In Blackhawk's Bed. Barbara McCauley

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      BARBARA MCCAULEY,

      who has written more than twenty novels for Silhouette Books, lives in Southern California with her own handsome hero husband, Frank, who makes it easy to believe in and write about the magic of romance. Barbara’s stories have won and been nominated for numerous awards, including the prestigious RITA^® Award from the Romance Writers of America, Best Desire of the Year from Romantic Times and Best Short Contemporary from the National Reader’s Choice Awards.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      One

      WELCOME TO RIDGEWATER, TEXAS. POPULATION 3,546. HOME OF THE WORLD’S LARGEST FRUITCAKE!

      Seth Granger stared at the twenty-foot billboard depicting a smiling family of four standing beside a Godzilla-sized fruitcake with bright red cherries on top.

      Fruitcake?

      After eight years as an Albuquerque undercover cop, Seth thought he’d seen it all. He stared up at the towering depiction of fruits and nuts.

      Apparently, he hadn’t.

      Shaking his head, he downshifted, then slowed his Harley to the respectable speed of twenty-five. The last thing he needed was a ticket in this one-fruitcake town. After six hours on the West Texas highway in the blistering late-summer sun, what Seth needed was a full tank of gas, the biggest, juiciest cheeseburger he could find and a great big glass of ice water. By tonight, he’d be in Sweetwater where he could find a motel, then the closest bar. He’d been itching for an icy mug of Corona all day, and he could already taste the crisp, amber brew sliding down his dust-dry throat.

      Throw in a pepperoni pizza, a pretty waitress, and that was about as perfect as life got.

      A middle-aged woman walking a little black terrier on the side of the highway stared at him as he approached. The dog yapped and tugged on its leash, then circled the woman’s legs, nearly tripping her. Seth glanced at her as he passed. The woman glared back.

      So much for small-town hospitality, he thought.

      But even he had to admit he was looking a little scruffy. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and his thick black hair was almost to his shoulders. He’d had to let it grow for his last assignment—infiltrating a meth-lab operation—and he hadn’t cut it yet. Top that off with a motorcycle and a pair of aviator glasses, and he looked like the front cover of Bad Ass Bikers.

      The late-afternoon heat rippled in waves off the asphalt as he turned into the gas station and drew stares from the people gassing their cars. He rumbled to a stop in front of a pump and pulled his helmet off. While he filled his tank, Seth scanned the station. Everyone quickly looked away.

      He wondered what the good people of Ridgewater would do if he yelled “Boo!” and started waving his arms around. Jump in their cars, most likely, and peel out of the station as if Satan himself was on their tail. The thought made him smile.

      But he resisted the temptation to follow through. He had more pressing, important things to give brain space to than what the people of Ridgewater thought of him.

      Like the letter in his backpack from Beddingham, Barnes and Stephens’s law office.

      There’d been a mound of mail when Seth had finally come home after the fiasco of his last assignment. He hadn’t intended to read any of the tower of bills or advertising brochures that night. All he’d wanted was an ice pack for his aching hand and a bottle of José Cuervo.

      But the letter had been on top of the pile, all those lawyers’ names staring at him like a neon sign, and Seth had picked it up. No doubt someone intended to sue him. Maybe a disgruntled drug dealer who hadn’t appreciated being arrested, Seth figured, or maybe that bastard in apartment 12-C who liked to beat up his wife had resented Seth’s interference a few weeks earlier. Jeez, the list could have gone on forever, he supposed and he’d dropped the letter back on the pile.

      But as he’d filled a bag with ice, then poured himself a shot of tequila, he’d come back to the letter. That’s when he’d noticed the return address was Wolf River County, Texas.

      He froze.

      Wolf River?

      He’d tossed back the drink in his hand, then reached for the envelope and ripped it open.

      And now, standing here in this Ridgewater, Texas, gas station, Seth remembered every word of that letter. But no words more clearly than the second paragraph, third line…

      …Rand Zacharias Blackhawk and Elizabeth Marie Blackhawk, son and daughter of Jonathan and Norah Blackhawk of Wolf River County, Texas, were not killed in the car accident that claimed the lives of their parents…

      There’d been more, of course. The name of the lawyer to call at the office, a phone number, something about an estate, though from what little Seth remembered of his childhood, the small ranch his parents had owned certainly couldn’t have been worth much.

      But Seth didn’t give a damn about that, anyway. All he could think about was the fact that Rand and Lizzie hadn’t died.

      That they were alive.

      Alive.

      His first thought was that it was a mistake, a huge mistake. Or even worse, some kind of sick joke. But no one knew СКАЧАТЬ