Chapter 3 #2
“Mike, I need to show you something. I think I found evidence that connects the cattle rustling to Tom Hendrick’s death, and—”
The words died in her throat.
The man he’d been talking to, sitting in the chair across from Martinelli’s desk, his back to the door, had turned.
Her world tilted off its axis.
Sandy-brown hair caught the office light, cut shorter than she remembered but still with that wayward strand that fell across his forehead.
Those impossibly blue eyes—the same eyes that had looked at her with such love ten years ago, the same eyes she saw every day in her son’s face—met hers with devastating recognition.
Rowan Wallace.
Alive. Real. Sitting three feet away from her in a green flannel shirt that stretched across shoulders broader than any eighteen-year-old boy had ever possessed.
This wasn’t the lean teenager who’d kissed her goodbye.
This was a man—weathered face and defined jaw covered with perfectly trimmed brown stubble, the kind of rugged masculinity that belonged on some Rancher’s Today magazine cover.
And yet, lines bracketed those stunning eyes now, his face etched by sun and wind and experiences she’d never know about.
His hands—oh, his hands—rested on powerful thighs, and she could see the calluses, the scars, the evidence of a life lived hard and far from her.
He was staring at her with the same hollow-chested expression that she probably wore, his lips slightly parted as if words had died in his throat. The same mouth that had whispered promises against her skin, that had told her he’d come back, that had kissed her like she was his entire world.
Until she wasn’t. Until he walked away and…died.
Died. She had his flag, for Pete’s sake.
So clearly, not dead. Breathing. Devastatingly, impossibly real.
The sense of it all—the grief, the hopes, the…the betrayal crashed over her in a wave so violent it stole her breath.
And then the scream ripped from her throat before she could stop it.
So, in truth, in all Rowan’s imagined reunion moments, Sierra screaming had been dead last place on the list.
That and the way she looked at him—part horror, part betrayal, all in grief—
Yeah, tactical mistake, to show up here, at the police station. He blamed the lack of sleep at the Mountain View Motel. Rowan had managed maybe three hours, his mind churning with images of Sierra’s ranch and the boy practicing roping under the floodlights.
“Place has all the charm of a fire camp,” Saxon had said, pulling on his boots this morning. “At least in Afghanistan we knew the ground was supposed to be hard. I’m going to find coffee that doesn’t taste like motor oil. You coming?”
“Go ahead. I need to check on Mack.”
Rowan had pulled out his phone and sent a text.
Rowan
How’s the visit going? You okay?
The response had come back quickly.
Mack
Good. Dad’s showing me around the ranch. Lot of new equipment since I was a kid. Planning to stay through tomorrow if that’s okay.
So, maybe he’d overreacted. Maybe the guy had changed. And Mack was hardly an eighteen-year-old kid. He knew how to handle himself.
When Saxon returned with coffee and local gossip, the news had been grim.
“Talked to some folks at the diner. Cattle rustling’s been worse than Martinelli let on. Third ranch hit this week, always the same method. Professional operation, the cattle driven away in trucks.”
“Which ranches?”
“Collins place lost twenty head on Tuesday. Hendrick’s ranch got hit Thursday night. And this morning, someone cut Sierra Blackwood’s fence and made off with her pregnant stock.”
Rowan’s blood had turned cold. “How many head?”
“Six. All breeding cows, all pregnant.”
Oh no.
“The Blackwood ranch sits in the center of those ranches, with plenty of dirt backroads providing access routes that would let rustlers move stolen cattle without using main highways.”
“Yep. You think Elway Blackwood would have noticed unusual activity?”
“He was police commissioner for a decade, so probably.” And if Elway had gotten too close to the truth…
Rowan grabbed his keys.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to talk to that detective from yesterday.”
Saxon picked up his coffee. “Good. It’ll give me a chance to look into the legalities of getting a PI license.”
This was what he got for thinking with his emotions instead of his brain. Because if Sierra had cattle stolen, of course she’d show up at the police station.
Now, Sierra’s scream still echoed in his ears as she stared at him, her dark eyes wide, her hand over her mouth.
And all he could think was—oh, she looked good. Sure, he’d seen her yesterday, but today, up close…he couldn’t breathe.
The years had transformed her from the beautiful girl he’d left behind into a full-bodied woman.
Her dark hair fell in waves past her shoulders, catching the office light with subtle highlights that spoke of hours spent in mountain sun.
Those eyes—the same warm brown that he’d held in his dreams—were deeper now, framed by long lashes and holding new depths, new layers.
She’d clearly lived a little life too.
She wore a plaid flannel shirt, the fabric hugging her curves, and a pair of jeans over cowboy boots that looked scuffed and work-worn. Of course.
“Oh my,” she said softly.
Yep, Oh. My.
Ten years had only made her more stunning, more perfectly herself, and the realization that he’d lost all those years, all that time watching her become this incredible person, carved a knife into his chest.
He should have come home. Maybe never left.
“Sierra—” His voice emerged rough, unfamiliar. Ten years of being Hammer, and suddenly he was Rowan again, eighteen and desperate and completely undone by the girl next door.
“No.” She shook her head. “No, this isn’t happening. You’re dead. You’re supposed to be dead! I got the flag. I got the flag!”
The flag. Yes, right. He’d forgotten about the flag.
He should have told her then, that night his team had picked up Mack. That would have been the right thing to do.
Instead, she’d gotten the flag.
He deserved the betrayal in her eyes.
“Sierra, let me explain—”
“Three years!” The words seemed ripped from her throat. “I buried you, Rowan!”
Detective Martinelli had gotten up, morphed into a sort of—friend? Concern in his eyes. “Sierra, maybe you should sit down.”
“Sit down?” She stared at him. Then her mouth opened. “Wait. You…how long—did you…” She glanced at Rowan, back to the detective. “How long have you known, Mike?”
Mike?
And the man seemed suddenly weirdly apologetic. “Just yesterday, but—it wasn’t my news to tell—C’mon, Sierra, don’t look at me like that…” He reached out for her.
No wonder the guy had given him the runaround. He had something going with her—or maybe wanted to.
Except, she wasn’t in any place for complications, Bub, and he sort of wanted to step between her and Mike.
Rowan stood up.
She stepped back, as if…what? Was she afraid of him?
Maybe. Maybe not, because she drew in a steadying breath and her beautiful eyes hardened, and she shook her head. “You jerk.”
Oh, well. He drew in a breath. “I am.”
She glared at him, and his chest burned.
“Sierra, please. Let me—”
“Don’t.” The word came out fierce, final. “Don’t you dare ask me to let you do anything. You lost that right when you let me believe you were dead.”
She gasped as if at her own words.
It might hurt less if she put a knife in his chest than to see her eyes fill.
“I need to go.” She turned for the door, but her legs seemed unsteady.
“Sierra, wait—”
She ignored him.
“Sierra,” Detective—Mike—Martinelli said. “C’mon—”
She kept moving, down the hall. Stubborn as usual, and shoot, he couldn’t not follow her.
“Sierra,” he said. “I know about your missing cattle. That’s why I’m here.”
She stopped. Turned slowly, her face a mask of barely controlled fury. “What did you say?”
“Your cattle. The six pregnant cows that were stolen this morning. I know about them.”
“How?”
Oh. “Um. A buddy of mine heard it at the Renegade Café. And I thought…”
She cocked her head at him.
“I’m worried you’re a target.”
She just shook her head. “What are you doing here? In Renegade?”
Oh. Um. He swallowed. “It’s a long story.”
“I’ll bet.” She held up a hand. “Save it. And I can take care of myself, thanks. I have for…” She glanced past him, and he guessed at Martinelli. “A long time.”
Detective Martinelli cleared his throat. “Maybe we should all sit down and—”
“No.” Sierra’s attention returned to Rowan. “Listen. I don’t know what happened, but three years of you being dead is just…well, there were seven before that where I stood waiting for you. And nothing—nothing, Rowan.”
Oh, she was right, but still…“I was…Please let me explain.”
“I don’t want your help. I don’t want anything from you.”
“Sierra, these people are dangerous. What if they killed your grandfather?”
She blinked at him. Swallowed. “We had a funeral, you know. You might have come to that.”
He might have, if he hadn’t been fighting fires in Alaska and, well, still supposed to be dead.
She shook her head, turned away, kept walking.
“You can’t handle this alone.” Oh, he sounded desperate now.
“Watch me.”
He caught up to her, now in the lobby. “I could talk to your husband, offer my services. Security consulting, ranch patrol. I still know how to cowboy.”
She whirled around, and the look she gave him could have cut glass. “That won’t be necessary.”
Martinelli had followed too. “Sierra, maybe you should consider it. You’re all alone out there, and if these rustlers are willing to kill—”
“Thanks a lot, Detective.” She leveled the cutting look at Martinelli. “I appreciate the vote of confidence in my ability to protect my own property.”
She headed for the door again.
And what was his problem that for three years—even ten total—he had managed to stay away from this woman, and yet now he couldn’t let her out of his sight?
Rowan followed her through the front entrance onto Main Street. “Sierra, wait.”