The Ranger Brigade

“So this was planned—not a random drive-by.” She searched his face, hoping for some reassurance, but his expression was grave. Worried.

“I don’t think so, no. Do you know anyone who might want you dead?”

The question brought another fit of coughing. “Don’t sugarcoat it, okay?” she said when she could talk again. “What do you mean, does someone want me dead? What kind of a question is that?”

He patted her shoulder, his hand warm and reassuring. But these definitely weren’t the circumstances in which she wanted to be bonding with a guy. “Can you think of any reason someone would want to shoot at you?” he asked.

The idea was as unsettling as the shots themselves. “No. I’m just a writer. And a nice person. I don’t have enemies.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you’ve written a story that’s upset someone.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“What about Richard Prentice? What did he think of the profile you wrote about him?”

“He said he liked it—that I’d made him sympathetic. I mean, that’s not what I set out to do, but that’s how he took it.”

“You said you’ve been a crime reporter. Has your reporting been responsible for putting any violent criminals away—people who might have vowed revenge?”

“I’ve reported on all kinds of crimes, but no one’s ever threatened me, or even sent me angry letters.” She knotted the handkerchief in her hand. “I thought that kind of thing only happened on television.”

He squeezed her shoulder, and she fought the urge to lean into him and close her eyes. No, she had to be strong. “Tonight, when you’ve had time to think about it, I want you to make me a list of every story you’ve reported on that led—directly or indirectly—to the conviction of someone,” he said. “We can run a check to see if any of them are out of prison. I’ll work with the local police to determine if any of those people have been seen in the area.”

“Shouldn’t you leave this to the local police entirely? I thought your territory was the public lands.”

He frowned. “It is. But when someone shoots at me, I take a personal interest.”

“So maybe this isn’t even about me.” The idea flooded her with relief. “Maybe the shooter was after you.”

“That’s possible.”

“Maybe whoever shot Bobby decided to go after you.”

“That’s taking a big risk, considering we have no leads in that case.”

“Maybe the person responsible doesn’t know that.”

He nodded. “Maybe not.”

“Sir?” A uniformed police officer stepped into the alcove where they were sitting. “I’m Officer Evans, with the Montrose police.”

“Captain Graham Ellison, FBI. And this is Emma Wade.”

“I’ll need a statement from each of you about what happened,” Evans said.

“Of course.”

A female officer joined them and led Emma away to question her about what had happened. Emma kept her answers brief; everything had happened so quickly she had few details to share. “What were you and Captain Ellison doing before the attack?” the officer asked.

“We were having dinner.”

“You two are dating?”

The dinner had been like a first date. But not. “I’m a reporter and I was questioning him about a case he’s working on.”

“What case is that?”

“The Rangers found a downed plane in Curecanti Recreation Area today. The pilot had been shot.”

The cop’s eyes widened. “Murder?”

“It looks that way.”

The officer shook her head. “When I joined the force, we might have had one violent death a year. In the past eighteen months we’ve had half a dozen. This task force doesn’t seem to be doing much to slow things down.”

Emma opened her mouth to defend Graham but stopped. Hadn’t she had the same criticism of the task force? Knowing and liking Graham didn’t change that opinion, did it?

“Did you see the shooter, or get a glimpse of the car?” the officer asked.

“No. Captain Ellison pushed me down as soon as we heard the first shot.”

“And you have no idea who would want to shoot at you?”

“No. Maybe it’s just one of those random things,” she said. “Or a case of mistaken identity or something.”

“Maybe so.” The officer put away her pen and paper. “We’ll do our best to find the person responsible. In the meantime, be careful.”

The officer left and Graham rejoined her. “Let’s go back to your place,” he said.

She nodded. All she wanted was a hot bath and a cup of tea, and maybe a movie to distract her from all the horrors of today—first Bobby’s death, then someone trying to kill her. It was too much.

When they reached her Jeep, Graham held out his hand. “I’ll drive.”

She started to argue—to tell him he was bossy and point out it was her car. “What about your Cruiser?” she asked.

“I can get it later.”

Weariness won over stubbornness and she handed over the keys without another word.

Neither of them spoke on the drive to her house. She was still too numb for words, and he appeared lost in his own thoughts. But he swore as he pulled the Jeep to a stop in her driveway. She sat up straighter, heart pounding. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“You didn’t leave your front door standing open when we left, did you?” he asked.

She stared at the entrance to her house, registering that the door was open. Then she was out of the car before she even realized what she was doing, running up the steps. “Janey!” she shouted. “Oh, Janey!”

* * *

JANEY THE CAT turned out to be fine, though she was clearly upset. They found her hiding under Emma’s bed—a king-size affair with a puffy floral comforter and at least a dozen pillows. It looked feminine and soft and sexy—and it annoyed Graham that he could think these things while in the midst of a serious investigation.

“Is anything missing?” he asked as he followed Emma through the house, which looked undisturbed.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I was so worried about Janey I didn’t even look.” She cradled the cat to her chest and he felt a stab of envy. Yeah, he had it bad for this woman. Focus, he reminded himself.

“Then let’s look together.”

They checked the spare bedroom, living room and dining room. Everything was neat and orderly, nothing out of place. When they got to the kitchen she stopped. “My papers,” she said.

“What papers?”

She pointed to the kitchen table, where a half-empty wineglass and a pen sat. “I was going over the notes I took today—at the press conference and at the crash site. They’re gone.”

She set down the cat and hurried back into the living room and through a door to what turned out to be her office. “My laptop is gone,” she said. She opened the accordion doors leading to a walk-in closet. “My files are gone, too.”

“Which ones?”

“All of them.” She pointed to the floor of the closet. “There was a rolling cart here, with two file drawers. It’s gone.”

“What was in the files?”

“Notes about articles I’ve written. Transcripts of interviews. Some photos.”

“Everything?”

“The last couple of years’ material. Anything older than that is in storage.”

“You’ll need to report this to the police,” he said. “Then you can’t stay here.”

There he went, being bossy again. “Excuse me, but this is my home and I’ll stay here if I want,” she said.

“It’s not safe.” He turned away, as if that were the final declaration on the subject.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him back toward her. “Wait just a minute. We don’t know if this is connected to the shooting or if the people who took my files mean me any harm.”

“And we don’t know that they don’t. Do you want to take that chance?”

Of course she didn’t. But she didn’t want him thinking he could step in and rearrange her whole life for her. “I’m not leaving. I’ll change the locks and I’ll be careful, but I’m not leaving. Besides, where would I go?”

He pressed his lips together, as if debating his response. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “At least stay away for tonight,” he said. “The police will want to come in and take photos, dust for prints. You can go to a hotel. While you’re gone you can have someone in to change the locks.”

He’d softened his tone—less bossy, more concerned. Her stomach knotted with indecision. She looked around and spotted Janey in the armchair where she liked to nap, busily grooming herself. “A hotel won’t let me bring my cat and I won’t leave her,” she said. “Not when she’s had such a terrifying day.”

“Then stay with me. Janey can come, too.” At her stunned look, he added, “I have a guest room. And a security system. No one will bother you.”

“Fine.” She was too tired—and yes, too scared—to argue anymore. “And thank you,” she added.

She called the police and half an hour later found herself telling her story to an officer. While she dealt with the officers, Graham stepped out and made several calls. Every time she looked up she could see him out the window, pacing back and forth across her front lawn, phone to his ear. She had the feeling if she hadn’t agreed to come with him tonight he would have insisted on staying and standing guard. She wavered between being touched by his kindness and concern, and annoyed at his overprotectiveness.

When the police told her she was free to go, she coaxed Janey into her carrier, packed an overnight bag and stowed everything in her Jeep. One of the officers had driven Graham back to the restaurant to retrieve his Cruiser, and she followed it out of town, toward the National Park to an upscale neighborhood of large lots and lovely homes.

Graham turned out to live in a cedar-sided cabin with large windows providing a view of open prairie and the distant lights of town. He helped her carry in her and Janey’s things, stopping to punch a code into an alarm panel as soon as they entered. Then he led the way into a high-ceilinged great room. “Let me show you your room,” he said.

The guest room was Spartan but adequate, with a queen-size bed, an armchair and a large bath across the hall. Without asking, he helped her set up Janey’s litter box and bed, and filled the cat’s water dish in the bathroom and brought it back. “Do you have any pets?” she asked.

“I had a cat at my last posting, but my schedule makes it tough on a pet, so I decided not to get another one after Buster died.” He ran his hand along Janey’s flank and she responded with a loud purr. “That’s a pretty girl,” he cooed, and Emma felt a flutter in her stomach, as if she were the one he was stroking.

He looked up at her. “How about if I fix us a drink?”

She nodded. “That sounds like a good idea.”

She shut the door to the bedroom to give Janey time to settle in, then followed him into the living room. Though it was well into June, the night was cool, and he turned up the flame on a gas fireplace. “This is a gorgeous place,” she said, accepting the glass of wine he offered.

“I can’t claim any credit. A Realtor found it for me. Let’s sit down.” He motioned to the sofa.

She sat at one end of the leather couch; he settled at the other end, close enough that she could see the pulse beat at the base of his throat. She had a sudden memory of the feel of his body on hers, a heavy shield from danger.

“I’m sorry if I came across a little gruff earlier,” he said. “I’m used to giving orders all day, and when I see a problem, my natural approach is to try to fix it.”

“Except sometimes it’s not your problem to fix.” She sipped the wine and watched him over the rim of the glass. The apology had surprised her. She admired a man who could admit when he was wrong.

“Since I was with you when those shots were fired, my instinct has been to protect you. Call it sexist if you want, but that’s how I feel.”

“I’ve gotten used to looking after myself,” she said. “But I appreciate everything you’ve done. If I’d been alone, I’m not sure I would have reacted so quickly to those shots.” She shuddered, and set aside the glass.

“Hey, you did great.” He set aside his own glass and slid over to her. “You kept your cool under pressure. That’s one of the things I admire about you.”

“Oh.” Her eyes met his. “What else do you admire about me?”

“Would you think I was superficial if I said you have a beautiful body?” He caressed the side of her neck and brushed his lips across her cheek.

“Superficial can be good.” She turned her head and he covered her lips with his own. The kiss was hot and insistent. So much for holding back on their mutual attraction.

She slipped her arms around him and pressed against him, deepening the kiss. His body was big and powerful, and the need she sensed in him made her feel powerful, too. Maybe this was just what she needed, this physical distraction...

The strains of an Adele song jangled in the evening stillness. Graham raised his head and looked around. “My phone,” she said, and reached for her purse.

Unknown number flashed on the screen, and she clicked the icon to answer, prepared to give a phone solicitor a piece of her mind. “Hello?”

“You need to stop now, before you get hurt,” said a flat, accentless male voice.

“What are you talking about? Who is this?”

“If I’d wanted to kill you this evening, I would have,” the voice said. “Next time, I won’t miss.”

The line went dead. Emma stared at the phone.

Graham took the device from her hand and set it aside. “I heard,” he said. “Who has access to this number?”

“Lots of people,” she said. “I mean, it’s not listed, but it’s on my business cards. People at the Post have it. Friends. Business contacts.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, suddenly cold. “Maybe this is just a prank. Somebody trying to unsettle me.” She gave a shaky laugh, perilously close to hysterical tears. “And they’re doing a good job of it.”

Graham stood and pulled out his own phone. “I’ll have someone trace the call, though I doubt it will do much good. It was probably made from a throwaway.” His eyes met hers, and the hard look she found there frightened her all over again. “This isn’t a joke, Emma,” he said. “I think you’re in real danger.”

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