The Cowboy’s Hidden Agenda

lover’s. The man rode leaning well forward over the stallion’s neck, long straight hair mingling with the coarse black mane, and the stallion’s ears flicked as if the man spoke to him in a language only they understood.

Smiling, heart pounding in sheer exhilaration, Lauren turned to Gil McCullough. “Not fair! You knew I wasn’t going to leave here without him once I’d seen him.”

McCullough laughed. “You know what they say-all’s fair in love, war and horse tradin’. Tell you what, let’s you and me go on up to the house, have something cold to drink while we tend to the paperwork.” He waved to Bronco out in the ring, then turned to stroll with her up the hard-baked slope toward the Spanish-style ranch house, which floated like a white ship in a sea of neat green lawn.

They went into Gil’s study, where his wife, a petite middle-aged blond woman introduced to Lauren as Katie, brought them tall glasses of iced tea with lemon. A short time later Bronco came in, accompanied by another man, this one oddly dressed for a ranch hand, Lauren thought, in what appeared to be combat fatigues. There was something hard and cold about his eyes, something that made her uneasy when he looked at her.

McCullough asked her for the keys to her truck. “Ron here’ll get your trailer backed around to the ramp while we’re finishing up the paperwork,” he told her as he handed her keys to the man in fatigues. “Soon as we’re done here, Bronco’ll get ol’ Red loaded up and you’ll be set to go.”

Lauren felt excitement vibrate through her. That magnificent animal was hers-well, okay, Dixie’s. But she could hardly wait to get him home to the Tipsy Pee. She wondered how long it would take her to get up the courage to actually ride him.

She’d had no warning at all. Not the slightest uneasiness, no chilly little frisson or premonition of danger.

She’d laughed as she handed the check to Gil, passing a hand over her brow and joking about the number of zeros. “Well,” she’d said then, taking a deep breath, “I guess I’d better be off. I have a long drive ahead of me.”

Even now, with her eyes closed, she could see Gil’s smile, hear him saying, “Oh, I don’t think you’re going to be goin’ anywhere just yet, Lauren Brown. You’ll be staying on here with us for a while.” And feel again that first little chill, as if someone had drawn an ice cube along her spine.

Though she still had not really understood what was happening. Her eyes had flown first to Bronco-in appeal, for confirmation of the unbelievable. It had been a reflexive thing. But she had found his face impassive, his eyes unreadable as onyx.

“Want you to go along with Bronco here,” Gil had said almost gently. “He’ll take you to your quarters, see you’re comfortable.” As if she’d been a homesick child on the first day of summer camp.

Her mouth had dropped open then, but no sound had come out. She wondered, even if she had screamed, if it would have made any difference. Who would there have been to hear her? McCullough’s wife? That sweet middle-aged woman Katie-was she a party to this…whatever it was?

What in God’s name did they want with her? Was she being kidnapped? Robbed? Or… But beyond that her shocked mind simply refused to go.

Without a sound, Bronco had moved in beside her and taken her arms. Instantly, mockingly, her mind flashed back to the night before, to the dance floor in Smoky Joe’s-same hands, same body, same wiry strength, same all- enveloping heat. The irony of it was so shocking she gave a small incensed gasp. Bronco muttered something she couldn’t hear, and then she was moving, moving against her will, her feet going along with her body as if they’d had no other choice.

Had there been a choice? If she’d had presence of mind to go limp, what would it have gained her? Only, she was certain, the indignity of being carried. No, she’d had only one chance, and that had come later, outside, when Bronco had paused for some reason at the place where the lawns ended in a low stone wall and two steps dropped down to the hard-baked dirt. It was then, operating on pure gut instinct, that Lauren had seized the moment and stomped down with all her strength on his instep.

Her valiant effort produced only a muffled grunt. Instead of releasing her, Bronco’s grip on her arms tightened. There was a flash of blinding breath-stopping pain, and his voice, whispering the warning against her ear, so soft it sounded obscenely like an endearment. “Let’s have an understanding-you don’t try to get away, and I don’t have to hurt you.”

And then, in a more normal voice, a lazy almost insolent drawl, he’d said, “Look here, Laurie Brown, where do you think you’re gonna go? Look around you.”

That was when she realized her truck and horse trailer were gone. They had been taken from her along with her freedom, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

But she wasn’t giving up. She’d wait…and she’d watch. When the moment came, she’d be ready.

“Are you okay?”

Lauren opened her eyes and found herself clinging to the gray mare’s saddle, engulfed in a wave of dizziness. Bronco’s arm slid around her, under her arm and folded across her rib cage.

“You need to sit down for a minute?”

She felt as though she couldn’t breathe, as though he’d taken all her oxygen. She managed to gasp, “Don’t touch me!” fighting the weakness, feeble with rage.

He let go of her with a little snort of laughter and muttered, “Suit yourself,” then stepped away. She was left clinging to the saddle, feeling weak-kneed and childish.

“Am I allowed to go to the bathroom?” she asked, teeth clenched.

His reply came from the other side of the gray mare. “Doubt if you’ll find a bathroom, but you’re welcome to use a bush.”

Her heart pounded. Was this the moment? How quickly could she mount up-more quickly than he could grab the reins? Don’t be stupid. He’s got a faster horse than you have, and he knows the terrain. Be patient, Lauren. This is not the time.

As she stalked into the brush she heard Bronco call, “I’d check real good for rattlers if I were you.”

Chapter 4

The phone call came that evening during dinner at the gracious brown-brick Georgian home of Pat Graham, in a Maryland suburb of Washington, D.C., where Rhett and Dixie had gone to await developments out West. The attorney general left the dining room to take the call in her study, and when she returned her face was grave.

Rhett reached for Dixie’s hand. “News?” he asked quietly.

“That was Vernon,” Pat said as she seated herself. Her movements were slow and careful, and her eyes didn’t quite meet those of her guests. She placed her napkin across her lap. “They heard from the Navajo Tribal Police. A sheep-herder named Billie Chee reported finding your daughter’s truck and trailer around noon today abandoned on the Big Reservation near Window Rock. Vernon’s people are going over it now.”

Rhett nodded; he’d been prepared for something of the sort but felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach nonetheless. “From what you’ve told me about these people, I doubt they’ll find much,” he said flatly. “Any word from McCullough’s ranch? Do they know where he’s holding her?” Curled inside his, Dixie’s fingers felt like ice.

Pat Graham picked up her knife and fork, stared at her plate for a moment, then carefully laid the utensils back down. “Vern and Henry both have their people out there in force. They’ve had the place under surveillance since about eight this morning, local time.” Rhett made a sharp sound. The attorney general glanced at him. “Nobody’s gone in or out since then, but that doesn’t mean much. McCullough would have been expecting something of the sort, I’m sure. He wouldn’t keep Lauren there-most likely moved her out during the night. They could have her stashed just about anywhere by now-there’s a lot of wide-open country out there.”

Dixie clapped a hand over her mouth. Unable to sit still, Rhett pushed back his chair. “I need to be out there,” he muttered, driving a hand through his hair. “I can’t just…sit here, while my daughter’s out there somewhere-God knows where-held hostage by some damn…militia!” He was standing, now, gripping the back of Dixie’s chair. He wondered why it didn’t snap in his hands.

Pat rose, too, and leaned toward him, bracing her hands on the white linen tablecloth. “Rhett, I know how you must feel.” Her umber eyes were intent, her voice low and earnest. “But I can only advise you very strongly not to do that. We cannot have the media getting hold of this. We’d be putting your daughter in