Cowboy Swagger

by Joanna Wayne

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m more concerned about what’s going on between you and Collette,” Troy said.

  “I told you. She needs protection. I’ve got nothing better to do.”

  “And her being single and gorgeous has nothing to do with it?”

  “Makes the job more pleasant.”

  “Just watch yourself, Dylan. The sheriff will make trouble for you eight ways to Sunday if he thinks there’s anything going on between you two. I’m not saying she wouldn’t be worth it. I’m just warning you.”

  “I barely know her.”

  “Love doesn’t always wait for that. I knew from the first day I met your mother that there would never be anyone else for me.” He worried the scar on his face with his right hand. “There never was.”

  Ever since the murder, Dylan had been brainwashed by his grandparents, aunts and uncles to believe that his father had committed the brutal, despicable act. He’d never bought into it.

  He was even more convinced of his father’s innocence now. However, that didn’t end the issues between them.

  “Do you mind if Collette and I take the horses for a ride?”

  “Bob brought them over to be ridden. Check out the condition of the ranch while you’re at it. I’m looking to buy a starter herd of cattle next week. I can’t hack this sitting around doing nothing. Even in prison, we kept busy. If we hadn’t, I’d have gone insane.”

  “Hard work won’t hurt you,” Dylan agreed.

  “Guess you had plenty of that in the service. Eight years, wasn’t it?”

  Dylan nodded. Eight years, and he’d walked as close to death as a man could get and still come out in one piece. Never once had he heard from his father. Not then and not when Dylan was younger and had sent Troy countless letters and pictures. Photographs of Dylan playing varsity football, running track and swaggering around in his first pair of authentic Western boots since moving away from Willow Creek Ranch. He’d been sixteen at the time and had bought them with money from his first summer job.

  A letter or a phone call from his dad back then would have meant the world to Dylan. Better late than never might not be enough to cut it at this stage in his life.

  “I guess Bob Adkins told you about my time in the army when he stopped by today?”

  “Yep. You turned into quite a man.”

  With no help from you.

  The old anger and rejection kicked up inside Dylan, and he knew that if he didn’t get out of this house right now, he’d explode.

  “Tell Collette I’ll be outside.”

  COLLETTE TOOK THE beautiful cinnamon-colored roan to a full gallop, loving the feel of the wind in her face and the warmth of the sun on her back. Her mother used to claim that spring in the hill country was like a rhapsody, the melody a perfect blending of scents, colors and sounds that made just breathing seem like a rebirth.

  Collette couldn’t claim rejuvenation in the midst of all her problems, but the ride through the rolling hills with new growth budding all around her had lulled her anxiety to a more wieldy level.

  Dylan’s mount was a flaxen chestnut, a bit more nervous than hers, but quite regal. Dylan had calmed her with a steady voice when approaching and saddling her, and the filly had quickly settled down. He clearly had the same knack for charming horses as he did her.

  He had that deliciously laid-back cowboy way about him even when she knew coming home to face his father after all these years had to be stirring up an emotional storm inside him.

  Dylan slowed the chestnut to a trot. He pointed to his left as she reined in her spirited mount so that she could ride beside him.

  “That’s the legendary Ledger swimming hole where my brothers and I used to escape our chores every chance we got.”

  “I can see why.”

  The vista was breath-stealing. Beautiful willows dotted the banks, and the clear blue water sparkled like dancing jewels in the bright sunlight. A silvery fish jumped in the middle of the pool creating a circle of widening ripples. A stately blue heron stood on the bank, looking so still and perfect it could have passed for a statue.

  She brought the roan to a dead stop to watch a fawn that studied them from beneath the spreading branches of an oak tree on the other side of the pond. When Dylan slid from his saddle to the sea of grass, the animal turned and disappeared into a cluster of scrubby oaks, rough-leaf dogwoods and underbrush.

  She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head for a better look. “It’s so peaceful out here.”

  “Which is not at all the way I remember it.”

  Lady pawed the ground, ready to be off again, but Dylan took the reins while Collette dismounted.

  “It was never quiet back when my brothers and I were out here together. See that old rope hanging from the oak near where that deer was drinking before we startled it?”

  “I see it.”

  “It’s a bit gnarled and shredding now, but that was our version of a water park in the good old days.”

  The good old days, before brutal violence had stolen his youth. She hurt for that boy even though she marveled at the man he’d become. He led the horses to the edge of the water for a cooling drink after their vigorous run.

  “Did you really earn a silver star in Iraq?”

  “Can’t say that I did, at least no more than anyone else who served there. I just happened to get noticed and they presented me with one.”

  “Methinks you’re a bit too modest.”

  “No, just honest. You don’t really think about your actions in the heat of battle. You just do what you’re trained to do and try to keep yourself, your combat buddies and innocent civilians alive.”

  When the fillies had drunk their fill, he tied the reins to a low-hanging branch of one of the willows. That done, he proceeded to unbutton his long-sleeved blue Western shirt. Anticipation hummed through her senses as the shirt opened, revealing well-defined abs and a dusting of hairs on his tanned flesh.

  He shrugged out of the shirt and spread it on top of the prickly blades of grass, then motioned for her to have a seat. Giddy with desire, she dropped to the shirt and pulled her knees up to her chest.

  Stretching beside her, he propped himself up on his elbow to face her. The closeness was intimate, and the temptation to lie back and press her body against his was all but irresistible.

  Dylan tugged on the brim of his Stetson, pulling it lower to block some of the sun’s rays. Even then, stray locks of his dusty brown hair escaped to fall over his forehead.

  “Tell me about Eleanor,” he said.

  The statement cooled the desire she’d almost succumbed to and brought the real reason for their being together back into sharp focus.

  “I told you all I know. We’ve been friends since college. She’s a go-getter investigative reporter who also likes to have fun. And she and Melinda are fascinated with the ghosts and spirits. That’s probably the one thing I don’t have in common with them.”

  “Investigative reporting can gain a person lots of enemies.”

  “No doubt it does, but what got her attacked was showing up at my house on the wrong night.”

  “Still, I’d like to know more about her and any enemies she might have.”

  “The stalker was harassing me, and he called from the hospital where she’s recovering. Isn’t that proof that Eleanor is just a victim of circumstance?”

  “It would seem that way, but when you’re sure the enemy is dead ahead and things are under control, you’d best watch your back.”

  “Meaning you think there’s more to this than the obvious?”

  “I’m not saying that your analysis of the situation is wrong, Collette. I’d just like a better scope of the landscape. Do you have Internet access at your house?”

  “Yes, but both my desktop and my laptop are at my studio. Why?”

  “I’d like to research Eleanor’s recent articles and determine which ones could be considered incendiary.”

  “Incendiary, as in the articl
es Dad decided made you a suspect. I don’t think we should go down that road, Dylan.”

  “It won’t hurt to check them out. Where’s your studio?”

  “In the old section of town. It’s only a couple of blocks from Abby’s Diner.”

  Thank goodness, he let the subject drop. Silence melded into a gentle truce, and when he reached over and trailed his fingers down her arm, her need for him became a shimmering heat of ribbon that corded around her heart.

  “Tell me about yourself, Dylan.”

  “I’m overeducated, unemployed and unattached. I’m a steak-and-potato kind of guy who prefers beer to champagne and would rather be tied and flogged than stuffed into a suit and tie. I’d say that pretty much sums me up.”

  If so, he was much more than the sum of his parts. But it was the unattached part that intrigued her at the moment. “Have you ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “Engaged?”

  “No. I have had sex before, though. As best I remember, I liked it a lot.”

  As best she remembered, she hadn’t been all that impressed with the act itself. She had an idea that conclusion wouldn’t hold with Dylan. A burn crept to her cheeks, and she turned away to keep him from seeing it.

  “What about you?” Dylan asked.

  “I’ve never been married, but I was engaged once. It didn’t work out. The fire died before the ink on the wedding invitations dried.”

  “His loss.”

  “It was a long time ago. I’m sure he’s forgotten all about me.”

  “That’s doubtful.”

  His fingers left her arm to climb the column of her neck and entangle in her hair. Her pulse spiked. How could she possibly react to his touch this way when her life and Eleanor Baker’s were in a state of chaotic danger? Nonetheless, desire grew red-hot inside her. She stretched out beside Dylan, spread her hand over the bare hardness of his chest and pressed her lips against his.

  He kissed her back, tentatively at first, but then ravenously, as if he couldn’t get enough. She trembled in his arms as the hot, deep, slow kisses awakened a throbbing passion inside her.

  His hands roamed from her neck and hair to her abdomen. His thumbs rode upward until they brushed the swell of her nipples, the movement arousing and titillating through the thin cotton of her shirt.

  She knew if they didn’t stop soon, they wouldn’t stop at all. Her inhibitions kicked in, and calling on all the restraint she could rally, she pulled away.

  He had to be a bit sexually frustrated at the abrupt halt, but still he managed a smile that sent her senses soaring again.

  “Never had that much excitement at the swimming hole before,” he teased.

  “And with your boots on.”

  The flirtatious interplay was disrupted by the tones of Dylan’s cell phone.

  The delicious moment faded into oblivion as she watched his expression turn grim. Cold chills replaced the warmth in her veins and reality returned with a punishing vengeance.

  Chapter Ten

  “My gut feeling is that this is far more complicated than an overzealous stalker and that Collette McGuire is in imminent danger.”

  Wyatt’s words couldn’t have gotten to Dylan more if they’d been delivered by a fist to the gut. “Did you come to this conclusion just from checking her phone records?”

  “That and past experience. I’ve dealt with this type of stalking behavior before.”

  “So you think we’re dealing with a psycho nutcase?”

  “No. I think you’re dealing with a cagey, calculating male who knows exactly what he’s doing.”

  “Were you able to identify the caller?”

  “No. That’s part of the problem. He used prepaid cell phones that couldn’t be traced and in some instances, he stole phones and made the calls before the owner discovered they were missing and stopped the service. Your run-of-the-mill nonviolent stalker seldom goes to that extreme to remain anonymous.”

  “You said that was one of the problems. What are the others?”

  “He made the calls from different places and at different times of the day so there’s no way we can pinpoint his schedule. One was made from Willow Creek Ranch yesterday.”

  “Collette was inside the house with me when he made that one.”

  “I suspected as much. He’s following her. I’m not convinced it’s love or even lust that is motivating his actions.”

  “What motivators are you considering?”

  “Jealousy. Revenge. Betrayal—or perceived betrayal. Those are the most common.”

  “Collette seems certain she doesn’t know the caller.”

  “I’m just throwing out possibilities.”

  “What do you make of the most recent contact, the call made from the hospital where Eleanor Baker is being treated?”

  “That must have occurred after I got the report. How did you learn about it?”

  “Sheriff McGuire called Collette. He’s convinced she’s in danger, too. Of course, he thinks being with me is adding to her peril.”

  “Don’t underestimate Glenn McGuire. As for the call from Eleanor’s hospital, that definitely adds a new layer to the case. You need to be really careful, Dylan. Criminals don’t follow rules of engagement.”

  “Neither did terrorists.”

  “Good point. Do you want me to fax you the data I collected?”

  “You could, if I had access to a fax machine.”

  “I have one in my studio,” Collette interrupted. She gave him the number, and he relayed it to Wyatt.

  “One other thing,” Wyatt said.

  “Hit me with it.”

  “Are you totin’?”

  “I have a Glock .45 in my truck’s glove compartment. Wouldn’t travel without it. And I have a rifle on the truck’s gun rack. When in Rome…or in this case Texas.”

  “Keep them handy, but don’t go trying to steal the sheriff’s job. I can understand your trying to keep his daughter safe—well, actually I can’t, but that’s your business. Apprehending criminals is the sheriff’s business.”

  “Got it.”

  “Good. Take care, bro, and keep me posted.”

  “Will do. Thanks.”

  Dylan broke the connection, already dreading going over this with Collette. Wyatt’s info further complicated the ideas he’d already considered and added a couple of new alternatives to the mix.

  Welcome to Texas.

  THE COZY, USUALLY QUIET office in Collette’s photography studio was a whirlwind of activity. The fax machine hummed as it spit out page after page of calls made to and from her cell phone over the past few months. Dylan’s fingers tapped against the keyboard of her desktop. Water dripped through the grounds and into the Thermos belly of her automatic coffeemaker.

  Against this backdrop of purposeful activity, Collette was reduced to doodling meaningless scribbles on the edge of the notes she’d made while talking to Eleanor’s mother.

  Eleanor was alert but had no memory of the attack. The last thing she remembered was walking into the kitchen to return her empty dinner plate. Temporary memory lapses after a concussion were not unusual occurrences, the medical staff had assured the family. In most instances the patient regained full or at least partial memory of the event causing the injury.

  Bottom line, they couldn’t be sure when or if she’d be able to describe her attacker. In the meantime, there was nothing to do on that front but wait.

  Dylan was using her desktop computer to surf the Net for articles written by Eleanor. Collette looked over his shoulder for a minute, then picked up her laptop and took it to the sitting area where she normally discussed prices and picture packages with clients.

  Dropping to the most comfortable of the chairs, she turned on the computer and started to type in Eleanor Baker, changing her mind before she reached the second e. She changed the search criteria to Troy Ledger’s murder trial. Hundreds of choices lined up on the screen.

  She clicked on the most promising and started
reading an account of the evidence presented against him during the course of the trial. She scanned one article after another. The mild irritation she experienced at first became a tightening in her chest and then a sickening surge of disbelief.

  Troy Ledger had been sentenced to life in prison based on conjecture, circumstantial evidence and the testimony of his dead wife’s parents, Collette’s father and a few other locals.

  In contrast, the defense had claimed that Sheriff McGuire never searched for the real killer once Troy Ledger had been confirmed as a suspect. The sole focus of her father’s investigation was said to be collecting evidence to convict Troy, who had publicly criticized the sheriff’s handling of a previous investigation involving two migrant workers accused of stealing from their employer.

  Helene’s parents had testified that Troy protested when they tried to give their daughter and their grandchildren money or nice gifts and trips, even though he couldn’t provide them. Character witnesses for Troy had said that while he was stubborn and independent, he was a nonviolent man who loved his wife and kids and provided the necessities.

  The conviction clinchers had been the fact that Helene was shot with Troy’s pistol, coupled with his unwillingness to cooperate in his own defense and the testimony of one of Helene’s best friends who said she’d stopped by the Willow Creek Ranch the morning of the murder and found Helene packing a bag. When she’d asked her where she was going, Helene had said to her parents’, that she’d let things go on too long.

  Troy Ledger had claimed his innocence, but for the most part, he’d seemed angry and sullen or else totally detached from the trial proceedings. When he’d finally taken the stand, he’d broken down and cried. One of the articles claimed that the jurors had apparently seen that remorse as guilt.

  The family of the murdered wife had cheered at the conviction. Dylan and his brothers were not present for any of the proceedings except the sentencing.

  Collette leaned back in the chair and studied Dylan’s profile as she mentally reviewed the findings about his father. Deep in thought as he was, the tiny wrinkles that creased Dylan’s eyes when he smiled were all but invisible. The muscles in his arms weren’t flexed, but they still pushed at the fabric of his shirt. He was as tough and independent as his father must have been.