Renegade

Book 3: A Taggart Brothers Novel

by Lisa Bingham

Genres: Westerns; Contemporary Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

The bestselling author of Desperado returns with another sexy cowboy from the Taggart family...

The rugged and wild Taggart brothers know how to tame a restless beast, but a restless heart is a different matter...
 
When tragedy struck, Jace Taggart stepped in to run the family business and care for his brothers, sacrificing his own happiness to ensure their well-being. But after the beautiful Bronte Cupacek moves to town, Jace realizes he can’t ignore the hunger inside him much longer.
 
However, the last thing Bronte needs is another man in her life. After the end of a painful marriage, she just wants to focus on her daughters. They need her now more than ever. Yet no matter how hard Bronte tries to stand on her own two feet, it’s hard to resist the handsome cowboy who keeps coming to her aid.
 
Soon secrets from the past threaten everything dear to them. Only through embracing their undeniable connection can Jace and Bronte build a future together that no one can tear apart...

Release date: January 5, 2016

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 336

Sample

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CONTENTS

Berkley Sensation Titles by Lisa Bingham

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Flight

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

Special Excerpt from Maverick

ONE

WATERBOARDING.

Caning.

The Rack.

Bronte Cupacek tightened her fingers around the steering wheel and swore to heaven that when the government of the United States outlawed cruel and unusual punishment, there should have been special provisions made for mothers locked in minivans for the duration of a cross-country trip. Especially if said minivan contained two adolescent siblings who’d been at each other’s throats twenty minutes into the journey.

What had she been thinking?

But then, she hadn’t been thinking at all, had she? On that first, chilly April morning, she’d been so consumed with guilt, panic—and yes, a healthy dose of fear—that she hadn’t bothered to consider the ramifications of her actions. With the haste of a thief leaving the scene of a crime, Bronte had awakened her two daughters at the crack of dawn, helped them cram their belongings into all the suitcases they possessed, and then stuffed everything into the “Mom Mobile.” Less than forty minutes after their frantic preparations had begun, she maneuvered away from the brownstone she’d shared with her husband for sixteen years, and began the long drive west.

Bronte hadn’t even looked back as Boston was swallowed up in her rearview mirror. She drove in a daze, the black highway an endless ebony ribbon stitched down the middle with yellow thread. For the sake of her girls, she pretended that she’d been planning this spontaneous adventure for months. They visited Gettysburg, Mt. Rushmore, and highway markers commemorating countless historical sites—all much to Kari’s dismay. At fifteen-going-on-thirty, she considered history of any kind “lame” and Bronte’s choices in entertainment “lamer.” Lily was less inclined to complain, which worried Bronte even more. With each tick of the odometer, she retreated into mute, self-imposed exile—to the point where Bronte would have suffered any personal indignity for just a hint of a smile.

By the time they’d reached the Great Divide, Bronte had given up telling her girls they were “on vacation.” Clearly, she’d been no better at hiding the need to flee than she’d been at disguising the bruise on her cheekbone. Day by day, it faded from an alarming shade of plum to the sickly yellow of an overripe banana. She’d tried to conceal the injury with layers of foundation, but at bedtime when she rubbed the makeup away, she would catch her daughters surreptitiously studying the telltale mark. But they didn’t ask what had happened. Somehow, they must have known that to acknowledge something was wrong would pry the lid off Bronte’s tenuous emotional control.

She supposed it was that need—that obsession—to finally put this journey behind her that caused her to pull off the road and stare blankly at the sign proclaiming:

BLISS, UTAH—POPULATION 9672

(Sign donated by Bryson Willis—Eagle Scout Project 2014)

The world still had Boy Scouts?

“Why are you stopping?” Kari demanded. She glowered at Bronte from the passenger seat, radiating the pent-up vitriol of a teenager who’d been forced to leave her friends two months before the end of the school year. “Let’s just get to Grandma Great’s house. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can go home.”

Bronte had heard that same demand at least once an hour for the last bazillion miles, and it took every ounce of will she possessed to bite back her own caustic reply. Her daughter didn’t know it yet, but Bronte had serious doubts about ever returning to their “life” in Boston.

Phillip had seen to that.

There was a stirring from the rear of the van. Like a groundhog cautiously emerging from its burrow, Lily raised her head over the edge of the seat and blinked in confusion.

“Is this Great-Grammy’s?”

Kari rounded on her sister before Lily had the time to rub the sleep from her eyes.

“What do you think, genius? That Grandma Great lives on the side of the road?”

“Enough,” Bronte barked automatically. The fact that Kari rarely got along with her younger sister had only been exacerbated by hours of travel. The teenager was like a chicken, pick, pick, picking at her more sensitive sibling until both Lily and Bronte were raw.

“If you can’t be nice, keep your opinions to yourself, Kari.”

How many times had Bronte said that in the last hour . . . week . . . lifetime?

Kari rolled her eyes and huffed theatrically. She was barely fifteen and already filled with rage and defiance. Bronte had to get a grip on their relationship before Kari discovered the truth about her father or . . .

Don’t think about that now. Not yet. Later. Once you’re at Annie’s, you can take all the time you want to decide what to do. Away from Phillip’s influence.

She nearly laughed aloud. Yes, she was away from her husband’s influence—thousands of miles away. But he could have been sitting in the seat beside Bronte for her inability to forget him. His ghost had accompanied her every step of the way—and her phone was filled with unread messages, texts, and emails that she should have erased the instant they appeared.

Should have erased.

But hadn’t.

Because there’d been a time when she had loved him so much that a handful of kind words from him had felt as intimate as a caress.

But that had been a long time ago.

A million years and two thousand miles ago.

Ultimately, the state of her marriage had become a case of fight or flight. This time, she’d chosen flight. And after coming so far, she didn’t have the strength to confront her own actions, let alone those of her daughter. But soon. They were almost at her grandmother’s farmhouse. Once there, she could burrow into the peaceful solitude of this tiny western town and begin to piece together the torn remnants of her lifelong dreams.

“Are you going to drive anytime soon?” Kari inquired, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Or are you waiting for a sign from God?”

Closing her eyes, Bronte counted to ten before responding.

“I haven’t been here since I was seventeen, Kari. I need a minute to get my bearings.”

Kari huffed again, fiddling with the button to the automatic window, making it go up, down, up, down. The noise of the motor approximated an impatient whine.

“I thought that’s why we bought a map at the last gas station,” she grumbled under her breath. “If you’d get a GPS like everyone else . . .”

Please let me get through the next few miles without resorting to violence, Bronte thought to herself as she put the car in gear, waited for a rattletrap farm truck laden with bags of seed to pass, then eased into the narrow lane.

As they drove through Bliss proper, Bronte grew uneasy. Over the years, she’d imagined the area would remain like a time capsule, unchanged and completely familiar. Either her memories were faulty, or urban sprawl had begun to encroach on this rural community. To her dismay, she could see that some of the mom-and-pop establishments had given way to newer, sleeker buildings bearing franchise names and automated signs.

For the first time, Bronte felt a twinge of uneasiness. She’d tried to contact Annie, without success. What if they’d come for nothing? What if Annie couldn’t offer Bronte the haven she hoped to find?

Instantly, Bronte rejected that thought. Grandma was the one constant in the world. A beacon of love that made no demands. That’s why, when Bronte felt as if she’d drown in her own silent anguish, she’d gravitated instinctively to the spot where she’d been happiest. A place where she wouldn’t have to present a chipper façade to the world to hide the fact that everything she’d once held dear had long since crumbled to dust.

“Well?”

Bronte had stopped at a red light—probably the only one in town. In her efforts to orient herself, she’d missed the change to green. There wasn’t another soul in sight, but trust Kari to pound home her irritation at the minute delay.

“It’s this way,” she murmured—more to reassure herself than her children.

Turning right, she prayed that she’d chosen the correct side road. Victorian farmhouses and bungalows from the thirties were crowded by newer, turreted McMansions that looked alien in such a rural setting. But as she wound her way along the old highway, she began to pick out landmarks that were familiar to her: the train trestle that spanned the creek; the box-like outline of pine trees surrounding the pioneer cemetery; the old mill which had apparently been converted into a bed and breakfast.

“It’s not far now,” she reassured her children.

“I hope so,” Lily admitted, her eyes wide as she studied the passing scenery.

Ashamed, Bronte realized that she shouldn’t have let so much time elapse before coming to Utah. But Phillip had insisted that any place without a Starbucks or a subway wasn’t worth visiting. So, Bronte had kept the peace and arranged for Grandma Annie to visit them every year. But her children had been denied so much because of Bronte’s cowardice. They’d never ridden a horse or hiked up a mountainside to drink from an icy artesian spring. But this summer, they would have a chance.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Lily whispered. “Will Grandma Great let me use her bathroom?”

“No, she’ll make you pee in a bush, stupid.”

“Kari!”

Raindrops splattered against the windshield. Leaning forward, Bronte eyed the flickers of lightning with concern. They were almost there. They should be able to outrun the storm.

Lily stirred restlessly in her seat. “How much farther?”

“Less than a mile.”

Intermittent drops continued to strike the glass, leaving perfect circles in the dust, but Bronte hesitated to turn on the wipers. The blades—much like her tires—should have been replaced months ago. If she turned them on now, the rain and dirt collected on her car would muddle together in a streaky mess, and she needed to see the towering willow tree that marked the end of the lane . . .

There!

For the first time in years, Bronte felt a flutter of joy and hope. They were here. They were finally here!

Slowing the car, she turned into a narrow gravel road. The tires crunched over the weathered ruts, the noise bringing a sense of excitement that edged out the weariness and pain.

A strip of winter-matted grass grew up the middle of the track, and puddles gathered in the potholes. On either side of the lane, fence posts had been linked together with strands of barbed wire. The fields beyond were as she’d remembered, loamy carpets of brown sprigged with chartreuse shoots of sprouting grain. As they drew closer to the house, the fences gave way to dozens of lilac bushes, which had grown so closely together that they formed an impenetrable hedge. To Bronte’s delight, she saw that the first bud-like leaves were beginning to appear. Sometime in May, they would explode into a fragrant wall of purple and pink and the air would grow rich with the scent of the blossoms and the drone of bees.

“Look!” she exclaimed to her children. “It’s only the second week in April, but Annie’s lilacs are starting to get their leaves.” She cracked the window, allowing the heady fragrance of rain and soil to fill the car.

Lily eagerly pressed her face against the glass, but Kari remained stony and silent. Nevertheless, Bronte sensed an expectancy in her daughter’s posture that hadn’t been there before.

“Where’s the house?” Lily breathed.

“Past the next bend.”

As Bronte eased around the corner, a part of her was a child again. She expected to see Annie waiting on the stoop wearing a cotton dress cinched tight by an all-encompassing apron. Bronte could almost smell the yeastiness of freshly baked bread that clung to the house and taste the moist carrot cookies that were pulled from the oven as soon as she and her siblings arrived. As soon as Bronte ran up the front steps, she would be enveloped in her grandmother’s warm, bosomy embrace. She would breathe deeply of Annie’s unique scent—face powder, lilies of the valley, and Nilla Wafers, which Annie stowed in her apron pockets for when she needed a boost.

Bronte was so enveloped in the memories that it took Kari’s sharp inhalation and Lily’s plaintive “oh” to pierce the fantasy.

Easing to a stop, Bronte peered more closely through the rain-streaked windshield. As her eyes focused on the weathered farmhouse, a mewl of disappointment escaped her lips.

If not for the porch light and a dim glow emitted from the garret window, Bronte would have thought the house had been abandoned. Weeds choked the once beautiful flowerbeds and the lawn was burned and nearly nonexistent. The sagging wrap-around porch was missing half a dozen balusters and the front steps were rickety and threatening to collapse.

The outbuildings had suffered a similar fate. Bronte remembered the chicken coop, barn, and garden being painted a pristine white. When she’d seen them last, they’d been perched on an immaculate lawn edged by tufts of peonies and irises. But if any of those perennials had survived, they would have to fight their way through thigh-high weeds and thistles.

“I thought you said this place was nice.”

Kari’s tone made it clear that she thought Bronte teetered on the verge of senility.

Bronte didn’t bother to comment. What could she say? Her memories weren’t so gilded by age and distance that she could have mistaken this . . . this . . . mess for the idyll she’d enjoyed each summer.

Reluctantly, she eased the car closer to the main house. Rain began to fall in earnest now, but even the moisture collecting on her windshield couldn’t hide the utter neglect.

“Are you sure Great-Grandma lives here?” Lily whispered.

“Of course she lives here,” Kari snapped. “But Mom didn’t bother to tell us what a dump it is.”

Rain pattered against the roof of the car, the rhythm growing frantic as the downpour increased. Conceding to the inevitable, Bronte switched on the wipers, waiting vainly for the streaks of grime to be swept away—as if by cleaning the windshield, she might find the condition of Annie’s house had been a trick of light and shadow.

If anything, the view was more depressing.

A part of her wanted to throw the car in gear and leave. Bronte didn’t want to consider that her fondest memories could be tarnished by this current reality. But she honestly couldn’t go any farther. She’d pinned her hopes and her endurance on reaching Annie’s house. Now that she was here, she didn’t have energy left to alter her plans.

Needing to validate her decision, Bronte turned off the car. For several seconds, the drumming on the roof and the ticking of the cooling engine underscored the silence.

Then she said, “Stay here.”

There were no arguments as Bronte grasped the map from the dashboard. Holding it over her head, she threw open the driver’s door and darted into the rain. Avoiding the damaged step, she hurried to the relative shelter of the porch and pressed the doorbell.

As she waited for her grandmother to appear, Bronte could feel her children’s gazes lock in her direction. Once again, she realized that she should have waited until she’d been able to reach her grandmother. If Grandma Annie had known they were coming . . .

What?

What would she have done?

Weeded the flowerbeds? Thrown a coat of paint onto the house?

Why hadn’t it occurred to Bronte that she and Grandma Annie had aged at the same rate? In her mind’s eye, Annie had remained the same vivacious woman she’d been when Bronte had seen her last. She must have slowed down in the past few years. Obviously, the maintenance of the property had become too much for her.

What if she wasn’t up to an impromptu visit?

Bronte’s gut crawled with new worries. Damn, damn, damn. She’d been desperate to get her children away from the trouble brewing at home. Bronte had thought that if she had time alone with her girls, she could mend the brittleness that had invaded their relationships. Then, when the opportunity arose, she could explain that the move from Boston was permanent.

As well as the separation from their father.

“Ring it again!” Kari shouted from inside the car.

Forgoing the doorbell, Bronte opened the screen and pounded with the knocker. Annie could have grown hard of hearing. She had to be . . . what? Eighty-five? Eighty-six?

Why hadn’t Bronte kept in touch more? Why hadn’t she pushed aside Phillip’s overwhelming demands and reached out to her grandmother? Instead, Bronte had grown so ashamed of her situation and her inability to make it better, that she’d limited her contact to cheery phone calls and the “too, too perfect” letters tucked into family Christmas cards.

The grumble of a distant engine drew her attention. Allowing the screen to close with a resounding bang, she wiped the moisture from her face as a pair of headlights sliced through the gathering gloom.

For a moment, she was exposed in the beams as a pickup rolled from behind the barn and headed toward the lane. At the last minute, the driver must have seen her, because the path of the truck altered, veering toward Bronte and her children.

A growl of thunder vied with the sound of the engine as the vehicle jounced to a stop. It was a big truck, purely utilitarian, with a stretch cab and jacked-up wheels with shiny rims unlike anything Bronte had ever seen in Boston. The window to the passenger side slid down and a man leaned closer so that she could see his shape like an indigo cutout against the pouring rain. Much like the truck, he was built for hard work, with broad shoulders and powerful arms.

“Do you need some help?”

His voice was deep enough to carry over the drumming of the rain and something about its timber caused her to shiver.

Using the map as her makeshift umbrella, Bronte ran closer. “Yes, I’m looking for Annie Ellis. I can’t get an answer at the door. Do you know if she’s expected back anytime soon?”

The stranger in the truck removed a battered straw cowboy hat, revealing coffee-colored hair tousled by rain and sweat and eyes that were a pale blue-gray. A faint line dissected his forehead—whiter above, a deep bronzed tan below, conveying that he spent most of his time in the sun. He had features that could have been carved with an ax, too sharp and square to be considered handsome, but intriguing, nonetheless.

“Exactly who are you?” he asked bluntly.

Normally, she would have bristled at such a tone, but she was tired—emotionally and physically. All she wanted was a hot cup of tea and sleep. Deep, uninterrupted sleep.

“My name is Bronte Cupacek. Annie is my grandmother.”

The man’s gaze flicked to the van, the Massachusetts license plates, and the children who were pressed up against the windows watching them intently.

“Ah. The Boston contingent.”

Something about his flat tone rankled, but before Bronte could decipher his mood, he delivered the final blow to an otherwise devastating few months.

“Your grandmother fell down the stairs yesterday afternoon. She’s in a local hospital.”

TWO

JACE Taggart watched as the woman’s face fell in disappointment. Then her eyes widened and she blinked at him with a Bambi-in-the-headlights stare rimmed in ridiculously dark lashes. Even wet and bedraggled, she was pretty in that Bostony, high-maintenance sort of way.

But the look of horror that crossed her features couldn’t be feigned.

“Is she all right?”

Jace hesitated before responding. The woman’s posture had grown so brittle that he wondered if any more bad news would cause her to shatter.

“She’s . . . not doing too well,” he said reluctantly. “She’ll be in the hospital for a while.”

She grew even paler.

“Th-the hospital . . . it’s still . . . uh . . .” She pressed a finger between her brows and closed her eyes, as if doing so would help her retrieve the memory. “Is it still on the main road beyond the middle school?”

Jace shook his head. “No, a new one was built about ten years ago, but Annie was taken by Life Flight to the medical center in Logan.” He pointed to the lane that led back to the highway. “Go back where you came and turn left onto the old highway. You’ll head north about three miles, turn right, and then follow the road over the mountain. Once you’re in Logan, you’ll see signs showing the way.”

“O-okay.”

Inexplicably, Jace couldn’t tear himself away. There was something about her that begged for his help, but Jace pushed the sensation aside. All his life, his family had accused him of collecting strays—cats and dogs when he was young, then troubled friends, and finally lonely women. Lord help him, after his last relationship, he couldn’t handle another needy female. With spring planting to be done, wet weather making many fields inaccessible, Bodey raising hell, and Barry retreating socially . . .

Jace had too damned much to worry about. There were days when he felt like the weight of the world was crushing down on him to the point where he couldn’t breathe. The last thing he needed was one more “project” sucking up what scant emotional and physical energy he had left.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t ignore the twinge of guilt he felt at abandoning Annie’s granddaughter—especially when he sensed that this woman was closer to her breaking point than he was. But even as his gaze flicked to the dark bruise marring her cheek, she stepped away.

“Thank you.”

There was no escaping the “I don’t know who the hell you are, so keep your distance” tone or the wariness that stiffened her spine. Her gaze flicked to the minivan, then back to him again as she analyzed how quickly she could get to her children if Jace posed a threat.

Much as he would with a startled colt, Jace eased back, lifting his hands in a silent calming gesture. He kept his voice low and soothing as he said, “Glad I could help.”

Then, since her posture continued to radiate her unease, he replaced his hat, touched a finger to the brim, and forced himself to turn away, rolling up the window again. But it took more effort than he would have imagined putting the truck in gear.

He drove with unaccustomed slowness, watching Bronte Cupacek grow smaller in his rearview mirror. She was tall and slim—too slim if the sharp jut of her collarbones and wrists were any indication. The way she’d wrapped her arms around her waist seemed self-protective. In the sheeting rain she looked vulnerable and fragile. Defeated.

No, not quite defeated. Despite the haunted look in her eyes, there was still a defiant tilt to her chin.

One that might only be for show.

The minute she disappeared behind a hedge of lilac bushes, Jace swore, bringing the truck to a halt. For several long minutes he sat there with the rain pummeling the roof, thinking of all the things he should be doing. He had four hired men to orchestrate despite the rain and wet fields. Bodey had just bought a new mare at a recent auction, and Elam needed his signatures on a land lease. Barry, Jace’s youngest brother, would be arriving home from an outing with his Scout group in the next ten minutes.

That thought caused a frown. Although Barry had suffered brain damage from an automobile accident years ago, he was generally very social. Jace usually had to threaten to hogtie him to a chair to keep him from running down the lane to wait for his Scoutmaster. But lately, Jace couldn’t get him to go with the other boys his own age—and Jace was damned if he knew why.

Shit.

But even as he moved to put the truck back into gear, something tugged at his conscience, urging him to check on Annie’s family. One more time.

Growling at his unaccustomed indecisiveness, Jace slipped his cell phone from his pocket and quickly dialed his elder brother, Elam.

The phone was answered on the first ring. “Hey, Jace.”

“Are you still on the ranch?”

“I’m finishing up. I left the leases on your desk.”

“Thanks. I’ll sign them as soon as I get in.” Jace paused, then asked, “Are you in a hurry to get home?”

Since Elam and Prairie Dawn Raines had become a couple the previous summer, Jace had seen a real change in his brother. Where once he’d been stony and wracked with grief after the death of his first wife, now he was more relaxed and easygoing, quick to smile and even quicker to lend a hand at the ranch. Often as not, when he was finished with his work breaking colts, he would join P.D. at her restaurant in town or head to his newly built cabin on the hillside.

“Nah,” Elam said. He must have been on his way into the Big House because Jace heard the squeak of the front screen. “P.D.’s meeting with a supplier until seven or eight, so I’ll probably hang around here and use the weights or something. What do you need?”

“Could you pick up Barry and hang on to him for a while?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

Jace sighed. “I don’t know. I was driving past Annie’s and some of her relatives were there.”

“They must have heard about the accident.”

“Not exactly. It came as a shock.”

Elam sighed. “That’s a hell of a welcome.”

“Yeah. I think I’ll make sure they get to the hospital. Annie’s granddaughter wasn’t real clear on how to find it.” As if the words gave Jace the permission he’d been seeking, he began turning the ranch truck around.

“Don’t worry about Barry. After her meeting, P.D. is taking the rest of the night off, so she’ll enjoy spoiling him. She was bringing flatbread pizza from Vern’s, so I’ll go with Barry and get some sodas at the Corner. Then, since it’s the weekend, we’ll keep him Friday and Saturday night. He was asking when he could have another sleepover at the cabin. I’ll have to bring him with me to the ranch tomorrow morning. I’ve got buyer appointments throughout the day, but as soon as I’ve finished, I’ll take him with me to Vern’s. The band will be playing, and he loves that.”

“Thanks, Elam.”

“We’d enjoy having him even more. Maybe you should take some time off.”

And wasn’t that the truth. Sometimes Jace felt like crawling out of his skin with the need for a few hours of blissful solitude. Although Elam didn’t know it yet, Jace had already begun thinking that once the harvest was in and the winter wheat planted, he might go somewhere. Alone. Somewhere other than Taggart Hollow.

But it was too soon to mention it to his brothers—it wasn’t even something that he allowed himself to think of all that often. It was a half-formed idea that had begun to take root in his brain, growing stronger with each day, until he would find himself toying with the idea of see