Chapter 1
TAG MARTIN slammed the telephone down on the table with enough force to rattle the windows in the tiny ranch office, took a deep breath, then counted to ten in Spanish. When that didn’t work, he tried Japanese, and he was practically shouting his numbers in French by the time his foreman stepped into the room.
“You start countin’ in German, son, I’ll pack my bags and leave. I ain’t seen you get all the way to French in a long time.”
“That’s because I haven’t talked to my dear grandmother in a long time.” Tag swiveled around in his worn leather chair and stared at his foreman. Old Coop . . . he knew the man had a real name, but there’d never been much need to use it. Other than when Tag wrote out Coop’s weekly check, which he’d been doing for over twenty years.
Something he might have to stop doing if his bullheaded grandmother had her way.
“I hate to chance it, but we need to set Operation Betsy Mae in gear, Coop. She back from Austin yet?”
The old man grinned. “She’s due back today. Saw her brother yesterday. Will thought it was a brilliant idea. Of course, I didn’t tell him all the details.” He polished his stained fingernails against his skinny chest with an air of great superiority. “As I recall, you laughed when I suggested it.”
“It’s a harebrained scheme, but for both our sakes, it damned well better work.” Tag scowled at Coop, who was still grinning like an idiot. Didn’t he realize how serious this was?
“I told you. It’s my idea,” Coop said smugly. “Of course it’ll work.”
Obviously he didn’t have a clue. Tag rounded on the old cowboy. “Don’t get so cocky, old man. You wanna move into one of those little tin can mobile homes in the seniors’ park? Get chased around the recreation hall by some old widow woman with blue hair? ’Cus that’s exactly what’s gonna happen if I’m not married within the next couple of weeks. You know my grandmother. She’s hardheaded enough to go through with it.”
Coop’s grin disappeared. He shuddered visibly, slapped his dusty Stetson against his skinny thigh, and straightened as much as his bowed legs would allow. “I’ll head over to Columbine Camp and fetch Betsy Mae.” He shot a level gaze at Tag. “I don’t understand your grandmother,” he muttered. “Lenore Martin is a beautiful, kind and generous lady. I can’t imagine her taking this ranch away from you. It just don’t seem right.”
“It’s not right, dammit. Now go get Betsy Mae.”
Tag watched the old man climb into a faded blue pickup truck as weathered and scarred as its driver. He couldn’t believe it had come to this, faking marriage to a woman he didn’t love just to appease his grandmother.
It was either that or watch Gramma Lenore donate the Double Eagle Ranch, the only home he’d ever known, to the Foundation for the Preservation of Wild Horses.
It wasn’t fair. Not fair at all. So what if his grandmother felt guilty because her late husband had captured and sold the last wild horses off his land? Should Tag have to bear the punishment for his grandfather’s mistake?
Right or wrong, Lenore Martin had given Tag an ultimatum when he was barely twenty. Marry or lose the Double Eagle. He raked his fingers through his hair and stared forlornly out the window. “I never thought you’d do it,” he said quietly. “Didn’t Dad’s marriage teach you anything?”
Obviously not.
It had certainly taught Tag.
He didn’t plan to marry, never had . . . and if he had things his way, never would. He had everything he needed here, the land, the cattle, the towering mountains, and occasional visits from Betsy Mae Twigg.
Except he was just about ready to lose the land, the cattle, and the towering mountains.
Thank goodness Betsy Mae had agreed to this stupid idea of Coop’s.
For a price.
Well, it was worth every penny.
A marriage of convenience, Coop called it. A quick wedding, all for show, of course, even a nice little reception.
That should make his grandmother happy, enough so that when he turned forty at the end of the month she’d do as she’d promised and deed the ranch over to him. Once that was accomplished, he and Betsy Mae would conveniently decide they didn’t really love each other and go their separate ways. He knew he could count on Betsy Mae, especially now. She’d said she needed a break from the rodeo circuit. Barrel racing took a tremendous toll on a woman’s body, and hers wasn’t getting any younger.
Tag briefly allowed himself a moment to contemplate Betsy Mae’s body. She wasn’t half bad for a woman who’d spent as many years as she had following the rodeo. They’d been . . . well, friends, for a long time. It shouldn’t be difficult to convince Gramma Lenore they were a loving couple.
Good Lord, he was actually preparing to go through with this damned charade. His father’d always said it was the sign of a desperate man, when he started taking desperate measures. Coop’s plan was about as desperate a measure as Tag could imagine.
Where did that man get his schemes? Tag realized he was actually smiling as he went over the list of arrangements he and Coop had made. He placed a few calls, then settled back to wait for Betsy Mae to arrive. At least with Betsy Mae, he knew there was always the chance of fringe benefits.
The shrill ringing of the phone jarred him out of his contemplative daydreams of Betsy Mae’s assets, but it wasn’t enough to wipe the smile off his face. “Double Eagle Ranch, Tag Martin here.”
Coop’s frantic voice, however, was. Tag listened and forgot to breathe, listened and saw his entire future go down the drain. His only response to Coop’s call was an expletive that would have sent Gramma Lenore running for a bar of soap.
Betsy Mae the barrel racer had run off with a rodeo clown. His buddy Betsy Mae, his one ace in the hole, had found true love with a guy in a fright wig and a dress.
How could she?
He let his gaze slide about the ranch office, lingering on the framed photos of himself as a youngster astride a horse, the bulletin board covered in ribbons and awards for his 4-H projects through the years, and the efficient computer center with the equipment essential to running a modern cattle ranching operation.
This room was a time capsule of his life, the Double Eagle his heart and soul. In less than a month, it would all be gone. Tag dropped the phone on the desk, buried his face in his hands and fought the urge to weep. Only Coop’s insistent caterwauling over the line snapped him back to reality.
A few minutes later, Tag silently placed the phone back in the cradle and stared out the window at the freshly mowed field beyond the barn. The clean scent of bailed hay filled the air; the distant bawling of cattle soothed his soul.
“Damn you, Betsy Mae, this better work.” She hadn’t completely abandoned him, he had to give her that. She’d left instructions with her brother, Will. She had a friend, another barrel racer who even did community theater in the off season. The gal had taken one look at Tag’s photo in the current issue of
Western Horseman
and decided she wouldn’t mind pretending to be Tag Martin’s wife.
For a price.
“I sure hope you explained we were just gonna play at marriage,” Tag muttered. That was all he needed, some danged woman looking for a husband. He’d noticed they tended to get a little desperate once they hit a certain age.
Unlike men like himself.
He’d make sure she knew the score the minute she arrived. In the meantime, he had two days to pull off a wedding and reception. Coop said he’d take care of the preacher, but the rest was up to Tag. He thought of his rapidly dwindling savings account. Then he considered the alternative. Tag figured, if Coop’s scheme worked, it would be worth every penny. Whatever it took to convince Gramma Lenore.
Colorado, somewhere east of Montrose
ACCORDING TO the tattered map spread out on the seat next to her, Columbine Camp was still miles up this godforsaken road. Michelle glared through the rental car’s rain-swept windshield and solemnly considered the pros and cons of murder. Actually, she thought, there weren’t any negatives. All she need concern herself with at this point were methods.
Mark was going to die. There was no doubt at all in her mind. He deserved worse than death for suggesting, no, ordering her on this stupid trip. That was, if she didn’t die first. Up to now she’d been too angry to be frightened.
Not anymore. A brilliant flash of lightning split the Colorado sky. A vicious gust of wind swirled through the narrow river canyon, carrying a twisted branch that bounced and skittered across the hood of the car.
Fear replaced anger in a heartbeat.
Lightning shattered the cliff, above and to her left. Huge rocks and boulders pitched and tumbled across the road just ahead of the car. Michelle screamed, slammed on the brakes and yanked the steering wheel to the right. The tiny rental car fishtailed and slid into a two-wheeled spin toward the edge of the road. She screamed again. Her world tilted, shifted.
Stopped.
Then slowly bounced up and down like a boat on the ocean.
Slowly, carefully, Michelle raised her forehead from its contact point on the steering wheel. It took a conscious effort to focus her eyes when all they wanted to do was close. She stared at, then through, the cracked windshield. Comprehension dawned gradually . . . she looked out into . . . nothing. The car continued swaying, the gentle motion almost lulling her back into her benumbed state.
A loud crack shocked her into awareness. Another sound, the roar and tumble of rushing water, filled her ears. Then more crackling and a few short jerks of the car.
Another crack. The car jerked.
Her world tilted. She slid forward. Her breasts smashed against the steering wheel, her head wobbled closer to the windshield. The leafy canopy of whatever bush she’d hit parted, and the chocolate brown froth of a storm-swept river filled her view.
The car shuddered again. Michelle’s befuddled mind kicked into overdrive. She hadn’t hit a bush, she’d flown off the road and landed smack-dab in the top of a tree growing up from the steep canyon below. From the groaning, crackling and lurching, it was obvious the tree was not going to support the weight of the car—or Michelle—much longer.
She tried the door . . . jammed. “Oh no-o-o-o . . .” Sobbing, panting with fear, pain and shock, Michelle rolled the window down, eyed the small opening dubiously, shoved the stupid cowboy hat Mark had insisted she wear firmly down on her head, and tried to squeeze her jeans-clad butt through the open window.
Damn those extra pounds! She grabbed both sides of the window frame and grunted, wriggling and twisting her hips through the opening. What was holding her back? The car lurched and Michelle moaned in abject terror, then realized the issue of
Western Horseman
she’d practically memorized on the flight out was still in her back pocket, hung up against the frame. She slipped back, yanked the magazine free and threw it in the backseat. It landed next to her carry-on bag, the one stuffed with all those expensive western clothes she’d bought at the airport. The receipt was in the bag, blast it.
The image of her tax accountant glowering at her when she tried to explain a write-off of a bunch of fancy western clothing without a receipt was all the incentive she needed. Michelle snagged the handle. Grunting, she dragged the bag along behind as she squeezed through the window. She thought longingly of the matched set of luggage filled with the rest of her clothes, locked securely in the trunk.
One of her boots tangled in the twisted seat belt.
Her priorities suddenly shifted.
“Oh, God,” she sobbed, scrabbling to free herself. “Please . . . ?” Frantically, she kicked and twisted her foot.
Suddenly she was hanging on to a bowed limb like a monkey on a branch, the bulging suitcase tucked against her chest. She gasped for breath against the driving rain and stared, trembling, as her car slid slowly through the leaves until, with a tiny twist and a flip, it tumbled into the raging water below.
Released from the substantial weight of the car, the thick branch whipped back to its original shape. In the process, it threw Michelle Garrison, wearing her brand-new Stetson cowboy hat, her pointy-toed cowboy boots, yoke-fronted shirt and tight-fitting Lee jeans halfway across the rain-slick road. She landed next to her suitcase, a crumpled heap of humanity tossed against a wall of rocks and mud.
A few tiny pebbles dislodged by the impact skittered across the asphalt. Unrelenting, the rain continued its assault on the motionless figure lying in the road.
“BLASTED DAYS are going by too fast,” Coop muttered. He shifted the old truck into gear, hit the gas and headed through the storm, searching the road that ran from the Double Eagle to town.
Everything was set for Tag’s wedding and reception.
Everything but the main attraction. Tag’s bride should have been here by now.
“You promised Betsy Mae you’d be on time, dang it.” Coop didn’t need this kind of aggravation. Tag was already pacing, the decorations were up, and the woman was nowhere in sight.
She must have had car trouble, or maybe she’d taken a wrong turn. It was easy to miss signs in this kind of weather. Coop didn’t want to imagine the alternative, that she’d changed her mind.
No, that was too awful to contemplate.
She was out here, and he was gonna find her.
He wondered what she looked like. Lord almighty, he hoped she was good-lookin’, especially considering what he was planning to do. Would Tag ever forgive him?
Rain bounced off the windshield and ran in rivulets across the highway. Coop thought of Lenore safely tucked away in her little house in town, and wished she were the one waiting for him to make it safely home.
He’d thought about offering to bring her out for the wedding, thought about walking her into the house, hanging on his arm like she belonged. But she’d told Tag she had a ride, and Coop knew better than to say anything. What would Lenore want with an old saddle tramp like him, anyway?
“Damn you, woman,” he muttered, wiping the condensation off the windshield. It didn’t seem right, after all these years, that she still be so strong in his mind . . . and his heart.