Home To Texas - Ransom My Heart Part 1

Ransom my Heart.

by Gayle Wilson.

Dear Reader.

Although we were both born and bred in Alabama, my husband and I were fortunate enough to live for several years in West Texas, very near the Rio Grande.

Accustomed to the fertile black soil and virgin forests of the Appalachian foothills, we were both surprised by how quickly and pa.s.sionately we fell in love with the border and the desert. The truly unique blend of cultures and the unhurried pace of life there enchanted us as much as the magnificence of the country that surrounds the river. We have always vowed to return, and now, in this trilogy, I have in some small way fulfilled that vow.

The three heroes in this trilogy--the McCullars--are strong men who love the rugged, desolate land they've inherited with the same pa.s.sion I felt for the desert. With roots deep in the land they love, they choose to fight the increasing lawlessness that threatens both the ranch and the people they love. I think you'll find that the women who stand beside them are well matched with these lawmen heroes. And I also hope you will see a reflection of your own family in the sense of family strength, pride and unity I've tried to instill in these three books.

Thank you for allowing me to show you the McCullars and the border country I still consider a second home. I sincerely hope you enjoy these stories as much as I enjoyed creating them for you!

Much love, For Dianne.

"Rare as is true love, true friends.h.i.+p is rarer."

Prologue.

Coming home always brought back the old hurts. Always reminded him of the raw places in his soul that he thought he had forgotten. Or had learned to ignore. Or of those he sometimes foolishly tried to alleviate with a temporary panacea.

Chase McCullar blocked those memories, concentrating instead on soothing the aches he could do something about.

He hunched his right shoulder, easing tired muscles under the spray of the shower. He slowly rotated his body, allowing the wet heat to relax the long day's stiffness across the back of his neck, and then s.h.i.+fted position again to direct the pulsing stream onto his left shoulder.

Despite the demands of his job, despite the fact that he knew he'd have to be back on a plane bright and early Monday morning, Chase had never even thought about refusing when Mac had asked him to come home this weekend.

His brother didn't like asking for favors, but Mac's instincts were usually right on the money, especially when they concerned the stretch of the Texas-Mexico border he was responsible for, a stretch that encompa.s.sed the ranch where they had both been born.

If Mac thought something was going on down here, then Chase was willing to stake his life he was right. Not that anything that melodramatic would be required. It usually wasn't, in law enforcement--not unless somebody did something stupid. And neither McCullar brother was noted for his stupidity.

Deciding he'd gotten about as much therapeutic value out of the hot water as possible, Chase cut off the shower and took the top towel from the stack on the bathroom shelf. In trying to convince him to spend the night at the big house, Jenny had warned him that everything out here would be musty. Although it had been a long time since he'd been home, Chase had known better. His sister-in-law looked after his small house with the same care she took of her own. He knew the sheets would be clean, as were the towels, fresh and sweet because between his infrequent visits, Jenny stored them with sprigs of dried lavender in his grandmother's cedar chest, which stood at the foot of the iron bed he would sleep in tonight.

Enjoying its subtly pleasant aroma, Chase used the towel on his body, bending with an unthinking grace to rub drops of moisture from the long muscles of his legs. He wasn't conscious, of course, of the masculine beauty of his powerful body, which had first grown strong through hard physical labor, the unending, backbreaking work of ranching.

His father had considered his sons men at sixteen, old enough to carry their share of the ranch's workload, and the twelve years since then had only made Chase tougher.

He had witnessed a lot of mankind's greed and Cruelty, and he fought the cynicism he had seen ruin too many law-enforcement officers.

When his body was dry, he used the same towel to wipe the fog off the mirror above the sink. The face that appeared there was as completely masculine as the body, its angles and planes too strongly defined, perhaps, to be called handsome. The pale blue eyes had seen too much during the last few years, the muscles of his jaw were almost perpetually tight, and his skin was weathered from its lifelong exposure to the Texas sun.

Chase ran considering fingertips over the late-night stubble on his cheeks. His whiskers were as light in color as his sun-bleached hair, which still had a slight tendency to curl. That was the only boyish thing about the reflection that stared back at him.

As he turned his head to examine the beard, trying to decide whether to shave tonight or in the morning, a thread of white scar caught the light. It ran from the middle of one eyebrow to disappear into the fair, close-cropped hair at his temple. He watched in the mirror as long brown fingers lifted to touch the silvered line, and the unsmiling lips flattened. Another of those painful memories. He had never forgotten the night he'd acquired that scar. Sure as h.e.l.l hadn't forgotten the beating it had resulted from.

To say that Sam Kincaid had not taken kindly to his daughter's infatuation with a McCullar, a family rich only in pride and stubbornness, was a serious understatement.

And in all fairness, Chase couldn't blame him. The straight line of his mouth moved upward a fraction with that admission, and then Chase pulled the short chain that hung beside the mirror, cutting off the bathroom light, deliberately destroying his own reflection.

He wrapped the towel around his narrow hips, more from habit than for modesty's sake. There was no one here to shock with the sight of his naked body. No one nearer than Mac and Jenny, a good three miles away by road, probably already curled together in sleep in the warmth of the ranch house his great-grandfather had built with his own hands.

Just as Chase had built this one in the year before Mac and Jenny had married. This was smaller, of course, and simpler, but his. Living in it had suited him just fine until Sam Kincaid had issued his ultimatum.

Still trying to erase the thought of Kincaid from his mind, Chase walked into the shadowed bedroom, broad, bare feet making almost no sound on the heart-pine boards of the floor. He had already reached for the overlapped edges of the towel he wore, preparing to discard it and to crawl nude between the sheets of the bed he'd turned down earlier, when he became aware that he wasn't alone.

A breath. A movement. Something. Maybe just a feeling crawling around in his gut--lawman's instinct. He might not be sure what had given it away, but he knew there was someone else in the room with him.

This was always the worst. The unknown. The psyche could deal with danger far more easily when it had been identified. Until then, the primitive instincts got in the way of clear thinking, instincts like raw fear, making the hair lift and the mouth go dry. He turned his head slowly, surveying the black that gathered in the corners of the bedroom.

His eyes were just beginning to adjust after the comparatively bright light of the bathroom.

"Chase," she said softly, her voice drifting out of the lavender-scented shadows.

And he reacted to that sound. Just as he always had. It didn't matter how many other women had whispered his name in the darkness through the years, only one voice had ever had the power to stir him so that sweet hot need jolted through his body, overpowering every other consideration.

As it did now.

"Samantha?" he asked. Asked it as if he hadn't recognized her voice, as if that slight Texas accent weren't embedded in his heart as surely as the scar her father's hirelings had given him was etched forever on his face.

"Jenny told me you were coming home," she said.

"That Mac had asked you to."

"I thought you were still in school," Chase said carefully, working at control. His hands fell away from the towel, and he wasn't surprised to find they were trembling.

He curled the long fingers into his palms, hoping Samantha couldn't see any better than he could in the darkness. She was only a shape standing in the shadows, a slim silhouette wearing something light, something that diffused the occasional shaft of moonlight filtering in between the high clouds outside.

, almost a joke, private, meant to be shared between the two of them.

He had known that, of course. Despite the size of the state, despite the gap that yawned between them, he always knew what she was doing. County gossip accounted for most of his knowledge. Or Jenny. Or the newspapers.

Maybe he knew because he needed to know so badly.

He had made the promise Sam Kincaid had asked him for. He had made it for Samantha's sake, just as her father had insisted he should. Not because he cared about Sam's opinion or because he was intimidated by his power, but because somewhere deep inside he was as convinced of the rightness of Kincaid's arguments as Sam himself was.

Chase McCullar wasn't the man for Samantha Kincaid.

He was too old for her. Uneducated. Definitely unpolished.

Far too many of the things Sam had thrown at him that night four years ago were true. He was not the man Samantha Kincaid needed or deserved. Certainly not the man she had been groomed to marry. He knew that. Understood it, even. His body had just never quite seemed to get the message.

As a teenager, she had even spent a year in Europe being "finished," whatever the h.e.l.l that meant. It had always seemed to him that Samantha Kincaid had been born finished.

Perfect. But not for him.

"You like it?" he asked. Talk about college. About what she was studying. About anything except why she was here, more than a thousand miles from where he had thought she was. About anything except the effect that was having on him.

"No," she said calmly, "but I graduated early--all those summer hours--and finally Sam had to let me come home."

Home, Chase thought, the forbidden images the word conveyed fighting against his control. Not home to me.

Never to me.

"That's good," he said. His hands were still trembling and he could feel his arousal pus.h.i.+ng against the just-laundered roughness of the towel. That sensation wasn't helping the situation. Not that it really mattered. He'd never found much help for this particular situation.

Just thinking about Samantha Kincaid usually sent him to find something to take his mind off her. Off the dreams he'd once had. Not the kind of dreams he still had about her. Those were the ones he had learned he couldn't control, just had to endure. Those wake-up-in-a-cold-sweat kinds of dreams, his groin as achingly hard as it was now, dreaming he was making love to her.

At the beginning he hadn't comprehended the reality of the gap between them. After all, it seemed he had always been aware of Samantha Kincaid. He had seen her occasionally shopping in Crystal Springs, riding in shows, and taking part in other activities around the county. He had watched her grow up, watched her mature into a beautiful and highly desirable young woman, but always he had watched from a distance. Until the summer she turned seventeen.

Then everything changed.

It was Mac's policy that either he or Chase always be in town on Sat.u.r.day night--not really on duty, but just to make sure everybody stayed out of trouble. Suddenly, surprisingly, Samantha Kincaid was always there, too--at least on the nights Chase was in town--and she always managed to end up keeping him company. He eventually realized that those seemingly casual meetings had been carefully orchestrated by Samantha, but Chase certainly hadn't been averse to them or to the developing relations.h.i.+p that followed.

Only, he hadn't known that her father knew nothing about what was going on. And when Sam Kincaid found out... Although he had certainly been a man at the time of that meeting with Samantha's father, Chase had been forcibly made to realize the other dreams he'd had about her were the stupid adolescent kind, the kind that kids in love had.

At least until adults like Sam Kincaid pointed out exactly how unlikely they were to come true.

Those dreams you replaced with something else. Booze if you were inclined that way, which Chase wasn't. Other women, which he'd tried--tried a lot, he was ashamed to say. Or work, which seemed to be the only slightly effective solution for the endless agony that was Samantha Kin-caid.

"Jenny says you're working yourself to death," Samantha voice offered from the darkness, echoing what he'd been thinking. Tile slender silhouette finally moved out of the shadows, coming nearer to him.

He could smell her now, the expensive perfume she had always worn replacing the dry hint of lavender that hung in the air. He had thought his body couldn't get any harder.

He discovered he'd been wrong.

"Lots of bad guys out there?" he said, injecting a note of humor into the disclaimer.

"More of them than there are of us. Ask Mac."

"How is Mac?" she said conversationally. She sat down on the edge of the bed, and it creaked slightly under her weight.

He eased in a breath at the sound. Samantha in his bed.

Those slender, milk-white limbs relaxed and waiting for him to touch them. The fragrance of that red-gold hair spread out on his pillow. He wiped out that image as quickly as he had the one in the mirror.

"What are you doing here, Samantha?" He didn't know how much longer he could play games. He should cut to the chase and get her the h.e.l.l out of here before he said or did something he'd be sorry for.

"I came to see you."

"You shouldn't be here," he said, taking another slow breath. I came to see you.

"Because Sam says so?" she asked. There was no defiance in her voice, and no amus.e.m.e.nt. She knew her father too well to doubt that he could make a grown man stay away from her. Too well to make childish judgments about that man if he did.

Sam Kincaid was a ruthless old b.a.s.t.a.r.d, as hard as the country he'd carved his multimillion-dollar empire out off His great-great-granddaddy had given him a head start, buying up Spanish land grants from people who no longer wanted them when Texas became a state.

But Sam Kincaid had protected the legacy he'd been given, had even added to it, despite the s.h.i.+fting economic realities of falling oil prices and droughts and unexpected freezes through the years. The Kincaid ranch was bigger and richer than when the old man had inherited it, And that was very rare these days.

"Or because you don't want me here?" she added.

He could lie, he thought, but he wasn't sure he was that skillful. The bed creaked again, and then the bedside light came on, illuminating all the shadowed recesses of the room. His eyes found Samantha, her slender body leaning backward, propped gracefully on one elbow, her hand still on the switch of the lamp. Her gaze was focused on the front of the damp towel he was wearing.

"No, I guess that's not it," she said, and her green eyes lifted to meet his. She smiled at him.

"I thought you'd never get around to asking," she said, her smile widening slightly. Not taunting his blatant arousal. Not teasing him.

Just smiling at him.

He didn't know why she was so beautiful. The features themselves weren't spectacular. There were even flaws. Her mouth was wide, making her smile almost too generous.

The right eyetooth was the tiniest bit crooked, and there was a minute dusting of freckles across her nose. But she had won every beauty contest her daddy had entered her into until, somewhere around age fourteen, she had put her foot down. She was through parading around on a stage in front of a bunch of h.o.r.n.y strangers, she'd told him. The comment had been repeated for a couple of years by those who delighted that someone had finally stood up to Sam Kincaid, even if it was only his daughter and about nothing more important than a beauty contest.

"Samantha," Chase said softly, the word almost a groan.

"What do I have to do?" she asked, the question tinged with resigned amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I really believed I could leave you alone--and I did try. You have to admit I've tried, except ... somehow I've always known..."

She hesitated again, and he didn't bother to fill in the blanks. He'd always known, too, from the first time her eyes had locked with his, her interest in him somehow clearly expressed in their green depths. He might not understand it, but he had always known Samantha was his.

His for the taking. But not for the keeping. Sam Kincaid had been very explicit about that. And the way Chase felt about her, had felt about her for what seemed to be his entire adult life, didn't invite just the "taking" part.

He wanted what Mac and Jenny had. That oneness. That rightness. The till-death-do-us-part stuff. Only, he knew it would never work for the two of them. Her father would never let it work. And he knew he couldn't make her happy.

In bed, maybe he could. He'd love to try, but he knew that wouldn't be enough, not for the long haul. The gap between them was way too wide. It seemed he had always known that, too.

"Go home, Samantha," he said. He fought to keep any inflection out of the command, to keep the raw, aching need from showing in his voice.

"Get out of here."

"I'm not a child anymore, Chase. I'm twenty-one, fully capable of making my own decisions, and I don't think you're too old for me. Or too anything else Sam told you."

She smiled at him again.

"I don't think your father would agree with you."

"I didn't plan on asking him for his opinion. Or are you afraid Sam'll have you beaten up again for touching me?"

she asked. Her eyes held his challengingly for a moment, and then they softened, knowing as well as he did that wasn't the truth of why he'd stayed away from her.