Accidental Heiress Read online

  Drawing a shaky breath, she turned the knob slowly and eased her head inside.

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Drawing a shaky breath, she turned the knob slowly and eased her head inside.

  As she’d hoped, some of the light from the downstairs hall had seeped in, and she was able to see—

  Blood rushed hotly into her face.

  Suddenly Jess stirred. Catherine jerked back and closed the door as quickly and softly as terror permitted. Then she flew back down the stairs, her stomach quaking.

  Her nostrils were still filled with the provocative Smells of warm man and tangy soap, her mind still reeling with the sight of his bed so close to the door. Jess Dalton was insensitive, chauvinistic and crude. He was also long-limbed and beautiful.

  And he apparently had no use for covers.

  Dear Reader,

  They say all good things must end someday, and this month we bid a reluctant farewell to Nora Roberts’ STARS OF MITHRA trilogy. Secret Star is a fitting windup to one of this New York Times bestselling author’s most captivating miniseries ever. I don’t want to give anything away, but I will say this: You’re in for the ride of your life—and that’s after one of the best openings ever. Enjoy!

  Marilyn Pappano also wraps up a trilogy this month. Knight Errant is the last of her SOUTHERN KNIGHTS miniseries, the story of Nick Carlucci and the bodyguard he reluctantly accepts, then falls for—hook, line and sinker. Then say goodbye to MAXIMILUAN’S CHILDREN, as reader favorite Alicia Scott offers Brandon’s Bride, the book in which secrets are revealed and the last of the Ferringers finds love. Award-winning Maggie Price is back with her second book, The Man She Almost Married and Christa Conan checks in with One Night at a Time, a sequel to All I Need Finally, welcome new author Lauren Nichols, whose Accidental Heiress is a wonderful debut.

  And then come back next month for more of the best romantic reading around—right here at Silhouette

  Intimate Moments.

  Yours,

  Leslie Wainger

  Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator

  * * *

  Please address questions and book requests to:

  Silhouette Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  * * *

  ACCIDENTAL HEIRESS

  LAUREN NICHOLS

  LAUREN NICHOLS fell in love with Montana thirteen years ago when she and her husband took their three children out West to see “cattle country.” Montana has owned a chunk of her heart ever since. While this is Lauren’s first published novel, her romance and mystery short stories have appeared in several leading magazines. She counts her family and friends as her greatest treasures. When she’s not with them, this Pennsylvania author is writing or traveling with her husband, Mike.

  For Mike, with love.

  How did we ever get so lucky?

  Chapter 1

  Casey paused in the doorway of the raucous cowboy bar and drew an apprehensive breath. Country music blared to the rafters, smoke layered the air, and the plank floor fairly quaked as cowboys in jeans and worn Stetsons two-stepped their partners around the dance floor.

  She was a long way from Chicago.

  Swallowing hard, she glanced around. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she’d been in her lawyer’s posh office, listening in disbelief to the news that her staggering money problems would soon be over.

  Now she was...here.

  Clutching her monogrammed shoulder bag, Casey forced herself to move the rest of the way inside. But only because she had no choice. The spindly, seventyish woman who’d answered the door at the Broken straw Ranch an hour ago had said this was where she would find Ross Dalton. “And if it’s important,” the tiny curmudgeon had added with a frown, “you’d better grab him and set him down tonight. Sometimes that youngster’s Saturday celebratin’ goes on long past the weekend.”

  It was important, all right, Casey thought, shuddering. And if she was going to “set” Ross Dalton down tonight, she’d better find a table. Casey scanned the area ahead of her, where corral-type fencing separated the dance floor from the bar and pinned back the tables clustered against the rough outer walls. Spying a vacant table, she threaded her way through a sea of hats and denim, aware that her silky champagne-colored blouse and designer trousers marked her as an outsider.

  If you didn’t compare it too closely to Costa D‘Oro or the dining room at the Ritz-Carlton, Casey supposed that Dusty’s Roadhouse was almost quaint. Hazy, gold-toned lighting pushed time backward, reminding her of old John Ford films and the earthy saloons in the Louis L’Amour novels she and her father used to read. There were shelves lined with nail kegs and other western bric-a-brac; rough, ceiling-to-floor support posts that carried the charred markings from a variety of branding irons; dynamic action prints by Frederic Remington and Charles M. Russell that hung at intervals on the sprawling room’s dark walls.

  The only thing the place seemed to lack was a bartender with slicked hair and an arm garter. Or did Dusty’s have one of those, too? she wondered.

  Casey glanced back across the room, toward the bar, past a low bandstand, where the band and a brunette in fringed buckskins were doing a Reba McEntire song.

  And a jolt of pure adrenaline shot through her as her gaze collided with a man’s dark reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

  Casey froze, unable to turn away, held there by the weight of the black-hatted cowboy’s gaze. He was rough, rugged, with a trace of five-o’clock shadow on a lean outlaw face. She trembled as those eyes sent a message across the dance floor and took her breath.

  Cheeks flaming, Casey jerked her gaze from his and hurried the rest of the way to her table, shaken and acutely aware of a long-dormant feeling curling behind her navel. Where had that response come from? How could a complete stranger evoke such—

  She made herself shake off the feeling, chalking it up to nerves. She didn’t have time for distractions tonight. She had to stay centered on her reason for being so far from home...focused on her lawyer’s incredible announcement.

  “There’s no mistake, Catherine,” Rupert Chesney had said yesterday. “Before your husband was killed, he lent this Dalton fellow sixty thousand dollars to cover gambling debts, not a cent of which has been repaid in the agreed-upon twelve months. According to this document, Dalton must surrender his collateral. It seems you now own one-half of a Montana cattle ranch.”

  Casey swallowed hard, remembering the warning that had followed: “This is going to get difficult, however. Dalton heatedly denies that this signature is his.”

  So, against her lawyer’s advice, here she was, trying to regain control of her life—something she had to do alone. Because if she’d had the sense to question Dane’s financial situation occasionally or tried to curb his reckless spending, she wouldn’t be in this fix.

  Jess Dalton drew a shaky breath, then let it out slowly. He wouldn’t have thought anything could distract him from his thoughts tonight. But every nerve in his body had snapped to life when the blond woman met his eyes in the mirror. Even now, an echoing tingle ran through his blood. He didn’t know if it was the way she was dressed, the lighting, or th
at hair, but this woman...shimmered.

  Shifting on his bar stool, he settled in to watch her slender reflection take a seat at a corner table. It was easy to see that she didn’t belong here. The expensive clothes, the smooth salon cut of her shoulder-length hair, the flawless makeup—all those things suggested she was more accustomed to crystal stem ware and linen tablecloths than to the sturdy mugs and easy-wipe Formica the roadhouse served up. Which made her exactly the kind of woman he didn’t need and shouldn’t be thinking about. He’d been down that road before, and it hadn’t turned out well. Still, Jess couldn’t pull his gaze away. He’d had a bitch of a day, and tonight he needed—no, deserved—a little fantasy.

  A brash chuckle and a clap on the shoulder slammed the door on that thought and reminded Jess why he’d. been in a such a foul mood all night. “Forget it, big brother, I saw her first.”

  Jess looked up, stunned that Ross could be so cavalier after the disturbing news the kid had delivered this afternoon. For the moment, Jess would give him the benefit of the doubt. But if Ross was lying—if the signature on that loan agreement wasn’t a fake... Dammit, he didn’t want to believe that—drunk or not, in trouble or not—Ross would sign away their birthright. Pushing his fears aside, Jess tried to be civil.

  “You think seeing her first is going to do you any good?”

  Ross feigned an insulted look. “You don’t think she’ll go for me?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Case of Coors says you’re wrong.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “A six-pack, then.”

  Jess scowled. “Forget it. I refuse to encourage either of your vices.” Tipping back on his bar stool, he popped a few beer nuts into his mouth and nodded toward the chesty redhead laughing with some cowboys at the far end of the bar. “Brenda’s looking for some male companionship tonight.”

  Grinning, Ross stuffed his shirttails deeper into his jeans, then made a show of centering his flashy new turquoise and silver belt buckle over his zipper. “Brenda the Bountiful? Not likely. You know what they say—why settle for meat loaf when steak’s on the menu?” Tipping his tan Stetson back on his head, he grinned again. “Don’t wait up, Mom.”

  Refusing to watch Ross’s cocky departure, Jess lifted his mug and drained the last of his beer. From the time the kid turned eighteen, there had been a competitive streak in him a mile wide. Nothing that ever caused problems, but it was a sure bet that if Jess showed an interest in something, his half brother would have to have it. He got it most of the time, too. Ross had his mother’s looks: perpetual smile, blue eyes that promised a lot more than he was willing to give, and thick, collar-length sandy hair women couldn’t keep their hands out of.

  Frowning, Jess signaled for another beer. Ross should hear the word no once in a while. It hadn’t been used around him much, starting with their father.

  When Ross returned a few minutes later, he was wearing a sheepish grin, and something that felt a lot like satisfaction replaced Jess’s annoyance.

  “So she doesn’t two-step,” he said with a laugh. Then, as if none of it meant a thing to him, Ross laughed again and lost himself in a crowd of western hats.

  The band played a waltz. Jess’s heartbeat picked up speed. Maybe his blonde couldn’t two-step, but most women knew how to waltz, didn’t they?

  Slowly, he rose from his bar stool, his blood humming though his veins like bees in a hive. She was city born and bred, no doubt about it. It was in her carriage, in her walk. But just for tonight, he needed to hold something beautiful in his arms.

  A loud crash and the sound of breaking glass spun Jess around, and he jumped back as shouts filled the bar and a ranch hand from a neighboring spread came skidding across the wooden floor on his back. The man had barely scrambled to his feet when a red-faced ramrod from the same outfit barreled forward to finish the job he’d started. Then Jess clenched his teeth in irritation. Dammit! Ross was hot on his heels!

  Muttering a string of curses, Jess plowed to the center of the fight. He needed every last man at his post in the morning, and no one from Broken straw would be cooling his heels in a jail cell if he could help it. That included his scuffle-loving brother.

  He yelled for Ross, caught him by the back of the belt and wrenched him backward just as the younger Dalton’s arms flew out in front of him in an all-out tackle. But the act of jerking Ross back made Jess’s equilibrium fail and sent them both careening sideways into a cluster of whooping onlookers. The next thing Jess knew, the onlookers were participants, the fight had spilled out onto the dance floor, and someone was shoving him from behind, sending him crashing, headfirst, into one of the roadhouse’s wooden support posts.

  Casey cringed in horror as twin shotgun blasts rocked the room and, in a pungent cloud of gunpowder, a mountain of a man carried his glowering bulk to the center of the dance floor.

  The brawling stopped. The roadhouse grew as quiet as a church.

  Casey’s heart hammered as the dark-haired cowboy with the intense gaze struggled to his feet a dozen yards away, his face a sickly white. Despite her fear and alarm when the fight broke out, something—she hoped it was her nurse’s training and eagerness to help—had drawn her to the fenced-in perimeter of the dance floor.

  A young brunette in jeans and a flannel shirt squeezed in beside Casey for a better look. “Sure took Dusty a while to drag out the Discourager tonight. He’s usually a lot quicker’n that.”

  “The Discourager?” Casey repeated shakily.

  The girl’s gaze swept Casey’s clothing. “Guess you’re new around here. The big guy’s Dusty Barrows—this is his place. The Discourager’s what he calls his shotgun. Dusty keeps a few empty loads ready for rare occasions like this. Nobody gets hurt, ’cause the Discourager’s all noise, no BBs. But it sure does get folks’ attention.”

  Casey suppressed a shudder. It had certainly gotten hers. She’d never dreamed that a civilized two-hour flight could drop her straight into a land full of John Waynes who still settled their differences with fists and buckshot.

  Casey’s heartbeat quickened as the dark-haired cowboy walked toward her to retrieve his hat from the floor. Once again, she was powerless to look away. She watched him bat the dust from his hat, then settle it back on black hair that was a bit too long, falling over his row and grazing the collar of his chambray shirt. The sandy-blond cowboy who’d asked her to two-step staggered to his side. Breathing heavily, the darker man sent him an angry glare. “What the hell was that all about?”

  The younger man gulped in a mouthful of air. “Shoot, Jess, I don’t know. I was just—”

  Dusty Barrows waddled forward, his big putty face set in a scowl. Over a V-necked T-shirt sprouting gobs of chest hair, the mountain wore a grease-stained white apron—a waste of time considering the tiny area it covered. “You don’t know what started it?” he bellowed at the young cowboy. “Then maybe you know somethin’ else, hotshot.” His thick arm fanned the room. “Maybe you know who’s gonna take care of my damages!”

  Casey followed the sweep of the big man’s arm. It struck her that more damage had been done to chins and midsections than to Dusty’s sturdy furniture, but she was hardly an authority on such things. Her concerned gaze returned to the man named Jess. He was waving a limp hand in the air.

  “We’ll pay half,” he said in a winded voice. “But you’ll have to get the rest someplace else. Send me a bill.” Then he clamped a hand on the sandy-blond cowboy’s left shoulder. “Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s get out of here before Dusty decides half isn’t enough.”

  “Can’t,” the younger man gasped. “Got an appointment.” Someone handed him a hat, and he nodded his thanks.

  “At this hour?”

  Grinning, wheezing, the blond cowboy pushed the Stet-son down on his head. “Yep. Me and Brenda have a date with destiny—soon as I clean up a bit and visit that handy little machine in the men’s room.”

  “Jess” paused to give his companion a skeptical look. The
n he chuckled—wincing when it apparently hurt to laugh—and moved on alone.

  Stunned by the quick shift from barbaric behavior to good-ol’-boy camaraderie, Casey watched as the man with the outlaw face and the outlaw name angled his way past the regrouping musicians and headed for the door.

  All the other principals in the fight had dusted themselves off and appeared none the worse for wear. But the black-hatted cowboy’s rolling gait still seemed a bit too deliberate. He’d hit that support post with enough force to knock it from its moorings. It would be a miracle if the man had escaped a concussion.

  Grabbing her purse, Casey started to follow, then stopped, suddenly unsure of herself. She didn’t relish dealing with a barroom brawler. But she was a nurse, and she felt obligated to offer her help when she suspected it was needed. If he was concussed, or if he’d had more to drink than the two beers she was aware of, the man probably shouldn’t be driving tonight.

  Casey hurried across the dance floor to the door, her stomach quivering uncontrollably, while a tiny voice in her head asked if her reasons for following him outside were really as noble as she wanted to believe.

  Stepping onto the wide, weathered deck outside the roadhouse, Casey closed the door behind her, silencing the blast of music that had followed her out. She squinted into the chill mountain darkness, searching the crowded parking lot for the tall cowboy. But there was no sudden flare of headlights in the rutted lot, and there were no engine sounds in the cold night air. Where could he have gone? she wondered, chafing her arms briskly. She’d been only seconds behind him.

  The sound of muffled swearing drew her attention, and Casey’s gaze sharpened. Yes, there he was, close to a few skinny trees edging the lot, just beyond the amber wash of the light pole. He appeared to be having a problem unlocking the door of his truck.