Native Cowboy (Bucking Bronc Lodge, 5, Band 1396) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Award-winning author Rita Herron wrote her first book when she was twelve, but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former kindergarten teacher and workshop leader, she traded storytelling to kids for writing romance. She lives in Georgia with her own romance hero. She loves to hear from readers, so please visit her website, www.ritaherron.com.

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Detective Mason Blackpaw watched the guard close the prison doors behind Pruitt Ables and breathed a sigh of relief that the Slasher case was finally over. Ables had been the missing link in their investigation, but once they'd realized Robert Dugan, the man who'd viciously killed a half dozen women, had a half brother, the pieces had fallen into place.

Mason exited the prison with a satisfied smile. He was a cowboy, a loner and a cop. He spent most of his days tracking down criminals.

His job was his life and that was the way he liked it.

No ties. No one to nag him about not being home when he was on a case. No one to expect him to be something he wasn't.

Except for the law enforcement agencies. Tracking had come so natural to him that he was called in on high profile missing persons and most wanted cases.

But now that he and Miles McGregor had locked up the sociopath and his accomplice, they'd decided to take some much needed R and R. Miles was headed to his new ranch with his son and new wife, and he had decided to devote some time to the troubled boys at the Bucking Bronc Lodge.

He checked his watch, then jumped in his SUV and drove toward the BBL. He'd promised Brody Bloodworth, the founder of the operation, that he'd teach the kids some survival skills as well as tracking techniques.

An hour later, he sat astride his favorite chestnut and introduced himself to the small group of twelve- to fourteen-year-olds. Ray was thirteen, had been beaten over and over by his old man and had a bad attitude. Wally was twelve and had lost an eye in a freak accident. Pablo had been in and out of foster homes and juvy.

And Carlos…he had been a hero of sorts when the Slasher had taken some of the kids and Jordan Wells, Miles's fiancée, hostage a few weeks ago.

"Ready to go?" he asked.

The boys nodded, although Ray looked surly and Wally a little unsure in the saddle. He'd keep an eye on him, maybe ask Johnny Long, the rodeo star of the group, to spend a little extra time working with the kid on riding skills and building his confidence. "We're riding out to the creek on the south end," he said.

He led the troops while Carlos held up the rear. As they rode, Mason pointed out landmarks, the different varieties of plant life on the property and how to use the sun as a compass.

When they neared the creek, they climbed down from their horses, and he gave them a short lesson on herbs and plants that could be used for medicinal purposes. They hiked into the woods several hundred feet, and he pointed out some poisonous berries and explained how important it was to know the difference between what was safe to eat and what wasn't if you were ever stranded in the wilderness.

"That's what the Indians do, ain't it?" Wally asked. "They make medicine from plants."

"You're an Indian, aren't you?" Pablo asked.

Mason forced a smile. "Yes, I'm part Comanche. And yes, many herbal medicines and cures originated from Native American culture."

He was proud of his heritage, but he'd also encountered prejudice at times. Shocking that it still existed but it did. God knows he'd suffered the brunt of it a few times over the years. The last time had been seared into his memory. He had the scars to prove it.

But the boys didn't need to hear that.

Late afternoon shadows slashed the treetops as they walked along the stream, and he pointed out beaver teeth marks on a log and a coyote's paw prints near the water.

A squawking sound cracked the air, and he glanced up and noticed several vultures circling above a rocky section a little farther south. An uneasy feeling splintered through him.

Vultures circling… An animal was probably dead. Maybe a deer or another small animal.

He had to check it out.

"Guys, I'm going to ride over there and see what's going on."

Wally had been studying the beaver teeth marks. "We want to go, too."

Two of the vultures swooped down. "I'd better go alone," he said, hoping to shelter the boys from the grisly sight in case there was trouble.

Ray folded his arms with a belligerent look. "We ain't kids no more," he said. "I thought you were going to teach us survival skills."

"Yeah," Pablo said with a scowl. "How we supposed to learn to track if you don't show us?"

They were right. Besides, these kids were tough. He hadn't wanted to be treated like a child when he was a teenager.

"All right," he said. "But stay behind me. And do what I say."

The boys mounted quickly, then Miles led the posse along the creek. The sun was dipping lower, but the temperature had risen today, and sweat beaded on his brow as the acrid scent of death drifted toward him.

He peered through some brush where he noticed one of the vultures descend, and saw a mound of rocks beside a mesquite tree. Hmm…he'd expected a dead calf. Maybe a deer carcass. But he couldn't see from where he was.

He halted his horse, then motioned for the boys to wait.

"Carlos, stay here with them while I check it out." He dismounted, tipped his Stetson back and surveyed the area as he broke through the thicket of trees.

With each step he took, though, his gut tightened. The mound of rocks…the stones…the way they were placed…

He'd seen it before.

Dammit. It was a grave.

Sucking in a sharp breath, he scanned the area again, searching for anything suspect. For someone watching.

But an eerie quiet settled over the land, his shaky breath rattling in the silence, as he knelt to examine the stones. His cop instincts kicked in, and he removed a bandanna from his pocket and used it like a glove as he gently lifted two of the stones.

Anger shot through him.

A woman was in the ground, her eyes blank and staring up at him in death.

Dr. Cara Winchester rubbed at her lower back as she closed the file on her desk. "Are you certain you want to go through with the adoption, Ramona?" she asked the Hispanic woman sitting across from her.

Ramona nodded, her expression torn. "I don't know what else to do. How I raise this baby with no money for food?"

Cara offered her a gentle smile. She did what she could for her patients at the Winchester Clinic, but unfortunately she couldn't support them all financially herself.

"Why don't we set you up with an appointment with Sherese and she can discuss some options with you, maybe help you find a job."

"Si, thank you, Dr. Winchester."

Cara walked her to the door, sympathy for the woman and the baby filling her. Her hand automatically went to her own rounded belly, and protective instincts surged to life.

Thankfully she had the resources to take care of herself and her child, but not every woman had the same good fortune.

Not that she didn't wish the father was in the picture…

Sadness washed over her as Mason Blackpaw's face flashed in her mind. She had fallen hard for the sexy cowboy cop, but in the end he'd trampled her heart and walked away without looking back.

Three weeks later, she'd discovered she was pregnant. She had considered calling him, but he'd made no bones about the fact that he didn't want to settle down. No, he'd spewed some nonsense about how a relationship with a white woman would never work. His argument had been so archaic she'd been furious.

Besides, she and the baby were a package deal.

And if he didn't want a white woman for a wife, he wouldn't want a baby with her, would he?

Her phone trilled, and she hurried to answer it, dismissing thoughts of Mason. But ever since she'd seen his picture in the paper with Miles McGregor, heroes because they'd solved a huge serial killer case, she...