Loe raamatut: «Cowboy Fever»
Why couldn’t she just relax and accept his protection?
But she couldn’t relax around him. The memory of their time together was too potent, the attraction between them still far too dynamic.
She got out of the truck and watched as Dakota removed their daughter from her car seat. The baby dropped her head to his shoulder as if it were natural for this cowboy with a smile that matched her own to be carrying her into the house.
Viviana hurried to unlock the door. She noticed the doll almost at once, at the edge of the walkway next to a flower pot. It wasn’t her daughter’s.
Apprehension made her palms clammy as she stooped to pick it up. The back of the doll’s head had been crushed. Fake blood dripped down the collar of the dress.
She started to slam it back to the walk and spotted a square of paper tucked inside the clothing. As she read it, the words blurred. Her hands began to shake. And then she felt the earth moving beneath her feet and the walkway rushing to her face …
About the Author
JOANNA WAYNE was born and raised in Shreveport, Louisiana, and received her undergraduate and graduate degrees from LSU-Shreveport. She moved to New Orleans in 1984, and it was there that she attended her first writing class and joined her first professional writing organisation. Her debut novel, Deep in the Bayou, was published in 1994.
Now, dozens of published books later, Joanna has made a name for herself as being on the cutting edge of romantic suspense in both series and single-title novels. She has been on the Waldenbooks bestseller list for romance and has won many industry awards. She is also a popular speaker at writing organisations and local community functions and has taught creative writing at the University of New Orleans Metropolitan College.
Joanna currently resides in a small community forty miles north of Houston, Texas, with her husband. Though she still has many family and emotional ties to Louisiana, she loves living in the Lone Star State. You may write Joanna at PO Box 852, Montgomery, Texas 77356, USA.
Cowboy Fever
Joanna Wayne
MILLS & BOON
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To our good friends the Mitchells. Always nice to have
you two around to catch a movie with when I need a
break from the computer. And a hug to Wayne
for enduring my deadlines.
Chapter One
Dakota Ledger was back in Texas and the heat was on. Sweat rolled down his back and pooled at his armpits, staining his lucky red Western shirt. The smell of livestock and manure permeated the still air. “All My Ex’s Live in Texas” blared from an aging sound system. The edgy excitement of competition was electric in the stifling June air.
“Gotta love bull riding in San Antonio.”
Dakota turned to the youthful cowboy who was grinning like a puppy with a new bone. “What’s so special about San Antonio?” Dakota asked.
“I qualified for the competition.”
“That’ll do it.”
Dakota didn’t know the rider’s real name, but even though he was relatively new to the Professional Bull Riders Association circuit, he’d already earned a nickname. “Cockroach” stemmed from the way he scurried out of the reach of a bull’s kicking hooves. It was a great talent to have if you wanted to keep living with all parts working.
Cockroach rubbed his palms against his chaps. “This is my first year to compete in PBR-sanctioned events, so I’m a little nervous.”
“The adrenaline will take care of that once you drop onto the bull’s back.”
“I’m counting on that.” Cockroach adjusted his hat. “One day I hope to be the PBRA world champion, just like you were two years ago. A million-dollar purse. I could use that. Not to mention all those endorsements you have.”
“Bull riding’s not about the money.”
“I know.” Cockroach toed the dirt as if putting out a cigarette. “It’s a long, hard ride from the bottom to the top, but I plan to be one of the few who make it.”
“Persistence is a large part of the battle,” Dakota agreed.
“And skill is the rest,” Cockroach said.
“Skill, passion and luck,” Dakota corrected. “You gotta love what you’re doing. And you gotta stay alive to keep doing it.”
Cockroach reached down and adjusted his right spur. “Have you ever been seriously hurt?”
“Never met a bull rider who hasn’t. I’ve had cracked ribs, concussions, a broken right wrist and bruises probably on every inch of my body.”
“Hey, Dakota. Looking good.”
Dakota turned toward the railing that separated the paid attendees from the competitors. A group of young women were leaning over the railing, probably not a one of them over twenty years old. Not that he was all that much older at twenty-five, but he sure felt it.
Still, he tipped his hat and smiled.
“Your friend’s cute, too,” one of the females called.
Cockroach beamed, turned a tad red and tipped his hat to his vocal admirer.
“What’s your favorite rodeo town?” Cockroach asked when he turned back to Dakota.
Dakota nudged his worn Stetson back from his forehead. It damn sure wasn’t San Antonio or any other town within five hundred miles of here, but he wasn’t getting into that.
“Doesn’t really matter where you are. It always comes down to just you, the bull and the clock.”
“Can’t be the same in places like Montana. I mean look at those hot babes over there. Short shorts, halter tops, sun-streaked hair and all that luscious tanned flesh. Bet you don’t get that in cold country.”
“They’ve got hot buckle bunnies every place they’ve got rodeo competitions,” Dakota assured him. “The names change. The flirting and seduction games remain the same.”
At least that had been true for him until he’d run into a certain dark-haired beauty with class and brains after a bull got the best of him last year at Rodeo Houston. The attraction between them had struck like lightning, shooting sparks without warning. They’d had six days together before he’d had to move on to the next competition. Six torrid, exciting, fantastic days.
End of story. He hadn’t been the one to write the finale. The rejection had stung a lot more than expected. His performance level had taken a drastic drop for several months after that. He could thank Viviana—along with a couple of injuries—that he didn’t even make it to the championship finals last year.
Dakota turned back to the circle of dirt where he’d face tonight’s battle. Letting anything interfere with your concentration was suicide for a bull rider.
Which was why he should have never come back to Texas. Even before he’d met Viviana, the odds here were stacked against him. The Ledger name was infamous in the Lone Star State and that had nothing to do with his reputation with the bulls.
Nineteen years after the fact, the brutal murder of Dakota’s mother was still being written and talked about in this area of Texas. She’d been shot at home, in a ranch house less than a hundred miles from where he stood right now.
His father, Troy, had been convicted of the crime. Dakota had been six years old at the time.
Luckily, questions about his past hadn’t come up today in his interviews with the local media. All they’d focused on was taking pictures and asking him about his success. He suspected that was because the competition’s organizers had told them any mention of Troy Ledger was off-limits.
Cockroach got the signal to head toward the chute. He looked over to the female cheering squad and tipped his hat before swaggering toward the bucking, snorting beast that was already fighting to clear the chute.
“Remember, it’s just you and the bull,” Dakota shouted after him. Six seconds into the ride, the bull bucked and veered to the left. Cockroach was thrown off. Fortunately, it was his hat and not his head that got entangled with the bull’s hooves. True to his nickname, the cowboy got out of the way while Jim Angle distracted the indignant animal.
Jim was one of the rodeo clown greats. It had been Jim Angle who’d saved Dakota from getting seriously injured back in Houston the night he’d met Viviana. The past attacked again, this time so strong Dakota couldn’t shut the memories down.
Images of Viviana filled his head. Dark, curly hair that fell to her slender shoulders. Full, sensual lips. Eyes a man could drown in. A touch that had set him on fire.
Damn. If he didn’t clear his mind, he’d never hang on for the full eight seconds, and he needed a good showing tonight to make it to the final round in this event tomorrow. A rider couldn’t rest on past laurels and the competition got tougher every year.
He’d drawn the meanest of the rough stock tonight. That was half the battle to getting a high score. The other half was up to Dakota.
He was the last rider of the evening and he worked to psyche himself up as the other contenders got their shot at racking up points. As his turn drew near, he fit the leather glove on his riding hand and one of the other riders helped him tape it in place. The resin came next, just enough to improve his grip. Then he climbed onto the chute. It was time for action.
A rush of adrenaline shot through him as he gripped his worn and trusty bull rope and felt the 1700-pound bull buck beneath him. It would be a hell of a ride. The crowd was with him. Their cheers pounded in his head, their voices an indistinguishable roar.
“Hey, Ledger. We don’t like murderers around here.”
Unlike the cheers, the taunt was distinct. Cutting. Jagged.
The gate clanked open and Devil’s Deed charged from the chute.
In what seemed like a heartbeat, the bull went into a belly roll and Dakota went sailing through the air. His right shoulder ground into the hard earth. A kicking hoof collided with his ribs as he tried to scramble to safety.
Pain shot through him like a bullet.
Yep. He was home.
Chapter Two
“STAT. Ambulance en route.”
Dr. Mancini looked up at the male E.R. nurse delivering the news.
“And I so needed this cup of coffee.”
“I know. It’s been murder in here tonight. Must be the full moon.”
“More likely that I volunteered to pull Dr. Cairn’s shift for her.” She took a large gulp of the much-needed caffeine. “Nature of the emergency?” she asked, shifting her brain to work mode.
“Gunshot wound to the head. Critical blood loss. Vitals at life-threatening levels. “
There went her last chance of getting home on time and relieving the nanny tonight. “Any other details?”
“Caucasian male, likely early twenties, picked up in the back parking lot of a bar in the downtown area. Expected arrival …” He glanced at his watch. “Any minute.”
“Alert the nurse assigned to the shock trauma center and also Dr. Evans.”
“I’m on it.”
She was glad Dan Evans was on duty tonight. He was one of the top neurosurgeons in Texas. “Also alert the O.R.,” she called to the departing nurse.
Fatigue was forgotten as she hurried down the halls to the trauma unit. They’d already lost one patient tonight. Hopefully, they’d save this one.
“Dr. Mancini.”
She recognized the voice. Police Detective Harry Cortez, or Dirty Harry, as she’d come to think of him. Not because of his toughness—though she expected he was plenty tough—but because the front of his shirt always bore testimony to his latest meal.
“If you’re here about the patient with the gunshot wound, you’ll have to wait. I haven’t seen him as yet.”
His eyes narrowed. “You have a patient with a gunshot wound?”
“Arriving as we speak, but don’t even think about questioning him until I give you clearance. This is a hospital, not the police station.”
“I’m only doing my job, just like you, Doctor. Besides, I’m here to talk to you about Hank Bateman.”
Mention of the name filled her with disgust. “We’ll have to talk later.”
The squeak of a gurney’s wheels came from near the E.R. entrance. She raced toward the trauma center. The slap of the detective’s street shoes on the tiled floor signaled he was right behind her.
She was sliding her long fingers into a pair of sterile gloves when she heard the detective’s voice outside the examining room.
“Who shot you? C’mon. Name the bastard. He won’t come after you again. I’ll see to it. Just give me the name.”
She walked to the door as the patient was rolled in. She shot a stern warning look at Cortez, and he waved in surrender and backed away.
One look at the patient and her stomach rolled. She should be desensitized by now, but the sight of bloody tissue oozing from the skull was not the kind of thing she’d ever get used to. The victim’s chance of survival was next to zero. The miracle was that he had lived to make it to the hospital.
The young man coughed, and blood mixed with spittle spilled from his lips. His mouth kept moving. He was trying to say something. She leaned in close, but the gurgled murmurings were too garbled to understand.
“I’m Dr. Mancini,” she said as she helped the nurse get him hooked up to the heart monitor. “I’ll try to ease your pain.”
“And I’m Dr. Evans,” the young neurosurgeon said as he joined them.
The patient coughed again, this time choking on the blood.
“Shhh … Shell …”
She leaned in close. “Are you trying to tell me who shot you?”
Before he could nod or mumble a reply, the line on the monitor went flat.
“EITHER YOU GO TO the emergency room by ambulance or I drive you,” Jim Angle said.
Dakota shrugged, but winced as he tried to grab a gulp of bracing air. “I don’t need to see a doctor. It’s just a contusion.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I was wearing my protective vest.”
“You could still have a few cracked ribs. Butch Cobb was wearing a vest in Phoenix.”
All the riders knew about Butch. He’d been one of the best until a fractured rib had punctured his right lung. “A freak accident,” Dakota said.
He lifted a bottle of water to his mouth. His chest protested the movement with such vengeance that he grimaced.
Naturally, Jim noticed.
“You need to be x-rayed.”
“I needed to stay on that bull eight seconds.”
“You don’t always have to play the tough guy, Dakota.”
“Who’s playing? But if it makes you happy, I’ll stop by the emergency room, old man, and get checked out.”
“Watch who you’re calling ‘old man’ or I’ll toss you over my shoulder and haul your sorry ass to the hospital.”
“How about you just collect my bull rope and glove for me?”
“Can do, and then I’m driving you to the hospital.”
“Just what I need, a chauffeur in rodeo-clown makeup.”
What Dakota wanted was a couple of painkillers, a six-pack and a soft bed, but he knew that Jim was right. He should get the injury checked out. If it was something serious, the faster he got it tended to, the better off he’d be.
The nearest hospital was only a ten-minute drive. He’d passed it on his way to the arena tonight. He could easily drive himself. He started unbuttoning his shirt. He had a clean one in his truck and he didn’t want the hospital deciding they had to rip this one off of him.
He almost doubled over from a stab of pain as he shrugged out of the shirt. His chest felt like someone had just whacked it with a two-by-four.
“Get in,” Jim said.
This time Dakota didn’t argue.
Chapter Three
“We still need to talk, Dr. Mancini.”
Drats. The detective was still here. She adjusted the strap on her handbag. The nagging headache that had begun at her first sight of the dying gunshot victim intensified sharply.
“Do we have to talk tonight? I was just leaving.”
He nodded. “It’s important.”
What wasn’t? “There’s a small conference room at the end of the hall,” she said. “But can we make this short? It’s been crazy around here tonight, and I’m exhausted.”
A tinge of guilt settled in her chest. She had no right to complain about exhaustion when, unlike two of the night’s patients, she was alive.
Detective Cortez followed her to the conference room, which was little more than a large supply cabinet with chairs and a small round table instead of shelves. She perched on the edge of one of the chairs.
Cortez scratched the back of his head and dandruff snowed onto the collar of his dark cotton sport shirt. “We have some complications.”
“Don’t tell me they’ve postponed the Bateman trial?”
“No, but Judge Carter was relieved of the case.”
“Why?”
“His wife’s been diagnosed with cancer and he’s taking an emergency leave from the bench.”
“Won’t they just appoint a new judge?”
“They have,” Cortez said. “It’s Judge Nelson.”
“Mary Lester Nelson?”
“That’s the one,” Cortez said.
“You don’t sound too happy about the change.”
“Judge Nelson has a reputation for being soft on rotten sons of bitches like Hank Bateman. Pardon my French.”
“Surely she won’t let a child killer off with a slap on the wrist.”
“No, she’ll throw in a little community service.” Sarcasm punctuated his voice. “She already decided his rights were being denied and set bail this afternoon. I’m sure Bateman is out walking the streets by now.”
“Doesn’t she know what happened three months ago when Judge Carter decided that the prosecution was requesting unreasonable extensions and he decided bail was in order?”
“I’m sure the prosecution made certain she knew Bateman made a run for the border.”
“Not just made a run for it, he was crossing it when Border Patrol made the arrest and sent him back to jail,” she said. “And still Judge Nelson released a child killer on bail. The more I learn about the justice system, the more unjust I think it is.”
“At this point, Bateman is just an alleged child killer. His attorney is insisting he’s innocent.”
“But we know he isn’t. He admitted that he’d been with his girlfriend’s baby all evening the night the infant died.”
“Yeah. Nice guy. Babysitting for the woman who’s out turning tricks to buy him crack cocaine.”
“I don’t give a—” She threw up her hands. “This isn’t about the mother. It’s about getting justice for a helpless infant. And our evidence is indisputable.”
“Until a defense attorney starts whittling away at it.”
“There is nothing to whittle.” Her irritation was building so fast, she couldn’t contain it. “There was excessive retinal hemorrhaging, and bruising on the baby’s arms and stomach that was not consistent with a fall. That infant died from NAT.”
“Calm down,” Cortez said. “You don’t have to convince me the cause of death was nonaccidental trauma delivered by a heartless bastard. I don’t doubt the autopsy findings. But jurors aren’t always swayed by printed reports. They react to emotion. That’s why I’m counting on your testimony.”
“And nothing will stop me from appearing at that trial.”
“Good.”
“So what is this visit really about?”
“Now that Bateman’s out of jail there’s a good chance he’ll try to contact you himself.”
“To try to frighten me into refusing to testify?”
Cortez nodded.
“It won’t work, Detective, no more than his threatening notes have or last month’s visit from his thug friend who showed up in the E.R. pretending to be ill.”
“The trial is only nine days away. Bateman will be getting desperate. He may up the ante.”
The tone of the detective’s voice alarmed her. “Surely you don’t think I’m in any kind of danger.”
“I just think you should be careful. If you so much as see him hanging around or get a phone call from him, I want to know about it. There’s a chance I could take that information to the judge and get the bail decision reversed. Having Bateman behind bars is our only assurance that he won’t skip the country and hide out in some remote area of Mexico.”
So it wasn’t her that the detective was worried about. But she was as interested in seeing Hank Bateman behind bars as he was—permanently locked away, where he could never harm another helpless infant.
But she had other concerns, as well. “I have a seven-month-old daughter. I can’t have her in danger.”
“She won’t be. Neither will you. I’ll see to that.” Cortez pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and dropped it onto the table in front of her. “Keep this with you. Call me on my cell if Bateman tries to make any type of contact with you.”
She picked up the card and quickly committed the number to memory. Fortunately, that came easy for her. It was what got her through med school when she was too crushed by her mother’s death to cram for finals.
They finished the conversation quickly. By the time she was ready to leave, her mind was back on the gunshot victim she hadn’t been able to help.
He was young, someone’s son, maybe even someone’s husband or father. He’d never make it home tonight, and their lives would never be the same without him.
She’d majored in emergency medicine because she liked saving lives. More often than not, she did. But even one life needlessly lost to violence was too many.
Her car was parked about a hundred yards from the E.R. exit nearest the ambulance entrance. The back parking lot was almost deserted this time of night. An uneasy feeling skirted her senses, probably due to too much talk of Hank Bateman. She scanned the area. All was quiet.
When she reached the shiny black Acura that she’d purchased just last week, she pulled her keys from her handbag and unlocked the door. She was about to slide in when she sensed movement to her left.
“Get in.”
A man grabbed her left arm and shoved what felt like the barrel of a pistol into her side. Panic seized her, crippling her reflexes, deadening her senses. She was about to slide into the seat submissively when her survival instincts kicked in.
If she got into the car with this brute, she might never escape alive.
Her former self-defense instructor’s words came back to her in fragmented pieces. Use what you have. Cause a scene. Fight for your life.
“Get in, bitch. Do what I say so that I don’t have to use this gun.”
“If it’s money you want …” She slung her purse at his gun hand as she frantically fit the metal car key between her fingers, fashioning a weapon of sorts.
He shoved her. She fell forward, no longer feeling the force of the gun. She punched the man, aiming for his left eye. The metal end twisted as it buried in his eye socket.
He yelled and flailed, blindly knocking the keys from her hand. She hit the pavement running.
She was almost back to the walkway when the heel of her shoe caught on a strip of uneven pavement. Her foot came out of it and she pitched forward, her right wrist twisting beneath her as she tried to catch herself.
She heard the squeal of a car as it sped away. Please let it be the gunman.
But a hand touched her right shoulder. Horror reached deep inside her and she threw back her head and screamed.
The guy backed off. “Is there a problem?”
The voice echoed through her mind. Familiar. Haunting. She started to shake. Heart hammering in her chest, she turned and looked at the man standing over her.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you. I heard a yell and then spotted you running across the parking lot.”
Her heart skipped erratically as she studied the man who’d come to her rescue. The same depths to the dark eyes she remembered so well. The same thick, unruly hair. Even the same worn Stetson—or one exactly like it.
He stared at her as if she were a ghost.
Her heart turned inside out.
“Dakota.” It was the only word she could manage without totally falling apart.
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