Covert Cowboy. Harper Allen

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      Take the pain away, Con. Please take it away…

      His arms gathered her tightly to him and his mouth came down on hers.

      Chapter Two

      With a frown Conrad Burke looked around the massive and rustic great room of the Royal Flush Ranch. It had been three months and two weeks since his encounter with Marilyn Langworthy, he reflected, although encounter came nowhere close to describing the conflagration that had consumed the two of them that night in her office. Three months and two weeks of burying himself in his work, of drinking too much, of falling asleep, drunk or sober, with the memory of her haunting his dreams.

      He’d promised himself he wouldn’t return to Colorado, but when his old friend Wiley Longbottom had come to him yesterday with a request to meet with a certain Colleen Wellesley here at her ranch, located a couple of hours outside Denver, even the fact that Wiley had refused to reveal what the meeting was about and who Wellesley was hadn’t given him pause. He’d caught a red-eye flight out of Louis Armstrong Airport, touched down in Denver, and the first damn thing he’d done after renting a vehicle had been to head for the city’s lively and upscale LoDo district. He’d parked near the corner of Blake Street and 33rd, within sight of the converted-to-lofts warehouse where he knew Marilyn lived, and had sat behind the wheel of his car all afternoon hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Only when the early November dusk had begun to fall had he left the city, taking I-285 until it hooked up with Highway 9 near Fairplay, just north of the Royal Flush.

      Although apparently the house itself had been a bordello in the wild old days, to his mild surprise he’d realized when he’d arrived that the Flush was definitely a working ranch. He was willing to accept that as an excuse for the Wellesley woman’s absence so far, Con told himself, walking over to the antique portrait hanging above the gilded mirror running the length of the heavily varnished and well-stocked pine bar.

      He gazed without interest at the rest of the decor, an obvious holdover from those same wild days when this room’s red velvet furnishings and saloon fittings had probably been the last word in decadent luxury for woman-hungry cowboys. Ranch duties or not, if Wiley hadn’t been there, he would have driven back to the airport, Con thought with growing impatience. And this time he wouldn’t have indulged in a foolish and futile side-trip to Marilyn Langworthy’s neighborhood.

      It had ended as he’d known it would. After the third time they’d made love she’d fallen asleep in his arms on the sofa, the cashmere throw they’d been lying on pulled lightly over her hips, her head tucked into the hollow of his neck. He hadn’t slept himself, but had spent the few hours before dawn just drinking in the sight of her and breathing in her scent.

      During those hours he’d hoped against hope he was wrong. As soon as she’d opened her eyes, hope had died.

      Of course she regretted it. What she did with you went against everything she ever thought she was. The only way she could live with herself when she realized she’d made love with a stranger—made love with a stranger and liked it, for God’s sake—would have been to wall herself up again behind the ice that’s protected her all her life. Even before she told you to get out you knew that. Even before she started crying you knew.

      So it had ended with her hating herself and hating him, he thought. And if he had it all to do over again, for the life of him he didn’t see how he could have acted differently.

      She’d needed someone to love her for a few hours. What she would never realize was that with him she hadn’t had to ask.

      “Ray called through to the horse barn and didn’t get an answer.” Balancing a thick china plate heaped high with a Dagwood-size sandwich and a huge dill pickle, Wiley Longbottom walked into the room. He made a beeline for the bar and set his precarious burden onto its scarred surface. “Melody insisted on fixing me a little snack, as she calls it. Not that I need it,” he said, giving his stomach a rueful pat.

      “The Castillos are the ranch’s housekeeper and caretaker,” he went on. His next words were spoken around a mouthful of roast beef. “Ray said he’d try the foreman’s quarters, find out if Dex knows where the devil Colleen’s disappeared to.”

      “So while we’re waiting for her to grace us with her presence why don’t you fill me in on a couple of details?” Con suggested, shooting his old friend a sharp look. “Like what the hell am I doing here in the first place? You know I don’t like the cold, Wiley, so you must have had one hell of a good reason for dragging me away from New Awlins and into the snow belt at this time of year. You’ve got mustard on your tie,” he added in irritation.

      “That might be from lunch. I never was the dandy you are, with your boutonnieres and those extravagant vests.” The older man nodded with a grin at the yellow flower in Con’s lapel. Under bushy brows his gaze remained hooded. “As for my reasons for dragging you away, yeah, I’d say they’re justified, but I think it’s best if Colleen’s in on this discussion.”

      “Aren’t you playing your cards a little closer than you need to?” Con kept his voice even with an effort. “Dammit, Wiley, this is me. We go back a long way, to before you were appointed director of public safety and when I was just starting out in the Marshall Service. At least give me some background on the mysterious Colleen Wellesley I’m about to meet.”

      “I haven’t given her much on you,” the older man informed him with a sidelong glance. “All she knows is that in the past when I’ve run into a particularly thorny problem I’ve consulted with my ‘conscience’ to come up with a solution. She’s not aware said conscience is a reformed cardsharp who cooks up the best crawfish étouffée in the French Quarter, bar none.”

      Con grinned reluctantly. “I appreciate the cover even if it isn’t one I’d have chosen myself. And even though you’ve obviously decided it’s time to blow it,” he added, more soberly. “She can be trusted, Wiley?”

      “With your real identity, and a whole lot more.” His friend nodded and took another bite of his sandwich. “Wellesley started out as a cop on the Denver force and made detective in record time. She was a damn good one, too, until a bribery scandal derailed her career ten years ago.”

      “Nice knowin’ you, Longbottom.” Con pulled the gold watch that had been a legacy from his great-uncle Eustache out of his pocket. “If I break the speed limit all the way back to Denver I should be able to catch a flight home tonight.” His lips tightened. “You know how I feel about dirty cops, Wiley.”

      “The same way Colleen feels about them,” the other man replied testily. “She was the whistle-blower, Burke. Except she wasn’t believed, since the son of a bitch she blew the whistle on was a superior officer and the rot went a lot higher than even she’d suspected. She handed in her badge when she realized the corruption was just going to be covered up.”

      Slowly Con slipped the watch back into his waistcoat pocket. “That took guts, f’sure,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “So she bought this place and took up ranching?”

      “The Royal Flush was left to her when her father died,” Wiley corrected him. “She’s got a brother, Michael, but he’s just come back from time in the special forces and hasn’t been involved with the ranch. Colleen herself delegates most of the day-to-day responsibilities to Dexter Jones, her foreman. Until recently she’s concentrated her energies on running an operation in Denver called ICU, which is short for Investigations, Confidential & Undercover.”

      “You taught me a long time ago always to listen for what the other fellow was leaving out,” Con observed. СКАЧАТЬ