by Joanna Wayne
He sprinted back toward the house, stepping in a patch of stickers that punctured his skin. The sharp pains only urged him faster.
Troy was on the porch, holding the rifle he must have retrieved from Dylan’s truck. “He escaped on a motorbike,” Dylan yelled. “I’m going after him.”
“Take this with you.” Troy started toward the truck with the rifle.
“You keep it in case he doubles back here,” Dylan called.
“I don’t need it,” Troy said. “I have a shotgun inside the house.” He opened the passenger-side door of Dylan’s truck and left the rifle with Dylan.
Dylan didn’t know if Troy’s having a firearm was legal under the circumstances of his release, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now.
Collette came running out of the house still in her robe.
“Get back inside,” Dylan ordered.
She kept coming, jumping into the truck and grabbing the rifle as he fired the ignition. She slammed the door. “What are you waiting on? Hit the gas before the dirty rotten coward gets away.”
“Buckle up,” he said, knowing there was no time and probably no use to argue with her. “And for God’s sake, don’t shoot yourself or me with that rifle.”
COLLETTE’S FRIGHT was swiftly replaced by the need to keep the rifle and her body from bouncing off the roof as Dylan’s truck rumbled and rocked across the bumpy hills. The would-be killer had a head start, but he couldn’t be too far ahead of them.
“That way,” Collette yelled, pointing to the left when she noticed a downed fence.
“Good work.”
Dylan drove through the break, dragging down more fence posts before cutting across empty pastureland at breakneck speed. The bent and broken grass blades made the shooter’s trail easy to follow, but there was still no sign of the motorbike.
In spite of the danger and the gravity of the situation, exhilaration rushed Collette’s system like a drug.
“I never realized riding shotgun through empty pastures would be this exciting.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Dylan said. “It’s hell on the tires.”
They came to another downed fence, but this one opened to the blacktop road that ran behind the ranch. Tracks from the motorbike’s tires led right up to the road and then swerved right.
Dylan turned left.
“You turned the wrong way,” she squealed.
“My guess is he knew I’d follow and he was trying to point me in the opposite direction.”
“Okay, makes sense,” she admitted and wondered why she was so naive when it came to the criminal mind.
“Besides, going left would get him to the highway a lot quicker,” Dylan added.
They drove another ten miles without any sign of the bike. When they reached the highway, Dylan slowed to a stop, muttering a few choice curses under his breath.
“Sorry for the soldier talk,” he said. “It’s just aggravating to lose the guy when we all but had him in our sights.”
“Are you giving up?”
“For the moment. The guy could have gone in any direction or cut off across someone else’s land. We could keep going but we’d just be chasing rabbits.”
“Instead of the rat we need.” She felt the frustration herself, but sitting here in the truck at daybreak, holding a rifle steady with one hand and trying to keep her robe together with the other, she couldn’t help but see the humor in this. Her smile drew an instant reaction.
“You could have been killed back there, Collette. Exactly what is it you find amusing about this?”
“Us. You in your underwear. Me riding shotgun half-naked. You have to admit we make an unusual crime-fighter team. Maybe we should try for a TV reality show.”
He snaked an arm around her shoulders. “You, Collette McGuire, have gone mad from your wild and daring ride.”
“No, Dylan.” She reached over and circled his navel with her index finger. “I’m giddy from the excitement of you.”
He leaned in close, his lips brushing her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, as her thrill quotient went soaring to a new high. When his lips finally took hers, she was almost to the point of begging.
He ravaged her mouth, the kisses frantic at first and punctuated by tantalizing thrusts of his tongue. Finally the kisses grew deeper, and she melted into them, savoring the salty sweetness and the passion.
Her robe opened. Dylan slipped his hand inside and she tensed at the delicious thrill of the touch of his fingers on her bare skin. She arched toward him as he cupped her breasts and let his thumbs massage her taut nipples.
Soft moans of pleasure emanated from deep in her throat. Heat rushed to her core and she entangled one hand in the hair at his temples and splayed the other across his abdomen.
“Who knew?” she whispered.
“Knew what?”
“That having a private protector could feel this good.”
“It’s not supposed to. Definitely not supposed to.” He pulled away and ran both hands through his hair as if he were annoyed, or just plain frustrated.
“We better get back.” His words were husky, his breath ragged.
“Did I say something to upset you?”
“No, but I need my mind clear to keep you safe and my mind is never going to be clear when I’m this turned on by you.”
Dylan had put her on a sensual high the moment he’d shown up back in Mustang Run, but he was right. They should back away from each other, but not for the reason he thought. Nightmare or reality, Helene had warned Collette that she was pulling her family into danger. Nothing proved that more than the fact that Dylan had gone after a madman.
Collette had not only dragged Dylan into her perilous mire but she was entangling him in complications that couldn’t be good for him or Troy. No matter how crazy she was about Dylan, the best thing she could do for him and Troy was to get out of their lives until her stalker was behind bars.
TROY TOYED WITH the 30-06 bullet he’d dug from the support post with his new pocket knife. The knife was another staple Able had provided, same as he’d supplied the shotgun. Guns, knives, ropes, machetes, all just tools of the trade to a rancher, but foreign and illicit to a prisoner.
When Able had first handed him the gun, Troy had broken out in a cold sweat. Even handling the knife seemed strange after all these years, and it had taken him several minutes to angle the blade and work the bullet from the wood.
The bullet had burrowed in just about head high. Had it struck Collette, her brain would have splintered and sprayed the porch the way the slivers of old wood had. The shooter had been aiming to kill.
Memories flooded Troy’s mind, trapping him in the horror and the nauseating visions he’d never even tried to escape. To let his pain and wrath dim would negate the gravity of the crime and devalue Helene’s life. He would never let that happen, and he would never let his heartbreak heal until whoever had killed her paid for the crime.
Helene had been home alone when her killer had come calling, and the hooligan hadn’t shot her from a distance. He’d walked inside the house and shot her twice in the head and once in the chest at point-blank range. Three shots when any one of them would have killed her.
Excessive brutality indicated a crime of passion, the prosecutor had said when he’d argued the case against Troy. His wife had been leaving him and taking their sons with her. Faced with the loss of all that he loved, Troy had given in to his darker side.
The side of him his mother-in-law had claimed Helene knew all too well. That’s why Helene had warned her parents that under no circumstances were they to confront Troy about anything to do with the ranch or money.
The accusations hadn’t fazed Troy then. Nothing had. The pain had deadened him to everything except the knowledge that he’d never see Helene again, never hold her slender, beautiful body in his arms. Never hear her sing when she was working around the house or in her garden, never dance with her under the light of the moon or two-step her around the kitchen.
Never be able to whisper how much he loved her and have her whisper the words back to him.
Some lunatic had robbed him of that.
Now another lunatic was after Collette. But why? The stalker story didn’t hack it. Not when two days ago the anonymous caller was professing his love for Collette, and now he was shooting at her.
He could be someone who didn’t stand out but faded easily into a crowd. A man whom Collette might have seen many times in passing and never really noticed. Even in prison there had been guys like that, the ones who didn’t attract the attention of the guards or the bullies.
Those were the lucky ones.
If this guy was that nondescript, it could take weeks or months to expose him.
In the meantime, Dylan was putting his life on the line, and not just from the sniper who’d tried to take him and Collette out this morning. If Collette had taken that bullet, Glenn McGuire would have battered Dylan with questions until he was too weary to think, would have focused on every idle word he uttered and every dubious act he’d ever committed.
All that for no reason except that Dylan was the son of Troy Ledger.
But Troy would not let Dylan become another sacrificial lamb to Glenn McGuire’s need for revenge. He’d make damned sure of that. For now he just wished Dylan and Collette would get back here so he’d know they were safe.
Too restless and anxious to sit back and do nothing, Troy headed toward the woodshed.
He scanned the area as he covered the distance. A large black rat scurried over the top of a pile of rotting firewood stacked outside the dilapidated shed. A loose strip of tattered metal hung just above the wood, the remains of an old sign advertising a cleaning product that hadn’t been manufactured in years.
Just below the sign, Troy spotted a smear of color.
Fresh blood from a scratch the stalker had gotten from the prickly brush that had overgrown the shed? Or from the rusted metal of the sign?
Possibly.
His spirits lifted. He just might have discovered the shooter’s DNA.
Other than having Dylan at home, it was the most positive thing that had happened since he’d returned to Mustang Run. Even Glenn McGuire with all his ploys and vindictiveness couldn’t ignore DNA.
SIX DEPUTIES CAME barreling down the ranch road shortly after Collette and Dylan returned from the chase. Her father was not with the group, and she suspected it was because he hadn’t been informed of the situation. Fortunately, both she and Dylan had had time to slip into more appropriate attire before the lawmen arrived.
Troy had called in and reported the shooting and the fact that he had found what was likely the culprit’s blood near his woodshed. If it turned out the DNA was in the FBI’s CODIS base, they’d have the identity of the shooter. It was the most promising development since the attack.
At a quarter past nine the second piece of welcoming news arrived via cell phone. Eleanor was alert, cognizant and asking to see Collette.
By eleven, she and Dylan were standing just outside the door to Eleanor’s private room. The young police officer on guard introduced himself as Clay Sevier and flashed his badge.
“I’ll need to check your IDs before you can enter Room 612.”
They each gave Clay their driver’s licenses. He studied them carefully. “Are you related to Sheriff McGuire?” he asked as he handed the license back to Collette.
“He’s my father.”
“A good man. I met him yesterday when he came by to talk to the patient.”
She nodded, avoiding comment.
The guard frowned as he returned Dylan’s driver’s license. “Collette is cleared to visit Ms. Baker, but I’ll have to ask you to wait outside.”
“That’s better anyway,” Collette assured Dylan. “Eleanor will feel more comfortable and free to talk if I’m by myself.” She turned back to the officer. “Is anyone in the room with her now?”
“Not at the moment. Her mother was in there most of the morning, but she left about ten minutes ago. I believe she was going to get something to eat.”
“I could use a cup of coffee and a newspaper,” Dylan said. He put a hand on Collette’s shoulder. “I’ll make a quick run to the cafeteria and then come back and wait on you here.”
“Take your time, but cross your fingers that we leave the hospital with a description of Eleanor’s attacker.”
“They’re crossed, but don’t count on too much. The doctor said it could take days—or even longer—for her to remember everything.”
“I know.”
“Call if you need me,” Dylan said.
“I will.” She tapped lightly on the door to Eleanor’s room. When there was no answer, she pushed it open and walked inside.
Collette’s heart sank to her toes when she saw how wiped out Eleanor looked in the oversize hospital gown. Her eyes were closed, but rimmed in dark circles. An IV fed into one arm. The opposite shoulder was bandaged.
Eleanor’s hair had been combed and pushed behind her ears, but it looked flat and dull, lacking its usual shine and vibrancy. The same could be said of Eleanor. Except that Eleanor hadn’t lost hers. It had been stolen from her by the thug she prayed Eleanor was about to describe.
Eleanor groaned and slapped at the cover without waking. Collette stepped to the side of the bed, not sure if she should disturb her. A nurse walked in the room, saw Collette and smiled.
“Look, Eleanor. You have company.”
Eleanor opened her eyes as the nurse checked her pulse. Her gaze settled on Collette and she managed a weak smile.
Collette fit her hand on top of Eleanor’s. “Hi, girl. You’re looking good. Nice gown.”
“You think? I can probably filch you one.”
“I’d take you up on that if it were my color.”
The nurse finished her check. “You two have a good visit, but don’t tire out my patient,” she cautioned as she left them alone.
“Guess I made a mess of your house,” Eleanor said. “Teach you to befriend an investigative reporter.”
Her words came slow and slightly labored, but her wit was intact. Collette was certain that was a good sign.
“I’m so sorry you were attacked,” Collette said. “If I’d had any idea you were in danger at my place, I would have never invited you to stay over.”
“Not your fault. Just luck of the draw.”
Collette seriously doubted that. “Do you feel like talking about the attack?”
“I feel okay. They have good drugs in this place.”
“I’ll bet.”
Eleanor shifted and winced. Obviously the meds didn’t relieve all the pain.
“I was in the living room, drinking wine and watching CSI reruns. Had the volume too loud, I guess. Didn’t hear him break in.”
“Did he come into the living room?”
She shook her head, a slight movement, but enough. “I’d made myself a BLT. I took my empty plate back to the kitchen and there he was.”
Lurking in Collette’s kitchen the way he’d been lurking in her life. Collette felt that sinking, violated feeling again. Eleanor had to feel that, too, along with her pain. “Did he say anything before he attacked you?”
“I’m not sure. The attack is still fuzzy. I remember screaming and him diving at me with a kitchen knife.” Eleanor squinted and then closed her eyes for a few seconds before opening them again and looking right at Collette. “I’m lucky to be alive.”
“Yes, you are. Thank God for that.” But the monster might not have given up on killing her yet. He could be in the hospital this very minute, walking the halls, waiting for any opportunity to kill Eleanor before she talked. He had to be stopped.
“Did you get a good look at the man?”
“I must have, but all I can remember is that he was tall. And burly. You know, muscled.”
“Was he wearing a ski mask or gloves?”
“Gloves. He was wearing gloves. Black ones. I’d forgotten about that.”
So Eleanor’s memory did respond to coaxing. Collette would have to keep wheedling unless Eleanor grew stressed by her attempts.
“Was he wearing anything over his face?”
“Maybe. I can’t remember. I had to have seen him, but I just can’t remember.”
“What about his hair? Was it long or short?”
Eleanor sucked in her bottom lip and touched a finger to her chin. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“Any idea if he was young, old, middle-aged?”
Finally she smiled again. “Not old enough. I could have beaten up an elderly man.”
“I’d have paid to see that,” Collette teased, though she wasn’t ready to let up on the pressure completely just yet. “Was he older than I am?”
“Could have been older. But he was strong. Really strong.”
“Do you remember anything else about him? Scars, tattoos, a beard?”
“It happened fast. Wham, bam.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Nothing. I don’t think he said anything. He stabbed me. I was on the floor—for a long time, I think. Then we heard you drive up.”
“Is that when he hit you over the head?”
“No. He had a gun. When you drove up, he had a gun.”
“There was a vehicle,” Collette explained, “but it wasn’t mine. Dylan Ledger drove up in his truck. He got there before I did. He’s the one who found you unconscious on the kitchen floor.”
“Dylan Ledger, the murderer’s son?”
“Dylan Ledger, my friend,” Collette corrected.
“Why was he there?”
“I invited him.”
“Huh?”
“I invited him to stop by anytime,” Collette repeated. “He took me up on the invitation.”
Eleanor shook her head. “Don’t trust him.”
“I do trust him.” She was even starting to trust Helene. Eleanor and Melinda were probably the only two people she knew who would believe her tale about conversing with a paranormal spirit, but she didn’t want to say anything now that might further confuse Eleanor.
