Montana Secrets. Charlotte Douglas

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      “Damn, Cat, what’s the fun of being a teacher if you can’t break the rules?”

      Snake lumbered across the porch toward her, and she was struck by two distinctly opposite reactions. The first was a sense of déjà vu so clear and indelible she expected Ryan to appear at any second, wrench Snake’s arm behind his back and send him flying headlong off the porch. The second was the terrible realization that this time she was on her own, with her back to the porch wall and Snake Larson bearing down on her like the Great Northern Express whose tracks ran through High Valley’s lower forty.

      He was so close, she could smell his whiskey-laced breath. The man, unpredictable at best when sober, meaner than his deadliest namesake when drinking, apparently already had several shots under his belt. Claustrophobia closed in on her, clamping down on her lungs, making her struggle for air. She gauged her chances of making a break inside before he could grab her, and they weren’t good.

      Suddenly, the screen door slammed. Snake glanced toward the noise, then stopped his advance and took a few awkward steps backward.

      “Evening, Mr. Erickson,” Snake mumbled, with a look on his face like a kid who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

      “Hello, Snake.”

      Her father stood in front of the door, his Winchester rifle cradled casually in the crook of his arm. Gabe’s reputation for handling the weapon with extraordinary speed and accuracy was legendary throughout the county. From the suddenly respectful expression on Snake’s face, Cat knew her tormentor was aware of her father’s skill. Even though the tragic events of the past had left Gabriel sunken and prematurely aged, nothing had affected his proficiency with a gun.

      “What do you want here, Snake?” Gabriel demanded.

      Snake turned the brim of his hat in his hands, mangling its shape. “Came to ask Cat dancing.”

      “And what did she say?”

      “Said she can’t.”

      “Guess you’ll be leaving then, won’t you?”

      One-handed, Gabriel cocked the lever of the rifle and pointed it toward Snake.

      Snake rammed on his battered Stetson, lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender and eased off the porch and down the steps. He took the path at a trot without a backward glance, but at the gate, either his courage or his liquor kicked in, because he turned and shouted, “You ain’t seen the last of me.”

      “Get out of here, Snake,” her father warned, “before I fill your truck—and your worthless hide—full of holes.”

      Muttering a string of foul curses, Snake wrenched open the door of his pickup, climbed inside and started the engine. Grinding the gears, he circled the truck in the road in front of the house, knocking a section of picket fence flat in the process. With his engine screaming in protest and his tires spewing dust, he gunned down the road toward town.

      Cat couldn’t stop shaking, more from anger than from fright. Her father put his arm around her and led her inside.

      “I made some fresh coffee,” he said. “How ’bout I pour us both a cup?”

      “You think he meant it?” Cat asked, following her father into the kitchen.

      “About coming back?” Gabriel shook his head. “We’re forty miles from town. Why would he waste his time?”

      Pure, unadulterated meanness, Cat thought, but she kept her opinion to herself.

      Under the bright lights of the kitchen, the heavy toll on Gabe of working the ranch alone the last five years was even more pronounced. His thick, golden hair had turned white soon after her mother died, but since the embassy bombing, her father had seemed to shrink and waste away before her eyes. The only times he laughed were when he played with his granddaughter. Cat didn’t want to cause him more worry by voicing her concerns about Snake Larson.

      She had no doubt that Snake would make good on his promise to return, and she intended to stay ready and remain on guard. Marc had taught her to shoot years ago. Tomorrow, she’d start target practice again.

      She couldn’t count on Ryan to protect her this time. A sob threatened to break loose from her throat. Ryan, unlike Snake Larson, would never be coming back to High Valley Ranch. The terrorist bomb in Tabari five years ago had made sure of that.

      They hadn’t even found enough of Ryan to send home to bury.

      Chapter Two

      At the same time Cat Erickson was having coffee in the ranch kitchen with her father, halfway around the world an infuriated Ryan Christopher burst into Colonel Barker’s office at the reconstructed Tabarian embassy. He slammed the door behind him and stormed the commanding officer’s desk.

      “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Ryan shouted.

      Cool under fire, the colonel, every inch the military man with his buzz haircut, freshly pressed uniform, lean physique and unflappable calm, motioned his unexpected visitor toward a chair. “Have a seat, Trace, and calm down.”

      Ryan gripped the front edge of the desk and leaned toward the colonel, eyes flashing, face flushed with rage. “My name’s not Trace, and you know it, dammit,” he yelled.

      “Stand down, soldier,” Barker snapped with authority. “You’re way out of line.”

      “You can’t give me orders.” The veins pulsed at Ryan’s temples, and his knuckles turned white where they clutched the desk. “My enlistment expired four years ago. I don’t have to answer to you or the Marines. But you damn well owe me an explanation.”

      Barker stood and drew himself to his full height, still several inches shorter than Ryan, but what he lacked in stature, he made up for in severity. He riveted steely gray eyes on the younger man without blinking.

      “Here’s the way it is,” he said with ruthless calm, one hand poised above the button on his intercom. “You can either sit down and talk this out quietly, or I’ll have you escorted to the brig. Which is it going to be?”

      Ryan struggled for self-control. His entire world had been thrown off-kilter just moments before, and he hadn’t yet regained his balance. After what had just happened, he doubted he ever would. Taking a deep breath, he eased himself into the chair in front of Colonel Barker’s desk.

      Barker resumed his seat, but the stiffness didn’t leave his posture. He eyed Ryan warily, as if his visitor were a bomb with a short fuse.

      “When did your memory return?” Barker asked.

      “This morning at the palace,” Ryan said. “I’d just finished dressing when I banged my head against an open cabinet door. My memories came back in a rush.”

      Until that moment, Ryan had believed he was Trace Gallagher, an American who’d been working for over five years as a bodyguard to Prince Asim. A man who’d lost his memory when a bomb exploded while he was guarding the prince, who was visiting the American embassy.

      “And everything СКАЧАТЬ