The Cowgirl in Question Part 1

THE COWGIRL IN QUESTION.

by B.J. DANIELS.

Prologue.

Maybe if Forrest Danvers hadn't been half-drunk or spitting mad, he might have seen it coming.

But then he wasn't expecting any real trouble as he drove up Wild Horse Gulch in the late-night darkness.

The road cut through sheer rock cliffs, then opened to towering ponderosa pines before topping out on a sagebrush-studded bench that overlooked the Tongue River.

Forrest was a little uneasy, given his reason for being there in the first place. Nor did it help that the night was blacker than the inside of a boot and a storm was coming.

But he was feeling too good to go home yet. For the first time in his twenty-one years of miserable life, he felt he could be somebody. Somebody people respected. Not just another one of those no-count Danvers like his brother Cecil.

He parked his pickup on the bench above the river and rolled down his window, feeling closed in, anxious to hear the sound of the other vehicle coming up the narrow mountain road. She was late. As usual. Women. Women.

The air had an edge to it, a kind of jittery current that set his nerves on end. He blamed the approaching thunderstorm and the lightning that flickered behind dark bruised clouds at the edge of the horizon.

It promised to be one h.e.l.l of a storm. In this part of Montana, thunderstorms often swept across the vast open landscape, bringing wind that tore branches from the cottonwoods and rain as large and hard as stones that ran in torrents down the dry creek beds like rivers.

Beyond the closer smell of sagebrush and dust, he picked up the welcome scent of the coming rainstorm. It had been far too hot and dry this summer. The ground needed a good soaking and he needed to cool down in more ways than one.

It had been one h.e.l.l of a night at the Mello Dee Lounge and Supper Club. At the memory, he flexed his right hand. It hurt like h.e.l.l, the knuckles skinned and b.l.o.o.d.y. He smiled at the memory of his fist connecting with Rourke McCall's face.

Forrest could feel his left eye swelling shut. At least the cut over his right had stopped bleeding. That was something. And, he thought taking a shaky breath, his ribs hurt where he'd taken a punch, but Forrest had got in a few good licks himself.

Rourke McCall had just been itching for a fight. Forrest saw that now. Saw that he'd been a fool to oblige the crazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d. But what else could he have done? Just let Rourke cut in on the dance floor when Forrest was enjoying himself with Blaze Logan?

That was the problem with Rourke. He thought he owned Blaze, had ever since junior high. What a fool. Anyone with a pocketful of money could have Blaze-at least until the cash ran out.

Forrest rolled a cigarette, lit it and glanced at his watch before tossing the match to the floorboard. In that instant between light and darkness, he looked out and thought he saw someone silhouetted against the storm.

He stared into the darkness, unnerved until lightning lit the horizon and he could see that there was nothing out there but clumps of silver sage and sun-golden gra.s.ses bent to the breeze.

Just the booze playing tricks on him. He crushed out the last of his cigarette, wis.h.i.+ng now he'd just gone home. Leaning back, he pulled his cowboy hat down over his face and closed his eyes. He was tired and sore and already feeling a little hungover. This had been a bad idea, but if she'd ever get here...

The night air felt good coming in through his open window. He half listened for the sound of the vehicle coming up the creek road, half dozed.

He'd dropped off into a deep, alcohol-drenched sleep when he was startled awake. At first all he heard was the whine of a vehicle engine coming up the road and the low rumble of thunder. Lightning flickered across the horizon, then died, leaving the night even darker.

But as he listened, he realized that wasn't what had awakened him.

He sat up a little, trying to place the sound. Then he heard it again. The soft sc.r.a.pe of boot leather brus.h.i.+ng against sagebrush.

He sat up straight, pushed back his hat and, rubbing his hand over his face to wake up, stared out his open side window into the blackness.

The air seemed to change around him an instant before he saw the barrel of the pistol. Just a glint of blued steel appearing out of the night right next to him and the open window.

He stared at the gun, more than a little startled to realize that he really wasn't wasn't alone, probably hadn't been for most of the time he'd been sitting there. alone, probably hadn't been for most of the time he'd been sitting there.

He frowned, uncomprehending. In the distance, the sound of the vehicle coming up the road grew closer and closer.

For just a split second, the gun, the gloved hand holding it and the face of the person were illuminated in a flash of lightning. Just long enough for Forrest Danvers to face his killer.

"No!" The deafening boom of the gunshot drowned out his cry. He felt the burning heat as the lead entered his chest. The second shot exploded from the barrel of the gun. He barely noticed it. In the flare of the gunshot, he studied the killer's face, wanting to hang on to every familiar feature until they met again in h.e.l.l.

Chapter One.

Eleven years later.

A storm blew in the day Rourke McCall got out of prison.

At the Longhorn Cafe, Ca.s.sidy Miller brushed back an errant strand of hair from her face and tried to pretend it was just another day as she picked up the coffeepot and headed for the table in the corner now full of ranch hands from the VanHorn spread.

On the way, she made the mistake of looking out the window. The sky outside had turned dark and ominous, dust devils swirled in the street, the first drops of rain pelted the front window and streaked the gla.s.s.

Past the rain and dust, someone else was also staring out at the storm-and her. Blaze Logan stood at the window of the Antelope Development Corporation. Their eyes met across Main Street and Ca.s.sidy felt a chill rattle through her.

"I'll take a little more of that coffee, Ca.s.s," called Dub Morgan, the VanHorn Ranch foreman, from the table she'd been heading toward.

Ca.s.sidy dragged her gaze away from the window and Blaze, not realizing that she'd stopped walking, and took the pot of coffee over to the tableful of cowboys. But as she filled their coffee cups and joked and smiled, her mind was miles away in Deer Lodge, Montana, where Rourke McCall, the wildest of the McCall boys, would be walking out the gate of the Montana State Prison this morning.

None of her patrons had mentioned it, but everyone in town knew. That was one reason the cafe was packed this morning and she'd had to call in an extra waitress.

Everyone was wondering if Rourke would come back to town and make good on the threat he'd made against her eleven years ago.

As he was being dragged out of the courtroom in handcuffs, he had called back to Ca.s.sidy, "I know you framed me. I'm going to get out and, when I do, I'll be back for you."

The judge had given him twenty-five years but Rourke was walking out a free man after only eleven. For most of those years, Rourke had worked the prison's cattle ranch. Ironic since he'd hated working the family ranch and done everything possible to avoid it in all the years Ca.s.sidy had known him.

Good behavior, the warden had told the parole board. "Rourke McCall is a changed man. A reformed man. He is no longer a threat to society."

No, he was only a threat to Ca.s.sidy Miller-no matter what he told the parole board or the warden.

"You okay, honey?" Ellie whispered, slowing as she pa.s.sed Ca.s.sidy with an armload of plates headed for the VanHorn Ranch table.

Ca.s.sie nodded and glanced outside again, trying to imagine what it would be like seeing Rourke after all these years. Maybe he really was a changed man. Maybe he was reformed. Maybe he'd forgotten his threat against her.

But even as she thought it, she knew better. Rourke McCall might have fooled the prison officials but he couldn't fool her.

The bell dinged indicating that an order was up. She moved toward the kitchen, determined to keep up a good front. She didn't want anyone to know she'd been dreading this day for eleven years. Or the real reason why.

ACROSS THE STREET, Blaze Logan stood at the window watching the crowd at the Longhorn Cafe and smiling to herself. How appropriate that one h.e.l.l of a thunderstorm would hit town just before Rourke McCall did.

She could sense the change in the air, smell the rain and expectation, hear the hush that had fallen over Antelope Flats, Montana. She loved nothing better than a good knock-down-drag-out fight. She'd had that and more the night Forrest Danvers was murdered and she was ready for the h.e.l.l Rourke was going to cause when he got back.

As she caught another glimpse of Ca.s.sidy Miller through the cafe window across the street, her smile broadened. Ca.s.sidy. The good girl and a thorn in Blaze's side since they were kids. Her cousin Ca.s.sidy had always been the perfect one. She now owned her own business, was president of the chamber of commerce, helped with every d.a.m.ned fund-raiser in town. No one ever had a bad word to say about her.

"Why can't you be more like Ca.s.sidy," her father had said from as far back as Blaze could remember.

She and Ca.s.sidy competed against each other in regional rodeos and Ca.s.sidy always won, and Blaze always threw a fit when she lost.

"You could learn something about being a good sport from your cousin," her father would say.

But Blaze knew she should have won, had to win, was expected to win because her great-grandmother had been a trick rider with a Wild West show. Her cousin Ca.s.sidy's great-grandmother was n.o.body.

"Even when Ca.s.sidy loses, she's gracious," her father would say.

Yeah, well that was because Ca.s.sidy seldom lost at anything.

Except when it came to Rourke McCall. Blaze had felt not even a twinge of guilt when Ca.s.sidy had confessed back in junior high that her dream was to someday marry Rourke McCall.

Blaze had never paid much attention to Rourke before that. He was tall, sandy-blond with blue eyes and a temper. At the time, he'd been a teenager, moody and full of himself. She could tell by looking at him even back then that he would never amount to anything.

But Blaze was already developing and boys were noticing. Ca.s.sidy, on the other hand, was two years younger, and a tomboy.

Getting Rourke to notice her had been a piece of cake for Blaze, who hadn't really liked him but wanted to win just once. As it turned out, she'd not only beaten Ca.s.sidy, she'd ruined any chance her cousin ever had of ending up with Rourke McCall.

Blaze stared across the street, catching glimpses of Ca.s.sidy as she worked. Blaze still resented her. Probably because Blaze's father still threw Ca.s.sidy up to her.

The worst fight she'd ever had with her father was over Ca.s.sidy.

"My whole life you've compared me to Ca.s.sidy," she'd cried. "I'm sick of it. I'm nothing like her and I'm glad."

Her father had nodded ruefully. "No, you're right, you're nothing like your cousin. She's doing something with her life. She doesn't just live off her parents."

"Her daddy ran off and her mother is poor," Blaze had retorted. "We're not."

"I'm not," John Logan had snapped. "You, my daughter, are going to get a job and start growing up." not," John Logan had snapped. "You, my daughter, are going to get a job and start growing up."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm cutting you off. No more money. You're on your own."

Blaze hadn't been able to believe her ears. She'd always been her father's favorite between her and her stepbrother, Gavin Shaw. How could her father turn against her like this? "You're doing this because of Ca.s.sidy."

He just shook his head. "You've always put your cousin Ca.s.sidy down, but it wouldn't hurt you to be a little more like her."

Well, Blaze thought wryly, she was d.a.m.ned glad she wasn't Ca.s.sidy now. She wouldn't want to be in that woman's shoes for anything. Not today. Not with Rourke getting out of prison and coming back to even the score.

No way was Rourke going to let Ca.s.sidy Miller get away with what she'd done to him. Blaze was almost rubbing her hands together in her excitement. Antelope Flats had been too dull for too long, but Rourke McCall was about to change all of that.

Unless he he was the one who'd changed. Unless all that good behavior that got him released early was the one who'd changed. Unless all that good behavior that got him released early wasn't wasn't an act. The thought ruined her day. What if he didn't come back? What if he really had put the past to rest? an act. The thought ruined her day. What if he didn't come back? What if he really had put the past to rest?

No, not the Rourke McCall she'd known, she a.s.sured herself. He'd just sold all of that bull to the warden so he could get out early. Good behavior and Rourke McCall...the two had never gone together, she thought smiling again.

Poor Ca.s.sidy Miller. Blaze couldn't wait. Finally her cousin was going to get her comeuppance. It couldn't happen to a nicer person.

ROURKE MCCALL WALKED out of Montana State Prison, stopped and, looking up at the wide blue sky, took a deep breath of freedom.

Eleven years. Eleven years of his life.

He heard his little brother get out of the pickup and come toward him. Lowering his gaze from the sky, he took Brandon's outstretched hand and shook it firmly, smiling at the youngest of his brothers. Of his family, only Brandon and their little sister Dusty had kept in touch with him on a regular basis, and Dusty only on the Q.T. since their father had forbidden it.

"You have any plans?" Brandon asked as he led the way to one of the ranch pickups.

Rourke stopped to study the graphic painted on the pickup door. The words Sundown Ranch were printed over the top of the longhorn in a stylized print. New. He liked the old, more simple script that had been on the trucks since his grandfather's time much better, but he was sure that a lot of things had changed in the eleven years he'd been gone.

"I mean, if you don't have any plans, I have a few things going I could let you in on," Brandon said as he opened the driver's side door and climbed behind the wheel.

Rourke got in the pa.s.senger side. Yeah, a lot of things had changed. He tried to remember if he'd ever ridden with Brandon, who was only nineteen when Rourke had gone to prison. Rourke had only been twenty-two himself. "What kind of things?"

Brandon smiled. "Moneymaking."

Rourke shook his head and leaned back against the seat, adjusting his cowboy hat. "Thanks, but I have plans."

He could feel Brandon's eyes on him. Unlike the warden, Brandon wouldn't even attempt to give him a pep talk about letting go of the past, starting over, looking at this as a new beginning, forgetting he'd been framed for murder and had just spent eleven years of his life in prison because of it.

He closed his eyes and let the sound of the tires on the pavement lull him. He was free. Finally. Free to do what he'd promised himself he would do all those nights in prison.

He didn't wake up until the pickup left the highway and b.u.mped onto the dirt road. He didn't need to open his eyes to know exactly where they were. He'd been down this road enough times to remember every hill and turn and b.u.mp. How many times at night in his prison cell had he lain awake thinking about the day he would drive down this road again?

He opened his eyes and rolled down his window, realizing he'd forgotten the exact smell of the sage, the sun-baked earth and summer-dried gra.s.ses, the scent of the cool pines and the creek.

He'd forgotten too how much he loved this land. The red rock bluffs, the silken green of the ponderosa trees etched against the summer blue of the sky or the deep gold of the gra.s.s, tops heavy, bobbing in the breeze.

McCall Country. Miles and miles dotted with cattle that had been driven up here from Texas by his great-great-grandfather when this country was foreign and dangerous and full of promise.

His memory hadn't done it justice. White puffs of clouds scudded across a canvas of endless deep blue as the pickup raced along the muddy dirt road, still wet from an earlier rain. Chokecherries, dark as blood, bent the limbs of the bushes along the creek as the summer golden gra.s.ses undulated in waves over the rolling hills. And above a narrow draw, turkey buzzards circled, black wings flapping slowly over something dead below.

Rourke fought that old feeling of awe and owners.h.i.+p. He stared out, feeling the generations of men before him who had fought for this land, feeling its pull, its allure and the price of that enticement. No matter how he felt about his old man or how Asa McCall felt about him, Rourke was a McCall and always would be.