Montana Rogue

by Jessica Douglass

  “Then what did they say?”

  “I don’t remember,” she said. “What business is it of yours anyway?”

  “It could be important. Think.”

  Courtney closed her eyes, and for one horrible moment it was as if she were back in that helicopter, hearing the gunman’s threats, feeling his hands on her. “I can’t think about it. Please don’t ask me.”

  “You have to.”

  “Why? What does it matter to you?”

  “It doesn’t matter a damn to me, babe. But anything you can think of might help the police later.”

  Her anger waned a little. “You’re right, of course. I’m sorry.” She forced herself to think, to remember. “They did say one thing. They mentioned a boss.”

  “Any names?”

  “No. I mean, there was one name. A slip of the tongue, I think. The pilot was supposed to be a man named Al. But someone else had to step in for him when Al took sick. Is that anything?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, it’s the best I can do!” she shot at him, shoving herself into a sitting position. It was a move she instantly regretted. Her head spun, the blankets covering her slipping nearly beneath her breasts. She didn’t miss the sudden fire that blazed in her reluctant host’s eyes, a fire swiftly subdued, crushed. She recalled his claim to have spared her modesty as much as possible. What if he had not? What if...?

  She forced the thought away. If she didn’t, she would quickly lose what minimal composure she had left.

  “You don’t understand,” she told him, despising the desperation that had crept into her voice. “My father is very ill. I need to get home. My disappearance could cause a setback in his recovery.” She wasn’t about to tell J.D. that her father was in a coma, and that even if he weren’t he might not have the slightest interest in seeing his only child.

  “I’m sure Quentin Hamilton will survive.”

  Her brows furrowed. “How do you know my father’s name? That’s not in my purse.”

  “Oh, it probably is,” J.D. said blandly, “on that little line where you write in who to notify in case of an accident. But even if it isn’t, it doesn’t take an Einstein to put your name and that prospectus together with Winthrop-Hamilton Industries. So, you’re what? The CEO of the Philadelphia branch? In charge of oil slicks on the Monongahela?”

  Courtney curled her fingers into her palms. “The Monongahela runs through Pittsburgh,” she said stiffly. “I handle spilling toxic waste into the Delaware.”

  He surprised her by grinning slightly, as though impressed by her sarcasm.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, J.D., but that tone of yours suggests that whatever grudge you’ve got against Winthrop-Hamilton is personal. Is it?”

  “That’s not your business.”

  “Maybe it is, since I’m the daughter of the real CEO of Winthrop-Hamilton. And I’ve been kidnapped.”

  “So we’re back to that again, are we?”

  “Maybe we never left it.”

  “Think what you like. I couldn’t possibly care less.”

  Courtney took a deep breath. “Look,” she said slowly, “fate seems to have been ill-mannered enough to throw us together, so let’s try and make the best of it, shall we?”

  “Are you patronizing me, Miss Hamilton?”

  “On the contrary, mister, I’m trying very hard not to hate you.”

  “Don’t do me any favors, okay?”

  “Then help me get to my father.”

  He waved a hand at the room’s accoutrements. “What can I say? Beam me up, Scotty? What we lack in the latest communications satellite, we make up for in rustic charm.”

  “I’m thrilled that you find all of this so amusing,” she grated. “But I must get word to my father and my father’s partner. I need them to know that I’m all right.” She eyed him with a sudden wariness. “That is, if I am all right.”

  J.D. let out a disgusted breath. “Get it through your head. If I meant to harm you, you’d already be harmed.”

  “Maybe,” she allowed, “but...do you mean to let me go?”

  “Why in God’s name would I want to keep you here any longer than?—” He stopped, his eyes going wide, as though he’d suddenly come up with the answer to his own question. “Don’t tell me. You think you’re going to be Jane to my Tarzan, right?” He snorted derisively. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. My taste in the fairer sex doesn’t run to spoiled rich bi—ah, women.”

  Courtney flushed, unaccountably stung by his attitude. How dare he judge her by her last name and his own best guess of her net worth? She supposed it would come as quite a shock to Mr. Holier-Than-Thou if she told him her true bank account balance. And what she had been doing for a living up until her father’s heart attack three weeks ago.

  But none of that was any of this conceited bastard’s business. “You must have some way to contact family, friends,” she pressed.

  “Don’t have any,” he said.

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  He scowled.

  “Do you think you could at least find me something to wear? I don’t like feeling so...so...”

  “Naked?” he supplied.

  “Vulnerable,” she corrected.

  His eyes darkened with an emotion she couldn’t name. She was certain he had another flippant remark in mind, but for once he kept it to himself.

  Instead, he stalked over to a battered dresser and pulled out a clean flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. “You’re welcome to these.” He tossed the clothes onto the bed.

  When he continued to stand there, Courtney crossed her arms in front of her. “You expect me to dress in front of you?”

  “Why not? You haven’t got any secrets from me, remember?”

  She felt her cheeks heat.

  He seemed to catch himself, and for an instant Courtney could have sworn he actually looked ashamed, then just that quickly the look was gone. “Tell you what,” he said. “You can have all the privacy you want. I’ve got a little business to attend to.”

  “Business? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  He eyed her steadily. “I’ve got a couple of bodies to bury. Much as I’d like to, it doesn’t seem right to leave ‘em to the animals.”

  Courtney flinched. “You’re right, of course,” she said in a small voice. “I hadn’t thought...”

  But J.D. was already crossing the wood-planked floor and catching up the rifle that hung above the mantel.

  “Why do you need a gun to dig a grave?” she heard herself ask.

  Those coolly assessing eyes were on her again. “You never know what kind of varmints you might run into in the woods, Miss Hamilton.”

  She didn’t miss the double meaning of his words. Unconsciously, she gripped the blankets tighter against her breasts. J.D.’s mouth twitched slightly at the gesture, whether in annoyance or amusement she couldn’t have said.

  “How long will you be gone?” she asked.

  “Miss me already?” he mocked.

  Her lips thinned. “I’d just like to know, all right?” As unpleasant as J.D.’s company was proving to be, having him around seemed preferable to being alone in the middle of nowhere with a badly sprained ankle and who knows what or whom out there in the woods looking for her.

  “No one’s going to find you here, Miss Hamilton,” J.D. said, his voice gentling slightly, as though he sensed her fear and had at least a modicum of sympathy for her. “I wouldn’t leave you if I thought you were in any immediate danger.”

  She stared at her hands. “Thank you.”

  “I won’t be gone long,” he assured her. “An hour or two at most. Help yourself to whatever you need around the place.” He added with gruff politeness, “Anything I can get you before I head out?”

  “I...I’m a little hungry.” Actually she was famished.

  J.D. tromped over to several shelves lined with canned goods along the far wall. “What’s your pleasure? Peaches? Pears? Spinach? Sauerkraut?”


  “Peaches. Please.” Her stomach rumbled, and she blushed.

  He brought a can over to her, along with a small bowl, spoon and a can opener. “Anything else?”

  “I... No, no thank you.” Her body was telling her that she needed to make a call of nature soon. But no way was she going to tell J.D. that.

  He strode to the fireplace, hunkering down to arrange a couple of extra big chunks of wood on the fire. One of the logs slipped and jammed into his left arm. J.D. cursed with more fervor than Courtney felt the incident called for, but she said nothing. Then he stood and crossed to an ancient ladder-back chair, where he snatched up the well-used sheepskin coat draped over the back of it. Shrugging into the coat, he flinched noticeably when its left sleeve slid over his left arm.

  Courtney’s eyes went wide. “Are you hurt?” she demanded.

  “It’s nothing. Snagged some skin on your helicopter, getting you out yesterday.”

  “Let me take a look,” she offered, feeling responsible for his injury. “It might need more tending than whatever you managed one handed.”

  “I said it was nothing,” he repeated tightly.

  Settling the rifle under one arm, he used his free hand to grab up a spade that had been propped against the wall near the door. Without so much as a backward glance he stalked from the cabin.

  For long minutes Courtney sat in the bed, unable to move, her thoughts as scattered as her emotions. The man’s mood swings were enough to give her whiplash. The notion that her life could rest on such temperamental shoulders was not exactly a comfort in her overstressed state.

  Kidnapped. She still couldn’t believe it.

  Had it only been yesterday morning that she’d been seated at her father’s desk in his office suite? She’d just ejected a computer disk she’d been unable to make heads or tails of, when his private line had rung.

  Your father’s had a relapse! Hurry!

  In a heartbeat she’d been headed for the elevator. She remembered taking time only to grab her purse, and...

  And, Courtney realized slowly, to tell Sarah Carpenter what had happened!

  Sarah Carpenter. Her father’s secretary for nearly two decades. Within minutes, dear, loyal Sarah had probably placed a half-dozen phone calls of her own, making inquiries about Quentin’s health. How quickly would Sarah have discovered the lie? And once she had, what would she have thought, done?

  Called Fletcher Winthrop, of course! Courtney’s spirits rose a little. It was just possible Fletcher would have suspected foul play even before the kidnappers had made known their demands. Maybe there weren’t just bad guys out there looking for her. Maybe there were a few good guys, as well.

  Courtney managed a shaky smile. Now, if only she knew for certain which one J.D. might be....

  Tugging on the man’s oversize blue flannel shirt, her gaze tracked unwillingly to the window. The tree-bristled slopes of the Sapphire Mountains had once been a haven for an emotionally bereft teenager. Now the towering trees and impervious granite seemed only to taunt her, threaten her. She clutched the tiny silver wolf at her throat. Out there somewhere, a dark-haired and unpredictable stranger was digging two graves. It occurred to her that he could just as easily be digging a third.

  Chapter 3

  Jack Sullivan sank back on his haunches and surveyed the mound of freshly piled stones in front of him. He dragged in a deep lungful of air and winced. His chest ached from hours of exertion in the thin mountain air. He doubted the temperature had nudged much above thirty-five degrees all afternoon. Ground frost had quickly convinced him to give up the notion of digging two separate graves. He’d turned instead to the ubiquitous rocks scattered along the pine-studded slope. Two makeshift wooden crosses jammed into the earth at the head of the mound provided what he hoped was the appropriate final touch to his interment activities.

  Taking a disinterested swipe at the sweat on his face, Jack pushed wearily to his feet. The ragged gash on his left forearm throbbed dully. From the looks of his sleeve, it had begun bleeding again. He grimaced, more in annoyance than pain. The damned thing needed stitches. He settled for wrapping the reddening gauze with a clean bandanna, then knotting it with his teeth. It would do. It would have to do. No way could he let Courtney tend the wound. Yanking his bloodstained shirtsleeve back into place, he grumbled a sour curse. Kidnapped heiresses, mangled helicopters, grave digging—it had been one helluva twenty-four hours.

  Giving his head a bemused shake, Jack cast a glance skyward. “Calling in markers, God?” he muttered, wondering what other explanation there could be for how his life had managed to cross paths with one Miss Courtney Anne Hamilton.

  Again.

  Jack Sullivan would be the first to admit his life had not always traversed the straight and narrow. But he must have strayed farther from the path than he’d thought for the Almighty to torment him yet again with Courtney.

  His gut clenched, a shaft of guilt rippling through him. How much further could he stray than what he’d done to Courtney one hot, stormy night ten years ago? The pain and betrayal in her green eyes had haunted him for months afterward. Haunted him, but done nothing to change his mind. He’d done what he had to do. To this day, he was convinced of that. Maybe his methods had been a bit crude, but the results had been what mattered. He’d put an end to Courtney’s starry-eyed fantasies about Jack Sullivan once and for all. Surely that had to be a plus in the Almighty’s record book.

  “You wish, Sullivan,” he gritted aloud. Big, noble sacrifice? Was that his rewrite on that night? Like hell. He’d done what needed doing, but there’d been nothing at all noble about it. Nobility required honesty, guts. Instead, he’d opted for the coward’s way out. Just as he’d done three hours ago at the cabin. He’d looked Courtney straight in the eye and didn’t even have the guts to admit who he was.

  She doesn’t need to know, he argued inwardly.

  Yeah, right, his conscience countered. For her sake? Or your own?

  Jack swore, annoyed by his sparring thoughts. It wasn’t his fault Courtney had gotten mixed-up in this mess, a mess far beyond anything she yet suspected. Soon enough her kidnapping would be the least of her worries. But he would deal with that bit of unpleasantness later. One disaster at a time was all he could handle.

  If only she’d stayed the hell away from Butte. Two more weeks. That’s all he’d needed. Two more weeks and everything he had set in motion three months ago would have been set to pay off. Instead, everything was in danger of collapsing. All because of one unforeseen wild card.

  Courtney.

  Jack raked his right hand through his tousled, shoulder-length dark hair. He was being a damned fool. How could there even be any debate? He should be on his knees with gratitude that she hadn’t recognized him. With luck he might still be able to pull everything together, gain the full measure of justice that was his due. No, not justice—revenge. If Courtney had seen through his disguise, and then guessed the true scope of that revenge...

  Jack closed his eyes. For his sake—and Courtney’s—it was best that he remain anonymous. For now.

  The hair, the beard, the slightly slumped posture—all had been carefully thought out, as had the barest trace of a rasp he’d added to his voice. The brown contacts had been a stroke of genius, if he did say so himself, though at times they irritated the hell out of his baby blues. Not that he was complaining. The disguise had worked to perfection. Not one person had recognized him since his return home.

  Home.

  Jack cursed feelingly.

  Did he even consider Montana home anymore?

  The wind picked up, soughing mournfully through the needles of the lodgepole. Overhead, an osprey called to its mate. Jack let out a soul-weary sigh. The easier question might be—could he ever not think of Montana as home?

  Especially here. So close to the cabin. Pete’s cabin. Jack’s gut twisted.

  Pete Wilson. His mentor, his friend.

  Pete Wilson. Dead. Murdered.

 
; Jack’s hands balled into fists at his sides. It had been Pete, the Butte street cop, who had been there to pick up the pieces for a rebellious, grieving teenage boy after Jack’s father had died. It had been Pete who offered his cabin to the man Jack had become when Jack’s life had gone straight to hell one Los Angeles night eight months ago.

  No. He couldn’t afford to think too much about Pete. Didn’t dare. Thinking about Pete could make him reckless, careless.

  He shook his head, scarcely believing the twists and turns his life had taken these past ten years, twists and turns that had taken him far away from the pristine blue skies of Montana to the smog-ridden grit of L.A. and back again. Back and face-to-face with Courtney Hamilton.

  If only he didn’t remember how vulnerable she’d looked ten years ago. How damned innocent, how lost. Hell, if only he’d never met her at all.

  But he had. And there was nothing he could do to change it. Instead, he would just have to factor in this unforeseen bit of bad luck and make the best of it.

  Taking her down the mountain would be a major risk—in more ways than one. God only knew who they might run into. And whose side they’d be on.

  Keeping her at the cabin was a whole different can of worms, one he didn’t even want to think about opening.

  Take me home. Her voice had trembled with a fear he could tell she’d been trying valiantly to keep under tight control.

  His response? He’d turned her down flat. And scared the hell out of her. A realization that continued to gnaw at his gut. But he’d had no choice. Still didn’t. He gave her credit, though. She’d stood up to his J.D. guise with more moxie than he would’ve predicted for a woman of her pampered upbringing. In fact, she’d come through the whole ordeal of a kidnapping and helicopter crash in remarkably feisty spirits. The Courtney he’d known ten years ago would not have fared as well.

  But she’d been all of nineteen back then. An innocent in more ways than one.

  This Courtney was stronger, tougher. And yet, underneath the gutsy exterior, he’d sensed some of the same fragility and vulnerability that had so attracted him to her ten years ago.

  Muttering an oath, Jack kicked at a stray stone, sending it tumbling toward the silent hulk of the wrecked helicopter. Enough about Courtney. They’d had a one-night mistake ten years ago. And it had ended the only way it could for a wealthy young socialite and a Black Irish laborer from the wrong side of anybody’s tracks. If he was real lucky, he’d be back in L.A. before she even remembered she’d ever met a man named Jack Sullivan. Though for just an instant, when he’d knelt beside her at the crash site, he could’ve sworn she’d said his name. But between his own adrenaline and her semiconscious state, he decided he must have been hearing things.