Page 1 of Rogue Cowboy
Prologue
Winter, six years ago
“Stop 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.
