Книга - Operation: Midnight Cowboy

Operation: Midnight Cowboy
Linda Castillo


RETIREMENT FOR ONE COWBOY MEANT GETTING BACK UP ON THE SADDLEAll Bo Ruskin wanted was to forget his tragic past and to reclaim his quiet cowboy life. Instead, he had orders to protect Special Agent Rachael Armitage. Furious and frustrated, Rachael would rather die than abandon her dangerous mission. For even in the safety of Bo's Montana ranch, an international crime lord was out to grant her wish.Drawn to this mysterious, hardened cowboy from her past, Rachael was certain Bo was hiding something. But fi rst she'd have to learn the lay of the land if she were to live to learn the truth. Riding horseback through the wilderness, would these two desperadoes go down in a blaze of glory–or passion?









Rachael settled onto the swing beside the cowboy.


Pulling her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her legs. “It’s chilly.”

“Nights are cool this time of year.” But Bo’s mind wasn’t on the temperature, and he wasn’t the slightest bit cool. In fact, he’d broken a sweat beneath his denim jacket.

Rachael dropped her gaze to her hands. “You probably know this already, but I’m not very good at following other people’s rules. I just tend to be independent.”

Independent was an understatement, but Bo didn’t say as much. He didn’t want to get into the reasons for her recklessness. He didn’t like the way he was reacting to her. He didn’t want to have to talk to her any longer than necessary. Not because sitting on the porch with her was unpleasant, but because she was making him feel things he didn’t want to feel—and tempting him to do things he knew he would regret….




Operation: Midnight Cowboy

Linda Castillo





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Linda Castillo knew at a very young age that she wanted to be a writer—and penned her first novel at the age of thirteen. She is the winner of numerous writing awards, including the Holt Medallion, the Golden Heart and the Daphne du Maurier Award, and she has been nominated for the prestigious RITA


Award.

Linda loves writing edgy romantic suspense novels that push the envelope and take her readers on a roller-coaster ride of breathtaking romance and thrilling suspense. She resides in Texas with her husband, four lovable dogs and an Appaloosa named George. For a complete list of her books, check out her Web site at www.lindacastillo.com, contact her at books@lindacastillo.com or write her at P.O. Box 577, Bushland, Texas 79012.




CAST OF CHARACTERS


Rachael Armitage—A MIDNIGHT agent on the edge. Two years ago, she shot and killed the son of international crime lord Viktor Karas. Now Karas wants revenge. Can Rachael survive the wrath of one of the most brutal criminals in the world?

Bo Ruskin—After killing a fellow MIDNIGHT agent, he quit the agency and fled to his remote Montana ranch. But the agency needs a favor. Can Bo keep Rachael Armitage safe when he can’t even pick up his gun?

Viktor Karas—The most brutal crime lord in the world. Will he succeed in killing the woman responsible for his son’s death?

Sean Cutter—He needs a favor from former MIDNIGHT agent Bo Ruskin. Can Cutter count on him to keep Rachael Armitage safe?

Michael Armitage—He was killed in the line of duty six months earlier. But what secrets did Michael take with him to the grave?

Ivan Petrov—The professional killer hired by Viktor Karas. Will he succeed in eliminating his target? Or die trying?




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

Epilogue




Prologue


They were going to kill her this time.

The first shot blew a hole the size of her thumb through the driver’s side window. Rachael Armitage cut the steering wheel hard to the right. The Mustang slid sideways on the rain-slicked road, but she steered into the skid. The instant the tires gripped, she hit the gas.

There was at least one vehicle behind her. Maybe two. The men inside were probably armed to the hilt. The driver was good; he knew when to get close and when to back off. But she was better. She only hoped she had the horsepower to prove it.

Never taking her eyes from the rearview mirror, she negotiated a sharp curve. The car fishtailed, but she held it steady and maintained control. The headlights behind her disappeared. When the road straightened, Rachael floored the accelerator. But she knew they weren’t going to give up.

Grabbing her purse, she emptied it onto the seat next to her. For an instant she debated whether to reach for the cell phone or the Beretta .380, but she reached for the phone.

Headlights flashed in her rearview mirror as she flipped open the cell. Cursing, she hit the speed dial with her thumb. The vehicle was gaining on her with astounding speed. Coming too fast. Getting too close. One ring. Two.

“Come on,” she snapped.

The vehicle bumped her from behind just as a voice answered. “ID and code, please.”

“This is Alpha two-four-six. Code red.” Rachael glanced to her left to see a big chrome bumper inches from her window. “Damn.”

“What’s your twenty, Alpha?”

Knowing the vehicle was going to ram her, Rachael stomped the brake. But she wasn’t fast enough. The big SUV swerved, its front quarter panel slamming into the Mustang hard enough to knock the phone from her hand. The car veered sideways. The tires screamed as they lost purchase.

She skillfully steered into the skid, but her heart was hammering by the time she regained control. Adrenaline burned hot in her gut. Too damn close, she thought. These guys were good. Professional killers more than likely. They had heavier, faster vehicles. Bigger guns. But then she didn’t expect any less from the man whose only mission in life was to see her dead.

She should have heeded Cutter’s advice and taken the Lear. But then Rachael had never been good at taking advice.

Ahead, she could see the yellow glow of Chicago’s north suburbs above the tree line. She wasn’t familiar with this particular road. Didn’t know where to find refuge. Where the hell was a cop when you needed one?

The second shot shattered the windshield. The safety glass held, but shards pelted her like sleet. Large-caliber projectile. High velocity. If they shot through the engine she would be dead in the water.

Wind roared through the hole in the windshield. Cold night air surrounded her with icy fingers. But it wasn’t the cold that had her hands shaking on the wheel. A glance at the speedometer told her she was nearing one hundred miles per hour. A dangerous speed even in the best conditions. Downright reckless on wet pavement on a curvy back road in the dead of night.

But then Rachael had always been good at reckless.

Every nerve in her body jumped when two sets of headlights loomed behind her. She pressed the accelerator to the floor, but the Mustang’s V-8 engine had already given its all. The second vehicle came up beside her. A large SUV.

The fender slammed into the driver’s side door. Steel screeched and groaned as the vehicles locked. Rachael hit the brake, but it was too late. The Mustang careened into the guardrail. Sparks shot high into the air as steel ground against steel. She tried desperately to ease the car back on the road, but the SUV was too heavy. She was going too fast.

In a last-ditch effort to keep the car from going through the guardrail and down the embankment, she jerked the wheel hard to the left. The SUV was ready and slammed into her again. The impact sent the Mustang into a skid. Rachael was thrown violently to the right. The car bounced off the guardrail and went into a wild spin.

She fought the steering wheel for control, but it was a losing battle. She caught a glimpse of headlights. Of trees against the night sky. The lights of Chicago through the white capillaries of the shattered windshield. Vaguely, she was aware of her cell phone and weapon sliding to the floor.

The car spun as if in slow motion. She was thrown against her safety belt when the car hit the guardrail on the opposite side of the road. The splintering of wood sounded like a gunshot. The airbag deployed. Then she was tumbling end over end.

Rachael tried to protect her face and head, but the journey down the embankment was stunningly violent. Even with the airbag in place, her cheek slammed into the steering wheel hard enough to daze her. Glass broke when her temple hit the driver’s side window. The car somersaulted like a carnival ride run amok.

After everything she’d been through—every crazy risk she’d taken—she couldn’t believe her life would end this way. On some back road in the dead of night at the hands of some faceless, nameless goons she’d never even met. She’d always imagined herself going down in a blaze of glory—and taking at least one of them with her.

She thought of Michael, of all the times in the last two years when she’d wanted nothing more than to lay her head down and join him. She wondered if this was that moment. If the nine lives she’d always fancied herself as having had finally run out. The prospect was not as comforting as she’d imagined.

As suddenly as the car had careened out of control, everything went still. Rachael found herself hanging upside down, suspended by her safety belt. The first thought that registered was that she was alive. She’d had the breath knocked out of her; she could hear herself gasping, trying to get oxygen into her lungs. Her elation was short-lived when the tinny thunk of a bullet penetrating steel sounded a foot away from her head. She couldn’t believe they were still shooting at her. Time to go.

Mentally, she did a quick physical assessment. A dull throb racked her left shoulder. She was pretty sure the warmth on the left side of her face was blood. But Rachael didn’t have time to hurt. She knew the men in the SUV weren’t finished. If she wanted to live, she was going to have to drag herself out of the car and make a run for it.

A groan escaped her as she reached for the release on the safety belt. Pain shot from shoulder to elbow, but she didn’t let it stop her. Survival took precedence over pain. Mind over matter. She would deal with injuries later.

The belt mechanism clicked open. Gravity slammed her into the steering wheel. Grinding her teeth, she fumbled blindly in the darkness for her cell or weapon. She located the cell on what was left of the dashboard, the Beretta next to the crushed dome light. Shoving both items into the waistband of her jeans, Rachael heaved herself toward the passenger side window.

Tiny shards of glass cut her as she clawed through the small opening. Two more shots rang out as she crawled from the car. The Mustang had landed roof down. Steam hissed from the undercarriage and spewed into the cold night air. A small fire flickered beneath the hood. The car was useless; she was going to have to hoof it.

She scrambled to her feet. An instant of dizziness, then the horizon leveled. Around her, the night showed no signs of the violence that had exploded just seconds earlier. The only sound came from the slow spin of a single wheel and the hiss of steam. A chorus of crickets. The distant bark of a dog.

Voices cut through the silence. Rachael glanced toward the road above her. A fresh surge of adrenaline burned through her when she spotted four men. Illuminated by headlights, they were making their way down the ravine. At least two of them were armed with pistols. The other two carried rifles. In the back of her mind she wondered if they had night-vision equipment.

Persistent sons of bitches, she thought, and launched herself into a lumbering run for the tree line a dozen yards away. Her knee protested, but she didn’t slow down.

Shouts rose behind her as she entered the line of trees. They’d reached the car and discovered her missing. If the situation hadn’t been so dire, she might have enjoyed the moment. There was nothing she loved more than besting some piece of scum. But she wasn’t out of the woods yet.

Pulling the cell phone from her waistband, she hit the speed dial to the MIDNIGHT Agency’s crisis line. The coordinator answered on the first ring. Rachael was breathless when she recited her ID, code and GPS coordinates. The voice told her a chopper team was on the way with an ETA of twenty-five minutes. In that instant, twenty-five minutes seemed like a lifetime. Rachael knew all too well how much could happen in twenty-five minutes.

Shoving the cell phone into her waistband, she prayed she lived long enough to reach the pickup point.




Chapter One


“You want to tell me why I’m here?” Bo Ruskin rubbed a hand over his jaw, aware of the scrape of whiskers that had sprung up on the overnight flight from his ranch outside of Cody, Wyoming, to the small, covert airstrip near Washington, D.C., that was used exclusively by the CIA and its lesser known division, the MIDNIGHT Agency.

He’d received the call just before 11:00 p.m.—a time when more often than not the news wasn’t good. He had a sinking feeling Agency Head Sean Cutter was about to prove him right.

“I need a favor,” Cutter said.

An alarm went off in Bo’s head. He knew all about Sean Cutter and favors. “Must be a big one for you to ask me to fly here on a moment’s notice without so much as an explanation.”

Cutter paused outside a tall, mahogany door marked Conference Room and shoved it open. “Have a seat.”

Bo barely noticed the glossy wood table or the dozen high-back leather executive chairs surrounding it. He took a seat closest to the door, since he was pretty sure he was going to be using it to make his exit in the next minute or so.

Cutter sat at the head of the table. “One of my operatives needs a safe house and protection.”

Bo didn’t hesitate. “So follow protocol and put them into witness security.”

“I’m sure you’re aware that two months ago, Ian Rasmussen hacked the witness security program database. We still haven’t recovered, Bo. Eighty percent of our safe house locations were breached. Six high-profile witnesses have been murdered. A dozen cases federal prosecutors have spent years building are down the drain.”

“Sounds like you have a problem on your hands.”

Cutter’s jaw flexed. “I need your help.”

“I’ve been out of the loop for two years. I train horses now, for God’s sake. I haven’t picked up a rifle since—” Bo bit off the words. “I’m not interested.”

“You were a damn good agent, Bo.”

“All of your agents are good.”

“None of them have a fifteen-hundred-acre ranch in the middle of nowhere.”

Realization dawned like cold water being poured down his back. “You want me to hide someone at my ranch.”

“It’s not in your name, is it?”

Nothing he owned was in his name. One of the prices a former agent had to pay. But if Bo Ruskin was anything, he was cautious. He’d learned that the hard way. “I formed a corporation after I left the agency. Everything is registered under the Dripping Springs Cattle Company.”

Cutter nodded. “I wouldn’t ask just anyone, Bo. There are risks involved. High risks. You’re one of the most capable men I know.”

“Risks like what?”

“She’s got a contract on her head.”

“A contract?” he repeated dumbly.

“Well, two, actually.”

“Sounds like a trouble magnet.”

“Let’s just say she’s not afraid to jump into the thick of things.”

“Cutter, I’m sure you have a contingency plan for these kinds of situations.”

“You are my contingency plan.”

Bo muttered a curse. “So what did she do? Who did she tick off?”

Cutter leaned forward, as if even within the secure walls of the MIDNIGHT Agency headquarters, someone might hear what he was about to say. “She shot and killed Viktor Karas’s son.”

The words echoed like the retort of a killing shot. For an instant the only sound came from the hum of heat running through the vents in the ceiling.

“Karas wants her dead,” Cutter said. “I don’t have to tell you what that son of a bitch is capable of.”

Just hearing the name was enough to make the hairs on Bo’s neck prickle. Viktor Karas ran one of the most brutal crime syndicates in the world. Arms. Drugs. Prostitution. The last Bo had heard, the kingpin was working on getting a nuke for some terrorist group.

“It was self-defense,” Cutter added. “Her cover was blown during a sting. All hell broke loose. There was a firefight.” He shrugged. “Nikolai Karas took one in the head.”

Bo felt no sympathy. Viktor Karas’s brutality and penchant for violence knew no bounds. He’d taken out more than one good man over the years. Whoever took on the responsibility of protecting this woman would be placing himself and everyone he knew in danger.

“Karas has pretty much declared war on the MIDNIGHT Agency,” Cutter continued.

“You got yourself covered?”

“We’ve got the best security in the world.” He shrugged. “Every employee all the way down to the cleaning crew has a high-security clearance. I’m not worried about the agency. I am, however, worried about this operative.”

“So who is it?” Bo asked.

“You’ve met her.”

Bo waited, knowing deep in his gut that he was about to get hit with another curve.

“Rachael Armitage,” Cutter said.

Armitage.

The name struck him with the force of a dagger plunging into his solar plexus. Two years ago Michael Armitage had been Bo’s best friend. They’d gone through the police academy together. Been cops on the mean streets of Washington, D.C., together. They’d joined the MIDNIGHT Agency together. Worked undercover, choreographing and executing some of the most complex and dangerous stings in the agency’s history. Then Michael had been killed. His wife became a widow at the age of twenty-seven. And Bo had given up the only career he’d ever known.

“I’m not interested,” Bo heard himself say.

“Look, I know you and Mike were friends.”

“We were more than friends. Damn it, you know what happened.”

“I know none of it was your fault.”

For the first time in a long time, Bo wanted to run. God knew he was good at it. He wanted out of that conference room. Away from Sean Cutter’s discerning gaze. He wanted to run back to Wyoming to his ranch and horses. It was the only place in the world where he could breathe. Where he didn’t have to think about what had gone down two years ago…

“If I can’t convince you,” Cutter said, “maybe this will.”

Bo’s heart was pounding as he watched Cutter open a thin manila folder and shove several photos toward him. “This is what Karas does to the people who cross him.”

Bo didn’t want to look, but he did, just as Cutter knew he would. He saw horrific images that disturbed him a hell of a lot more than he wanted to admit. “You always were a manipulative bastard.”

Cutter didn’t even try to look contrite. “I still am.”

“Yeah, well, this time it isn’t going to work.” Bo stood so abruptly, his chair fell over backward. He was midway to the door when Cutter stopped him by grabbing his arm.

“She’s in danger, Bo. There have been two attempts on her life in the last week. Karas nearly got her last time. She’s on the edge. She’s been that way since Michael died. She won’t admit it, but she’s running scared.” He grimaced. “For God’s sake, she’s been through enough.”

“We all have,” Bo snapped.

Cutter’s eyes flashed. “You owe me, damn it.”

Bo jerked his arm from Cutter’s grasp, then jabbed a shaking finger in the other man’s face. “Don’t go there, Cutter. Don’t try to use my friendship to manipulate me into doing something I do not want to do.”

“Or something you’re afraid to do.” Cutter’s eyes burned into Bo’s. “Maybe you’re not the man for the job after all. Maybe you’re not the man I thought you were.”

The words rankled, but Bo didn’t let himself react. The urge to walk out that door and never look back tugged at him like a powerful tide. But while Sean Cutter might be manipulative, what he’d said was true. Bo did, indeed, owe him. More than he could ever repay in his lifetime.

Shaking his head, Cutter stalked to the door and yanked it open. His hard eyes landed on Bo. “Go ahead. Run. Run back to Wyoming like you did two years ago.”

Aware that he was sweating beneath his leather jacket, Bo usurped the knob from the other man and closed the door. “How long?” he heard himself ask.

“A few days.” Cutter shrugged. “A couple of weeks max. Long enough for us to dig up something on Karas that will keep the federal prosecutors happy.”

“You already have charges on him.”

“Prosecutors want to go for the gold. The big stuff that will keep him behind bars for a long time. Once he’s in custody, you’re off the hook.”

If Bo hadn’t felt so lousy about the entire situation, he might have laughed at Cutter’s choice of words. When it came to Rachael Armitage, Bo would never be off the hook.



RACHAEL SWORE she wouldn’t let them see her sweat. In the past that personal vow had always been enough to keep her cool—at least on the outside—through even the toughest ordeals. But as she made her way down the marble-tiled hall of the MIDNIGHT Agency headquarters toward the conference room, the silk blouse beneath her jacket clung to her back. The briefing she was about to attend wasn’t going to be pleasant. The only question that remained was just how bad it was going to be. Sean Cutter had a reputation for being tough.

Yeah, well, so did she.

She did her utmost not to limp as she entered the conference room. Gritting her teeth against the pain in her knee, she squared her shoulders and walked with as much grace as she could muster to the high-back executive chair. She was acutely aware of the two men present watching her, but she didn’t acknowledge them. The last thing she wanted was for them to see the nerves zinging just below the surface.

Sean Cutter sat at the head of the table, studying a brown expanding file. Her file, she was sure. A file that was a little too thick, the documents inside a little too worn from too many fingers paging through them too many times. Such had been the nature of her career with the MIDNIGHT Agency.

The sight of the second man gave her pause. She’d seen him before. Met him at some point. But for the life of her she couldn’t remember his name. She couldn’t remember where she’d seen his face. Odd, because his was a memorable face. Dark eyes. Hawkish nose. Square jaw that hadn’t been shaved for at least twenty-four hours. His body language and the directness of his stare told her he was law enforcement. The jeans and cowboy boots told her he held disdain for any kind of dress code. Who was he and what the hell was he doing here?

She looked at Cutter and frowned. “You wanted to see me?”

He frowned back, watching her the way a disapproving parent might watch an unruly teenager who was about to be grounded for life. “Have a seat.”

Never taking her eyes from her superior, she sat opposite the cowboy and set her leather pad on the table in front of her.

“How are you feeling?” Cutter asked.

“Good enough to return to work.” She gazed at him levelly. “I’m hoping you won’t disappoint me.”

The two men exchanged a look she didn’t understand. A look that gave her a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. “It looks a lot worse than it is,” she said, referring to the bruises on her face.

“I have the report from the doc right here.” Cutter looked down at the file. “Dislocated shoulder. The laceration on your left temple required seven stitches. You had fluid drained from your knee.” He scowled at her. “I guess it sounds worse than what it really is, too, huh?”

Rachael flushed. “I heal fast.”

“Yeah, and I wasn’t born yesterday.”

It was then that she knew the minor injuries she’d sustained in the car crash were the least of her worries. “I can do desk work until the bruises fade.”

“No need because effective immediately you are on administrative leave.”

An emotion that was alarmingly close to panic gripped her and squeezed. “Cutter, I feel fine.”

“This isn’t about how you feel.”

“With all due respect, sir, I feel I would be much more effective in the field. You know that.”

“What I know is that the most powerful crime lord in the world wants you dead. It’s my responsibility to make sure he doesn’t succeed.”

“But—”

“This is Bo Ruskin,” he interrupted, nodding at the cowboy.

Ruskin.

Her memory stirred. Ruskin was a former MIDNIGHT agent. He and Michael had worked together. They’d been friends. Ruskin had been there the night Michael was killed….

“We’ve met,” she said. At the funeral. No wonder she hadn’t remembered him. Those dark weeks following her late husband’s death had been a blur of grief and rage and insurmountable loss….

“Yes, ma’am,” Ruskin drawled in a deep baritone.

Cutter continued. “You will be accompanying Agent Ruskin to an undisclosed location this afternoon for safekeeping until Karas is apprehended.”

The words jerked her back to the matter at hand. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” she said.

“I’m afraid that’s an order,” Cutter returned.

“You can’t take me off Karas now.” She held her fingers a fraction of an inch apart. “I’m this close to nailing him.”

“And he came that close to killing you three days ago.” Cutter sighed, then looked at Bo Ruskin. “Can you excuse us a moment?”

“You bet.” The cowboy rose, tipped his hat at her, then started toward the door.

Rachael got the impression of wide shoulders, narrow hips encased in denim and cowboy boots. But her focus was on the man yanking the proverbial rug out from beneath her feet.

“Cutter, please don’t do this,” she said, hating the pleading tone of her voice. “I’m close to—”

“You have twenty minutes to gather your notes and files on Karas and turn everything over to me.”

She almost couldn’t believe her ears. “You’re assigning my case to another team?”

“Not that you’ve ever been much of a team player. But yes, I’m assigning a fresh team.”

“That’s incredibly unfair.”

“This is not about fair. It’s about keeping you alive. Keeping you healthy.” Cutter leaned forward. His eyes sought hers, held them. “You’re a good agent, Rachael. One of my best. I don’t want to lose you. But you need some downtime. I advise you to make the best of this.” He motioned toward her shoulder. “Get yourself healed. Get your perspective back. The last couple of years have been tough for you.”

“I’ve dealt with it,” she ground out, hating that her voice quivered.

“You can’t even say it.”

“I’ve dealt with Michael’s death, damn it. I have.”

“You’ve dealt with it by working yourself into the ground. By jumping first and thinking later. I should have put a stop to it long before now.”

“I shouldn’t be penalized for not being afraid to do my job.”

“I’m not penalizing you. But in case you haven’t figured it out by now, good old-fashioned fear is what keeps us alive. It’s what keeps us healthy in our line of work. And you don’t seem to have it anymore.”

“I don’t have a death wish, if that’s what you’re imply—”

He raised his hand and cut her off. “You are to treat your leave as you would any covert operation. No one knows where you are. Business as usual. You got that?”

“I don’t agree with what you’re doing.”

“Duly noted.” Cutter looked at his watch. “Let’s find Ruskin.”



BO’S LEGS WERE SHAKING by the time he reached the lobby. He wanted to chalk it up to a sleepless night and the long flight from Wyoming. But he knew the queasy stomach and muscles knotted like ropes between his shoulder blades had nothing to do with fatigue—and everything to do with a woman whose face he still saw in his dreams.

In the years he and Michael had worked together, he’d caught glimpses of her. From photos mostly, since Mike had always tried to keep his personal life as far removed from work as possible. She was a tawny-haired beauty with green eyes and the kind of smile that could bring a man to his knees. He’d listened to Michael speak of her, and Bo had been envious. On more than one occasion, Bo had razzed his fellow agent about how lucky he was to be married to the most beautiful woman in the world.

It wasn’t too far from the truth.

Rachael Armitage was even more beautiful now than he remembered. Tougher. A little rough around the edges. But then that’s what happened to people in this line of work.

Bo ought to know.

The one and only time he’d met her was at the funeral. She’d been somehow softer back then. Not quite so thin. He remembered the way the black dress she’d worn had contrasted starkly against her pale complexion. She’d looked fragile and grief-stricken and…shattered.

But then Michael Armitage’s death had shattered a lot of people.

Standing at the bank of windows, looking out at the dreary day beyond, Bo thought he could still smell her. A warm, female scent that reminded him of mountain columbine and rain. Wild and fragile and recklessly beautiful. Just like her.

“Bo.”

Cutter’s voice drilled into his thoughts. Bo spun to find the agency head and Rachael standing a few feet away. “Did you file the flight plan?” Cutter asked.

Bo nodded. “We take off in forty-five minutes.”

“Good.” Cutter turned to Rachael, assessed her the way a coach might assess an injured high school athlete. One that was good, but had to quit the season due to an injury. “I’m the only person who knows where you’re going. No one at the agency has a clue. Keep it that way.”

“Yes, sir.” But she didn’t look happy about any of what was happening. Bo wasn’t happy about it, either. But for the first time since he’d walked away from the agency, he was duty-bound to do the right thing.

“I don’t expect anything to go wrong,” Cutter said. “If it does, initiate a code ninety-nine.”

“Roger that,” Bo said, falling easily into the old jargon.

“I’d like you to keep me posted on Karas,” Rachael said.

Cutter shook his head. “You will have no communication with the agency, unless, of course, you’re in danger or need help. He’s pretty much declared war on the agency. You know how sophisticated Karas’s organization is. Last we heard he had access to a satellite.”

She uttered an unladylike curse that left no room for doubt with regard to how she felt about all of this. Had the circumstances been different, Bo might have smiled. Rachael Armitage was a woman to be reckoned with. But she was also Michael’s widow. A woman whose life he himself had played a role in devastating. A woman who would have every right to hate him if she knew the truth.

It was up to him to make sure she never did.



“WHY IS RACHAEL Armitage still alive?”

Viktor Karas’s cultured voice reverberated through the elegant confines of his study. In his prime at the age of fifty, he was distinguished-looking with tastefully coifed salt-and-pepper hair and eyes the color of a Siberian lake.

Those cold gray eyes landed on one of the two men sitting in tapestry wingback chairs adjacent his desk. Vladimir Novak was young and cocky. But his eyes were ancient. They were the eyes of a killer. And it was precisely the reason Karas had hired him.

Vladimir squirmed. “She escaped.”

“Escaped?”

“We tracked her to Chicago. Caught up with her on a back road. We forced her off the road.”

“And she got away,” Karas finished.

“H-her car rolled down an embankment. By the time we reached it, she’d fled on foot. We pursued her, but it was dark. The terrain was difficult.”

Despite his hatred for the woman—the federal agent who’d murdered his beloved Nikolai—Karas felt a fleeting moment of respect for her. Only the most talented and brutal men worked for him. It would take daring, resourcefulness and a good bit of luck to elude them. Rachael Armitage appeared to possess generous amounts of all three traits.

“Twice you have attempted to kill her,” Karas said. “Twice you have failed.”

“I am sorry,” Vladimir said. “But she appears to be well-trained.”

Crossing to the wet bar adjacent to a row of windows that offered a stunning view of Moscow’s Teatralnaya Square, Karas snagged three crystal tumblers and poured two fingers of vodka into each. He handed tumblers to the two men.

“My son has been dead for a month now and you are no closer to completing your mission than when you started.”

“We have listening devices in place.” The second man spoke for the first time. “We’re working on finding a weak point at the MIDNIGHT Agency.”

Karas turned his attention to Ivan Petrov and smiled inwardly. He was also young—not yet twenty-five—and sported a goatee and ponytail that reached halfway down his back. He might look like some pampered New York model, but in the two years he’d been with the organization, Ivan had exterminated more men than the sum of his years.

Karas refocused his attention on the first man. After all, it was Vladimir who had been in charge of both missions. It was Vladimir who had failed. Failure was the one thing Viktor Karas would not tolerate.

“How do you plan to rectify the situation?” Karas asked.

Made nervous by his superior’s scrutiny, Vladimir lifted the tumbler and drank, his eyes looking anywhere but into the cold depths of his employer’s gaze. “I am flying to the United States first thing in the morning. I’m meeting my contact in New York. I’m hoping he will have information for me with regard to the woman’s location.”

“You’re certain this contact has information for you?”

“This contact—a former agent with the American CIA—has always come through for me in the past. I have information that would destroy him if it were to get back to his superiors.”

“I see.” Viktor ran his finger around the rim of the glass. “And then?”

“I will find her and kill her.” Looking pleased with himself, Vladimir cleared his throat.

Karas contemplated him coldly. “This is your great plan?”

Vladimir put his hand to his mouth and coughed. He sipped the vodka as if to clear his throat, but the coughing worsened. His face reddened. Noticeably uncomfortable, he shifted in the chair. The coughing turned into choking. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Placing both hands to his throat, he made a strangled sound and twisted in the chair.




Please, help.

Karas sipped his vodka, unmoving.

Vladimir’s coughing turned violent. White foam spewed from his lips. Eyes bulging, he reached for Karas, but the older man stepped back, out of reach. “You,” he croaked.

Karas smiled at him dispassionately. “Yes,” he said. “Me. Have a nice trip to hell.”

Vladimir clawed at his throat. Throwing his head back, he twisted and fell from the chair. He writhed on the Persian carpet, clutching his throat and gurgling unintelligibly in Russian. After a few minutes, his eyes rolled back white. A final gasp and he lay still.

For several seconds the only sound came from the traffic along the boulevard two stories down. Then Karas walked to the bar and refilled his tumbler. “A new poison my chemist developed,” he said. “Most expeditious, don’t you agree?”

Ivan Petrov’s Adam’s apple bobbed twice in quick succession. “Yes,” he said, looking down at his own glass of vodka.

Karas threw his head back and laughed. “Go ahead. Enjoy your vodka. You needn’t worry that I’ve poisoned you.”

But the younger man’s hand trembled when he raised the glass to his lips. “Wh-why did you poison Vladimir?”

“Because he failed. It is the one thing I will not tolerate.” Crossing to the young man in the chair, Karas put his hand on the other man’s shoulder and squeezed. “Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, Mr. Karas.”

“You will find the American agent. You will leave Moscow today. My private jet is waiting. When you find her, you will contact me immediately. I will take it from there. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” the young man replied and downed his remaining vodka in a single gulp.




Chapter Two


The Dripping Springs Ranch was exactly the kind of place where Rachael would never venture. A born-and-bred city girl, she much preferred the excitement of city lights. The ranch was about as far away from city lights as a person could get without leaving the planet.

But as the SUV bounced down a dirt road on a ridge overlooking a valley, she had to admit the high plains and mountains of northwestern Wyoming possessed a stark beauty she would never find in New York. Of course that wasn’t going to make sitting on the sidelines any easier.

The thought of being stuck out in the middle of nowhere while another team worked her case filled her with frustration—and a terrible sense of being out of the loop. Rachael had wanted to be the one to nail Viktor Karas. As far as she was concerned Sean Cutter owed her that. After all, Karas was indirectly responsible for her late husband’s death. She’d spent the last two years working to nab him; she’d worked hard and built a strong case. It rankled that she’d been forced to turn months of effort over to someone else.

“You ever been to a working ranch before?” Bo Ruskin’s slow drawl tugged her from her reverie.

Rachael frowned at him, annoyed because he wasn’t as miserable as she was. He was wearing a cowboy hat and a denim jacket. He looked comfortable behind the wheel of the truck. As if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Never had a desire to,” she replied in a clipped tone.

“Not enough bad guys for you?”

“Something like that.”

He sighed. “Look, I know you don’t want to be here any more than I want you here, but since Cutter is evidently holding all the cards, we’re going to have to get through this.”

It was the understatement of the year, especially the part about her not wanting to be there. But Rachael couldn’t think of how to change the situation. Without losing her job, anyway.

Raising her hand, she displayed a small gap between her thumb and forefinger. “I was this close to nailing Karas.”

“From what I hear, Karas came that close to killing you.”

“I got into a scrape,” she conceded. “But what agent hasn’t over the years? Cutter overreacted.”

Bo Ruskin looked away from his driving, his expression telling her he wasn’t impressed by her wrath—and that he didn’t necessarily agree with her.

Their vehicle passed beneath a steel pipe arch bearing a sign that read Dripping Springs Ranch. Beyond, a white clapboard house and several outbuildings stood prettily against an endless blue sky. Within the confines of a neat pipe fence, several spotted horses looked up from their grazing.

“So what do you do out here?” Rachael asked, taking in the barns and fenced corrals.

One side of his mouth curved. “You mean out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“Well…yeah.”

“I train and breed horses, mostly.” He parked in front of the garage and killed the engine. “Run fences. Repair the outbuildings when the wind kicks up.”

“Seems…quiet.”

“It is.”

“Do you ever miss being an agent?”

His eyes darkened for a fraction of a second. “Nope.”

A man of few words, she thought. Probably a good thing at this point because she didn’t feel much like talking. She wasn’t sure she’d like what he had to say, anyway. Maybe they’d get along after all.

Or maybe not.

He hefted her single suitcase from the back and carried it to the front door of the house. Rachael had never been a fan of anything country, but the house made a lovely picture against the backdrop of crisp blue sky and purple-hued mountains. A railed porch wrapped around the front of the house. Geraniums grew in profusion from an old wooden barrel that had been split in half and filled with soil. A dinner bell dangled from a hook just outside the door. Beyond, an old-fashioned porch swing rocked in the breeze.

The screen door squeaked when he opened it. Rachael stepped into a large, open living room adorned with rustic furniture and lots of rough-hewn wood beams. A Native American rug graced a pine floor. Beyond was a small but well-appointed kitchen and a window that offered a stunning view of the mountains.

“That’s Bareback Mountain.”

“It’s lovely.”

“You’ve got the guestroom upstairs.”

Rachael followed him up the staircase to a narrow hall with five doors. They passed three bedrooms and a large bathroom equipped with an antique claw-footed tub.

The fourth bedroom was small but comfortable with terra-cotta paint, fresh white wainscoting and an intricately made quilt on the twin-size bed. A feminine touch graced the room and she found herself wondering about his decorator. “This is nice,” she said.

“Pauline cooks and cleans a couple of times a week. I let her furnish the room about a year ago.”

“She did a good job.” She wondered about his relationship with Pauline.

He looked large and out of place in the small room, like a wild animal that was trapped indoors.

“I make tortillas and tamales for dinner, Señor Ruskin,” came a female voice from the hall.

Rachael spun to find a small, dark-eyed woman at the door. She wore a full skirt, denim vest—and cowboy boots. Her eyes widened when they landed on Rachael. “Hello.”

Bo cleared his throat. “Pauline, this is Rachael Armitage.” His gaze flicked to Rachael. “Pauline Ortegon runs the house and just about everything else here at Dripping Springs.”

“Nice to meet you,” Rachael said.

The woman was fiftyish with long black hair shot with silver and pulled into a ponytail that reached all the way to the waistband of her skirt. Turquoise earrings in the shape of horses dangled from her lobes. The only thing missing, Rachael thought, was the gun belt and six-shooter.

“Welcome to Dripping Springs Ranch,” Pauline said with a strong Spanish accent.

“Rachael’s going to be staying with us a few days,” Bo said.

“Oh.” The woman’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Questions flitted in her eyes, but she did not voice them. “In that case, I will bring clean linens and soaps.” She started toward the door, but turned before going through it. “I make tamales and tortillas for tonight for supper.”

“Thank you,” Bo said.

Nodding, she left the room.

Rachael looked down at the small bed, wishing she was anywhere but here. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful about staying here,” she said. “I appreciate your putting me up.”

“I owe Cutter a favor.” His smile looked more like a grimace. “This ought to even things up.”

A shadow passed over his eyes at the mention of the favor. Rachael wondered what the debt was. “You must owe him big time, since you’re no longer an agent.”

“Cutter and I go way back. He wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t seriously worried about your safety.” He motioned toward the window and the ranch spread out beyond. “He knew the ranch would be the perfect place for you to lay low.”

“Laying low isn’t my style,” she muttered.

“It is while you’re here.”

A sharp retort hovered on her tongue, but Rachael didn’t voice it. Her beef was with Cutter, not Bo Ruskin. Still, the idea of spending the next week stuck in this room disheartened her. “So how do you spend your days here?”

“Work mostly.”

She tried again. “What kind of work?”

“I train horses. For area ranchers. Breeders. People who show them.”

She remembered seeing the horses grazing in the pasture when they’d driven up the lane to the house. “Spotted horses?”

“Appaloosas.” Looking anxious to leave, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his snug, faded jeans. “Do you know how to ride? There are some pretty trails on the ranch.”

She laughed, but it was a nervous sound. She didn’t like the fish-out-of-water sensation creeping over her. “I rode a couple of times when I was a teenager. I’m not very good at it.”

“I have a gentle mount if you want to do some exploring.”

She hadn’t ridden since she was thirteen, to be exact, and spent most of that day on her rump. “Do you have a mode of transportation that doesn’t entail hooves?”

One side of his mouth curved into a half smile. “A four-wheeler.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“If you want to take a spin, just let me or Pauline know. I’ll leave a map of the ranch on the counter for you.”

“Thank you.”

“I also have a ranch foreman. Jimmy Hargrove. He’s a little crusty, but if you need anything he’ll be happy to help you.”

Rachael studied him for a moment, her mind taking her back to the one and only time she’d met him. Michael’s funeral. She’d been so grief-stricken that day, she barely remembered. But she did remember Bo Ruskin’s eyes. When he’d approached her and offered his hand in sympathy for her loss, his gaze had reflected the same devastation she’d felt in her own heart. And at that moment, she’d known he was grieving, too.

“We’ve met once before,” she said.

“I remember.” His jaw flexed. “Mike’s funeral.”

She didn’t let herself think of those dark days often. But she found herself curious about this man’s relationship with her late husband. “He always spoke fondly of you,” she said.

His expression darkened. As if someone had flipped a switch inside him, she felt him closing himself off from her. Erecting a wall. “I’ve got to get to work.” Turning, he started toward the door. “If you need anything let me know.”

“How about a flight back to civilization?” she called out.



BY 4:00 P.M. Rachael was bouncing off the walls. She was accustomed to long work days filled with adrenaline. She was used to getting by on four or five hours of sleep for nights on end. She routinely participated in undercover operations where the heady rush of danger was the rule, not the exception.

The Dripping Springs Ranch offered none of that.

After an hour of quiet and birdsong, Rachael had had enough.

Deciding it wasn’t too late to make the best of a day that had already been mostly wasted, she slipped into a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers. Throwing a jacket and her Beretta .380 into her backpack, she headed downstairs.

She found Pauline in the kitchen, stirring a steaming pot of something spicy and savory. “It smells wonderful,” she said.

The dark-haired woman turned and gave her an assessing look. “Tamales,” she said in a perfect Spanish pronunciation.

Rachael slid onto a stool at the bar. “So how long have you worked for Bo?”

“Two years now. Since he buy the ranch.”

So he’d bought the ranch at about the same time Michael had died. She wondered if his former partner’s death had anything to do with it.

Pauline arched an eyebrow. “Are you going somewhere?”

“I thought I’d do some exploring. Bo said he would leave a map of the ranch for me.”

“I have it right here.” Wiping her hands on her apron, Pauline went to a small built-in desk and pulled a single sheet of paper from its surface. “Are you going to ride Lily?”

Rachael assumed she was referring to the gentle horse Bo had told her about. “I thought I might take the four-wheeler out for a while.”

“Ah.” Pauline crossed to the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of water. “Take these.”

“Thank you.” Rachael dropped the bottles into her backpack.

Pauline went back to the stove. “Supper is served at six o’clock sharp.”

Her stomach rumbling, Rachael took another long whiff of the air. “Believe me, I won’t be late.”

She let herself out the back door. The air was crisp, but the sun warmed her back as she took the cobblestone walk to the barn. The earthy smells of horses and hay met her when she entered. She was midway down the aisle when a commotion just outside the rear door caught her attention.

Several yards from the barn, Bo Ruskin stood in a steel, round pen with a beautiful young horse. On the end of a long rope, the horse was obviously frightened, snorting and throwing its pretty head high into the air. Dust billowed as horse and man danced on the sandy ground.

Rachael approached the round pen slowly so she wouldn’t scare the animal. She watched, mesmerized, as the horse reared, flailing its front hooves at Bo. But the cowboy stayed a safe distance away and held the rope secure. All the while, he talked to the frightened animal in a calm, lulling tone.

“Easy, boy,” he cooed. “Come on now. You can do it.”

Sweat stained the back of his shirt between his shoulder blades. Dust coated his jeans from the knees down. The horse galloped in a circle around him on the end of the rope, tugging violently. But Bo remained calm, never losing patience with the animal, his tone never altering.

“Settle down,” he whispered. “You know I’m not going to hurt you.”

Rachael had never been unduly interested in horses—just a short phase in her preteen years—but watching the lanky cowboy work the animal, she felt something unfamiliar and vaguely uncomfortable stir inside her. A feeling she didn’t want to acknowledge. A yearning she thought she’d never feel again in her lifetime.

Appalled by the realization that she was more mesmerized by the man than the horse, she stepped back into the barn and pressed her back against the stall door. What the hell was she thinking? Bo Ruskin had been her husband’s friend. He’d been there the night Michael had died. How could she feel anything for any male when only two short years had passed since her husband’s death?

A hard and ugly guilt churned in her stomach. The logical side of her brain told her the return of her hormones was a normal thing. After all, Rachael hadn’t yet seen her thirtieth birthday; her life was far from over.

But the emotional part of her psyche—the part of her that was still a mourning widow—berated that part of her for betraying the husband she’d loved and lost.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

Rachael jolted at the sound of Bo’s voice and spun to see him standing just inside the barn door. Silhouetted by the sun, his image bestowed the impression with a tough, athletic build born of hard and physical labor. He wore a large silver-and-gold buckle and a leather belt adorned with an intricate design. Lower, she caught a glimpse of a part of his anatomy she did not want to think about.

“I won it in a rodeo down in Cody last year.”

Rachael’s gaze snapped to his. “What?”

“The belt buckle.”

“Oh.” A hot blush heated her cheeks. “How did you win it?”

“I rode a bull by the name of Bone Cruncher. Made the eight seconds, but I broke my leg on the dismount.”

“Sounds like the bull lived up to his name.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I got the buckle.”

“It’s…nice.” But Rachael didn’t dare look at the buckle in question. It was to close to…something else she did not want to see.

The hat he wore shadowed his eyes, but she knew they were on her. Probably wondering why she was acting like such an idiot.

“I—I didn’t mean to disturb your work,” she blurted when she could no longer stand the awkward silence.

“I reckon both of us have had just about had enough for the day.”

She blinked.

“The horse.” Amusement danced in his eyes for an instant, then he looked over his shoulder toward the round pen where another man was walking the horse. “I’d like to use him as a stud, but if he keeps up that attitude I might have to geld him.”

Rachael knew it was a silly reaction—animals were neutered all the time—but she blushed. “He’s beautiful.”

“He’s a handful, that’s for sure. Doesn’t like to be told what to do.”

“I know the feeling,” she muttered.

He laughed outright. “I bet you do.” His gaze landed on the backpack she held at her side. “Running away from home already?”

“I was thinking about borrowing your four-wheeler and doing some exploring.”

“Did you get a map from Pauline?”

She patted the bag. “Along with some water and a few tortillas.”

“She makes the best tortillas in the world.” He motioned toward a small outbuilding a few yards from the barn. “I’ll show you how to fire up the ATV. You’re welcome to it anytime.”

He started toward the shed. Rachael fell in beside him, silently berating herself for acting like some silly school girl. Bo Ruskin wasn’t the first attractive man she’d ever dealt with. Unfortunately, he was the only man in the last two years that had caused her to go totally brain-dead.

They reached the shed, and he opened the door. A large four-wheel ATV sat inside. Wordlessly, he slid onto the seat and turned the ignition key. The engine started on the first try.

“Helmet is over there,” he said, motioning to one of two helmets hanging neatly on the wall. “Red one will probably fit you best.”

Rachael picked up the red helmet. When she turned around, he’d already eased the vehicle forward and out of the shed. Leaving the engine running, he slid off the seat and motioned for her to get on. “You ever driven one of these things before?”

“No, but I’m mechanically inclined.” Sliding the helmet onto her head, she climbed onto the seat. “And I have a level four drive rating,” she added. Level five was the highest rating.

“I’m impressed, but you still get a lesson.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she nodded.

Bo set his finger against the right handlebar grip. “You have your gas here on the left. Brake on the right.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

Surprise rippled through her when he bent to fasten the chinstrap. His eyes met hers through the Plexiglas shield. They were the same endless blue as the Wyoming sky. “You sure you can handle this thing?” he asked.

“You tell me.” Tired of being underestimated, Rachael revved the engine and let off the brake.

Bo stepped back just in time to avoid being run over.

Spewing gravel, the ATV leapt forward like a big mechanical beast. Gripping the seat with her thighs, Rachael swung the vehicle into a 360-degree circle.

Bo stood near the shed, watching her and shaking his head. “You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I’ve been accused of that once or twice.”

“Don’t go too far. And be careful once you get on the trail. A lot of country out there.”

“I think I can handle it.” She patted the purring engine.

“I was talking about the cougars and black bears,” he said deadpan.

The mention of fanged carnivores gave her pause. Rachael might be a whiz at taking down someone twice her size armed with a gun, but the thought of facing down an animal with claws and teeth made her rethink the wisdom of her afternoon jaunt to the trails. “They’ll have to catch me first.”

Without waiting for a reply, she hit the gas and headed toward the ridge on the north side of the ranch.



THE DIRT TRAIL was well-marked and ran north for several miles before curving south and looping back toward the ranch. At the top of the northern-most ridge, the land fell away into a postcard-pretty valley where horses and cattle grazed on golden prairie grass.

Rachael stopped the ATV at a good vantage point and shut down the engine. Removing her helmet, she shook out her hair and just sat there staring at the scene. Around her, a light breeze whispered through the tops of the tall ponderosa pines and low-growing juniper. Birds twittered and swooped in the branches. Somewhere in the distance a cow bawled for her calf.

Pulling the water bottle from her backpack, Rachael drank deeply, savoring every cold swallow. Alone and surrounded by nature, her every sense seemed heightened. She dropped the bottle back into her backpack and was about to start the engine when the snapping of a twig froze her in place.

Bo’s words about cougars and bears flashed through her mind. But what made the hairs at her nape prickle was the ever-present knowledge that Karas wanted her dead. She planned to be ready if he made a move.

Spinning, she jammed her hand into the backpack, grabbed the Beretta and brought it up.

The resonant click of a hammer being pulled back froze her in place. “Hold it right there, Missy.”




Chapter Three


Pulling back the slide, Rachael brought the weapon up and around. The sight of the man on the horse took her aback. He looked like something out of a western, replete with worn leather chaps, a beat-up western hat, a blue bandanna around his neck—and a rifle the size of a cannon aimed at her heart.

Sitting on the ATV, outgunned in every sense of the word, she held the Beretta steady. Body shot. Centered just to the right of his heart. But she didn’t put her finger on the trigger. At the moment, she didn’t know if this man was friend or foe. The one thing she did know was that he hadn’t been sent by Karas. Judging by the spots on the horse’s rump, he was one of Bo Ruskin’s cowboys.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Taking his time, he set a gloved hand on the saddle’s horn. “I was just about to ask you the same question.”

Going with her instincts, she lowered the Beretta. “I’m a guest at Dripping Springs Ranch.”

“Since when does Bo Ruskin arm his guests?”

“Since yesterday. And for your information he didn’t arm me. I came this way.”

The rifle went down. The man threw his head back and laughed. “Well, Bo Ruskin does have some interesting guests, don’t he?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Rachael muttered. Now that the initial burst of adrenaline had ebbed, annoyance that this man had gotten the drop on her set in.

You’re getting rusty, Armitage….

“I’m Jimmy Hargrove. Bo’s foreman. But I run cattle mostly.”

“Rachael Armitage.” She unchambered the round and slid the Beretta back into her pack.

“You’re pretty good with that, huh?” he asked, referring to the pistol.

“I don’t miss, if that’s what you mean.”

He nodded as if in approval. “Where you headed?”

“Just doing some exploring.”

He motioned toward a high ridge to the north. “There’s some interesting scenery up that way, especially if you want to put that peashooter you’re packing to good use.”

“What do you mean?”

He smiled. “There’s an area up the valley a ways. Got some old cans you can set up. Makes for some nice shooting.”

The thought of some target practice appealed to Rachael. First, because she enjoyed shooting. Second, because she didn’t want to get rusty. “I might just check it out.”

“Enjoy your stay.” Jimmy Hargrove tipped his hat. “Ma’am.”

Rachael felt as if she’d stepped back in time a hundred and fifty years as she watched the cowboy ride down the trail and disappear into the scrub. The contrasts between her life in Washington, D.C., and this ranch were enough to give a girl whiplash. She wondered how Bo Ruskin managed out here.

Starting the ATV, she took the vehicle in the direction of the shooting range.



THE STORM CLOUDS began piling up on the western horizon at just before six o’clock. Bo had been working horses most of the afternoon. He’d been bitten once, kicked at and taken a spill. Having gotten little sleep the night before, he was bone-tired. The last thing he wanted to hear when he walked into the house was that Rachael hadn’t shown up from her exploration excursion yet.

“That city slicker leave over two hours ago,” Pauline explained as she shoved two pies into the oven. “Should have been back by now.”

Remembering the way Rachael had torn out of the driveway in that ATV, he shook his head. “She’s a little too independent for her own good.”

“A lot if you ask me,” Pauline put in.

Bo downed a glass of tap water and frowned. The logical side of his brain knew that as a MIDNIGHT agent Rachael Armitage was more than capable of taking care of herself. But well-trained agent or not, she was out of her element on the high plains. She wasn’t familiar with the ranch. But what really concerned him was the fact that one of the world’s most brutal crime lords had put a price on her head.

“Maybe you ought to saddle up and take a look.” Pauline glanced out the window where storm clouds roiled on the horizon. “Looks like it’s going to get bad.”

“I reckon I’d better.” Grabbing his hat, Bo started for the door.

He saddled his most reliable mount—a ten-year-old roan gelding named George—grabbed a slicker from the hook in the tack room and hit the trail at an easy lope.

The ATV’s tire tracks were easy enough to follow. The ground was powder-dry. But he could smell the storm. He could feel the electric energy of it in the air. On the horizon a jagged spear of lightning slashed from sky to ground. The ensuing crash of thunder shook the earth. The storm was getting closer. If it rained, the trail would be washed away.

“Damn tourist,” he muttered.

Two miles from the ranch, traveling at a good clip over a rocky trail, he heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. “Whoa.” He stopped the horse and listened. The wind had kicked up, blowing dust and hissing through the treetops. Had he heard a gunshot? Or was it thunder?

A second shot rang out. To the north if he wasn’t mistaken. Who was shooting and what the hell were they shooting at? Bo didn’t allow hunting on his ranch. He liked the wildlife, wanted to keep it the way it was. But he knew hunters occasionally trespassed onto his land from the adjoining ranch, most of the time without even realizing it. Usually a friendly word or two did the trick.

Only this time Rachael Armitage was out here somewhere. A woman with a contract on her head. Sean Cutter had said she would be safe here. But Bo knew all too well that Viktor Karas had a very long reach.

Another shot rang out, followed by another. Not a sniper rifle, he deduced. A handgun.

As if sensing danger, the Appaloosa danced beneath him. Reaching down, Bo patted his neck. “Easy, boy.”

Every sense on red alert, he dismounted and scanned the immediate area. Two more shots exploded. Two hundred yards away. For the first time in two years, Bo wished he were armed.

But the mere thought caused cold sweat to break out on the back of his neck. The shame that followed was surprisingly keen. At one time, he’d been an expert marksman. He’d won every sharpshooter award a man could win. But Bo hadn’t touched a gun since the night Michael Armitage died.

Tying the gelding to the branch of a pinion pine, he crept down a rocky incline toward the source of the shooting. Several more shots rang out. He peeked around a boulder and for the first time had an unobstructed view of the valley floor.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

Shock vibrated through him when he spotted Rachael. She’d assumed a shooter’s stance. Legs slightly apart. Right arm straight. Left hand cupping her gun hand. Several tin cans were lined up on a flat-topped rock. One by one she picked them off like target ducks at a county fair.

Worry transformed into anger. Bo had been concerned about her. Evidently, she didn’t care. She hadn’t bothered to tell anyone where she was going or how long she would be gone. Considering she had a contract on her head, that was downright irresponsible.

But deep inside Bo knew the real source of the hot surge of anger burning through him had more to do with his inability to do what he’d once been so very good at.

Because he didn’t want to think about that, he clung to the raging torrent of anger as if it were a life raft. He let it drive him toward her.

Ten yards from her, he growled, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

She glanced over her shoulder, giving him only half of her attention. “Oh…I was just…killing some cans.”

His temper reached the boiling point. “Do you realize there are people back at the house who are worried about you?”

She blinked. “I’m sorry. I must have lost track of time.”

“You have a contract on your head, damn it. There’s a dangerous storm blowing in.” He motioned dumbly at the ATV. “You could have had an accident. Did it even cross your mind that you should let someone know?”

She looked over at the horizon. “It doesn’t look that bad.”

“Doesn’t look that bad out here turns dry creeks into raging rapids and can wash out bridges.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

He glanced at the Beretta in her hand and the sweat on his back went cold. Coward, a little voice chanted. Big bad sharpshooter afraid to look at a teeny little handgun….

“Why are you so angry?” she asked.

“I’m angry because there are rules,” he snapped.

She choked back a sound of exasperation. “What rules?”

“This is rugged and isolated country, Rachael. When you go off somewhere, you tell someone. You tell them where you’re going and when you’ll be back and you stick to the plan.”

“I told both you and Pauline where I was going.”

“You didn’t show up when you told us you would!”

“I said I lost track of time.”

He jabbed her shoulder with his finger, eliciting a flash of anger in her eyes. “Out here, losing track of time can get you killed.”

She rolled her eyes. “Now you and Cutter both are overreacting.”

Bo could feel his teeth grinding. His heart pounding against his ribs. Unreasonable anger pushing him in a direction he did not want to take. “If that’s what you think, you’re a bigger fool than either of us imagined.”

Her mouth tightened. Stepping toward him, she jabbed a finger into the center of his chest hard enough to send him back a step. “Let’s get one thing straight right now, Ruskin. I don’t answer to you. This ranch is the last place I want to be. The only reason I’m here is because Sean Cutter forced me.”

He brushed her finger away. “Yeah, well, here’s a newsflash for you, slick. I’m not going to let you get yourself killed on my watch. You got that?”



RACHAEL STARED into his icy-blue eyes. Anger surged with every beat of her heart. But in addition to being royally ticked off by his attitude, she was also baffled. Bo Ruskin didn’t seem like the kind of man to overreact. In fact, if she weren’t mistaken, his hands were shaking. Was he that worried about her safety? Had she given him a bigger scare than she’d initially thought? Or was there something else going on she didn’t know about?

The skies chose that moment to open up. The deluge of cold water was so sudden and forceful that it took her breath away. Wearing only a sweatshirt and jeans, she was soaked instantly.

“Come on!” Bo shouted to be heard above the hard rush of rain.

“I’ve got the ATV,” she shouted back.

“Won’t make it through Nickel Creek.”

“But it’ll be ruined, won’t it?”

“It’ll be fine until the morning.” He motioned toward the ridge. “My horse is there. Let’s get out of here before that creek floods.”

Surprise rippled through her when he took her hand. His hand was large and encompassed hers completely. Rachael got the impression of calluses and strength, but those elements were buffered by warmth and a gentle touch she hadn’t expected.

Rain and wind pelted them as they dashed up the incline. At the top she caught a glimpse of a spotted horse tied to a bushy pine. Jake strode to the horse, then turned to her. “Get on and slide back.”

“You’re going to walk?”

Rain dripped from the rim of his hat. “We’re both going to ride. Now get on before we get stranded.”

Rachael stepped up to the horse and put her foot in the stirrup. The next thing she knew strong arms shoved her up and onto the saddle.

“Slide back.”

Blinking rain from her eyes, she did as she was told. In a single, graceful movement, Bo swung onto the horse and into the saddle in front of her. “Hang on to me,” he shouted.

Rachael set her hands lightly on his sides. She got the impression of hard male flesh. Before her brain could process that, the horse bolted into a gallop. She rocked back. Off balance, she grabbed for Bo and put her arms securely around his waist.

The horse took them into a ravine. When Rachael had crossed it an hour ago, the creek had been dry. Now, a foot of muddy water crashed over river rock and sandstone, carrying branches and small debris on a wild ride through the ravine. The horse splashed through the current without a problem.

At the top of the ravine, Bo put the horse into a gallop. Rachael had never felt a horse move like that before. She could feel the animal’s muscles flexing beneath her, and the awesome athletic power rendered her awestruck. Even though they moved at a blinding speed, not once did she feel as if she were in danger of falling.

In front of her Bo rode as if he were an extension of the horse. His body was like steel against hers. Rachael could feel his abdominal muscles tense and flex as he moved with the animal.

“Why are we going so fast?” she shouted to be heard above the wind and rain.

“See those greenish thunderheads to the north? We got hail coming.”

From the northeastern U.S., Rachael had never seen hail as a dangerous weather phenomenon. The worst she’d ever seen was marble-sized balls of ice. “What’s the big deal about hail?”

Bo’s laugh carried over the roar of wind. “We get softball-sized hail regularly this time of year. You get hit in the head and you won’t be getting up. I lost a couple head of livestock that way last year.”

Rachael honestly couldn’t imagine the damage such large hail would inflict. But a glance to the north proved the storm was gathering strength. Green-black clouds billowed on the horizon like smoke from some massive fire.

The thought of getting clobbered by a softball-sized piece of ice did not appeal in the least to Rachael. For the first time she realized she had underestimated the power of Mother Nature. It wouldn’t happen again.

Rain slashed down like liquid knives as they rode toward the ranch. The sky lowered. Lightning flickered just to the north. The crash of thunder that followed was deafening. The horse continued to move at a breakneck speed.





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