If Natasha Simpson was guilty of smuggling cocaine, Brooks would nail her to the wall. So far, things were not looking good for Christie’s cousin.

Natasha had been selling large quantities of western statuettes at tradeshows across the country. The statuettes matched a pair ICE agents had found stuffed with cocaine, and Natasha’s fingerprints had been the only ones on the coke-filled resin art pieces.

A special agent with DHS’s Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Brooks Allen found himself in a position he would never have imagined. It was his job as an ICE agent to assist in taking down a friend’s closest family member.

He clenched his teeth, his body tense, as he held back words that didn’t come close to expressing how he felt at that moment.

Brooks pushed up the brim of his Stetson as he tore his gaze from the iPad displaying Natasha’s electronic file and met his Resident Agent in Charge’s intense dark eyes. “Natasha’s prints were in the database?”

Sofia Aguilar, the RAC of the Department of Homeland Securities’ ICE office in Douglas, gave a single nod. “She worked as a dispatcher for her local police department for a few years in Indiana, before she inherited a chunk of money and bought a craft store.”

Brooks Allen’s jaw tightened. He returned his gaze to the tablet with the file his RAC had transferred to his device. He swiped the screen, briefly scanning a few documents. He paused to study a surveillance photo of Natasha with a suspected drug supplier, Mark Okle, who ICE believed worked for the Jimenez Cartel based in Mexico. Okle allegedly trafficked cocaine and marijuana across the U.S., under the guise of a legitimate art dealership in southeastern Arizona.

They had countless surveillance photos and video of Okle dealing with individuals who were known associates of the Jimenez Cartel.

Then there was Natasha.

The one time Brooks had met Natasha had been when he’d been best man at Trace and Christie’s wedding almost ten months ago. Natasha had been a bridesmaid. Thanks to a car accident on the way to the reception at Bisbee’s Copper Queen Hotel, Natasha hadn’t made the event, so Brooks had never had the chance to get to know her.

In the short time since she’d moved from Indiana to Arizona, he had yet to run into her. Considering Bisbee was fairly spread out, with a population of over five thousand, it didn’t surprise him. Still, he’d thought he might see her at Christie and Trace’s home, but it had never worked out that way.

He studied the surveillance photo, cataloguing any unfamiliar details. She was a beautiful woman who her cousin described as a free spirit with a mischievous side. Even though he had barely met Natasha, he remembered the sparkle in the brunette’s stunning blue eyes so like Christie’s. Hell, the women could have been twins if Natasha had been a redhead like Christie.

He had felt an immediate attraction to Natasha when she’d walked up the aisle during the wedding, but that interest had gone nowhere thanks to her accident and subsequent return to Indiana.

How the hell did a woman like Natasha get involved in drug trafficking? He mentally shook his head. Sometimes the criminals who possessed the greatest air of innocence were the worst of them all.

“Is this going to be a problem for you?” Sofia’s voice drew his attention from the photo. “Out of any agent in the office, you have the best opportunity to get close to Natasha.”

He held back a scowl. “I don’t like keeping Trace in the dark.”

Sofia leaned forward, bracing her arms on the tidy surface of her desk. She pulled her dark hair back so tightly it stretched the skin on the sides of her face. “You know good and well he’s too close. I’m sure we both have a good idea how he’d react to learning his cousin-in-law is a suspected drug trafficker.”

Brooks let out a harsh breath. “This is one fucked-up mess.”

For the briefest moment, Brooks thought Sofia looked concerned for Trace and his wife. It vanished as fast as it came and her expression went rock hard. He wondered if he’d imagined the concern.

“You’ve been undercover for the majority of the time you’ve worked at this office.” The tightness in Sofia’s expression indicated her anger over the situation. “We’re certain no one in the cartel knows you’re with ICE. With that and your ties to Natasha’s family, you’re the perfect agent for the job. Not to mention the bullet you took for Christie. That alone should be good enough.”

Brooks’ shoulder ached at the thought of the bullet, but he nearly growled beneath his breath. Christie had been through hell and back and he had no desire to exploit what had happened at the Tucson airport when he’d been shot. Christie’s ex-husband, who had laundered money for the cartel, had put a bounty on her head from his jail cell.

Instead of snapping at his RAC, he asked, “What’s the plan?”

“You’re going to Colorado next Wednesday, the day before Natasha is scheduled to sell artwork at another four-day trade show. Apparently, it’s a big one—the Western/English Sales Association—also known as WESA.” Sofia didn’t move as she studied him. “I expect you to find a way to get close to her while she’s in Denver.”

He set the iPad on the desk. “My cover story?”

“As far as Natasha is concerned, you’re in town to train agents in the Denver office.” Sofia straightened before leaning back in her chair. “She’ll have no reason not to trust you, especially due to your connection with her through Trace.”

Brooks had a strong desire to tell Sofia to assign another damned agent to that portion of the operation. At the same time, he wanted nothing more than to bring down a branch of the cartel he blamed for his older sister’s drug overdose—no matter who he took with them.

Sofia shifted in her seat and leaned forward again. “Jase Wright will be working from the inside, undercover as a K-9 officer on security detail.”

Brooks settled on the mental image of the man he’d barely met. “The agent who transferred into ICE on Monday from Customs and Border Protection.”

“Jase worked out of the CBP Seattle Field Operation Office.” Sofia’s dark gaze grew more intense. “He came with the highest recommendations.”

Brooks rolled his shoulders, trying to release some of the tension. “Met him the other day. He’s made it this far, so I’m sure he’ll do his job well.”

“He certainly will.” Sofia tapped one fingernail on her desktop. “Once we have enough on Okle, we’ll obtain arrest warrants and get him and the chains leading to his biggest buyers.” Sofia had an edge to her voice that could cause a hardened criminal to shit bricks. “That chain includes Natasha Simpson.”

Brooks’ body ached as his muscles tightened, and he had a difficult time reining in his anger and frustration. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Everything you need is in the file.” Sofia pointed at the iPad. “I don’t have to tell you what to do.”

As he reached for the tablet, his overshirt slid forward, covering his shoulder holster. He preferred the Walther P99 9mm semi-automatic for his weapon of choice. “I’ll see what I can find out before I leave for Denver.”

She gave him a dismissive nod. He pulled the brim of his Stetson down again and touched it in a polite gesture before leaving her office and heading along the hallway.

His boots thudded on the linoleum as he worked the Natasha situation over and over in his mind. He glanced again at his iPad and the photo of her still on the screen. He was so absorbed in his thoughts he almost ran into Trace Davidson.

Brooks came to an abrupt stop and Trace pushed up the brim of his western hat with one finger.

“What’s got you so pissed off?” Trace drew out the words in his low Texan drawl.

“The assignment I’m on.” Brooks barely had a chance to flip the leather flap of his iPad case over the screen before Trace could see Natasha’s surveillance photo. Brooks tried to relax his posture as he mentally added, the assignment involving your wife’s cousin.

Trace hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Must be a good one.”

“Just another drug supply chain.” Brooks wanted to get the hell off the topic. “How’s your baby girl?”

Trace’s expression lit up like Christmas morning. “Jessica is six weeks old today. Looks more and more like her mother.” He pulled out his wallet and presented a picture of his daughter.

Brooks looked at the photograph and couldn’t help but smile at Trace’s obvious pride. “She’s a cute little thing,” Brooks said as he handed the photo back to Trace.

“She sure is.” Trace’s grin broadened as he replied. “Been meaning to ask you. Why don’t you come on over for the playoffs?”

Brooks gave a nod. “I’ll do my best to be there.”

“Hope you can make it.” Trace clapped Brooks on the shoulder. “I’ve got to get to Sofia’s office. Something’s got her good and riled up.”

Yeah, something did have Sofia pissed, and more than likely it had to do with the case on Brooks’ tablet.

“It’s been a hell of a day.” He’d had enough for today. “I’m headed home.”

After he left Trace, Brooks strode to the front, the tablet clasped in one hand. A thought crossed his mind that didn’t make complete sense. If Natasha had worked for a PD at one time, wouldn’t she know she shouldn’t have her fingerprints on cocaine-filled art pieces? Did she possess an overdose of confidence? He had no doubt she wasn’t just plain stupid.

When Brooks reached the main doors, a man pushed them open from outside, cool air following him into the entrance. Muted January sunlight silhouetted him from behind, before the door closed.

Jase Wright, the agent who had transferred in on Monday, greeted him. The man’s crooked grin gave him a friendly appearance but his intense brown eyes seemed to appraise everything. He had light brown hair and stood as tall as Brooks.

“I hear we’re on the same case.” Brooks held out his hand. “You’re working the inside of the WESA tradeshow.”

Jase had a firm grip as he took Brooks’ hand. “Good to know you’re on the team.”

Brooks and Jase released hands and Brooks took a step back. “When are you headed to Denver?”

“Monday.” Jase hooked his thumbs in his front jeans pockets. The movement pushed aside his overshirt and exposed the shoulder holster that held his firearm. “Have to get there early as part of the K-9 officer cover.”

“I take it you have training in that field?” Brooks asked.

“I worked as a Canine Field Operations Officer for CBP.” An expression crossed Jase’s features Brooks couldn’t read. “My K-9 partner, Karo, died in the line of duty a couple of months ago.” Jase looked at his boots for a moment before meeting Brooks’ gaze again. “We’d been working together for six years.”

Brooks frowned. “Damn, that’s tough.”

Jase shifted his stance. “Karo was one of the best K-9s we had. He found over twenty-five pounds of cocaine and a hundred pounds of marijuana over the course of his working career, along with other narcotics. He worked in countless multiagency operations.” Jase shrugged, but not a casual movement. “He was my buddy.”

Brooks shook his head. “It’s tough losing a partner. Doesn’t matter if he’s two-legged or four.”

“Isn’t that the truth.” Jase’s expression relaxed as he changed the subject. “I got pulled onto the case this morning. I understand Natasha Simpson is related to Trace Davidson by marriage.”

Brooks held back a sigh of frustration. “I’m having a hard time believing it, but you see everything in law enforcement.”

Jase’s brow furrowed. “We sure as hell do.”

“I’ll get with you sometime after Wednesday, when I arrive in Denver.” Brooks reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a business card. “My cell number is on here. We’ll schedule a meet and compare notes.”

Jase took the card before pulling out his credentials, stuffing it into the wallet, and sliding out his own card. Jase shoved the creds into his back pocket as he handed Brooks his business card.

Brooks took it and tucked it away. “See you in Denver.”

“I’m looking forward to working with you.” Jase shook hands with Brooks again. “I hear you’re damned good at what you do.”

“Can’t believe every rumor you hear.” Brooks found his lips twitching, almost into a smile. So far, from what he’d seen of Jase, he liked the guy.

“See you in Denver.” Jase turned and headed in the direction Brooks had come from. No doubt Jase had a meeting scheduled with Sofia, too.

Cool wind chilled Brooks’ face and hands as he opened the door. It had been a mild winter in southeastern Arizona, but the evenings cooled off quickly and he looked forward to the heat in the truck cab once he got the thing started.

He couldn’t get his mind off the case and Natasha, even once he got on the road. It stuck in his mind like a burr irritating his brain. He glanced at the iPad, its screen covered with the leather case, before he looked back to the road.

This assignment would be the hardest he’d ever faced. Whatever the outcome, it couldn’t end well. Trace would be pissed about being left in the dark and a young woman might very well end up in prison. But if she was trafficking, she belonged there.

He guided his vehicle toward Double Adobe before heading up to Frontier Road where he had a small spread. It wasn’t a working ranch, but he liked having so much space. Nothing better than a hundred and sixty acres to call his own with a decent house smack dab in the middle of it and no neighbors for a good mile in any direction.

Originally from Big Sky, Montana, where his family owned and operated a dude ranch on Lone Mountain, Brooks had been used to wide-open spaces. But he’d grown up in an area with an average high of thirty degrees in January and an average low of zero at night. It frequently got even colder than that.

Hell, forget the cold. He’d take southeastern Arizona’s January highs in the mid-sixties, with lows in the thirties any day. The rest of the year was even better.

Once he’d gone into DHS, he’d been stationed in Seattle, which had been wet, dreary, and miserable as hell. Forget any wide-open spaces where he’d lived in Tacoma. When he’d had the opportunity to transfer to DHS’ Douglas ICE office, he’d jumped on it.

The real reason he’d come to this state had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with tracking down the Jimenez Cartel. This case would bring him even closer to putting away as many as he could of those ultimately responsible for his sister’s death.

Even though Natasha hadn’t moved to Bisbee until seven months ago, she was now suspected to be a part of the organization that had been the reason he’d gone into ICE.

He slammed his palm on the steering wheel so hard pain radiated through his hand. This situation sucked. The whole fucking thing sucked.

His friendship with Trace and Christie could be ruined by his involvement in taking down Christie’s cousin. He hated like hell the choice his supervisor had forced him to make to achieve his goal of nailing the cartel. Trace might never forgive him.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter and clenched his teeth so hard they ached.

The survival bracelet on his wrist caught his attention. Kelly had had it made for him out of military spec paracord from a specialty company. He never took it off—not only because it had been her last gift to him, but because it also reminded him daily of what his sister had been through and that she was gone. Not that he needed reminding.

As he drove, his mind slipped back to the day he’d arrived in Arizona from Big Sky to visit his older sister, before he started his first year of college.

He’d found Kelly dying in her Douglas apartment. She’d been passed out from a heroin overdose, the syringe lying next to her.

She’d died in his arms before the ambulance had arrived. He’d tried everything he could to save her…but it had been too late.

Too fucking late.

The scenery slipped by as he drove and he barely noticed it.

Across the apartment living room had been a strung-out loser, propped up against the wall. He’d been too incoherent to make any sense when Brooks had taken him by the collar and threatened him for information. Later, while the bastard had been recovering in the hospital, he’d spilled everything to the police—where the drugs had come from and how he had convinced Kelly to try the heroin.

Brooks had wanted to kill the sonofabitch in his hospital bed. But more than anything, he’d wanted to take down the organization ultimately responsible for his sister’s death—the Jimenez Cartel.

He’d changed his major from animal husbandry to criminal justice the moment he’d returned to Big Sky. Not only had he wanted to avenge his sister’s death, but he’d wanted to save others from the same fate.

The pain and anger in his chest expanded. It took effort to calm the fury that burned inside him every time his mind turned to that day.

He slowed his breathing and his racing thoughts and concentrated on the road. It didn’t do any good to relive what had happened. He had to remain focused and do his job.

His five younger sisters—Marcie, Julia, Roxanne, Stacy and Laura—still lived in Big Sky. Stacy and Laura were the youngest and lived at home with Mom and Dad on the dude ranch. Marcie had married a good guy a year ago, Julia had a serious boyfriend, and Roxanne studied at Montana State College, working on a marketing degree. Kelly had been born twelve years and Brooks eleven years before their younger sisters.

By the time Brooks reached his property, he’d managed to get control of his temper. He had to keep a clear head, and that meant not getting emotionally involved. Regardless of the impact it might have on his friends, he had a job to do.

He brought his truck to a hard stop in front of his house, kicking up a cloud of dust barely visible in the fading light. He parked and killed the engine, grabbed the iPad and climbed out of the truck. For a moment, he rested his palm on the chilly metal door before slamming it shut and heading for the house.

It seemed he couldn’t take a step without his mind going to Natasha. He gritted his teeth as he made his way into his home, slamming that door shut, too, and tossing his keys onto the flat surface of a small elevated plant stand nearby. He hung his Stetson on the rack next to the stand.

His stomach rumbled but instead of going into the kitchen for dinner, he threw himself onto the overstuffed brown leather sofa in front of the widescreen wall-mounted TV. He put his booted feet on the barn wood coffee table that matched the end tables. When he’d moved into the home, he’d paid a woman in Bisbee to decorate the place, and she’d made it rustic and livable with handmade furniture. It suited him.

Instead of turning on the TV, he set the iPad in his lap, flipped open the case’s flap and folded it over so it rested behind the tablet. He touched the Home button and the tablet recognized his fingerprint. Immediately, a surveillance photo of Natasha and Mark Okle came up. In the picture, Natasha appeared to be focused on what Okle had to say.

Brooks scowled and swiped his finger across the tablet’s screen to bring up another picture. This one showed her at a trade show, handing a suspected drug supplier one of the statuettes allegedly containing cocaine. If the same product filled them that had been found in the two resin statuettes ICE agents had gotten their hands on, Natasha Simpson would be in deep shit.

When he flipped to the next photo, he paused for a long moment, his heart giving a hard thump. The image was a brilliant color close-up of her alone. The surveillance agent had caught Natasha in a clearly vulnerable moment. Her expression was one of deep concentration, a touch of insecurity, and perhaps sadness, too.

He traced the outline of her face with his fingertip before he even fully realized what he was doing. In that moment, he imagined trailing the pad of his finger along her jawline, down to the hollow of her throat. He almost felt the warmth of her body pressed close to his as he drew her into his arms to comfort her and take away the sadness that didn’t belong in those beautiful eyes.

A low growl rose in his throat and he nearly flung the tablet across the room. Instead, he gripped it with both hands so tightly he thought he might crack the screen. What the hell was he thinking? Just one look at this beautiful woman could make him forget his duty and his responsibilities?

Christ. He had a duty to get to the bottom of things and nail her.

He snapped the flap up and over the iPad so the screen would go dark and hide her image. He tossed the tablet onto the coffee table, swung his boots onto the floor and surged to his feet.

Shit.

He didn’t get close to suspects and he certainly didn’t have the urge to comfort them. He was tired and overworked—that had to be the explanation as to why he had these unwanted urges.

His muscles ached with tension and his head throbbed. He strode into the kitchen to fix dinner, determined to get his mind off the assignment and the beautiful Natasha Simpson.