B.J. Daniels - High-Caliber Cowboy

She had to get back into that ranch house. Only this time, she would need a major diversion—something more than vandalizing a few wellheads.

And this time, everyone would be looking for her after Brandon McCall told them what she looked like. At least he didn’t know her name. Nor would she be easy to find.

As she looked across at the marina, she knew she had just raised the stakes and was about to gamble everything. There was no turning back now, no matter who got in the way. Even Brandon McCall.

She would find out the truth. Even if it destroyed them all.

MASON VANHORN PICKED UP the broken lamp in his office and hurled it across the room. It crashed into the wall, dropping with a clatter.

Red Hudson winced but had the good sense not to say a word. The ranch manager had noticed tracks in the mud behind the house, had investigated and called him. Mason had driven home at once, disbelieving that anyone would be stupid enough to break into his house. When he got his hands on the bastard—

“They came in through the window in the bathroom,” Red said behind him. “Had to know you weren’t going to be home.”

“They?” Mason turned to look at him. Red was a big man with a shock of bright red hair, thus the nickname. Mason knew he could count on Red’s loyalty because he had just enough on the man to ensure Red would never turn on him.

But unfortunately, Red had a little something on him, as well, which meant he couldn’t control him like he could the other men. Red could be pushed, but Mason wasn’t sure how far.

“I found two sets of tracks coming and going,” Red said. “One could be a small man. The other large.”

“I thought you hired extra men to make sure the ranch was secure,” he snapped.

Red nodded. “But we were expecting the wells to be hit, not the house.”

“If that’s your excuse—”

“It’s not an excuse,” Red said, an edge to his voice.

Mason opened one of the file cabinets, then slammed it. “You’re saying there are two vandals?”

Red shook his head. “This isn’t the work of a vandal. The house wasn’t torn up. These guys were looking for something.”

Mason didn’t look at him.

“Why do I get the feeling you know what they were looking for?” Red swore. “If I’d known the house might be hit, I would have put some men on it. Whatever was in the safe—”

“It was empty.”

Red shook his head. “So you knew they were coming.”

Mason didn’t have to explain himself to anyone. He’d cleaned out the safe as a precaution. He’d never dreamed anyone would actually break into the house. He wanted to turn his fury on Red, to fire him, to send him packing, but he knew this wasn’t Red’s fault. It was his own.

Moving to the desk, he stared down, suddenly afraid he might have left something incriminating lying around. Living alone, with no one having access to his office, had made him careless, he realized.

“I want guards around the house until further notice,” he ordered. “I want those bastards caught and brought to me.”

Red met his gaze. “You think they’ll come back?” he asked in surprise.

“Just do it and stop questioning me,” Mason snapped.

The ranch manager nodded slowly. “I’ll put my best men on the house. But if you really want to catch them, you need to go back to Gillette. If they have a reason to hit the house again, they won’t be foolish enough to do it with you here.”

Mason couldn’t argue Red’s logic but he had no intention of going anywhere. “I’ll make everyone think I’ve gone back to Gillette, but I intend to be here tonight when they come back.”

“Suit yourself, but it could be dangerous.”

Mason laughed. “Only for the bastards who broke into my house.”

“It would make my job easier if you’d tell me what they’re looking for.”

“What makes you think I want to make your job easier? And get someone to clean up this mess.” Mason turned and stormed out of his office.

Something caught his eye from down the hall. A drop of blood on the carpet. He felt a chill. Was it possible one of the burglars had been hurt breaking in? He knelt down to inspect the spot. It was right in front of his son’s open bedroom door.

He still thought of the room as Holt’s even though his son would never use it again. He’d heard rumors that Holt was in California, Florida, even Alaska. He didn’t care where he was as long as he never had to lay eyes on him again. His own son had stolen from him—shamed him.

He clenched his fist at the memory. He’d built everything for Holt, his only son, the heir who would one day take over the vast empire he’d built. Now Holt was gone and Mason had seen to it that his son would never get a penny.

He closed the bedroom door. He should have cleaned it out the moment he learned of Holt’s betrayal. Should have had everything in it burned.

He moved down the hall, following the droplets of blood and stopped at his daughter’s bedroom door, seeing at once that things weren’t as they should have been.

One of the stuffed animals on the bed had been moved. He knew because that rag doll had been in the same place for the past twenty years—exactly where Chrissy had left it.

That stupid part-time housekeeper he’d hired must have moved it when she cleaned the room. He’d have Red fire her.

He stepped to the bed, picked up the rag doll. Honey. That’s what Chrissy had called it from the day he’d given it to her. He brought the doll to his face, smelled it as if he thought Chrissy’s baby-girl scent would still be in the worn fabric. But of course, it wasn’t.

He put Honey back where she belonged—between the teddy bears—and tried to picture his precious daughter in this room, but it was too heartbreaking.

“Mr. VanHorn?”

He turned from the room, practically fleeing down the hall to where Red stood, giving orders on the phone to whoever was doing the cleanup.

“I found some blood,” Mason said the moment Red got off the phone.

The ranch manager nodded. “There’s some on the bathroom floor and the windowsill, too. One of them must have gotten injured breaking in.”

What had happened here last night? “Who did you have watching the wells behind the ranch house?” Mason asked.

“One of my best men. Brandon McCall.”

Mason couldn’t speak. He started shaking so hard he thought he was having a seizure. Brandon McCall was working security on his ranch? A McCall on VanHorn soil? “Fire him immediately!”

“He’s one of my best men,” Red said, staring at him in stunned surprise.

“He’s a McCall.” It had never dawned on Mason to tell Red never to hire a McCall. But more to the point, what the hell would a McCall be doing working on this ranch? Only one explanation presented itself. “No. Don’t fire him. Bring him to me. Now!”

He stormed back down the hall to the bathroom, stooping to pick up the iron cowgirl doorstop on the floor. As he lifted it, he saw the dried blood. “Get me McCall,” he yelled back at Red, feeling as if he still might have that seizure.

HEAD ACHING, Brandon set out to find the woman vandal. He started in Antelope Flats, cruising down Main Street, keeping his eye out for her. Antelope Flats was a tiny western town in the corner of southeastern Montana. Tiny and isolated, just the way he liked it.

He’d been born here and lived his whole life on the family ranch north of town. This was his stomping grounds and he knew this part of the country better than anyone. If the woman was still around, he’d find her.

Not that he expected to see her walking down the street. She was much too smart for that. But he thought he might see her car. He’d picked up an accent last night that he couldn’t place, but one thing was clear: she wasn’t from around here. That meant she was driving either a car with out-of-state plates or a rental car.