McCain's Memories Read online

  “Cowboy, you could be dangerous,”

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Copyright

  “Cowboy, you could be dangerous,”

  Lauren whispered.

  Still breathing rapidly, John unclasped her arms from around his neck and pressed her hands flat against his chest. His heartbeat raced beneath her trembling fingers. In a voice unsteady with passion he replied, “I tried to warn you earlier.”

  “I should have listened. I...we have to stop. This isn’t the time or place for...”

  He clinched her hand tighter. “For what?”

  She couldn’t very well say “making love,” since love had nothing to do with the lust she was feeding. Somehow, though, it seemed more than just physical desire....

  Dear Reader,

  I’m not going to waste any time before I give you the good news: This month begins with a book I know you’ve all been waiting for. Nighthawk is the latest in Rachel Lee’s ultrapopular CONARD COUNTY miniseries. Craig Nighthawk has never quite overcome the stigma of the false accusations that have dogged his steps, and now he might not live to get the chance. Because in setting himself up as reclusive Esther Jackson’s protector—and lover—he’s putting himself right in harm’s way.

  Amnesia is the theme of Linda Randall Wisdom’s In Memory’s Shadow. Sometimes you can go home again—if you’re willing to face the danger. Luckily for Keely Harper, Sam Barkley comes as part of the package. Two more favorite authors are back—Doreen Roberts with the suspenseful Every Waking Moment, and Kay David with And Daddy Makes Three, a book to touch your heart. And welcome a couple of new names, too. Though each has written elsewhere, Maggie Simpson and Wendy Haley make their Intimate Moments debuts with McCain’s Memories (oh, those cowboys!) and Gabriel Is No Angel (expect to laugh), respectively.

  So that’s it for this time around, but be sure to come back next month for more of the best romance reading around, right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

  Yours,

  Leslie Wainger

  Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator

  * * *

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  * * *

  McCAIN’S MEMORIES

  MAGGIE SAMPSON

  MAGGIE SIMPSON

  is the pseudonym for the writing team of Saundra Pool and Margaret Masten. The authors, who live within blocks of one another in their Texas town, also work together at a local school. They are thrilled to be contributing to Silhouette Books.

  You can write to them in care of Silhouette Books, 300 East 42nd Street, New York, NY 10017.

  To our family and friends, who encouraged us not to

  give up our dream.

  Prologue

  As if apologizing for the heat of the impending day, cool moonlight bathed the rugged mountain peaks and cast soft shadows across the lone rider threading his way through the scrub of the Chihuahuan desert. The cowboy stopped when he came to a small stream, dismounted, and after glancing over his shoulder, slapped the lathered flanks of his horse, sending him north. Being afoot in this desolate area was a chance he had to take. His only hope of survival depended on his pursuer following the tracks of the horse instead of him.

  Trying to maintain his balance on the pale limestone rocks littering the normally dry riverbed, he waded through a stream that had formed after a rare thunderstorm. He was tired and hot despite the chilly night air waltzing with the mesquite and tamarisk on the bank. The seductive tree limbs swayed to a phantom one-two-three beat as if pleading with him to join them in one last dance. The promise of comfort and peace almost overcame his need to survive. Death would be a sweet mistress, sweeter than anything he’d seen in a long time. All he had to do was give up and let gravity pull him to the ground. When he felt his knees weaken, he caught himself. He was losing his mind. The loss of blood had caused him to imagine things.

  Licking his parched lips, the cowboy carefully fingered the encrusted mass of hair covering his left temple. His hat was long gone. He’d given up trying to remember what had happened to it. And the bleeding had stopped hours ago, but the throbbing pain still made coherent thought difficult.

  Desperate to rest, but knowing dawn would break in a few hours, he knelt down and splashed his face with the cool rainwater trickling its way to the Rio Grande. He tore away part of his shirt and soaked it so he would have something to hold against his burning forehead, then he took one last handful of water and sipped it like fine wine. Soon, in the heat of the day, there would be no more water. The last of even this precious trickle would evaporate.

  His unsteady gait caused him to slip as he climbed to the opposite bank. He prayed his boot prints trudging up the sand wouldn’t be noticed. Not that it really mattered anymore. Wounded, without water or somewhere to go for help, he wouldn’t last long in the desert. Standing erect, he scanned the limestone cliffs towering in front of him, looking for a hiding place. A place to die, where neither his pursuer nor the vultures lurking in the crevices overhead could get him. Some fifty yards away, a ledge jutted from the cliff face. There, hidden by the brush, he could lie down and rest. Slowly he made his way through the rough growth stabbing his legs. The rocks clawed at his hands as he pulled himself upward one inch at a time, one hand above the other. It took the last of his energy to drag himself up on the narrow flat rock. He rolled onto his back and took several deep breaths before he noticed that the spindly branches of a small tree guarded an opening in the limestone. A cave.

  Maybe there was a God, he thought, crawling into the dark interior of the cavern. Maybe he wasn’t meant to die, after all.

  Chapter 1

  Lauren Hamilton sat up a little taller in the saddle and took a deep breath of the crisp morning air. It felt wonderful to be back home for Thanksgiving, even if it was only for a long weekend. This morning, miles from any other habitation, the world seemed simpler somehow, and purer, a long way from the petty crimes of Sierra, Texas, where she lived and worked.

  She tugged the khaki jacket tighter around her chest when a breeze rose to meet her as she descended the winding trail among rocks and scraggly wildflowers to the canyon bottom. Skirting a needle-tipped agave nestled beneath a ponderosa pine, she eased up on the reins and allowed Doc to pick his way between large boulders and ill-placed trees as she surveyed the majestic cliffs towering above her. Her fingers itched to get out her camera and take advantage of the unusual light filtering into the canyon, the resulting shadows.

  It had been years since she had visited this remote area of the family ranch, but it still inspired the same awe that it had when she was a child. Her own small house in Sierra was only hours away in reality, but eternities away in feeling. Diablo Canyon was still completely untouched by the civilized world.

  Pebbles dislodged by the hooves of her horse rattled down the path, creating the only sound besides the whisper of the wind through the tall cottonwoods that lined a nearly dry streambed. Coming to a small pool that remained after last night’s thunderstorm, she stopped to wate
r Doc.

  Swinging from the saddle, she hopped to the ground and tossed the reins into the scrawny grass that lined the bank. Doc would drink and graze close by while she worked. She patted his flanks, then untied the saddlebags, pulled them down from behind the cantle and rummaged through them in search of her 35 mm camera. Photography was her hobby, her escape when the world of briefs, depositions and courtrooms began to close in. But in the past six years, while she struggled to make a go of the small law firm she shared with Robert Jordan, there had not been enough time to pursue this interest. Now, for a few precious hours, she was going to indulge herself.

  She hung the camera strap around her neck and adjusted the new telephoto lens she’d bought just for this weekend. Looking through the viewfinder, she scanned the line where variegated cliffs rising from the canyon floor met the brilliant blue of the southwestern sky. Detecting the slightest movement, she focused on what she hoped was the fleeting image of a mountain lion and snapped the shutter just as she heard a loud pop, followed by what sounded like thunder reverberating off the canyon walls. Nearby, Doc threw his head up, searching for the source of the unfamiliar noise.

  Though Lauren hadn’t heard it since hunting with her father and brother as a teenager, she recognized the sound of a rifle shot. Who would be hunting on her father’s ranch? Poachers? She froze, listening for anything that would help her locate their position. Nothing. But the silence made her uneasy. She wasn’t given to fearful hysterics. She was too professional for that, but something was very wrong. Like Doc, she raised her head, trying to catch a scent, a feeling on the morning air.

  The smell of danger was almost tangible. Perhaps it was the odor of gunpowder, but she was too far away from the source for that. Watching the rim of the canyon, she slowly began to ease backward, searching with an outstretched hand for the safety of the boulders and brush that lined the arroyo. When a second shot rang out, this time ricocheting off a nearby rock, her terrified horse bolted and took off up the canyon. Damn! Now she was stranded—with someone shooting at her!

  Adrenaline raced through Lauren’s blood, while her gaze flew back and forth from the canyon rim, where the shots came from, to the rump of her galloping horse. The horse would return to the ranch headquarters and her brother, Ted, would come looking for her.

  She just hoped it wouldn’t be too late. Grabbing her pack and instinctively protecting the camera around her neck, she dived for cover just as a third shot knocked leaves from the tree where she had been standing. Now she was certain. Someone was deliberately shooting at her!

  Crouched behind a large boulder, she waited and tried to calm her pounding heart She had to think, to figure a way to get out of there. Who would shoot at her? No one but her father and brother even knew she was riding to the canyon. This all had to be a mistake. When the person above realized he was shooting at the wrong thing, namely her, he would leave. But even as she rationalized, she sensed the danger stronger than before.

  Then she heard rocks above her rolling to the canyon floor, as if someone was knocking them loose in a frantic scramble down the cliff face. The person was coming after her!

  Afraid to rise up and look to see who might be searching for her, she took a deep breath. She had to think of a way out, a way to escape from the mad person she could hear thrashing through the brush along the trail that would eventually lead to her hiding spot. Never in her life had she been this scared. Focused on surviving, she gazed upward at the towering cliffs for anything, anything at all to aid her escape.

  Then she remembered a cave. A cave where, as teenagers, she and Ted had explored dark recesses and discovered Indian artifacts. She could hide there if she could slip through the rocks and brush without being seen. A sense of hope washed over her.

  The sounds of her pursuer came closer. He—for some reason she assumed it was a man—was making no effort to mask his movements. It was as if he knew she was defenseless. Frantic, she picked her way around the base of the cliff until she thought she was out of his line of sight. Then, fighting the absolute terror that threatened to paralyze her, she clutched her saddlebags in one hand, steadied the camera swinging on the cord around her neck with the other hand and dashed toward the cave. Seconds could mean the difference between safety and death, but she had to try to protect her food and water supply in case she was stranded for a long time. And the camera held the only possible evidence of who her pursuer was. A person who, through his rifle telescope, had spotted her taking his photograph and tried to either frighten her away or kill her.

  When John McCain heard the report of a rifle echo off the cliffs, he bolted upright and grabbed for the gun on his hip. It wasn’t there. Damnation! He groped around on the cold stone floor, but his fingers contacted only a few loose rocks. Then he remembered that his six-shooter had been taken away from him in San Elizario just before he’d been locked in a tiny room with the other prisoners.

  He shook his throbbing head, trying to clear the grogginess that engulfed him. Certain he’d slept for quite a while, he had to pause a moment before he remembered where he was and what had woken him. A second, then a third gunshot left no doubt. He cursed Cardis, thinking the man must have found his tracks and was signaling his vigilantes to come get the gringo. And there he sat, defenseless. How he hated the feeling of being at someone else’s mercy.

  Determined not to await his fate like a caged animal, John edged toward the mouth of the cave to get a better view of the canyon below, so he could make plans to escape, to lay low or to kill his pursuer. When he bumped against a rock projecting from the low ceiling, pain radiated through his temple, where a bullet had grazed him. He shook his head, trying to clear up the dizziness. Memories of the firing squad assailed him, but he couldn’t dwell on that. Not now.

  Swallowing back nausea, he crawled toward the shaft of light penetrating the small cave. He hoped to find the threat lurking below before it found him, but large cottonwoods and mesquite trees shielded most of the canyon floor from his view. The deep shadows of early morning made things hard to see, but he thought he saw a deer dart from behind a large boulder to the rocks directly below him. The deer must have been spooked by the gunshots, too.

  When he realized it was a man in a dun-colored shirt and dark hat heading for the cave, John retreated into the blackness to hide and wait. There was no place left to go. But he wasn’t dying without a fight. He’d be damned if he wouldn’t take at least one man with him.

  He didn’t have to wait long before a slight figure reached the opening of the cave, a shaft of light bathing its silhouette in a golden halo. It appeared to be a young lad not much over five feet tall—too short to be Cardis, but possibly one of his men. Soundlessly, with the grace of a predatory animal, John rose and crept forward. He wanted the element of surprise.

  The boy paused to catch his breath and to peer out at the canyon, as if he expected to see something or someone following him. Then; apparently satisfied, he removed a strap from around his neck and laid a bundle on a rock ledge just inside the cave entrance. The lack of light prevented John from seeing the boy’s features, but there was enough to outline his slight shape. John watched him hug his arms to his chest to quell the sudden trembling that shook his body. The kid was scared, but soon seemed to gain his composure and turned to enter the darkness.

  When the youngster walked past his hiding spot, John grabbed him from behind and hauled him back against his chest before realizing his mistake. It wasn’t a lad at all, but a woman. A small woman with soft breasts he could feel against the muscles of his arm. A woman who smelled of some exotic flowers. What was she doing out here?

  The woman twisted and kicked to free herself from his embrace, causing her hat to topple off and her hair to brush against John’s chin. Immediately the scent of flowers intensified. He fought the protective feelings the feminine scent evoked. And rightly so, because just as he was considering treating her like a lady, she delivered a swift hard kick to his shin and opened her mouth to le
t out a howl. She was as strong as her hair was soft, he thought, muffling the sound of her scream with his hand and bending close to her ear. Her warm, moist breath spewed over his fingers as she fought for control.

  “Be quiet and hold still.” His voice didn’t sound like his own, but it had been days since he had spoken. He was hoarse and his throat was so dry it cracked.

  Instead of obeying, the woman thrust an elbow hard into his lower abdomen and tried to push away. He caught his breath in pain. Hell! She could pack quite a punch for someone so small. He clenched her tighter until he again became aware of her softness against him. If only he felt better he could have appreciated the fact that he held a woman, but now he ached all over, and to top it off, they were both in danger. He didn’t want to hurt her, so he had to make her understand. “I said shut up or you’ll get us both killed.”

  When she stopped thrashing around, he took it as a good sign and continued, “Now, what are you doing way out here?”

  At first the woman didn’t answer, then he felt some of the resistance in her muscles relax. But he didn’t loosen his grip. He didn’t want to be punched again.

  She took a breath and with a slight quiver whispered, “I was out...”

  When he leaned closer to hear better, he felt the smooth skin of her cheek for the first time, and again he was reminded he held a woman. How long had it been? Years? He couldn’t remember.

  She continued, a little stronger this time, “I was...riding when someone took some shots at me.”

  Her voice was husky with fear, but it was the shock of her perfect English, rather than the expected Spanish accent, that caused him to loosen his hold. What was a white woman doing out here in this West Texas desert? The handful of Anglo women in the region, all wives of successful El Paso businessmen, never went anywhere alone. Not only was this one out alone, but she was dressed like a man. Why? He’d find out later, but at the moment it was more important to determine whether she had been followed. “Did they see where you went?”