The Junkyard Cowboy (Tall, Hot & Texan Book 3)

by Christie Craig

  “What?” The male voice boomed.

  It wasn’t her friend. “Clay?”

  “Yeah. Look, I just found out—”

  “I can’t talk,” she said. “I need to . . .” She heard the front door bang open. Certain it was Pete, she called out, “I need a ride to the hospital!”

  Footsteps echoed in the living room, but it wasn’t Pete who appeared at the doorway. Instead the big, bald creep who wanted her dead stood there.

  She screamed. Dropped the phone, and bolted back.

  • • •

  “Jennifer? What’s wrong? Shit!” Clay hung up, called 911 and gave his address, then tossed the phone down and told Devil to hang on. He drove like a bat out of hell with Satan nipping at his heels. Three minutes. That’s the time it would take to make it back to his house if he was driving like a sane person.

  He wasn’t feeling sane.

  Two and a half minutes if he didn’t stop at the lights and signs.

  He wasn’t stopping.

  Gas pedal to floorboard, he white-knuckled the steering wheel. Images of Jennifer flashed in his head. Images of Pete. But damn, when had Pete became so important to him?

  Damn! Damn! Damn!

  He passed the red light, drove through the stop sign. His heart felt swollen, as it thudded painfully against his chest bone.

  Air felt stuck in his throat. He couldn’t lose her. He loved her. She made his life worthwhile. She made him happy. She made him a better man.

  But holy shit, he’d been an idiot. How the hell could he have ever even questioned wanting her in his life?

  Stomping his foot harder on the gas, he started praying.

  • • •

  “What . . . what do you want?” Jennifer gripped the counter behind her.

  Bundy looked puzzled. “This must be my lucky day.”

  And what did that say about her day? Fear had her mind racing, roaring.

  “Look, you can just turn around and leave. Clay will be back here any second.”

  “Clay, the junkyard guy?”

  She nodded.

  “Good,” Bundy said. “I have a score to settle with him.”

  Fear curled up inside her and turned her skin ice cold.

  “No,” she managed to say. “Just leave. They think you’ve left town, and if you leave now, no one will be looking for you.” She shook her head. A knot of emotion rolled around in her throat. “Look, I have a friend who is having a baby, and things aren’t going well. I need to be with her. So, you are just going to leave!”

  Bundy laughed. Not the kind of laugh that eased one’s fears, but the kind that caused them. “You’re funny.”

  She knew it had been a long shot, but she had to try. Now she just had to figure out what to try next. Because no way in hell was she not showing up for Savanna.

  “Seriously, I won’t tell a soul you were here.”

  “And how are you going to explain the old dead guy out by the barn?”

  Dead guy. Pete? “No!” Her heart jolted. Emotion. Guilt. She had brought this down on Pete. He hadn’t done anything. Then that emotion blew up like a flash fire and burnt out. She hadn’t done this. Bundy had. Just like that drunk driver had killed her mom and sister.

  She’d known it all these years, but never had it felt so true.

  Still gripping the counter, she felt something cold and hard touching the top of her palms.

  The skillet. The cast-iron skillet. A piece of cookware that doubled as a weapon. Her mom’s words swam through her head, and she got an idea of what to try next.

  She inched her palms back, and at the same time saw a shovel swing behind Bundy and whack the man on his bald head.

  “What old dead guy?” the voice boomed from behind the hit man.

  Jennifer had never been so happy to hear Pete’s voice.

  Bundy, only mildly dazed, went to swing around. Jennifer, skillet already in her hand, swung, and gave the man a brain-jarring, lump-forming thump.

  The bald guy dropped the gun, swayed on his feet, but then turned back to her. His blue eyes were pure evil. Her breath caught.

  Pete’s shovel came down again and gave the man another hard wallop.

  Bundy growled, looking more angry than hurt. She swung again hitting him right on the forehead. He collapsed against the doorframe.

  Jennifer kicked the gun across the room.

  Pete’s shovel landed on Bundy’s head again.

  “It’s your turn,” Pete said.

  But she’d seen the man’s eyes roll back in his head. He fell in a dead lump on the floor. Dead? Oh, lord, had they killed him?

  “Get me the gun,” Pete said.

  She ran to the other side of the kitchen, snatched it up and handed it to him. Her hands shook, but her panic took a back seat to concern when she saw, really saw, Pete for the first time. Blood flowed down his face, down his shirt. A lot of blood.

  “Oh, God, are you okay?” The words scratched her throat coming out.

  “Piece of shit shot me in the ear!” he bellowed.

  Don’t ask her why, but she laughed. Laughed hard. Laughed with tears.

  Then she heard Clay’s truck hauling ass down the driveway. Somehow before the engine stopped, footsteps pounded on the porch. He swung the door open and stormed in. His eyes were hot with fury, his brows pinched, his expression intense. His gun aimed. He looked more like a cop than she’d ever seen him.

  The second he saw them, the ready-to-kill look vanished and he rushed in and hugged her. His warmth, his touch, had every muscle in her body going limp. Had her wanting to give in to the panic that begged to take her, but she fought it. For Savanna.

  Then Clay jerked back. “Damn.” His gaze had shifted to Pete. “Are you shot?”

  “Yup,” Pete said. The man still held the gun aimed at Bundy as blood continued to pour down the side of his face. “Asswipe shot off my ear.”

  Jennifer swung around to the kitchen and got a clean dishtowel.

  “Just the ear?” Clay took the gun away from Pete.

  “Just? I liked my ear,” Pete bellowed.

  Jennifer handed Pete the towel.

  Clay, his gaze between the unconscious man and the side of Pete’s face, pushed the old man’s hair to the side. “You’re going to be okay. Why don’t you sit down? I already called 911.” He looked down at Bundy then squatted to touch the man’s neck, checking for a pulse.

  Jennifer’s breath caught. “He’s not . . .”

  “No, he’s alive.” Clay stood up and brushed her hair from her cheek. “Are you hurt?”

  Pete started out the door.

  “Where are you going?” Clay caught the old man’s arm.

  “To see if I can find my ear.”

  “No, you need to sit down. And it’s only the tip of your ear.”

  “Why don’t I drive him to the hospital?” Jennifer said. “I need to go to the hospital anyway. Savanna’s having problems.” Tears filled her eyes, but she inhaled deeply. Mark had said Savanna needed her to help to calm things down. Calm was in short supply, but for her best friend, she’d find it.

  Clay looked at her. “I don’t think you’re okay to drive.”

  “I’m going to the hospital. Savanna needs me.”

  Police sirens echoed in the distance.

  Clay stared at her, and she stared right back at him.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let the sheriff get here, and I’ll drive you both.”

  • • •

  “You can’t leave an active investigation.” The sheriff yelled from the porch.

  Yes, we can, Clay thought. “I’ll be right back,” he called out as he drove off.

  Hopefully he wouldn’t return to a pissed off sheriff who’d lock his ass up for not following orders.

  Right after they got on the road, Clay called Jake and told him what had gone down. Jake was already at the hospital with his wife checking in on Savanna, but he agreed to drive out to Clay’s house and help the sheriff.

  When
he got off the phone, he heard Jennifer say, “I can’t believe I haven’t already said thank you.”

  He looked at her to ask for what, and realized she was talking to Pete.

  “You saved me.” Tears filled her eyes. She didn’t look nearly as panicked as she had the first time she’d had a showdown with Bundy, but the wrinkle in her forehead said she wasn’t without stress. And damn it, he wanted to comfort her.

  Guilt bit down on his gut. He shouldn’t have left her to go to the grocery store.

  “You’re my hero.” The tender way she spoke to Pete had Clay’s chest tightening. He tried to remember if she’d said that to him after their encounter with Bundy. He didn’t think she had. Not that he was jealous, just . . .

  Okay, maybe he was jealous. Or maybe he was just worried. Worried that his stupidity had turned her away. Not that he was going to let it break them up. Thinking he’d lost her had knocked some sense into him.

  “Hero. I’ll wear that badge proudly,” Pete said. “But in all reality, you helped out.” He chuckled. “Never seen a woman wield a skillet quite like you.”

  She grinned. “We did good, didn’t we?”

  “I told you I wouldn’t let anyone hurt a hair on your head,” the old ranch hand stated with affection.

  Clay felt a warm sensation fill his chest, telling him how important both Jennifer and Pete had become to him. “I’m just glad both of you are okay.”

  She sent Clay a soft smile, but it seemed leery.

  Pete chuckled. “For a while there, it felt like we were acting out a skit from the Three Stooges. And Curly didn’t come out so good.”

  Jennifer’s smile faded to concern. “I hope we didn’t hurt him that bad.”

  “And I hope he has a headache for a month of Sundays,” Pete retorted. He reached up and touched the side of his face. “He maimed me.”

  As soon as they got to the hospital, Jennifer hugged Pete and promised to check on him later. Before she ran off, Clay caught her by the elbow and leaned down to kiss her. “We’re going to talk.”

  “Yeah.” She headed up to the maternity floor. Something about her tone, about the way she had ended that kiss so quickly, and something about the look in her eyes, told Clay he’d better work up a hell of an apology.

  • • •

  Jennifer rushed up to the maternity floor, counting seconds as the elevator took its time rising up to the fifth floor. Bethany and Macy were in the waiting room right outside the elevator.

  “How is she?” she asked when the two of them came hurrying toward her.

  “How are you?” Bethany answered and hugged her.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Fine?” Bethany sounded doubtful. “Someone just tried to kill you. You can’t be fine. If you need me to, I can stand in for you with Savanna.” The offer came with love, because Jennifer knew how much Bethany hated the idea of seeing any blood.

  “No, I got this.” The panic stirring in Jennifer’s stomach had been given a rain check. As had the heartbreak over Clay.

  Savanna needed her, and Jennifer wasn’t about to let her down.

  Bethany nodded. “Mark came out a few minutes ago. She’s still asking for you.”

  “No one told Savanna what happened, right?” Jennifer asked.

  “Not us. But Mark knows.” Concern brightened Bethany’s eyes.

  Macy leaned in. “He also said the bleeding is under control, and they are going to let her try to deliver vaginally.”

  Three minutes later, Jennifer, wearing scrubs, pushed open the hospital door leading to her best friend. Savanna, red-faced, sweat pouring down her forehead, screamed, and the sound seemed to echo off the walls. Mark, whose palm was being crunched by his wife’s two-handed fist, looked up and appeared relieved to see her.

  Stepping the rest of the way in, Jennifer let the door close. As she stopped beside Mark, her heart jolted at the pain in her friend’s eyes.

  “How far along is she?” she asked, when Savanna stopped screaming and dropped her shoulders back onto the mattress.

  “Eight centimeters,” the nurse standing at the foot of the hospital bed answered. The women looked up at Savanna. “You’re doing really well.”

  All Savanna did was pant like an animal in pain.

  “Shouldn’t the doctor be in here?” Mark’s question came laced with worry and stress.

  “Shortly,” the nurse replied.

  “What took you so long?” Savanna spat out the question, glaring at Jennifer.

  “I’m here now.” She traded places with Mark and forced herself into the role of Lamaze partner. “Are you breathing through the contractions?”

  “No,” Savanna snapped with fury and glared at her husband. “He keeps forgetting to tell me to.”

  Mark flinched. “Sorry. I guess it’s a good thing you love me.” He smiled.

  “You think this is funny,” Savanna growled.

  “No. Sorry.” Mark cut his eyes to Jennifer as if pleading for help.

  “That’s okay,” Jennifer intervened. “We’ll breathe through the next one. How far apart are the contractions?”

  The question was aimed at Mark, but she shouldn’t have asked him. He shrugged, looking overwhelmed, and she noticed sweat running down his brow.

  “He’s a lousy coach,” Savanna snapped, “which is why you should have been here an hour ago.”

  “About two minutes apart,” the nurse answered in a calm voice.

  “I swear I’m never having sex again!” Savanna screamed, glaring at her husband. “Even smile at me sexy, and I’ll slap you ass-backwards.”

  Jennifer recalled the classes covering how the mother-to-be might turn mean. She just hadn’t expected it to happen to sweet, soft-spoken Savanna.

  “Why don’t you go get a drink of water,” she told Mark. “I’ll take over for a minute.”

  He looked hurt and hopeless. Leaning down, he kissed his wife, who allowed it, but begrudgingly.

  As soon as the door closed, Savanna started crying. “I’m being a bitch, but I can’t help it. It’s so unfair. This is his baby, too. Why shouldn’t he be hurting just a little?”

  “You’re not a bitch,” Jennifer said. “And believe me, seeing you hurt is killing him.” She’d never been surer of anything. The adoration and helplessness she’d seen in Mark’s eyes brought a knot to her throat. And oh, God, but she wanted that. Wanted that kind of love. That kind of devotion.

  Savanna squeezed Jennifer’s hand. “It hurts so bad,” she said. Then her face tightened and reddened. “No,” she spoke to her belly. “It hasn’t been two minutes.” Looking up, her face tight in pain, she started trembling. “I don’t want to do this.” She sat up and pushed her legs over the side of the bed and glared at the nurse. “I changed my mind. I quit. I don’t want to do this.”

  The nurse smiled. “We’re almost there. Do you want to try sitting up for this contraction?”

  Savanna’s groan sounded like a wounded lion. “You didn’t hear me. I don’t want to do this!” She gripped her belly than started scooting off the mattress.

  “No,” the nurse said. “Stay on the bed. We’ll lift it, so you can sit up.”

  “I’m not sitting up. I’m leaving.”

  When the nurse didn’t seem to be getting through to Savanna, Jennifer put a gentle hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Hey . . . We’re going to get through this. Just think of your sweet little girl. You’re going to get to hold her for the first time. She’s going to be so beautiful. Perfect. And she’s going to love you so much. Your life will be perfect then. You’ll be part of a family. You’ll never be alone again.”

  Savanna started sobbing, but she backed up onto the mattress. She let out another moan, pulled her knees up, and went into a full-fledged scream.

  “Okay. Let’s breathe,” Jennifer ordered. “Come on, breathe.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Just breathe,” Jennifer told herself when she walked into the empty silence that clung to her condo walls.
Walls perfectly painted, rooms perfectly decorated, living space imperfectly lonely.

  This was never meant to be her forever home. It had been an investment. A pit stop before she had her white-picket-fence life. And if she was serious about wanting that life, she’d done the right thing to leave.

  That peek into the hospital room when Mark and Savanna held their baby girl had her heart doubling down on her life plans. She wanted a forever man and babies and commitment that would never end. And what were the chances of getting it from a guy so commitment-phobic that taking a gift from her had him pulling away?

  Luckily, by the time Savanna delivered, Clay had left to take Pete home. The sheriff had been waiting to talk to her. She finished with him and quickly called Uber. She needed to be home. Needed to be alone. She had a meltdown waiting on her.

  Every few minutes, even with her heart still on that sweet little baby, she would remember Bundy. Remember hitting him with that skillet. Remember she’d almost died today. Again.

  Life was short. Fragile. And she was going to be thirty-one. She’d known Clay hadn’t been husband material, yet she’d let herself go there. But oh, lordy, what had she been thinking?

  On the ride to her place, she got a text from him saying he was on his way back to the hospital to pick her up.

  Through tears, and a wavering resolve, she texted him back.

  Already heading home. Need to be alone. Talk in a few days.

  The second she sent it, her resolve crashed and she regretted it. Breath held, she waited for him to text back to insist he was coming for her. Insist she needed him and that he needed her. To say he didn’t want to lose her.

  He didn’t text back. He was probably relieved.

  She walked into the kitchen. The stainless-steel appliances and the granite countertops gleamed and seemed to mock her with their cold sterility. No scorched spots on antique Formica. No dirty dishes waiting to be washed. No breakfast aroma or laughter hanging in the air. No one to cook for, and no one to cook for her.

  Tears filled her eyes. Doubt filled her heart. Had she given up on Clay too easily? Hadn’t he insisted they talk? Wasn’t he worth fighting for? Was it too late to text him back? But to say what? Please love me.