High-Caliber Cowboy. B.J. Daniels

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      “Hi, Taylor.”

      “That’s Dr. Taylor Ivers to you,” the old doc snapped. Taylor was Dr. and Mrs. Porter Ivers’s surprise late-in-life child. She had followed in her father’s footsteps, something that Brandon could see pleased the old doc greatly.

      Taylor held out her hand. “Hello, Brandon.” He took it, not surprised by her firm handshake. She was all business. He hadn’t seen her since she was a skinny kid with braces and glasses. She hadn’t changed that much, except she had perfectly straight teeth and must have worn contacts.

      She’d been one of those gifted kids who went to a special private school, graduating high school at fifteen, college at eighteen and medical school at twenty-two. Last he’d heard, she’d done her residency at some cutting-edge hospital down south.

      “You planning to take over for your dad?” he asked her, joking.

      “She has bigger fish to fry,” Dr. Ivers snapped. “She’s not getting stuck here.”

      “I’ll be staying for a while,” Taylor said, glancing at her father. “My mother isn’t well.”

      “I’m sorry,” he answered quickly.

      “I want to be near my parents right now,” Taylor said, and turned to her father, “You have a phone call.”

      “I’ll take it in my office.” He looked at Brandon. “I’d tell you to take it easy, but I know it would be a waste of breath.” The old doc turned and left without another word.

      As Brandon slid off the gurney and headed for the door, Taylor busied herself putting away the equipment her father had used to patch him up.

      Brandon left with only one thing on his mind—the woman who’d wounded his pride. The flesh injury would heal.

      ANNA’S ATTEMPTS to find out if Brandon McCall had been taken to the Antelope Flats Clinic had failed miserably.

      As an investigative reporter, she knew a few tricks for getting information. But the woman she spoke to at the clinic, a Dr. Taylor Ivers, wasn’t falling for any of them.

      Anna hung up, hoping McCall was all right. She’d hit him with a cast-iron cowgirl doorstop. Her disappointment in him aside, she hoped it hadn’t hurt him too badly.

      She stepped out onto the deck overlooking the Tongue River Reservoir and rubbed the back of her neck, angry with herself for worrying about him. He worked for Mason VanHorn! That should tell her what kind of man he was. More than likely, he deserved anything she gave him.

      The morning breeze whispered in the pines and rippled the water’s green surface below her into a glittering chop. She could see a half-dozen boats along the red cliffs of the lake and wished she were on the water.

      Closing her eyes, she breathed in the smell of the lake and almost thought she felt a memory stir her. She and her father fishing in a small boat, just the two of them, on a summer day, the soft slap of the water against the side of the boat, the steady thrum of the motor, the pull of the rod in her hand.

      She knew it couldn’t possibly be a memory. She’d never gone fishing with her father. She’d barely known him. At her first boarding school, she’d told everyone that her parents were both dead. In a way, it was true. They were both dead to her.

      Going back inside the cabin, she wondered why she hadn’t thought to rent a cabin on the lake in the first place. Staying at a motel, even in Sheridan, Wyoming, even miles from the VanHorn Ranch, had been risky. Here on the lake at this time of year, she could blend in.

      In a few hours, when it warmed up, the lake would be alive with the whine of boat motors roaring around, the smell of fires from the campground across the water and wonderful sounds of laughter and voices.

      And according to the records she’d uncovered, just down the lake was a piece of recently acquired land that was now part of the VanHorn Ranch. Not exactly lake-front property in the true sense. It was swampy, with lots of trees standing knee-deep in the water with the lake up. The land wasn’t used for anything except the wild horses Mason VanHorn had collected before there were laws preventing it.

      This morning, after a sleepless night, she’d come up with a plan. Unfortunately, she could do little until almost dark and she’d never been good at waiting.

      She tried her cell phone and still couldn’t get any service in this remote part of the state. Giving up, she picked up the phone in the cabin and dialed the Virginia number.

      “Johnson Investigations,” a female voice answered.

      “I’m Anna Austin—”

      “Ms. Austin, I’m sorry but if you’re calling for Lenore, she still hasn’t called in. As a matter of fact, we have contacted the sheriff in Antelope Flats.”

      “That’s why I’m calling. I wanted to give you my permission to reveal the nature of her business here and who she was working for,” Anna said. “I’m worried about her.”

      “We’re concerned, as well, but the sheriff said no missing person’s report can be filed for forty-eight hours,” the receptionist said. “He has agreed to keep an eye out for her but can do nothing more at this point.”

      Forty-eight hours. “I’m going to do my best to find her in the meantime.” She gave the receptionist the number at the cabin and hung up.

      She had hired Lenore Johnson to verify some information she’d received. Lenore had called two days ago to say that at least some of the information was correct. She hadn’t wanted to discuss the case over the phone, adding she had another lead to check out before she flew back. Anna had told her she would be flying out and Lenore had given her the name of the motel where she was staying in Sheridan, Wyoming.

      But when Anna reached Sheridan, she’d discovered that Lenore had left the motel without checking out, taking everything with her, and hadn’t been seen since.

      Anna’s gaze went to the manila envelope where she’d dropped it beside the phone. The letter inside had been lost in the mail for nine years.

      A part of her wished it had stayed lost.

      Sitting down, she picked up the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper from inside. The barely legible words had been written in a trembling feeble hand. An elderly woman’s deathbed confession.

      At first, Anna had thought the woman must have been senile. None of it could be true.

      But she’d been wrong. At least some it was true, or Lenore Johnson wouldn’t be missing.

      Carefully, Anna slipped the letter back inside the envelope and, getting up, hid it under the cushion of the chair. She knew she was being paranoid, but it was the only evidence she had. Even if it was worthless in a court of law without proof to back it up, she didn’t want to lose it.

      Had the private investigator found the proof? Or had she just asked too many questions?

      Anna shivered, hugging herself as she thought of Lenore Johnson. Lenore had known going in just how dangerous this was, and she was trained for this kind of trouble. If she had failed…

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