Cain's Law (Cowboys on the Edge Book 3)

by Delilah Devlin

  “My mother,” she muttered. “Should have listened.”

  The car behind them drew closer, and then darted into the left lane. The sound of a powerful engine, something expensive and Daytona-worthy, rumbled loudly. “Should we be worried he wants to do more than drag race, sweetheart?”

  “Deputy, I’m so sorry.” Her voice trembled, and then she reached out to brace her hands against the dash and the door beside her. “He wants me dead.”

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  Carina Black really was sorry. The lawman didn’t deserve the danger she’d put him in. However, now wasn’t the time for regrets.

  With her heart pounding against her chest, she reached up for the handle above her window and held on for dear life. The deputy had his hands full, watching the road in front of them while his gaze flicked again and again to his side mirror as Joey tried to edge his car forward in the left lane.

  Not that the deputy appeared handicapped in any way by his outclassed Impala. Joey might like to think he was an expert behind the wheel, but so far the deputy was winning this game of chicken, sliding over the center line to crowd the other vehicle, forcing it toward the road’s slender shoulder. If the quiet, tense man sitting beside her could manage to keep Joey thwarted until the vehicles hit the city limit sign, they might just make it.

  What happened after that was anyone’s guess, but she’d be alive for a few minutes longer.

  The Impala’s engine roared. The Viper’s beside them screamed. If either driver caught a tire on the edge of the pavement, he’d flip the vehicle through the air. At nearly a hundred miles an hour now, no one would survive the impact. Joey was fucking crazy. A fucking bastard. Jesus-God, all she’d wanted was to escape his world. To start fresh. That she’d helped herself to a fat roll of cash she’d found secreted at the back of his closet had only seemed fair for the torment she’d endured as Joey Guiducci’s girlfriend.

  She should have listened to her mama. Never once stepped into Joey’s world where lines weren’t just gray, they were outlined in blood. But she’d been tempted by his excesses—the clothes he’d insisted she wear, the jewels he draped her in, the heady company of local politicians, and up and coming stars. She’d been arm candy, understanding from the start that all he required was that she look good, always look at him, and never once question his authority.

  She’d been so young. So stupid. In love with the glitz, the exciting whirl—seduced by the dangerous world she’d eagerly embraced.

  Until she’d seen Joey in action. And then known, without a doubt, the depth of his depravity.

  They’d been on their way to yet another private club to mingle with the rich and famous, when he’d told her they had to make a short detour. She’d been instructed to wait in the car while he’d entered a little flower shop on a dingy street in Chicago she’d never known existed. She’d gotten worried they’d be late when he’d taken too long. So, she’d let herself out of the car, and teetering on her Christian Louboutin python pumps, had peeked through the window.

  What she’d seen sucked the air from her lungs. Inside, Joey stood, his jacket and shirt draped on a counter, while he’d pistol-whipped a middle-aged man who hadn’t the strength left to raise his arms to protect his face. She’d frozen in place, her stomach bubbling then revolting. She straightened from throwing up on the concrete walkway to find Joey, his face screwed into a ferocious scowl, standing over her while he straightened the cuffs of his shirt.

  Looking down, she’d noted the droplets of water on his hands, and almost warned him not to touch the silk cuffs—before she realized he’d washed away blood. And now, he looked angry enough to come after her.

  Instead of beating her, he’d gripped her upper arms and backed her against the side of his car, lifting her, pushing a knee between her thighs to spread her legs, and then reaching between to tear away her underwear.

  When he’d been done with her, he’d shoved her into the passenger seat and warned her never to disobey him again. “Or else.”

  She hadn’t needed for him to spell out what her punishment would be. In one stunning moment, the fact she’d never met or heard a word about his previous girlfriends made sense.

  Instead of crying or cringing in fear, she’d forced her face into a calm mask. “I hope we won’t be late,” she’d said, smoothing down the hem of her short skirt. They’d continued on to the club, her without any underwear, him with fine droplets of blood drying on his dark trouser legs, as they’d danced and mingled and pretended Joey wasn’t a monster or that his friends weren’t equally as monstrous.

  That had been five days ago. The moment they’d returned to their place, she’d begun planning her escape, texting her mom to tell her to visit her sister in Florida—now. Next, she’d raided the laundry room for the housekeeper’s clothing. She hadn’t wanted anything Joey had ever given her—not the clothes, the jewels—but she had taken the Mercedes, trading it to a sketchy body shop for the clunker she’d left at the cabin. She’d slipped away as he was still sleeping off the liquor he’d consumed at the party while acting as though he hadn’t left a man beaten to a pulp.

  The deputy jerked the wheel to the right, just avoiding a collision with Joey’s car. “Thank Jesus,” he muttered.

  Up ahead, the glow of civilization showed on the horizon. They were almost home free.

  And as soon as that thought crossed her mind, she noticed the car beside them fading back. Carina let go of the handle and gripped her hands together while she tried to slow her jagged breaths.

  The man beside her didn’t relax. Barely slowed. Not until they passed a filling station at the outskirts of town. By the time they pulled into the parking lot in front of the small limestone sheriff’s office, he’d radioed for backup.

  When he opened his door, he gave her a sharp glare. “Stay put until I say you move.”

  She didn’t mind his sharp delivery. Nodding, she waited as he circled the car and popped the trunk. When he came to her door, he carried a shot gun.

  He flipped the door handle and held it open while he scanned the quiet street. “Get out.” Then he waited as she exited and moved quickly to the front door of the building.

  A woman with short, blue-gray hair held it open. “Well, don’t dawdle, girl. Get your butt inside.”

  Carina almost smiled, but her face still felt frozen by tension. She slipped past the woman and into the building, and then turned slowly to watch as the deputy followed.

  He entered, quickly bolted the door, and then turned down the blinds over both large windows in the front of the building.

  Seeing him face her again, she noted his expression—still set in grim lines. For the first time, she noted he was a good-looking man, if one didn’t mind a little blond scruff on the cheeks and chin. His body was lean, no excess muscle, but he moved with an animal grace as he began to pace.

  He glanced at the older woman. “Owens and Perez are on their way here. The sheriff’s got his hands full at the fire. Has to wait for state investigators to arrive.”

  She nodded. “I’ll make a pot of coffee.” Then she ambled down a well-lit corridor out of sight.

  Only then did he square his shoulders and turn his glare on her again. “Guess we better finish that talk.”

  Because her teeth had started to chatter, she ground her jaws together and gave him another nod. When he waved a hand toward the corridor, she preceded him, hating the way the clothes she wore chafed where excess fabric gathered between her thighs. Still, she didn’t miss the clothes that likely cost more than this deputy made in six months. She wanted nothing of Joey’s, but she needed to figure out how to escape his reach. The roll of hundreds held together by rubber bands sat like a rock in the pocket of her slacks.

  “Next door to your left,” he said from behind.

  Carina entered a small room, barely larger than her old walk-in closet, noted the table and the chairs, and knew this was where he interviewed criminals. Was that what she was? Di
d living with a mafia enforcer make her one?

  “I need to pat you down.”

  Her eyes widened. “You arresting me?”

  “No, but I don’t want to endanger anyone here. How about you turn and face that table? You can lean your hands against it if you like.”

  He was going to touch her? She shivered. The last man who’d touched her had taken her against the side of his car, in full view of anyone who might have passed them on the street. For some reason, she felt just as vulnerable, and her pulse beat just as fast. Maybe because this man was probably a decent guy, but he was looking at her like she’d crawled out from under a rock—his blue eyes hooded and unblinking, staring as he waited for her do as he’d asked.

  Slowly, she faced away—then remembered the bankroll in her pocket. Well, hell. He would find it. That stash was all she had to start over somewhere safe. Somewhere Joey wouldn’t find her. But she couldn’t think of anything she could say to stop this from happening. When his hands landed on her shoulders, they were gentle. He briskly skimmed her back, her sides, then knelt and quickly framed the outside of her thighs with his large hands and moved downward. “You’ll need to spread them,” he said, tapping the inside of one calf.

  “Is that even legal?” she muttered. “Shouldn’t you have a female deputy feeling me up?”

  “If we had such a thing, I’d be sure to drag her out of bed on a Sunday night to come feel you up, ma’am. Now, widen your feet.”

  She blinked at the amusement in his voice, her jaw dropping just a bit. But she did as he’d asked, inching her feet apart, and then standing rigid as he skimmed his hands upward between her thighs. When he rose behind her, he continued upward, his hands cupping her hips, and then sliding forward. One hand slid over the roll of cash and tightened around it, before moving away.

  “I’ll need you to take whatever that is out of your pocket and put it on the table in front of you.”

  Knowing she didn’t have a choice, she obeyed, reaching deep into her pocket then depositing the bankroll on the table. “It’s mine.”

  He stood still behind her, not touching her. “Go ahead and take a seat, Miss Black.”

  She eyed the money and nearly cried. The deputy intended to keep it. Would likely have someone run the numbers on each bill to see if the cash was part of some robbery. Then she’d be in even deeper shit, because she didn’t know where the money came from, except that her boyfriend had kept it inside a boot in his closet. A fact she’d discovered one day when she’d gotten curious about who he was and what he did, and had methodically taken apart every cupboard, drawer, and closet before placing everything back exactly where she’d found it.

  Why hadn’t she left after she found his stash of weapons in the false bottom of his chest of drawers? Or that huge roll of hundreds? She’d still been too blinded by the romantic notion of belonging to a mobster—enough so, she’d tolerated his rough edges, even in bed.

  The deputy sat in the chair opposite her, his straw cowboy hat shading the upper half of his face in the glare of the overhead light. She felt as though she was the actress in a TV crime drama. How many times had she rolled her eyes when the suspect sat, sweating, and then with the slightest pressure spilled his guts? Strange enough, if the deputy asked the right question, she was pretty sure she’d spew every secret she’d ever harbored.

  Not that he was scary, but he was judging her. Sitting there staring with those intense blue eyes until she felt sweat sprout on her upper lip. Her stomach growled. Good Lord, was she about to vomit?

  His glare didn’t stray as he unbuttoned one of the pockets of his denim shirt and pulled out a small notebook, then slid out a stubby pencil from the wires coiled at the top of the pad. When he began asking his questions, they came like bullets—quick and targeted—and because she was tired and too scared to think anymore, she told him everything.

  Well, not quite everything. Being backed up to a car and fucked as punishment for her disobedience was just too humiliating. That she kept to herself. Already, she felt small and stupid. A girl who’d played dress-up while her boyfriend flaunted her and the law, and committed violence to earn the roll of cash that sat on the table like an indictment against her. Because she’d taken what he’d stolen. Robbed a thug of his stash.

  When the deputy was done with his questions, he sat back, his fingers strumming the table top. “Why Caldera?”

  “Because it was as far from Chicago as I could get.” Some of her fear leaked into her voice, making it quaver.

  His deep blue gaze flickered over her, touching on her messy hair that hadn’t seen a comb in days, her oversized blouse. “Has he ever hurt you?”

  Carina swallowed hard. Hurt? Joey’s rough treatment that night outside the florist’s shop had left bruises, but not anywhere the lawman could see. She shrugged, hoping his keen eyes didn’t note her tremor of repulsion. She needed this to be over. For him to stop probing.

  “I asked a question.”

  She closed her eyes. “That night, when he beat that man inside the florist’s shop—he caught me outside of the car…”

  His fingers curled tightly around the pencil he held. “What did he do?”

  “We had sex,” she whispered over a lump in her throat.

  “Did he rape you?”

  She lifted her chin. He would not brand her a victim. “He wasn’t gentle,” she said, her voice tightening.

  Again, he stared. Not even a breath lifted his chest.

  Just when her nerves felt stretched, ready to break, a knock sounded on the door.

  A man, wearing a dark uniform, poked his head inside the room. “Sheriff’s on his way. Said to sit on her for now. She’s not goin’ anywhere.” The broad-featured deputy gave her a quick hard glance then closed the door.

  Alarm rattled through her. “Am I being charged with something?”

  He frowned and began to rise. “We’ll get to that later. I’ll have Rita bring you a cup of coffee.” He reached for the bank roll.

  No! She shot out her hand to grab it first.

  His hand closed over hers and squeezed. “I’ll keep this safe.”

  She’d never see it again. She knew it by the steadiness of his stare. Every hope she’d held bled away. She slumped in her chair and sighed. “What will happen to me?”

  “Not a thing, if I can help it.”

  Carina blinked. How can he say that with such certainty? He doesn’t even know me. Do I dare believe him?

  “You’re safe for now.” He leaned toward her. “Let me do my job. If you’ve been honest with me, then I’ll know soon enough. We’ll go from there.”

  Somehow his low rumbling tone soothed her. Her eyes began to fill, and she gave him a quick nod, because she knew she’d blubber like a baby if she tried to speak. For days, she’d been scared, watching over her shoulder for Joey to catch up to her. And now that he had, she didn’t have to face him alone.

  Maybe she was reading more into the deputy’s harsh expression than she should, but she had to hold tight to something or she’d fall apart. “Thank you,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “Name’s Cain Whitfield.”

  “Deputy Whitfield,” she repeated and swiped her eyes with the back of a hand.

  His lips tightened, and at last, he turned and left. The door closed behind him.

  Carina bent forward and rested her cheek against the cool wood table. For now, she didn’t have to do this alone.

  Chapter Three

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  Cain closed the door and stood, staring at the roll of hundreds in his hand.

  “Holy shit.” Tank walked up beside him to stare at the bankroll. “You take that off the girl?”

  Cain nodded. “She robbed the bastard that tried to run us off the road.”

  Tank whistled. “Don’t think he’ll be pressin’ charges.”

  Cain straightened and blew out a deep breath. “Perez watching the front?”

  Tank nodded. “Not even a tumbleweed blowin’ through.
”

  “It’s pretty certain he’s watching. And I’m not a hundred percent sure he’s alone.”

  Tank’s head tilted toward the closed door. “What about her?”

  “Still need to run her prints.”

  “Want me to do it?”

  After what Carina had said about what happened outside that florist’s shop, the thought of a man touching her, even if only her hands, didn’t sit well. He already felt guilty about frisking her. “I’ll have Rita do it.”

  Tank’s eyes narrowed as he studied Cain’s expression. “She get to you, bro?”

  Cain aimed a glare at his friend. “She’s not Susan.” No, she was prettier. And even though she’d held steady for the most part throughout the interview, he knew she was the real deal. A fucking damsel in distress, amped up on steroids. His weakness.

  If she was telling the truth. “She’s not going anywhere,” he said, casting a glance at the closed door. “I’ll send in Rita. Soon as we run her prints through the database, we’ll know more.” Or not. And then he’d have to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  “It’s your collar,” Tank murmured. “Can I say she’s hot—even in those ugly clothes?”

  Cain grunted. “How about you take a turn around the back of the station? Make sure we don’t have any company.” With that, he strode toward the front where Rita was once again handling dispatch. After he’d sent her back to interrogation with a live-scan reader, he set the bankroll on the desktop, placed his hat on the rack behind the desk, and settled into her chair to listen to the radio traffic. The fire still raged. Teams combed the surroundings. The fire chief had called for his wife, the mayor, to gather more volunteers to deliver coffee and snacks.

  And an arson team out of Austin was flying into the Cutter family’s air strip. Cain knew the FBI might be roped in, too, since the arsonist was probably involved with organized crime.

  They’d be all over Carina. He thought about how she’d looked in her dirty, purloined clothing, sitting small and lost across the table. Without second-guessing the urge, he reached for the phone and dialed a number.