Promise From A Cowboy

Prologue

Sheriff Savannah Moody drove up to the church and parked right at the front, next to the bridal party’s white sedan. She thought of all the people waiting inside. The white steeple was the visual focal point of Coffee Creek, Montana, but Savannah had rarely been inside.

Her father’s funeral, with the paltry attendance of less than a dozen mourners, the marriage of a close friend and then that friend’s first baby’s christening. That was pretty much it.

And now this.

With long, purposeful strides, she made her way along the sidewalk, up the stairs and to the double doors. Muffled organ music seeped out from the building’s pores—a joyous sound that soon would end.

Delivering tragic news was the hardest part of her job. Today she had to do it to a man who’d been her first love. They’d dated all through high school. She’d been so sure she’d spend the rest of her life with him.

Then he’d done something stupid, involved her brother, and the next thing she knew he’d joined the rodeo circuit, rarely making it home to Coffee Creek in the seventeen years that followed.

But he was home now. She’d seen his truck in town a few times this week. He’d returned to witness the marriage of his youngest brother, Brock.

Savannah swallowed, then took a deep breath and went in.

The organ music swelled, became something she recognized, but couldn’t name. The chatter of the waiting guests was cheerful, but edged with anxiety. Judging by the number of vehicles parked outside, at least a hundred people were waiting inside. But the vestibule was empty, so she continued toward two open doors to her right.

She’d no sooner stepped onto the blue carpet that stretched the length of the aisle, when sudden silence fell over the church. A hundred smiling, curious faces turned to face her.

They were expecting the bride.

Instead, they saw the local sheriff. And in that second expressions changed to worry, shock, concern...and fear.

I need to talk to someone from the Lambert family. Savannah thought her voice sounded too loud in the silent church. Sensing movement behind her, she turned to see the bridal party approaching from the rear.

First was the dark-haired bride, Winnie Hays, owner of the Cinnamon Stick Café.

Savannah had never met the redheaded bridesmaid standing a step behind Winnie, but she’d heard that a best friend from New York City had arrived in town a week ago to participate in the festivities. So this was obviously her.

The second bridesmaid was Brock’s blonde sister, Cassidy. She looked so pale, Savannah was worried she was about to faint.

Savannah turned back to the front of the church where the rest of the Lambert family was seated. Olive, matriarch of the largest ranch in the county since her husband’s death many years ago, had never hidden the fact that she looked down on Savannah and her family. Beside her was her eldest son, B.J. His eyes were on her and the penetrating gray gaze suddenly became the only thing she could focus on.

B.J. was the first to stand, so handsome and civilized in his dark gray suit. Savannah. What happened?

Olive stood up next, using her son’s arm for support. Has there been an accident?

I’m sorry, Olive. But yes. She had to push herself to add, There’s been an a-accident. Jackson’s SUV hit a moose on Big Valley Road, about five miles from town.

A collective gasp by the congregation was followed by a few seconds of stunned silence.

Brock? Winnie asked from behind her, voice trembling.

Savannah turned to face the bride. I’m so sorry, Winnie. Brock was sitting in the front passenger seat—the impact point with the moose. He didn’t have a chance.

Savannah knew the pain her words were causing and she hated it. She called on all her strength to keep calm and measured.

And then B.J. was speaking again. What about Corb? And Jackson?

Jackson had been taken in by the Lamberts when he was thirteen years old. And Corb was the third Lambert son, the next oldest after B.J.

Jackson was driving, wearing his seat belt, and the air bag was able to cushion him from the worst of it. He’s badly bruised and shaken, but he’s okay. Corb was in the backseat. He should have been fine, but I’m afraid he wasn’t wearing his seat belt. As we speak he’s being medevaced to Great Falls. I can’t say how bad his injuries are. You’ll have to talk to the doctors about that.

Is he conscious? B.J.’s mother asked, her eyes wide with desperation.

Again Savannah shook her head, wishing there were some way to cushion the blow. No.

Overcome, finally, by the shock and the horror, the bride swayed and suddenly everyone was rushing forward to help.

We need a sweater, or a warm jacket, the redheaded bridesmaid called out to the crowd.

A second later, a man’s suit jacket was settled over Winnie’s shoulders and Dan Farley, the local vet, was ordering the crowd to step back and give Winnie some space. The large, muscular man then picked up the bride and carried her out for some fresh air.

Savannah switched into crowd-control mode and cleared a path for Farley, the bride and the bridesmaid to exit the church. Then she supervised the orderly evacuation of the rest of the Lambert family.

B.J.’s gaze fell on hers as he passed by. Her stomach clenched at the fear and worry on his face. She almost reached out her arm to him. Then drew it back.

Once, she could have provided him comfort. But those days were over.

Chapter One

Eleven months later

B. J. Lambert was in the loading chute at the Wild Rogue Rodeo in Central Point, Oregon, about to settle all one hundred and sixty pounds of himself on the back of a horse that had been named Bucking Machine.

These were the moments B.J. lived for. As he clamped down on the adrenaline rush of anticipation and fear—and yes, there was fear, only a fool wouldn’t have at least a little—a deep calm washed over him.

Once that chute was opened, it would all be over in eight seconds. He might have the best ride of his life or be disqualified. He could end up injured, or he might stroll out of the arena as nonchalantly as if he’d just taken a walk through a park.

B.J. pulled in as much air as his lungs could hold. He knew the announcer was talking about his accomplishments, perhaps going so far as to call him one of the legends of rodeo.

After eighteen years on the circuit, the buckles and trophies tended to add up.

But B.J. wasn’t listening to any of that. His mind was focused entirely on the present and the animal he was about to ride.

Give me your best, he said in a low voice to Bucking Machine. And I’ll give you mine.

He gripped the rigging in his left hand and gave the signal he was ready. As the chute opened he settled his full weight on the gelding and the ride began.

Bucking Machine started with a wild leap and B.J. focused on making contact with the heels of his boots, marking him out to prevent disqualification.

Then, with his right hand high in the air, he matched his wits, strength and balance with those of the horse. He wasn’t so much thinking at this point as simply doing what came naturally.

The more wicked turns and kicks the horse threw at him, the happier B.J. was. Only 50 percent of his grade was based on his skills—the rest was up to the gelding.

Give me all you’ve got. I can take it.

And he did. But when the eight-second horn sounded, he lost no time in getting off. He jumped, managing to land on his feet in the dirt-packed arena.

From the volume of the crowd’s cheering, he could tell he’d had a good round. He waved his hat, specifically looking for his sister, Cassidy, and her fiancé, Dan Farley, who were also participating in the rodeo. Next he looked for his mother, sitting rigidly in the stands.

Olive did not approve of the rodeo and he didn’t kid himself that she was here to watch him perform. No, she’d driven all this way to cheer on Cassidy and Farley, whose recent engagement had pleased her so much she was willing to put aside her usual distaste for the sport.

The engagement was good news for a family that had had a hell of a rough ride this year. After Brock’s death, it had seemed nothing would ever be right again. The loss always hit B.J. hardest at night—he hadn’t had a straight eight hours of sleep in a long time.

But he was grateful that Corb had recovered from his injuries. He’d even fallen in love and married Laurel Sheridan, Winnie’s red-haired friend from New York City. Now they had a little daughter—life continued.

Winnie, however, still hadn’t returned to Coffee Creek since Brock’s funeral. She was convalescing at her parents’ farm in the Highwood area. The family had been shocked to learn that she’d been two months pregnant at the time of the accident. Now she had a little boy and B.J. wondered when he would meet him.

He’d called Winnie a few times since Brock’s death. Their conversations were always short, since neither of them knew quite what to say. They always ended the same way, with Winnie promising to return with her son to Coffee Creek one day soon.

But in the meantime, her staff and Laurel were running the Cinnamon Stick Café.

As for Jackson, nothing anyone said seemed able to lessen the guilt he felt for being the driver that day. B.J. felt bad for his foster brother and hoped that eventually time would heal his pain.

B.J. himself was no stranger to guilt. He knew that with Brock gone, it was up to him, the eldest son, to step in and help. But the rodeo had become more than a job to him over the years. It was an adrenaline addiction that kept him from thinking of a certain woman he should have forgotten a long time ago.

He gave his head a shake and reminded himself to focus. Lately his thoughts had been scattering far too easily.

...and we have an eighty-nine for Mr. B. J. Lambert today, ladies and gentlemen. That pretty much guarantees him top standing for the Wild Rogue this year. Give it up, folks, for a gentleman who has dedicated many good years to this sport we all love...

Tommy, one of the pick-up men, clapped his shoulder. Well done. A couple other competitors offered their congratulations, too, stopping him to shake his hand and make admiring comments about his ride.

Once upon a time B.J. would have enjoyed all of this. Winning was the point, right?

But today he felt flat. That moment in the chute with Bucking Machine had meant more to him than any of this.

And later, when he was called to the stage and given his check and trophy, it was all he could do to muster a smile and wave at the spectators.

His sister came running and threw out her arms for a big hug. Way to go, B.J. We’re all so proud of you.

Her fiancé, a man who had been his friend since they were mutton-busting age, gave him a firm handshake. Impressive. Hell, you were the man to beat, but no one even came close.

B.J. shrugged. It’s what I do. You novices, though, you really kicked butt. You’re the ones who deserve the big congratulations.

Cassidy flushed. She’d come in third in barrel racing after a six-year hiatus from the sport, while Farley, a full-time vet who competed only occasionally in the rodeo, had managed to take first place in steer wrestling. B.J. could tell he was still on a high from his great performance. B.J. remembered well the days when winning had made him feel that way, too.

Hard to say when the thrill had started to fade. Maybe when he’d noticed the other cowboys sharing their victories with girlfriends, wives and children, while he always stood on the podium alone?

"We were all pretty awesome," Cassidy said, linking one arm around Farley, the other around her brother. His sister looked happier than he’d seen her in some time, and he was glad for her. She’d recently decided to leave behind her planned business career to work as a horse trainer and teacher with Straws Monahan. Her recent engagement to Farley was also a big reason for the glow in her smile.

You two make a great couple, he said.

And that’s when his mother joined the group. She was decked out in a stylish skirt and trimmed Western shirt, looking spry and fit for a woman in her sixties.

You did well, Robert James. The words were right, but the tone held the note of contained disapproval that he was used to hearing from his mother.

Thanks, Mom. I’m glad you could be here.

She nodded, then turned to her daughter. I’m tired. Think I’ll head back to the hotel.

Oh. Cassidy’s face fell. Would you like us to come with you?

No. You go ahead and celebrate. She sighed. It was the drinking and partying that accompanied rodeo that she most disapproved of. I suppose you’ve earned the right to a little fun.

We’ll have fun, Cassidy agreed. But you know we won’t overdo the drinking. We never do.

B.J. wondered if his sister thought she was speaking for him, too, when she said that. If so, she wasn’t being entirely honest.

Ready to head over to the Rogue Saloon? Cassidy asked him, once their mother had departed.

"I’ll meet you there. I promised an interview to a reporter from the Mail Tribune." His sister didn’t look too disappointed, and neither did Farley. He was definitely the third wheel tonight. Maybe he’d just skip the party. He wasn’t much in the mood, anyway.

It turned out there were a couple of reporters waiting to interview him, and he answered their questions politely, giving the stock answers that he had memorized years ago.

He’d thought he was finished, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

B.J.?

The nerves that ran along his spine tingled at the sound of her voice.

He turned slowly, taking the time for a good long look before he answered. Savannah—the local sheriff back home—wasn’t in uniform tonight. She was wearing her thick, dark hair long, and in her jeans, brown boots and black-and-gray shirt, she could have been just another pretty rodeo fan.

She had on silver hoop earrings and a silver star that hung from her neck by a black ribbon. But what really drew his gaze were her eyes, dark and wary.

How are you, Savannah? He almost couldn’t believe it was really her. For eighteen years she’d barely spoken to him—except when official duty required her to, like the day his brother Brock had died.

She shrugged, as if to say it didn’t matter how she was.

Something’s happened, she said.

His heart contracted painfully. Not another accident.

No. She held out her hand in a reassuring gesture. No. Nothing like that. It’s about the fire.

He understood immediately that she was referring to the awful night that had changed everything between them. She’d been home babysitting her little sister while he went out partying with their friends and her twin brother, Hunter.

Right from the beginning things had gone wrong. First the location. Hunter had been keen for their group to ride ATVs out to an abandoned barn on Olive’s estranged sister’s property. B.J. hadn’t felt right about it, but he’d gone along.

Then a big electrical storm had struck, spooking the girls and sending them running. Only Brock and Hunter had stayed behind to witness the barn catching fire. Not until later did they discover that a vagrant had been passed out in the loft. Rain had put out the fire before the barn burned down, but smoke inhalation killed the vagrant.

B.J. had been the one to insist on calling the authorities. He’d also done what he thought was the noble thing—taking the blame for inviting his friends out to his aunt’s barn. He’d wanted to protect his girlfriend’s brother, not ever considering that Savannah would blame him for getting Hunter in trouble.

Isn’t that ancient history?

I wish. She exhaled her annoyance. I had a visit from a private investigator from L.A. She frowned as a young man carrying two beers in his hands jostled her shoulder. Could we find someplace quiet to talk?

He thought about his trailer. Too small, too intimate. The saloon where Cassidy and Farley were headed would be noisy. I could stand some food. Want to go out for a steak?

She hesitated, and he could see the mistrust in her eyes. Even after all these years, it hurt.

She blamed him for what had happened to her brother. Always a kid who invited trouble, Hunter had grown even wilder after the fire. He’d given up on school, found a rougher set of friends, and two months later, on his and Savannah’s eighteenth birthday, had stolen money from their mother and run off to his