Desperado

Book 1: A Taggart Brothers Novel

by Lisa Bingham

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

From bestselling author Lisa Bingham comes the first in a brand-new series starring a trio of handsome wranglers. The Taggart brothers have bodies of iron and hearts of gold—though both may be a shade tarnished. But that doesn’t stop them from trying to keep the women they love in their arms . . .

Elam Taggart knows about the nickname town gossips have given him: Desperado. He doesn’t care. He’s lost just about everything: his wife, his parents, his little sister, and his career as a Navy EOD specialist. After returning home, he hightails it to the rugged Wasatch Mountains outside town.

But when his brother comes asking for help, Elam can’t say no. That is, until Elam realizes that in order to help, he’ll be forced to spend time with town newcomer P.D. Raines. P.D. knows that asking Elam Taggart to be her partner in the town’s upcoming Wild West Games is a mistake. But she needs the prize money, and Elam is lean, hard, and tortured—a dangerous combination she can’t seem to resist.

As the competition heats up—to the point of peril—Elam and P.D. have to turn away from the past and embrace the passion that sparks between them in order to escape the threat to their lives.

Release date: June 2, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 336

Sample

CONTENTS

ANNABEL

Soft and sweet like a lullaby,

She came to me ’neath a summer sky,

Filled my life with immeasurable grace,

With a gentle smile and a hint of lace.

Annabel, oh, Annabel. What I’d give for one more smile,

Or to sit and talk to you for a while.

Annabel, Annabel, where did you go?

Won’t you come back home for the winter snow?

She taught me how to live and love,

Like an angel sent here from above,

For a time this girl was mine to hold,

’Til she went in search of a future bold.

Annabel, oh, Annabel. What I’d give for one more day,

With you by my side for a day of play.

Annabel, Annabel the joy you bring.

Won’t you come back home for the flowers of spring?

I know she’s in a happier place,

With constant sunlight on her face,

Someday she’ll visit us, this I know,

Once she’s spread her wings and learned to grow.

Annabel, oh, Annabel. Think of me where’er you are,

Whether close to home or miles afar.

Annabel, Annabel, you’re etched on my heart,

You’ll be there with me through this brand-new start.

ONE

P.D. Raines had learned early in life that she couldn’t give up, couldn’t give in—even though it sometimes felt as if the world was out to get her. Take her name, for instance. The moment P.D. announced she was Prairie Dawn Raines, it was a foregone conclusion that strangers would assume she was a stripper or a fanatical, tree-hugging activist. Even worse, with such a fanciful name, they assumed she didn’t have a brain in her head—and she wasn’t being overly sensitive. Time and time again, she’d been told she would never amount to anything.

But P.D. refused to believe that she was predestined for failure because she’d been raised by a pair of drug-addicted, free-loving parents who drove from place to place, searching for Nirvana in a home-on-wheels fashioned from a refurbished school bus. Defying the odds—and the lack of a public school education—she’d sworn to herself that she would go to college, get a degree, and have a career. One that would pay for a house with a foundation dug solidly into the earth, honest-to-goodness electricity, and indoor plumbing.

Her determination hadn’t always been so iron-clad. Even her parents had scoffed at her plans, telling P.D. that her dreams were the “milksop of a blind Western capitalist society” and, even worse, a denial of the freedom her parents had taught her to value. Nevertheless, as the years had piled one on top of the other, P.D. had grown increasingly dissatisfied with her parents’ itinerant lifestyle. She wanted to live like the other families. Those with warm golden windows that flashed past her as they traveled down back road highways to the next “perfect spot.” She wanted to know what it was like to sit at a table and eat casserole from a steamy dish or cuddle on overstuffed couches in front of a glowing television set. More than anything, she wanted to belong somewhere. To be . . .

Normal.

In the end, P.D. had refused to let her parents dent her enthusiasm—especially when it became more and more apparent that Summer and River Raines thought she was an inconvenience, a burden that detracted from their own need for oblivion, and worse yet, a voice of conscience when they really didn’t want one. She’d ignored their lack of physical and emotional support as well as their callous regard of her dreams, and she’d begun to plot out her own future.

Unbeknownst to her parents, P.D. had taken what little homeschooling her mother had provided to keep Social Services at bay, and she’d read anything she could get her hands on: art, literature, philosophy, science. As soon as she’d turned eighteen, she’d struck out on her own, finding a community center that would help her to complete her GED, take the ACT, and win a plum, full-ride scholarship. Within another four years, she’d earned double degrees at Nebraska State University. And the minute she’d had that diploma in hand, she’d vowed to put the pain of her adolescence in her rearview mirror and forge a future for herself as a world-class physicist.

But life had a way of biting a person in the butt by giving them what they wanted most. After a failed relationship with a coworker, and a stint in a research lab that had been nothing short of torture, P.D. decided to follow her passion rather than a paycheck. She’d returned to the one spot on earth where she’d felt most at home during her childhood wanderings.

Bliss, Utah.

The name itself was inspiring.

But even with the courage born of such experiences, as P.D. pulled to a stop in front of Elam Taggart’s half-built cabin and the dust settled around her rattle-trap truck, she knew she couldn’t go through with this. She could not ask a man like Elam Taggart for help.

Not now.

Not ever.

“I’ll talk to him first,” Bodey Taggart said, gathering his crutches and opening the door. “Don’t come out unless I give you the signal.”

“Bodey, I—”

But just as she’d been about to beg Bodey to drop the whole thing, a figure rounded the corner of a half-finished upper deck at the rear of the house. In that instant, P.D.’s protests died before they could ever be formed.

Oh. My. God.

A man stood illuminated in the late-afternoon light. As if the moment had been staged for a special-effects shot for the Hallmark Channel, rays of gold slipped across the contours of his bare chest, the faint patch of dark hair at his breastbone, and down, down, to the low-slung jeans and dusty boots.

“That’s your brother?” P.D. whispered. Although she was a regular at the Taggart home, she’d never had the chance to meet the illusive Elam Taggart. He seemed to spend most of his time at his cabin.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

Elam Taggart stood still for several long moments, one hand raised as he tried to discern who had interrupted his solitude. At the sight of wide shoulders, well-developed arms, and a set of abs that looked like they’d been carved with a chisel, warmth flooded P.D.’s body, settling low in her belly and causing her breath to hitch in reaction.

God bless America, she thought, echoing the code phrase that her best friend, Helen, used whenever a fine specimen of manhood crossed her path.

Bodey struggled to slide from the truck with his crutches, orthopedic boot, and cowboy hat intact, but P.D. hardly noticed. Elam Taggart bent and grasped the edge of the deck with his hands, then swung down to the ground, the muscles of his arms, shoulders, and back rippling. He landed softly—making the “dismount” look as effortless as jumping from the curb.

He walked toward the pump a few feet away, his jeans slipping even farther to reveal the weight he’d lost and a set of killer obliques. As he moved, P.D.’s gaze followed the hard ridge of muscle separating his abdomen from his hips until her eyes came to a stop at the faint line of dark hair that disappeared beneath his fly. She’d always been a sucker for low-slung jeans on a well-built man—not that she’d seen anyone in Bliss who could qualify for being truly “gawk-worthy.”

Until now.

Unaware of her prurient interest, Elam unlatched the pump handle and waited for the water to run cool. Now that he was closer, P.D. could see that his bare arms and chest gleamed with sweat and a fine layer of sawdust. Over six feet tall, Elam was built like a runner, all lean, sinewy strength. The work he’d done on his cabin had given him a tan that blended well with the coffee-colored hair that brushed his shoulders and a beard that darkened his jaw.

When he leaned over to duck his head beneath the running water, P.D. could not have yanked her gaze away if her shoes were on fire. Instead, she watched like an adolescent Peeping Tom as he thoroughly doused his head, then snapped back to attention, droplets of water flinging into the air around him. The movement could not have been choreographed better had he tried. Bits of liquid scattered jewel-like into the air while rivulets cascaded down his face and chest. Then he stood there, dripping, waiting for Bodey to approach.

Thunder Down Under, eat your heart out, P.D. thought. Because this wasn’t a man who manipulated his sexuality. He was completely unaware of the powerful picture he presented—or the fact that he could probably bring any woman to her knees with a single glance.

Shifting in her seat, P.D. knew she should look away.

Dear sweet heaven, she should definitely look away.

But she didn’t.

Not when she knew that, at any moment, Elam would realize he was being watched by someone other than his brother and reach for the shirt that lay a few feet away.

And wouldn’t that be a shame.

Bodey had finally managed to traverse the uneven ground to his brother’s side, but P.D. had grown so distracted, she didn’t bother to listen to their conversation as they exchanged the internationally recognized male-to-male greeting ritual—an awkward hug with lots of back slapping, an exchange of insults, then a punch to the arm. But P.D. was probably the only one who realized that even though Elam went through the motions, the happiness that radiated from Bodey never even touched Elam’s eyes.

In an instant, the whispers of gossip that P.D. had heard in town raced through her head.

. . . too young to be a widower . . .

. . . Navy EOD . . . injured in Afghanistan . . .

. . . tortured soul . . .

. . . PTSD . . .

P.D. had always dismissed the stories as being exaggerated and fanciful—and the nickname they’d given him, Desperado, had seemed ludicrous. But watching Elam now, in this unguarded moment with his brother, she began to believe that everything she’d heard was true—true and probably only the tip of the iceberg. It was obvious from the sharp, too-lean contours of his face and the raised scars that wrapped around one side of his waist, that Elam had been through hell and back—and he was pissed at the world. Even his posture—head slightly forward, shoulders tensed, hands held away from his body—relayed his wariness at what other obstacles Fate might throw his way.

He was the kind of man who could help P.D. with her current dilemma. Strong, determined, and stubborn—which was a moot point now. Because there was no way in hell that Elam Taggart would ever agree to her proposal. Even though, as was her prerogative as a woman, she had suddenly changed her mind again. She really, really wanted his help.

Geez. She was freakin’ out of her mind for even considering it.

P.D. killed the engine and strained to hear over the ticking metal. Bodey was talking now, and despite the growth of beard on Elam’s face, she could lip-read most of his end of the conversation.

What the hell happened to you?

He winced at Bodey’s response.

Don’t you know any better than to get out from under a horse before he rolls on you?

Then, he grew still, listening intently to what Bodey was saying.

P.D. froze, her fingers gripping the steering wheel, knowing that Bodey would now be presenting her case. Her gut tightened in apprehension and she was at once embarrassed and nervous.

Elam would probably say “no.”

There was no way he’d say “yes.”

But what if, miracle of miracles, he did agree? Did she really want to ally herself with someone so . . . intense? Could she withstand four days and nights of constant contact with a man like Elam without completely cracking from the strain? Or worse yet, begging him to—

P.D. brought her thoughts to a screeching halt, banishing the images of Elam Taggart wearing nothing but a smile. But the tingling that pooled low in her belly couldn’t be so easily dismissed.

She was nuts. Absolutely nuts.

Or maybe, much like Helen had repeatedly warned her, it was time P.D. brought a halt to her self-imposed “dry spell” where men were concerned and let it rain. Granted, a man like this would never look to someone like her for a meaningful, long-lasting relationship. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t have some fun if it were offered.

“I am so going to hell for even thinking about Elam Taggart that way,” P.D. whispered to herself. He was Bodey’s brother, for heaven’s sake. You didn’t mess around with a friend’s brother. It was an unspoken rule. Worse yet, it was asking for trouble.

But for the first time in her life, P.D. wasn’t sure if the “friend code” really made a heck of a lot of sense.

*   *   *

“YOU want me to do what?” Elam grumbled, sure he hadn’t heard his younger brother correctly.

Truth be told, Elam was used to his younger brother’s harebrained schemes. There were four Taggart siblings, with Barry being the youngest. But since Barry hadn’t come along until Elam was about to join the Navy, it was Elam, Jace, and Bodey who’d grown up together.

As kids, Elam had always been the cautious one, the planner, the plotter. Even as a boy, he didn’t commit to anything until he’d studied it from every angle and formulated a plan of attack. Three years younger, Jace was the peacekeeper. Quiet, laid-back, he had a meticulous eye for detail and a talent for collecting strays. But Bodey . . .

Well, Bodey was a different animal. From birth, he’d been mercurial, impetuous, and mischievous, forever getting the three of them into trouble. He tended to jump first and think about the consequences later. And nothing had changed since then, Still in his twenties, Bodey was a master at raising hell. He lived for little more than the National Cattle Cutting Competition circuit, women, Single Action Shooting Society matches, women, the next adrenaline rush . . . and women. Hell, if anyone could draw the ladies like flies, it was Bodey. And somehow, his brother always managed to wriggle out of his broken relationships having gained a friend rather than a crazy ex. Even so, Bodey had always displayed a good grasp of reality.

Until now.

Bodey eased closer on his crutches, obviously worried that their conversation would carry as far as the truck. It wasn’t until that moment that Elam realized his brother hadn’t driven himself up the canyon. With the sun in his eyes, Elam could only guess who was inside.

“Please, Elam. I’m desperate. If you can’t bail me out . . . well, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Sighing, Elam raked his fingers through his hair, then wiped the water from his face. “Start again. I still can’t figure out what the hell you think I can do.”

Bodey backtracked and began with, “It’s about time for Wild West Days in town.”

Elam nodded. As kids, they’d lived for the annual Wild West Days’ celebration with its week-long festivities honoring the first settlers to enter the valley. There were water games with the volunteer fire department, a carnival in the park, and a parade down Factory Street. The Rotary Club served breakfast at the bowery near the town hall, and the police grilled hamburgers at night. In the evenings, there was a rodeo at the fairgrounds, where professional riders were integrated with mutton-busting kids and the high school roping team. And each night, fireworks would bloom in the sky over the mountains like Indian paintbrush, providing the perfect ambience for wooing the latest girl.

Dear heaven above, Elam thought with a pang of nostalgia that faded into a knot of pain in his chest. It seemed like only yesterday when he’d loaded his high school sweetheart, Annabel, into his truck and taken her up the old service road to the same spot where his cabin now stood. He’d been what . . . sixteen . . . seventeen? He’d spread out a blanket on the sweet, sweet grass, and they’d lain watching the streaks of color appearing above them. Then Annabel had taken his hand and placed it at the buttons of her shirt . . .

For a moment, Elam could hardly breathe. His hand rose to unconsciously rub at the pain that lodged in his chest like molten lead.

From somewhere far away, Bodey continued his narrative, “. . .town’s hundred and fiftieth anniversary . . . something new . . . Wild West Games.” Elam barely heard him. His mind was flooded with images of Annabel, of the way she sighed with desire as he unfastened her blouse and cupped the delicate swell of her breast for the first time.

He’d been young and inexperienced, but then, so was Annabel. When she’d pulled him on top of her, he’d thought his heart and his body would explode. And, sweet heaven above, she’d felt the same. But as the image of her head flung back, eyes closed in passion, faded into the pale form of his wife’s body lying posed in her casket, Elam jerked his attention back to Bodey, knowing that he couldn’t allow his thoughts to plunge down that trail.

Because he didn’t think he could handle one more drop of pain.

Bodey was looking at him expectantly—and for the life of him, Elam had no idea what response was required of him. So he finally scrambled to say, “What does any of that have to do with me?”

“I signed up for the Games in January. Me and P.D. Raines. First prize is ten thousand dollars! And we were a shoe-in for the winner’s circle. The competition is nothing more than displaying the skills used by the original settlers—riding, shooting, driving a team.” He bent to whack the black plastic and Velcro contraption that covered his foot and leg to the knee. “Then this happened . . . and I can’t let P.D. down. I’ve already talked to the contest committee and substitutions can be made up to this Friday.”

Finally, Elam understood the purpose for Bodey’s trip up the mountain. Evidently, he was hoping that Elam would take his place.

“No.” Elam turned away, intending to get back to work. Another few days and he should be able to finish up outside and start painting inside. And then . . .

Well, he didn’t know what he’d do to fill his time and occupy his thoughts. He’d made a promise to Annabel on their wedding night that he’d build her a house on the hill in the same spot where they’d first made love. He’d begun the project hoping to feel closer to Annabel. Instead . . . he felt gutted. Lonely. Especially with the project so close to completion.

“Why can’t you help me out?”

Why? Because the last thing Elam wanted was to throw himself back into Bliss’s mainstream, back among people he’d known his whole life, where he would have to field sympathetic looks and well-meaning comments like: “How are you faring?” and “Time heals.” Because he wasn’t “faring” well at all and “time” hadn’t done a damned thing. He was still angry at God and the world for taking away the only woman he’d ever loved.

“Get Jace to do it,” Elam said, referring to the brother sandwiched between them in age. Striding away, Elam signaled to Bodey that he was done with the conversation.

But Bodey didn’t take the hint. He merely dug the tips of his crutches into the dirt and swung along behind him. “I already asked. He’s got mandatory pesticide certification that week.”

Elam sighed, lifting his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Then you’ll have to find someone else to do it.”

He tried to move toward the cabin, but Bodey planted himself in Elam’s way just like he used to do when Elam and his friends were going fishing and Bodey wanted to come along. “I can’t,” he said urgently. “I’ve already tried. Do you think I’d be here if I hadn’t asked everyone I know?”

Briefly, Elam wondered if he should be insulted by that remark. Was he last on the list because Bodey thought he wasn’t capable of doing the job? Or was it because his little brother knew, deep down, that Elam wouldn’t help him even if he begged?

He felt a nudge of conscience. There’d been a time when the Taggart brothers had been thick as thieves. There was no exploit too risky, no demand too wild, that would keep them from banding together to help one another.

But then, everything Elam had thought he’d stood for—family, country, and honor—had begun to implode. First, he’d been sent overseas—the deployments coming one after another with only a few months in between to spend time with Annabel. Then, he’d received word that an automobile accident had claimed the lives of his mother, father, and baby sister, Emily, while Emily’s twin, Barry, had suffered irrevocable brain damage. And then, worst of all, he’d received the call that Annabel had suffered a brain aneurism. Before he could even make his way home, Annabel was gone.

After that, life seemed to crumble around him. He was suddenly alone. Numb. As soon as he’d been able to rejoin his unit, he’d headed back overseas, not really caring what happened to him. It had only been a matter of months before he’d been injured. Then, he’d been sent back to the States for good.

Elam knew that since returning from Walter Reed, he’d been keeping his brothers at arm’s length. At first, he hadn’t wanted their pity—no, not pity. They’d never pitied him. But their concern had been just as stifling, reminding him of everything he’d lost. And knowing that he’d crack if he allowed himself to give in to anything other than anger, he’d purposely erected a wall between them—first literally, then figuratively. His gaze lifted to the sturdy logs and river rock of his new place. A home away from the “Big House” as it was known. It was the first time in generations that any of the Taggarts had chosen to live somewhere other than the ancestral property.

“Shit,” he whispered under his breath. He’d been back in the States for more than a year now, but in all that time, his brothers hadn’t asked him for a thing. Even though Elam was the eldest, Jace had calmly taken over the management of Taggart Enterprises, overseeing the business aspects of the prize-winning quarter horses they bred, trained, and sold; the herds of beef cattle kept on local and mountain pastures; and the three thousand acres of land they farmed to support the livestock. Even more, he’d stepped up to take care of Barry, ensuring their little brother got to his doctors and therapists, classes and social activities so that Barry could become the sweet kid that he was.

Bodey had worked just as hard. He not only oversaw the purchasing and breeding of the livestock, but he was their major source of advertising. As one of the top cow cutting competitors, he juggled a grueling rodeo schedule with the responsibilities of the family ranch.

Elam was fully aware that his brothers had deftly left Elam with little more to do than break the new colts upon his return to the States—a physically demanding job that helped him to forget how hellish his existence had become amid the exhaustion.

But they’d never asked more of him.

Until now.

With a rush of shame, Elam realized he was a bastard through and through. What kind of man said “no” to his family? Especially with the way they’d been carrying most of the responsibility for Taggart Enterprises for so many years?

“Look, if you know someone else I can ask, give me a name,” Bodey was saying. “P.D.’s taken over that old restaurant in town—Vern’s?—and needs half of the prize money to make some improvements in the kitchen. I can’t let down a friend, Elam. And it’s my own damned fault I got trapped under that horse. I felt him falling and should have kicked free sooner, but—”

“I’ll do it,” Elam said from between clenched jaws—regretting the words the moment they’d been uttered—even though he knew he had no other option.

Bodey couldn’t disappoint a friend.

And Elam sure as hell couldn’t add refusing to help a brother to his already long list of sins.

He looked up in time to see Bodey’s face split with a grin that spread like sunshine over his features. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

Bodey crowed in delight, pumping one fist into the air. Twisting, he threw a thumbs-up sign toward the truck. As if an all-clear signal had been given, the driver’s door opened and P.D. Raines stepped out.

It wasn’t until the shape stepped free of the truck and the orange of the setting sun streaked over each line and hollow that Elam realized that P.D. Raines was a woman.

*   *   *

P.D. knew the precise moment when Elam Taggart grasped the fact that she wasn’t a man.

It wasn’t the first time someone had assumed she was male. “P.D.” was androgynous enough that such mistakes had happened before. But she would have given money to have a camera aimed in Elam’s direction when the fierce wildness in his expression eased to one of pure and utter shock.

Just as quickly, the emotion disappeared, and his features became carefully blank. But the transformation wasn’t entirely successful, because as she walked toward him, the muscles of his jaw flicked in a betraying manner.

“P.D., this is my older brother Elam.”

She held out a hand for him to shake. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

His grip was firm and sure. “Probably all bad.” The words were meant to be light, she was sure, but Elam’s tone held a thread of something darker, as if he were aware of the rumors circulating around town.

P.D. promised herself that she’d keep things cool, professional. Friendly. But when his palm swallowed hers, she was toast. Some women were butt-aficionados; others were turned on by a man’s chest. But P.D. had always been first attracted to a man by his hands.

Elam Taggart had sexy hands, with long slender fingers and bony knuckles. Faint scars and calluses attested to the fact that he was accustomed to hard work. They were broad hands, the perfect size to handle tools or a woman’s breast—probably with equal finesse. A dusting of dark hair led up to sinewy forearms and shoulders with taut musculature.

P.D. could feel the heat rise in her cheeks and avoided staring at his bare chest, training her eyes instead on the darkness of his beard, the full lips, angular nose, and deep-set eyes. Hazel eyes laced with flecks of blue, green, and gold that reminded her of the Wasatch Mountains that surrounded them.

“What does P.D. stand for?” Elam asked. He spoke softly, but the rumble of his voice could have carried yards.

She cleared her throat before admitting, “Prairie Dawn.”

She thought she saw the slightest lift to his eyebrows—as if she’d surprised him yet again.

“Pretty name.”

P.D. grimaced. “Says the man who wasn’t named after a Muppet.”

That comment took him aback because his lips tugged at the corners. Not really a smile, but close. “And were you? Named after a Muppet?”

She shrugged. “Who knows? My parents were rather . . . unconventional.”

And wasn’t that the understatement of the year.

Elam was still holding her hand. The warmth seeped up her arm to spread through her body in a frisson of awareness. P.D. would have to be an idiot not to admit he turned her on—she’d have to be dead not to be turned on. But along with that awareness came the knowledge that the gaze he leveled her way could have been a huge, flashing sign reading: NO TRESPASSING!

And P.D. would never be the kind of woman who could convince a man like this to lower his defenses. That would take someone with infinite gentleness and patience. P.D. had never had time for either of those qualities. After clawing her way into mainstream America, she didn’t have it in her to be docile and sweet.

Elam fi