Roark’s own small ranch suited him just fine, but he offered no objection. He simply waited, well aware that Joe’s opinion of his operation wasn’t why he had summoned him to his bedside.
“But you’re sticking to it, and you know your stuff,” Joe said. “Not bad for a weekend cowboy. Hear you also know what you’re doing with that PI agency of yours down in San Antonio. That combination makes you the man I need.”
The rancher paused, his inflamed lungs struggling for the oxygen that would permit him to continue.
“My lawyer explain the setup to you?” he whispered.
“Yes.” Roark had had his share of strange cases, but nothing as eccentric as this one. He probably wouldn’t have considered the proposal at all if he hadn’t grown up on John Wayne movies, and the chance to actually experience… Well, the offer was damn tempting.
“Then you know what I want. I won’t send her up there without protection. Made that a requirement in the will.”
The “her” was his granddaughter, Roark thought. Samantha Howard. He had never met the woman, but he was angry with her. Why wasn’t she here at Joe’s bedside?
The old man, still wheezing through the pain that must be stabbing his lungs with every breath, understood Roark’s tight-jawed, unspoken judgment. “No use for each other, Samantha and me,” he said. “Never had.” He paused, plucking at the sheet tucked around him. “But she’s the only family I got. And I don’t aim for the Walking W to leave the family, not if it can be helped. Want her to inherit everything. But if she stands any chance at all of running the ranch, she’s got to toughen up. Way I see it, and I thought about this carefully, I got no choice but to send her on this trek. It’s the best way to harden her.”
He stopped to regain enough strength to go on. There was a long silence interrupted by his fitful breathing. “Every man has his secrets,” he muttered.
Was he wandering? Roark wondered. Had that sharp old brain been dulled by illness and fatigue?
“Figure,” Joe said, “there’s maybe someone out there with a secret I don’t like. Maybe up to mischief. Maybe not. Even so, there’s always risks on a haul of this kind. Enough, cowboy, that you got to watch my granddaughter’s back while she’s earning her spurs.”
Understanding him now, Roark leaned earnestly toward the bed. “Joe, she doesn’t need a bodyguard. She’s not in danger. The fall you took from your horse was an accident. The sheriff’s investigation—”
“Didn’t mean squat!”
The old man’s sudden, obstinate anger resulted in a hacking cough that alarmed Roark. He started to get to his feet to call a nurse, but Joe clutched at him, pulling him back.
“Stay,” he gasped, managing to quiet himself after a moment.
“You sure?”
“Not sure of anything,” he said between shallow breaths, “except this damn ache in my chest that never goes away. But before I stop fighting it, you got to tell me you’ll look out for her. Could be there’s nothing to worry about. Probably isn’t, but I won’t send her to Colorado without easing my mind on the subject. Promise me, cowboy….”
WHAT THE HELL had just happened? Roark asked himself as he came away from the hospital ten minutes later. But he knew exactly what had happened. He had gone and pledged his services to Joe Walker. Or, more precisely, to Joe’s granddaughter. He just didn’t know why he had been fool enough to guarantee his protection of the woman.
But that wasn’t true either, Roark thought as he paused in the parking lot, hand resting on the door of his pickup truck. Though he hated to admit it, he realized all too clearly why he had accepted the assignment. It was simple. He had been unable to refuse the urgent appeal of a dying man.
He would do it, Roark told himself as he climbed behind the wheel of the truck, but he didn’t like it. He’d decided by now that this condition Joe had insisted his granddaughter fulfill in order to inherit his estate was extreme, if not downright bizarre. That was one thing. And for another, he was dealing with an issue of his own. A personal conflict that had been tearing him up inside for weeks now. How was he supposed to come to grips with that while playing bodyguard in the wilderness for a woman he already resented?
No, he thought, speeding away from the hospital, he wasn’t looking forward to Samantha Howard.
Chapter One
San Antonio, Texas
What was the expression? Oh, yes, now she remembered. In the toilet.
Blunt but accurate, Samantha thought. Because that’s exactly where the real estate agency she had spent the past year and a half struggling to save had been headed. Battered by a slow market and tough competition from the national chains, the agency had been slowly sinking in spite of her every effort.
But not now. Now things were looking up. This afternoon she would be meeting with the buyer to sign the papers on a mansion in the King William District, an estate they’d carried for over six months without being able to move. The sale would earn her a sizable commission, money the agency badly needed.
Even better was the property she was examining this morning. Clipboard in hand to jot down particulars, she toured the facility to determine its value. A Tex-Mex restaurant had recently vacated the premises. Rather than leasing it to another occupant, the Houston-based landlord had decided to sell the building.
Samantha resisted the urge to celebrate. She didn’t have the property on her books yet, but the owner had practically guaranteed her the listing. He had a team of painters currently redoing the main dining room, giving it a fresh look that would appeal to the eye of a prospective buyer.
That was good, but not nearly as important as the location, which was clearly evident when she stepped through one of the open doors onto the balcony. The structure overlooked the city’s famed River Walk. This was prime real estate.
Samantha was enjoying the reason for that valuable advantage, gazing at a gondola gliding along the olive waters of the winding San Antonio River, when the serenity of the scene was destroyed by a deep male voice demanding loudly “Where is she?”
Twisting around from the railing at which she stood, she searched in the direction of the disturbance. The speaker, his back turned, had been addressing one of the painters on a scaffold in the dining room. His brusque inquiry was answered by a startled look and then a paintbrush pointed with hesitant slowness in the direction of the outdoor balcony.
With a muttered thanks, the tall visitor swung around and headed across the expanse of the dining room. She watched him moving purposefully toward her with a long-legged, confident gait. One glimpse of his lean, narrow-hipped figure was enough to stiffen Samantha’s spine.
Cowboys were far from rare in San Antonio, and occasionally they were the genuine article, sometimes even as sexy as legend promised. This one definitely qualified in that department, at least in appearance.
He had a mane of tousled black hair that had been crammed under a hastily removed Stetson, a dark stubble on his square jaw, stains on his faded jeans and denim shirt, and a coating of dust on a pair of well-worn boots. They were the collective result of a man who had been out wrestling steers, or at least herding them. And Samantha neither liked nor trusted any aspect of that image, and wouldn’t have liked it even if this cowboy had been one of the harmless urban variety.
She stood her ground as he strode out onto the balcony, a pair of disarming blue eyes colliding with hers. “Samantha Howard?”
The timbre of his voice was sensual, in keeping with all the rest of the cowboy package. But she didn’t care for his abrupt manner, though she tried to be pleasant. She couldn’t afford to offend someone who might turn out to be a client. “Yes, that’s right. What