Cowboy Cop

“The first was a pediatrician named Lamar Cohen but he’s clean. The other man was more recent. Neighbors saw them together.”

Miles swallowed hard. So this man had been with Timmy? Had Marie planned to marry him? Let him be a father to Timmy?

“What else do you know about him?”

“His name was Paul Belsa. Apparently he was some kind of wealthy businessman. I don’t know what kind of business yet, but he was slick. Drove an expensive car.”

Gave her all the things Miles couldn’t.

“So let’s find him and see what he says.”

“I’ve tried to locate him, but the only number I have for him is a cell with a message that he’s out of the country on business.”

Dammit.

“It’s worse,” Blackpaw said.

How could it get worse? “What are you talking about?”

“Hammond...some of the guys at the sheriff’s department, they’ve even mentioned the possibility that you could be implicated, Miles.”

He slammed his fist against his thigh. “Because I was jealous of Marie and this man?” He exploded into a tirade. “Hell, I didn’t even know they were dating.”

“I believe you, Miles. But you have to see where they’re coming from. You have had it in for Dugan for months. He gets free. You’re a head case. You find out your wife has a lover, so you kill her in a rage, and maybe kill this other man, then make it look like it was Dugan so we’ll put him back in jail.”

He closed his eyes on a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose where a headache threatened. Jesus, God. Hammond couldn’t believe that nonsense.

Dragging in a calming breath, Miles forced himself to lower his voice. “I still believe it was Dugan or an accomplice. He could have paid someone to kill the Kelly woman, then either one of them could have murdered Marie.”

“True, but so far we’ve found no paper trail.”

“For God’s sake, he was in prison. All he had to do was cut a deal with one of his prison mates.” Miles heard Brody’s truck door slam and watched him climb from the pickup. “Find this other man, Paul Belsa. If he had anything to do with Marie’s death, I want him to pay. If not, maybe he can clear my damn name.” He wheezed a breath. “Better yet, I’ll track down the bastard.”

“The hell you will,” Blackpaw muttered. “I don’t want Hammond on my butt because we talked and you went off half-cocked—”

“I’m not going off half-cocked,” Miles growled. “But I need to do something besides sit here and let Dugan get away.”

“You are doing something,” Blackpaw said. “You’re taking care of your child. That boy needs you. So trust me to work the investigation.”

Miles’s chest ached. “Timmy needs his mother’s killer in jail.”

A heartbeat passed, the tension rippling between them.

“Yes, but he needs you, too. I’ll clear you of suspicion if you let me handle it.” Blackpaw lowered his tone. “Besides, you’re forgetting that Timmy may be the key to locking Dugan away.”

The memory of Timmy’s drawing taunted Miles. He felt so damn helpless.

“I’d like to nail him without using my own little boy,” Miles said. And spare him the pain of confronting Dugan.

Brody strode up the steps to the porch, and Miles gestured for him to wait.

“Keep me posted.”

“I will. And don’t worry, I’ve pulled all the files on the previous investigation into Dugan to see if we missed anything. Maybe he had a family member or an old acquaintance that owed him, and they killed the Kelly woman to get Dugan off.”

He’d made a copy of the file himself. “I’ll look over them, too, along with all the evidence from the other murders. It’s possible Dugan had a partner all along.”

“All right,” Blackpaw agreed. “But remember, your first priority is your little boy.”

Miles bit back a curse. Didn’t Blackpaw think he knew that?

Blackpaw hung up, and Miles let his anger go. Blackpaw was right. Timmy was the only witness that could identify Marie’s killer. If Dugan knew that and found him, he’d kill him.

And if by chance he was wrong and this Belsa guy had dated Marie and killed her, then Timmy might even be more traumatized because it had been someone he’d trusted.

Staying close to his son was the only way to keep him safe. And Miles would die before he lost him.

* * *

JORDAN’S HEART ACHED as she joined Timmy at the small table. Miles hadn’t given her all the details she’d wanted, but he’d said enough.

She had also read the police and doctor’s reports, and seen the story in the news—Timmy’s mother had been an attractive brunette, a working mother who had been raising her son alone.

It was so sad for all of them. Especially for Timmy, to grow up without a mother.

“Timmy,” she said gently. “I know you’ve had a hard time lately.” She unfolded the crumpled drawing. “Can you tell me about your picture?”

His big dark eyes looked up at her with a tortured expression, eyes just like his father’s, then he shoved the drawing away and shook his head.

“All right,” she said. “I understand that you feel sad and that you miss your mother. And maybe you’re a little mad, too. It wasn’t fair what happened to you and her.”

He started a slow tapping of his fingers on his leg, an unconscious movement that indicated she’d struck a nerve. “But it wasn’t your fault, you know that, don’t you?”

He went so still that Jordan had to grip her hands together not to reach out and pull him in her arms.

“Well, it wasn’t. Sometimes bad things just happen to good people.” She pulled the modeling clay from the bin next to the table and removed the different colors. “Someday maybe you can tell me about her.”

His lower lip quivered.

“But only when you’re ready.” She began to roll out the red dough. “For now though, we’re just going to get to know each other.” She eased the blob of blue clay toward him, then gestured around the room at the bin of toys she’d ordered. Blocks, easels for painting and drawing, a toy ranch set with plastic horses, barns, stables and riding pens, puzzles and games and peg boards, and in the corner she’d hung a punching bag. “In fact, when you come here, you can play with whatever you’d like. But today I thought we might work on this clay. Then we’ll go meet your playgroup and catch up with your daddy.”

He didn’t make a move to touch the clay, so she continued to roll hers on the table, shaping it into a ball. Next she poked a hole in the middle. “You can make anything you want. I like doughnuts for breakfast so I made a red doughnut.”

He simply stared at the clay while she continued to talk about other foods she liked. “Ms. Ellen makes the best pies in the world. And she puts ice cream on top. Do you like ice cream?”

He shifted slightly, and she took that as a yes.

“I’m glad you came to stay with us at the Bucking Bronc Lodge,” she said. “There are other kids here to play with. We take hikes, and study nature, and have campouts, and ride horses. Do you know how to ride?”

He drummed his fingers again, then inched one hand up to touch the clay.

“I bet you do. Your daddy’s a cowboy. He’s probably a good rider, too.”

He punched the clay with one finger.

“I know he cares a lot about you. You probably spent a lot of time together before you came here.”

Suddenly he rolled his hand into a fist and pounded the clay.

Jordan forced herself not to react, but something she’d said had hit a nerve. “Do you have horses where you live?”

He punched the clay again.

“Maybe your mommy used to go riding with you.”

This time he pressed both hands onto the clay and began to beat it harder. Over and over until it was as flat as a pancake. She molded hers into the shape of a face, allowing him to vent his emotions.

Finally he hit the clay one last time, then seemed to sag in the chair with a weary sigh. She reminded herself not to push, that he needed time to heal. Purging his anger through healthy means was a baby step, but every step counted.

Jordan checked her watch. “I think it’s time for us to meet your playgroup.” Jordan swept the clay back into the containers, then gestured for him to follow her.

She didn’t give him time to protest but slipped on her jacket, then took his hand and guided him out the front door. The scent of hay, horses and fresh air suffused her, the sound of horses galloping across the pasture breaking the quiet. Timmy’s gaze veered toward the stables, the tension in him easing slightly.

As they walked toward the younger boys’ bunkhouse, she told him more about the ranch. “We have a lot of campers here,” she said. “Some of the older boys came as campers but are now counselors who help us out with riding lessons, campouts and other activities. Last year we had a rodeo and the boys got to participate. We may do another one sometime soon.”

He didn’t comment, but he continued to watch the horses as if he was drawn to them in some way.

They passed a field where several quarter horses galloped freely, and his eyes widened a tiny fraction. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Jordan said softly.

A little of the haunted look in his eyes lifted.

Jordan tugged her jacket around her tighter as they passed the stream. “Sometimes we fish here. Then the boys cook the dinner over the campfire. Everyone also has chores, too. Working on a ranch is fun but hard work, and the animals need a lot of care.”

Just like little boys, she wanted to say, but she held her tongue. She had to ease into this relationship. Win Timmy’s trust.

They’d reached the bunkhouse, so she knocked, then pushed the door open. Carlos, a sixteen-year-old who’d come here with a bad attitude and record, had recently joined the ranks of assistant counselors. “Carlos, I want the other guys to meet Timmy.”

“Come on in. We were just talking about our morning hike.” Carlos gestured toward the common room where the boys had spread out the nature items they’d collected, everything from leaves, twigs, berries, scrub brush, to feathers and hay.

“We’re going to make a collage out of them for our wall,” Carlos explained.

Timmy inched closer to her, and she squeezed his hand. Three other boys ranging from age five to eight were gathered in the room, talking and laughing about the hike.

Carlos whistled to get their attention. “Guys, Timmy’s going to join us for our activities.” He gestured toward the bunkroom. “He’ll take the bottom bunk near the door.”

Timmy clawed at Jordan’s hand. “Actually, Timmy’s father is here, and he’s going to sleep in the cabin with him for a few days.” She knelt beside Timmy and curved an arm around him. “When you’re ready to join the boys and sleep in here, you can let us know.”

She glanced at Carlos. “I’m taking him to see the horses now. But maybe he’ll join you guys later for the sing-along tonight.”

She took Timmy’s hand and led him from the cabin, hoping that one day Timmy would feel comfortable enough to talk and laugh with the boys.

But as they walked toward the stables to meet Miles, an uneasy feeling nagged at her, and Miles’s early comment taunted her.

Timmy had witnessed his mother’s murder—and Miles was worried that the killer might track them down and try to hurt his son.

She scanned the horizon, looking for anything suspicious. She’d have to remain on her toes in case Miles was right.

Timmy’s hand tightened in hers again, and her heart tugged painfully.

She’d do anything to protect this little guy.

He wouldn’t end up dead like her brother.

* * *

MILES’S SHOULDERS HAD KNOTTED with anxiety as he’d watched Jordan lead Timmy toward that bunkhouse. Part of him was relieved that Timmy was in someone else’s hands for a few minutes—God knew he’d made no progress in getting through to his son.

Timmy barely even let him comfort him.

Another part of him was filled with fear though—letting Timmy out of his sight meant that he might be in danger. If Dugan had tracked them here and found Timmy unguarded or vulnerable, no telling what might happen.

“Miles,” Brody said as he climbed the porch steps. “I’m so sorry about Marie and Timmy.”

Miles gave a clipped nod, battling the guilt. “Are you sure you don’t mind us staying here?”

“I’m sure.” Brody propped his wide body against the porch railing. “The reason I started this place was to help kids...and families.”

Miles understood that Brody also had his own personal motivation; his brother had gone missing years ago and had never been found.

“I know that and so far, it looks like it’s working,” Miles said. “But I’m worried about Dugan looking for us.”

“I have security covering the property,” Brody said. “Besides, no one knows where you are, do they?”

Miles shook his head. “Just Blackpaw, but he sure as hell won’t talk. He wants Dugan almost as much as I do.”

No one could want him as much.

Except the families of the other victims.

“But Dugan is smart. He may have hired someone to search for me. He knows it’s personal now and that I won’t stop until I catch him.”

“Any leads?”

Miles shook his head. He didn’t intend to reveal that now he was a suspect in Marie’s murder. “He’s disappeared. But if I know Dugan, we’ll hear about another victim any day now.”

“I hope you’re wrong, but I have a bad feeling you’re on the money on this one,” Brody said.

“Did you do a background check on all your workers?”

Brody nodded. “There are a couple of guys with records, but nothing that indicates any connection to Dugan.”

The sound of an engine sputtering made Miles jerk his head back toward the drive, where a pickup pulled to a stop. Three cowboys climbed from the inside and strode toward them.

“Come on, boys, I want you to meet Miles McGregor, the detective from the sheriff’s department I told you about.”

Miles narrowed his eyes as they approached. All three looked tough and rugged, but something else stuck out. They carried guns on their hips.

“This is my security team.” Brody gestured toward each of them in turn. “Crane Haddock, Wes Lee and Craig Cook.”

Miles shook each of their hands in turn. “Brody explained my situation?”

“Yeah, sorry about your kid’s mother,” Lee said.

“And the kid,” Cook added.

Haddock tilted his hat to the side. “You think Dugan did it?”

“I know it,” Miles said. “But he may be working with someone else. A partner or a hired gun.”

Lee removed a file from the inside of his jacket, then flipped it open to reveal Dugan’s picture. “Don’t worry, we won’t let him hurt that little dude.”

Sweat beaded on Miles’s forehead. “I’m counting on that.”

He just hoped to hell Timmy talked and identified Dugan before Dugan found them.

Of course, even if they arrested Dugan, his partner—or this copycat—could come after Timmy to get Dugan free again. Or simply for revenge.

* * *

HER THROAT WAS SO SLENDER, so sleek. Delicate porcelain skin so pale. The veins in her neck nearly bulged as he tilted her head back to study her.

She had been good to him. The conjugal visits alone had kept him sane.

And the lies she’d told...they had been almost as titillating as having her go down on him.

She moaned and pulled at the bindings around her wrists. “Please...stop torturing me. I need you now.”

A slow smile creased his lips as he rose above her. He knew exactly what she wanted. The satisfaction she craved.

He’d given it to her before, even though she disgusted him when she begged.

So like a whore.

She twisted against her bindings, trying to move her foot to rub his leg, but he’d bound her so tightly that she flinched with pain as the rope dug into her skin.

“Thank you,” he whispered against her neck.

She purred his name, arching herself like the slut she was, and he slid the knife from beneath the mattress, then placed it against the slender column of her throat. The black gloves on his hands were a stark contrast to her ivory skin as he pricked it with the tip of the blade.

Suddenly her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “Stop playing,” she whispered in a raw voice.

A chuckle rumbled from deep within him. “I’m not playing,” he said, the taste of her blood beckoning.

She struggled, squirming and moaning, desperate now as if she realized he had used her all along.

“I’m sorry,” he said, although he wasn’t sorry at all. But his mother had taught him manners, how to say thank-you and please, how to treat a woman.

She’d taught him other things, too....

Her face flashed into his mind, and his fingers tightened around the knife’s handle. The other women’s faces floated in front of him, a sea of wide eyes, tears and blood...

Excitement shot through him, his body thrumming with adrenaline. With one quick swipe, he slashed her throat.

Her blood spurted like a water fountain, spraying red across the white sheets, across his shirt, across his hands. The scent of it filled his nostrils and made his body go hard. Relief teetered nearby, so close....

But his cell phone beeped—he’d received a text message—and he cursed, his desire dwindling. He glanced at the blood running down her throat and naked chest again, hoping to revive the thrill but it was already abating.

The need for another already teased at the back of his hungry mind.

Dammit. He hated to leave her so soon yet this might be the news he’d been waiting for.

With blood dotting his gloves, he lifted his phone and checked the text.

Located the target. Let me know how to proceed.

He brushed one bloody finger over the woman’s nipple, then lifted himself off of her to type in his orders.

McGregor had robbed him of months’ worth of pleasure while he was in prison. Of at least a half dozen more women.

The memory of watching McGregor’s whore plead for her life shot through him, and he smiled. Killing her had only whetted his appetite for revenge.

He fully intended to take care of McGregor and his kid himself.

No one would rob him of that pleasure.

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