Page 1 of Rogue Cowboy (Montana’s Rodeo Cowboys #3)

Winter, six years ago

“S top here.”

The two words, spoken in a low, husky whisper still held power. Cole Jameson eased on his truck’s brakes on the crest of the hill, relieved to be at the top of the long switch-back drive to Riley Telford’s family ranch.

They were the first words she’d said since last night when they’d left Vegas.

Married.

He’d never been much for talking. Riley had provided the first sparkle in his life.

And her vivacious light and energy had been cruelly doused.

He had no idea how to fix her. Time was supposed to be a magic elixir, but it sure as hell hadn’t been for him.

Still, she was home. Safe. And he was due back at base tomorrow, giving him just enough time to take care of the business Riley had begged him to ‘just let it go.’

What kind of man would that make him?

Not worth anything.

And Riley was worth everything.

She turned toward him.

“Cole,” she said, eyes tearing up, again.

How did such a petite woman still have so much water in her?

He hadn’t known what to say or what to do as she’d silently cried most of the way to Montana.

If he’d touched her, would it make it worse?

If he’d encouraged her to talk about it, would it help?

He hadn’t known so he’d shut up and driven.

She reached out now, fingers skimming his forearm, before she jerked away and tucked her hand under her slender thigh, as if she’d done something wrong. He felt her withdrawal like a strike.

“I’m a terrible person,” she said, staring down at her lap.

That about killed him. The fury raced through him like a multi-hit missile strike.

His fingers gripped the steering wheel—heated, which he’d never once used until today as the Hill Country of Texas rarely got that cold, and he stored his truck on his primary base at Lewis-McChord in Washington, which didn’t get much colder.

He again wished he’d snapped the life out of the two low-life record executives who thought it would be funny to drug the up-and-coming nineteen-year-old country singer they were trying to turn into a pop star and rape her at a post-concert party.

That’s next.

Cole had been a Special Forces Army Ranger soldier for over a decade, and he didn’t leave any job unfinished.

F it. He cupped her chin, forced her to meet his eyes that were probably blazing with vengeance, but she was his wife and she might as well know all of him because Jamesons didn’t back down or shrug off a promise—especially one as sacred as a marriage vow, even if no rings or words of love—yet—had been expressed.

“You did nothing wrong. Nothing.”

“I was there. I agreed to meet you when you texted. I was supposed to meet you, but I wanted to go and meet—”

“You went to a party for your career. You did nothing wrong. Nothing. Those men are animals.”

And he was one of the best hunters in the country.

“But now I’ve trapped you,” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “I am so weak, Cole. I thought of myself as so strong. So independent. The fiercest cowgirl from Montana chasing my dreams, but I’m weak. I failed.”

The ache in her voice. The despair in her eyes.

The sorrow emanated off of her like her citrusy and cinnamon with a touch of honeysuckle scent.

He didn’t know how to fix her except to bring her home to heal—to be safe because he was out of time.

They’d never had enough time—a weekend and six months of texting and FaceTiming, with him often having to block the video, and Riley singing, trying out different lyrics for songs with him and asking for his opinion like he had one creative cell in his body.

“You aren’t weak,” he insisted. “You were drugged. Still, you fought.”

She’d drawn blood. He’d seen it under her fingernails, and he liked that, a lot. “You escaped. You survived. You called me.”

“And trapped you.” She looked up the road, a little nervously, but he didn’t see anyone or anything including the ranch house she said was somewhere beyond the large stand of trees—birch, aspen, ponderosa pines.

“Baby,” he said, trying for light when he felt weighed down by guilt that she’d been hurt and the men were still breathing, and he’d all but run with her to a rape clinic, but instead of calling her parents like he’d wanted, he’d dragged her off to Vegas with the vague idea that since she’d refused the Plan B rather hysterically, he could at least protect her and the maybe baby with marriage—his military benefits and a father for her child so she’d still be able to pursue her music.

He was used to a life on the road. And if he retired and toured with her, protected her, he at least wouldn’t be jumping out of airplanes, crawling through swamps and jungles, and freezing while wedged into rock crevices in mountain passes all while getting shot at.

Or in knife fights in open-air markets. He’d thought to make the military his career—he’d never felt like he fully belonged on his large family’s legacy cattle ranch in Last Stand, Texas, though his paw-paw and maw-maw had done their best to love and raise him through their own unimaginable loss.

“You never called me baby,” she said. A hint of curiosity lit her eyes—the first sign of the old Riley—the girl, almost a woman, who was too young for him, too hurt, and deserved the sort of man who could match her wide-open heart and wild enthusiasm for life and adventure.

He’d never called any woman baby. He’d never even had a relationship—just one night or weekend hookups since he’d been seventeen. Now he had a wife, who was too young and too sweet for him.

But he had a deployment, and she needed to come to terms with what had happened and rebuild her life. He had to give her time. And who was he kidding, he needed time to figure out how to be a husband and what she needed—after he made a quick trip back to LA.

“Thank you.” She pressed her forehead against his, and he breathed her in. This felt like something final, and his heart weirdly kicked up in alarm.

“I’ll drive you to the house,” he said roughly. “Meet your folks.”

He’d rather be pinned down, taking sniper fire.

“No.” Riley reared back in alarm. “No. I’ll walk.”

“It’s freakin’ ten degrees and snowy outside.”

“I’m used to the cold. It will look like this until April, Texas boy.”

He caught the hint of a smile quickly swamped by all that sad again.

“I need the quiet. The walk. It’s only a few hundred yards,” she said softly. “You can see the smoke from the fireplace.”

“I can’t let you walk in alone and face all the questions.” He tossed away the reprieve she’d offered him. “We’re married.”

He didn’t understand the look she shot him. True, he didn’t know Riley all that well—a few days together and platonic nights because she’d been so young, and the sister of one of his teammates. He hated leaving her and having no idea when he could get back.

“Shotgun wedding,” she said sourly. “And I need to figure out a way to tell my parents, my family. We’re close,” she choked out, tears spilling over again.

She dashed them away angrily, and he caught her hand, kissed the glistening tip of her fingers. He didn’t know how to proceed, but the need to touch her, comfort her was visceral.

“We need a way,” he corrected. “We’re a team now, Riley.”

Instead of looking reassured, she looked alarmed. She scooted away on the passenger seat.

“You’re a good man, Cole. The best. A hero. A white-hat cowboy out of my little-girl dreams, but I have to stand on my own. I have to get up on my own. Figure out a way forward.”

That sounded all kinds of wrong. But was it?

It’s not like she could rely on him to hold her hand through her recovery.

He’d only had a weekend leave. He’d extended it by one day—family emergency leave—but he had to get back to base.

Had to be on base for the strategy meeting, the assignment, and prepared to ship out with his team at a moment’s notice.

He didn’t know what the mission was. Where.

Parameters. Timeline. All the unknowns had never bothered him until now.

“I meant what I said, Riley.” It was only fair he put that out there.

Pressed against the door, she watched him, not like a cornered animal, he was relieved to note, but a curious one.

She reminded him of a dog he’d seen wandering down a Texas back road once when he’d been coming back from a game.

The dog had been skinny, limping, scarred, but had looked at him with that hint of hope in all the bleakness.

He’d coaxed the dog into his truck. Taken it home, bathed it, treated its wounds, fed it, introduced it to the pack of ranch dogs. Named it Blue, for bluebonnet.

“I know, Cole. I know, but…” She paused and he wondered at the words that weren’t said. The thoughts in the long space.

“You’re a good man.” Her words sounded like a prayer. “You deserve the best.”

To his way of thinking, he had it. But was that too much pressure?

She wasn’t even twenty to his twenty-six.

And his twenty-six had seen a lot, but nothing worse than her terror, her pain, her bruised and bloody fury and then quiet confusion as she’d huddled on the floorboard of his truck, not wanting to get out at the crisis clinic.

He’d had to carry her, and she’d clung to him, and Cole had never felt more necessary in his life, and he’d saved teammates in the field.

If she knew how important she’d become to him, he’d scare her to death.

Hell, he felt like he might just be more messed up than she was—and this was his base. Riley was going to get her shine back. She had to.

“You’ll tell them, right? You’ll see a counselor. You promised.”

Her hand paused on the door handle. She drew in a deep breath. “I did promise.”

Not a yes, but she was out the door and grabbing the duffel bag he’d packed for her of only the clothes and boots she’d arrived in LA with last year—nothing from the studio and sponsors, not even the guitars except the one she’d brought with her, the one her parents had bought her when she’d been ten.

“Cole, stay safe.” She kissed her fingertip and blew at him—something she’d started the first time he’d said goodbye when he’d only been her brother’s teammate checking up on her in LA when he couldn’t. She’d ended all their FaceTimes over the past several months that way.

And it was the only thing that gave him a glimmer of hope as he watched her trudge through the snow like the guitar and duffel bag weighed a thousand pounds.

How are things?

What things?

Really kicked in the door with that one. Wide open.

I like open doors, white-hat cowboy.

That’s an awkward nickname.

I like it.

Cole smiled and hesitated. Not sure how to ask what had been burning up his brain since the month he’d left her at her folks’ ranch in the foothills of the Absaroka mountain range.

It was in his nature to keep his business private.

But Riley was his business. And women liked to talk. They wanted men to communicate. Right?

Any news?

Slow at the ranch.

Which told him nothing.