Three Cowboys

Dana Marton

MORGAN

Chapter One

If they caught him, he was going to say he had a question about his pay. As good an excuse as any, since Dakota handled the payroll. The man looked around to make sure nobody watched, then ducked into the old cabin, built back when Texas had been a wild frontier. The small entry hall, hung with Christmas garlands, was just enough for a person to kick his boots off. He kept his on, reaching for his weapon.

He hadn’t come for a social visit.

To his left stood a door to the ground floor living quarters, ahead of him, up at the top of the stairs was another door, which led to the small apartment that had been added when the cabin had been updated. One of those two doors hid his target.

Blood drummed in his ears, the collar of his shirt feeling too tight all of a sudden. He rolled his shoulders and shut down all emotion, steeled himself. He’d killed before; he could do it again. And this would be the last time. With this, his debt to Los Jaguares would be erased.

He stepped toward the downstairs door that led to the two-bedroom living quarters Dakota Dayton and her son occupied. She was the boss’s pet. She would hide Julio at her place in a blink of an eye if Justice had asked her.

She and her kid should be at dinner by now at the main house, the best time to catch Julio alone. He listened for a moment, but couldn’t hear anything from inside. He reached for the door.

The doorknob wouldn’t turn. He shoved the gun into his waistband in the front where he could easily reach it, and pulled the picks from his pocket. Fumbled.

Getting rusty from too many years of honest work. Except for a few small jobs for Los Jaguares, he had been on the straight and narrow. But he had started his career as a petty thief.

Today he was an assassin. His third hit over the years, not that experience made the task more pleasant. Still, he would do what he was told. Los Jaguares didn’t take no for an answer.

This one last job, then he would be free.

The lock clicked. The door moved silently, inch by inch.

Dakota’s three-year-old sat in the middle of the living room, bent over a coloring book, too busy to notice the intruder. The shower was running in the bathroom in the back, the muffled sound of the water unmistakable.

What the hell were they still doing here? Justice always had them up at the house for dinner.

His palms began to sweat.

He scanned the room with a quick glance. Only Dakota’s hat hung on the peg by the door, and the kid’s smaller one. No men’s boots on the shoe rack, nothing to indicate that they were hiding Julio here.

He backed out quietly and closed the door behind him, drew a steadying breath. Swore as he looked up to the door at the top of the stairs. He didn’t like doing the job with those two downstairs, but he could. The gun Calderón had sent him—serial number carefully filed off—had a silencer.

Sweat was rolling off his forehead by the time he reached the top, one careful step at a time. He tested the door. Locked like the first one. Good thing he’d brought the picks.

He almost conquered this lock, too, when the downstairs door opened. He moved his right hand near the weapon hidden under his shirt and held his breath.

The little boy bounded out, carrying his mini cowboy boots, sat on the bottom step and yanked them on, then ran outside without once looking up.

The man waited a few seconds as he swore under his breath. Where the kid went, the mother would soon follow. He hurried down the stairs, then looked outside through the front door the kid left open. The boy was scampering toward the corrals.

He ducked out and hurried off in the opposite direction. He’d come back for Julio later. The first try was a bust, but at least nobody saw him.

* * *

“I DON’T NEED MEDICAL LEAVE,” Morgan McCabe told his superior officer over the phone as his rental SUV rolled forward on the dusty private road toward the ranch buildings. He watched the retreating back of a ranch hand as the guy hurried away from the old cabin across the yard from the main ranch house. Something about the way the man walked, his neck tucked in, his hat pulled into his face, pricked Morgan’s instincts.

He shook it off. He wasn’t on the battlefield. Better get used to civilian life while he was here.

Man, it sucked to have to be back.

“Medical leave and a psych evaluation before you are returned to active duty. You’ve been through hell,” the officer snapped.

“And made it through.”

The man on the other end went on about the importance of safety measures and the like.

Morgan parked the SUV in front of the ranch house, but felt none of the fuzzy warmth a person was supposed to when returning home after a decade. He didn’t recognize any of the ranch hands going about their business between the stables and the outbuildings, all jeans and cowboy boots and Stetsons. He got out, stretched his legs and looked down at his clothes. In his combat boots and black cargo pants, he stuck out like a sore thumb.

Not that he couldn’t blend in, if he wanted to. He’d worked undercover commando missions long enough to be able to adapt to any surroundings, disappear into any culture, be an invisible part of any crowd. He simply hadn’t cared to change his clothes. He wasn’t here to play masquerade. He was here to rescue Brittany, the stepsister he’d never met, then get the hell out of the place as fast as possible.

“I’ll see you when you have your return paperwork in order,” his superior officer finished at last. “If you think you’re too macho to go on medical leave, consider it a vacation. You deserve a break. Give me a call after the new year.”

He tamped down his frustration. “Yes, sir.” Then he ended the connection.

As he pulled his earpiece off, his gaze caught on the burned fields and he scowled. A faint scent of smoke still lingered in the air. The wildfire had reached dangerously close to the buildings. It was good to see the house and barns and all the outbuildings still standing. He didn’t hate the place. He just didn’t like it.

The main house stood in the middle, as proud as ever, miles of Christmas garlands wrapped around it. He could make out the outline of a large Christmas tree through the big window. His mother used to do all that when she’d been alive. Who played Santa’s elf now?

“Not the old man,” he said under his breath as he considered his situation.

He had no intention of sticking around the family ranch for the holidays. He’d help them rescue Brittany, then go back on active duty. Preferably by the end of the week. He would play his short stay here the same way he played his missions: in and out as fast as possible, no mistakes.

He knew the doc who did the psych evaluations. In fact, the man owed him a favor. The thought cheered him more than a little.

He was reaching for his duffel bag in the back when the horses whinnied and drew his attention to the nearest corral. His instincts kicked in. He narrowed his eyes against the sun, and spotted a little boy among the nervously prancing mares just as one of the massive quarter horses reared up.

If those sharp hooves came down on the kid... But the boy seemed oblivious to danger, and Morgan didn’t dare shout.

He ran.

Two hundred feet between them.

One hundred.

“Ho.” He vaulted over the side of the corral.

Calm now. He slowed, eased toward the horse that seemed most bothered by the kid. Some horses, especially ones who’d been spooked by coyotes in the far pastures before, were skittish of small things approaching.

“Ho.” He put himself between the agitated animal and the boy.

The horse danced back and snorted at him angrily, head high, black mane flying in the wind. A beautiful sight, but dangerous. The animal, already in a bad mood, didn’t know him, didn’t like him in her space.

“Hang on, buddy.” Morgan snatched up the kid and dove through the wooden bars of the fence as the horse charged.

Umph. He hit the ground hard, keeping the kid safe even as pain shot through his cracked ribs that had barely started healing. He would have broken them this time, if not for the layers of Ace bandages under his shirt.

“Do it again!” The boy laughed, his face lit with delight as he sat on top of him. “I want to fly through the air!”

“You should never go into the corrals without an adult.” Morgan kept his voice calm but firm.

His first instinct was to threaten to tan the boy’s hide if he ever did anything this stupid again, the same thing his father would have done. But he wasn’t his father, he reminded himself. And the wide-eyed toddler wasn’t his son. And spanking kids for bad behavior had gone out of fashion since he’d been this size, from what he’d heard.

Except, with that option crossed out, he was out of ideas. He sucked with kids.

“I’m Cody,” this one said, looking more entertained than shaken up. “Who are you?”

“I’m Morgan. And I want you to stay away from those horses. I mean it.”

“Wyatt says I was born to ride. I’m very good at it.” The boy wiggled as if riding, caring nothing for the cracked ribs.

“Easy, cowboy.” Morgan sat up and set the kid aside with care as he looked around. The little bundle of terror had to have a mother. Where was she?

* * *

“CODY?” DAKOTA PEEKED into the kitchen, running her fingers through her wet hair. “Where are you, honey?” She padded over to her son’s horse-themed bedroom, toys all over the rug, books laid out on the floor, but couldn’t see the little boy in there, either.

“Are we playing hide and seek?” She smiled and jumped in front of the gap between the wardrobe and the wall, but Cody wasn’t there.

Her bedroom came next. She didn’t find him under the bed.

The kitchen cabinets. She went back that way. Cody loved hiding in the corner cabinet among the Tupperware.

“Where could he be?” she asked in a dramatic tone, her hand on the knob. “Right here!” she yelled as she yanked the door open.

But she saw nothing save plastic containers.

Unease crawled up her spine, her tone changing from playful to serious as she asked, “Cody, honey?”

She stepped back into the living room, even looked behind the Christmas tree. “Cody!”

And then she saw the front door standing open a crack. She could have sworn she had locked that before heading into the bathroom to take a shower.

She rushed outside, her heart in her throat, stumbling in her house slippers, her bathrobe tangling around her legs. She brushed her wet hair out of her face as she looked around for her son. A working ranch hid too many dangers for an unsupervised three-year-old. “Cody!”

The kid’s favorite rocking chair on the porch of the big house stood empty. She swung the other way.

And saw her little boy on the ground with a strange man, the man’s hands on him. She charged forward.

Then noticed that Cody was smiling, happy as anything. Okay. Okay. She fought back the sudden panic that had squeezed her lungs way too tight.

Then the stranger spotted her, and the next second he was looking at her as if a horse had just kicked him in the head. Which very well could have been what had happened. Dust smears covered his face. Was he the latest ranch hand Justice hired to help with the cleanup after the wildfire?

She snatched up Cody and stepped back, the question, “Who are you?” on her tongue, but then the man stood and she recognized the way he moved, recognized those gunmetal-gray eyes at last and her heart gave a quick, hard thud in her chest.

“You came.” The words tumbled forth before she could have checked them.

An annoyed frown drew lines on his forehead as he dusted off his pants. He was just as lean as the last time she’d seen him, but he’d packed on muscle since and developed some seriously hard edges. The boyishly handsome look was gone. He looked rough and tough and aggravated.

“He got under the horses.”

Her heart stopped all over again as she looked Cody over. “Are you okay?” She hugged him to her tightly.

“You should watch him better,” Morgan said.

And before she could protest that she had locked the door, he’d already turned on the heels of his boots and was striding away from her, without even giving her a proper greeting, without a “How have you been?”

She stared after him, her gaze slipping for a moment to his cargo pants that stretched in very interesting places. Well, that looked... She made herself snap out of it. “Morgan?”

He didn’t look back. Maybe he didn’t hear her. He grabbed a duffel bag from the backseat of his SUV, then headed straight to the house, his shoulders stiff, his stride a little hurried.

He couldn’t still be mad at her after all these years, could he?

Of course not. He hadn’t asked how she was, because he didn’t care how she was. Why should he? They were strangers now, after all these years.

She swallowed hard. The thought hurt.

Could be he didn’t even recognize her—he hadn’t said her name. She’d filled out since the last time they’d seen each other, still carried some of the baby weight from the pregnancy. Her hair was shorter, too, she thought, and reached up to tug on a strand. Water dripped onto her fingers.

Oh, God. “I look like a drowned rat in house slippers, don’t I?” She spun around and hurried toward the cabin with Cody.

The little gentleman that he was, Cody held his silence, his attention back on the horses.

“How on earth did you get out?” She closed the front door behind them.

Cody squirmed to the floor, pouting. “I wanted to ride.”

The thought of what could have happened to him tightened her throat. “You can only ride with me, honey. That’s our deal, right? And you’re not supposed to go outside without asking me first.”

This time when she locked the door to their downstairs kingdom behind them, she also flipped the dead bolt that was too high for Cody to reach. “I don’t want you to mess with these locks, okay?”

“Okay.” He was already diving for the remote. “Can I watch TV?”

“While I get ready. Then we’re going over for dinner.” Dinner ran late today because Miguel, the cook, had a doctor’s appointment in the city.

Morgan would be sitting at the table tonight, too. The thought popped into her head unbidden and stole her breath away.

She’d known he would come at some point, had prepared herself. Or tried. Turned out she could prepare herself for Morgan about as well as one could for a wildfire.

“I need you to pick up your toys while you’re watching TV,” she called back to Cody, and tried to push the image of the new and hard-edged Morgan out of her mind as she walked to the bathroom. She didn’t succeed. “And when we get back from dinner, we’ll clean up your room together.”

Dinner with Morgan.

He’d been her best friend once. Then her first love. The first man to take her to bed. Closet, really. He’d charmed her out of her pants in the upstairs hall closet of the main ranch house one day when she’d come over to go riding together. They’d been kissing in the hallway and when they’d heard his father coming up the stairs, Morgan pulled her out of sight.

The memory flooded her with heat. And need. And feelings long forgotten. She pushed all that away. They were nothing to each other now. She had chosen another man. When she’d told him, all those years ago, that Billy had proposed, Morgan never even bothered to fight for her. He had left and never come back.

Until now.

She grabbed the comb and attacked her tangles, staring at herself in the mirror, yet seeing him, the schooled look on his face, his sharp gaze.

She still dreamed about him sometimes.

He wasn’t going to find out about that.

She was a widow. A respectable widow, surrounded by dozens of ranch hands who sniffed after every skirt. She didn’t fraternize with the other employees, or the owners.

And Morgan was... He was barely here at all. He would help his brothers with the search then he would leave. After all, leaving was what he did best. If she ever let herself fall for anyone again, it would be someone who’d make a great father for Cody, not an emotionally unavailable commando soldier.