McCullen's Secret Son. Rita Herron

shook her head. “Let me go and I promise I’ll do whatever you say.”

      A nasty chuckle rumbled in her ear. “Oh, you’ll do what we want, Willow. That is, if you want to see your little boy again.”

      “What?” Willow gasped.

      He twisted her head back painfully, as if he was going to snap her neck. She tried to breathe, but the air was trapped in her lungs. “Please...don’t hurt him.”

      “That’s up to you.” He shoved her head forward, and she felt the barrel of his gun at the back of her head. “We’ll be in touch with instructions.”

      Then he slammed the butt of the gun against her head. Pain shot through her skull, and the world spun, the room growing dark as she collapsed.

      * * *

      BRETT HAD MUDDLED his way through the funeral and tacked on his polite semicelebrity smile as the neighbors offered condolences and shared the casseroles that had been dropped off.

      He didn’t know why people ate when they were grieving, but Mama Mary kept forcing food and tea in his hands, and he didn’t have the energy to argue. He’d grown accustomed to cameras, to putting on a happy face when his body was screaming in pain from an injury he’d sustained from a bull ride.

      He could certainly do it today.

      “Thank you for coming,” he said as he shook another hand.

      Betty Bane’s daughter Mandy slipped up beside him and gave him a flirtatious smile. She looked as if she’d just graduated high school. Jailbait. “Hey, Brett, I’m so sorry about your daddy.”

      “Thanks.” He started to step away, but she raised her cell phone. “I know it may not be a good time, but can I get a selfie with you? My friends won’t believe I actually touched the Brett McCullen!”

      She giggled and plastered her face so close to his that her cheek brushed his. “Smile, Brett!”

      Unbelievable. She wanted him to pose. To pretend he hadn’t just buried his old man.

      He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from telling her she was shallow and insensitive, then extricated himself as soon as she got the shot. He shoved his plate on the counter, wove through the crowd and stepped outside, then strode toward the stable.

      He wanted to be alone. Needed a horse beneath him, the fresh air blowing in his face and the wild rugged land of Horseshoe Creek to make him forget about the man he and his brothers had just put six feet under.

      Or...he could take a trip down to The Silver Bullet, the honky-tonk in town, and drown his sorrow in booze and a woman.

      But the thought of any female other than the one he’d left behind in Pistol Whip didn’t appeal to him. Besides, if the press got wind he was there, they’d plaster his picture all over the place. And he didn’t need that right now. Didn’t want them following him to the ranch or intruding on his brothers.

      A heaviness weighed in his chest, and he saddled up a black gelding, climbed atop and sent the horse into a sprint. Storm clouds had rolled in earlier, casting a grayness to the sky and adding to the bleakness of the day.

      He missed the stars, but a sliver of moonlight wove between the clouds and streaked the land with golden rays, just enough to remind him how beautiful and peaceful the rugged land was.

      To the west lay the mountains, and he pictured the wild mustangs running free. He could practically hear the sound of their hoofs beating the ground as the horses galloped over the terrain.

      Cattle grazed in the pastures, and the creek gurgled nearby, bringing back memories of working a cattle drive when he was young, of campfires with his father and brothers, of fishing in Horseshoe Creek.

      He’d also taken Willow for rides across this land. They’d had a picnic by the creek and skinny-dipped one night and then...made love.

      It was the sweetest moment he’d ever had with a woman. Willow had been young and shy and innocent, but so damn beautiful that, even as the voice in his head cautioned him not to take her, he’d stripped her clothes anyway.

      They’d made love like wild animals, needy and hungry, as if they might never be touched like that again.

      But he and his brothers had been fighting for months. His father had started drinking and carousing the bars, restless, too. He’d met him at the door one night when he’d been in the barn with Willow, and warned Brett that if he ever wanted to follow his dreams, he needed to leave Willow alone.

      His father’s heart-to-heart, a rarity for the two of them, had lit a fire inside him and he’d had to scratch that wandering itch. Like his father said, if he didn’t pursue rodeo, he’d always wonder if he’d missed out.

      That was ten years ago—the first time he’d left. He’d only been back once since, five years ago. Then he’d seen Willow again...

      He climbed off the horse, tied him to a tree by the creek, then walked down to the bank, sat down, picked up a stone and skipped it across the water. The sound of the creek gurgling mingled sweetly with the sound of Willow’s voice calling his name in the moonlight when they’d made love right here under the stars.

      He’d made it in the rodeo circuit now. He had fame and belt buckles and more women than any man had a right to have had.

      But as he mourned his father, he realized that in leaving, he’d missed something, too.

      Willow. A life with her. A real home. A family.

      Someone who’d love him no matter what. Whether he lost an event, or got injured and was too sore to ride, or...too old.

      He buried his head in his hands, sorrow for his father mingling with the fact that coming back here only made him want to see Willow again.

      But she was married and had a kid.

      And even if she had troubles like his father said, she could take care of them herself. She and that husband of hers...

      He didn’t belong in her life anymore.

      * * *

      WILLOW ROUSED FROM unconsciousness, the world tilting as she lifted her head from the floor. For a moment, confusion clouded her brain, and she wondered what had happened.

      But the stench of death swirled through the air, and reality surfaced, sending a shot of pure panic through her.

      Leo was dead. And a man had been in the house, had attacked her.

      Had said Sam was gone...

      She choked on a scream, and was so dizzy for a second, she had to hold her head with her hands to keep from passing out. Nausea bubbled in her throat, but she swallowed it back, determined not to get sick.

      She had to find her son.

      A sliver of moonlight seeped through the curtains, the only light in the room. But it was enough for her to see Leo’s body still planted in her bed, his blood soaking his clothes and the sheets like a red river.

      Who was the man in the house? Was he still here? And why would he kidnap Sam?

      Shaking all over, she clutched the edge of the dresser and pulled herself up to stand. Her breathing rattled in the quiet, but she angled her head to search the room. It appeared to be empty. She staggered to the kitchen and living room.

      Both were empty.

      Nerves nearly immobilized her, but she held on to the wall and made herself go to Sam’s room. Tears blurred her eyes, but she swiped at them, visually scanning the room and praying that the man had lied. That her little four-year-old boy was inside, safe and sound. That this was all some kind of sick, twisted dream.

      Except the blood on the bed and Leo’s body was very real.

      At first glance, her son’s room seemed untouched. His soccer ball lay on the floor by the bed, his toy cars and trucks in a pile near the block set. His