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Operation : Texas
By Roxanne Rustand Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.
Copyright © 2004 Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.
All right reserved. ISBN: 0-373-71227-8
Chapter One
AT THE SOUND of a truck door slamming, Celia Remington grabbed her rifle and strode down the aisle of the barn, anger simmering through her veins.
Eight miles of rough ranch road led out to the highway, and another forty miles of pure desolation lay between here and the tiny town of Saguaro Springs, Texas. Visitors - the welcome kind - rarely stopped by.
The unwelcome kind came far too often.
But the truck parked outside wasn't Garcia's silver Ford, and the tall, broad-shouldered stranger sauntering toward her wasn't the cocky little bastard who'd delivered Garcia's threats in the past.
"Brady Coleman, ma'am."
The rifle lowered at her side, she stepped out into the bright March sunshine. "Who?"
"Sorry I'm late getting here. I was held up for a few days in El Paso."
This was the guy who'd called last week about a job? She'd been rushing outside to tend a difficult calving at the time, and hadn't even caught his name. "Today's fine. No problem."
Definitely no problem at all.
She'd held little hope that her advertisement in the county paper would garner any notice, much less bring her a capable ranch hand. The last two applicants had been stove-up old cowboys with missing teeth and a mind-numbing smell of bad whiskey, barely able to sit a horse.
Maybe there was something about this guy that was a little too ... polished, for an ordinary ranchhand, but his saddle-worn Levi's, black Resistol and scarred western boots were those of an experienced cowboy, and he appeared muscled and fit, young enough to put in a good day's work.
Best of all, he looked like he could take on someone in a fight, deck him, and be ready for more. Given the increasing numbers of late-night trespassers fording the Rio Grande and crossing her ranch, he'd be perfect.
"We'll be branding, fencing and moving cattle onto summer range soon. I do some horse training, but you won't be involved in that." She narrowed her gaze. "As the ad said, no drugs, no alcohol. Wages include a cabin and meals up at the house."
"Wages?"
Her heart sank. "You're not here about a job?"
Pulling back the lower hem of his denim jacket at an angle, he displayed a silver badge clipped to his belt. "Special Agent Coleman. DEA."
Startled, she stared at the badge.
"Agent Luis Mendoza talked to you several weeks ago. Remember?" he added in a voice gentle enough to reassure a small child.
His patronizing tone bit deep. "Of course I remember."
She'd called the DEA regional office several times and had been expecting the arrival of a female agent next weekend. This guy had to be for real, though, because no one around here knew about those calls.
Even so, his presence sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the slow grin deepening the dimples in his rugged face, or that strong jaw. He was living proof that the DEA had taken her seriously.
Finally.
Frowning, she surveyed the black Dodge Ram pickup parked at the edge of the fenced yard. A couple of dusty duffel bags were piled in the back, along with a well-worn roping saddle. "So where is she?"
"She?"
"The agent - the woman who was supposed to come out here. Did you bring her?"
He shrugged. "Change of plans. They sent me instead."
Remembering all that had happened at the ranch, her frustration grew. "But the DEA guy I talked to said -"
"He planned to request Agent Sara Hanrahan from the Dallas field office, but she's been transferred to Fargo."
Celia cradled the rifle in the crook of her arm and tugged off her buckskin gloves, slapped them against her thigh, and stuffed them in the hip pocket of her Levi's. "You can't get her anyway?"
"She's in the middle of a major case up north."
He folded his arms across his chest, appearing entirely too resolute, and she gave an exasperated sigh.
"Look, I told people around here that I had a cousin coming to stay this spring. No one would have questioned her arrival. There isn't another female agent?"
"No one who is available for the next several months. You need an agent who isn't from this part of Texas - someone who can work undercover as a ranch hand won't be recognized. You also need someone with ranch experience, who can handle a horse and who's familiar with drug trafficking along the Rio Grande. So you got me."
He exuded confidence. Control. He probably dealt with bad guys seven days a week, and maybe he was exactly what she needed. But how was she going to explain away a guy like this one? He looked like Joe Hollywood, not a working cowboy.
Over his shoulder, she saw her two ranch hands watching them from the machine shed. Adan Calaveras lounged at the door, his young face filled with suspicion at the arrival of this newcomer. Old Vicente Marquez stood beside him, his gnarled, leathery hands propped on his hips.
As much a fixture on the ranch as the weathered buildings and the ancient saguaro cacti marching across the desolate landscape, Vicente had worked here since her grandfather's early years. Now, he mostly cooked meals, ran occasional errands and helped out in other ways when his arthritis wasn't acting up. Adan had drifted in just six months ago and never left.
Both of them were scowling at her latest "job applicant."
Adan finally gave an irritable jerk of his head and disappeared into the machine shed, but Vicente started walking toward the main barn.
"Please, come to my office," she said in a low voice. "Vicente is on his way, and this needs to be private."
Brady shot a swift, assessing glance at the older man. "You don't trust him?"
"With my life. But the fewer people who hear this, the better." She pivoted and led Coleman across the parking area to the back door of the sprawling adobe ranch house, then through the kitchen and down the hall to her office, where she shut the door behind them.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Operation : Texas by Roxanne Rustand Copyright © 2004 by Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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