A COWBOY'S SECRET Read online

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  Contents:

  Prologue

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

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  Prologue

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  The cell door clanked shut behind him.

  It was a sound J.D. Holt remembered well. He stumbled over his own booted feet and landed face first on the single hard cot.

  "Stay there," Sheriff Jim Muldoon advised gruffly. "Calm down. Chill out. Sober up. Get a grip. And see if you can figure out where you left your brain, for God's sake, J.D!"

  The keys rattled in the lock.

  "What the hell were you thinking, taking your boss out with one punch?" Jim demanded through the bars. "And Trey Phillips, for heaven's sake! That's like hitting God in these parts!"

  As if J.D. didn't know that already.

  Jim shook the door to make sure the lock had caught, like J.D. was some hardened criminal who was going to break out. Fat chance. He didn't care if he ever saw the light of day again.

  "Get your head straight," Jim ordered. "Take some deep breaths. Think, for a change, you damn fool. Then give me a shout, and I'll let you make a call. Okay?"

  J.D. didn't answer. He had nothing to say.

  Jim tapped his boot as if waiting for a reply. Finally he sighed heavily. "Been a long time since you've pulled anything this dumb, J.D. Thought you were over this sort of stuff." Another long wait.

  J.D. didn't move.

  Jim jingled the keys in his hand, then muttered something under his breath and finally walked away.

  J.D. listened to him go. He lay with his face pressed into the thin cotton mattress and wished it was smothering him. His head pounded. His body throbbed. His knuckles hurt.

  From where he'd connected with Trey Phillips's jaw?

  Unlikely. He hadn't hit the old man hard enough. Not that he wouldn't have liked to!

  But some tiny fragment of common sense or self-preservation had made him pull his punch at the last instant. It certainly hadn't been out of any compassion for Trey Phillips. Not when the old man had betrayed him by selling off the ranch that he'd promised to sell to J.D.

  Of course, it probably didn't matter a damn to Trey. The old Holt place was nothing to write home about, nothing to get rich on, no more than a fly spot on the map compared to the legendary Phillips spread, the J Bar R. Five generations of Phillipses had bought up so much of Montana that their ranch covered parts of three counties and was home to more cattle than J.D. would own in a lifetime.

  But he'd never cared. It was what he'd had – or had been promised – that mattered. Not what he didn't. He'd cowboyed for Trey Phillips – had been his foreman – for the past three years. And he'd never wanted any of it.

  Just his own place.

  The old Holt ranch. Dan Holt's spread.

  The one J.D. had grown up on. The one he knew every inch of. The one place he loved like he'd never loved anything or anyone – the only thing that had never let him down.

  The Holt ranch was in his sweat. It was in his blood.

  It was to save the ranch as much as his father that he'd come back five years ago. He'd been determined to hold it together when the old man had got sick and couldn't do it alone anymore.

  He and Gus, his younger brother, had been on the rodeo circuit then. Gus was in the top fifteen, doing far better than J.D. ever would. Gus lived and breathed it. J.D. didn't. It was horses he loved – training them, not bucking them.

  He'd come home to help his father and at the same time to begin building his dream of running a horse training business of his own.

  He'd start slow, build his name, get a reputation. And eventually he'd get there – in five years or ten. After the ranch was his – and Gus's – after the old man had passed on.

  Then the old man did pass on.

  And J.D. found out he and Gus didn't own the ranch at all.

  Trey Phillips had quietly bought it for back taxes five years ago.

  In his illness, Dan hadn't remembered that such things as taxes existed. And J.D. had had his hands full with the cattle and the horses, in any case; the paperwork side of ranching had always been his father's province. He had never given the taxes a thought.

  But Trey had. Because, damn it, that was how Phillipses thrived! They'd got more than one piece of land that way over the years!

  And not only land…

  As usual, Trey had never even bothered to mention the fact. He'd never said the place belonged to him until after the old man died. He'd just let them go on thinking the ranch was theirs.

  And then, after the funeral, when the will was read, there was no ranch. Just cattle. And a mountain of debt.

  "What happened to the ranch?" J.D. and Gus had asked Clarence Best, the old lawyer who'd written Dan's will ten years before.

  And Clarence had smiled a sad, sympathetic smile. "Gone," he'd said. "For taxes. Trey Phillips bought it."

  Just like that. Without a word. Like it was his right!

  As if the fact that Dan Holt and his sons had sweated blood over those few hundred acres and those few head of cattle for years and years didn't matter at all.

  He'd just bought it up and never said spit!

  And then, that night, after the visit to the lawyer, when J.D. and Gus were left staring at each other and a bottle of whiskey and wondering where the hell they were going to get the money to pay off the debts, damned if Trey hadn't shown up – and offered to give it to them!

  As if he gave away ranches every day of his life!

  Hell, J.D. had thought furiously, he was such a rich old bastard, maybe he did!

  Well, there was no way on God's green earth J.D. was going to be beholden to Trey Phillips.

  "No, thanks," he'd said through his teeth.

  Trey had stared at him, jaw dropping.

  So had Gus.

  But J.D. knew what he was doing. He wanted nothing to do with Trey Phillips. No more than his old man had. There had been bad blood between Trey Phillips and Dan Holt since before J.D. was born. For years he hadn't known why.

  Now he did. And he didn't want any gifts from Trey Phillips. He had held open the door and waited for Trey to leave. "You know what you can do with your offer, Mr. Phillips."

  Trey Phillips shut his mouth. His hard blue gaze met J.D.'s ice-blue one. The look they exchanged seemed to last for hours.

  It could have lasted for eternity; J.D. wouldn't have blinked. I don't want anything of yours. Ever, he told Trey Phillips with his eyes. He never ever would have looked away.

  Trey did. He sighed and shook his head. Then he shrugged. "Suit yourself," he'd said mildly. "Let me know if you change your mind."

  J.D. was never going to change his mind!

  He'd shut the door on Trey Phillips's face. Then he'd turned to face his brother, daring Gus to contradict him.

  Gus hadn't.

  Not then. Later he'd said, "You love this place, J.D."

  J.D. had ignored him.

  "What is it with you an' him? What'd he ever do to you?"

  J.D. had ground his teeth. "It's what he did to the old man."

  Gus scratched his head. "The old man and Trey Phillips? They ain't hardly ever spoke."

  "Years ago," J.D. said.

  "What happened years ago?"

  J.D. shook his head. "Never mind. Let it die with them."

  Gus hesitated, then shrugged. It didn't matter to Gus. It never would. He left the next morning to go back down the road. Rodeo was what mattered to him, anyway. Broncs and beer and girls.

  J.D. wished he felt the same way.

  He wanted the ranch. He needed the ranch. He'd always expected to come back, to make his life here. He'd counted on it.

  He would never accept a gift from Trey Phil
lips, but a week later he'd shown up on Trey's front porch.

  And when the old man opened the door, J.D. faced him square on. "I'll buy it from you. How much do you want?"

  He'd enjoyed the look of surprise on Trey Phillips's face. He hadn't much liked the look of speculation that had followed.

  He definitely hadn't liked the price Trey asked: "Work for me, and I'll sell it to you."

  J.D. didn't even hesitate. He turned around and headed for his truck. But the closer he'd got to his truck, the slower his steps had become.

  Finally he turned back and scowled at the old man. "What do you mean, work for you?"

  Trey had shrugged. "I could use a good foreman." Foreman? J.D.'s eyes narrowed. He hadn't been expecting that.

  Ranch hand, he'd figured. Lowest of the low. Or maybe, if Trey had some respect for his ability and had heard of his fledgling reputation, a horse trainer. But foreman?

  "You don't have a foreman."

  It was common knowledge that Trey Phillips was his own foreman. He made his own decisions, ran his own spread. Not even his son, Rance, had been able to wrest control away from him. Not much control, anyway.

  "I'm not going to live forever," Trey said in that gravelly voice of his. "Runnin' this place has taken all my time for years. I got things I want to do. Places I want to go."

  "What about Rance?"

  Trey had shrugged. "He's around. But he's got his law practice. And I can't just hand it to him to run." The pugnacious Phillips chin lifted.

  J.D. understood. It was also well-known around the valley that Rance was as stubborn as his father. He had never let the old man tell him what to do.

  "And you think handing it to me would work any better?" J.D. was frankly incredulous.

  "I'm not handing it to you," Trey retorted sharply. "I'm the boss."

  The boss.

  Could he work for Trey Phillips?

  J.D.'s first answer would have been Never in a million years. John Ransome Phillips, III, was stubborn, pigheaded and arrogant. He'd always got his own way, done what he pleased, had what he wanted. He was way too confident of his own importance to suit J.D.

  He was also a realist.

  Trey Phillips could have no illusions about exactly what J.D. Holt thought of him – and he was offering him the job, anyway.

  "Why?" J.D asked suspiciously.

  No shrug this time. Just Trey's level blue gaze that met his own.

  "Why do you think?" The words were hard and flat and uncompromising. They weren't even a question. Not really.

  They both knew why.

  "Don't do me any favors," J.D. bit out.

  Trey Phillips's smile was cool. "It's no favor to take on this place. I can promise you that. But I'll understand if you turn it down. Ain't every man can do this job."

  J.D.'s jaw locked. Trey Phillips's mouth curved slightly. There was challenge in his unblinking blue gaze. After a good half minute of silence, the old man allowed one brow to quirk slightly.

  Can't you do it? J.D. heard it ask him. Not man enough?

  "How much?" he asked sharply.

  Trey smiled. He opened the door fully. "Come in," he'd said. "We'll work it out."

  That had been three years ago. Three years in which J.D. had worked his butt off as the J Bar R foreman and been rewarded with greater and greater responsibility. Three years in which he'd discovered his talent for overseeing a huge spread and had found he liked making decisions that had far-reaching impact. Three years in which he had managed to put aside a good sum of money to buy back the Holt ranch and had, to his enormous surprise, discovered a grudging respect for Trey Phillips.

  Three years of scrimping and saving and determination and respect which Trey Phillips had just blown straight to hell!

  "It will be yours," he'd promised, the day J.D. had said he would work for him.

  And now he'd sold it – to someone else!

  It had been Gus who'd told him, Gus who had called and said, "You coulda tol' me," in a put-out, accusing tone.

  J.D., who'd just got back from a tiring two days over near Miles City, where he'd gone to some horse sales, wasn't in the mood for guessing games. "Told you what?"

  "That you'd changed your mind about the ranch."

  J.D. hadn't known what his brother was talking about, so Gus spelled it out for him. "Trey Phillips sold the place. Our place," he emphasized, in case in J.D.'s mind there could possibly be any other.

  "Like hell." J.D. had stood stunned for a minute. Stone cold and then filled with a flaming fury. "Sold it? He sold it?"

  "You didn't know?" Gus sounded surprised.

  "I didn't know." J.D.'s fury was banked, but no less hot. He could feel it seething inside him, a pain so sharp licking at his innards that he spoke tightly, barely letting the words past his lips. That son of a bitch!

  "That's weird," Gus said, perplexed.

  Weird didn't begin to cover it. Anger didn't begin to cover it.

  "Gotta go," J.D. told his brother. He hung up the phone. Then he picked up the cup of coffee he'd been planning to drink.

  Instead he threw it across the room.

  Then he'd gone looking for Trey.

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  Chapter 1

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  The ring of the telephone jolted Lydia awake.

  She knocked it off the nightstand groping for it in the dark. Then, breathless, she yanked it to her ear, cleared her throat and managed her most-poised, it's - the - middle - of - the - night - but - you - won't - catch - me - napping, lawyerly tone.

  "Lydia Cochrane."

  She got an obscenity for her trouble.

  Then, "Where's Rance?" The voice was rough, decidedly male and oddly familiar. "I called Rance." Not you was understood.

  Lydia pulled herself upright and took a deep breath. "Mr. Phillips's calls are being forwarded to my number this weekend," she said firmly. "I'm the lawyer on call."

  Another muttered obscenity. "I need to talk to Rance."

  "Well, you can't." Why did men think only another man was qualified to be a lawyer? "Mr. Phillips is unavailable. I'm your only option. So do you want a lawyer, whoever you are, or shall I go back to bed?"

  The length of the silence that followed told her more clearly than words what his answer was. But at last he said, "This is J.D. Holt. I need you to bail me out."

  Lydia almost swallowed her tongue. Something inside her – her heart? her stomach? – did a complete flip-flop, then scrabbled for a toehold on her rib cage.

  "J-J.D?" His name came out as almost a gasp. Then, "J.D.," she repeated. Better this time. Still breathy, but at least modulated. "Bail you … out. Of jail." Which went without saying. She took a deep breath. "Of course. I'll be right there." She started to put the phone down, then stopped, realizing that she needed to ask, "You're in the, um … Murray Jail?"

  "I'm in the Murray Jail, sweetheart," J.D. agreed, his tone mocking, just as she knew it would be. But then he sighed wearily. "Look, this is no place for you. Just call Rance and go back to sleep."

  Lydia stiffened. "I am not calling Rance. I am as capable of bailing you out as you were of getting yourself in there in the first place, Mr. Holt. I'll be right there. Just wait."

  And there was stupidity for you, Lydia thought savagely as she banged down the phone and clambered out of bed.

  As if he would be going anywhere!

  * * *

  "He did what?"

  "Socked Trey Phillips in the mouth. Just walked right into the bar and nailed him." Jim Muldoon smacked his fist against his other palm for emphasis. The sound made Lydia wince.

  He handed her a photo. Lydia studied it, still trying to make sense of it. J.D. Holt, Trey's foreman, had punched his boss out?

  Apparently so. Trey's lip was puffy. He was scowling fiercely. Fortunately all his teeth seemed to be intact. "He's pressing charges?" she asked.

  "If he didn't, we'd charge 'im anyhow," Jim said cheerfully. "A feller can't just sock another feller 'cause he f
eels like it."

  "And he just … felt like it?" She should have remembered to ask J.D. what he'd been arrested for. But at four in the morning she was not at her best.

  "Ticked off, he was. That's what I hear." Jim explained. "Apparently he just found out Trey sold the place. His place. The one his daddy owned, I mean."

  Oh, God.

  "Just found out?" Lydia couldn't mask her surprise. "But I thought— He didn't know?"

  Jim shrugged. "Don't seem so. And it don't seem like he was too happy when he got the word."

  "I … see." She felt a little ill. She wanted to sit down.

  Jim patted her on the shoulder. "You don't got to worry 'bout him bein' violent now," he assured her. "He ain't mad at you. Just Trey – an' probably whoever bought the ranch." Jim grinned. Then he shook his head. "But I reckon he knows better'n to go after the old man again."

  Lydia swallowed. "That's comforting."

  "Hey, don't worry. You're on his side," Jim said. "Besides, even though J.D.'s a mite hot-headed, he'd never touch a woman or a child. It was the ranch upset him. An' Trey. He's settled down now, or I wouldn't have let him call you."

  Lydia dredged up a smile and hoped Jim was right. Then she gave him the money for the bond.

  Jim put it in the desk drawer, then got out the keys for the cell block. "I'll be filin' the paperwork on Monday. Reckon Kristen will be in touch."

  Kristen Brooks, who had grown up with Lydia, was now Murray's assistant county attorney.

  "She'll have the charges all spelled out," he said as he opened the door to the Murray Jail's tiny cell block.

  "Fine." Lydia wasn't thinking about Kristen. She wasn't thinking about the charges or about anything Jim was saying as he led her back toward the farthest cell from the door.

  She was busy trying to compose herself. She was trying to act calm, cool and professional, to behave like a thirty-two-year-old woman with a University of Iowa law degree and a reputation for both intellectual acuity and common sense – and not like the lovestruck junior high schoolgirl with braces and a four point GPA she'd been the first time she'd been face-to-face with fifteen-year-old bad boy, J.D. Holt.

  "Your ride's here," Jim said, his tone almost jovial as he clomped toward the last cell.