Brazen

  “What were you thinking? You made yourself a target by coming out into the open like that!”

  “It’s your life I was worried about!” she countered.

  “Don’t start that curse nonsense with me again!”

  “Someone was shooting at you, Clay!” Her voice trembled with the knowledge. “You could have been killed. I—I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to you.”

  Clay couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand to hear the sorrow in her tone. Couldn’t stand to see her features crumple. He slid his hands over her shoulders and grasped her upper arms, resisting the urge to shake some sense into her.

  Unable to help himself, Clay pulled Siobhan to him and fixed his mouth to her trembling one. Seeming shocked, she tried to pull away, but he held her fast, nudged her lips open, kissed her with all the passion of a man who’d never stopped loving her.

  PATRICIA ROSEMOOR

  BRAZEN

  As always, love to my critique group—Sherrill,

  Rosemary, Laurie and the birthday girls Cheryl and Jude.

  Our birthday adventure in Santa Fe was a fun springboard for this story.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Patricia Rosemoor has always had a fascination with dangerous love. She loves bringing a mix of thrills and chills and romance to Harlequin Intrigue readers. She’s won a Golden Heart from Romance Writers of America and Reviewers’ Choice and Career Achievement Awards from RT Book Reviews. She teaches courses on writing popular fiction and suspense-thriller writing in the fiction writing department of Columbia College Chicago. Check out her website, www.PatriciaRosemoor.com. You can contact Patricia either via email at [email protected], or through the publisher at Patricia Rosemoor, c/o Harlequin/Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY10279.

  Books by Patricia Rosemoor

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  707—VIP PROTECTOR**

  745—THE BOYS IN BLUE

  “Zachary”

  785—VELVET ROPES**

  791—ON THE LIST**

  858—GHOST HORSE

  881—RED CARPET CHRISTMAS**

  924—SLATER HOUSE

  958—TRIGGERED RESPONSE

  1031—WOLF MOON*

  1047—IN NAME ONLY?*

  1101—CHRISTMAS DELIVERY

  1128—RESCUING THE VIRGIN*

  1149—STEALING THUNDER*

  1200—SAVING GRACE*

  1261—BRAZEN*

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Siobhan McKenna Atkinson—Overwhelmed by her husband’s accidental death, she’s trying to keep the ranch from going under when the man she once loved walks back into her life.

  Clay Salazar—Back in town to protect Siobhan, he suspects her husband’s death was no accident.

  Jeff Atkinson—The late owner of the Double JA was tracking a calf when he ran into something far more dangerous.

  Raul Galvan—Why is the politician really wooing the dead man’s sister?

  Jacy Atkinson—Why was the dead man’s sister left out of the will?

  Early Farnum—What would the rancher do to expand his holdings?

  Buck Hale—Is Clay’s old nemesis trying to get revenge?

  Paco Vargas—Why did the ex-con go to work for Buck?

  June 22, 1919

  Donal McKenna,

  Ye might have found happiness with another woman, but yer progeny will pay for this betrayal of me. I call on my faerie blood and my powers as a witch to give yers only sorrow in love, for should they act on their feelings, they will put their loved ones in mortal danger.

  So be it,

  Sheelin O’Keefe

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Seventeen

  Prologue

  Where the hell was that calf? Jeff Atkinson wondered as he stood in the saddle and looked around to no avail.

  He’d tracked the sneaky beast for miles now. Third time the calf had gotten out of his pasture this month. Coming back from church, he’d ridden out for a quick check on the herd only to find the calf’s mamma bawling at the downed fence, an area too small for her to bust through. Thankfully. Otherwise, he’d have more than a lone calf to worry about.

  After following the calf’s tracks along the dry creek bed lined with cottonwoods, he hit a sandstone formation where the tracks fell off.

  Whistling sharply, he called out, “Hey, little doggie, where are you?” as if the calf would answer. Well, if he was scared enough, maybe he would cry to be found. No answer, though, so Jeff whistled again.

  Exhausted, he wanted to get home to Siobhan and one of her special Sunday dinners. And to the weekly sharing of bodies afterward, a ritual for which he would never be too tired. He wished for more closeness in their marriage, but their situation had been doubly complicated. He’d known she was in love with another man, which hadn’t bothered him at the time. After a year and a half of marriage, he’d grown to care for her, but unfortunately, she’d never fully switched her affections to him in the way he would now like. They were, after all, thinking of starting a family. He just had to take care of a personal situation before they made that move.

  Tempted to leave the calf be for now—in the morning, he could send out the boys after him—he knew that was wishful thinking. The little beast could end up as dinner for coyotes or a mountain lion. And he couldn’t afford to lose another valuable animal, not when he was hanging on to the ranch with everything he had.

  So he kneed his mount and pushed him up onto the hilly sandstone formation. The gelding picked his way carefully between rocks strewn everywhere.

  Gradually, he became aware of sounds that had no place on this ranch. Crashing…cursing…smashing…like someone breaking up rock.

  Frowning, he urged his mount faster toward the intruder. Who the hell was on his land? And what did he think he was doing?

  The foreign sounds got louder as he guided the gelding through the mouth of a small canyon. Once inside, the first thing he saw was the calf lying on its side, unmoving. The little beast’s throat gaped where it had been cut. It had bled out right there.

  Raw anger curled in his gut, and not just because he’d lost another animal. The calf had probably been bawling with fear and had been killed to keep him quiet.

  Ahead, a man was bent over, his face hidden by his brimmed hat. He was throwing broken rock around as if he was searching for something.

  Reaching for the rifle in the sheath at his saddle, Jeff stopped when he heard a metallic snick come from behind him.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You want to live…hands behind your head.”

  Heart hammering, recognizing the voice, he did as he was ordered.

  Only something told him he wouldn’t be going home to his Sunday dinner or to his wife’s arms.

  Something told him it was a good thing he’d gone to church early that morning, and before Mass had confessed all his sins.

  Chapter One

  “Don’t want to get too close!” The scrawny kid with a coiled rope in his hand danced around the corral and kept his distance from the adrenaline-driven roan. “Looks like he wants to kick me!”

  Clay Salazar grinned. Mankato “Manny” Flores was newly incarcerated in the New Mexican High Desert Correctional Center, even newer to the inmate horse training program. This was his first ti
me facing down one of the wild mustangs rounded up from federal land by the Bureau of Land Management and meant to be adopted out. Man and horse had something in common. Having worked as a staff trainer for more than a year now, Clay had seen enough panicky horses to liken the animal’s experience to that of a man being imprisoned for the first time.

  “He does want to kick you, Manny.”

  “I’ll show him who’s boss!” The inmate waved the rope wildly and in response, the horse screeched and bucked as he ran off.

  “Stop right there! You try to muscle a mustang and he’ll show you who’s boss.” Clay eyed the frightened horse. “Stormcloud’s not mean, just wants to beat you so he can be free again. I know you can identify with that feeling. Go ahead and talk to him, get him used to the sound of your voice. Wave that rope, but just to get him away from the wall and moving in the direction you want him to go. Show him you have no fear.”

  Which of course was wishful thinking, for if any inmate he’d worked with feared horses, it was Manny Flores. Why the kid had signed up for the program had baffled Clay until Manny admitted he knew he had to learn to do something so that when he got out he could change his life. Clay was all up for that. It hadn’t been so long ago that he’d had to change his own life over a woman he couldn’t have, and wild horses had given him that opportunity.

  Unfortunately, Manny wasn’t doing so well. The mustang hit the metal wall, fell to his knees and charged back up to his feet and straight for the kid, who ran like the demons of hell were after him. The roan circled, missing him, not stopping until he got to the opposite side of the corral.

  When Manny smacked the rope coil against the wall and yelled, “He’s never going to let me near him—this is my first horse—give me one that’s easier!” Clay worried the kid’s fear was progressing to anger.

  Lots of inmates had anger issues, and the training staff’s hope was that working with the mustangs would help the inmates learn some patience that would serve them well on the outside.

  Clay said, “Calm down and back off for a minute.”

  Manny shook his head. “This horse is impossible.”

  “He’s not. You just have to take your time with him and you’ll win him over.”

  “You know so much, let’s see you get in here and show me how.”

  Normally Clay would ignore the challenge, would keep his participation to backing up the inmate he was teaching to become a trainer. But this time Clay sensed he was about to lose Manny from the program, and that wasn’t okay with him.

  Like Clay, Manny was mestizo. Being part Anglo, part Hispanic and part Indian put a man at a disadvantage when it came to opportunity, even here in tricultural New Mexico. Some people expected you to turn out bad, and it was easy to meet their low expectations. What was hard was changing your life—he knew all about that firsthand.

  The kid wanted to go straight and Clay was going to do everything he could to see that he didn’t screw up his chance. So he climbed down from the fence and entered the corral. Manny immediately handed off the rope, scooted out the gate and climbed up on top of the rail to watch.

  Concentrating on Stormcloud, Clay picked up on the horse’s fear that had been exacerbated by the scared kid. He knew he could calm the wild horse if he could touch him. He had his Navajo grandfather to thank for knowing how.

  After the woman he loved had married another man, he’d left town heartsick, had sought out his late mother’s clan. His grandfather had taught him to use a soft voice and a gentle hand when working with horses, had inspired him to find a spiritual connection that engendered trust. The technique worked not only with horses, but also with people, too. Clay’s learning that from both his grandfather and the wild horses had allowed him to become a better man.

  He softly clucked at the mustang. “Hey, son, easy now.”

  Stormcloud snorted and stomped his feet before charging. Clay waited until the horse was almost on him and then turned his body and easily stepped out of the way. He next advanced on the horse, arm and coiled rope raised.

  “C’mon, son, move along.”

  The horse bolted across the corral.

  Clay advanced on Stormcloud again…and again…and again…never making a sharp or fast move.

  Finally, the mustang tired of the game and stood his ground. He snorted and rolled his eyes at Clay with suspicion, but he didn’t charge him.

  “Good boy, Stormcloud,” Clay murmured as he inched closer. “That’s a good boy.”

  Clay locked gazes with the mustang and continued murmuring sweet nothings meant to mesmerize. It usually took a week for an inmate to get close enough to touch a horse being trained, but as his grandfather had said, Clay possessed Navajo magic. He’d learned to communicate without words, to soothe the wildness in a horse, to abate the fear in its eyes…

  He held out the coiled rope and froze in place. Stormcloud hesitated then stretched his neck just far enough to nose the rope. Seconds later, he popped his head and snorted. Still he didn’t skitter off. Clay switched hands, holding out the empty one, and continued making sounds meant to soothe. Hesitating even longer, the horse finally sniffed his hand.

  A longing in the horse’s gaze touched Clay and he grabbed on to it, wrapped it with unspoken reassurances, the promise of safety and comfort. He sensed the slight shift—a softening in the horse’s attitude.

  “I get it, son. Easy now,” Clay whispered, daring to touch Stormcloud’s nose. Continuing to mentally project promises that soothed the horse’s fear.

  The horse allowed the human contact for several seconds before shaking his head and backing away.

  Clay grinned. “Good boy! Enough for today.” Knowing that he needed to quit with the small victory, he backed off toward the gate to the chute, and about to open it, yelled to anyone in the corridor, “Back off, mustang coming through.” He whistled sharply and waved the horse over. “C’mon, son.”

  Stormcloud loped past him and straight down the chute to the pasture entry where the rest of his herd awaited him. One of the other inmates swung open the gate and let him in.

  When Manny jumped down from the rail, his expression was one of wonder. “How’d you do that?”

  “With patience and softness, Manny. Things that would serve you well.”

  “Man, if I could learn that trick…”

  “You can. If you want to, you’ll do it.”

  Clay read the kid’s gaze as easily as he read the mustang’s. The crisis was past. Manny Flores was in for the count.

  CLAY’S DAY WENT AS THEY all did. Busy. Satisfying. Lonely.

  The job was his life.

  He even bunked in a room on the correctional center property in one of the horse barns. This part of the facility was minimum security and wasn’t fenced off, so it wasn’t much like a prison at all. No need to get a house or even an apartment away from here. Other staffers went home to girlfriends or wives and kids. Wandering empty rooms would only remind Clay of what he couldn’t have.

  The woman he’d loved had sent him on his way with some excuse about a damn McKenna family curse.

  Heading across the grounds for the mess hall at supper time, Clay knew the curse was on him. Just because he hadn’t been able to have her, however, Clay hadn’t been about to settle for another woman. Not that he hadn’t tried more than a few to clear his mind and satisfy his natural urges. But none had stuck. He’d rather be alone than with a woman he didn’t love.

  Entering the main building through a back door available to staff only, Clay was making his way down a dimly lit corridor, heading for the mess hall, when he heard voices that made him stop and listen to the furtive conversation.

  “The ranch’s troubles aren’t just bad luck.”

  “Trouble rarely is.”

  Clay recognized the self-satisfied voice. Incarcerated in minimum security or not, Paco Vargas was trouble with a capital T, though he always managed to skate around the rules without doing anything that would put him on notice. Or if he did cross
the line, he managed not to get caught. Though he was in the inmate horse trainer program, Vargas seemed to have no real desire to change. Having had more than one go-round with the inmate, Clay could read him as easily as he could the horses. Hiding his true nature the best he could, Vargas was simply biding his time, making sure he looked good so he could get out and undoubtedly go back to his old life.

  What was he up to now?

  “I hear the ranch has been going down since the owner was killed,” the second man said.

  What ranch? Clay wondered, holding himself back from facing down the men and demanding an answer.

  As if hearing the unspoken question, Vargas said, “I give the Double JA a couple months at best.”

  A prickle slid up Clay’s spine. The Double JA was Siobhan’s ranch—he’d heard about her husband’s fatal accident several months ago. He lunged around the corner and faced the two men. Vargas was a little shorter than Clay, but he was muscular with a shaved head. By contrast, his companion Frank Dudley had a full beard and long graying hair that hung down his back in a braid.

  “What’s going on, Vargas? What do you know?”

  The inmate put on an innocent expression. “The Double JA is like any other ranch in this economy, Salazar. Vulnerable. I just hear it’s not doing so well, that’s all.”

  “What interest would you have in knowing how well some ranch is doing?”

  “Hey, I’m getting out tomorrow and need to find work. We was just talking about ranches that might be willing to hire an ex-con. Right, Frank?”

  “Yeah, getting work. That’s all.”

  Clay knew the men were lying through their teeth. It sounded to him like something was going on at the Double JA—more than a bad economy or bad luck, starting with Jeff Atkinson’s death. Whatever it was, he would find out.

  But as close as he’d gotten to some of the inmates in the program, no one was talking, he quickly learned. Because they didn’t know anything or because they were afraid of Vargas?

  Paco Vargas had a hold on the other inmates. A look from him would freeze a man in the middle of a story. It was as if he had some kind of mysterious power over them.