“Tell me who you’re running from.”
“I don’t know…I mean, I’m not…” They were so close, Josie was almost in Bart’s arms. “You’re trying to confuse me again.”
More touching was involved as she peeled the shirt down off his shoulders, first to free his good right arm, then to slip it off his injured left. Though she tried not to stare, she couldn’t help admiring his magnificent musculature. Nor could she ignore his flat stomach and the light dusting of hair that trailed down below the waist of his jeans.
Bart cupped her cheek, turned her face to his. “Someone hurt you,” he said. “A man. Tell me.”
“I’ll get some ice packs for your arm.”
“What’s your name?”
“Josie Wales.” She turned away.
He slowly pulled her head toward him. Then he brushed her mouth with his. Just a momentary touch. Even so, she shuddered at the sensation that was strangely erotic.
“I meant your real name….”
If only she knew….
Dear Reader,
I’ve always thought that if I were to move from Chicago, it would be to northern New Mexico. I love the look and the feel of the place—the brilliant sunny skies with a clear light that inspires me; the rugged landscapes that remind me of a past that I still romanticize as I did when I was a kid.
And so it was an exceptional pleasure for me to bring a bit of that romanticized past to my latest Harlequin Intrigue books. SONS OF SILVER SPRINGS—half brothers Bart, Chance and Reed—return to save the Curly-Q Ranch despite bitter memories of each other and their relationship with their father who is dying. In doing so, they not only find danger and the loves of their lives, but a new respect for family and tradition.
If you enjoy their ride, please let me know—P.O. Box 578297, Chicago, IL 60657-8297. Send an SASE for information on upcoming books.
Regards,
Heart of a Lawman
Patricia Rosemoor
An exclusive interview with Harlequin Intrigue author Patricia Rosemoor!
Q: What was the first romance you ever read?
PR: It was called Double Date and I was in the third grade. I finished my schoolwork and pulled out my book, only to have Sister Ursula confiscate it disapprovingly because it was a “Senior” library book, and being only seven, I was supposed to have a “Juvenile” card. When she returned it the next day, she suggested I should start reading books about history instead.
Q: Where do you get your inspiration?
PR: Often from learning about real struggles of real people. Other times from subjects that concern me, especially when it comes to animal welfare.
Q: What do you feel is special about this particular series, SONS OF SILVER SPRINGS?
PR: In spending time in New Mexico to do the research, I met a family that has recently opened their ranch to vacationers in an effort to preserve their way of life. I felt honored that they allowed my husband and I to stay in their home and be part of their family for a few days. And in doing so, I learned a new respect for those who pursue traditional ways of life (hard work and simple pleasures) in lieu of big-city careers and amenities. I hope that my true appreciation is apparent in the SONS OF SILVER SPRINGS series.
To read the complete interview with Patricia Rosemoor, log on to our web site at www.romance.net.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Barton Quarrels—The last thing the lawman wanted was to get involved with a woman who brought trouble with her.
Josie Wales—With no memory, how could she figure out who was after her?
Emmett Quarrels—Owner of the Curly-Q, Bart’s father has secrets of his own.
Hugh Ruskin—The bartender was hostile to Josie when he didn’t get what he wanted.
William “Billy Boy” Spencer—The new cowboy at the Curly-Q seemed to know more about Josie than she did about herself.
Tim Harrigan—The boarder at the Springs Bed and Breakfast was willing to do anything for Josie.
To research SONS OF SILVER SPRINGS, my husband and I went straight to the source—a ranch in New Mexico called Rancho Cañón Ancho, a jewel set in canyon splendor along the Mora River. We got more than we’d bargained for, both in the background information I was seeking and in hospitality. So I would like to thank Bryan and Kathy Turner, a couple who really ride for the brand and are keeping alive traditional ranch life for their son, Ethan. Also thanks to Kathy’s mom, Betty Snow, who helped Kathy feed and entertain us in true Southwestern fashion.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Prologue
He was still behind her!
Heedless of the dark, moonless night, of the winding, downhill road and rain-slicked pavement, of the clumsy vehicle at her command, she jammed the accelerator all the way to the floor.
As if bitten, the truck she had stolen leaped forward crazily and threatened to shoot straight off the road.
Palms sweaty, she white-knuckled the steering wheel…successfully wrestled the cumbersome old rattletrap around a hairpin curve and away from the sheer drop…darted her nervous gaze to the rearview mirror….
Nothing for a moment. Then she saw the twin beams make the turn, as well. The headlights seemed a bit more distant, but still they kept pace with her.
She held her breath, the only sounds filling her ears the rumble of the engine punctuated by worn wipers clack-clacking as they streaked across the windshield.
It came to her then that she would never be free of him. She’d tried everything in her power, and still he was there, a dark phantom, a portent of her future. What little she had left of one, for the distance between his headlights and the truck was closing.
He would never let her go. Never let her get away.
Never let her live.
And she had no one to blame but herself.
Sickness welled in her as she acknowledged the fate that she had brought down on herself. Her chest tightened and the bitter taste of acid filled her mouth. Her eyelids stung as self-anger grew.
“No!”
She slapped the steering wheel so hard her palm stung. She wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not after everything she’d endured.
But the tears flooded her eyes, and even as she swept around another downward curve, she dashed them away with a shaky hand. Only a second’s inattention—that fast!—and the truck veered over, halfway into the oncoming lane. Before she could pull it back in line, her eyes filled again, this time with bright, blinding lights. The windshield wipers swept the image into focus: another vehicle heading straight for her.
An eighteen-wheeler, horn blaring!
Jerking the wheel was her second mistake. The old truck took on a life of its own, skated sideways over the slick pavement. Fear and adrenaline flooding her, she tried to keep her head. Steer into the skid. Brake gently.
Too late.
A tire grabbed the shoulder and spat gravel, while the rear end spun around and off solid ground into nothingness. Her heart skipped a beat as the rest of the truck followed. Flew without wings. For a second, she felt suspended….
Suddenly, a roller-coaster drop whipped her head into the side window and churned her stomach into her throat. Then turned her as the upended truck careened downward.
Free fall…
Touchdown.
The crash sent
an explosion along her nerves, straight to her mind. She was straining against the seat belt, her voice catching as she tried to remember a prayer.
To escape the pain, she gladly entered the darkness….
Chapter One
Three miles out of the crumbling town of Silver Springs, Barton Quarrels pulled his four-by-four onto the washboard-dirt ranch road that would throw him back half a lifetime. Everything looked the same, he thought. Worn cedar and barbed wire fences. Yellowing grasses. A handful of mostly white-faced livestock grazing the high desert pasture.
What he feared was that everything would be the same.
His kids had been quiet all the way up from Albuquerque. Sullen, really. They’d get over it. Had to. He was doing this for them.
Well mostly, anyhow.
“Almost there,” he told them. In an effort to engage them, to rustle some little enthusiasm where he knew there to be none, he asked, “So, after you get your stuff settled in your rooms, what do you want to do?”
“Nothing to do out here but count cows,” Daniel mumbled.
“As I remember, you used to like that, ’cause it meant you were on a horse.”
“That’s when I was a kid.”
“Yeah, right. I keep forgetting.”
As far as Bart was concerned, sixteen was far from adulthood, but he needn’t alienate Daniel more. The air between them already bristled with teenage hostility.
Bart stopped the vehicle at the pasture’s barrier, and his son jumped out to open the metal pipe and wire gate. Daniel waited until his father had pulled through the opening before swinging the gate closed and clambering back into the passenger seat. The ritual was one repeated all over the ranch, whose nearly sixty thousand acres were broken down into manageable pastures.
Bart waited until they were once more on the prowl, past the scale house where cattle on the way to market were weighed before being shipped.
Then he tried making conversation again, this time with his daughter. “Hey, Lainey, honey, want to take some photographs around the place this afternoon?” Photography being her hobby.
He glanced in the rearview mirror to check out the twelve-year-old, whose attention was seemingly glued to those boring cows.
“Mom would hate this,” she suddenly said, head churning forward, green eyes exactly like Sara’s boring into the back of his neck. “She’d hate you, putting our home up for sale, making us move.”
Bart tore his gaze from the mirror and put it back where it belonged—on the road. “Your mother didn’t have a hateful bone in her body.”
Unable to help gripping the steering wheel, he couldn’t imagine ever completely erasing the pain of loss that burdened him.
“It’s not too late, Dad,” Lainey continued darkly. “The house didn’t sell yet, so we can still go home….”
“The Curly-Q’s gonna be our home now.”
Ignoring the interruption, the girl insisted, “You can get your deputy’s badge back and everything!”
Not that he’d really lost it in the first place.
Though he hadn’t told his kids—he didn’t want to raise their hopes—Bart had been smart enough to leave himself a safety net, just in case. He’d taken a long-term leave of absence and could go back to his old job as long as it remained vacant. The sheriff hadn’t wanted to lose him and so had promised to stall things, to keep his spot open for several weeks, at least.
Just in case.
But even a city as small as Albuquerque had growing problems that made Bart’s gut quake, not for himself, but for those he loved. He’d lost a wife to violence less than a year ago. He wasn’t going to give up his kids, as well.
After his mother’s death, Daniel had secretly joined a gang and had gotten into trouble defacing the high school with cans of spray paint. Bart wondered what he hadn’t gotten caught at. While he’d made his son swear to quit the gang, he knew the promise he’d wrung out of the boy was illusory. Peer pressure would get him in the end and he’d be sneaking out with his friends again. It was only a matter of time unless Daniel was removed from the path of temptation.
And Bart was willing to do anything to protect his kids…even sell his soul.
He stared out at the devil’s playground.
Rich, volcanic-based grasslands stretched around them as far as the eye could see. An optical illusion that plains gradually gave way to mountains. Though they were in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo range, the foothills here were nearly seven thousand feet up.
Clear air. Piercing blue sky. A slice of heaven.
At least the land itself was….
They’d reached the pinñon-and-ponderosa-pine-limned rimrock, their future spread out before them in all its splendor. The road here was dotted with dark green cedar, rusting scrub oak and the occasional grayish juniper bush.
The skin along Bart’s spine prickled as he started the descent into the canyon cut by Silverado Creek, a fat ribbon of water that twisted and turned and rushed across the Curly-Q. Now its function was merely to appease thirsty cattle and to provide a water table for the surrounding grasslands, but at one time, the creek had serviced the mine, which lay farther up the canyon and connected to town by a road that was now all but impassable.
The first hairpin curve thrilled Bart as always, and, also as always, his stomach was ready for the second. What he wasn’t prepared for was the state of the road, rutted by washout rains. The vehicle dipped and bounced its way down and red dust swirled around them. One spot was so bad that he found himself clenching his jaw so that he wouldn’t bite his tongue.
What had his father been thinking—not taking care of the only road out before it became near-impossible to fix?
“I want you two to give this a chance,” he said as the house drew in sight. The sprawling adobe backed by a handful of outbuildings looked the same, too, he noted. “If you can’t do it for me, then do it for your grandpa.Remember, we don’t know how long he has.”
Again, he glanced in the rearview mirror and caught the stricken expression Lainey was quick to hide.
“But Grandpa’s got Uncle Reed and Uncle Chance,” Daniel mumbled.
“If they decide to return.”
Certainly neither Reed nor Chance were anywhere in sight. No one was. The handful of dusty old pickups—the newest of which had to be twenty years old—were ranch vehicles. Though he hadn’t counted on his half-brothers agreeing to the deal, Bart experienced a moment’s disappointment. Unsure that anything would drag Reed and Chance back into a situation they’d all hated, he’d still wondered what it would be like—the three of them riding herd together again. Maybe this time they were old enough to make peace with each other. Maybe they were wise enough to make it work.
But Reed and Chance didn’t have families to think of. They had no reason to accept the devil’s bargain the way he had.
Bart almost expected the old devil himself to be waiting for them as he pulled into the front yard and two yapping dogs rushed the truck. But Emmett Quarrels was nowhere in sight.
Instead, Felice Cuma, his father’s housekeeper of nearly thirty years, flew out the front door, called the dogs and ordered them back to the barn. A smile of welcome flared fine lines around her dark eyes and full mouth. She had passed sixty, but Bart thought Felice was still a fine figure of a woman and couldn’t imagine why she wasted her life keeping someone else’s home when he was certain she could make one with a man of her own.
Lighting on Daniel as he unfolded all six feet of himself from the front passenger seat, Felice’s eyes went wide. “Chico, you’re a man now!”
Daniel grinned at Felice and rushed forward so they could give each other a big hug.
Arms folded across her chest, Lainey straggled behind. No smile loosened the tight grip that held her mouth in a flat line. Felice stepped out of Daniel’s bear hug and stared at the girl, her hand going to her throat as if she’d just been struck speechless. And her dark eyes suddenly went luminous, Bart noted, as if she were holdin
g back tears.
“Ah, chica,” Felice finally said, her voice trembling, “you’ve grown so beautiful. You look exactly like your sainted mama.”
Lainey softened a little and allowed a hug, if not with her brother’s open enthusiasm. Expression concerned, Felice sought Bart’s gaze over his daughter’s head. He shrugged and spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
“Hey, Felice,” he said with affection.
“Mr. Bart. It’s good to see you. You’ve stayed away far too long.”
He knew Felice meant more than the last year and a half. That’s how long it had been since he’d stepped foot on Curly-Q land—since well before Sara died. They’d driven their kids to the ranch for a visit every summer. Bart had sometimes stayed the night, but he’d always gone off on his own—usually back to Albuquerque where he buried himself in work—and then had to come back weeks later for the three of them.
Sara really had been a saint, Bart thought, considering she’d been able to deal with the old tyrant for weeks at a time, while Bart had trouble tolerating his own father for a day. Amazingly enough, the old man had treated his grandkids with far more respect than he ever had his own sons when they were growing up—maybe he’d learned something from his past mistakes, Bart hoped—and so both Daniel and Lainey had always looked forward to their visits to the Curly-Q.
Good thing, or Bart never would have agreed to the deal.
“Daniel, Lainey—how about getting your bags.”
“Right,” his son groused, shuffling back toward the vehicle, his daughter silently following.
Most of their things were already there—Bart had sent a truckload ahead and Felice had made certain the kids’ rooms were set up with familiar treasures in hopes that they would adapt to the move more easily. For a moment, he watched them, intent on unloading the vehicle, shoving at each other in their best, normal brother-sister fashion.
Suddenly, Lainey screeched as Daniel pulled back and raised his arm, her camera in his hand.
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