to what his uncle was doing out here. Matthias circled the back of the herd once, twice.
Wes crossed the field toward him, and his uncle looked up. Surprise lit his face, and he gave Wes a big smile that was more welcome than he deserved for one day.
“Hey, Wes. Wasn’t expectin’ ya.”
“Didn’t think to call. What’s going on up here? Dinner’s almost ready.”
“I know fine what time your aunt gets dinner on the table. I thought I saw one of the young’uns limping. I keep looking closely, but as soon as I see it, I think I’m imagining things.”
“I’ll take a look.” Wes held the reins loosely, easing his mare forward. He rode in an arc behind the cattle, watching their feet for the limp Matthias had mentioned.
“That one there with a white spot on its rump.” His uncle pointed.
Wes looked closer. After the animal took three or four steps, he thought he saw it. A misstep.
“That’s odd, isn’t it?” He scratched his jaw, the five o’clock shadow rasping under his thumbnail.
Matthias dipped his head in a nod. “Sure is. Thinkin’ I should pull her out, examine her closer.”
Wes set his hand over the coil of rope clipped to his belt. “I’ll do it.”
“You?”
Wes stared at him. “What’s wrong with me doin’ it?”
“You’ve gotta be rusty. When was the last time you roped a cow?”
“Been a while, but I roped a fugitive who was running from me last week.”
Matthias chuckled and waved at the cow. “Be my guest, then. Just don’t miss. She won’t stand there pretty for you very long.”
Wes grunted and lifted the rope. The familiar motion of throwing a lasso came as naturally to him as walking. When he tossed, a shrill whistle sounded and he came up short. His rope hit the young cow’s back and slipped off.
“Damn.” He looked around to see two more riders—Judd and Aiden—making their way across the field to meet them.
Crap, they’d seen him miss. He was never going to live it down.
Matthias gave him a crooked grin, the same Wes had adopted as his own over the years. His uncle was his role model, and he couldn’t have asked for a better one. Except he wasn’t his father. Wes wished it didn’t matter. Had spent a lifetime trying to convince himself that his uncle’s affection was enough. But the fact was, he had to find his roots. There was no other option for him.
His cousins reined up with twin shit-eating grins on their identical faces. “I see you haven’t improved your rope skills, Wes,” Aiden teased.
“You’re lucky I don’t have my taser on me,” he grumbled.
Aiden gave him a bored look. “Dude, we’ve all taken turns using the taser on each other, but it was you who pissed your pants.”
“I’m pretty sure we were fifteen when we got ahold of that taser. I’m a lot older and bigger now.” Wes only had some inches on his cousins but a hell of a lot more bulk. As a kid he’d been bullied, and his cousins had always stuck up for him. He’d vowed the minute he was old enough that he’d start putting on muscle. And he hadn’t just put it on—he’d packed it on.
He looped his rope again and made the toss, landing it square over the cow’s ears. He gave a yank to tighten the rope and then threw his cousins a smug look. He lazily dismounted from his horse to walk up to the cow.
The herd skittered away at his approach. He inspected the leg, careful to stay out of reach of the hooves. When he glanced up, his cousins were grinning at him.
“Assholes,” he said with only the highest affection for them. “Least you could do is compliment me on that throw.”
“What throw? That piddly little toss you made? Hell, I’d call it dumb luck, wouldn’t you, Aiden?” Judd patted his mount’s neck.
“Pathetic,” Aiden added, always playing along with his brother’s game.
Uncle Matthias chuckled. “Good to have you boys home. We’d best get on back before your aunt squawks like one of her chickens about us being late to dinner. Wes, you need a hand leading that cow home?”
He snorted at his uncle’s jab. “Not you too.” Wes shook his head but couldn’t stop the smile from spreading over his face. It was so good to be with family again. Even if they were extended family and not the ones he was born to.
* * * * *
As kids, Wes and his cousins had started hanging around the local tack shop. Eyeing up the leather tool-work and the latest in lightweight saddles. Back then they didn’t have any cash to spend but the owner still tolerated the Roshannon boys being in the way.
Now Wes had grown accustomed to bike shops. The cultures of cowboy and biker were different, but he appreciated both equally. But today, dressed to avoid road rash and with a wad of cash in his pocket from bringing in another fugitive, he felt a kinship to the sleek leather embossed with the insignia of a local chapter of the Bighorns.
He wanted to run his fingers over the arching letters with the jagged triangles representing mountains but had learned enough about club culture that to do without being a member was disrespectful.
“Turned out pretty sick, didn’t it?” the shop owner said from beside him.
“It’s pretty fucking hot,” Wes agreed.
“Custom order. The guy who crafted it poured a metal stamp just for the Bighorns. The piece is going on the wall of their club, I hear. A gift for one of their oldest members.”
Today Wes hadn’t come in here looking for answers, but his ears perked up. “The club’s been around a long time then?”
The shop owner arched a brow at him. “Oh yeah. The Bighorns have been around forever. Split into two chapters, both pretty hidden from outsiders.”
>
The door opened and a rough guy came in looking for a part. It had to be special ordered, so the shop owner circled the counter to do that. Wes roamed the space some more, checking out chaps, jackets and custom saddlebags. But he kept revolving back to that Bighorns piece.
A flat of thick black leather couldn’t intrigue him more than a coveted breastplate did to a twelve-year-old ranch boy with dreams of a 4-H win.
The door opened and closed again and suddenly the shop got really small. Six bikers, all wearing the same patches on their leather vests they called cuts. When one turned aside, Wes caught the Bighorns insignia on his back.
He slowed his breathing, aware that his heart was pounding a bit too hard. He’d spent a lot of time researching, visiting and becoming a friend of clubs, so how had this one flown under his radar? The shop owner had said the Bighorns were secretive, but his skills at finding people should be better than that.
All this searching for his mother’s history and his true father was throwing him off his game.
While the group spoke with the shop owner and the other customer, Wes neared the group, the club etiquette ingrained in him after a year of hanging around bikers. He stood on the side until a guy noticed him.
The biker fixed him in his stare. Wes stepped up and extended a hand. “Hey man, just wanted to pay my respects. I’m Dirty.”
The biker threw his head back and laughed. “I don’t want to know how you got that name. I’m James from the Bighorns.”
“Good to meet you, James.” He gripped his hand and met his gaze.
“Yo, Breaker, this here’s Dirty.” James tapped the guy next to him on the shoulder.
Breaker turned and fixed Wes in his gaze. “He don’t look dirty to me.”
Wes grinned and shook his hand. “Breaker.” He found repeating the names impressed them in his mind. It was the worst disrespect to forget a name.
The rest of the guys came forward to meet Wes and the ice was broken. Behind the counter, the shop owner eyed Wes with a new gleam of respect in his eyes. It wasn’t easy to interact with bikers this way. They stuck to themselves. But Wes had enough experience by this point that he could infiltrate the Hells Angels.