McCullen's Secret Son. Rita Herron

He knew where she lived. Mama Mary had managed to drop it in the conversation once when he’d had a weak moment and had called home.

      He’d already unsaddled his horse, so he jogged back to the house and climbed in his pickup truck.

      Thankfully, Maddox and his lady friend had gone inside, and he had no idea where Ray was, so he didn’t have to explain to anyone. Not that he had to tell them where he was going.

      He hadn’t answered to anyone in a long time.

      Well, except for his publicist and fans and the damn press.

      He drove from the ranch, winding down the drive to the road leading into town, the quiet of the wilderness a reprieve from the cities he’d traveled to. A few miles, and he drove through the small town, noting that not much had changed.

      At this late hour, the park was empty, the general store closed, yet country music blared from The Silver Bullet, and several vehicles were parked in the lot. He wasn’t surprised to see Ray’s. He was probably drowning his sorrows.

      Inside, the booze and music was always flowing, the women footloose and fancy-free. Just his type.

      Another night maybe...

      He turned down the street toward Willow’s, anxiety needling him. He’d never stopped loving her. Wanting her.

      But she was taken. And he had a different life now. A life he’d chosen. Another rodeo coming up, another town...

      Children’s bikes and toys dotted the yards, suggesting the neighborhood catered to young families. The house at the end of her block, a small rustic log cabin, was Willow’s and was set way back from the road, offering privacy. A beat-up pickup truck that had obviously run over the child’s bike sat crooked, half in the drive, half in the yard.

      His father had said Willow had troubles... Did it have to do with the man she’d married? Judging from the sloppy way the truck was parked, and the fact that he’d run over the bike, maybe he’d been drinking...

      Not your problem, Brett.

      Except that Willow said she needed him.

      He scanned the outside to see if her old man was lurking around. Did he know that Brett and his wife had had a romantic relationship years ago?

      He braced himself for trouble as he parked and walked up to the front door. Barring a low-burning light in the bedroom, the house looked dark.

      The hair on the back of his neck prickled as he rang the doorbell. Something didn’t feel right...

      He waited several seconds, then knocked and called through the door, “Willow, it’s me. Brett.”

      The sound of footsteps on the other side echoed, then the lock turned, and the door squeaked open. His breath stalled in his chest as Willow appeared, the door cracking just enough to see her face.

      “Brett?” Her face looked ashen, and a streak of blood darkened her hair.

      “Yeah, it’s me.”

      Panicked at the sight of her disheveled state, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. “What the hell’s wrong?”

      She slammed the door shut, then locked it and turned to face him, her eyes wide with fear. “Help me,” she whispered as she threw herself into his arms.

      Brett’s stomach churned as he pulled her trembling body against him and wrapped his arms around her.

      * * *

      WILLOW SANK INTO Brett’s arms, the terror she’d felt since she’d arrived home pouring out of her as he held her. She tried to battle the tears, but they overflowed, soaking his shirt.

      “Shh, it’s all right,” Brett murmured into her hair. “Whatever’s wrong, we can fix it.”

      She shook her head against him. “That’s just it, I don’t know if I can.”

      Brett stroked her hair, and rubbed slow circles along her back. For the first time in years, she felt safe. Cared for.

      But he was only being nice. He had his own life, and when she confessed the truth about Sam, there was no telling how he’d react. He might hate her.

      Or he might leave town and not get involved in her troubles. A murder case could ruin his reputation.

      But really—none of that mattered. Not when Sam was in danger.

      “Willow,” Brett said softly. “Honey, you’ve got to tell me what’s wrong. What happened?”

      Brett slipped a handkerchief into her hands and she wiped her face. Then she looked up into his eyes.

      He had the darkest, most gorgeous eyes she’d ever seen. Eyes she’d gotten lost in years ago.

      She wanted to soak in his features, but looking at that handsome, strong face only reminded her of her little boy who looked so much like him that it hurt.

      He rubbed her arms. “Willow, talk to me.”

      “I...don’t know where to begin.” With the body of her dead husband? Or Sam?

      “You said it was a matter of life and death. I know you’re married, that you have a little boy.” She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to look at him for a moment.

      “I noticed the pickup truck outside and the crunched bike. Is that what this is about?”

      “I wish it was that simple,” she said on a shaky breath.

      Brett led her over to the sofa and she sank onto it, her legs giving way. He joined her, but this time he didn’t touch her.

      “Your husband? Is he here? Did he hurt you?”

      Emotions threatened to overcome her again, and she glanced at the phone, willing it to ring. Willing the caller to tell her how to get her little boy back and end this horror.

      “Did he?” Brett asked, his voice harsh with anger.

      She shook her head. “Not exactly.”

      Brett shot up from the seat, his jaw twitching. “Come on, Willow, tell me what the hell is going on.”

      “He’s dead,” Willow blurted. “Leo is...dead.”

      Brett went stone still and stared at her. “What do you mean, dead?”

      “In there,” Willow said. “When I got home tonight, I found him.”

      He glanced around the bedroom, then exhaled noisily. “How did he die?”

      “Someone shot him.” Her voice cracked. “There’s blood...everywhere.”

      Brett released a curse and strode to the bedroom. Willow jumped up and raced after him, trembling as he flipped on the overhead light. The stark light lit the room, accentuating the grisly scene in her bed. Leo staring at the ceiling with dead eyes. Blood on his clothes and the sheets.

      Brett choked back an obscenity. “Who shot him?”

      “I don’t know,” Willow whispered. “I...found him and was going to call the police, but then a man jumped me.”

      Brett pivoted, his eyes searching her face, mouth pinched with anger as he lifted his hand and touched her forehead. She didn’t realize she’d been bleeding, but he drew his hand back and she saw blood streaking his finger. “He hurt you?”

      “I’m all right. He grabbed me from behind, and he said... He told me not to call the police, that he...had Sam.”

      “Sam?”

      Willow’s lungs strained for air. “My little boy. He has him, Brett. And he said if I called the police, I’d never see him again.”

      * * *

      BRETT GRITTED HIS TEETH. “You mean he kidnapped your child?”

      “Yes,”