Gail Barrett - Cowboy Under Siege

“That’s not the issue, Bethany.” She could run rings around most of his hands.

“Then what is the issue?”

“Whoever’s killing my cows is armed. Dangerous.” And if she came across that shooter in the field … His belly contracted with dread.

“They haven’t hurt any people, have they?”

When he didn’t answer, she stepped closer. “Exactly what do you think is going to happen?”

He folded his arms, refusing to say. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her—at least in this.

“There’s something you aren’t saying,” she said slowly. “Something else has happened, more than the cows.”

He exhaled, knowing he might as well tell her the truth.

GAIL BARRETTalways knew she’d be a writer. Then one day, she discovered a Mills & Boon ®novel in a bookstore—and knew she was destined to write romance. Her books have won numerous awards, including a National Readers’ Choice Award and Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart.

She currently lives in western Maryland. Readers can contact her through her website, www.gailbarrett.com.

Cowboy Under Siege

Gail Barrett

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To John, my own Montana hero.

Acknowledgments:

I’d like to thank the following people for their extraordinary help with this book: Elle Kennedy and Judith Sandbrook for their invaluable input and critiques; René Tanner at Montana State University for explaining how their library system works; Caroline Sullivan and Dorothy Archer for their nursing help; Russ Howe, for information on pharmaceutical companies; Rebecca May-Henson and Mary Jo Archer for patiently answering my questions about horses and bloat; Piper Rome and John K. Barrett for information about weapons. Please note that any mistakes are definitely my own!

And a very special thank-you to Patience Bloom, Keyren Gerlach, and the rest of the Mills & Boon ®family for including me in this project. Marie, Beth, Carla, Elle, and Cindy—you ladies rock!

The sharp report of a gunshot cracked through the afternoon stillness, the echo reverberating through the rolling rangeland and scattering the sparrows on the barbed-wire fence. Cole Kelley jerked up his head and fixed his gaze on the parched brown hills marking the southern boundary of his ranch. Four more shots barked out in quick succession, execution-style. Then a deep, ringing silence gripped the land.

Cole stood dead still, every sense hyperalert, his attention locked on the hills. Nothing moved. No wisp of dust blurred the cloudless sky. Only the dried grass rippled and bowed, paying homage to the perpetual Montana wind.

But coming close on the heels of his sister’s abduction, those shots could only mean one thing—trouble.

His pulse kicked into a sprint.

Cole released his hold on his fencing pliers, yanked off his leather work gloves and tugged the cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans. He speed dialed the bunkhouse, relieved he could pick up a signal on the twelve-thousand-acre ranch.

“I just heard gunfire,” he said when one of his ranch hands, Earl Runningcrane, answered the phone. “I’m in the south section along Honey Creek. Who’ve we got working nearby?”

“Nobody. They’re all in the northeast section, stacking the rest of the hay.”

Just as he’d expected. Then who had fired shots on his land?

“All right,” he said. “I’m going to investigate. Stand by in case I need help.”

A profound sense of uneasiness unfurling inside him, Cole gathered up his fencing tools and whistled softly for Mitzy, the border collie chasing rabbits nearby. He loped through the grass to his pickup truck, the tension that had dogged him for the past two weeks ratcheting higher yet.

There was an outside chance those shots had come from a hunter, but deer season didn’t start for another week. And with the danger currently stalking his family …

Cole yanked open the truck door, waited a heartbeat for the dog to leap inside, then slid in beside her and turned the key. “Hold on,” he warned as she pointed her nose out the open passenger side window to scent the breeze. “We’re moving out fast.”

He shifted into gear and gunned the engine, causing the pickup to fishtail on the gravel road. Then he stomped his boot to the floorboard and sped toward the Bar Lazy K’s southern boundary, giving rise to a billowing plume of dust.

Those shots could be a coincidence—someone shooting at targets, local teens fooling around. But Cole’s gut warned him that he wasn’t going to like what he found. Ever since his father’s infidelities had hit the tabloids, creating a national media sensation, his family had been under siege.

Dealing with the press was annoying enough. Reporters tramped over Cole’s land for a glimpse of the senator. Paparazzi massed outside the ranch gates like flies over roadkill, their numbers swelling every time another of Hank’s mistresses came to light—six so far, proving his father had ignored his wedding vows as easily as he’d forgotten his kids. Photographers had even hovered over the house in helicopters, vying for a shot they could sell to the tabloids, until Cole took out a restraining order to stop them from terrifying the cows.

But there was a darker, far more sinister element seeking his father, unknown enemies who’d threatened his life. And two weeks ago, in a bid to force the senator out of hiding, they’d abducted Cole’s sister, Lana, throwing the family into a panic and dramatically upping the stakes.

His jaw clenched tight at the thought of his kidnapped sister, Cole sped up the hill at the corner of his ranch. At the top he hit the brakes, waited for the dust to clear, then scanned the surrounding terrain. Antelope watched from a rise in the distance. Gnarled fence posts stood at the edge of his property like sentinels against the cobalt-blue sky. The gravel road ribboned across the hills toward the Absaroka Mountains, the wide-open rangeland giving way to clusters of pines.

There wasn’t a person or vehicle in sight.

His nerves taut, Cole leaped from the truck, grabbed his rifle from the gun rack behind his seat, and chambered a round. Then, keeping Mitzy beside him, he waded through the grass toward the fence. The wind bore down, carrying with it the faint sound of lowing cows.

He reached his barbed-wire fence, and Honey Creek came into view below him, a sparkling streak meandering through his neighbor’s unmowed alfalfa fields. Still nothing . His heart beating fast, he ran his gaze over the treeless hillsides, then turned his attention to the grass trampled down around the gate. Someone had recently been here, but who?

The foreboding inside him increasing, he unhooked the barbed wire gate and dragged it aside, then followed the line of crushed grass to the slope of the hill. He swept his gaze to the river bottom where he’d pastured his cattle—stalling on three black cows lying motionless in the sun.