by Joanna Wayne
She let her fingers slide over the damage, then walked to the passenger-side door, opened it and climbed inside. The vehicle wasn't locked, but even if it had been, entry would have been easy enough with two windows shot out.
Her spirits plunged at the first glimpse inside the glove compartment. The contents—including her weapon—were missing.
There was the possibility that Hank Tanner had her belongings inside for safekeeping, but more likely the sheriff had confiscated them. No problem there. The car and gun registrations would check out.
Still, it was amazing how vulnerable she felt without her weapon, despite the fact that she hadn't carried it on her body since arriving in Colts Run Cross. It didn't fit the PT persona and chancing someone noticing that she was carrying a weapon would constitute an unnecessary risk when there was no reason to think she was in any kind of danger.
Her cell phone vibrated—not her regular phone but the CIA one, disguised as a compact. It was her signal to call in at her earliest convenience unless she was free to take the call. She wished she could ignore it, because it was likely her supervisor and she wasn't sure she was ready to handle Brady Owens just yet. She took a deep breath and leaned against the car.
"Shelly Lane," she said, identifying herself.
"I got the word you've been shot," Brady said, without bothering with a greeting. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, or I will be in a few days. It was only a flesh wound. Left arm. Random violence. Nothing to worry about—really."
"Any complication is reason for worry. Where are you?"
"At Hank Tanner's Garage, standing by my vehicle."
"Who's with you?"
"I'm alone. I wouldn't have answered otherwise."
"I'm just checking."
To see if the accident had somehow addled her brain and made her a risk. The Collingsworth case was Brady's baby and he'd made it clear that he wasn't comfortable with her lack of experience. She was certain he'd be even less thrilled with her now.
"I'm totally aware of the seriousness of this case, sir, but things are under control. What I meant is there's no reason the assignment shouldn't still be a go."
"That will be my decision. I haven't made it yet."
"Yes, sir."
"Have there been any new developments since you called in the report?"
"Nothing except that I've left the hospital."
"Were you released?"
"No, sir, but the wound is too insignificant to require hospitalization. I'll go back in tomorrow to have it checked."
"See that you do that. Is there anything else I should know?"
"My weapon was locked in the glove compartment of my car at the time of the shooting incident. It's missing. I assume either the mechanic took it for safekeeping or the sheriff has it. Either way, I'm sure I'll get it back."
"Just be sure to explain it away convincingly. Do you think there is any chance the Collingsworths were behind the attack?"
"I'm all but certain they weren't. Matt Collingsworth was inside the restaurant when it occurred and was the first to come to my rescue."
"So I heard. That doesn't mean he couldn't have ordered a hit. With his money, hired guns are easy to come by."
"But we have no evidence that any of the Collingsworths have ever used a paid assassin," Shelly countered. "And Lenora Collingsworth visited me at the hospital. She seemed extremely apologetic about the shooting incident and has asked me to move to the ranch tomorrow. That would be the last thing she'd do if she knew I was with the CIA."
"It would seem that way, unless you're walking into a trap."
"They're not going to shoot me in cold blood," Shelly said. "They use money and influence—not guns—to get what they want." Shelly knew that Brady would have a difficult time denying that.
Besides, she was his best chance—maybe his only chance—to get an agent inside the family circle, and they needed that edge to push things off dead center.
They'd had a mole inside Collingsworth Oil for months. Ben Hartmann was an experienced agent and talented computer hacker, but as yet he hadn't acquired the proof to seal the case. No proof that the Collingsworths were GAS, Ben's term for suspects once they had indisputable evidence that they were guilty as sin.
"We've spent weeks setting this up," she argued. "Unless there's a serious leak in our department, no one could possibly have found out why I'm really here. It would be a major setback if we called this off just because some two-bit hood with a point to prove to his fellow gang members shot up my car."
"The random violence angle is a huge assumption, Shelly. You know what I think about assumptions."
"Yes, sir." But he also knew there was always a gamble in this type of operation.
"I'd like to hear your firsthand, no-spin account of today's shooting incident."
She filled him in on the details, leaving nothing out— except for her ridiculous and very momentary attraction to Matt Collingsworth. He listened without questions until she'd finished.
Then the silence on the line seemed thick with apprehension. She knew he was rethinking everything, especially her inexperience. She didn't breathe easy until she heard the muffled clicking of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a clear signal that he was giving in. All the agents recognized the telltale habit.
"Proceed as planned, while I have this checked into, Shelly. But watch your back and stay on high alert. Never underestimate a Collingsworth."
"That's a given."
Once the connection was broken, she stepped outside the car and looked around. It was almost completely dark now and a sliver of moon hung just over the top of a cluster of sweet gum trees on the opposite side of the street.
There were a couple of other businesses on the block—a machine shop and a tree-trimming business. Both were closed with no sign of life around the buildings, except a black cat, crouched near a trash bin, cautiously watching Shelly.
A welcome gust of wind caught an empty bag and blew it across the parking lot depositing it under Shelly's banged-up vehicle. Thankfully it was not actually her car, but one the agency had purchased specifically for this assignment.
A pickup truck turned the corner onto Birch, the beam from its headlights fanning her for an instant before returning to the street. The driver slowed, and in spite of her mental reassurances of safety, her nerves skittered nervously.
It's a small town, she told herself as the driver pulled into the parking lot a few feet away. He was probably just curious why a woman would be out here all alone. Still, she'd feel a lot safer with her weapon in hand. Today's close call had been an excellent reminder that she wasn't invincible.
The car stopped, and she got her first good luck at the driver. Her muscles clenched. This wasn't a curious passerby.
He was here to find her.
Chapter Four
Matt slid from behind the wheel and stood by the side of his truck, his gaze fixed on Shelly. Her face and eyes were shadowed, her features blurred in the early-evening darkness. She looked pale, but her shoulders were squared and her mouth was set in hard lines as if she was determined not to let the situation get the better of her.
An unexpected protective urge surged inside him as his focus moved to her bandaged arm and then to the bullet-battered car.
"We've got to stop meeting like this," she quipped, but her attempt at humor lost its effect to the eerie screech of an owl hidden in the branches of a nearby tree.
Matt looked around, expecting to see Hank standing nearby. He didn't. The place was completely deserted except for Shelly.
"What are you doing here after hours?" he asked.
Shelly brushed her bangs to one side and propped her right hand on her hip almost defiantly. "I could ask you the same thing."
"I was looking for you," he admitted. "I tried your motel. When you weren't there, I drove here to see if Hank had heard from you."
"How did you know I'd left the hospital?"
"The sheriff called me. Apparentl
y you told the nursing staff you were going to Jack's Bluff tonight."
She shrugged and looked backed to the car as he stepped closer. "I didn't exactly tell them that. They just surmised it and I didn't set them straight. It seemed the easiest way to walk out of the hospital without causing a major ruckus."
"Why not just wait until the doctor released you?"
"I hate hospitals and I didn't see any point in running up a big hospital bill when I didn't need to be there in the first place."
Matt scanned the quiet parking lot. "How did you get here?"
"I walked. It's not that far." She slapped at a mosquito that was buzzing around her ear. "I'm fine, Matt. And I don't hold your family responsible for any of this, if that's what you're worried about."
"I'm not worried at all." Unfortunately, that wasn't exactly true. Pretty much everything about Shelly Lane worried him—and puzzled him—especially the fact that she was standing on a deserted street alone at night after being shot at just hours ago.
He didn't trust this whole situation, wasn't at all convinced that Shelly didn't know who'd tried to kill her. Yet if she did, that would give her all the more reason not to put herself at risk like this.
He stepped between her and the car. "Are you in some kind of trouble, Shelly?"
"No. Why would you ask that? You were there when some crackpot roared in from nowhere and used my car for target practice."
"The other possibility is that he'd come to town looking for you."
"Don't be ridiculous. I don't even know anyone around this part of the country."
"Maybe someone followed you from Atlanta. Maybe a jealous boyfriend? A jilted lover?"
"The last boyfriend is engaged to be married to a fashion model. He forgot me at the first sight of my replacement— who I introduced him to, no less."
Matt doubted that any man had found Shelly that easy to forget, but he wasn't going there now. He pressed a hand on the top of the car and leaned into it. "Do you always carry a loaded gun in your glove compartment?"
She turned to look at his truck and the shotgun riding the rack behind his seat. "Obviously there's no local law against carrying weapons in a vehicle."
"Touche."
"Actually, one of my friends insisted I buy it before leaving Atlanta. She kept stressing how it wasn't safe for a woman to drive so far by herself, said I might have car trouble and get stranded in a dangerous area. Who knew the danger would be in Colts Run Cross?"
Which is what made this so difficult to buy into. He watched as the breeze teased her bangs, blowing wispy strands of hair about her forehead.
"I'm shaken, Matt. I won't deny it. My first instinct was to go running back to Atlanta. But running from random violence is like trying to get out of the path of a tornado. It can strike anywhere."
"But both are more likely in some places than others." The owl screeched again and mosquitoes were starting to treat the back of his neck like a buffet. Whatever was going on with Shelly Lane, he was pretty sure he wasn't going to get to the bottom of it tonight.
Matt rocked back on the heels of his boots. "No point in hanging around out here," he said. "I can give you a ride back to your motel."
"Thanks."
And on the way he'd tell her that her plan to move to the ranch tomorrow had been put on hold.
They walked back to his truck in silence and he opened the door for her. He circled the vehicle, climbed behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition and gunned the engine. The beams of his headlights illuminated the damaged side of Shelly's car as he backed from the lot.
His hands tightened on the wheel as the reality of the situation settled into a grim knot in his stomach. If the attack on her was personal, the guy wouldn't just give up because the first try didn't work. The shooter might even be a hired hit man biding his time until he could get to her again. Maybe waiting for dark, when she was alone in a motel at the edge of town.
A spray of gravel shot from the back wheels of his pickup truck as he sped away from Hank's. He couldn't take her to the ranch when no one knew for certain she was on the up and up. But he couldn't just dump her to fend for herself if she was in real danger.
So where did that leave him?
* * *
Shelly sat up straighter, staring at the neon sign identifying the rambling wooden roadhouse whose parking lot they'd just pulled into as Cutter's Bar and Grill.
"Why are you stopping here?"
"I could use a cup of coffee," Matt said.
"I don't drink coffee this late," she said.
"Then how about a beer?"
"I can't drink alcohol. I'm still feeling the effects of the pain medication they gave me at the hospital. Besides I'm not dressed for going out."
That wasn't exactly a valid argument since she had on the same jeans she'd had on at lunch today. Topping them was the crimson cami she'd had on under the bloodied blouse that Matt had cut the sleeves out of. There was a blood stain on it, but it so closely matched the color of the shirt, it looked more like fabric shading. Her attire would likely be the same as half the women in the bar.
"You look fine," Matt said, "and I could really use the coffee."
She hesitated, then pulled down the visor and checked her reflection in the small lighted mirror. "I at least have to put on some lipstick," she said, already reaching in her handbag for a tube. She'd have never gone out in D.C. looking like this, but she wasn't in the nation's capital and this wasn't a date. It was her job. This might be the perfect opportunity to start winning Mart's confidence.
Matt took her arm as they crossed the parking lot and walked through the open doorway. Shelly took in the sights and the atmosphere.
Cute cowboys in Western shirts, jeans and boots perched on worn wooden barstools and drank beer from bottles and whiskey and Tequila from shot glasses. Couples filled the dance floor, two-stepping to a slow country ballad.
Matt exchanged waves and greetings with some of the patrons as he led Shelly to the left side of the main room, away from the bar and dance floor. Couples and small groups were enjoying late dinners. Odors of fried onions and peppery spices hung heavy in the air; there was a refreshing absence of stale cigarette smoke and Shelly assumed Cutter's Bar had followed suit with many other Texas restaurants and bars and allowed smoking only outside the building.
Most of the patrons were in their early to mid twenties, but there were some older customers as well, including a group of six women who looked to be their late fifties.
They seemed to be having the most fun of all, laughing and talking loudly. One of the older women caught Mart's eye and waved him over. The other women at the table seemed equally as delighted to see him as Shelly and Matt maneuvered through the maze of tables and mismatched chairs.
Shelly knew from her research that all the Collingsworths were not only well-liked but respected throughout this part of Texas. Watching Matt, it was easy to see why. He wore his wealth the way she might wear a pair of old jeans. Easy. Comfortably. Free of even the slightest pretension.
"This table looks like solid trouble," Matt said, leaning over to kiss the cheek of the one who'd initially spotted him. "What are you gorgeous hens doing out without the roosters?"
"They're all over in Austin at a cattle auction, so we decided to hit the town."
"Look out, cowboys," Matt said.
"Land sakes. we don't want them." one woman said.
"Right," another agreed. "We just got rid of our own. We're just here to eat someone else's cooking."
"And have company that doesn't moo."
They all laughed again and Matt introduced Shelly to the rancher's wives. She felt an unexpected twinge of guilt that they accepted her so readily when she was here under false pretenses. But how could these women, or anyone else in this town possibly know the traitorous paths that the Collingsworths had followed?
Make that had allegedly followed, but the evidence against them was overwhelming—just not indisputable as yet.
&
nbsp; Matt spoke and waved to several more people before they finally stopped at a table near the back, where it was only slightly quieter. He held her chair for her, then took the seat opposite hers. She was keenly aware that in a bar full of sexy cowboys, he still stood out.
It wasn't his looks that set him apart, though he certainly held his own in that department. It was his self-confidence, Shelly decided. He was a man who knew who he was and what he was about.
A waitress sashayed over, and true to his word, Matt ordered a black coffee.
"If you're hungry, they have great burgers here," he said. "Good chicken-fried steaks, too."
Shelly had learned quickly that battered and fried steak— as big as the plate and covered in thick cream gravy—was a staple of every restaurant in this part of Texas. She'd tried it, and loved it. Then promptly gave it up before she gained too much weight to fit into the new jeans she'd purchased for this assignment.
"I can bring you a menu," the waitress said. "Kitchen's open until midnight."
"Thanks, but I won't need one. The burger sounds good."
"With cheese, jalapenos, onion rings?"
"Just cheese. And a glass of iced tea, unsweetened."
Shelly wasn't hungry, though she'd barely touched her dinner at the hospital. But picking at food would be less awkward than having nothing to do but stare at Matt, while he bombarded her with questions that she'd be forced to answer with rehearsed lies.
She was certain that's what this coffee date was about. He was obviously suspicious of the day's events and determined to check her out. That convinced her even more that neither he nor his family had any idea who she really was. All she had to do was play this cool and she'd soon be living inside the gates of Jack's Bluff Ranch.
"Don't you drink beer?" she asked when the waitress walked away.
"Occasionally. Mostly I'm a whiskey man, but I had a drink after dinner and I figure that's enough. I have an early day tomorrow"
"It's Saturday."
"Cows don't know that. Besides, I'm helping out with one of Mom's do-gooder events tomorrow."
"What does that entail?"
