Cowboy Accomplice

J.T. mentally shook his head. Regina Holland had the ability to make a man want to wring her neck one minute and take her in his arms and comfort her the next.

Earlier he’d thought her beaten, close to crying, ready to cave in. He saw now that she didn’t fall to defeat easily. He’d not only underestimated her tenacity, but he also found himself admiring it and at the same time fearing it. How far would the woman go to get what she wanted?

She looked up at him, resolve burning again in those eyes like a hot blue flame. He shouldn’t be surprised by anything this woman did, but he found himself surprised over and over again. He’d never met anyone like her and hoped he never did again….

B.J. Daniels’s lifelong dream was to write books. After a career as an award-winning newspaper journalist, she wrote and sold thirty-seven short stories before she finally wrote her first book. Since then she has won numerous awards, including a career achievement award for romantic suspense. B.J. lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, three springer spaniels, Zoey, Scout and Spot, and a temperamental tomcat named Jeff. For more information on her books, check out her Web site at www.bjdaniels.com. She loves to hear from readers. Write to her at P.O. Box 183, Bozeman, MT 59771.

J.T. McCall—The rancher has trouble—six hundred head of cattle to round up…and a woman after his “assets.”

Regina “Reggie” Holland—She always went after what she wanted.

Buck Brannigan—The elderly ranch foreman hired the crew for the late-season cattle drive. How could he know that the camp cook can’t cook and one of the cowhands is a killer with a deadly grudge?

Will Jarvis—The oldest of the ranch hands seems to be watching—and waiting. But for what?

Cotton Heywood—The blond cowboy had no idea what would be waiting for him at the cow camp.

Slim Walker—Is it just a coincidence that the tall lanky cowhand had been at the other deadly McCall roundup?

Nevada Black—Of the bunch, this tough-looking cowhand seems the most likely to be a killer.

Luke Adams—Is it possible the baby-faced ranch hand looks more innocent than he is?

Roy Shields—He’s the quietest of the six and possibly the deadliest.

This book is for my cousin Sandra Johnson Olinger.

Last summer she came to Montana, bringing with her all the memories of a summer we spent camped on Hebgen Lake so many years ago. Thank you, Sandy. And thanks for listening to the stories I wrote in the tent beside the lake when we were kids and encouraging me to follow my dream. There is nothing like family. Thanks for reminding me of that.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Outside Mexico City

He sat on the edge of the bed in the dim mirrorless room, his face swathed in bandages, his mind several thousand miles away. He’d been waiting more years, through more surgeries and more pain than his mind could stand. When he closed his eyes he could still hear the crackle of the flames, feel the intense heat, smell his searing flesh.

“Señor Smith?”

He turned to see Dr. Ramon, a small, nervous white-cloaked figure, framed in the doorway.

“Are you ready?” the doctor asked in Spanish as he stepped in, the door closing behind him.

Ready? He’d been ready for years. He said nothing as the plastic surgeon pulled back the curtain. Sunlight streamed into the room, momentarily blinding him. He closed his eyes as Dr. Ramon put down a black medical bag on the edge of the bed beside him.

Slowly, carefully, the doctor began to peel away the bandages, his fingers trembling. They both knew what was at stake here.

Señor Smith as he was called here closed his eyes, having given up hope a long time ago that his face might ever be normal again.

A cool breeze caressed his cheek as the last bandage fell away. With a pain far greater than any physical one he’d ever known, he opened his eyes.

The doctor had stepped back and was now studying his handiwork, his face expressionless. “You are a new man,” he said finally, his gaze skittering away at the intensity of his patient’s look.

Señor Smith had heard such words before. He didn’t want or need false hope. False hope had gotten other even more prestigious surgeons killed.

He reached his hand out for the mirror he knew the doctor had brought in his bag. His hand was steady as he took it. Hope made a person tremble. He had nothing but fear at what monstrous visage he would now see in the glass.

Slowly he held up the hand mirror and stared into the face of the new stranger he found there. To his surprise, this stranger wasn’t hideous. Nor was he handsome. He was…average. The face of a man no one would look at twice on a street corner or across a crowded room.