The Montana McKennas: Prequel (The Montana Ranchers Book 1) Read online

  Murphy’s voice burst through her concentration, guiding her. She’d heard his words a million times.

  Stay two-handed. Look past the barrel. Find your spot.

  Don’t start the turn too early.

  Wait. Wait. Keep low.

  There you go. Leg even with the barrel. Drop your hand. Saddle horn.

  Squeeze with your inside leg. Let Sugar do the rest.

  They burst out of the third turn, barrel upright, and her quarter horse raced toward the line. The crowd exploded. Her heart danced in her chest.

  Did she beat the best time?

  Callie pulled up to a fast stop between the gates and turned her horse into the pen to her right. She looked up at the timer.

  Fourteen-point-one-two seconds. Her best time ever.

  I might have done it!

  One more rider to go and she could win. Her daddy would be so pleased!

  Giddy inside, she searched through the faces at the back of the arena. She urged Sugar forward and finally spotted Murphy standing by the back gate. She cantered toward him.

  Tall and slender, he leaned his backside against the fence, arms loosely crossed over his chest. Tan from the sun and ranch work, his dark forearms showed below the turned back cuffs of his starched western shirt. His hat sat square on his head and beneath that white brim, his dark gaze was fixed upon her.

  He smiled. Callie pulled Sugar up in front of him and grinned back.

  “I think you did it,” he drawled.

  “I think I might have.”

  Unable to contain her excitement any longer, Callie slid from the horse. As soon as her boots hit the dirt, she was moving forward. Fast. Murphy pushed off the fence and they drew together, like magnets.

  Her arms went around his neck. “Thank you so much, Murphy. I couldn’t have done it without you!”

  He swept her into his arms and swung her around. She giggled like a little girl.

  When her feet hit the ground again, everything swirled to a sudden stop. The whirlwind of the past thirty seconds or so abruptly halted and Murphy’s gaze—those dark, soul-filled eyes of his—captured hers and held. For that moment, Callie wasn’t the rancher’s daughter anymore and he wasn’t the ranch hand. He wasn’t the guy who pushed her to run harder, take the barrels tighter. Nor was he the person she often confided in when things got tough with her stepmother or siblings. Or when it felt like her daddy was ignoring her.

  And she wasn’t just any cowgirl. She was more. Something else was going on. Something awkward and irresistible and unnerving, all at once.

  Murphy leaned in and a foreign zing moved up through Callie’s chest, almost taking her breath. Her heart thumped madly.

  “Murphy,” she whispered.

  But she didn’t get a chance to finish her thought, as his lips descended and brushed hers.

  That mere touch lit a spark inside Callie she didn’t know what to do with. She pushed back before the kiss could go any further.

  “Murphy, don’t.”

  He shook his head, as if in an attempt to pull himself out of a trance, and his hands dropped to his sides. “Callie, I’m sorry. I….”

  “It’s okay.” She turned and grasped Sugar’s reins. “I need to get back—”

  Another cheer went up from the crowd. Callie’s gaze shot to the timer. Thirteen-point-nine-six.

  Shit.

  A couple of hours later, Callie sat in the passenger side of the truck while Murphy drove. They’d left Billings twenty minutes earlier and were on their way back to McKenna Ranch. Twenty minutes of silence was a long time in the close quarters of the truck cab, but it was time enough for Callie to sit and think about what had almost happened earlier. And they had a lot of empty minutes to fill ahead of them. The tension was thick as butter.

  He’d wanted to kiss her.

  And she’d nearly let him.

  Callie wanted to think it had all come about unexpectedly. That it was an impromptu, impulsive kind of thing on Murphy’s behalf. But she knew it wasn’t. Things had been changing, building between them for a while.

  The lingering touches. The flirts. The over the shoulder grins.

  Glancing to him, she studied his profile. His jaw was set. He was thinking, too.

  She had to cut this off at the pass. “I’m leaving in two weeks, Murphy.”

  He stared straight ahead. She watched his lips thin out a little. Then he nodded. “Yep.”

  “It’s college. It’s what I need to do.”

  “Yep.”

  “Is that all you are going to say?”

  In one quick motion, Murphy swerved the truck to a pull-off at the side of the road and parked. He turned and looked at her, his left arm draped over the steering wheel. “What do you want me to say, Callie?”

  She was a bit taken aback. His stare was intense, and every inch of it made her heart beat a little faster. If she had half a brain, she would rush into his arms again and let him kiss her silly. And if he did—if she let that happen—she knew everything she’d planned for would suddenly change.

  Everything.

  She would stay. They’d be a couple. And she’d be stuck in Montana, and her miserable little life, for the rest of her days.

  “I’m going to college,” she told him. “I’m leaving the ranch.”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Callie, I… Please. Let’s talk. I am falling in love—”

  He cut off the last words and she was glad.

  He was older. Twenty-five years to her eighteen. He was ready to settle down. Get married. Have kids.

  She wasn’t. Not yet.

  Would he wait for her?

  No. That was unfair.

  The tension in her jaw was almost painful. The intense look in his eyes was even more so. “No, Murphy,” she whispered. “Don’t. You deserve someone who wants what you want—a life here. I’m not that girl. There is nothing to talk about.”

  “There’s no one else, Callie….”

  The crack in his voice was almost her undoing.

  Callie shook her head. Please don’t make this difficult. “No, Murphy. I’m leaving. Two weeks. And I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  Or if I’ll be back.

  PARKER

  Prologue

  Watching them put his father in the ground was the hardest thing James Parker McKenna had ever done. Against the advice of everyone that mattered to him, he stayed until the last shovel of dirt was in place, and his father was nothing but a heavy hole in his heart.

  No. He was a lot more than that. He was the leader of their family and Parker would be damned if he’d let anyone forget that.

  Now what? What happens now?

  Parker stood fast against a brisk summer breeze coming down the north. Looked like a storm on the horizon. “You keep living,” his dad would have said. “You get up every day, put your boots on, and you go to work.”

  Work is better therapy than any goddamned shrink, James McKenna always said.

  “And that is what I’m going to do. Work.”

  He turned, wincing at the ache in his gut. His father was gone. And that meant that he, Parker, had to pick up the reins. He was the oldest. The senior member of the family now at thirty-five years of age. And he’d keep running McKenna Ranch just like his father had run it for the past forty-five years.

  It was his legacy. It was his duty.

  Thank God, he had Callie and Murphy at his side.

  He stopped dead in his tracks as he reached the side of his truck. There was only one thing wrong with that line of thinking, and he knew it.

  Knew it better than he knew the back of his hand.

  Liz.

  Chapter One

  As he rounded the last curve toward home, Parker McKenna noticed the string of traffic lining his parking area and circling around the barn. Turning onto the dirt road leading up to the house, he attempted to settle the quiver of anticipation in his gut. He wasn’t looking forward to dealing with people right now, even though they came t
o pay their respects to his father. Most everyone in the surrounding area, plus those they knew real well from Livingston, would likely be there.

  Why had he insisted this reception be at his house, and not Liz’s? Well, he’d had his reasons, and he didn’t want to think of those at this moment.

  Parker was not one for crowds, especially crowds in his living room and kitchen.

  He was a private man. He didn’t like to be on display, and he never wanted to be the center of attention. That’s why ranch life suited him to a T. He could go about his business on a daily basis without seeing a soul, if he wanted, or only those people that really mattered. That’s why working on the dude ranch, or in a hotel, or in any other damn service industry would be torture for him. Not an option. Couldn’t Liz see that?

  He pushed all of that aside. Not going there. Not now.

  Glancing in his rearview mirror, he watched the dust trail billow up behind him. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes… This day was just too surreal.

  He made his way toward the barn and pulled around behind it. He had half a notion to steal away on his horse and take an hour or two up on the mountain. Alone. To think. Reflect. He wouldn’t though. The community was here. And he’d do his part.

  He knew that Mercer and Callie likely had everything under control inside. They were in charge of the food brought in from, what seemed like, every corner of the state of Montana. He supposed the only thing to do except eat, was sit around and talk pleasant to the guests.

  Of course, they were all coming to support the family, pay their respects. He understood that. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be ready for them to leave as soon as possible.

  There was a small group on the back porch and he nodded with minimal eye contact as he threaded his way through. Once inside the kitchen, he realized, quite unexpectedly, that it was empty. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. Spotting the half-full coffee carafe still sitting in the coffee maker, he strolled across the room, poured himself a large mug, stuck it in the microwave and nuked it for two minutes.

  He waited, watching the cup turn round and round on the carousel. It was a mindless act, and a welcome one. He didn’t want to think right now. Finally, the machine binged and he retrieved his cup.

  He turned to find an attractive woman standing behind the butcher-block island, tearing a head of lettuce into pieces and tossing them into a bowl. She stared back at him with the largest green eyes he thought he’d ever seen. Was she there when he came in?

  “They never bring salad,” she said.

  Parker leaned into the counter and lifted the cup to his lips. Hot. “Who never brings salad?”

  “People. When someone dies and people bring food, they never think about bringing salad.” He watched her reach into a grocery bag and pull out two ripe tomatoes. She rinsed them in the sink to her left, and then started chopping them up there on the counter. “I mean, they bring lasagna, and meatloaf, and hash brown casseroles, and ham, and baked beans, and deserts—but they never think to bring salad.”

  “Oh,” Parker said.

  “That’s why I always bring salad. People need vegetables at a time like this.”

  “I see.” He tried the coffee again, semi-amused at this little diversion. “And you are?”

  “Oh! I am sorry. I should have introduced myself. You were busy with the coffee when I came in. I was in the pantry.” She wiped her hands on a dishtowel, tossed a long pony-tail over her shoulder, rounded the island, and thrust out her hand. “I’m Reba Morris. I bought the Crandall place over the hill. It’s small but it’s home. I never met James McKenna but I’ve heard so much about him and the family so I thought I would pay my respects, being a new neighbor, and all.”

  The Crandall cabin. He wondered who had bought that. If he’d had the money, he would have snatched up that one-hundred-twenty acres for himself. But like the rest of the ranchers around here, including the Crandall’s, times were a little tough. That’s why they were selling off their smaller parcels of land.

  He took her hand. Soft. But her handshake was firm. “I’m Parker McKenna.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. McKenna. I didn’t mean to rattle on like that. Sometimes words just fall uncontrollably from my mouth. I’m sure this is a horrible day for you and I am so sorry for your loss….”

  “Parker. Call me Parker.”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  He dropped his gaze slightly. “Thank you, ma’am, for your kind words. And thank you for the salad. I’m sure we are all going to appreciate it.”

  “Ma’am?”

  Hell, he offended her. “I didn’t mean…”

  “Just call me Reba,” she said.

  He almost chuckled. “Sure. Thank you, Reba, for…” he glanced about, “for the vegetables.”

  She smiled. “I should probably get back to it. There are a lot of hungry people out there. If you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. I hope you don’t mind if I just stand here and drink my coffee.” And watch you. Where did that thought come from? And where did you come from? She was pleasant to watch, however. Probably his age, perhaps a little older. Thin and tall, with pretty red hair pulled back, and really black eyelashes surrounding those green eyes. Why he noticed the lashes, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was the way she blinked them when she talked in run-on sentences.

  She went back to her vegetables. “Long day?”

  “You could say that.”

  “I understand. I…” Then she stopped talking. She started chopping and assembling. Parker wondered what she was going to say but let the unfinished sentence hang between them. When she was finished, she lifted her gaze, gathered the salad bowl in her hands, and said to him, “Will you please bring the dressing?” She nodded toward a couple of bottles on the island.

  Parker set his coffee cup on the butcher block and said, “Of course. Lead the way.”

  MERCER

  Prologue

  MGM Resorts Village

  Las Vegas, NV

  May Professional Bull Riders event

  Brody Caldera’s heart surged. Damn! He loved this sport. No matter where events were held, they all smelled pleasantly the same—a blend of dirt, sweat, and bull manure. Explosions, pyrotechnics, and earsplitting rock music started each competition, and then the smoky smell of extinguished fireworks mixed with other familiar odors until it faded, as competition got under way.

  Cowboy-crazed fans were the same everywhere, shouting for autographs and requesting selfies with their favorite stars. And there were plenty of them at each major event, from the point leaders to hot-riding kids coming up for the first time from minor ranks—all Professional Bull Riders wearing starched jeans and starched Western shirts, their fringed colorful leather chaps swishing as they walked, and the star-shaped rowels on their spurs clinking with every step.

  This was Brody’s life. And he loved it. He wanted to be nowhere else.

  It was Drake Hawkins’ life too.

  Tonight Drake’s future was on the line. Brody’s best friend and former traveling companion needed a solid performance in the worst way. Drake was in danger of being sent down to the lower ranks if he couldn’t keep up his scores.

  Standing behind the chute ready to help Drake pull his bull rope, Brody recalled their good times together. For eight years, until Brody hooked up with Lori Ann, they’d shared hotel rooms to make ends meet, driving from event to event and later when they could afford it, boarding planes together. Even though their hard drinking, partying days were behind them, they continued to enjoy an off-colored joke, a slap on the back, and the kind of camaraderie only good friends could share.

  Tonight though, Brody sensed the tension in his friend, and it didn’t bode well for a good ride.

  Bulls won most of the battles at an event. Even eight seconds was too long for most riders, and they were tossed before the buzzer. It wasn’t if a competitor would be hurt, but when and how bad. Bull riders knew that. They knew the odds were ag
ainst them, but they climbed on board rank bulls night after night. Whether it was pure, hardheaded orneriness that caused a rider to think he could best a bull, or the lure of big money and fame, young men kept coming back for more.

  Brody had been one of them at age eighteen. Right away he’d joined up with Drake and they’d toured the circuit together finally making the big times. But whereas Brody’s career was on a high, Drake’s seemed to be bottoming out. He’d slid in the rankings, recently fighting injury after injury. Now healed, tonight was his best shot for making a comeback.

  “Ya got this one,” Brody said as Drake climbed into the chute and settled on his bull.

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  The fifteen hundred pound American bucking bull was named Hang ‘em High. The bovine was solid brown with a white face and clipped horns. He bucked off his rider eighty-three percent of the time and scored an average of forty-five points out of fifty. If Drake could stick this big bull for eight seconds, he’d have a good shot of a score in the eighties—a score high enough to put him into the short-go, the championship round.

  Over the years, bull riders had started wearing black protective vests and mouthpieces. Many had taken to putting on a helmet. But Drake was a purest. He steadfastly refused to don a helmet, saying it hampered his line of sight. He continued the tradition of wearing only his cowboy hat.

  The bull remained eerily quiet in the enclosure. Drake adjusted his seat as Brody leaned over the chute and helped him pull the slack of the bull rope. Then Drake made a hand wrap around his leather glove. He pounded the wrapped hand with the fist of his free hand just as the stock contractor wrapped the flank strap around the bull’s hindquarters. Drake scooted up behind the animal’s shoulders and nodded.

  The gateman swung open the gate, and Hang ‘em High blasted out of the chute as if someone lit his butt on fire. The bull whirled left and then turned back to the right with a series of hard bucks. Drake went with him.