Renegade: Rodeo Knights, A Western Romance Novel (SEAL Team: Disavowed Book 5) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  SEAL Team: Disavowed

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  Epilogue

  FORSAKEN Sneak Peek

  More Books in the Rodeo Knights Series

  Dear Reader

  About the Author

  Copyright

  RENEGADE

  SEAL Team: Disavowed

  Book Five

  Laura Marie Altom

  SEAL Team: Disavowed

  To become a United States Navy SEAL, a man must be physically forged in steel and able to mentally compute life or death situations with laser accuracy and speed. Our country trusts these men with the most sensitive military operations—many so covert that once they are successfully completed, they are never spoken of again.

  This series celebrates one particularly fierce band of brothers who valiantly battled terrorists whose crimes against nature and humanity were far too great to chance escape. On a dark night, on foreign soil, SEAL Team Alpha witnessed acts so unspeakably cruel against women, infants and small children that their consciences would not allow anything other than their own brand of justice for the scum terrorist cell.

  A trial would have been too good for these pigs, and so, one-by-one they were taken out, and the women and children they’d used were freed. By dawn, an entire region breathed easier. The men of Alpha found themselves heroes to those whose lives they had saved, but virtual criminals in the eyes of the organization they served. After a lengthy investigation, their elite, covert team was formally disbanded.

  They now spend their lives deep undercover, still serving—no longer their country, but individuals who find themselves in need of not only their own personal warrior, but a particular brand of justice.

  While honorably discharged, these men and their actions will forever be disavowed . . .

  SEAL Team: Disavowed series

  Rogue, Book 1

  Outcast, Book 2

  Shunned, Book 3

  Exiled, Book 4

  Renegade, Book 5

  Forsaken, Book 6

  1

  Cold Springs, Colorado. One week ago.

  BRANDED?

  Delilah Bowing took one look at the Triple B seared into her dear friend’s right cheek and retched into the camper’s kitchenette sink. No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. All at once she was covered in goose bumps but sweating in oppressive heat. She needed to look away. Scream for help. But her words refused to connect with her mouth. The bitter taste of bile rose from the back of her throat.

  She inched backwards until the half-wall separating the dining table from the pull-out sofa provided enough support to keep her upright.

  Reclining on the sofa, Lola Graham—dear, sweet Lola who’d just last night won her first queen title and crushed a ten-year record by five-one hundredths of a second for the fastest barrel ride in their circuit, was dead, but appeared posed as if she were a porcelain doll. She wore a turquoise leather pageant gown, Miss Cold Springs Rodeo sash, matching boots and cowboy hat with a crown for a hat band. Smoky eye shadow and red pouty lips finished her date-ready look.

  But Delilah had known Lola since the younger woman had competed on the junior circuit. Not only was she not wearing her own clothes, but she would never apply the heavy makeup or purple nail polish. She just wouldn’t. Pale pink was a statement for her.

  Delilah’s gaze skipped to the brand on Lola’s cheek. At a glance, she might have thought it was a black tattoo, but Lola’s flesh was raised and charred—like grill-marks on a steak. A black fly settled onto the lowest B, sending Delilah back to the sink.

  “Lola?” Following the masculine voice, a knock sounded on the thin outside wall. The camper shook when Lola’s boyfriend, Cal Ingram, mounted the pull-down stairs. “You in here, sexy? I was thinking—oh hey, Del. Didn’t know my girl had company . . .” Upon seeing Lola, Cal froze. His jaw hardened and with fists clenched, a low growl of what Delilah took to be torment escaped him.

  He charged Lola’s way, but Delilah shot out her arm to hold him back. “Don’t touch her. We have to call police.”

  He broke down. “W-what kind of monster would do this?”

  The fly had returned to Lola’s cheek. Buzzing and buzzing.

  The confined space made the sound grow into a jackhammer.

  Cal roared, charging across the few feet with the power of one of the bulls he rode. “Get the hell off her!” He swatted the insect hard enough to smash the bug into the brand, at the same time breaking the scab, smearing rusty blood and puss on Lola’s cheek.

  Retching again and again, Delilah escaped the camper, barely making it down the steps without falling and breaking her own neck.

  From inside came unholy cries and howls and violent smashing of plates and splintering of wood. Eventually, Cal’s anger gave way to anguished sobs.

  “What’s going on?” Mark Peters, a calf roper on weekends and a Colorado Springs attorney the rest of the time jogged over from his massive Lakota horse trailer rig. “Those two have another fight?”

  Delilah shook her head. Where did she begin?

  Hunched over, she braced her hands on her thighs. Though she hadn’t been running, she couldn’t catch her breath.

  “You okay?” He rubbed her back.

  “Yes—no. Lola. She . . .” Delilah couldn’t bring herself to give voice to her mind’s eye terror. Five minutes earlier, it had been a lazy Sunday morning. Warm sun evaporated dew from the too-tall patchy grass of the arena’s gravel lot. A trio of wrens bickered over a spilled sack of chips. Somewhere in the sleepy town church bells rang.

  “I got it.” Cal stumbled out of the camper. Red-faced, his gait teetered as if he’d had a few too many beers. “I got that fly. But there’ll be more. I need a swatter. Lola—” His voice cracked. “She needs protecting.”

  Holding out her arms, Delilah went to him. “I’m so sorry . . .”

  “Would someone tell me what’s going on?” Mark looked from them to Lola’s camper. “Is Lola okay?”

  “There’s a fly.” Cal’s voice sounded flat. Void of his normally boisterous personality. “I have to protect . . .” Seconds later, the big, strong cowboy’s legs collapsed. He fell inwards, as if he were a folding table that had the legs kicked out from under it.

  “Now, I know something’s not right,” Mark said. “Should I call the police?”

  She nodded. On the ground with Cal, hugging him, she said, “Please.”

  “What should I tell them is wrong?”

  Delilah sucked in a deep breath. “Lola . . . she’s been murdered.”

  2

  Southern Nevada. Three days later . . .

  “I DON’T KNOW about this.” Disavowed Navy SEAL Sawyer Crow stared into his black coffee. When his longtime friend, Jesse Knight, approached him about tackling what press dubbed the Buckle Bunny Bandit murder because of the victim’s Triple B brand, his initial response had been no. Trident, Inc.—the team who cut his paycheck—was more of a personal protection firm. They performed best outside of the law—although that fact wasn’t advertised, it was the reason they had a ridiculous waiting list for taking on new clients. But a case like this? He wouldn’t have a clu
e where to start.

  He and Jesse sat across from each other in Triple Seven ranch’s big country kitchen. If Heaven had a smell, Sawyer was pretty sure this place nailed it. Fresh-brewed coffee and hot-from-the-oven cinnamon rolls made his stomach growl. Though Jesse and his wife, Carly, lived in Wyoming, Sean and Cella Knight had volunteered the Triple Seven to serve as Knight Brothers Investigation Agency’s official headquarters. Since Sawyer had just finished a short-term job in Vegas, the ranch seemed like the logical place to meet.

  Even though the sun had long since set on the sprawling acreage, housekeeper and cherished family friend, Charlene, hovered. “Would either of you like another roll?”

  “Lord, yes,” Sawyer said. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.” She took his plate and bustled across the room.

  “What about me?” Jesse asked.

  Charlene snorted. “The day you’re as handsome as your Indian friend, you’ll get equal service.” With a wink, she set the plate holding Sawyer’s second roll in front of him. “If I were thirty years younger . . .”

  Jesse laughed, taking her teasing in stride.

  Sawyer forced a smile. He knew the kindly older woman meant her words as a compliment, but his whole life he’d been fighting Native American stereotypes and they no longer set well—which was why he’d moved as far from “cowboy-and-Indian country” as possible by joining the Navy.

  Charlene delivered another roll to Jesse, then said, “Unless you two need anything else, I’m off to watch my shows.”

  After a round of goodnights, Jesse leaned in. “Look, I get that you have apprehension about taking on a potential serial killer. Even though the previous deaths on that circuit aren’t officially connected, or even necessarily murders, you and I both know the odds of them being a coincidence are nil. Given our current caseload, there’s no way Knight Brothers can give this matter the attention it requires. But there’s one other issue I failed to mention.”

  “Swell . . .” Sawyer forked another bite of his roll.

  “The client you’d be working with? It’s Delilah.”

  “Wait—what?” Sawyer shoved the plate away. The snack that had been delicious moments earlier now churned in his gut. That name was synonymous with everything that had once been wrong in his life. It had taken years to free himself from the mindset that just like his brothers, he would amount to nothing. Winding up either drunk or behind bars or dead by his thirtieth birthday.

  Delilah had once been his angel, his guiding light.

  Then she’d allowed her father to come between them. Nothing had ever been the same after that.

  “She called a couple days ago. Michael, Sean and I wrestled with our schedules, but there’s no way we can help. Then I remembered you were working out of Trident’s Denver office. Seemed like a perfect fit.”

  Sawyer had met Jesse—a former Marine—on a joint covert mission. Endless days and nights spent stalking human prey gave them too much time for conversation. Once Jesse mentioned that his family ran the Western Rodeo Circuit, Sawyer asked if he’d ever met his high school sweetheart, Delilah, a barrel racer. When Jesse said he’d not only met her, but been turned down for a dance by her, the two had formed a fast friendship they’d dubbed the DDC—Dumped by Delilah Club. Nowadays, Sawyer and Jesse’s paths rarely crossed, but when they did, their conversations still had the comforting ease of a military brotherhood.

  “You know how I felt about her. That time in my life . . .” Sawyer bowed his head. “It wasn’t good. Sure, you and I joked about it, but she turned you down for a dance. She turned me down on a marriage proposal.” Aborted our unborn child. “This DDC running joke got us through rough times but come on, man. It’s like comparing a splinter to open heart surgery.”

  “I get that. But think about it—who would better serve as her protector than someone who used to love her?”

  Sawyer hardened his jaw. Just thinking about her made his blood boil. What hurt worse? Knowing she was in danger.

  “If you don’t feel like this is your thing, I get that, too.” Jesse lowered his voice. “But we’re talking about a serial killer. You and I both know the cops will be busting their asses to catch this sicko, but budget cuts and jurisdictional red tape leaves an awfully big hole in their net. If it makes you feel better, think of this in a different way. You’re not personally trying to solve the case. All you’re doing is helping to keep a mutual friend safe.”

  Jesse was right.

  Sawyer had never been one to hold grudges, but when it came to Delilah, he’d be the first to admit he hadn’t let go. If only she’d fought for him. For them. When she’d lied about losing their baby, he’d thought his soul couldn’t bear the resulting pain. Now, he was older. Hopefully, wiser. Not as susceptible to teen angst or touchy-feely romance crap. But if that was true, why the hesitation to take this on?

  Had a part of him never left her?

  “What do you say?” Jesse asked. “Should I call Delilah? Tell her you’ll catch up with her on the road?”

  Sawyer sighed. “Yeah . . .”

  3

  Pigeon, Colorado. Now.

  DELILAH LINGERED OVER brushing Powder Puff after their morning drills. The white Arabian had grown sloppy since their last showing. Or was it less about the horse and more about the rider? It had been a week since Delilah had stumbled across Lola. Since then, she hadn’t been sleeping or eating. Considering the fact that this was her last year of practice before turning pro, Delilah needed to get her head back in the game.

  After intense police questioning, poor Cal had dropped off the circuit.

  Forcing her focus back to the present, Delilah brushed Powder Puff’s mane until it shone. Closer to Friday’s opening parade, it would need washing and braiding, but until then, Delilah liked the natural look. The horse had been a high school graduation gift from her father. The cost had been staggering, but considering her bloodlines were traceable back to her sire R Khasper, Delilah understood why. She’d at first been furious with her father for buying her such an extravagant gift. Not because she didn’t adore the creature, but because at the time, she’d considered the gift to be a thinly veiled consolation prize for abiding by the great Walter Bowing’s wishes for breaking off her engagement to Sawyer. What her father didn’t know was that there was so much more to her decision. A fundamental difference between her and Sawyer that she’d never been able to explain.

  Did that mean she hadn’t loved him heart and soul? No.

  All it meant was that maybe she still didn’t know why he’d left. Maybe she never would.

  A sharp whistle spooked Powder Puff and made her glare in that general direction. Jersey Pugloni stood on the steps of her father’s RV. He was a six-foot-two cocky mess of a cowboy contradiction. Born and bred on the Jersey Shore, he sported dark brown eyes and equally dark hair that curled out from under his cowboy hat. Most folks believed he had the dark heart to match, but he’d always been good to her. He rode bulls on their circuit, but in his spare time he helped her dad with the rodeo’s day-to-day running. Occasionally, if nursing an injury, he also pitched in as rodeo security or a pick-up man. “Yo, Del! Phone!”

  She never had her cell on her while riding. Too much of a distraction. Besides, being the Daddy’s Girl of their family circuit had earned her more than enough haters. She had to work twice as hard to earn respect. Thankfully, she competed against a clock rather than judges.

  “Be right there! Tell whoever it is I’ll call back!”

  She’d been done with Powder Puff for a while but hadn’t wanted to face the realities of a rodeo plagued with not just tragedy, but the most sinister of crimes. Lola hadn’t been the first death. Or even the second. Hers had been the only death that had definitively been called a murder. The other two women were still being examined.

  Delilah led Powder Puff into one of the rodeo ground’s rented stalls, then fed her with hay bailed from her home grazing pastures. Once her water bucket was filled, Delilah washed up, t
hen crossed the hardpacked dirt grounds toward her father’s RV—mostly hers, since he rarely left the family ranch. The vehicle’s size was an embarrassment, but after a tough night riding, she never complained about the master bedroom’s soaking tub.

  “How’d she do?” Zeb asked. The white-haired old-timer sat beneath the RV’s shade canopy reading a Zane Grey western. He used to be one of her father’s best ranch hands, but since getting on in years, he now handled the RV. Delilah drove the one-ton pick-up that towed Powder Puff’s trailer, stopping every four to five hours. It was a serious liability to only have one horse for competitions. She was blessed with three talented quarter horses back home. But Powder Puff was a beloved part of Delilah’s family. She would rather not compete, than do it without her favorite horse.

  “Today went better. She’s still bowing around the last turn. But I’m also rising in my saddle. We’ll work through it together.”

  “You always do. She’ll get there.”

  “Thanks.” She squeezed him in a sideways hug. “Any idea where Jersey left my phone?”

  “Probably inside. He’s in a mood, which is why I’m outside. ’Least till it gets too hot.”

  “I understand.” She mounted the RV’s steps, opening the door on frigid A/C. She shivered, but in a good way.

  Jersey sat at the dinette table, eating a bologna sandwich while watching something on his laptop. He closed it when she approached. “How’d it go?”

  “Good. Where’s my phone?”

  “I put it on the counter.” He pointed near the built-in microwave. “Damn thing’s been driving me nuts. You gotta change your tone.”

  “Sorry I’m not sorry.” She grabbed it, humming her ring tone’s Dukes of Hazard theme song, then turned down the bunk-lined hall toward her room. Inside, she closed and locked her door. Seated in a comfy swivel rocker that had been bolted to the floor, she looked at her phone, then sighed with relief. Jesse and an Unknown with a Denver area code had been her repeat callers. Jesse must have agreed to take their case. She pressed auto-dial to make the return call.