Matthew Forester had done some things he wasn’t proud of. Eavesdropping on a client wasn’t one of them—until he’d tuned in the bellowing voice coming from Roy Logan’s private office.
Matt had arrived at Logan’s Wyoming ranch to install a state-of-the-art security system. A month ago, he’d wondered why a Western cattleman needed such stringent protection. After twenty-four hours on the ranch, it was obvious why Logan lived in an armed camp.
If Matt had been asked to pick a few choice words to describe Logan, it would have been “millionaire son of a bitch.’’ But not out loud, since he was always respectful of Randolph Security’s clients.
He’d been looking forward to finishing the job and flying home, until Logan had demanded that he stay on to do a detailed analysis of future security needs over the next twenty-five years. Off the top of his head, Matt had named a fee for the additional services that he thought was outrageous, but Logan hadn’t blinked. And after conferring with headquarters, Matt had accepted the job, telling himself he could take another two weeks on the ranch.
But he didn’t like the arrogant, barrel-chested Logan—didn’t trust him further than he could throw a yearling steer. And when he heard the name Amanda Barnwell mentioned in the same breath as Roy’s recently deceased son, Colin, he froze in place.
Am image of Amanda rose in his mind, complete with poetic words and phrases startlingly foreign to his usual form of expression. Eyes the fathomless blue of mountain lakes. Hair sparkling with sunshine. A body with generous curves that she invariably hid under loose-fitting shirts. And a voice that felt like warm honey sliding over his skin.
She wasn’t his usual type. Yet he’d found her the most appealing woman he’d met in Crowfoot, Wyoming.
Crowfoot was hardly more than a wide place in the road, but he’d needed to escape from the claustrophobic atmosphere of the Logan Ranch by driving into town when he could. And he’d had the good luck to run into Amanda several times. The first had been at the post office, when she’d captured his attention as she’d accepted a couple of boxes of books from the plump little postmistress.
A shadow crossed Mrs. Hastings’s face. “That girl deserves better,’’ she said as she watched Amanda climb into her Jeep Cherokee. “She stayed at home to take care of her dad when he got too sick to do for himself. Now he’s gone, and she’s past thirty—and too prickly with men to catch herself a husband.’’
“Past thirty? You’re putting me on.’’
“No indeed.’’ The denial had been the prelude to a fifteen-minute earful of fascinating tidbits about Amanda Barnwell—from her upset win in the Fourth of July horse race to her quilting skills, showcased at the school fund-raiser last year. Matt emerged into the afternoon light wishing he could get to know the intriguing Miss Amanda a whole lot better—and wondering which details Mrs. Hastings was leaving out.
The desire to connect with Amanda had strengthened after he’d wolfed down a couple of her chocolate brownies at the church bake sale. He’d toyed with the idea of asking her out to dinner. Then he’d told himself there was no way a ranch-raised girl was going to get involved with a hard-bitten ex-spy who was going back to Baltimore in a couple of weeks, anyway.
Matt’s attention was snapped back into focus by Roy’s raspy voice. Easing sideways against the wall, he saw the tip of a snakeskin boot and knew Roy was talking to his foreman, Al Hewitt, the weasel-face guy who did the boss’s dirty work.
“She’s carrying my boy Colin’s child,’’ Roy growled. “And I want that baby.’
Carrying Colin’s child? Matt’s dark eyes narrowed. A woman like Amanda had been mixed up with Roy’s low-life son?
The notion was ludicrous, and Matt’s muscles tensed as he pictured himself bursting into the office, taking Roy by the shirtfront and shaking some sense into him. But there was just enough rational thought left in his brain to keep him planted where he was.
“You can’t just go snatching a baby away from its mother,’’ Hewitt objected.
“Anyone can be bought. If I offer her enough money, she’ll be glad to let me take the responsibility off her hands. What’s she going to do with a kid anyway—a woman alone?’’
The imperious question made Matt’s large hands ball into fists at his sides.
“She don’t need the money,’’ Hewitt clipped out. “Old man Barnwell left her with plenty of assets when he kicked the bucket.’’
“That kid is the only thing I have left of Colin. The way I see it, I’m entitled to my progeny.’’
“Roy, this isn’t the Old West. You can’t just steal that gal’s baby.’’
“Who’s gonna stop me?’’ the lord of Logan Ranch shot back. “Since her papa died, there’s nobody around here I can’t buy. I damn well own Crowfoot—the real estate and the sheriff’s department. They’ll look the other way if she disappears. And maybe it won’t come to that. Go out to her ranch and make her an offer she can’t refuse.’’
“Are you sure Colin is the father?’’ Hewitt asked.
“Do you doubt my source of information?’’ Roy growled.
“No.’’
Matt heard papers shuffling. “This is the preliminary report from the detective I hired. Tim Francetti. He’s the best. I only hire the best, remember. That’s why I have a security guy out here from Baltimore. And that’s why I went to Francetti. When he digs up a little more dirt, I can nail the bastards who killed Colin.’’
“We can avenge Colin. That’s no problem,’’ Hewitt agreed. “But the girl is another matter. I don’t think she’s gonna play ball with you. She’s got more guts than you give her credit for.’’
“Listen, with her parents gone, she’s just another unprotected female. If we can’t buy her, we wait for the kid to be born, then arrange for her to have an accident. Anything it takes.’’
Acid churned in Matt’s stomach as he tried to wrap his mind around what he was hearing—even from a man like Logan.
“If you lean on her too hard, she might just skip town.’’
“Oh, yeah?’’ Roy’s chair creaked, and Matt imagined him easing forward. “I think you’d better arrange to scoop her up and bring her out here where we can keep an eye on her.’’
There was a moment of silence behind the office door, then Hewitt cleared his throat. “Not a good idea. Not with that Forester fellow around. The way I read him, he might not like to see you putting pressure on the girl.’’
“Write him an official letter telling him the deal is off. And keep the little mother in one of the line cabins until you can send him packing.’’
Matt heard a chair scrape back, then the sound of someone dialing the phone.
“Give me some privacy,’’ Logan growled.
Without making a sound, Matt eased away from the office door, knowing that he had to get to Amanda Barnwell before Al Hewitt beat him to the punch.
AMANDA STOOD at the kitchen window. She’d started off washing dishes, but the wet sponge in her hand had been forgotten as she’d gazed across the high plateau toward the Bighorn Mountains, rising like a natural fortress against the navy blue of the evening summer sky. She’d lived all her life in the shadow of those mighty peaks, and they had always been a symbol of strength for her.
She was going to need that strength, she thought as her hand drifted to her middle, covering the child growing within her.
Her child. Hers alone. Wouldn’t that be grist for the town gossip mill!
Her hand clenched as she tried to wipe away painful memories—of whispers and giggles behind her back. And worse. Now she mostly ignored them, because that was the way she’d learned to survive—by turning away and tightening her heart a little more each year.
Still, in the end, the need for someone to love had won over pride or dignity. She longed for a child of her own, someone to share her life, and so she’d gone about making that dream a reality.
Quickly finishing the dishes and drying her hands, she wandered into the cozy den with its tan corduroy couch and the easy chair where her father had read his subscription copy of the New York Times every evening.
The room was full of her handiwork—the woven hangings on the walls, the flowered pillows on the couch, even the rag rug. Settling in here for the evening usually made her feel peaceful, but she was still feeling unsettled as she pulled out her box of books and thumbed through the pregnancy manuals she’d ordered from an Internet company. She’d bought everything she could find, because control and knowledge always increased her comfort level.
That was the practical Amanda. There was another Amanda, as well. One who allowed herself to daydream. Of course, some of her dreams had fallen by the wayside under the onslaught of reality. But not the baby, because she’d decided you didn’t need to be married to bear a child. And once she’d made that decision, she hadn’t let convention or morality stand in her way.
She rarely thought about the actual circumstance that had resulted in conception. Yet lately she’d found herself indulging in one secret fantasy. There was an intriguing man whom she’d seen in town over the past month. Mrs. Hastings at the post office had told her his name was Matthew Forester, and he was working for Roy Logan.
She’d been put off by that at first, since she knew enough about Logan to despise the rancher who thought he was king of this part of Wyoming. Yet Forester hadn’t seemed like Logan’s usual sort of employee, which was the consensus among the women of Crowfoot.
The ladies had done considerable gossiping about the man—at the post office, the grocery store, the Methodist Church, the feed store and the Blossom Café. She hadn’t participated, of course. But she’d told herself there was no harm in listening.
The new men who came to town were likely to be cowboys hired on at the nearby ranches. Forester had been immediately pegged as something else. It had been a minor triumph to establish that he was a security expert hired from back east.
Even before they’d pegged his occupation, they’d catalogued his physical attributes. They’d remarked on his hard, lean body and estimated his height at just over six feet. They’d admired his broad, well-muscled shoulders and his hard butt. They’d enumerated his chiseled features—from his firm jaw to the dark eyes set under thick brows that might not have been attractive if his bone structure hadn’t been up to carrying the effect.
The bolder women had even talked about the generous masculine bulge behind the fly of his well-washed jeans.
Some of the talk had made the heat rise in Amanda’s cheeks. But it hadn’t stopped her from taking it all in, even though she’d given up thinking she could hold her own in a relationship with a man like that—or any man, for that matter. But in her secret fantasies, she had allowed herself to imagine what making love with Matt might be like. And from there it had only been a short step to imagining him as the father of her child. She knew deep down that the game was ridiculous—and dangerous. She didn’t need a man. She didn’t want a man in her life. She wanted to be totally independent. So why couldn’t she stop thinking about Matt Forester in such an intimate way? Probably because her hormones were so out of kilter, she told herself.
She was yanked from her secret reveries by a knock on the back door, and she felt a stab of guilt, like a kid caught snitching a piece of mom’s apple pie.
“Miss Amanda?’’
It was Ed Stanton, the foreman who had been with the family since she’d been a little girl. He’d taken her for rides on the front of his saddle when she could barely walk. And he knew as much about the operation of the ranch as her father had.
They’d always worked closely together, with the foreman making suggestions and Dad either accepting or rejecting them.
Then, as her father had lost his head for business matters and she’d taken over, she relied more and more on Ed’s ranching experience. But she’d yet to cross the hurdle of letting him or anybody else know about her condition.
“Come in,’’ she called, glancing toward the box of books beside the sofa. “I’ll be right there.’’
Carefully closing the lid, she hurried into the hall. Ed was standing in the kitchen, and she saw that the lines of his weathered face were a little more deeply etched tonight.
“Is there a problem?’’ she asked.
“Just thought I ought to check in with you.’’ He paused, cleared his throat. “I’ve been hoping not to bother you with this. But some of the ranchers have been talking about rustlers thinning their herds. So I’ve had the men checking the south range where we have most of our stock right now. We may have been on the hit list. There are tire tracks where it looks like a big truck pulled off our access road.’’ He scuffed his foot. “Have you had some dealings with a trucking company or something that I don’t know about?’’
“I would have told you if I had, Ed,’’ she answered quickly.
He nodded. “Well, I just thought I’d see if you knew anything about the truck.’’
“I appreciate that.’’
He stayed where he was, shifting his hat in his hands. “You want to come out with me tomorrow and see the spot I’m talkin’ about?’’
“Of course.’’
“I’ve got the men keeping an eye out tonight to make sure that truck doesn’t come back. Tomorrow we may want to contact Dwayne.’’
Dwayne Thomas was the local sheriff.
“So, if you need me for anything tonight, you know where to find me.’’
“Sure. Thanks,’’ Amanda answered.
He stood on the back porch for a moment as though there were more he wanted to say, then headed for the house about a hundred yards away that her father had built him. The rest of the hands lived in the bunkhouse. But Ed had rated a place of his own when he’d married twenty years ago. Unfortunately, Martha hadn’t been content to be married to a man who was never going to be the owner of the property. So she’d left Ed and taken his son with her years ago.
Amanda stood watching until he’d disappeared from view, thankful that he was here to run the spread, but wishing he could be more direct in his recommendations tonight. His hesitation had increased the unsettled feeling she’d been struggling with all evening. Probably she should have asked more questions. But there would be plenty of time for that in the morning. Neither one of them was going anywhere. And maybe she’d even work up the gumption to tell him that there was going to be a baby on the ranch a little over five months from now.
THE SCREEN DOOR SLAMMED behind Matt as he charged through the living room of his guest cottage, hidden behind the grandiose structure of timber and stone Roy Logan called home.
Matt liked the modest three-room home a lot better than the mansion, where the ambience ran to enormous brass chandeliers, Remington table statues and leather upholstery. Probably Roy’d had it done up by some expensive decorator who had charged him double for every piece.
Grateful for the seclusion of the cottage, Matt crossed to the desk and quickly gathered up the notes he’d made on Logan’s requested security evaluation. They belonged to the Randolph organization—until Logan paid for the extra work.
Carrying them and his notebook computer into the bedroom, he pulled down the duffel bag and the briefcase he’d stowed in the closet. The papers and the notebook went into the briefcase.
Then he started opening drawers and pulling out his clothing, figuring he had until morning before anybody was going to miss him. As he shoved shirts, pants and underwear into the bag, he thought about phoning Cam Randolph and warning headquarters that he was taking an unscheduled leave of absence. Or contacting the group informally called the Light Street Irregulars, who came to each other’s aid in time of trouble.
But he canceled the thoughts even as they formed. He knew better than anyone else that all communications to and from the ranch were monitored. Besides, it was better that his boss and his friends back in Baltimore could honestly say that they’d had no knowledge of Matthew Forester’s intentions, if Roy Logan asked.
He was in the bathroom tossing his razor and shaving cream in his Dopp Kit bag, when he heard footsteps crossing the plank flooring in the front room.
“Forester?’’
Coming back into the bedroom, Matt watched the Logan foreman poking through the contents of his duffel.
“What are you doing?’’ Matt asked, striving to keep the sudden flash of anger out of his voice.
“I could ask you the same question,’’ Hewitt answered, his eyes narrowing as they flicked from the bag to the open dresser drawers.
Matt took several steps closer, deliberately crowding the smaller man as he scrambled for an explanation that would ring true with the likes of Roy Logan’s foreman. “Okay, I’ll give it to you straight. When I agreed to take this job, I thought it was strictly temporary. I didn’t know I’d be without a woman in my bed for three weeks. There’s only so much a man can take, so I’ve got a date with a hot babe in town.’’
Hewitt gestured toward the duffel bag. “You don’t need to take most of your stuff on a date,’’ he pointed out.
“That’s true, if all you’re expecting is a quickie. But I hit it lucky. The sweet thing asked me to move in with her.’’
“Yeah, well, Roy wants you available when he needs you. Did you get his permission to leave?’’
“I’m not on call twenty-four hours a day.’’ He looked at his watch, doing a good imitation of a man impatient to bed a woman. “I’ll run it by him when I come back to work in the morning.’’
Hewitt’s eyes narrowed. “Well, suppose we run it by him now.’’
“I don’t think so.’’ Matt tossed the bag of toiletries into the duffel and reached for the zipper.
“You heard me and Roy talking about the Barnwell girl.’’
From the corner of his eye, he saw Hewitt’s hand go for the gun holstered at his right hip.
With well-honed reflexes, Matt whirled and brought his own hand down in a quick, painful chop across the other man’s wrist.
Before Hewitt’s scream of pain faded, Matt pulled the man’s gun from his holster and tossed it onto the bed, out of reach.
“Didn’t anybody teach you manners?’’ he growled, assuming the matter was settled as Hewitt stood there rubbing his hand.
Apparently that wasn’t the end of it. With more finesse than Matt would have given him credit for, his opponent reached left-handed into his boot and whipped out a knife, almost simultaneously springing forward.
Matt’s counteroffensive was instinctive. As the blade flashed toward him, he dodged to the side, then brought his fist up, putting his considerable power and speed into the punch that connected with the other man’s jaw. Then he landed another blow to his midsection.
Hewitt went down, landing in an inert heap on the floor.
Eyeing the foreman, Matt pondered his options. Unfortunately slitting his throat with his own knife wasn’t one of them. Neither was leaving him here in the guest cottage.
Ripping the cord from the venetian blinds, he knelt and secured the hands and feet of the unconscious man. After testing the bonds, he pulled out one of his T-shirts and used it for a gag. Then he made a quick inspection of the foreman’s limp body, finding another knife strapped to the guy’s wrist. In the pockets were a large key ring, coins and a wallet with two hundred in cash and a few credit cards. After a moment’s hesitation, Matt pocketed the cash, since it might come in handy.
Methodically he began to turn off the lights, except for the reading lamp in the bedroom. Then he walked silently to the front of the cottage and peered out the windows. In the silver radiance of the almost full moon, the ranch looked like an illustration from a Visit Wyoming ad. If Hewitt had come with reinforcements, they weren’t in evidence.
When he returned to the bedroom, the foreman was awake and trying unsuccessfully to free his hands.
When he saw Matt, his eyes glittered with malice and his mouth worked, but he couldn’t get any coherent words past the gag.
Matt stared at him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, wishing that Hewitt hadn’t jumped right on the assignment of dismissing him. Seeing the man awake and trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey on his bedroom floor brought home the consequences of his actions. Without a moment’s hesitation, he had assaulted one of Roy Logan’s most trusted employees. Never mind that it was technically self-defense. Hewitt could probably give a plausible explanation for his own actions. When he’d come to give the hired hand from Randolph Security his walking papers, the guy had gone berserk.
And now said hired hand was getting ready to compound his crime. Well, that certainly eliminated the possibility of changing his mind about his course of action, no matter how misguided it had been in the first place. Whether he liked it or not, he was already in deep trouble.
He’d overheard a conversation about Amanda Barnwell and decided to come to her rescue—based on feelings generated by a few brief meetings in town. Well, not just on those feelings. His chest tightened as he remembered a different decision he’d made years ago. That time the consequences had been disastrous.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe his guilt over Bethany was his real motivation, he silently admitted. Or maybe he could plead insanity.
When he caught the foreman watching him, he forced his features to relax. “So where would be a good place to dump you?’’ he asked conversationally as he unstrapped the man’s holster and restrapped it around his own waist. He’d thought it would be bad manners to arrive armed at the Logan Ranch. Now he wished he had his own Glock instead of Hewitt’s more traditional Western piece.
After retrieving the gun from the bed, he tested it in his hand and holstered it. With a grunt, he lifted Hewitt onto his shoulder, fireman style, and strode toward the back door.
On the small patio, he waited for a few moments to make sure he wasn’t being observed, then he struck out for one of the miscellaneous outbuildings. From his security inventory, he knew that many were storage sheds—some more likely to be used than others. He headed for one full of light gardening equipment that had belonged to Mrs. Logan. From what he’d gathered, tending flower gardens had been one of her hobbies, and nobody had kept them up since she’d passed away more than fifteen years earlier. Apparently she’d been a gentle soul who’d lacked the backbone to stand up to her husband.
Would Colin have turned out differently if his mother had lived? Matt wondered as he laid Hewitt not so gently on the floor, where he started to thrash around like a fish on a boat deck, making guttural sounds from behind the gag.
Matt dragged him to the middle of the room, where several two-by-fours helped support the roof. Using some of the excess rope, he secured the prisoner to the upright.
Puffing hard, the foreman tried to yank free. “Take it easy. You don’t want to block off your air flow,’’ Matt advised.
The bound man quieted, but his eyes gleamed with hatred.
“They’ll likely find you in the morning,’’ he said, hoping he was right, because he needed a few hours’ head start. The distances around here were greater than back east, and it was at least a two-hour drive to Amanda’s ranch, he knew from his survey of the surrounding area. Too bad he couldn’t just appropriate Logan’s helicopter, but that would be a bit conspicuous.
After securing the shed door, he returned to the guest cottage for his luggage, then snorted as he pictured a description of himself on a wanted poster: “Armed and dangerous with gun and briefcase.’’
Outside in the darkness once more, he surveyed the area again, then headed for the parking area.
He’d been met at the airport in Gillette by Hewitt, who was driving one of the ranch’s pickups. There were several, along with a couple of SUVs and Jeeps. The keys were tagged and kept on a board inside a shed door. He took the ones to a green pickup, noted the gas level and started the engine. The noise sounded like a burst of gunfire in the stillness. But nobody challenged him as he backed up and headed for the ranch entrance road.
Twisting the radio dial, he found a classic country station and tuned into “Ride Me on Down,’’ one of his favorite Bobby Bare songs, as he settled into the rhythm of driving, resisting the urge to go more than ten miles above the speed limit. Out here, the cops cut you some slack, but there were limits to official tolerance.
Two hours later he breathed a little sigh as he saw the entrance to the Double B Ranch. Barnwell and Barnwell—had that been the original name?
On the long drive he’d had plenty more time to seriously question his judgment. He’d even toyed with the idea of calling Amanda on the portable and warning her that he was on the way. But what he had to say was best said in person—partly, he admitted, because he wanted to see her reaction when he mentioned Colin Logan.
Pressing the button that illuminated his watch dial, he saw that it was after midnight. A bad time for a neighborly visit. But there was no question of waiting until morning.
He’d never been to the Barnwell place, and he wished he were seeing it by daylight so he could orient himself better. The scale of the house and the style were far more modest than Roy Logan’s tasteless mansion, and the surrounding grounds appeared to be neat and orderly, but he couldn’t tell much about the state of the ranch buildings in the dark.
Pulling to the edge of the driveway, he cut the engine and climbed from the truck, stretching his long legs in the cool night air.
He was heading for the front porch when he heard the sound of gravel crunching behind him. Before he could turn, something hard came down on the back of his head, and the world went pitch-black.