1
This county was probably one of the prettiest places on earth, as far as Texas Ranger Jake McCord was concerned. And he’d been to a few. Rolling grassland was carved by deep gullies and dotted with copses of oak and pine. It was so damned beautiful with the prickly pear cacti, emerald green color and blue sky.
He squinted slightly as he reached for the thermal coffee mug on the dash. At least the road was decent, largely due to the influence of the wealthy Coltons who owned and lived on this one-hundred-thousand-acre, billion-dollar spread: Colton Valley Ranch. The ranch was his current destination and located just outside of Dallas.
He was fortunate to woo a wealthy woman, Darla, and after purchasing the land and beginning what would become his vast ranch, Eldridge Colton, now also an oilman, had amassed a substantial fortune.
The road made a sweeping curve over the rise, and before him lay a piece of flat land, the cut banks along the southern boundary giving it a plateau effect. Beyond the trees, ranch buildings came into view, and sunlight glinted off a running horse weather vane atop a huge arena. Various outbuildings and five stark white barns with red X’s on the doors. The apartments for the hands built out of a former barn and steps from the working barns were situated right in the center, the space between blocked into paddocks. About a mile away the big rear of the mansion loomed with more paddocks and pastureland, along with another stable, most likely where the Coltons kept their family horses as the arena and barns were at least a mile away. He felt immediately at ease here, the spread reminding him of the ranching he’d done before his stint in the Texas Highway Patrol and getting accepted as a Texas Ranger.
His expression sobering, Jake braced his elbow on the window ledge and absently rubbed his thumb against his mouth, thinking that he hadn’t been on an undercover operation in quite some time. He had recently spent his time at the Texas Department of Criminal Justice French Robertson prison, or the TDCJ French Robertson, training chase horses for manhunts for the Texas Rangers.
Nearing the approach of the long lane, he signaled for a left turn and slowed to a crawl, checking the side mirror as the horse trailer tracked into the turn, the whole outfit rocking as Valentine, his roan gelding in the back, shifted. He kept his speed to a crawl as he drove across the cattle guard, and he checked the side-view mirror again. Once clear, he accelerated slightly, the bright sunlight bounding off the shiny hood of his midnight blue 4x4.
There were two entrances onto the property, a service road from the highway that he was currently using and the more formal drive up to the vast mansion. The first floor was where Eldridge and his second wife, Whitney, had their suite, with the second floor occupied by his children with Whitney: Thomas or more well-known as T.C., and Reid. Also occupying the second floor were his two adopted stepchildren from the marriage with Whitney, Marceline and Zane—who also lived with his new pregnant wife, Mirabella—and another adopted daughter, Piper. That left Eldridge’s children with his deceased first wife, Darla. Fowler Colton had his residence in the left wing along with Alanna Colton. Jake’s main mission was to get close to the family and find out what they were hiding.
Alanna was the manager of Colton Valley Ranch Stables, a huge equestrian center that exclusively bred, raised, trained and sold top class cutters and award winners.
She was probably still asleep in her posh king-size bed, all cozy and warm as it wasn’t quite six yet. The little princess most likely supervised from her high horse named along the lines of Emperor or Rembrandt.
His mood reflective, he absently rubbed his thumb across his mouth again, his gut tightening. He wasn’t exactly sure accepting this mission was the smartest idea his superiors had. He wasn’t the most tactful guy. Granted, he was touted as the best horse handler in the Rangers, and it was bandied about that he was an honest-to-God horse whisperer. But he tended to be blunt, and rich folks weren’t keen on an outspoken employee.
His gut was suddenly in knots. He felt as if he was a hair away from disaster. All he knew was that for the last four and a half months, he’d been kicking himself hard over the death of Tim Preston, a rookie Ranger. The gnawing only got worse and every time he went to sleep, he’d see the whole scene played over in Technicolor. The headshrinkers called it occupational burnout. Jake just called it doing his damn job. Came with the territory, but he’d been relegated to the TDCJ French Robertson prison after he had rushed into a hostage situation. A street thug on the lam from police had run into a resident and her child. Knocked the mother down and took the girl inside with him. Jake had gone in, stared the guy down and saved the girl without bloodshed. He was sure the guy was never going to give up and he would have killed that little girl. Negotiations would have been a waste of time. He’d trusted his instincts and been reprimanded for it.
His superiors weren’t happy, and his psych test told them he “was unable to cope fully with the stress.” No kidding, Sherlock. He’d cope just fine once he found the bastard who had killed Preston. He should have gone with his gut and realized there was something off during that case. Now he had a dead man haunting him and a bad guy who’d gotten away.
When Sheriff Troy Watkins had requested assistance from the Rangers for someone to infiltrate the ranch and spy on the wealthy Coltons, he was the likely candidate. It seemed that their patriarch, Eldridge, was missing and foul play was involved. The sheriff had so far not made any progress on finding who had been behind the kidnapping, hitting a dead end. On the recommendation of the sheriff, Colton Valley Ranch’s new foreman, Buck Tressler, hired Jake to tame a blooded but unruly stallion named Zorro.
It was considered a low-stress mission and tapped into Jake’s expertise—blending in seamlessly with his ranching background and taming horses as though he knew their special language.
So, he got tagged.
A big sign said COLTON VALLEY RANCH STABLES indicating with an arrow that he should go right at the next turn.
He parked the rig in front of the big white clapboard arena with a sign outside that read Abilene, then tossed his sunglasses on the dash. Settling his pearl gray hat on his head, he grabbed the halter lead in the passenger seat and got out of the truck. Two border collies came around the back of the truck, and he reached down and ruffled their ears, grinning when one nudged his leg begging for a deeper scratch.
He wasn’t sure he agreed that this was a low-stress assignment. He couldn’t seem to trust himself and his time in the Rangers had been tumultuous. He was born to be a Texas Ranger. It was in his blood with the long line of Rangers in his family. Both he and Matt, his younger brother, had been groomed to carry on the family legacy. With Matt’s memory came the sense that he’d let his little brother down. Dead at sixteen from an overdose. His brother’s death made him question his instincts. Instead of pushing his little brother, he should have supported him. There was no reason for him to change now. Why did every day add to this belief that he was dying inside? He pushed away those thoughts. He was just going through a bad patch.
He straightened and stretched his long legs. He went to the back of the horse trailer and clicked his tongue as he unfastened the locking mechanism and pulled the back open. Standing to the side as Valentine sidled, he slipped his hand over the roan’s rump and made his way to the animal’s head. Clipping on the lead, he clicked again while pulling slightly on the halter. Valentine, one of the best horses he’d ever met with the heart of a lion and the disposition of a lamb, obediently backed out.
Once the big gelding had all four hooves on the driveway, Jake took him around a couple of turns to get him used to the environment and to work the kinks out of the trailer ride.
Valentine raised his head and flicked his ears forward at the sound of whinnying in the distance. Look at that. He was already making friends. Valentine returned the call. He had excellent manners.
Leading the gelding, he went through the big open doors. Once inside, he had to wait for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. The skylights were placed every few feet in the arched roof, flooding the arena with faint, early morning natural light. Only the center row of mercury vapor lights high above the arena area were on, and Jake suspected it was a bid to save electricity.
Shoving his hands in