To Protect Their Child Read online

  “I thought you didn’t like McClintock.”

  “Changed my mind,” Ric said.

  “Must have. From what I hear, you looked at just about every property for sale in the valley.”

  “It’s interesting.”

  Elaine made a musing noise.“I’ve also heard you and Deputy Tate Raleigh are best buddies now.Tight as ticks.” Her smile faded and those big brown eyes turned hard.“What are you up to, Ric? Why are you looking for dirt on my father?”

  Couldn’t get any more blunt than that. “What makes you think that’s what I’m doing?”

  “Oh, come on! You never liked Daddy.” She stabbed a stiff finger in the direction of his chest.“Now I find you with my daughter. Just what exactly did you say to her? What are you trying to pull?”

  Our daughter, Ric wanted to say, but didn’t…

  Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

  We have another outstanding title selection this month chock-full of great romantic suspense, starting with the next installment in our TOP SECRET BABIES promotion. In The Hunt for Hawke’s Daughter (#605) by Jean Barrett, Devlin Hawke had never expected to see Karen Ramey once she’d left his bed—let alone have her tell him his secret child had been kidnapped by a madman. Whether a blessing or a curse, Devlin was dead set on reclaiming his child—and his woman….

  To further turn up the heat, three of your favorite authors take you down to the steamy bayou with three of the sexiest bad boys you’ll ever meet:Tyler, Nick and Jules—in one value-packed volume! A bond of blood tied them to each other since youth, but as men, their boyhood vow is tested. Find out all about Bayou Blood Brothers (#606) with Ruth Glick—writing as Rebecca York—Metsy Hingle and Joanna Wayne.

  Amanda Stevens concludes our ON THE EDGE promotion with Nighttime Guardian (#607), a chilling tale of mystery and monsters set in the simmering South. To round out the month, Sheryl Lynn launches a new series with To Protect Their Child (#608). Welcome to MCCLINTOCK COUNTRY, a Rocky Mountain town where everyone has a secret and love is for keeps.

  More action and excitement you’ll be hard-pressed to find. So pick up all four books and keep the midnight oil burning….

  Sincerely,

  Denise O’Sullivan

  Associate Senior Editor

  Harlequin Intrigue

  TO PROTECT

  THEIR CHILD

  SHERYL LYNN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sheryl Lynn lives in a pine forest atop a hill in Colorado. When not writing, she amuses herself by embarrassing her two teenagers, walking her dogs in a nearby park and feeding peanuts to the dozens of Steller’s jays, scrub jays, blue jays and squirrels who live in her backyard. Her best ideas come from the newspapers, although she admits that a lot of what she reads is way too weird for fiction.

  Books by Sheryl Lynn

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  190—DOUBLE VISION

  223—DEADLY DEVOTION

  258—SIMON SAYS

  306—LADYKILLER

  331—DARK KNIGHT*

  336—DARK STAR*

  367—THE OTHER LAURA

  385—BULLETPROOF HEART

  424—THE CASE OF THE VANISHED GROOM†

  425—THE CASE OF THE BAD LUCK FIANCɆ

  467—EASY LOVING

  514—THE BODYGUARD**

  518—UNDERCOVER FIANCÉ**

  608—TO PROTECT THEIR CHILD

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Ric Buchanan—A wounded warrior who’s returned to the town that made him an outcast and to the woman he’s never stopped loving.

  Elaine Greene—Not even wealth and power can help her resolve her torn loyalties or save her from a past that threatens her future.

  Bobby Greene—Elaine’s husband is an honorable man who committed a dishonorable act that might have gotten him murdered.

  Jodi Greene—The apple of her parents’ eyes—all three of them.

  Tom Greene—He’ll prove his son was murdered, even if it means his life.

  Sheriff King McClintock—He declared Bobby’s death an accident, and nobody better say anything different, especially Ric Buchanan.

  Del Crowder—Did Elaine’s father’s death come from committing a murder or trying to prevent one?

  Axton Cross—Del’s business partner has a shady past.

  Linda Pallo—Del’s fiercely loyal office manager knows where all the skeletons are buried.

  Tate Raleigh—A lawman willing to risk his livelihood in order to find the truth.

  For Denise O’Sullivan, an editor with vision, a charming laugh and faith enough for both of us. Thanks for helping me pull this project together.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  Ric Buchanan struggled with the door of the Track Shack Bar and Grill. Brake lights flared on his uncle’s pickup truck. From behind the wheel, the old man watched Ric. Ric waved to show he was fine, and his uncle needn’t worry. He pulled the door open. He wished he could ease his own nervousness. He wasn’t ready to face his hometown, not yet.

  But Bobby Greene needed to talk to him, urgent, face-to-face. Bobby was a natural born worrier, but this sounded unusually serious. Curiosity had drawn Ric out of hiding.

  He balanced on his crutches, made certain the door wouldn’t knock him down and then hobbled inside. A rush of familiar aromas—beer, spicy roasted chilies, lemon wax—brought a smile and memories. Old Junior Haversham with his barking laugh, endless advice and willingness to help out a kid struggling with math homework. Consuela Ortiz, who made the best green chile stew in the world. McClintock, Colorado had its faults, but the Track Shack wasn’t one of them.

  The man standing at the end of the bar caused Ric’s smile to fade. Sheriff King McClintock rested a glossy boot on the brass foot rail. His big belly strained his tan uniform shirt. He had broad, square shoulders and bowed horseman’s legs. A gun belt and holster were as polished as his boots.

  For a moment, Ric felt fifteen years old again, cowering before the stern-faced sheriff who considered this town, the entire valley, his personal domain. A booming voice of authority who did not tolerate shenanigans, especially from a drunk’s brat with a wild reputation.

  The sheriff turned his head. He sported a snowy handlebar mustache, and his hair was thinning. He looked as tough as ever. He swept Ric with a hard, suspicious gaze. Then his leathery cheeks creased in a grin.

  “Well, well, look what the cat drug in.”

  Ric stood as tall as the crutches and his aching back allowed. Rule number one in his life: Never suck up to anyone, for any reason. If a person disliked him, too bad. He didn’t need approval. That included big-mouthed law officers. “Sheriff.”

  “I heard rumors you were visiting your uncle. Hoo-wee! Did you get the number of the truck that hit you?”

  There were few people in the bar; all of them hushed, watching. Ric’s neck prickled, and his scalp tightened. Until the incident that nearly killed him, he hadn’t been aware of how very vain he’d been about his muscular physique. Between physical therapy, weight training and sheer determination, he was growing stronger every day, but it was slow going. He spotted Bobby seated at a corner table. His friend was staring, too, his mouth agape.

  He maneuvered the crutches for a turn. He hated the damned, clumsy things.

  The she
riff settled a dark brown cowboy hat on his head and slid his arms into a nylon windbreaker. He nodded to the man tending the bar. “Square away that paperwork, Tate. See you tomorrow.” He stepped in front of Ric, blocking his progress.

  A year ago, Ric could have twisted the despotic sheriff into a pretzel and enjoyed doing it. At the moment, he had to take whatever the man wanted to dish out. He made a point of staring down his nose, emphasizing the difference between his six feet three inches and the sheriff’s five feet five. “Can I help you?” he asked coolly.

  Soft strains of country music trickled from a radio in the kitchen. Nothing and nobody else made a sound. The whole place seemed to be holding its breath.

  “Will you be staying long?” the sheriff asked. A polite enough question, but dislike shone in his eyes.

  “Long as I need to.”

  “Just so you remember, boy, this is a nice quiet town. We don’t like trouble here. Bad elements aren’t welcome.”

  “I’ll remember not to jaywalk.”

  The sheriff gave up all pretense at friendliness. “Straight and narrow, boy. Then we’ll get along fine.” He strutted through the door. It banged shut behind him.

  Ric thought a few choice words, then shoved irritation away. King might belong to the oldest, richest family in the Maya Valley, but he was still just a little man in a little town. Ric didn’t intend to hang around McClintock long enough to seriously cross swords with his old nemesis. He crutched across the speckled linoleum to Bobby’s table.

  Bobby rose. He’d been a skinny kid, and he’d grown into a lean man as tough and springy as rawhide rope. “Damn, old son. What happened to you?” He sounded like that skinny kid again.

  Ric eased onto a chair and settled the crutches against the wall. His back seized, as if saying, “Hey, here I am!” He reached for the bottle of pain killers he carried in his coat pocket, then stopped himself. It had taken Herculean effort to wean himself off narcotics. He didn’t need an over-the-counter analgesic monkey on his back. He clasped Bobby’s hand, which felt like sandpaper from all the calluses.

  A few days ago, he’d called his boyhood friend, the same way he always did when he visited his hometown. As usual, Bobby had filled him in on the doings of his wife and daughter, his parents and his in-laws. Ric hadn’t bothered mentioning his injuries or that the army had medically discharged him.

  “I see King is still a sixty-pound ego in a ten-pound sack,” Ric said.

  Bobby looked abashed. King was his uncle by marriage. “You probably won’t believe it, but he’s not such a bad guy. He’s got a good heart under all that crust.”

  “You’re right, I don’t believe it. So, what’s up with you? What’s urgent?”

  Bobby gave himself a shake. “Want some pie?” Before Ric could answer, Bobby called an order for pie and coffee to the man behind the bar.

  “What happened to you?” Bobby asked.

  Ric didn’t like talking about it. “Don’t worry about me. I’m on the mend.”

  “Were you shot?”

  Bobby was sounding like Ric’s uncle, mixing concern with irritation over Ric’s reticence. “My Humvee hit a mine. Killed my driver and busted my back.”

  “Da-ahm,” Bobby breathed.

  “The army medically retired me.” He squashed the bitterness. He’d joined the army when he was eighteen years old, and it had been his life. He’d have stayed in thirty years if the powers-that-be had allowed it. But no sense going back over that, again.

  “So what are you going to do now?”

  He’d asked himself that question a million times. The skills he’d learned in the army didn’t have much value in civilian life. “Not sure.”

  Bobby’s mouth and brow twisted in a grimace Ric recognized as worry. Bobby had always been a worrier, and much too serious. “Are you going to stay in Mc-Clintock?”

  Ric looked significantly at the crutches. The army had been his life; he didn’t know how to be a civilian anymore. “For a while.” He looked over his shoulder at the door and chuckled. Seeing Ric must have stripped the color right out of King McClintock’s day. “Hey, this is home. Where they have to take me in.”

  “Your uncle never said you were hurt.”

  “Didn’t tell him. No sense him driving eight hours up to Denver just to watch physical therapists torture me.”

  Bobby cocked an eyebrow. Before he could comment, the man from the bar brought coffee and pie. He plunked heavy earthenware dishes on the table. A real bear, Ric surmised, sizing up the beefy, sloping shoulders and corded forearms. Some big men were just bulky, but this one had the bone and muscle that promised immense strength. His face was hard cut, too, so it wasn’t fat building that wall beneath his white cotton shirt.

  “Here’s your coffee, Bobby. How you doing?”

  He had an accent. New York? McClintock really had changed.

  “Tate Raleigh,” Bobby said, “This here’s Ric Buchanan. Walt’s nephew.”

  “Get outta here! You must be the war hero the old man’s always bragging on. Army grunt, right? Me, I’m former Marine. Hoo ahh!”

  Grunt? “Airborne ranger,” Ric said darkly.

  “A snake-eater! That’s almost as good as a Marine. Hoo ahh squared.” He thrust out a big hand.

  Tate’s hand nearly swallowed Ric’s. He had to push down the resentment over his lack of strength. Before the accident he could have taken this big jarhead, or made a darned good effort anyway. Consuela yelled from the kitchen. Grinning, Tate ambled away. Ric noted the cat-footed walk, quick and silent. Definitely not the type to get on the bad side of.

  “New Yorker?” he asked.

  “Don’t hold it against him.” Bobby chuckled. “He’s a good old boy, even if he does talk funny. He was a cop back east and works part-time for King now. Mostly he hangs out here. Junior Haversham decided he didn’t want to run the Track Shack full-time anymore, so Tate bought half interest.”

  Ric winced at the idea of Junior giving up the bar—to a New Yorker no less! At least Consuela Ortiz continued to command the kitchen. From the sound of it, Tate’s size and boss status didn’t intimidate Consuela in the least. Ric dug into the pie. The peaches retained their firmness and perfume, and the crust flaked delicately. He almost purred.

  The two ate in silence. Used to be silence didn’t bother Ric. Neither he nor Bobby were big talkers; they’d spent many hours with fishing lines dangling in the Maya River, never saying a word. Right now, the silence led to thinking and thinking led to Elaine and how Bobby had stolen her away. Some nasty part of him hoped Bobby was about to say Elaine was divorcing him. And with Bobby out of the way…? He disgusted himself.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  Bobby worked his tongue against his teeth and fiddled with a spoon. He eyeballed the crutches as if judging their weight. “So you’re really out of the army. For good.”

  Ric sensed something more than worry in his friend’s voice. Were he poetic, he’d call it torment. “We already covered that.”

  “I screwed up, old son.”

  Ric tried to laugh off the doom and gloom. “Who hasn’t?”

  Bobby’s squeezed his eyes shut. “Bad.”

  “Spill it,” Ric urged.

  Bobby’s Adam’s apple bobbed. In the light offered by a grimy window and neon beer signs, he looked tired and drawn. “I stumbled across some information. Pretty shabby stuff.”

  “How shabby?”

  Waving a hand and shaking his head, Bobby said, “That part’s…personal. It’s got nothing to do with you. But I can’t keep it to myself, and I’m pretty sure when it comes out, something else is going to come out, too. There’s going to be trouble.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “You need to hear it from me. You were my best friend, and I did you poorly. I’m ashamed of myself.”

  Ric glanced at other diners, but no one appeared to be paying attention to him and Bobby. “Are you talking about Elaine? I got over her years ago, man.” Only part
ly a lie. He’d accepted it. He didn’t like it, but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

  “Not Elaine. Jodi.” He gulped. “She’s your daughter.”

  Pain flared in his back, and he realized he was trying to rise from the chair. He forced his back muscles to relax, then breathed deeply until the fire died to a dull ache. “Jodi, your little Jodi, is my kid?” He managed to keep his voice down. Barely.

  He thought back, trying to remember the details. He’d received Elaine’s Dear John letter after he’d deployed overseas. He’d received Bobby’s announcement of Joanna Denise Greene’s birth…when? All he clearly remembered was tearing up the letter and flushing it down a latrine, then getting sloppy drunk. He hadn’t returned to Mc-Clintock for almost four years after that.

  Bobby licked his lips and took a sip from his coffee cup. His hands shook. “Elaine was pregnant when we got married. Don’t blame her! God, don’t do that. She was only eighteen, scared. And you were gone and no telling when you could get back. I talked her into marrying me. I always loved her. She wanted to tell you, but I thought…I thought…”

  “This is real cool, Robert,” Ric said icily. When he’d heard about the marriage, he’d wanted to beat the stuffing out of his friend. Bobby was lucky Ric didn’t have even a kitten’s strength, because that old impulse was back in full force. “Why are you telling me now?”

  “You need to know,” Bobby muttered. “I didn’t think you’d get so mad.”

  “Hell, yes, I’m mad! Fine, you got Laney. Better man wins and all that. But now you’re saying you stole my kid, too? You backstabbing son of a bitch!” He’d have started shouting—eager listeners be damned—but Bobby looked near tears. Disgusted, Ric yanked out his wallet and dug out enough money to cover the bill and tip. He flung it on the table. “My treat. Again.”

  He grabbed his crutches.

  “Ric, wait. You don’t understand.”

  He nearly fell getting to his feet. A hammer-and-sickle team began marching drills on his spine. That didn’t hurt nearly as much as the betrayal. “I understand I want to take your head off with this crutch.”