Montana Royalty. B.J. Daniels

and dressed. Since he’d been wearing his riding britches and boots, he could only assume he’d gone for a ride. So where was his horse? Where was he?

      His riding britches were cold and damp to the touch. He frowned as he remembered something. He quickly searched his pockets, only to find the first empty. In the other, he discovered a slip of paper.

      The note that had been slipped under his door yesterday afternoon.

      The ink had run on the paper, but he could still make out the words: I must see you. Meet me in the aspen woods a mile to the east of Stanwood tonight after dark.

      If he’d met someone in the woods last night, he couldn’t remember it.

      The bump on the head, the hangover from alcohol he couldn’t remember drinking and the feeling that something important had happened last night made him fear that he’d been tricked into coming to this isolated spot not to receive the news he so desperately sought, but to be…what? Killed?

      He stuffed the note into his shirt pocket and, fighting a wave of nausea, opened the door and stumbled out into the sunlight. To his growing concern, he saw no sign of his horse. Nor had the horse blanket he’d been wrapped in been one from Stanwood stables.

      He was becoming more concerned about the consequences of finding himself in such a predicament. He licked his lips, his mouth dry and tasting of stale brandy. Another taste teased his memory.

      He shook his head as if to clear away the cobwebs and shuddered at the pain. Why was it he could remember having only one drink since he must have imbibed more than that to be feeling this awful?

      Common sense told him he wouldn’t have gotten drunk before his meeting in the woods. So how did he explain this headache, his lack of memory?

      The thick pines outside at least told him he was in Montana, but nothing looked familiar. Not that he’d been there long enough to know his way around. Yesterday had been his first day at Stanwood.

      That seemed to jar a memory. He saw himself standing in the main parlor, having a brandy with several of the nobility visiting Stanwood. He’d been called up from the stables and complimented on his riding abilities. After that, he recalled nothing.

      His riding abilities? How ironic since it appeared he’d not only lost his memory—but his horse, as well.

      The ground, he noted, was still wet, the pine boughs dripping bejeweled drops that caught the sunlight in blinding prisms. When had it rained? He recalled being cold, then warm.

      An image flirted with his memory, but didn’t stick around any longer than to make him anxious. He had to get back to Stanwood.

      Taking a moment, Devlin studied the angle of the sun and started walking down the mountainside, hoping to find a road or fence or someone who could tell him where he was.

      As he rubbed the knot on his temple, he chastised himself for being a fool. He’d wager he’d been tricked into riding into the storm and woods last night. As terrible as he felt, he had a feeling he was lucky to be alive.

      He’d gone on a fool’s errand and now he would have to pay the price. He feared it would mean his job and being sent back to his home country. He couldn’t let that happen. He’d come too far, had already taken too many chances to get at the truth.

      Stumbling through the woods, he headed due west. He wasn’t sure how far he’d gone when he heard the thunder of hooves pounding toward him, and he looked up to see a half dozen of the royal police bearing down on him.

      ALL RORY WANTED was to get back to the ranch, take a hot shower and put the storm and the groom out of her mind.

      If only she could exorcize the images of the groom as easily. His lips on her skin, his strong arms around her, his hard body pressing into—

      She swore as she rode out of the pines and saw the car parked in front of her ranch house.

      Deputy Griffin Crowley stood against his patrol car, arms crossed over his chest, a frown on his face. He glanced at his watch as she approached, then back up at her with obvious irritation.

      Rory had completely forgotten about her call to the sheriff’s department yesterday morning when she’d discovered the tracks in her ranch yard. The sheriff had been unavailable. The dispatcher had promised to give someone the message though.

      And here was Deputy Crowley. He’d certainly taken his sweet time getting there.

      But that didn’t bother her as much as the fact that she was going to have to put off the shower and dry clothing awhile longer.

      “Rory,” Griff said with a nod as she swung down from her saddle. He was a big man, with a head of dark blond hair and a thick mustache that curled around his thin lips. He looked like the boy next door, more boyish than handsome.

      “I heard you called. The sheriff’s off to some lawman’s seminar in San Francisco. I got here as soon as I could. I was getting worried.” He studied her openly. Almost as if he knew that she’d spent the night in the line shack with a fancy-dressed foreign groom.

      She and Bryce Jones had double-dated with Griff and his girlfriend back in high school when the boys had been football stars, taking the team to state all four years. The two men had been close friends. She’d always suspected that Griff hadn’t forgiven her for breaking her engagement to Bryce anymore than Bryce had.

      But Griff and Bryce weren’t such close friends that the deputy hadn’t asked her out soon after the breakup and after Bryce’s leaving town. She’d turned Griff down all four times he’d asked her out since. To her relief, he’d finally quit asking.

      Unfair or not, Griff reminded her of Bryce, which was the kiss of death as far as she was concerned, not to mention she couldn’t forget the way Griff had tormented her when they were kids.

      “Sorry. Let me put my horse up.” Needing a moment, she led her horse into the barn, slipped off the saddle and tack and hung everything in the tack room.

      On the ride back to the ranch, Rory had told herself that she’d put last night behind her. It was over and done. No reason to beat herself up over it. And no one had to know about her lapse in judgment. Or whatever it had been in the middle of the night during the storm. The groom had no doubt been fired by now and was probably on his way back to whatever country he’d come from.

      She filled the mare’s bucket with oats before turning to find Griffin standing in the doorway watching her.

      “Early morning ride?” he asked.

      She knew her hair was a mess as well as her clothing, and saw no reason to lie. “Got caught in that storm last night. I had to spend the night in an old line shack.”

      He raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you had a line shack on your property.”

      “I don’t. The one to the west was closer than trying to make it back to the ranch,” she said avoiding his gaze.

      Fortunately, he let it drop. “Well, at least that explains why I couldn’t reach you when I called last night and again this morning,” he said. “I was worried about you out here all alone after you called the department. That was a pretty bad storm last night. Temperature dropped quite a bit. I’m surprised you didn’t freeze to death.”

      She’d always been a lousy poker player, every emotion showing in her face. “It wasn’t bad in the line shack,” she said, turning her whisker-burned face away.

      Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him frown. “Isn’t that line shack on the old Miller place? I thought that land was bought by—”

      “That’s the reason I called you,” she cut in. “Someone has been hanging around the ranch. I think it’s my new neighbors, that Duke—”

      “Prince. He’s a prince.”

      “Whatever.” She just wanted to cut this short and get a hot shower and into some dry clothes. “He’s been trying to buy my property and