Luke's Proposal

Chase’s gaze met Luke’s, their exchange wordless before they shared a short, hard hug.

Then Chase turned to the officer and held out his wrists. Luke couldn’t suppress a growl of protest when the officer snapped the handcuffs in place.

“This is standard procedure, Luke.” Chase’s look warned him not to interfere. Luke clenched his hands until the short nails bit into his palm as he struggled to contain his rage. The last glimpse Luke had of his brother was a shared glance as the patrol car drove away, leaving the four of them standing by the open grave in the rain.

Fifteen Years Later

Early Spring

The bar was a dive. A man could search high and low through all the cowboy bars in Billings, Montana, and not find a rougher place.

Which was precisely why Luke McCloud had chosen the Bull ’n Bash. He couldn’t think of anywhere less likely to be frequented by anyone he knew. Most of his neighbors from Wolf Creek were in Billings for the livestock auctions and he’d rather avoid them, especially Lonnie Kerrigan. He wasn’t in the mood for a fight, and a brawl was the usual result when Lonnie was drinking.

Luke sat alone at a round table for four. He’d tilted one of the battered wooden chairs against the rough-cut lumber of the wall at his back and stretched out his legs to prop his boots on the seat of an empty chair. He drank from the longneck bottle of beer in his hand and swept the crowded, dim interior of the tavern with an experienced, assessing eye.

A Dwight Yoakam tune blared from the jukebox near the door, and in the back of the low-ceilinged room, the crack of cue sticks against pool balls was accompanied by grunts of satisfaction or groans of disgust from the players. A haze of cigarette and cigar smoke curled around the cheap hanging lanterns that gave the bar its dim light. Shadows lurked in the corners and partially concealed the doorway leading to a back hall. The Bull ’n Bash was doing a fair amount of business for nine o’clock on a Wednesday night. The bartender was a blonde who’d seen better days, but she smiled and laughed at the jokes from the three old cowboys occupying the worn red vinyl stools at the bar.

The sole waitress was washing glasses. Luke caught her eye and waggled his empty bottle. She smiled and nodded before drying her hands on the white towel tied around her waist.

He watched her grab a full bottle, leave the bar and sashay across the room toward him. She was younger than the bartender, her lush body poured into skintight jeans and an off-the-shoulder white knit blouse. A curly mass of reddish-brown hair brushed her shoulders and tangled in long silver earrings.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked in a breathy, inviting voice as she set the bottle on the table in front of him.

“No, thanks. How much do I owe you?” She named a figure, not bothering to conceal her interest as he shoved a hand in his jeans pocket, the faded denim pulling tight. He counted out bills and some change, and she cupped her palm to take them. “You’re sure I can’t get you something else, cowboy?”

“Sorry, honey. Not tonight.”

She pouted before smiling. “Maybe some other time.”

“Maybe,” he acceded with a slow grin.

Placated, she returned to the bar and the stack of dirty glasses.

Luke pulled a silver pocketwatch from his jeans and thumbed open the case, squinting to read the numerals in the dim light. Nine-fifteen. He decided to finish his beer and head back to his solitary bed in the hotel six blocks away. He lifted the bottle to his lips, just as the door to the street opened and a woman stepped inside.

She paused just over the threshold, her thick fall of black hair brushing against her shoulders as she turned her head, searching the room.

There was something familiar about her, but Luke couldn’t place her. A slim black dress wrapped her from throat to midcalf, slender ankles and feet tucked into strappy, black leather shoes. A black leather bag the size of a small briefcase was slung over one shoulder. Everything about her said she belonged uptown in the cocktail lounge of Billings’s best hotel and not within the rough walls of the Bull ’n Bash. She turned her head, and the dim light from a lantern directly above the door gleamed on her glossy hair.

Luke frowned, his inability to identify her nagging at him.

Look in this direction, he urged silently, wanting to get a clear view of her face.

Then she looked at him, her eyes widening with recognition. He stiffened, slowly lowering the nearly full bottle to the tabletop.

The last time he’d seen Rachel Kerrigan walking down Main Street in Wolf Creek was nearly five years ago, but he’d know those gold eyes anywhere. The usual frustrating mix of lust and slow anger filled him. She faltered in midstride before continuing to weave her way through the tables toward him.

She was only a few steps away before he accepted that it was him she’d been searching the bar to find. She halted on the far side of the table. “Luke McCloud.” It was less a question than a statement.

“What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Luke let the silence stretch, purposely letting his gaze rake slowly from the top of her dark hair to her feet and back. Her skin was fair, with a sprinkling of tiny freckles across her cheekbones and the bridge of a small, straight nose. She had a soft, full mouth and a square little chin. Conservative pearl-and-gold earrings glinted in her lobes. Slim fingers gripped the leather strap of her purse, the nails neatly manicured.

He’d heard the gossip that the Kerrigans were in financial trouble. It was public knowledge that ninety-year-old Marcus Kerrigan, confined to a nursing home for his final two years of life after suffering a debilitating stroke, had passed away three weeks ago. Rumor had it Marcus had left a will that split his ranch conglomerate equally between his surviving son, his widowed daughter-in-law and his three grandchildren. For generations the property had passed unbroken from father to eldest son and Luke figured the old man’s will must have enraged Harlan Kerrigan.

None of which explained why Harlan Kerrigan’s niece needed to talk to him, a McCloud. He’d never made a secret of his contempt for the Kerrigans. And despite the unforgettable kiss they’d once shared, he considered her off-limits.

“You need to talk to me,” he repeated. “About what?”

“A business proposition. May I sit down?”

She didn’t blink under his stare. Luke considered her for a moment, then he lowered his feet to the floor and leaned forward to pull the chair away from the table. She accepted his silent invitation and sat, her back ramrod-straight, ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap, her expression one of resolution.

Luke crossed one ankle over his opposite knee and eyed her, waiting.

Rachel had thought long and hard before approaching Luke McCloud. She knew asking for his help was a long shot, but she was desperate and he was her last hope. Determined though she was, she’d almost turned around and walked out of the tavern when she’d looked across the room and seen him. Stiffening her resolve, she’d forced her feet to carry her across the bar.

But the closer she drew, the more nervous she became.

She’d forgotten how big he was—over six feet tall and heavily muscled, his body honed daily by strenuous ranch work. He sat alone, his long, jeans-clad legs stretched out, ankles crossed, feet resting on the seat of an empty chair. His boots were scuffed and scarred, the black leather showing the unmistakable wear marks of spur straps and metal. His white cotton shirt was fastened up the front with pearl snaps, the long sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows, the tails tucked into the waistband of faded Levi’s. His gaze was remote, and she’d seen no flicker of expression cross his face as he’d watched her walk toward him.

His features gave no hint as to what he was thinking, but Rachel doubted his thoughts were friendly ones. She’d planned this conversation with painstaking detail and tried to anticipate every possible reaction from anger, curses or having him walk out of the bar.

No matter what he did, she was determined to follow him and keep talking until he listened. “I have a business proposition,” she repeated, “and I hope you’ll hear me out before refusing.”

He raised an eyebrow, his skepticism obvious, before he nodded.

“I’m sure you’ve heard my grandfather left a will that was…” She paused, searching for the right word before deciding to opt for frankness. “Let’s just say it might be called unusual.”

“I heard,” he acknowledged. His deep drawl sent shivers of nerves up her spine.

“It’s no secret Granddad split the ranch and left specific portions to each of us, nor that the inheritance taxes assessed after his death are staggering. Mother and I can’t pay our share of the tax owed and we’re on the verge of bankruptcy.” He barely reacted to her blunt words; she would have missed the faint narrowing of his eyes if she hadn’t been intent on watching him.

“All of you? Or only you and your mother?”

“Only me and my mother. And maybe Zach.” Before he could ask why her uncle Harlan and his son Lonnie weren’t affected, Rachel continued. “Our only asset capable of paying the tax debt on the land is a three-year-old stud colt out of Misty Morning by Ransom’s Regret.” The brief flare of interest in his face was quickly erased, but it was enough encouragement for Rachel to continue. “I want to hire you to train him. And to race him.” She stopped speaking, holding her breath for his answer, nerves sending her pulse pounding.

“No.”

She wasn’t surprised. She’d expected a flat refusal, at first. But he hadn’t heard the terms. “We don’t have cash to pay your fees. But we have the deed to the north section of the ranch.”

For a long moment he only looked at her. “You’re offering me the deed to the original McCloud homestead instead of cash?”

“Yes.”

Chapter Two