Fire Brand
Authors: Diana Palmer
He'll risk his whole heart to save her from the past
Gaby Cane was always a bit afraid of her attraction to Bowie McCayde. Even when she was fifteen and Bowie's family took her in, she had sensed his simmering resentment. Now ten years later, she's an aspiring journalist who can hold her own with any man professionally, the dark shadows of years gone by far behind her. Then Bowie strides back into her lifeâonly this time, he needs her, and the pull of loyalty to his family is too strong to ignore.
When Bowie asked Gaby to help save his family's Arizona ranch, he never expected the girl he once knew to return transformed into a stunning, successful woman. As they work together, Bowie is shocked to find that her innocence and beauty stir a hunger he can't deny. But the rogue rancher can sense something holding her back, and he's determined to uncover the terrible secret Gaby is fighting to keep hidden...
Praise for the novels of
New York Times
and
USA TODAY
bestselling author
Diana Palmer
“Diana Palmer is a mesmerizing storyteller who captures the essence of what a romance should be.”
âAffaire de Coeur
“The popular Palmer has penned another winning novel, a perfect blend of romance and suspense.”
âBooklist
on
Lawman
“Readers will be moved by this tale of revenge and justice, grief and healing.”
âBooklist
on
Dangerous
“Diana Palmer is one of those authors whose books are always enjoyable. She throws in romance, suspense and a good story line.”
âThe Romance Reader
on
Before Sunrise
“Lots of passion, thrills, and plenty of suspense...
Protector
is a top-notch read!”
âRomance Reviews Today
“A delightful romance with interesting new characters and many familiar faces.”
âRT Book Reviews
on
Wyoming Tough
Also available from Diana Palmer
Long, Tall Texans
Fearless
Heartless
Dangerous
Merciless
Courageous
Protector
Invincible
Untamed
Defender
The Wyoming Men
Wyoming Tough
Wyoming Fierce
Wyoming Bold
Wyoming Strong
Wyoming Rugged
The Morcai Battalion
The Morcai Battalion
The Morcai Battalion: The Recruit
The Morcai Battalion: Invictus
For a complete listing of books by Diana Palmer, please visit
www.dianapalmer.com
.
DIANA PALMER
Fire Brand
Dear Reader,
It is so fascinating to read a book that I wrote over thirty years ago and to see firsthand how much the world has changed in that time.
When this book was written, I was working for a weekly newspaper and stringing (doing local news and features) for a daily newspaper. What you read is how newspaper reporting was done thirty years ago. The terminology, the way people dress, even the cars they drove, like Bowie's Scorpionâwhich was a fantastic, and expensive, new car in the 1980sâis all history now.
Smoking was also a daily habit for me and millions of other people. We smoked in restaurants, in hospital rooms, in emergency rooms, on airplanes, anywhere we liked to. I smoked at my desk in the newspaper office. Everyone that I knew also smoked, including both my parents. These days, smoking is so taboo that I'm not even allowed to have a character who smokes in my books. However, I was adamant to leave this element in the book, to show things as they truly were back in the eighties, and my publisher obliged.
I hope you enjoy this walk through time in this early work of mine. It serves as a lesson in how life has changed, and changed us. I am a person out of place and time. The world I knew, and grew up in, is gone. I have to live in the one that exists, but I am not really happy in it. My grandfather saw the Rockettes on television when he was seventy years old. He rushed to shut it off. It offended him that women showed so much of their bodies. It amused me at the timeâI was sixteenâbut I am now nearing seventy, and I understand how he felt.
For better or worse, here is the book. Thanks for taking the time to read this. I hope you enjoy it. And God bless everyone!
For Ann and Muriel, who shared Arizona with meâand for Stephanieâwith thanks and love.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
J
UST
WHEN
G
ABY
thought it couldn't get worse, it started to rain. She groaned as she tried to adjust part of her raincoat over the lens of her .35 mm camera, and kept shooting, aiming away from the red and blue flashing lights and the spotlights so that she wouldn't spoil the shot.
“Are you out of your mind?” the thin man beside her grumbled, jerking her back down just as a bullet whizzed past her ear. “Gaby, that was stupid!”
“Shut up and keep taking notes,” she told him absently. The whir of the camera shutter was lost amid the renewed firing. It sounded like an automatic, which it probably was. The armed robber holed up in the old department store building was known to have one. He'd already killed the store manager and negotiations had broken down before they had even begun. “There's a pregnant hostage in there with him. See if you can find out her name.”
“Will you stop slinging out orders?” he grumbled. “I know how to cover a story.”
Oh, sure you do, Gaby thought irritably, as long as it's in a boardroom or a good restaurant. Only fate could have managed to leave Harrington alone in the newsroom when she had needed a photographer. And once the shooting in the street started, Harrington had plastered himself against a police car and refused to move. Gaby had no choice but to give him the note pad.
She pushed back her long black hair and snapped the camera lens cap on to keep the rain out of it. She was drenched already, her jeans and bulky pink knit top plastered to her skin under the concealing folds of the beige raincoat. And while she could take a photograph, Harrington's were betterâif he just had the nerve to go with his talent. He was a photojournalist and sometimes did interviews, to fill in for other reporters. He hated taking crime photos.
“I never should have let Johnny talk me into coming with you, you maniac,” Fred Harrington muttered. He glared at her through thick lenses that were spotted with drops of rain. She wondered if he knew how big they made his dark eyes look.
“If Johnny were here, he'd be out there where the
Bulletin
guy is right now,” she returned, nodding toward a beanpole in baggy jeans with a long ponytail and glasses, wandering into the line of fire. “For God's sake, Wilson, get out of there!” she yelled across the police car she and Fred were crouched behind.
Wilson glanced her way and raised his hand in a friendly salute. “That you, Cane?” He grinned.
About that time, a disgruntled police officer tackled him and took him down, right on top of his camera.
“Good for you, officer!” Fred yelled.
Gaby elbowed him. “Traitor,” she accused.
“Stupid people should be trampled,” he replied. “Fool! Lunatic!” he called across to the rival paper's reporter/photographer, who was being led away not too gently by his accoster.
“I love you, too, Harrington!” Wilson called back. “Hey, Cane, how about calling this story in to my editor for me?”
“Eat worms and die, Wilson!” she said gaily.
He stuck his tongue out at her and vanished behind the bulk of the angry police officer.
“Will you two keep it down?” one of the nearby policemen muttered. “Honest to God, you reporters are the biggest pests.”
“Just for that, I'll misspell your name,” Gaby promised.
He grinned at her and moved away.
“You're crazy,” Fred said fervently. He was new to the newspaper scene, having preferred photography to journalismâalthough he could write good cutlines and even do good interviews. He didn't have the wherewithal for this kind of assignment, though. Gaby usually had the political beat. She and Harrington were only here because the police reporter was out sick. And any news reporter could be commandeered to cover police news in an emergency.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted movement. There was a uniformed man with a rifle running into a building across the street from the abandoned department store building. “Something's happening,” Gaby said. “Look sharp. You might get a little closer to Chief Jones and see if he can fill you in on what the SWAT team's going to do.”
Fred glared at her. “Why don't you do it? I can take photos.”
“Deal.” She handed him the camera and started toward Chief Jones. Then, just as he started shooting, she turned around and removed the lens cap. “It works better that way,” she said, before edging her way along the police car line.
“Hi, Teddy,” she whispered, easing up beside the tall, distinguished police chief. “What's up?”
“Utility stocks, or so I hear,” he mused.
“Dammit, Teddy, stop that,” she muttered. “It's been a long day, and I've got an engagement party to go to when I get through here.”
“You getting engaged, Gaby?” he asked. “A miracle.” He looked up at the rainy sky.
“Not me,” she said through her teeth. “Mary, down in composing. She and I went through journalism school together.”
“I might have known.” He frowned as his eyes shifted to the roof of the building across the street, where the faint glimmer of metal gave away a marksman.
“Good for you,” Gaby whispered, glancing up with eyes that were such a dark olive shade of green that they looked brown. “The robber will take out that hostage if you don't do something drastic.”
“We don't like this sort of thing, you know that,” he sighed. “But he's killed one man already and there's a pregnant lady in there and he's gone wild. We can't negotiate him out of a damned thing. There's no power or telephone or heat to cut off and trade him things for, and he won't talk to us.” He shook his head. “This is a hell of a job sometimes, kid.”
“You're telling me.”
Three years of work on the
Phoenix Advertiser
had given her an education in police tactics. She stood crouched beside Chief Jones, waiting for the inevitable shot that would drop the gunman. It was like waiting for death, because a head shot was all the sharpshooter was likely to get, if that much. For one long moment, she contemplated the futility of crime and its terrible costâto the perpetrators, the public, and the police. And then the shot came. It echoed through the darkness with a horrible finality. If death had a sound, that was it, and Gaby cringed inwardly.
“It's a hit!” the sharpshooter called down. “I got him.”
“Okay, move in,” Chief Jones told his men solemnly.
“Can I come?” Gaby asked quietly.
He looked down at her with mingled irritation and respect. “Sure, you can come,” he said. “You'll have nightmares.”
“I've always had nightmares,” she said matter-of-factly. She went back to get Fred. “Let's get some pics and wrap this up so we can make the morning edition,” she told him.
“Pics of what?” he asked.
“Of the gunman,” she said patiently.
“You want me to take pictures of a dead body?”
She took the camera from him with exaggerated patience and followed Chief Jones into the building.
Gaby's heart went out to the small pregnant woman, who was white-faced, sobbing, and clearly almost in shock, as she was escorted gently from the building. The gunman lay on the floor. Someone had taken off his shabby jacket and put it over his head. He looked fragile, somehow, lying there like that. Gaby took a quick shot of him without really seeing him. She didn't photograph the hostage. Johnny could scream his head off, but she wasn't going to capitalize on a pregnant woman's terror. Later, she could call the hospital and find out the woman's condition, or she could get the particulars from Chief Jones. She glanced around the room until her eyes caught the sack with the holdup money in it.
A policeman was carefully picking it up, and she looked inside.
“Twenty dollars,” the policeman said. He shrugged. “Not much of a haul for two men's lives.”
“Does it look like he was a pro?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “Too sloppy. A witness who saw him kill the storekeeper said he was shaking all over, and the gun discharged accidentally while he was trying to get away.”
She was writing it all down. “Got a family?”
“Yeah. He's the youngest of six kids. The older brother's a drug dealer. The mother goes on the streets from time to time to add to her welfare check.” He smiled at Gaby. “Tough world for kids, isn't it?”
“For some of them,” she agreed. She shouldered the camera and went back to Chief Jones, who'd just finished talking to the hostage. Gaby asked him the necessary questions, picked up Harrington, and drove back to the office in her white custom VW convertible.
“How come you rate a car this fancy?” Fred asked on the way.
She smiled. “I have rich relatives,” she said.
Well, it was the truth, in one respect. The McCaydes of Lassiter, Arizona, were rich. They weren't exactly relatives, however.
Her eyes drifted to the traffic. Phoenix was a fascinating city, elegant for its spaciousness, with the surrounding huge, jagged peaks of the southernmost Rockies forming a protective barrier around it. The first time she'd seen the city, she had been fascinated by the sheer height and majesty of those mountains.
In fact, Arizona itself still fascinated her. It was a state like no other, its appearance first frightening and barren. But closer up, it had a staggering beauty. In its vastness, it offered serenity and promise. In its diversity of terrain and cultures, it offered a kind of harmony that was visually melodic. Gaby loved it all, from the wealth and prosperity and hustle of Phoenix, to the quiet desert peace of Casa RÃo, the twenty-odd-thousand-acre ranch owned by the McCaydes.
“Doesn't one of your relatives have a construction company in Tucson?” Harrington broke into her thoughts. “McCaydeâBowie McCayde?”
Gaby tingled at the mention of his name. “He's not a relative. His parents took me in when I was in my teens,” she corrected. “Yes, he inherited McCayde Construction from his late father.”
“There's a ranch, too, isn't there?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, there is,” she said, remembering with a smile. “Casa RÃoâRiver House. It dates to ten years after the Civil War.” She glanced at him. “You did know that most of southeastern Arizona was settled by people from the Southâand that during the Civil War, a Confederate flag flew briefly over the city of Tucson?”
“You're kidding.”
She laughed. “No, I'm not. It's true. Bowie's people came from southwest Georgia. The first settler was a Cliatt, who married a Mexican girl. There's even a Papago in his lineage somewhereâexcuse me, a Tohono O'odham,” she said, using the new name the Papago had adopted for themselves. The name
Papago
was actually a Zuñi word meaning “Bean People,” so the Papago changed it to words in their own language, which meant “People of the Desert.”
“That's a mouthful,” Harrington murmured as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“I think it's pretty. Did you know that Apache is a Zuñi word for enemy? And that the word Navajo contains a âV,' and that there is no âV' in the Navajo language? Until recent times many scarcely knew of the word, in fact...”
“Stop!” Harrington wailed. “I don't want to learn everything about the Southwest in one lesson.”
“I love it,” she sighed. “I love the people and the languages and the history.” Her dark olive eyes grew dreamy. “I wish I'd been born here.”
“Where are you from?” he asked.
It was just a casual question, and she'd brought it on herself, but she quickly changed the subject. “I wonder what they'll do to Wilson?”
He glared at her, as she'd known he would. “I hope they hang him from the nearest tree. The fool!”
She smiled to herself. “Maybe they will,” she mused.
Her mind wandered as she drove. The rain reminded her so well of a time in her pastâthe first time she'd seen Casa RÃo. It was the night she'd met Bowie.
Just thinking of him made her nervous. In a lot of ways, Bowie was her nemesis. He couldn't be called a brother because she'd never been officially adopted by the McCaydes. She was a stray they'd taken in and assumed responsibility for, but only as a ward. She hadn't wanted them to adopt her, because then they might probe into her past. But she'd covered herself by giving a very plausible story about having moved every other week with her father, and having no permanent address. That much was almost true.
Bowie was twenty-seven years old the night she showed up at Casa RÃo in the rain. She had caught first sight of him in the barn, where she was huddled and shivering against the faint evening chill of May.
His sheer size had been overpowering. He was a big, rugged-looking blond man with a physique that any movie cowboy would have envied. He was the head of a growing construction company, and over the years, he'd spent a good deal of his time at building sites, pitching in when deadlines were threatening. That explained the muscular physique, but not the brooding look he wore much of the time. Later, Gaby would learn that he didn't smile very often. She'd learn, too, that his extraordinary good looks were deceptive. He wasn't a womanizer, and if he had affairs, they were so discreet as to be almost unnoticed. He was a quiet, introspective man who liked Bach, old war movies, and more than anything else, the land upon which Casa RÃo sat. Bowie was a preservationist, a conservationist. That, in a builder, was something of an irony, but then, Bowie was full of contradictions. Gaby knew him no better now than she had that first night. He was rarely ever home when she visited his mother, Aggieâit was almost as if he purposefully avoided her.
That long-ago rainy night, he'd been in evening clothes. Gaby's frightened eyes had followed him as he stared into a stall and rubbed the velvet nose of the big Belgian horse that occupied it. He turned on the light, and she could see that his blond hair was very thick and straight, conventionally cut with a side part, and neatly combed, despite the hour. His profile had been utterly perfect; a strong, very handsome, very definite face that probably drew women like honey drew butterflies. He had a straight nose and a square jaw, and deep-set eyes under heavy brows. His mouth had a chiseled look, and there was something faintly sensuous about it. Gaby tried not to notice sensualityâshe was afraid of men.
