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Once a Rebel
Debbi Rawlins
Time travel has done its uncanny work once again.Folks best be watchin' out for stuntmanturnedprivateeye Cord Braddocka tall, gorgeous fella with a touch of Navajo blood. He's spent his entire life shunning his ancestral beliefs and fighting his way into the worlduntil he finds a strange old camera in an attic. . .Now he's a sexy twentiethcentury hunk stuck in 1878 and Maggie Dawson can't get enough of the stranger. He's exciting. He's exotically dangerous. And he makes her want to do the most unladylike things! Is this about to be Maggie's last stand?
Maggie froze
Dare she turn her hand over, let his shaft rest against her palm? She wanted to, yet she wasn’t sure she had the courage.
“Do you want to touch me, Maggie?” Cord asked hoarsely.
She swallowed and nodded, but couldn’t seem to move.
He trailed his fingertips over her knuckles, his touch a light dusting. “Have you ever seen a man naked before?”
She widened her eyes at the outlandish notion, briefly met his gaze before hers flickered away. “No.”
He picked up her hand and turned it over, palm up. To her amazement, his hand wasn’t too steady. It made it easier to look at him, see the unexpected vulnerability in his face. See the slight tremble of his shoulders. He was actually trembling. Why? And then she met his eyes.
Without looking away from her, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm, and then he wrapped her fingers around his smooth, hot manhood. She jumped at the initial touch, as if he’d scorched her, and then watched in awe as the trembling in his shoulders spread through his chest.
Dear Reader,
It’s my hope that by now you’ve read about the fantastical journey of the two Winslow sisters, Reese and Ellie, in Once an Outlaw and Once a Gambler. The heroines and readers were transported to 1870s Deadwood. Now, in Once a Rebel, we return there with Cord Braddock, an ex-stuntman turned private detective who is searching for the two women. Since Cord is half Navajo Indian, the challenges he faces extend beyond traveling through time and falling for a virginal heroine.
Although I’m currently working on a contemporary story, I really hope there are more time-travel romances in my future. Hmm, I’m thinking logging in the Pacific Northwest or maybe even the early frontier of Alaska? Sometimes my mind is a dangerous place. Sure keeps me entertained, though. I hope this story does the same for you.
Happy reading!
Debbi Rawlins
Once A Rebel
DEBBI RAWLINS
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Debbi Rawlins lives in central Utah, out in the country, surrounded by woods and deer and wild turkeys. It’s quite a change for a city girl, who didn’t even know where the state of Utah was until four years ago. Of course, unfamiliarity never stopped her. Between her junior and senior years of college she spontaneously left home in Hawaii and bummed around Europe for five weeks by herself. And much to her parents’ delight, she returned home with only a quarter in her wallet.
Books by Debbi Rawlins
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
13—IN HIS WILDEST DREAMS
36—EDUCATING GINA
60—HANDS ON
112—ANYTHING GOES…
143—HE’S ALL THAT* (#litres_trial_promo)
160—GOOD TO BE BAD
183—A GLIMPSE OF FIRE
220—HOT SPOT** (#litres_trial_promo)
250—THE HONEYMOON THAT WASN’T* (#litres_trial_promo)
312—SLOW HAND LUKE* (#litres_trial_promo)
351—IF HE ONLY KNEW…* (#litres_trial_promo)
368—WHAT SHE REALLY WANTS FOR CHRISTMAS† (#litres_trial_promo)
417—ALL OR NOTHING
455—ONCE AN OUTLAW†† (#litres_trial_promo)
I would like to acknowledge that Once a Rebel
is a work of fiction and meant solely to entertain.
While I have paid close attention to historical
detail, now and then I may have stretched the
facts for the sake of the story.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
1
“MAD DOG MANSON still in the wind?” Cord Braddock asked casually as he pocketed the much-needed check he’d just received for his last job. Another messy divorce case. Yeah, the guy was cheating, and Cord had delivered the proof that would net the soon-to-be ex-wife a nice settlement. But if he had to spy on one more sleazy, lying dirtbag husband, he was gonna…
“No.”
“Who caught him?” His gaze shot to Leslie’s impassive face.
“No, you can’t have the job.” Slowly, she shook her head, her blue gaze firm and unwavering. Behind her on the beige office wall was a poster from one of her earliest movies.
“So no one else has bagged him yet.” Now, that was some serious money to be made. Enough for five months’ rent, five lease payments on Cord’s Porsche and next year’s gym membership.
“You’re a private detective, not a bounty hunter, and even if you were, I wouldn’t give you this one.” Leslie slid open her desk drawer and pulled out a strongbox where he knew she kept petty cash. “This is Manson’s third strike. He’s not coming in without taking down anything that moves.”
Yeah, Cord had his P.I. license now, even a gun and permit to carry it, but calling him a private detective was being too generous with the kind of jobs he’d been doing. “I’m not looking for easy.”
“You should be.” She gestured with a lift of her chin. “How’s the shoulder?”
“I want Mad Dog, Leslie.” Out of habit, or because she’d called attention to it, he flexed his injured shoulder. Today it didn’t hurt too much. “I’m dead serious about this.”
She leaned back in her creamy yellow leather chair and stared at him with a sympathy he found hard to stomach. Yet she wasn’t that unlike him. Chewed up and spit out by Hollywood when her use and youth had hit a wall. Still, she’d done okay for herself, invested well while she’d been making some dough, and then bought old man Barker’s detective and bail bonds agency.
Cord hadn’t been so smart. He’d spent the considerable money he’d made as a stuntman on cars and women as fast as he pulled in paychecks, too caught up in the good life to see that inevitably it would come to a crashing end. He pushed up from the too-small chair facing her and stretched out his legs. Nice office, but more chic than practical. Not that he knew anything about practicality. If he did, he’d give up the Porsche.
“Come on, Leslie,” he said smoothly, giving her his best pleading puppy-dog eyes.
Leslie sighed. “No.”
Cord exhaled sharply and looked out the window at the blue California sky, marred only by the persistent gray smog that hung over the Valley. Maybe it was time to move. L.A. was expensive and crowded and toxic. But where would he go? Not back to Arizona. Certainly not back to the reservation. The mere thought sent a shaft of dread down his spine. He’d go back to begging on the streets of L.A. before he’d end up there again.
“I need work, Les, but not this nickel-and-dime stuff.”
“Even the small stuff pays the bills.”
Cord drove a hand through his hair. It was long. Too long. Bad enough being six-three since his size made it hard to blend in when he did surveillance. Looking like the half-Indian he was didn’t help matters. “Don’t worry about my shoulder. I’m back to bench-pressing three times a week. I’m fine.”
“Right.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “That’s why the studios are pounding down your door to offer you work.”
He gritted his teeth, angry, but worse, a heartbeat away from panic. A year had passed since the accident and he still didn’t have full range of motion. One more injury, the doctor had said, and Cord’s arm would be totally useless. “It’s an insurance issue. It doesn’t mean squat.”
“Hell, Cord, make peace with it already,” she said, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “You’re out of the stunt business. For good. Got it? You’re thirty-three, which isn’t so bad, granted, but with your shoulder hanging on by a thread, there will be no more plum jobs. Not the kind that used to pay for your Porsche. For God’s sake, we don’t even know half the guys calling the shots anymore. You understand as well as I do how this town works, you’ve got to know somebody. You’ve already been replaced, my friend. Deal with it.”
She was right. That’s what stunk. It didn’t matter that he still worked out six days a week, that he was strong and fit and had a unique look that had once earned him top dollar when westerns had made a comeback. It meant nothing that he’d never balked at a single stunt they’d asked him to do. The more dangerous, the more willing he’d been to take on the challenge. The truth was, a year out of the business, coupled with an injury that made him a liability, and he was forgotten.
“All the more reason I need better gigs than chasing after scumbag husbands. I need some credibility if I want to make it as a private detective and attract worthwhile clients.”
“You’re absolutely right.” She looked pleased, obviously having bought his line of crap. “That’s why I have a proposition for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“The Winslow case. The sisters are still missing.”
“Not exactly a news flash.” The daughters of actors Brad and Linea Winslow, a Hollywood powerhouse couple, had bizarrely disappeared within six months of each other. Like vultures feasting on roadkill, the media had been all over the story. Until some upcoming young actor had shoved his male lover off the hill below the Hollywood sign.
“Other than the FBI and Malcolm Baxter, who I hear the Winslows have kept on retainer, I doubt many people are working the case at this point. It’s been too long and costly.”
Malcolm Baxter. The smug, condescending bastard. The guy’s name alone was enough to make Cord’s insides clench. Everything about the older man—from his Armani suits to his trademark tasseled Italian loafers—made Cord want to teach the guy a lesson. It wasn’t the man’s success Cord begrudged, but something in his penetrating soulless eyes that seemed to remind Cord of every humiliation he’d suffered since the day he’d left the reservation.
He forced away thoughts of Baxter. “What’s it been, a year and a half since they went missing?”
“Nineteen months, to be exact.” She reached behind and swung her black designer purse off the gleaming mahogany credenza that matched her desk. She set down the fancy bag and fished out a small key.
Yep, Leslie had grown to like nice things. Just like him. Difference was, she could afford them. “According to news reports, the trail went cold fast,” he said, watching her unlock the strongbox. “I don’t think the police picked up a single lead. Not even when the second sister went missing. Even the FBI turned up nothing.”
“That’s right. The mystery of the century some reporters were calling it.” She took out a wad of cash and looked up at him, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “Imagine the publicity when someone finally finds them. I mean, they couldn’t have both vanished into thin air. They have to be somewhere.” She gave a small shrug. “Even if it’s just their bodies that turn up.”
He waited for her to finish, and then finally got her meaning. “And you think—” He shook his head in disbelief. At the time, the best in the business had taken up the search. Private dicks and bounty hunters from all over the country had crawled out from under rocks and descended on the vacant house the women had inherited in Deadwood, South Dakota, and where each had last been seen, in hopes of claiming the reward. Even tabloid reporters had dived into the frenzy. Everyone had come up empty. “You’re nuts.”
“You wanted credibility. Not even considering the million bucks the Winslows are offering to locate their daughters, find them and you’d be able to write your own ticket. You’d be in so much demand, you wouldn’t even need me.”
“I can’t afford to go on a wild-goose chase. You know that. Not to mention the expense of traveling all the way to Deadwood. I need a paying job.”
“That’s why I’m willing to stake you.”
