THE ONLY WITNESS WAS HIS SON—AND NOW HE’S THE KILLER’S NEXT TARGET

Miles McGregor had dedicated his life to justice, and with his latest arrest behind bars, the detective finally had more time to spend with his son, Timmy. Then the unthinkable happened—Timmy’s mother was murdered before his eyes. Miles’s only choice was to bring his little boy to the Bucking Bronc Lodge, a ranch where young boys heal….

Jordan Keys is an expert at rehabilitating children. But when it comes to Miles, she is lost. The sexy detective is harder to reach…and a whole lot less willing to try. Before long, though, a killer comes calling and Jordan witnesses the true power of Miles McGregor. And just how far he’ll go to rescue them from this living nightmare.

She cleared her throat. “Mr. McGregor?”

The subtle lift of his shoulders indicated he’d heard her, then he hissed something low and indiscernible between his teeth and slowly turned to face her. Dark brown hair like his son’s, except shaggy and unkempt, framed a face chiseled in stone. His jawbones were high, his face square, his eyes the color of a sunset, brown and orange and gold, rich with color but…dead.

That was the only word to describe the emptiness she saw there.

He removed his Stetson, then walked toward her and held out a work-roughened hand that looked strong enough to break rocks. Everything about the man, from his muscular build, his towering height, his broad shoulders and those muscular thighs, screamed of masculinity.

And a raw sexuality that made her heart begin to flutter.

But anger also simmered beneath the surface of his calm, anger and something lethal, like a bloodthirsty need for revenge.

Jordan tried to ignore the fear that rippled through her. Miles McGregor was a dangerous man.

Cowboy Cop

Rita Herron

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Award-winning author Rita Herron wrote her first book when she was twelve, but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former kindergarten teacher and workshop leader, she traded her storytelling to kids for writing romance, and now she writes romantic comedies and romantic suspense. She lives in Georgia with her own romance hero and three kids. She loves to hear from readers, so please write her at P.O. Box 921225, Norcross, GA 30092-1225, or visit her website, www.ritaherron.com.

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CAST OF CHARACTERS

Detective Miles McGregor—Miles will do anything to protect his son and make sure the man responsible for the boy’s mother’s death pays.

Jordan Keys—Guilt-stricken over her younger brother’s death, she’s determined to help Timmy. But she can’t fall for the boy’s father, a handsome Texas cowboy, because he’ll leave her like dust in the wind when the case is solved.

Timmy McGregor—The only witness to his mother’s murder, but he has no memory of that night….

Marie Younger—Timmy’s mother died at the hands of the Slasher. But was she as innocent as she seemed?

Robert Dugan—This smooth-talking businessman was convicted of being the Slasher, but he swears he was set up. Does he want revenge because he was wrongly accused or because Miles pointed out what a monster he is?

Renee Balwinger—She gave Robert Dugan an alibi for the murder of Timmy’s mother—but is she lying to protect the man, who also happens to be her lover?

Janet Bridges—Dugan was in love with her, but now she’s missing. Is she helping him, or running from him herself?

CeeCee Dugan—Dugan’s mother: is she really alive?

Paul Belsa—He was Marie’s lover. Could he have killed her instead of Dugan?

Pruitt Ables—What does he have to do with Dugan and the Slasher crimes?

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Excerpt

Prologue

The verdict was in.

Perspiration beaded on Detective Miles McGregor’s neck. He hoped to hell it was guilty. Robert Dugan deserved to die.

He had killed four women so far, brutal stabbings that had left his victims raw and exposed to the elements, suffering as they bled out, alone and frightened.

The coldhearted bastard.

Marie’s face flashed in his mind, a reminder that his son’s mother could have been a victim just like these other women.

Remorse hit him for the way their relationship had soured over time. They’d had a brief affair when he was in between cases a few years ago, and she’d gotten pregnant. He’d offered to marry her, but she hadn’t wanted it. She said he was married to the job.

That was true. But during this case he’d worried about her. Not because he was in love with her, but he did care, dammit. And his son needed them to be on the same page. To get along.

He’d make it up to her for not being around the past few months. He’d be the man she wanted. The one she deserved.

The father his little boy, Timmy, needed.

He took a deep breath, splashed cold water on his face, then grabbed a paper towel and dried his beard-stubbled face. One look into the mirror and he cursed.

Damn, he looked like hell.

He hadn’t slept since this case had started, since he’d seen that first victim’s body. He’d thought catching the maniac would help him rest, but still the images haunted him.

Only seeing Dugan rot in jail would ease the pain.

He tossed the paper towel into the trash, strode from the men’s room toward the courtroom, then slipped inside and took a seat on the bench behind the prosecutor. He’d testified, and now he wanted to watch the look on Dugan’s face when he was convicted and sentenced to death row.

At least he hoped to hell he was convicted. DNA evidence had been iffy, and Dugan had managed to make sure he’d left no witnesses behind, so circumstantial evidence, a partial fingerprint, the profile from the Behavioral Crime Unit and Miles’s testimony had made the case.

He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants. It might not be enough.

A low murmur of voices rippled through the courtroom as the door opened, and the jurors filed in, heads bowed, faces pinched and drawn. Twelve people who held the future of one man in their hands.

A future that, if he was released, would cost more women their lives.

Miles had no doubt in his mind about that.

The bailiff cleared his throat. “All rise for the Honorable Judge Fenton.”

Everyone stood while the judge entered, then Dugan strode in, his slender face etched with worry in spite of the cool facade he tried to paint as he took his seat.

The judge pounded the gavel, then asked for the verdict, and the jury foreman stood and handed the bailiff the envelope. The man who’d led the jury was a hard-assed construction worker who Miles had liked on sight because he could tell the man had been raised right, to respect women and see through the fake charms of men like Dugan.

A real polished smooth talker who had undoubtedly seduced his way into close proximity to his victims and made them feel safe—until he’d slit their throats.

The soft rustle of clothing and shaky breaths reverberated through the room as the judge opened the envelope and perused its contents. Without batting an eye, he handed the envelope back to the bailiff, who passed it to the foreman.

“Mr. Dugan, please stand for the reading of the verdict,” Judge Fenton said.

Miles studied Dugan as he buttoned his suit jacket, then Dugan shot him a smug smile and squared his shoulders.

Judge Fenton gestured toward the foreman and he nodded.

“On the first count of murder, we find Robert Dugan guilty.”

Collective sighs of relief filled the room, then heads nodded as the same verdict was handed down for the other three murder charges.

Miles’s heart pounded as they polled the jury and a unanimous count was confirmed.

Dugan’s breathing faltered slightly, the only sign he was affected by the verdict, then the judge announced that the sentencing would be delivered in three days. Dugan’s lawyer, a female who looked as if she too had fallen for Dugan’s fake charms, patted his shoulder, mumbling, no doubt, about filing an appeal.

Then the police stepped forward to escort Dugan back to his cell. The crowd dispersed, hushed voices murmuring about whether or not they agreed with the trial’s outcome, and Miles shook the prosecutor’s hand then stepped into the hallway.

Cameras flashed, reporters swarmed. Dugan’s attorney tried to shield him, but her client seemed to like the attention.

In fact, he looked over at Miles and a slow sadistic smile creased his face. Then he mouthed the words You’ll pay.

Miles’s heart pounded, even as he knew that he was safe for now.

But if Dugan was ever released, he’d have to watch his back.

Dugan turned and waved at the crowd, pausing to insist to the press that he was an innocent man. That he’d been framed.

Bile rose in Miles’s throat, but he ordered himself not to react. Instead, he stepped outside into the muggy Texas air.

Heat suffused him in a cloud of steam rising from the pavement, and the fact that he hadn’t slept for days intensified his fatigue.

He’d vowed to make it up to his son and Marie for leaving them for days on end without so much as checking in, for missing Timmy’s birthday and Christmases and the rodeo at the BBL, for being exactly what Marie said he was: married to the job.

He’d start now. This Christmas he would be there to play Santa for his boy.

He headed toward his Jeep but his cell phone chirped—his friend from the Bucking Bronc Lodge and fellow detective Mason Blackpaw, who’d worked the Slasher case with him.

A bad feeling pinched his gut.

Was Blackpaw calling to congratulate him on the verdict or for another reason?

He punched the connect button. “You heard the verdict, Mason?”

“Yeah. But we have a problem.” Blackpaw hissed a sound of disgust that confirmed Miles’s earlier premonition.

“What?”

“There was another murder.”

Miles gritted his teeth at the words he didn’t want to hear.

“Where? Who?”

“Another woman, name’s June Kelly.”

“And?”

“It’s not good, McGregor. Her throat was slit just like the other four.”

Miles dropped his head into his hands and cursed. Dammit, no.

The M.O. was the same as the murders Dugan had just been convicted of.

Which meant Dugan was either innocent, he had a partner or there was a copycat killer.

No...he was sure Dugan was guilty.

But hell, this was bad—even if Dugan was in jail, a killer was still out there hunting....

Chapter One

Three months later

“Dugan is out.”

Miles’s fingers tightened around his cell phone as he wheeled his SUV around and headed toward the station. “What?”

His superior, Lieutenant Hammond, didn’t sound happy. “Based on the Kelly woman’s murder and some technicality with the chain of evidence when they’d searched the man’s place, Dugan’s lawyer got his conviction overturned.”

The past few weeks of tracking down clues and false leads day and night taunted him. He released a string of expletives.

Hammond cleared his throat. “If we’d found evidence connecting Dugan to a partner, maybe things would have gone differently, but...”

Hammond let the sentence trail off, but Miles silently finished for him. If he and Mason had found such evidence, Dugan would still be in a cell. And the world would be a safer place.

But they’d failed.

The day Dugan’s verdict was read flashed back. Dugan’s threat resounded in his head—you’ll pay.

“Now that he’s back on the streets—”

“I know. He’s going to kill again,” Miles said. And he’s probably coming after me.

His cell phone chirped, and he glanced at the caller ID. Marie’s number.

Damn, she was probably on his case for working again last night and missing dinner with Timmy. He’d thought he might have found a lead on the copycat, but instead he’d only chased his own tail.

The phone chirped again.

You’ll pay.

Panic suddenly seized him, cutting off his breath. Dammit...what if payback meant coming after his family?

“I have to go, Hammond.” Sweat beaded on his neck as he connected the call. “Hello?”

Husky breathing filled the line, then a scream pierced the receiver.

He clenched the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip. He had to clear his throat to speak. “Marie?” God, tell me you’re there....

But the sudden silence sent a chill up his spine.

“Marie, Timmy?”

More breathing, this time followed by a husky laugh that sounded sinister, threatening...evil.

Dear God, no...

Dugan was at Marie’s house.

He pressed the accelerator, his heart hammering as he sped around traffic and called for backup. The dispatch officer agreed to send a patrol car right away.

A convertible nearly cut him off, and Miles slammed on his horn, nearly skimming a truck as he roared around it. Brush and shrubs sailed past, the wheels grinding on gravel as he hugged the side of the country road.

Images of the dead women from Dugan’s crime scenes flashed in his head, and his stomach churned. No, please, no...Dugan could not be at Marie’s house. He couldn’t kill Marie...not like the other women.

And Timmy...his son was home today with her.

The bright Texas sun nearly blinded him as he swerved into the small neighborhood where Marie had bought a house. Christmas decorations glittered, lights twinkled from the neighboring houses, the entryways screaming with festive holiday spirit.

Somehow they seemed macabre in the early-morning light.

He shifted gears, brakes squealing as he rounded a curve and sped down the street. He scanned the neighboring yards, the road, the trees beyond the house, searching for Dugan.

But everything seemed still. Quiet. A homey little neighborhood to raise a family in.

Except he had heard that scream.

His chest squeezed for air, and he slammed on the brakes and skidded up the drive. He threw the Jeep into Park, and held his weapon at the ready as he raced up to the front door.

Cop instincts kicked in, and he scanned the outside of the house and yard again, but nothing looked amiss. He glanced through the front window, but the den looked normal...toys on the floor, magazines on the table, TV running with cartoons.

Only the Christmas tree had been tipped over, ornaments scattered across the floor.

He reached for the doorknob, and the door swung open. His breath lodged in his throat, panic knotting his insides. No sounds of holiday music or Timmy chattering.

Gripping his weapon tighter, he inched inside, senses honed for signs of an intruder.

Slowly, he made his way through the den to the kitchen. The Advent calendar glared at him, mocking him with a reminder that Christmas was only a few days away.

There was a half-empty coffee cup on the counter and an overturned cereal bowl on the table. Milk dripped onto the floor.

Timmy...God...

Terror seized him.

A creaking sound suddenly splintered the air, and he swung around, braced to shoot but he saw nothing. Then another sound came from above, water running...the shower? No, the tub...overflowing...

He clenched his jaw, then inched toward the staircase, slowly climbing it and listening for an intruder, for Marie, for his son.

Any sign of life.

A quick glance into Timmy’s room and it appeared empty. Bed unmade. Toy airplane on the floor. Legos scattered. Stuffed dinosaur on his pillow.

Where was his son?

His hand trembled as he bypassed the room and edged toward the bedroom where Marie slept. One look inside, and his heart stopped.

The lamp was broken on the floor. Pillows tossed on the carpet. The corner chair overturned. Glass shards from the mirror were scattered on the vanity.

A sea of red flashed in front of him. Blood...it soaked the sheets and led a trail into the bathroom.

His stomach revolted, but he forced himself to scan the corners of the room before slowly entering the bathroom. Blood streaked the floor and led toward the claw-foot tub.

A groan settled deep in his gut.

Marie. Her eyes stood wide-open in death. Blood dripped down her neck and bare chest. Her arms dangled lifelessly over the tub edge, one leg askew.

For a moment, he choked. Couldn’t make himself move. He’d seen dozens of dead bodies before but none so personal...none that he cared about.

Emotions crowded his throat and chest, and he gripped the wall to steady himself. He had to. Had to get control. Slide that wall back into place so he could do his job.

Every second counted.

Fighting nausea, he slowly walked toward her and felt for a pulse. Although he knew before he touched her that it was too late.

Dugan had done this. Had gotten his payback by killing his son’s mother.

That creaking sound suddenly echoed again. He froze, hand clenching his gun, then spun around.

Nothing. Except the evidence of Dugan’s brutal crime.

Where was Timmy?

For a fraction of a second he closed his eyes on a prayer. The sound echoed again...

The attic.

Heart hammering double-time, he headed toward Timmy’s room. The door to the space had been built inside his closet. Timmy had called it his secret room.

Had Dugan found it?

Hope warred with terror as he inched inside the closet and pushed at the door. It was closed, but he had insisted the lock be removed for fear Timmy might lock himself inside and be trapped.

Now he wished he’d left that damn lock on so his son could have locked Dugan out.

Darkness shrouded the cavernous space as he climbed the steps. He tried to move soundlessly, but the wood floor squeaked. As he reached the top step, a sliver of sunlight wormed its way through the small attic window, allowing him to sweep the interior.

It appeared empty, but he had heard something.

“Timmy,” he whispered. “Son, are you here?”

Praying he was safe, Miles examined the room. Timmy’s toy airplanes and horses, his train set...

Another squeak, and he jerked his head around. An antique wardrobe sat in the corner, one Marie had used to store old quilts. He held his breath as he approached it, then eased open the door.

Relief mingled with pain when he saw his little boy hunched inside, his knees drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. He had buried his head against his legs, silent sobs racking his body.

“Timmy, it’s okay, it’s Dad.” Anguish clogged his throat as he gently lifted his son’s face. Blood dotted Timmy’s T-shirt and hands, and tears streaked his splotched skin, a streak of blood on his left cheek.

But it was the blank look in his eyes that sent a wave of cold terror through Miles.

Timmy might be alive, but he was in shock.

He stooped down to Timmy’s level and dragged him into his arms, but his son felt limp, as if the life had drained from him just as it had his mother.

Three weeks later

JORDAN KEYS WATCHED the busload of new campers arrive at the Bucking Bronc Lodge, her heart in her throat. The troubled kids ranged from ages five to sixteen.

Her brother had fit in that category. But he was gone now.

Because she hadn’t been able to help him.

She fisted her hands, silently vowing to do better here. She’d read about the BBL and how hard the cowboys and staff worked to turn these kids’ lives around, and she wanted to be a part of it.

If she saved just one kid, it might assuage some of her guilt over her brother’s death.

A chilly January wind swirled dried scrub brush across the dirt and echoed through the trees. She waved to Kim Woodstock, another one of the counselors and Brandon Woodstock’s wife, as she greeted the bus, then Jordan bypassed them and headed straight into the main lodge to meet with Miles McGregor and his five-year-old son, Timmy.

Apparently Miles also volunteered at the BBL, but this time he’d come because he needed solace and time to heal from a recent loss.

So did his little boy, who they believed had witnessed his mother’s murder.

A thread of anxiety knotted her shoulders as she let herself in the lodge. The empty spot where the Christmas tree had stood made the entryway seem dismal, but truth be told, she was glad it was gone. The holidays always resurrected memories of Christmases past, both good and bad memories that tormented her with what-ifs.

Shoving the thoughts to the back of her mind, she grabbed a cup of coffee and made her way back to the wing Brody Bloodworth had recently added to serve as a counseling and teen center.

The moment she stepped into the room, she sensed pain emanating through it. Like a living, breathing entity smothering the air.

Little Timmy, a dark-haired boy who looked scrawny and way too pale, sat in the corner against the wall, his knees drawn up, his arms locked tightly around them as if he might crumble if he released his grip. The poor child didn’t even look up as she entered, simply sat staring through glazed eyes at some spot on the floor as if he was lost.

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. What if she failed this little guy, too? What if he needed more than she could give?

Inhaling to stifle her nerves, she pasted on a smile, then glanced at the cowboy standing by the window watching the horses gallop across the pasture. His back was to her, his wide shoulders rigid, his hands clenching the window edge so tightly she could see the veins bulging in his broad, tanned hands.

She cleared her throat. “Mr. McGregor?”

The subtle lift of his shoulders indicated he’d heard her, then he hissed something low and indiscernible between his teeth and slowly turned to face her. Dark brown hair like his son’s, except his was shaggy and unkempt, framed a face chiseled in stone. His jawbones were high, his face square, his eyes the color of a sunset, brown and orange and gold, rich with color, but...dead.

That was the only word to describe the emptiness she saw there.

He removed his Stetson, then walked toward her and held out a work-roughened hand that looked strong enough to break rocks. Everything about the man, from his muscular build, his towering height, his broad shoulders and those muscular thighs, screamed of masculinity.

And a raw sexuality that made her heart begin to flutter.

But anger also simmered beneath the surface of his calm, anger and something lethal, like a bloodthirsty need for revenge.

She didn’t know all the details about his relationship to Timmy’s mother, but she understood that anger. She also knew where it led...to nothing good.

“I’m Jordan Keys,” she said, finally finding her voice. “Nice to meet you.”

“There’s nothing nice right now,” he said in a gruff voice.

Jordan stiffened slightly. Obviously he was in pain, but did that mean he didn’t want her help? A lot of men thought counseling was bogus, for sissies...beneath them.

“Maybe not, but you’re here now, and I see you brought your little boy.” She gestured toward Timmy, who still remained oblivious to her appearance. “So let’s talk.”

He worked his mouth from side to side as if he wanted to say something, but he finally gave a nod. “Brody filled you in?”

“Briefly. But I’d like to hear the details from you.”

“Of course. We’ve seen doctors—”

“Not in front of Timmy,” Jordan said, cutting him off. “Let me talk to him for a minute, then we can step outside and discuss the situation.”

His mouth tightened into a grim line, but he nodded again. This man didn’t like to be ordered around, didn’t like to be out of control.

And he had no control right now.

Which was obviously killing him.

She understood that feeling as well.

She slowly walked over and knelt beside the child. “Timmy, my name is Miss Jordan. I’m glad you came to the BBL. We have horses here and other kids to play with and lots of fun things planned.”

His eye twitched, but he didn’t reply or look at her.

“Why don’t you sit at the table? There are markers and paper. Maybe you can draw about Christmas.”

Again, he didn’t move.

Miles touched his son’s shoulder. “Why don’t you draw the bike Santa brought you?”

Again, no response.

“Come on, sport.” Miles took his arm and led the boy to the table. Timmy slumped down in the chair, but he didn’t pick up the markers. He simply stared at the blank paper as if he was too weighted down to move.

“I need to talk to your daddy for a minute,” Jordan said, giving his arm a soft pat. “We’ll be outside that door if you need us, all right?”

His eyes twitched sideways toward her this time. Frightened.

She rubbed his shoulder gently. “I promise. We’re not going anywhere but right outside the room.” She gestured toward a glass partition. “See that glass? We’ll be in there so if you need us, just call or tap on the glass and we’ll come back.”

He didn’t respond, just tucked his knees up and began to rock back and forth. His bony little body was wound so tight that Jordan felt the tension thrumming through him.

“If you want to draw, that’s fine,” she said again, using a quiet voice. “If not, you can look out that window and watch the pretty horses running around.”

The fact that he didn’t turn to look at them worried her. But she simply smiled, then ushered his father into the hallway and into the other room.

When she closed the door, Miles immediately angled his head to watch his son through the partition. Jordan’s chest squeezed.

Miles McGregor was one of the biggest, toughest-looking men she’d ever met. He was not only a cowboy, but Brody had told her he was a cop who chased down the dregs of society.

Miles was also hurting inside and felt powerless to help his son. That made them kindred spirits.

“Tell me what happened,” Jordan said gently.

He slanted her a condescending look. “I thought you said Brody filled you in.”

Jordan simply folded her arms. “Yes, but I want to hear it from you. Everything from the day Timmy’s mother died to how and where you found Timmy to what the doctors said.”

A muscle jumped in his chiseled jaw. “You can read the police report.” He yanked an envelope from inside his denim jacket pocket. The movement revealed the weapon he had holstered to his side. “Here’s the doctor’s report, too.”

Jordan forced a calm into her voice. “I will read it, but it’s important I hear what you have to say.”

“Why? All I need for you to do is to get Timmy to look at this picture.” He yanked another envelope from his jacket, pulled out a photograph and slapped it on the table. “If he can identify this man as his mother’s killer, then I can put him back in jail where he belongs.”

Jordan gritted her teeth. “So Timmy witnessed the murder?”

Miles gave a clipped nod, the pain so intense in his eyes that it nearly robbed her breath. “I believe so, but he hasn’t spoken since that day. That’s why I need you to get him to talk.”

Jordan glanced through the window at Timmy, her heart aching for the boy. “I understand your impatience,” she said. “But Timmy has undergone a terrible shock. It may take him time to open up.”

Miles glared at her. “I don’t have time.”

Jordan’s anger rose. “Then you’d better damn well find it, because the important thing here is that your son heal.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, his eyes flaring with rage. “The important thing is keeping Timmy safe. This man Robert Dugan is a cold-blooded killer. He threatened me in court, he slit Timmy’s mother’s throat, and if he knows Timmy is a witness, he’ll probably come back to kill him.”

* * *

TIMMY ROCKED HIMSELF back and forth in the chair. He thought the lady said something to him. Something about horses. But he couldn’t make out her words. It was too noisy in his head. Voices...things crashing...the screaming.

And he couldn’t see any horses.

All he saw was the red.

Red blotches...black blotches...more red...more black...

Someone else was in the room with him, too. His daddy...at least he thought it was his daddy...

No, he was mad at him. He hadn’t come home...

His eyes blurred and then it was dark. So dark everything went black.

Like night all the time. Scary night.

Scary night when the monsters came...

He buried his head in his arms and rocked harder. Pushed at his ears to make the noises be quiet.

He didn’t want to see the monsters. They were bad. They were going to get him.

He had to run....

But he couldn’t run...he couldn’t move. Couldn’t do nothing to stop the noises and the dark from coming...

Or the red from splattering the walls...

Or his mommy’s cries...

Chapter Two

Miles had never wanted to be anything but a lawman. Not since he was young and Sheriff Silas Weatherby had saved his butt from jail and taken him in as his own.

Miles’s old man had used him to help carry out his own crimes. Cattle rustling—not murder like Robert Dugan—but it was illegal and every crime, no matter how small, hurt somebody.

Still, Silas had a code of ethics, which meant that he tried to save kids when even their own families had taught them to lie, cheat and steal.

Which was the main reason Miles had chosen to contribute to the BBL. He figured it was payback time.

Yes, Silas had taught Miles right from wrong and given him a chance to become a man and protect others.

Only that job had gotten Timmy’s mother killed.

He fisted his hands, sweat beading on his lip as he tried to control the rage burning through him. His son was drowning in a world of hurt because Miles had chosen to do the right thing.

Worse, he was hurting because he’d witnessed a crime that nobody, much less a five-year-old, should have to see.

Miles’s gut churned as he stared at the swirls of black and red Timmy had savagely drawn on the pad of paper. Not signs of a happy Christmas or the new bike Santa had brought.

No, dark swirls of colors that Timmy hadn’t even seemed to realize he was drawing.

Swirls of colors that it didn’t take a rocket scientist—or a shrink—to decipher because that sea of black and red represented the darkness and the blood that his son had seen.

Timmy’s mother’s blood.

Had he watched Dugan viciously slash her throat?

For just a moment, those images became his own, and Miles’s legs nearly buckled as guilt and pain suffused him. If only he’d gone to get Timmy that night and brought him back in the morning like Marie asked, he could have saved her.

Damn Dugan—just like the other murders, he’d left no evidence. And somehow he’d managed to fabricate an alibi for the time of Marie’s death.

It had to be a lie.

Even though Blackpaw had suggested that Marie might have had a lover or boyfriend who had killed her and copied Dugan’s M.O. to throw off the cops, he couldn’t believe it.

Dugan had promised payback and he’d gotten it.

“Mr. McGregor—Miles—” Jordan said. “I understand that you’re angry—”

“Wouldn’t you be?” Miles’s temper exploded, and he whirled on her, needing to vent his frustration, no matter who took the brunt. “Just look at my son. He’s traumatized and motherless yet his mother’s killer is walking around free. Hell, he’s probably bragging about it as he plans his next kill.”

Jordan released a low breath, then eased back a step as if she thought he might use his fists instead of just his words. But he was shaking too hard with rage to care that she was half his size and looked as if the wind could blow her over. Her expression showed concern, but she was too damn beautiful with all that flowing golden hair, he couldn’t yell at her.

His friend and the cowboy who’d started the BBL, Brody, had said she was good at what she did because she’d had problems of her own.

Hell, he didn’t care about her problems. He hated everything about this counseling BS.

Talking did no damn good. Only action did. And finding solid evidence that would put Dugan away for good.

Evidence that he might have if the sadistic monster hadn’t totally traumatized his child.

His gut tightened as he watched Timmy cover his ears with his hands and rock himself back and forth. The poor little guy was not only motherless but lost in a silent hell, and he didn’t know how to help him.

Except track down the bastard who’d done this to him.

But worry gnawed at him, unsettling and cutting deeper than any physical pain ever could.

Even if he did lock up Dugan, would Timmy, the kid who liked to chase frogs, swim in the creek and play horseshoes, ever be the same again?

* * *

JORDAN BIT HER TONGUE to stifle a gasp at the raw emotions in Timmy’s drawing. A page reflecting the horror and violence he’d witnessed.

A page he’d drawn with his eyes closed.

He was desperately trying to shut out the terrible image of his mother’s death, but she had studied psychology enough to know that those images would remain with him forever. Maybe he’d forgotten exactly what had happened. Maybe he’d blocked out the trauma as a way to cope.

Maybe he’d even bury the details and memories for a while.

But they were still there, lurking beneath the surface, threatening his psyche, gnawing at his mind until one day they would destroy him.

If he didn’t purge them first.

But purging, healing, couldn’t be forced or it might make things worse.

“What did the doctors who examined Timmy say?”

Miles adjusted his Stetson. “Physically he’s okay. He wasn’t hurt, thank God, at least the man didn’t attack him, I mean.”

Jordan nodded. “That’s good. Not to downplay emotional trauma, but physical abuse would have complicated his recovery.”

A bleak look crossed his face. “It still doesn’t change the fact that he won’t talk.” Anguish laced his tone. “Or that we believe he witnessed the man slash his mother’s throat.”

“Are you sure he saw her actual murder? Didn’t you say in the report that you found him hiding in the attic?”

Miles cut his eyes toward hers. “He was hiding, yes, but he had blood on his hands and clothes.” A pained breath. “Marie’s blood.”

Jordan twisted her hands together. “Which means he either did see it or that he came into the room and found her dead.”

This time Miles nodded. “He was in the house. He had to have heard her screaming....”

“I’m so sorry,” Jordan said, unable to imagine the depth of his pain. It was bad enough he’d lost the woman he’d obviously loved, but to have his child traumatized and left to wonder if he’d ever recover had to be agonizing.

“Do the police have any leads?”

The ice in Miles’s eyes sent a chill through her. “I know who it was. Robert Dugan, the Slasher.”

Jordan caught her breath.

“I’m assuming you kept up with the case.”

“Yes, I saw that Mr. Dugan was released when another woman named June Kelly was killed while he was in jail.”

“A colossal mistake. Dugan probably paid someone to kill that woman to make him look innocent. Either that or he had an accomplice.”

“No leads on who that might be?”

“Not yet. But I won’t give up until Dugan’s back in prison.” He cut his eyes over her again. “Or dead.”

Jordan tried to ignore the fear that rippled through her. Miles McGregor was a dangerous man on many levels.

Dangerous to women because he was so sexually impossible to resist.

Dangerous to Dugan because he had stolen someone he loved and hurt his little boy.

“You and Timmy’s mother weren’t married?”

“No,” he said tightly.

“Have you considered the fact that she might have had a boyfriend or lover who killed her?”

A storm of emotions Jordan couldn’t define registered in Miles’s eyes. Anger? Jealousy?

“My partner is looking into that possibility, but that’s just a formality,” he said sharply. “The M.O. is the same as Dugan’s.”

“Perhaps another killer wanted you to think that to throw suspicion off of himself.”

He hesitated a moment as if she’d struck a nerve, then gave her a stony look. “Why don’t you let me do my job and you do yours?”

His accusatory tone cut to the bone. But he was right. She wasn’t a cop.

However, she did understand behavior enough to consider that copying a well-known murderer’s M.O. could cover the killer’s tracks.

Still, her focus was better spent on Timmy. “It’s obvious your little boy is in pain,” Jordan began softly. “And so are you, Miles.”

If the man’s jaw could harden any more, it would have cracked. “Let’s get something straight, Miss Keys—”

“Jordan.”

His eyes carved cold slashes through her. “Jordan,” he said with a bite, “I don’t need your shrinking. I just want you to help Timmy so he can move past this, and I can put the bastard that killed my son’s mother in jail.”

“Really?” Jordan asked with a challenge to her voice. “Is that what you want? Jail? Because you look like you want revenge.”

He narrowed his eyes, then wrapped one hand around her wrist. “So what if I do? Dugan killed four women, five counting Marie. And six if he’s responsible for June Kelly’s murder. You tell me he doesn’t deserve the same torture he inflicted on them?”

Jordan winced as pain shot through her wrist. The instinct to run from this man assaulted her, but she was not one to back down from a fight.

Or a man in pain.

But she also wouldn’t allow him to run roughshod over her.

“I understand that you feel that way.” God knew, she’d been tempted to track down the teenager who’d killed her little brother and make him suffer.

But killing him wouldn’t have brought Richie back.

So, she’d decided she could do more good by helping other kids avoid falling into the kind of trouble that her brother had.

The kind that had led to his death.

“As a matter of fact, I do understand your anger, but that’s not going to help your son.” She gave a pointed glance at her wrist where he still held it. “And neither is manhandling me.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, but his dark eyes flickered with regret, then he released her so abruptly her heart fluttered at the missed contact.

“I just want justice,” he said in a gruff voice.

Jordan’s gaze met his, one brow raised. “And for your son to be well.”

Emotions made his taut face look even harsher. “That goes without saying.”

In spite of his tough act, guilt underscored his words, and her heart softened. Guilt was one thing she understood. Rational or not, it held a power over you that could cripple you.

But a low sound that bordered on a sob echoed through the speakers from the attached room, and she glanced back at Timmy. He needed her help.

Her job didn’t include counseling his father.

But still, she had to make Miles realize that they had to work together.

Miles removed his Stetson and raked his hand through his hair. “Do you think you can help him?”

Jordan nodded and dragged her gaze from his rumpled head. She had no business thinking that he looked sexy right now. “Yes, but like I said, it’s going to take time. You have to trust me.”

Miles tensed, his body going ramrod-straight. “I don’t trust anyone.”

Jordan gave him a challenging look. “Then you need to start.”

He started to speak, but she held up a warning hand and cut him off. “The mind is a fragile thing, Miles. If you push too hard, you could damage Timmy even more.”

Anguish deepened the lines of his face, but Jordan also saw fear.

She hated to put it there, but she had to in order to make him listen. Because there was one thing she was certain of—if Miles didn’t give Timmy time to heal, and allow him to deal with what had happened in his own time, he would never have his son back.

And that would only add to the man’s already burgeoning guilt and destroy him.

Just as her own guilt had almost done to her two years ago.

* * *

MILES TRIED TO MASK the fear Jordan’s words drove deeply inside him. If he pushed Timmy, he might hurt him more.

As if he didn’t have enough guilt dogging him. As if he wasn’t already terrified his little boy would never be normal—or happy—again.

His cell phone beeped the familiar ringtone for Mason Blackpaw, and his fingers slid inside his jacket pocket over the device. Normally he ditched it for a few days when he came to the BBL to help, but there was no way he could turn it off while Dugan was loose.

“I need to return this.” Even as he said the words, he felt the censure in Jordan’s gaze.

“It might be about the case,” he explained, irritated for worrying about her approval. But dammit, he didn’t want her to think he didn’t care about his son.

“All right. I’ll spend some time with Timmy. Are you settled into your cabin?”

Miles shook his head. “No, and I need to talk to Brody.” He glanced through the window at Timmy, who suddenly picked up the drawing he’d made and crumpled the paper into a ball between his little hands.

Suddenly he felt Jordan’s fingers close over his arm. “You should tell him that you’re going to be gone for a few minutes. He needs reassurance that you’ll be back.”

His gaze was drawn to her slender hand. Her fingers were delicate, long, thin...soft. And they felt gentle, comforting. Something that stirred a yearning he didn’t have time to contemplate.

He had let Marie down in the worst possible way. Not just by putting his job first, but...by not loving her the way he should have.

And then he’d gotten her killed.

So he gave a clipped nod, then headed to the other room. Except for a stiffening of Timmy’s shoulders, he barely responded when Miles entered.

He approached slowly, concerned about startling Timmy, then knelt in front of him. “Son, I have to talk to Brody, the rancher who runs this place. You remember him?”

Timmy’s eyes looked blank, but he angled his face toward Miles. The sheer paleness of his skin sent another pang through Miles’s chest.

“Anyway,” Miles said gruffly. “I won’t be gone long, then we’ll settle into our cabin. And maybe we can take a walk to the stables later and look at the horses.”

Timmy’s little chin quivered, and the crumpled drawing slipped to the floor at his feet. He didn’t bother to pick it up or speak.

Dammit, he looked so lost and forlorn that Miles had to blink to control the emotions clogging his throat.

Jordan gave him an encouraging smile, then lowered herself into the seat beside Timmy and gestured for him to go. “Timmy and I will be fine,” Jordan said quietly. “We’ll talk for a few minutes, then meet you at your cabin.”

Miles nodded, although leaving his little boy made him feel as though he was abandoning him somehow.

Then Jordan looked up at him with those beguiling green eyes, and her plea to trust her rolled through his head.

Dammit, he’d been lost before he’d come here.

Whether he wanted to admit it or not, and even if he didn’t like shrinks or counselors or talking about problems like these head doctors insisted, he had no idea how to reach his son.

He needed her help.

Trying for some sense of normalcy, he ruffled Timmy’s hair. “See you in about an hour, sport.”

His gaze caught Jordan’s, a silent plea in his eyes.

She nodded, then walked him back toward the door. “If I need you before we meet up, I’ll call.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to talk, then stepped through the door. Worry crawled through him as he left his son, but he reminded himself that time was of the essence.

That Mason Blackpaw might have news.

So he strode out into the sunshine and breathed in the clean ranch air. Across the way, he spotted a group by the barn, another set of campers grooming the horses in the pen. Normally the smells and scenery in front of him brought instant peace, but today peace eluded him.

He leaned against the porch rail and punched Mason’s number. A second later, the detective picked up. “Any news?” Miles asked, not bothering to detail the subject line. Blackpaw knew there was only one thing on his mind.

“Nothing good,” Blackpaw muttered. “We put a tail on Dugan, but the rookie lost him last night. Haven’t caught up with him since.”

Miles cursed. “Can’t we track his cell phone?”

“Working on getting a warrant, but so far zilch.”

“How about a GPS on his car?”

“Dugan is smart,” Blackpaw said. “He had it dismantled.”

Son of a bitch.

“Can’t we crack his alibi?”

“Working that angle, too. Woman who stuck up for him is nowhere to be found.”

“You mean you lost her, too.”

Blackpaw mumbled an obscenity this time. “I mean she’s disappeared.”

A cold sweat broke out on Miles’s brow. Maybe she’d run off with him?

Or more likely...Dugan had killed her to cover his tracks.

Chapter Three

Miles paced the length of the porch, one eye catching sight of Brody’s pickup truck lumbering down the drive. “Dammit, I need to be out there looking for Dugan myself. He’s probably already killed his alibi and looking for some other innocent woman to carve up.”

“You’re preaching to the choir here,” Blackpaw said. “But you know what the lieutenant said. You’re too close to this one, McGregor.”

“Of course I’m close to it, but that’s what makes me motivated. Last time I talked to Hammond, he didn’t seem convinced that Dugan was guilty.”

A long pause followed, steeped in tension. “That’s another problem,” Blackpaw admitted. “With the Kelly woman’s murder, we both know there’s more to the case than we originally thought.”

“Don’t tell me you think Dugan was set up,” Miles growled.

“No,” Blackpaw said. “I think he’s as guilty as homemade sin. But—”

The sun slid behind a winter cloud, making the sky turn a hazy gray. “There is no but. He killed those women and he killed Marie.”

“But what about June Kelly?”

“We’re still looking into it.” Miles had no answer for that. Yet.

“You know, I did find evidence that Marie was seeing someone. Two men over the last five years.”

Miles chewed the inside of his cheek. He’d be a piss-poor cop if he ignored evidence and didn’t consider every possibility. “Go on.”

“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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