The Cowgirl in Question

I dedicate this book to my editor, Denise O’Sullivan. Thank you for your faith, support and encouragement over the years. It’s a privilege to work with you.

B.J. Daniels is a former award-winning journalist. Her book Premeditated Marriage won Romantic Times Bookclub Magazine’s Best Intrigue award for 2002, and she also received 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. She is a member of Kiss of Death, the Bozeman Writers’ Group and Romance Writers of America. When she isn’t writing, she snowboards in the winters and camps, water-skis and plays tennis in the summers. To contact her, write P.O. Box 183, Bozeman, MT 59771 or look for her online at www.bjdaniels.com.

Rourke McCall—Framed for murder, he’s out of prison and back in Antelope Flats determined to get even with the cowgirl who put him in jail.

Cassidy Miller—She must help the man she’s always loved find the real killer—and prove to him just how wrong he is about her.

Blaze Logan—She would do anything to get what she wants. But murder?

Forrest Danvers—Was he murdered because he was with the wrong woman? Or did Forrest have another secret that got him killed?

Cecil Danvers—Someone is going to pay for killing his brother and ruining his life.

Easton Wells—He stole Rourke’s old girlfriend while Rourke was in prison. But is that the only reason he’s running scared?

Asa McCall—The rancher has kept secrets from his family. But now his biggest secret of all is about to come out.

Holt VanHorn—He has a bad habit of stealing things and being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Gavin Shaw—He never thought he could know too much about anything. He was dead wrong.

Yvonne Ames—She finally wants to come clean about the night of Forrest Danvers’s murder. But is it too late?

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

Epilogue

Maybe if Forrest Danvers hadn’t been half-drunk or spitting mad, he might have seen it coming.

But then he wasn’t expecting any real trouble as he drove up Wild Horse Gulch in the late-night darkness.

The road cut through sheer rock cliffs, then opened to towering ponderosa pines before topping out on a sagebrush-studded bench that overlooked the Tongue River.

Forrest was a little uneasy, given his reason for being there in the first place. Nor did it help that the night was blacker than the inside of a boot and a storm was coming.

But he was feeling too good to go home yet. For the first time in his twenty-one years of miserable life, he felt he could be somebody. Somebody people respected. Not just another one of those no-count Danvers like his brother Cecil.

He parked his pickup on the bench above the river and rolled down his window, feeling closed in, anxious to hear the sound of the other vehicle coming up the narrow mountain road. She was late. As usual. Women.

The air had an edge to it, a kind of jittery current that set his nerves on end. He blamed the approaching thunderstorm and the lightning that flickered behind dark bruised clouds at the edge of the horizon.

It promised to be one hell of a storm. In this part of Montana, thunderstorms often swept across the vast open landscape, bringing wind that tore branches from the cottonwoods and rain as large and hard as stones that ran in torrents down the dry creek beds like rivers.

Beyond the closer smell of sagebrush and dust, he picked up the welcome scent of the coming rainstorm. It had been far too hot and dry this summer. The ground needed a good soaking and he needed to cool down in more ways than one.

It had been one hell of a night at the Mello Dee Lounge and Supper Club. At the memory, he flexed his right hand. It hurt like hell, the knuckles skinned and bloody. He smiled at the memory of his fist connecting with Rourke McCall’s face.

Forrest could feel his left eye swelling shut. At least the cut over his right had stopped bleeding. That was something. And, he thought taking a shaky breath, his ribs hurt where he’d taken a punch, but Forrest had got in a few good licks himself.

Rourke McCall had just been itching for a fight. Forrest saw that now. Saw that he’d been a fool to oblige the crazy bastard. But what else could he have done? Just let Rourke cut in on the dance floor when Forrest was enjoying himself with Blaze Logan?

That was the problem with Rourke. He thought he owned Blaze, had ever since junior high. What a fool. Anyone with a pocketful of money could have Blaze—at least until the cash ran out.

Forrest rolled a cigarette, lit it and glanced at his watch before tossing the match to the floorboard. In that instant between light and darkness, he looked out and thought he saw someone silhouetted against the storm.