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his chest. The December night air was frigid, hitting Kellan’s bare chest and legs like a million needles.
    “I’m . . . I’m here on behalf of Mr. Morton,” he stammered.
    Kellan felt for the guy, he did, but it wouldn’t do either of them any good to offer up a mug of hot chocolate and testimony about how he could change his life like Kellan had, before Morton sank his clutches in too deep. Best he could do for the kid was scare him witless. Maybe then he’d rethink his career choice. He snatched the envelope out of the kid’s hands and leveled the .45 at his chest.
    “Get off my property before I shoot you.”
    Gulping, the kid fled the porch and leapt into an old beater of a truck. As soon as he was out of range of a stray bullet, Kellan squeezed a round off into the sky to hammer home his point. Dust flew behind the little truck as it barreled into the distance, its headlights disappearing behind a hill.
    Hugging himself against the cold, Kellan stared at the sprawling acres of ranchland he’d poured his blood and sweat into for fourteen years. Despite Bruce Morton’s needling attempts to throw him off balance, Kellan knew who he was, deep in his bones. Not some crooked oil tycoon like his uncle, not criminals like his parents.
    Everything he loved about his life—his beef business, his honorary family, his standing in the community—he’d created from scratch, from the dregs of a childhood better off forgotten. The rest was background noise, annoying distractions trying to tug him away from the life he deserved.
    After locking the front door, he tossed the folder on top of the refrigerator and let out a long, slow breath. One of his Quay County neighbors needed help, which was just the sort of situation Morton relished. He loved to watch Kellan squirm, loved to jerk his chain, and watch him scramble for footing. And he knew the most effective way to do so was to keep Kellan apprised of his unethical business dealings in New Mexico.
    For Kellan, this amounted to a damned if you do, damned if you don’t way of life. Either he sat on his hands and watched Amarex browbeat his Quay County neighbors and friends, or he risked his uncle’s wrath to aid regular folks while walking the tightrope of anonymity, all the while hoping Morton didn’t publicly reveal Kellan’s ties to the company screwing over the community who’d accepted him with open arms.
    With his morning alarm set to ring in two hours, it was time for Kellan to hightail it to bed. Tomorrow night, he’d study the folder. If the situation warranted action, he’d slip the card of his friend Matt, an oil rights attorney, to the family anonymously. Matt was good at helping folks out of messy situations. Better than Kellan anyway. He didn’t have the patience or desire to deal with other people’s complicated family dramas. God only knew, he had enough of his own.
    He trudged upstairs and fell into bed, tucking the pistol beneath his pillow. Any other morning, he’d reset the alarm, giving himself an extra hour. But today, he wanted to make the eleven o’clock service at First Methodist Church. Never a religious sort, he’d be there to ruffle the feathers of a certain curly-haired brunette with a penchant for celery.
    With a smile of sweet anticipation, he burrowed deeper into the pillow to catch a whiff of Amy’s shampoo.

Chapter 3
    Kellan was working hard not to appear as uncomfortable as he felt.
    Not that church made him nervous like it did some folks, but because—between his leather bolo tie and the starched collar of the black, embroidered Western-style shirt he picked up in town yesterday—his clothing was conspiring to strangle him to death. To top it off, his seldom-worn dress boots pinched his toes. Discomfort was a small price to pay, however, if his strategy paid off. And he had a gut-level hunch it would. Big time.
    The first person to notice Kellan when he walked into the packed sanctuary was Chris Binderman, the nicest guy