B.J. Daniels - High-Caliber Cowboy

“I’m not crying!” Anna sniffed.

Oh, hell. Being raised with three brothers by his dad, Brandon didn’t have a clue what to do when it came to women. Well, at least not the crying part.

He put a tentative hand on Anna’s shoulder. “It’s going to be all right.”

She shot him a look that told him that was an obvious lie.

“Okay, it’s not going to be all right.” He put his arm all the way around her. “But it could be worse. We could have been shot.”

Still crying but laughing, too, she leaned back to look at him. “You always see the silver lining in every cloud, don’t you?”

Not always, but definitely right now with her in his arms.

He hated how good it felt to hold her. Just his luck that the first woman who made him feel like this was not only wanted by the law, but was also his family’s sworn enemy.

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A former award-winning journalist, B.J. had thirty-six short stories published before her first romantic suspense, Odd Man Out, came out in 1995. Her book Premeditated Marriage won Romantic Times Best Intrigue award for 2002 and she received a Career Achievement Award for Romantic Suspense. B.J. lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, three springer spaniels, Zoey, Scout and Spot, and a temperamental tomcat named Jeff. She is a member of Kiss of Death, the Bozeman Writer’s Group and Romance Writers of America. When she isn’t writing, she snowboards in the winters and camps, water-skis and plays tennis in the summers. To contact her, write: P.O. Box 183, Bozeman, MT 59771 or look for her online at www.bjdaniels.com.

Anna Austin—She came to Montana determined not to let anyone keep her from the truth—including the cowboy she’d dreamed of for years.

Brandon McCall—The cowboy was just trying to escape his legacy—until he met his destiny one dark night.

Emma Ingles—She had the perfect job, except for the occasional cries she heard coming from the locked wing.

Mason VanHorn—For years he’d hidden the truth about the past. Now someone is digging up those painful memories….

Dr. Niles French—He sold his soul years ago. Now he is old and tired of doing Mason VanHorn’s dirty work. But what price will he have to pay to get out from the man’s death grip?

Josh Davidson—He would do anything for his boss the doc…even kill.

Lenore Johnson—The private investigator took on the case knowing it might be dangerous. She just didn’t realize how dangerous.

Dr. Porter Ivers—All he wanted was to comfort his sick wife in her final days. After giving his life to the Antelope Flats Clinic, was a little peace too much to ask?

Dr. Taylor Ivers—An overachiever, she’d followed in her father’s footsteps and became the daughter he’d always dreamed of. Or had she?

Sheriff Cash McCall—He had one too many murders on his hands and everywhere he turned, he found his brother in the thick of it.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Saturday night

Emma Ingles loved the night shift. Tonight, she’d fallen asleep watching an old Western on the little TV in the office, her feet up on the desk, her mouth open.

She was a bulky woman, with bad feet and little ambition, who looked much tougher than she was. But she’d found the perfect job for a woman in her late fifties. Well, almost the perfect job.

She woke in midsnore. Startled, she sat up, her feet hitting the floor with a slap as she looked around. She muted the movie and glanced at the clock. Just a little after 3:00 a.m.

Listening, she was relieved to hear nothing, which was exactly what she should have heard since she was completely alone in the huge old building. At least, she was supposed to be.

Warily, she glanced through the glass-and-mesh window that looked out on the worn linoleum-tile hallway. In the dim light, her gaze wandered down to the chained, locked double doors to the wing that had housed the violent patients, the criminally insane.

Please, not tonight. There were times she swore she heard cries coming from that wing. That’s why she kept the TV cranked up loud enough to drown out any noises, real or imagined. The wing had been empty for twenty years now—and locked up tight. If that’s where the sound had come from no way was she going down there to investigate—even if she’d had a key.

The backdoor buzzer went off, making her jump. That must be what had awakened her. But who would be ringing the buzzer at this hour? Her boss, Realtor Frank Yarrow, was in charge of selling the building and would have called or maybe come to the front door if there were an emergency of some kind.

But she couldn’t even see him driving up here at three in the morning. The former Brookside Mental Institution was at the end of a winding dirt road, the monstrous three-story brick building perched like a vulture on the mountainside, ten miles from town. Isolated, hidden, forgotten. For sale.

Given the history of this place, the only people who came up here, especially at night, were kids. They’d get a six-pack and drive up from Antelope Flats, Montana, or from Sheridan, Wyoming, which was about fifteen miles farther south.

After a few beers, they’d dare each other to prove how brave they were by chucking a few rocks through the windows or painting some stupid graffiti on the worn bricks. They never rang the buzzer. Probably because few people even knew it existed.

Emma realized she hadn’t heard a car, not that she could have over the shoot-’em-up western on TV with the volume turned up.

The buzzer sounded again. Had to be kids. Some punk kids trying to give her a hard time.

Well, she’d set them straight. She hauled herself up from the chair, picked up the heavy-duty flashlight and opened the door to the dark hallway. Scaring kids was another of the perks that came with the job.

There was only one small light on at the end of each corridor to give the place the appearance of not being completely abandoned. She closed her office door, pitching the hallway where she stood into blackness and waited for her eyes to adjust.

Behind her, there was the faint glow of light coming from her office window that looked out into the foyer. But in front of her was nothing but darkness.

She padded down the gloomy hall to where the building made a ninety-degree turn to the left into another corridor that eventually led to the back door. It was an odd-shaped building, with a wing off each side of the entry that jutted straight back, making a U of sorts behind the place where there had once been an old orchard.

The trees were now all dead, the bare limbs a web of twisted dark wood.