Best of Cowboys Bundle

by Vicki Lewis Thompson, Barbara White Daille, Judy Christenberry, Christine Wenger, Shirley Rogers, Crystal Green, Nina Bruhns, Candance Schuler, Carole Mortimer

  “That it will, indeed,” she agreed, surveying their handiwork. While Hawk was gone, she and her uncle had stayed busy cooking and baking up a storm. Luckily most winter vegetables were inexpensive, so they’d tried every recipe for squash, yams, cabbage and potatoes they could find in the few cookbooks Fitz owned. They’d also baked three pies: apple, pumpkin and berry.

  And then there was the honey-glazed ham, of course. Bought with the thirty-five dollars Jake had given her for the Christmas pig, which he’d dressed up in a big green and red bow and taken home to his 4-H enthusiast niece, who he was sure would groom the creature to within an inch of its life and win a dozen blue ribbons at the county fair next fall, then retire it to a life of leisure siring future blue ribbon generations. Rhiannon missed the silly swine with its cheerful face. But she knew it was in a better—and much safer—home now.

  “We should go into town and do a bit o’ shoppin’,” Fitz said eagerly after they’d cleaned up the dirty baking dishes and put plastic wrap over all the food so it would be ready to heat and serve whenever Hawk came home.

  “Oh, now, look at the weather outside, Uncle Fitz.” Rhiannon pointed to the light but steady snowfall swirling outside the windowpanes. “Hawk wouldn’t like us to drive today. Why don’t we just have a nice cup of tea and chat instead?”

  “I expect you’re right,” he said. “I’ll just put on the kettle.”

  As they sipped their tea, their eyes met over the rims of their cups and she smiled at her uncle, glad for the good day they’d spent together. He’d seemed content for the past few weeks. As though when she and Hawk had finally made peace with each other, he’d felt it, and taken on the same serenity. His memory even seemed to have improved.

  “What about Christmas presents?” he asked. “It looks a bit sparse this year under the tree.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just being with those who love you is enough, don’t you think?”

  The old man nodded happily. “Aye, it is.”

  Despite the hardships, December had been a good month for all of them. But their conversation led her to thoughts of her mother, and being with the one you love.

  “Uncle Fitz?”

  “Aye?”

  “I was wondering if I could ask you about something.”

  “Of course, love.”

  “Why did my mother marry my father and not you?”

  His teacup rocked in his saucer as he set it down. She held her breath, certain she would lose him, that his memory would make a left turn back into the past and away from her question. If it weren’t so important to her, she would never have asked it and risked spoiling their day. But she had to know. Before it was too late.

  Amazingly, he looked up from the steaming tea and met her gaze, his eyes clear and comprehending. “How did you know?” he asked.

  She swallowed. “You keep mixing me up with her. Some of the things you’ve said…And then I found her letters.”

  His head bowed. “Her letters. Ah, how could I have forgotten?”

  She reached out and covered his hand with hers. “Uncle Fitz, if you don’t want to talk about this, I’ll understand.”

  “No. You deserve to know. Though in truth, there isn’t much to tell. Your ma came up from County Kerry to work in Belfast with her big sister, Bridget, when she was seventeen. They moved into the attic flat in the building my family lived in. Ah, they were a lovely pair. All the fellas on the street had their eyes on ’em.”

  “But Bridget was older.”

  “By eight years, same as me. Janet was of an age with Jamie. Which is why it was natural for them to fall in together.”

  “But you and she were attracted?”

  “We shared a few kisses, I’ll own up. But Jamie was mad for the lass. And then there was Bridget.”

  “Bridget?” What part had her aunt played in all this?

  “She fell for me, y’see. I didn’t love her, but didn’t want to hurt her. Or Jamie. So I mostly kept my feelings to m’self.”

  “And so did Janet.”

  “Aye. It wasn’t until—” He stopped abruptly, jumped to his feet and looked sharply at the window. “Where is he?”

  She blinked at the sudden change. “Who?”

  “Jamie! He’s out there, isn’t he? What’s he doing?” Fitz started to pace agitatedly. “We have to find him!” he said without giving her a chance to answer. “He’s been betrayed! While we were lingering here safe and sound, he’s—”

  “Uncle Fitz!” she interrupted his panic attack, running over to steady him with firm hands on his shoulders. “You’re not in Ireland any more. We’re in Arizona now.” At times like this Hawk always reminded him his brother was dead, but she had a feeling that news would only agitate Fitz more.

  “But Jamie…someone…there’s someone else…”

  “You mean Redhawk. Your foreman. Hawk is just fine. He’s out in the canyons checking the herd.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “It’s all right. He said he might camp out tonight. You remember the rustlers?”

  “Rustlers…” Fitz glanced away, and it was clear he didn’t.

  “Never mind, Uncle Fitz. Why don’t you go and rest for a while? I’ll watch for Hawk.”

  He still looked troubled, but nonetheless he nodded, gave her a kiss on the cheek and padded off to his room.

  Releasing a long breath, she walked over to the window and stood gazing out at the pristine snow-covered desert for a long time, thinking about the small glimpse he had given her of his and her mother’s relationship. It sounded typical enough. Unrequited love for the wrong brother, the wrong sister. But there was more. She knew there had to be. Otherwise her mother would never have written such intimate letters to Fitz for so many years.

  And what had he meant at the end? It wasn’t until…until what? What had happened to change their relationship? And why had the memory catapulted him into a blind panic over her father’s safety?

  Another day she would try to ask him about it. But for now, she had another relationship on her mind. And another man.

  Feeling edgy and nervous, she glanced at the clock, wishing Hawk would walk through the back door, kicking snow off his boots, demanding hot coffee and a hotter kiss.

  Yes, things had been going well this month so far at Irish Heaven. Almost too well. The other shoe was bound to drop sooner or later.

  She just prayed it would be later.

  Much later.

  Redhawk pulled his goose down sleeping bag tighter around his face and blew out a breath laden with vapor. Damn, he was freezing. And it wasn’t even dark yet. It had stopped snowing, but with the cloud cover dissipating, the cold had become merciless.

  Where were they? He’d been certain the rustlers would show up today. He’d have bet his life on it. Hell, he might be betting his life on it. After two days of shivering like an aspen, it would be a pure damned miracle if he didn’t catch pneumonia and die.

  Which he wouldn’t mind nearly as much if he could see those bastard rustlers put in jail first.

  Zipped from head to toe in his green mummy bag, it was tough to stand up, but somehow he managed. He’d forced himself to stand every hour, partly to get his blood circulating again, partly to get a longer perspective on the uneven terrain leading up to the canyonlands where the cattle were grouped together, munching on the hay he’d brought up two days ago.

  Camouflaged by a stand of junipers at the top of the center canyon, from his vantage point he could see around two hundred degrees in three directions—

  And suddenly he saw them. Three dark dots moving over the sparkling white carpet of fresh snow.

  Attacking the zipper and drawstring with near-numb fingers, Hawk struggled out of the sleeping bag, whistling for Tonopah. By the time he was free of the puffy fabric, his horse had trotted over. He whipped the thick Indian blanket off his mount and jumped into the saddle, heading for the trail off the plateau. Pulling the Winchester from its holster, he checked it for
action. Better to be ready for anything.

  Chafing with impatience, he held his pace sure and steady on the downward trail, so as not to injure Tonopah, who was as cold and cramped as he was. He had plenty of time, he told himself.

  Nevertheless when they hit the bottom of the cliffs, he urged Tonopah into a slow lope through the snow, aiming toward the rustlers’ trail. He wanted to backtrack to their waiting truck and get the license plate number before doing anything else. Too bad he didn’t have a cell phone. That would sure have come in handy to call the sheriff. But he was on his own for this one.

  He found the triple grooves left in the four-foot snow by the rustlers’ horses and reined Tonopah into one of them, turning him away from the canyons. Riding hard, it took him a good hour to get to the last rise before the property fence; just beyond that lay the highway.

  Dismounting, he crept cautiously up the hill, keeping his head below the level of the snow. At the crest, he peeked over. And there was the truck, just where he expected. It was an unmarked eighteen-wheeler cattle transport, big enough to fit eight or ten animals. He swore violently under his breath. There was no way this was not personal. These guys meant to wipe him out completely and drive Irish Heaven into bankruptcy.

  But why? The question kept pounding in his brain. Who hated him—or Fitz—that much?

  Well, he’d soon find out.

  He hadn’t spotted anyone around the truck, so he topped the rise and started down the other side. He’d almost made it to the back, to check the plate, when the calm, silent air was suddenly shattered by a deafening bang.

  A terrible pain ripped through his arm and he looked down, horrified to see the snow below him turning crimson.

  Aw, hell. The bastards had—

  But the thought evaporated in another flash of blinding pain in the back of his head, then everything around him, the glittering snow, the robin’s-egg sky, the white lines on the highway, all went black.

  Chapter 12

  S lowly Redhawk clawed his way to consciousness. Was he alive?

  He wasn’t rightly sure. He was colder than he’d ever been in his life. Which made no sense at all if he was in Hell. But surely Heaven had central heating?

  He tried to laugh at the absurdity of his thoughts, but a heavy pressure prevented him from expanding his chest more than a fraction. Damn. It felt like he was…

  He pried open his eyes. All he saw was black.

  Damn, he was buried! In something incredibly cold and—

  Snow! How the hell…?

  Desperately he tried to get his brain to work despite the mind-numbing cold. His head pounded and his arm throbbed, but he forced the pain away and cleared the cobwebs.

  Then he remembered. He’d been shot. Shot for crissakes. Then…then someone must have whacked him over the head with a two-by-four or a crowbar or something. And buried him in a snowdrift.

  The snowpack couldn’t prevent a groan from rumbling through his chest.

  He was so dead.

  Maybe it was the cold, but for some reason the thought didn’t panic him all that much. All he could think was, it was a hell of a way to go, after everything he’d been through in life. To survive all that other crap and end up dying frozen in a snowdrift, well that was just plain typical.

  Experimentally, he tried to move his good arm and found he could bring it up past his chest, so he scraped the snow from around his face, packing it over to the side so he had a few inches of air to breathe. He was feeling a little warmer already.

  Of course, dying now when for the first time in his life he had everything to live for, yeah, that was also typical of his damn bad luck.

  What would Rhiannon think when they found his body? Would she be happy, because she got the ranch all to herself?

  He hoped she would be sad. Yeah, she’d be sad. She didn’t love him, didn’t want to marry him…but she did like him. She liked being with him, liked talking with him, liked sleeping with him.

  Yeah, she especially liked sleeping with him.

  He liked sleeping with her, too.

  The thought of never sleeping with Rhiannon again, of never seeing her again, finally had the panic rising in his chest.

  Damn. He had to get out of there!

  But how?

  Suddenly, he heard a distant whinny and a nicker. Or maybe—No, it was right above him!

  “Tonopah!” he called, his voice coming out scratchy and woozy. “Is that you, boy?”

  The horse whinnied again, and Hawk heard the sound of something scraping in the snow. The horse’s muzzle? Or his hoof? Hell, he’d take either. What was another contusion? He heard more scraping.

  “Wake me up, boy!” he croaked, never more grateful for his horse’s cleverness and his own training regime.

  Was it his imagination, or was the pressure getting lighter on his chest?

  He moved his good arm again, making a fist and forcing it up through the snow as hard as he could. To his surprise, the pack wasn’t too difficult to push through. Probably because of the cold weather and light, steady snowfall that hadn’t had a chance either to settle or to melt.

  Thank God.

  Scraping away crazily, all at once he felt a warm, velvety muzzle in his hand, blowing and mouthing his palm.

  “Man, am I glad to see you,” he said metaphorically, his eyes stinging from the icy snow dripping into them. He grasped the bridle and felt for the reins. Winding them around his wrist, he gave the tongue click command for Tonopah to back up. Which he did, dragging Hawk up from the snow as he went.

  And suddenly he was free.

  It was dark out, but at least it had stopped snowing. Bracing himself on Tonopah’s flank, he staggered to his feet, gasping at the pain in both his arm and knee. He was one useless cowboy.

  Standing patiently, his faithful horse waited as Hawk lay across the saddle then awkwardly hoisted his good leg up and over, hanging on to the saddle horn as best he could with numb hands and a bleeding gunshot wound. His head was spinning like a midway ride at the county fair. Breathing heavily, he wondered how on earth he’d ever make it home.

  At his signal, Tonopah started to walk. Hawk clung to his neck, letting the horse take charge. Not that he had a lot of choice. But he trusted his friend. They’d been through a lot together.

  “Take me home, boy,” he whispered as he started to slip from consciousness once again. “Take me home to Rhiannon….”

  “Oh, my God!”

  Rhiannon bolted from the door and down the front steps to where Hawk’s horse stood whinnying, the man on his back lying there still as death.

  Blood was everywhere.

  “Oh, my God,” she cried again, putting her hands to Hawk’s deathly cold face, testing for a pulse in his neck while a sickening sense of terror crawled through her body. “Fitz!” she screamed, hoping he’d hear her and wake up.

  Hawk moaned, a slight, nearly inaudible sound.

  With a silent prayer of thanks, she grasped the folds of his duster and tried to tug him off the horse. He clung to the saddle horn like a limpet.

  “Hawk, you need to let go,” she urged, fighting to get a better grip on his coat.

  “What’s going on—” Fitz appeared in the doorway and halted with a spill of curses. “Jamie!” he cried, and ran to her side. “Ah, Lord, what have they done with ye, lad?”

  “Help me get him down, Uncle,” she said desperately. “Then fetch the keys to the truck and my purse. He needs a doctor.”

  Together they managed to lift him off Tonopah, whom Fitz attended to after running for the truck keys. A few minutes later she was driving as fast as she dared over the icy roads toward Windmill Junction.

  The warmth in the cab finally brought Hawk around. “Damn, I’m freezing,” he muttered, swallowing thickly. “Or maybe burning up. Can’t decide.” He cracked an eyelid and peered glassy-eyed over at her. “You found me.”

  “Actually you found us. You rode all the way back to the ranch from—Hawk, what happened? It l
ooks like you’re—”

  “Some bastard shot me,” he said, shifting with a low groan. “Aw, hell.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked, alarmed at his desolate tone.

  “It was the rustlers again. God knows how many steers they made off with this time.”

  “Steers! Hawk, do you have any idea how lucky you are to be alive? This is attempted murder!”

  “Who did this to you, lad?” demanded Fitz from the back bench. “Why, I’ll slit his quisling throat meself.” He continued to mutter agitatedly to himself, but Rhiannon didn’t have time to worry about Fitz right now.

  “Did you get a look at them?” she asked Hawk.

  He winced at a jostle. “No. But I saw their truck.”

  “Hopefully the sheriff can trace it from your description.”

  He closed his eyes and didn’t answer.

  “Hawk?”

  His tipped head and slack jaw told her he’d slipped back into unconsciousness.

  Tears stung the back of her eyes as she pressed harder on the gas pedal. She had to hurry! What would she do if—

  No, she refused to go there. Hawk would be all right. And Fitz, too, she added mentally as he continued to talk gibberish to himself behind her.

  Stark fear and a sense of inadequacy swamped over her with sudden vehemence. The same feelings she’d had as a child, over not being able to help her ill mother. With a deep breath she battled back against the constrictions in her heart. She would not give in to despair.

  Gritting her teeth, she clenched the steering wheel and made the turn onto the highway.

  Fitz would be fine.

  And Hawk would not die.

  Nobody died from being shot in the arm. Not in this day and age.

  And nobody thought any of this was her fault.

  That’s what she kept telling herself all the way to the small emergency-care clinic on the outskirts of Windmill Junction. And the whole time Hawk was with the doctor getting prepped and sewn up. And even when the nurse led a badly stammering Fitz into an exam room to give him a sedative.