A Cowboy's Love.

J. M. Bronston.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

I am pleased to express my thanks to Liza Fleissig and Ginger Harris-Dontzin. They pack a ton of energy, enthusiasm, and effectiveness into their Liza Royce Literary Agency, and I am profoundly thankful for their encouragement and their hard work. I am also thankful for the unfailing care and attention I have received from John Scognamiglio, Rebecca Cremonese, Mich.e.l.le Forde, Lauren Jernigan, and so many others at Kensington Books. They are an invaluable team and every writer should be so lucky.

My appreciation also goes to Sandra Kitt, a dear friend and reliable cheerleader who has held my hand and guided me through many steps of my literary journey. You blazed a trail, Sandi, and I am a fervent admirer.

Michael Anderson, Esq., a Utah attorney, gave me good information when I most needed it. And Google answered a thousand questions-at least a thousand-that were well outside my personal databank. Friends and relatives were sympathetic when I couldn't come out to play, and neighbors smiled and said, "We didn't want to bother you. We knew you were working."

I acknowledge also, in fond memory, Jim Brady, cowboy, horse whisperer and, in World War II, Navy frogman. This book owes so much to him.

And then there are my daughters. My dear, perfect three girls, Annie, Mary, and Margaret. To you I owe the most. Thank you.

Chapter One.

A cloud of gritty, coppery dust swirled above the twisting backhoe. It caught the sunset's light out of the big western sky, diffused it into sandy red and gold vapors, and drifted back to the desert floor where the big earth-moving machine was cutting a new interstate highway through the ragged sage and rabbit gra.s.ses of the wide-open range.

It often got to well over a hundred degrees out there in the desert, and the girl at the center of the cloud, sitting high up in the backhoe's swivel seat, wore only a tank top beneath her Day-Glo orange construction vest. Her arms, deeply tanned, shone with sweat despite the dry desert air and her pale blonde hair, hanging straight to her shoulders, was damp beneath the white hard hat. She lifted her work-gloved hand to brush the clinging strands away from her forehead.

With the big plastic pads protecting her ears from the noise of the racketing engine, she wouldn't have been able to hear the foreman's signal, but she knew, from the angle of the light as the sun moved toward the rim of the distant mountains, that it must be close to quitting time. She moved the boom to make the big bucket take one last bite of the sandy, red-gold earth, swung it to the side to drop its mouthful into the trench, and then pulled back the cuff of her glove to check her watch. Even as she did, Gordon Callister came up beside the rig and tapped the doorframe to catch her glance.

"Okay, Jamie," he said. "Time to knock off."

The girl lifted her hand, nodded her head in response, and Gordon moved on to signal the next man.

One by one, all along the construction site, the earth-moving machines stopped where they were and the operators dropped off them, leaving the machines scattered and still, under the slow-settling dust, where they would wait like yellow monsters until Monday morning, when they would be roused again to their slow, powerful work.

Jamie set the backhoe's big pod stabilizers and dropped the front loader to the ground. Then she switched off the engine and the cloud of dust that shimmered around her began its final slow descent. She climbed down from her high perch, peeled off her gloves and ear protectors, dropped them onto the shoulder-high fender, and headed to the construction shed to log out and pick up her paycheck.

"Hey, Jamie." The men were walking to their trucks and cars parked near the shed. "How about a couple of beers?"

Sounded good. A shower would be nice, too. And a change out of the dirty jeans and the heavy work boots. She undid the yellow bandana tied loosely around her throat, and wiped the back of her neck.

"Okay. Just a quick one. Where you guys headed?"

"We're going into town, to the Canyon Rim. Right off the interstate, just past the Chevron station. Know where it is?"

She forced a casual smile. "I know where it is."

I know where everything in this town is.

"Catch up with you there soon as I log out."

And these guys don't need to hear my life story.

She climbed the steps to the shed and went in to get her check.

One good thing about these big government contracts. Beside the good pay. Gordie's crews come from everywhere, and they don't stay around long enough to pick up the local gossip. Best to leave it that way.

When she reached her battered little green Civic, she tossed her hard hat onto the front seat and climbed in. She glanced into the rearview mirror and frowned at the reflection; she saw what fatigue and too much anger were doing to her. She raked her hands impatiently through her fine hair.

Twenty-four years old, and I'm already beginning to look like a mean old lady. The way things are going, I'm going to wind up tough and dry before I'm thirty. Like some old pinyon pine out in the desert.

She adjusted her sungla.s.ses in the mirror.

But as long as Mandy is here in Sharperville, and the Nixons have her . . .

She couldn't help the anger and frustration that every day were etching their marks on her face. Two years since the divorce, and that judge gave custody to Ray. Not that Ray had ever wanted to be bothered with a two-year-old. He'd handed her right over to his parents, and Edna and Ervil Nixon just couldn't wait to grab their little granddaughter away from Jamie. They'd never forgiven her for marrying their precious boy and they had jumped at the chance to bring up the child in what they called "the ways of righteousness."

G.o.d! How Jamie hated the Nixons and their smug show of self-important religious superiority. If they really were so full of piety, she thought, they couldn't possibly have been so cruel.

The anger and frustration were hard enough to live with, but just as painful was the humiliation. She looked again into the mirror and tried to smooth out her expression. Only she knew how ashamed she was. Ashamed of how they'd all outfoxed her. Ashamed of the way they'd done it, setting her up the way they did. Ray and that b.i.t.c.h, Tina, and the Nixons, too. And that other one . . .

She'd been so d.a.m.ned young, just a kid herself, with no one to help her, no one to advise her, and she hadn't known how to handle the whole thing. She'd been dumb and she'd made mistakes, and now, all she had left was a precious half day every other Sat.u.r.day-one delicious afternoon every fourteen days. Followed always-oh, G.o.d!-by those awful long bouts of tears and sleepless nights.

She turned the key in the ignition and, for the thousandth time, the old Honda struggled to get going, and for the thousandth time she hoped she'd be able to keep her battered old wreck of a car running a couple of months longer. Maybe she could get one of the guys down at the service station to look it over for her, maybe patch it up again. The last thing she needed was to pour more nickels and dimes into her car. Every penny had to be saved so she could get herself a decent lawyer. This time, she was determined she'd get that custody award turned around.

But right now it would do her good to just kick back for a while, have a couple of beers with the guys. She switched the car's radio to the country setting out of Kanab, and let the easy music work its magic, smoothing away the angry tension at the back of her neck. With her paycheck in her pocket and the prospect of a visit with Mandy tomorrow, she felt a little better. She turned the old car south onto the empty highway and, humming along at last with the radio and squinting away from the big sun that was blazing its way west, down into the mountains that were still snow-tipped, even at this time of the year, Jamie headed toward town and a little relaxation.

The Canyon Rim got noisy on Friday evenings when construction crews and cowhands began to drift in, looking to spend their paychecks. Weekdays, it was a quiet place; just a few locals hanging out and maybe the sheriff stopping in for a cup of coffee, or the hunters, during deer season, finishing off their day in the mountains with a steak and some fries. But on Friday night, the dirt parking lot filled up early with pickup trucks and Yamaha bikes and Kawasakis. And a country band, well amplified, started up at six o'clock. By seven, the tiny dance floor was jammed.

This Friday night, when Jamie got there, the Canyon Rim was already loud with the throbbing music, the air was sharp with the smell of beer, and the air-conditioning was cool on her bare shoulders. She hiked her small frame up onto the empty barstool next to her foreman, Gordie, who always stopped in for one quick one on Friday nights-with a mental wink at his church's elders-before he went home to LaRaine and the seven kids. His orange hard hat was bright on the bar stool next to him; his summer straw Stetson was on his head. Milt, behind the bar, wiped off the s.p.a.ce in front of her.

"What can I get for you, Jamie?"

"Let me have a Coors, Milt." She picked some tortilla chips out of the bowl in front of Gordon. "And can I get some salsa?"

"You betcha." Milt brought her the beer, setting it on the bar in front of her.

She turned on the stool and scanned the room quickly, looking for Harry Marsh and Hutch, and the other men from the crew.

"Where are the guys?" She swiveled on the stool to face Gordon. "They said they were coming down for a beer."

"They won't be in till later. Couple of days ago, Al Wideman spotted a big cougar up by his place-d.a.m.ned thing came right down into his alfalfa field, not a hundred yards behind his house, and today one of his calves turned up missing. Some of the guys went along to help him look. They'll be in later, soon's it gets dark." He scooped some salsa up on a chip and swallowed it all in one big bite. "But I'm staying only a minute, Jamie." He leaned his balding head closer to her as the music's volume was suddenly increased. "LaRaine and I have to be over at the school tonight. Coach says he's ready to put young Gordie into the game and we want to be there to cheer the kid."

"Sure thing, Gordie. I'm just going to listen to the music for a while. Then I'm headed home for a shower and a good night's sleep."

She swiveled around again and leaned her elbows back on the bar behind her. She let her gaze wander casually over the crowd on the floor, boisterous and boozy in the hazy light. It was just what she needed, just to hang out and enjoy the band and the good end-of-the-week intensity of the noisy dancers.

She was not aware that while she watched the couples on the dance floor there were other eyes on her. At least one person had been interested ever since she'd come through the door.

Orrin Dwayne Fletcher leaned against the far wall, nursing his third tequila. His buddies had already picked up a couple of girls and were out on the floor dancing, but O.D. was looking. Then Jamie walked in and he figured he'd found the action he'd been looking for. He was amused by the possibilities Jamie's arrival presented, and he watched for an opportunity to move in on her. He didn't need to wait more than a couple of minutes.

At the bar, Gordon finished his beer, resettled the Stetson in place over the remaining fringe of spa.r.s.e, graying hair, and stood up from the stool.

"Okay, Jamie. I gotta go now." He dropped some bills next to his gla.s.s and picked up his hard hat. "See you on Monday morning. Have a good weekend."

"You, too, Gordie. And you tell that boy of yours to score at least one run for me." She waved after Gordon's disappearing figure as he made his way through the haze.

The stool next to Jamie wasn't empty for more than a moment. As soon as Gordon left the bar, Fletcher slipped into the vacant seat, setting his gla.s.s down roughly, letting his drink splash over his hand and wet the bar top.

"Well, well, well," he said. His speech was already thick and slurred. "Look at who's here."

Jamie's stomach clutched as she recognized the voice. Two years, but that was one voice she wasn't going to forget. She turned and saw him, an ugly part of her past, the same pale eyes, now tequila-clouded and mean, the same hollow face, the same thin-lipped, cold smile.

I'm in trouble.

Maybe if he hadn't surprised her, coming at her out of nowhere like that, maybe if she'd had a chance to prepare herself, she wouldn't have felt so frightened. Maybe she should have been able to handle him more calmly, but he was such a slimy little b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and he'd already done her so much harm . . .

"What are you doing in Sharperville, Orrin? I thought they had you locked up." She tried to keep her voice steady.

"Well, they did, Jamie. So they did." He circled his damp gla.s.s around and around in the little puddle he'd made on the bar top. "But not forever, y'know. Not forever. And now I'm out of there"-there was a sly edge to his voice-"and I just thought I'd check out Sharperville, see what's doing around here, look up some old friends. Maybe get a job or something, y'know?"

"That'll be the day," Jamie said. She pulled some dollars out of her pocket and laid them on the bar for Milt, but as she did, Fletcher reached toward her bare arm and, with one wet fingertip, lazily stroked the smooth skin. His touch disgusted her.

"Hey, Jamie, don't leave now, honey. I was thinking you and me could maybe pick up where we left off. I mean, s.h.i.t, I never did forget that last, wonderful night we spent together."

The sonofab.i.t.c.h was having a good time. His eyebrows lifted in mock sincerity, as though he really, truly, expected her to believe him.

Jamie stood up abruptly. "I'm getting out of here, Orrin."

Drunk as he was, Orrin still responded quickly. One strong hand closed roughly over her wrist, pulling her back against the stool. "Hey, where you going, Jamie-girl? The evening's young and I just got here."

"Leave me alone, Orrin. Just leave me alone." Jamie twisted in his grip, but he wasn't letting her go.

"Hey, darlin'"-his eyes glittered-"is that any way to talk to an old drinking buddy?"

"Don't be stupid, Orrin. We sure as h.e.l.l were never any kind of buddies."

She pulled helplessly against his grip as tears rose in her eyes.

Don't let me cry, not now, not here, not in front of him!

"Well, that's not the way I remember it. Seems to me the last night me and you spent together, we had some real fun." Orrin rubbed his free hand over his mouth, his fingers caressing the stubble on his cheek, as though he was enjoying the memory. His smile grew meaner, his eyes colder.

"You know it wasn't like that!"

She tried to pry his fingers loose but they only tightened on her wrist, hurting her. Panic filled her chest and she tried desperately to control it. "Please, Orrin!"

She could hear herself pleading and she tried to get the helplessness out of her voice. "Orrin, just leave me alone!"

This was the kind of thing Orrin Fletcher enjoyed. He knew he was scaring her.

"Well, now. Maybe you're right, Jamie. Maybe I have misremembered how it was that last time. It's been a couple of years, and a man forgets, sometimes, when he has more important things on his mind." He lifted his gla.s.s and swallowed the last of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Of course, up at Bluffdale, I had other things to think about, but I'm out now, and I'm just visiting old friends here in town. Reestablishing old connections, you might say."

She tried to keep the fear out of her voice. "Orrin, I don't want any trouble. Just let go of my arm and I'll get out of here." She couldn't bear the feeling of his hand on her wrist, gripping her so casually, so easily. "I don't want to have to make a scene here." She sure didn't, not in front of all these people. "I just want to get home. Let me go, Orrin!"

"Sure, honey. No problem." Orrin was having a good time. "And I'll tell you what." He leaned close to her, his breath heavy against her face, his words slurred, only a bit above a whisper, almost drowned out by the raucous music and laughter that filled the air around them. "Just to be sure you get home safe, why don't I go along with you? Give us a chance to renew old memories. We can just walk out of here quiet-like, no one will ever know."

"No, Orrin, no!" Her fingers were frantic now, the tears imminent.

"Hey, Jamie. Take it easy, honey. We're just going to have a little fun."

Across the dance floor, Harvey Jackman set the pitcher of beer onto the table and dropped his big frame into his chair.

"What you staring at, Cal?" Harvey had picked his way, with considerable difficulty, through the noisy crowd of couples that filled the little patch of wooden floor, and his buddy seemed hardly aware that he'd arrived at their table.

Cal Cameron was leaning way back in his chair, resting it casually, just balanced, against the wall behind him, his thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his jeans, his long legs stretched out to brace the heels of his boots against the floor. His buff-colored Stetson was pushed to the back of his head, exposing black hair that curled above a deeply tanned face. A frown had drawn his black brows down, and his eyes, coal-black and narrowed slightly, were focused intently across the noisy room.

"Hey, Harvey. Who's the pretty little lady over at the bar?" He lifted his chin, gesturing toward Jamie. He hadn't taken his eyes off her since she'd walked in. "The little blonde in the orange vest." The little blonde, he was thinking, with the slim, trim shape that looked especially interesting in jeans and work boots and a Day-Glo construction vest. A small girl in what looked maybe to be in some big trouble.

Harvey was filling their gla.s.ses from the pitcher. He looked up and followed the line of Cal's gaze.

"Oh," he said after a quick glance. "That's Jamie Sundstrom." He finished pouring the beer and set the pitcher back onto the tabletop. A dismissive air pa.s.sed over his good-natured face. "Only I'm not so sure you could call Jamie Sundstrom a lady." Immediately, as though in self-reproach, his smile became self-conscious and awkward; Harvey didn't like to speak unkindly of anyone.

Cal's eyebrows lifted questioningly, but he didn't take his eyes off Jamie. "She sure looks like a lady to me, Harv."

"Yeah, well, maybe so. All I know is I've heard talk that her family's no good, her dad's a drunk, her husband kicked her out, and the judge took her kid away from her. Couple of years ago."

"That's tough." Cal's frown was deepening as he continued to watch what was happening at the bar. "Still, Harvey, lady or not, she's just a little bit of a thing, and I don't like to see any man push a woman around the way that drunk sonofab.i.t.c.h is doing."

With a deliberate motion, he moved his hat forward, settling it down firmly on his forehead.

"Shoot, Cal. You going to start a fuss?"

"Don't worry, Harv. No fuss, no muss." Cal braced his hands on the table, letting his chair steady itself on its four legs, and he raised himself slowly from it. "This'll just take a minute."

Harvey sighed as Cal started across the room.

"Shoot," Harvey said, his words lost in the din that filled the place. "I thought we'd just stop in for a nice quiet drink before heading back to the ranch."

At the bar, Jamie was trying desperately to get out of Orrin's grip. He was hurting her arm and she was going to have to start yelling for help. But a scene, here in the bar, was the last thing she wanted. Waves of panic flooded through her as she cast her eyes helplessly around the smoke-filled, crowded room. That's when she saw the cowboy, his eyes fixed on Orrin, moving slowly toward them. She wasn't noticing much about him, scared as she was, except for that steady gaze and the solid build-that, and a slight limp, as though he'd hurt his knee.