Falcon's Run. Aimee Thurlo
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Her kiss was a tender expression of gratitude…
But Preston’s reaction to it was fierce and swift. He pulled her close and deepened the kiss. She didn’t resist. Giving in to temptation, she melted into him.
With each heartbeat, his touch became rougher, his kiss burned hotter. Then to her complete surprise, he eased his hold.
Abby looked into his eyes and saw the iron-willed control he held over himself.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You didn’t start this, and I can see you don’t want to…”
“I don’t want to?” He laughed, a dark, edgy sound. “I want you, Abby. I care about you more than I should. But you need to be protected—even from me.”
“You want me…” she said slowly, savoring the words. “Then show me.”
About the Author
AIMÉE THURLO is a bestselling author. She’s the winner of a Career Achievement Award from RT Book Reviews, a New Mexico Book Award in contemporary fiction and a Willa Cather Award in the same category. Her novels have been published in twenty countries worldwide.
Aimée was born in Havana, Cuba, and lives with her husband of thirty-nine years in Corrales, New Mexico. Her husband, David, was raised on a Navajo Indian reservation.
Falcon’s Run
Aimée Thurlo
MILLS & BOON
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With special thanks to Doug Baum and Dr Steve Komadina, who shared with me so much of their time and expertise about camels.
Chapter One
Armed with her favorite guilty pleasure—a caramel vanilla cappuccino—Abby Langdon left Sunny Perk in the distance and navigated the long gravel road that led to her ranch. Later, she’d put on a pot of coffee, but for now, her fix was complete.
Already she was anticipating the hard work and long day ahead. Sitting Tall Ranch and its special mission had always been her dream come true. Young victims of illness, poverty and abuse came to her ranch daily for a respite from their challenges. Her guests had witnessed the worst life could hand out, but Sitting Tall Ranch was the haven where they could forget their troubles and just be kids.
Abby slowed as she neared the abandoned pickup parked alongside the road. She’d seen it earlier when she’d left the ranch. Somebody had probably run out of gas then gotten a ride.
Abby drove through the gates, parked and headed to her office, a separate casita behind the main house. She was holding her to-go cup in one hand and reaching for her keys with the other when she heard a familiar voice to her left.
“Abby! Wait up!”
Ten-year-old Bobby Neskahi, hands down her favorite guest, was struggling up the sidewalk. Juvenile rheumatoid arthritis had damaged most of his joints and left him to rely on braces, but whatever had caused the panicked look on his face was urging him to move fast.
He stopped in front of her, catching his breath. “Carl’s hurt! He’s not moving.”
“Where is he?” Her heart suddenly beat overtime. Carl Woods was her caretaker, animal handler and all-around right-hand man on the ranch.
“He’s inside Tracker and Missy’s turnout area. He’s on the ground, and he didn’t move or answer when I called him.” Bobby grabbed her hand. “He might be dead. I couldn’t see him breathing. Come on! You gotta help!”
Abby touched Bobby firmly on the shoulder, then handed him her keys. “Bobby, I need you to go into my office, call 911 on the desk phone, then stay here until the police arrive. You’ll have to show them the way. I’ll go check on Carl.”
Bobby nodded and Abby took off running toward the stalls.
Jogging around the corner of the barn, Abby nearly collided with a wheelbarrow stacked with bales of alfalfa hay. Stopping just in time, she began inching between the wheelbarrow and the fence. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of movement.
As she turned to look, a large figure leaped up from behind the stack and forced an empty feed bag over her head.
“Hey!” Sputtering from the debris in her eyes and mouth, she fought to pull the bag off.
Strong arms grabbed her wrists, yanked them down to her sides, then lifted her off the ground.
Abby tried to kick her captor, but he just grunted, hauled her several steps, then flung her violently onto the ground.
DARK, ANGRY CLOUDS were building over Copper Canyon. “Storm’s heading our way.” Hot from exertion despite the cool, early hour, Detective Preston Bowman had already shrugged off his shirt as he continued working alongside his brother, repairing gaps in the fence line. Their late foster father’s place belonged to all of them now.
As the wind from the downdrafts intensified, Preston could feel the force of the approaching storm. The sky continued to darken quickly, turning the new day into near twilight.
Kyle, taller than his brother by one inch and just as muscular, wiped his eyes with a dirty hand. “Rain I like. Sand-storms, not so much, bro.”
Preston was tired, though he’d never admit it. His sore muscles were a constant reminder of why he’d chosen city life instead. As a cop, Preston was more used to wielding a gun rather than a shovel, axe or sledgehammer. Even though he was six feet tall and in excellent shape—police work demanded it—he was ready for a break.
Kyle reached for his shirt. “I’d forgotten what it feels like to be sandblasted.”
“Have you decided if you’re going to be coming home for good?” Preston grabbed his own shirt and ducked inside the toolshed.
“Not yet,” Kyle said, joining him in the small shelter. “I have some things to work out first.” He shook his head and shrugged. “Can’t say anything else—classified.”
Preston nodded silently. He didn’t have to know the details to realize whatever it was had hit Kyle like a hard kick to his gut. Despite that, he knew his brother would find a way to deal with it.
Inside each of his five brothers was a fighter who never gave up. They’d all been tested at an early age, long before they’d even known how to protect themselves from life’s hard knocks.
Their stories were all different but shared the same core. They’d been wards of the state, abandoned by people who were supposed to have protected and loved them. Survival instincts had become second nature to each of them early on.
When life did its best to bring them to their knees, they got up and kept fighting. It was what they did best. The difference was now they