FRAMED!

For years after the suspicious death of his wife, single dad Wyatt Monroe isolates himself on his Wyoming ranch...until he’s accused of murder. With a body at his doorstep, he’s arrested and Wyatt has only one hope—a blue-eyed, blond bodyguard. But it’ll take more than skill for work-obsessed Jackie Blain to save her reluctant client, who just wants to be left alone. She’ll have to gain his trust by keeping him and his daughter safe. With their lives in her hands, Jackie is faced with her toughest assignment ever—saving the cowboy and guarding her heart.

On the surface Jackie looked sweet, almost fragile....

But Wyatt had glimpsed the hard steel beneath that soft exterior. A bodyguard. Who would’ve thought it?

“So tell me about the dead man,” she said.

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

He pointed to a dirt road up ahead. “Take a left.”

Jackie turned, her gaze straying to the rearview. “We’re being followed.”

He might think the woman was paranoid or crazy. But considering this morning he’d found a dead body on his porch and spent the past seven hours in jail, he wasn’t going to doubt her. Sticking his head out the window, he strained to listen. “A motorcycle.”

“Hang on!” She stomped on the brake and twisted the wheel, sending the truck into a spin and coming to a halt facing the way they’d come. Their headlights swept over an oncoming motorcycle...moving at a good clip and heading straight for them.

TERRI REED

At an early age Terri Reed discovered the wonderful world of fiction and declared she would one day write a book. Now she is fulfilling that dream and enjoys writing for Love Inspired Books. Her second book, A Sheltering Love, was a 2006 RITA® Award finalist and a 2005 National Readers’ Choice Award finalist. Her book Strictly Confidential, book five in the Faith at the Crossroads continuity series, took third place in the 2007 American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year Award, and Her Christmas Protector took third place in 2008. She is an active member of both Romance Writers of America and American Christian Fiction Writers. She resides in the Pacific Northwest with her college-sweetheart husband, two wonderful children and an array of critters. When not writing, she enjoys spending time with her family and friends, gardening and playing with her dogs.

You can write to Terri at P.O. Box 19555 Portland, OR 97280. Visit her on the web at www.loveinspiredauthors.com, leave comments on her blog, www.ladiesofsuspense.blogspot.com, or email her at terrireed@sterling.net.

The Cowboy Target

Terri Reed

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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But Jesus called the children to him and said,

“Let the little children come to me,

and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth,

anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”

—Luke 18:16,17

To my children—you are the joys of my life.

Contents

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

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Excerpt

ONE

There was a dead man on his porch.

Wyatt Monroe looked into the man’s beaten face. Dried blood covered his body in dark splotches. Purple bruises mottled his skin. Lifeless eyes stared back at Wyatt.

Recognition rocked him back on his heels.

He grabbed his cell from his back pocket and dialed 911. His gaze scanned the buildings of his ranch—his foreman’s house, the hay barn and stables, the equipment shed, feed shed—and the Wyoming landscape beyond, searching for the threat. Snow swirled in the air and covered the pastureland spread out over the sixty-thousand-acre ranch.

All appeared quiet and undisturbed on this brisk March morning.

“Lane County Emergency Department,” the female operator answered. “What’s your emergency?”

“Eleanor, this is Wyatt Monroe.”

“Hey, Wyatt. What’s wrong?”

He could picture the older woman who’d been manning the town’s emergency line for longer than he could remember. But that was life in Lane County, Wyoming. Predictable and steady. The way he wanted his life to be. Sans dead bodies.

“Is Gabby okay?”

The concern in Eleanor’s voice wrapped around Wyatt and squeezed. Too many people in this town wondered if his little girl was safe with him. Three years after his wife, Dina, had died, he couldn’t escape the speculation and suspicion. Even from her grave she was wreaking havoc with his life.

That was what women did. They wormed their way into a guy’s heart and then stomped all over it. His mother had done it to his father. Dina had done it to Wyatt.

Never again.

His gaze lifted to the second floor of his family home. The dormer window with the pink, frilly curtains was closed to protect his four-year-old from the winter weather.

But how protected could she be if someone had dumped a body on his front porch so callously?

“Gabby’s fine,” he said, assuring himself as much as Eleanor. “It’s George Herman.”

Eleanor snorted. “What’s that rascal gone and done now?”

Wyatt’s gaze strayed back to the bloodied, lifeless body of his ranch hand. Gaping wounds littered his torso. Bruises covered his face. The skin of his knuckles had been scraped raw. Poor George.

It was no secret Wyatt and George hadn’t seen eye to eye on most things. But the man had been a hand on the Monroe Ranch since Wyatt had been old enough to sit a horse. Wyatt couldn’t bring himself to fire him. He and Dad had been friends. And George didn’t have anyone or anyplace else to go.

“Got himself killed.” A shudder worked through him. He worked to keep his voice calm. “I found him on my front porch.”

Death was a part of life. He knew that. He’d dealt with more than his share. But still...

The silence on the line was as loud as a shotgun blast.

Wyatt swallowed back the memories of the last time he’d had to make an emergency call. The night Dina had died. The night the town had turned on him, accusing him of murder.

A burn spread through his belly. Her death had been an accident. But few believed him. Including his own mother. Which solidified his belief that women couldn’t be trusted with his heart.

“I’ll inform the sheriff,” Eleanor stated with a decidedly cool tone to her voice.

“Appreciate it,” he said and hung up.

The front door opened behind him with a barely discernible squeak. Wyatt pivoted and strode toward Gabby, her sweet, freckled face peering through the crack in the doorway.

“Daddy?”

He shooed her back inside with a wave of his hands. “It’s too cold for you to come outside in your jammies.” He stepped inside the warm house and firmly shut the door behind him. His daughter didn’t need to see the horror on the porch.

Gabby lifted her arms. “I want pancakes.”

“When Penny comes over, I’m sure she’ll make you some pancakes—if you ask politely.” He glanced at the clock. His pulse still thundered like the horses he bred. Penny would be here any minute. His foreman’s wife watched Gabby during the day while Wyatt worked.

Swinging Gabby into his arms, he carried her into the living room and deposited her on the worn brown leather couch. “For now, why don’t you snuggle up under this blanket?” He tucked a fussy blue blanket around her tiny body. “As a special treat today, you can watch some TV before breakfast.”

Her bright green eyes lit up. “Barney!”

The favorite of every preschooler. He kissed the top of her curly red head before turning on the television and tuning into the channel with the big purple dinosaur. “Gabby, I need you to stay right here, okay?”

She didn’t answer. Her attention remained captivated by the singing character on the screen.

Love for this little child pierced his heart. He searched her sweet face. She looked so much like Dina, the same red hair, the same freckled nose and emerald eyes. He didn’t see any of himself in Gabby. Like a knife, the thought sliced as deeply as it always did when he let his mind travel down that perilous road.

A scream from outside split the air. Wyatt flinched. Penny had arrived. He’d hoped to get back out front before she’d walked over. One last glance at Gabby assured him she was too engrossed in her show to have heard the scream. He hurried out the front door.

Penny Kirk clutched a hand over her mouth and held on to the porch railing with the other. Beneath the bright red wool cap pulled low over her graying hair, her lined face was pale, her eyes wide with shock.

Grimly stepping over George, Wyatt went to Penny and steered her away from the sight of the dead man. Her scream had brought others pouring out of the outer buildings.

Penny’s husband, Carl, ran to his wife’s side. His untucked plaid shirt flapped against his denim-clad thighs, and white shaving foam covered half of his face. “What happened? Are you hurt?” He wrapped his arm around Penny.

“George,” she said and broke into tears.

Wyatt met Carl’s gaze. Gesturing with his head, he announced, “He’s dead. On the porch.”

Carl’s gaze widened. Wyatt saw the questions, the suspicions, and knew this was just the beginning of what promised to be a mess.

Wyatt recaptured Penny’s gaze. “Gabby’s inside watching TV.”

Penny’s eyes filled with horror. “Did she...?”

Wyatt shook his head. Thankful for that.

Penny blew out a breath of relief. “I’ll go to her.”

Grateful to the older couple who’d virtually adopted him and Gabby as family, Wyatt knew he and Gabby wouldn’t have fared well without them over the years. They’d come on board the ranch before Wyatt’s dad passed on, had witnessed the turmoil of Wyatt’s marriage and had stepped in as surrogate grandparents for Gabby as soon as she was born. Dina had resisted their help, but Wyatt thanked God for them every day.

The sound of tires coming up the snow-packed gravel drive drew Wyatt’s attention. The sheriff’s brown sedan pulled to a stop. Two deputy cars and the medical examiner’s van pulled in behind him.

Wyatt went to meet the law officer, who was climbing out of his vehicle.

Sheriff Craig Landers was tall and broad shouldered beneath his brown leather jacket and tan uniform. His salt-and-pepper hair poked out from the curled edges of a tan Stetson. His sharp gray eyes took in everything. The crowd of ranch hands circling the front porch, the body lying at the top of the stairs. And Wyatt.

Forcing himself to stand taller, Wyatt met his stepfather’s gaze head-on.

“Wyatt.”

“Sheriff.”

The older man’s eyes narrowed. “Give me the lowdown.”

“I came out front about twenty minutes ago and found George just as he is.”

“You didn’t move the body, did you?”

“No.” Wyatt had learned the hard way that contaminating a crime scene would only make him look guilty. At least, it had with Dina. He’d tried to give her CPR. Her blood had ended up on his clothes. For some, that was enough to label him responsible for her death.

Thankfully, Wyatt had God and a lack of incriminating evidence on his side. He could only hope and pray God would see him through this ordeal, too.

“Good.” Landers strode forward. “Okay, everyone back away. Let Andrew through,” he said, indicating the medical examiner.

Wyatt watched as Andrew, an older man with a full beard and wire-rimmed glasses, examined the body.

George had been ornery and arrogant, but he didn’t deserve to die. Who would do this? And why leave him on Wyatt’s porch?

“Wyatt, you understand we have to search the grounds.” Landers’s voice broke through his thoughts. The sheriff’s voice held a note of compassion.

“Knock yourself out,” Wyatt stated. He didn’t have anything to hide. And he intended to be right on their heels doing a search of his own. Nobody harmed one of his people. “Tell your boys to be mindful of Gabby. She’s in the living room watching television.”

“Sheriff!”

Wyatt turned toward where a deputy stood beside the open door to Wyatt’s dark blue truck. Winter sunlight glinted off the object the deputy held up with a gloved hand.

The air left Wyatt’s lungs in a rush.

His steel-bladed hunting knife, covered in blood.

* * *

Jackie Blain punched the freestanding, heavy black bag. Jab, jab with the right hand. Whack with her left elbow. Right foot roundhouse kick. Jab, jab. Whack. Kick. She focused on the punching bag with single-minded attention. For the moment, she was in the heat of battle against an imaginary assailant wanting to part her from her client. Not happening on her watch. Ever. That was why she trained two to three hours a day. At least, every day that she wasn’t on an assignment.

The trilling sound of her cell phone broke through her concentration. Giving the bag one last jab, she whirled away and jumped over her sleeping English bulldog, Spencer, to grab the phone off the island counter.

“Blain,” she answered.

“Jackie, it’s your uncle Carl,” the voice on the other end said in her ear.

Taken by surprise, she smiled. Carl was her mother’s older brother. “Hey. Wow, long time no hear.”

She picked up a white terry-cloth towel from the pile sitting atop the bar stool and wiped her face and neck.

“The street runs both ways, young lady,” her uncle chided.

“Yeah, I know. Sorry ’bout that. I did call at Christmas and left a message.”

“I know. And we were remiss in not returning the call.”

She shrugged away his comment and turned to stare at the present they’d sent, an eleven-by-eleven landscape painted by a local Wyoming artist, which hung on her kitchen wall. The gift canceled out not returning her call.

Walking to the window of her apartment located in Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood, Jackie pushed the blinds apart with her free hand. A fresh layer of snow covered the street below. Beyond the roofline of the apartments across the street, the downtown Boston skyline glistened in the midmorning winter sun. She never tired of looking at the city. So different from the flat cornfields of Iowa where she’d grown up. “So, how are you? Have you heard from my parents?”

“We’re okay,” he said, but something in his tone didn’t ring true with his words.

She dropped the blinds back in place. Her heart sped up. Her breath lay trapped beneath her ribs. She hadn’t heard from her parents in a couple of weeks. They were on a cruise in the Mediterranean. “And Mom and Dad?”

“They’re good as far as I know,” he quickly assured her.

Tension left her body in a rush of relief. “But something’s wrong.”

“Yes. We could sure use your help,” Carl said.

She blinked. Her uncle and aunt had never asked for anything from her before. This must be serious. “Sure. What do you need?”

“It’s Wyatt Monroe. He needs you.”

Sinking into the reclining leather love seat, her one piece of furniture that hadn’t come from a secondhand store, she asked, “Your employer? Needs me?”

She’d never met Mr. Monroe. In fact, she’d never visited Wyoming, where her uncle and aunt lived. She’d thought about it back when her life had turned upside down. But then she’d found Trent Associates and, well, she never got around to making the trip that far west. She’d returned home to Atkins, Iowa, a couple of times, but preferred her parents to come to Boston. Going back to her hometown only stirred up old anger and humiliation. And reinforced the painful lessons she’d learned about love. Never fall for someone you work with. And never, ever give anyone that much power over your heart.

She shuddered and pushed away the memories threatening to surface. She had a good job now with Trent Associates as a protection specialist. She had a place to belong. She had coworkers who respected her, cared for her and made her feel connected. Protecting others was what she was good at. And she had her dog, Spencer, for company. That was all she needed.

“Wyatt’s in trouble.” Carl’s words broke through her thoughts. “Someone’s framing him for the murder of one of his ranch hands.”

That piqued her interest. And raised her skepticism. Four years as a deputy sheriff did that to a person. “Are you sure he didn’t do it?”

“I know he didn’t.” His voice was adamant.

Still, old habits of suspicion held firm. “Are you his alibi?”

After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “No. He doesn’t have one.”

“Not good for him.” She kicked off her cross-trainers with a sigh. Her feet cooled immediately. She’d worked up a sweat on this cold March morning. “I trust he has a good lawyer?”

“I’ve hired one. Against his wishes.”

Jackie frowned. “Is his objection to you hiring the lawyer or to the lawyer himself?”

Carl heaved a beleaguered sigh. “Both. He’s innocent and doesn’t see why he needs a lawyer.”

Either the man was overconfident in the justice system or not right in the head. Jackie figured it was probably a little of both. “What can I do to help?”

“Would you come here? Help us prove he’s innocent?”

She sat back. “Uncle Carl, I’m not in law enforcement anymore. I’m sure the police there will do a thorough investigation.”

“Maybe. But I’d feel better if you’d come out and keep an eye on the investigation. There are complications.”

“What kind of complications? Either he did the deed, or he didn’t. The evidence will prove it one way or another.”

“It’s not that simple here. Wyatt has a past,” Carl said.

Jackie wrinkled her nose. “We all have a past, Uncle Carl. That won’t affect the evidence.”

“What if someone wanted it to?”

Her mind jumped back to Carl’s earlier statement. “You really think someone is trying to frame him?”

“I do.” He lowered his voice. “Plus, there’s bad blood between the sheriff and Wyatt that goes back a long ways.”

Not a mess she wanted to get involved in.

“I have a job here. A good job.” Even as the words left her mouth, she knew she was overdue to take some vacation time. Her boss, James, had gone so far as to tell her if she didn’t take some R & R by spring, he’d bench her for a few weeks to give her some forced downtime.

“Then I’ll hire you if that’s what it takes,” Carl said with a flinty edge.

He wasn’t going to let this go. “This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

“Helping Wyatt means everything to Penny and me.” Carl cleared his throat. “You know we wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. If Wyatt is convicted of this crime... We can’t let it happen. Gabby needs her father.”

“I take it Gabby’s his daughter?” Jackie remembered her mother mentioning that Mr. Monroe was a widower with a child.

“Yep. A four-year-old bundle of joy. We’re very attached to Wyatt and Gabby. He’s like a son to us,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Gabby’s like a granddaughter.”

Sympathy and understanding twisted her up inside. Her aunt and uncle had tried for a child for many years but never conceived. Jackie had often wondered why God had never answered their prayers for a child. But apparently He had a plan. Which evidently included Wyatt and Gabby Monroe.

Now the man her aunt and uncle claimed as their surrogate son was in trouble. And they were asking her for help. How could she refuse?

A chill chased down her spine. It had to be her body’s core temperature lowering. Certainly not some warning of doom.

“I’ll come as soon as I can.”

“Thank you.”

The relief in his words wrapped around her like duct tape. “Uncle Carl, I don’t know that I’ll be able to do much other than make sure everything is done by the book.”

“I understand.”

She hoped so. She’d hate for them to have high expectations that she couldn’t meet.

After hanging up, she sat down on the floor next to Spencer and rubbed the dog behind the ears. “Okay, boy. Looks like we’re taking a trip to Wyoming.”

TWO

As darkness descended, Wyatt’s jail cell became gloomier, if that were even possible. He sat on the hard bench that served as bed and sofa—the only furniture allowed in the Lane County jail.

The door to the cell rattled as a deputy inserted the key into the lock and swung the metal cage door open. “Wyatt, you’ve got visitors.”

“Who?” Wyatt asked.

“Lawyers, I guess,” Deputy Rawlings replied.

Wyatt scrubbed a hand over his face, and the bristles of his beard scraped his palm. His eyes were gritty, and his body ached from the uncomfortable bench. He’d told Carl not to bother with a lawyer. Wyatt would pay the bail and do his own investigation. He knew how a criminal investigation would go in this town. Been there, done that. He’d have to prove his innocence himself. Finding the knife in his possession looked bad, but that wasn’t proof he’d killed George. They couldn’t know if the blood on the knife belonged to George yet. Not until they did a DNA test. And he knew that would take weeks, if not longer.

Wyatt heaved himself to his feet, picked up his Stetson and plopped it on his head. At six feet four inches, he had to duck slightly to walk out of the cell, or he’d bump his head and knock his hat off on the metal door frame. He followed Rawlings to an interrogation room. The same one he’d spent several hours in while the sheriff grilled him about George and the murder.

Now the room was filled not only with the sheriff, but also the town’s newest attorney. Bruce Kelly sat at the table with a file folder laid out in front of him. He wore a pin-striped suit and sported thick black-framed glasses. His brown hair was parted in the middle and slicked back.

Wyatt had never had an occasion to deal with Mr. Kelly, a city slicker lured to this part of the country by a local gal. Kelly had opened up shop two years ago. Wyatt doubted he’d ever defended an accused murderer before.

But it was the petite woman standing next to the table and arguing with the sheriff who grabbed Wyatt’s attention by the throat and trapped his breath in his chest. She hadn’t seemed to notice he’d entered the room, which gave him a moment to inspect her. He didn’t know her, but he sure liked what he saw.

Not more than five feet five inches tall with a head of wild blond curls held back by a clawlike clip, she was dressed in formfitting blue jeans, tall brown leather boots and a red leather jacket. She planted her small, dainty fists on her slim hips and managed to stare down her pert nose at the much taller sheriff. A feat Wyatt wouldn’t have thought possible, except he was witness to it.

Impressive. And gutsy.

“Your evidence is circumstantial at best,” she declared in a honeyed voice.

Wyatt snorted. He was well aware of how circumstantial evidence could convict someone in the court of public opinion.

“That’s true,” Bruce Kelly interjected. The lawyer appeared a bit flummoxed, his gaze shifting between the fiery blonde and the intimidating sheriff.

“His prints are on the knife,” Landers countered, keeping his attention on the woman.

“Understandable since it’s his knife,” she shot back. “There are also textured prints from a glove.”

“Which he could have been wearing,” Landers said, darting a glance at Wyatt.

Wyatt could see the irritation in Landers’s eyes and couldn’t help feeling a little jolt of satisfaction. It was good to see someone else getting Landers’s goat for once. Growing up, Wyatt had only ever received grief from his stepfather. Still did, if truth be told.

Without so much as glancing in his direction, the woman tucked in her chin. “Really? So you honestly think he’s gonna go to the trouble of killing the guy, remove his body from the primary crime scene, dump him on his own porch for all the world to see, then be dumb enough to leave the knife in plain sight but ditch the gloves? Not likely. This has all the earmarks of a setup, and if you can’t see that...”

“Careful, Ms. Blain,” Landers warned with a glower. “I agree there is more going on here than meets the eye.”

She smirked. Wyatt held back a grin.

Landers met Wyatt’s gaze. “You’re free to go, Wyatt. Just don’t leave town.”

As if Wyatt would. Where would he go? This was his home. Gabby was here. But he refrained from responding. Instead he met the bright blue-eyed gaze of his mysterious defender. She stared back with unabashed curiosity. He didn’t know this woman, so why would she defend him? Was she the lawyer Carl Kirk said he was hiring? But then why was Bruce Kelly here?

Bruce cleared his throat and rose to his feet. “Now that we have that settled, I’ll speak to my client alone.”

His client?

Sheriff Landers gave a curt nod and exited the room.

Wyatt crossed his arms over his chest. “So which one of you is my lawyer?”

* * *

Jackie couldn’t help but appreciate the hunk standing before her. She’d never really been into the cowboy type, but this one...whew, sure made a girl’s heart beat faster.

Tall and lean, he was dressed in worn denim with a soft-looking chambray shirt stretched over shoulders that made her think he could support the whole state of Wyoming on his back. He had a ruggedly handsome face with a firm jaw and dark, intense eyes beneath a well-loved traditional cowboy hat. In the dim light of the interrogation room, she couldn’t tell if his hair was black or dark brown. She guessed she’d have to wait for the light of day to find out.

A little thrill zoomed through her tummy at the prospect of spending time with such an attractive man.

So not a good reaction to be having. Wyatt Monroe could be a murderer.

“I am,” Bruce said. “Carl Kirk asked me to represent you.”

Wyatt’s gaze flicked over the lawyer before settling once again on Jackie. Curiosity and something else she couldn’t decipher shone in the inky depths of his eyes. “And you are?”

She stepped forward and thrust out her hand. “Jackie Blain. Carl and Penny Kirk are my uncle and aunt.”

He stared at her outstretched hand for a moment as if she were offering him a stick of dynamite. She waited, not about to let this cowboy think for a moment that he intimidated her with his brooding attitude.

Slowly he unfolded his arms and grasped her hand in his much bigger one. Their palms met. Warmth spread up her arm and settled beneath her breastbone.

“Ms. Blain, why are you here?” he asked as he quickly let go of her hand.

She flexed her fingers and jammed her hands in the pockets of her jacket. “I have a background in law enforcement, and Uncle Carl asked if I’d come out and see what I could do to help.”

He took a moment to absorb that before saying, “Well, you’ve done your good deed for the day.” He tipped his hat. “I appreciate it. Sorry you had to come all the way from...”

“Boston.”

His eyebrows rose. “Boston. Well, don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you’re anxious to get back to the city.”

She nearly laughed but settled for a grin. “Oh, you’re not getting rid of me that easily, cowboy. I’m your ride back to the ranch.”

His jaw firmed in clear displeasure.

Jackie turned to Mr. Kelly. “Is there anything else you require at the moment?”

The bemused expression on the man’s face was comical. “No. Unless Mr. Monroe has some questions for me.”

Wyatt shook his head. “I didn’t kill George.”

“Then there shouldn’t be any problems. I’ll let you both know—” he shifted his gaze to Jackie and then back to Wyatt “—if there are any developments.”

“Good deal,” Jackie said and headed for the door, aware of Wyatt’s scowl. “Come along, cowboy. I’m hungry, and Aunt Penny’s made meat loaf.”

* * *

Wyatt ground his back teeth as the new arrival in his already tangled life sashayed toward the jail door. Who did this lady think she was, anyway? It was one thing for her to go toe-to-toe with Landers—he rather liked that—but he wasn’t used to being ordered around. Especially by a diminutive spitfire with big blue eyes and a pert nose.

The Kirks’ niece. She’d never been out to the ranch before. Made sense if she lived in Boston. Boston! How had she arrived so quickly? He’d been taken into custody this morning. It would take at least eight hours to fly from Boston because there were no direct flights between the cities and another two hours of driving from Laramie, yet she looked as fresh as a daisy on a spring day.

Carl shouldn’t be sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.

After retrieving his personal belongings, Wyatt lengthened his stride to keep up with Jackie as she left the sheriff’s station and headed to the parking lot toward a big black SUV.

“Hold up,” he said, snagging her by the elbow. She tensed beneath his hand. “When did you get in?”

“We flew in around four. Rented this baby and drove over from Laramie.”

“Who’s we?”

“Spencer.” She tugged her elbow free and opened the driver’s side door. “Hey, boy. Miss me?”

Wyatt peered over her shoulder into the vehicle. A white-and-brown bulldog sat on the passenger seat, his tongue hanging out and his brown eyes staring at Jackie with devotion. He let out a single woof.

Wyatt blinked. “You brought your dog?”

She climbed in and started the engine. “I wouldn’t leave him.” She gave him a pointed look.

“I thought snub-nosed dogs weren’t allowed on commercial airlines,” he said.

“Some don’t. We flew over on the Trent plane.”

“Trent? What’s that?”

“Trent Associates. Private protection specialists.” She grinned. “At your service.”

No wonder she didn’t look travel weary and had arrived so quickly. A company plane. Impressive. He wondered what she did for Trent Associates. He tried to remember if Carl had ever said. Probably some sort of admin job, like his mother. Marsha Landers was the administrative assistant to the mayor.

“If you’re coming, you better get in.” With that, Jackie shut the door.

For a moment he stood there in stunned silence. He’d never met anyone like this woman. On the surface she looked sweet and almost fragile with her small stature and delicate features, but he’d glimpsed the hard steel beneath that soft exterior when she stood up to his stepfather, the sheriff.

That earned her points in his book. Just as long as she didn’t get too used to bossing him around.

He opened the passenger door and eyed the dog, who stared back impassively at him. “I’m not riding in back.”

The mutt looked friendly enough, but Wyatt wasn’t taking any chances. He kept his hands far away from the drooling canine’s mouth. That jaw looked pretty strong.

Jackie whistled softly and pointed her finger toward the floor. The dog hopped down between the captain’s seats. Wyatt settled into the passenger seat and barely had his seat belt buckled before she took off, her foot a heavy weight on the accelerator.

“Whoa, there is a speed limit,” he said.

She eased up on the gas. “Sorry. Force of habit. Driving aggressively is part of my job.”

Curious, Wyatt studied her profile. There was just the slightest hint of freckles across her cheeks. She had a nice jawline and a slender neck. Delicate, even. “And what job would that be?”

“I work for Trent Associates. We’re a protection specialist agency.”

“You said that. But what do you do?”

The droll glance she sent his way made him feel as if he’d just said the Grand Tetons were molehills. “Protection.”

He tucked in his chin. “Protection? As in bodyguard?”

“Yep.”

He couldn’t picture this itty-bitty woman protecting anyone. A smile tugged at his lips. “Let me get this straight—you’re a bodyguard?”

She sighed. “I know. Difficult to believe, right?”

“You could say that.”

“I get that a lot. At first.” She slid another speculative glance his way. “What were you thinking I did for a living?”

He eyed her authoritative grasp on the steering wheel and amended his earlier assumption. “I’d have guessed schoolteacher, or principal, even.”

She laughed. “No. But I do like kids.”

A leaden weight settled on Wyatt’s heart, and he turned to watch the Wyoming sky out the passenger window. Images of his daughter floated through his mind. The day she’d taken her first steps, the night she’d split her lip on the coffee table, her delight when she opened her Christmas presents. His heart ached that Gabby would grow up without a mother.

As they reached the outskirts of town, Jackie pointed to the computer display on the dashboard. “You can put your address in the GPS system.”

He shook his head. “That would take you the long way around. We’ll go a more direct route. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

“Suit yourself. So, tell me about George Herman.”

The image of George’s battered face came to mind with a fair dose of horror and regret. Had he said “good job” to George lately?

Wyatt ran a hand over his face. “Not much to tell. My dad hired him as a ranch hand about twenty years ago. He was a hard worker when he wanted to be. Had strong opinions about most things and a penchant for fighting.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Ever with you?”

“We’ve had our share of arguments over the years. He didn’t think I was running the ranch the way I ought to.”

“Any of these arguments turn physical?”

He slanted her a sharp glance. She sounded just like his stepfather in interrogation mode. “Why would you ask that?”

“Prior history always plays a part in a case like this. Establishes a pattern. Motive. You two could have been arguing and it turned physical. His death could have been an accident.” She looked at the road, then casually met his gaze. “Do you drink, Mr. Monroe?”

“No, I don’t drink. And I didn’t kill him.” Why did everyone want to believe he did?

“I didn’t say you did. Just pointing out one theory.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” He pointed to a dirt road up ahead on the left. “Just past the mailboxes, take a left.”

She took the turn. The vehicle’s headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the snow-covered dirt road. “Okay. Then who else wanted him dead? Did he have any enemies? Threats made to his life?”

“I don’t know.” He’d thought about that while he’d sat in the jail cell. George wasn’t the most congenial of souls, but Wyatt couldn’t think of anyone on the ranch or in town who’d want to hurt him. “He didn’t confide in me. I don’t know if he’d been threatened or felt that he was in danger. We weren’t close.”

She fell silent as she drove. Wyatt watched the world outside the vehicle pass by. He didn’t need daylight to know every inch of his family spread, to see the yawning expanse of flatland stretching off to the left of the road. To the right, the distant outline of the Snowy Range Mountains reaching toward the heavens was barely visible against the night sky.

“Does this road get much traffic?” she asked, her gaze straying to the rearview mirror.

He shook his head. “No. Only goes to the house. Why?”

“We’re being followed.”

He twisted around in the seat. Behind them lay only darkness. “I don’t see anything.”

“It’s there. I caught a glimpse of moonlight reflecting off chrome.”

If someone hadn’t just tried to frame him for murder, he’d think the woman driving the SUV was paranoid or crazy. Or both. But considering that this morning he’d found a dead body on his porch and had spent the past several hours in jail being grilled like rainbow trout on the barbecue, he wasn’t going to doubt her.

If she said something was behind them, he believed her. Still, he couldn’t see anything.

He powered down the window. Cold air swirled through the cab of the SUV. The sound of the rig’s tires crunching over the packed snow and dirt nearly masked an out-of-place noise. The rev of an engine. But not from a car or truck.

Sticking his head out the window, he strained to listen, to discern what it was he heard.

“A motorcycle,” he decided and rolled the window back up.

“Anyone at the ranch have a motorcycle?”

“No. Not that I know of.”

“Are you buckled in?” Jackie asked.

Reflexively, he touched the buckle to assure himself he was indeed strapped in securely. “Yes.”

“Hang on to Spencer.”

He reached down and grabbed the dog by the collar as she stomped on the brake and twisted the wheel, sending the big, lumbering SUV into a spin and coming to a halt facing the way they’d come. The SUV’s headlights swept over an oncoming motorcycle. The driver swerved at the last second and drove past them, barely avoiding becoming a hood ornament. The single rider wore all black. The machine he rode was also black, except for chrome exhaust pipes.

The motorcycle roared down the road toward the ranch and disappeared.

Jackie made a three-point turn then punched the gas, chasing after the motorcycle. But he was already too far ahead for the headlights to find him in the dark. The tracks glistened in the beam of light. So did the gently falling snow.

Anxiety tripped down Wyatt’s spine. What if the rider reached the house before they did? What would he do? Was the motorcyclist the one who’d killed George and framed Wyatt?

Jackie kept the gas floored, expertly controlling the speeding vehicle on the slick, snow-packed road. There was more than met the eye in this petite package. He added competent driver to his list of her attributes.

Two miles from the ranch, the cycle’s tracks went off-road and disappeared into the dark.

“What’s out there?” She slowed the vehicle to a stop.

“Cattle. That’s the heifer pasture. There’s a feed shed about two miles out. But there’s a fence about a half mile from this road. The gate’s on the other side of the pasture.”

“Have you checked that fence lately?”

Wyatt took in a sharp breath. “That was George’s job.”

She tapped a finger on the steering wheel. “Maybe it’s a squatter. Maybe George discovered him. Maybe that’s why he was killed.”

“That’s a lot of maybes,” Wyatt said, not liking the idea of someone trespassing on his land. “But if that theory were true, how’d the killer get my hunting knife, and why put George on my porch?”

“There’s the rub. Where do you keep the knife?”

“In the truck, beneath the seat.” Exactly where they’d found it. He didn’t miss the slight narrowing of her eyes.

“Lot of people know you keep it there?”

“It wasn’t a secret. And the truck’s always in plain view.”

Snow fell in earnest, a blanket of white that not even the headlights could cut through. That motorcycle rider wouldn’t be getting very far in this blizzard.

“You lock the truck up at night?” Jackie asked.

A sinking feeling hit the pit of his stomach. “No. I don’t.”

She started the vehicle moving again. The windshield wipers worked hard to push the snow from the glass. “So in the middle of the night, anyone could have sneaked onto the ranch and taken it.”

A sense of dread assailed him. “Just like they snuck onto the ranch and left George’s body on my porch.”

She slanted him a quick glance. “Exactly.”

Which meant he and Gabby weren’t safe.

THREE

“Once we get to the house and everyone is inside and buttoned down tight, I’ll come back and have a look-see,” Jackie stated.

“Not in this weather,” Wyatt countered. A greenhorn like her would get herself lost in a whiteout like this. He wouldn’t even chance it without careful preparation.

When they arrived at the house, the whole place was lit up. Carl, Penny and Gabby rushed outside onto the porch to greet them as they climbed out of the vehicle.

Relieved to know his family was okay, Wyatt let out the breath lodged beneath his ribs.

“Daddy!” his daughter squealed, barreling into his legs in a blur of fuzzy pink footsie jammies the second he stepped onto the porch.

“Hey, sweetie.” Swamped with love for his little girl, he lifted her up so she could wrap her little arms around his neck. He tugged the corners of his jacket around her tiny body. His daughter loved him unconditionally. It should be enough. But Dina’s words taunted him. Left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Carl and Penny hugged their niece.

Gabby pointed a finger at Jackie. “Who’s that?”

With her arm around Jackie’s waist, Penny said, “This is Jackie. Remember I told you we had a guest coming?”

Jackie smiled at Gabby. Wyatt liked the way Jackie’s eyes softened when she looked at his daughter.

“Hi, there,” Jackie said. Snowflakes balanced on her blond curls glistened in the glow of the porch light. “I love your freckles.”

“Hi.” Gabby returned the smile and ducked her head into Wyatt’s neck. Her cold little nose pressed against his skin.

“You want to see something neat?” Jackie asked.

Gabby lifted her head and nodded.

Jackie hurried back to the vehicle. Carl followed. While he went to the back of the SUV, Jackie opened the passenger door. She lifted Spencer off the floor and carried him to the house.

Gabby nearly jumped out of Wyatt’s arms. “Doggy.”

He let her down so she could pet the canine.

Jackie’s blue eyes twinkled as she squatted with the dog in her arms. “His name’s Spencer. He’s an English bulldog.”

Gabby squealed with delight.

Carl hefted a big black duffel bag out of the back of the SUV and carried it to the smaller house across the driveway.

“You’re both invited over for some meat loaf. It’s Jackie’s favorite,” Penny said.

“Come on, sweetie. Let’s go wash up.” Wyatt took Gabby by the hand and watched Penny lead her niece to the small house across the drive from the main house. Spencer trotted along behind them, leaving paw prints in the powdered snow.

As Wyatt led Gabby inside, she said, “I want a Spencer.”

He wasn’t surprised. He had a feeling there were many changes coming thanks to a certain blond guest.

And he wasn’t sure they were all going to be good.

He took one last glance out at the snowy night before closing the door and prayed that tomorrow would be a better day. With no dead bodies.

* * *

The next morning Jackie was up and out for a recon run by 6:00 am. The blizzard had calmed, and the morning sun gleamed on a fresh layer of snow. Thankfully, she’d heard enough about Wyoming winters from her aunt and uncle that she’d packed appropriate clothing for a winter run.

Unfamiliar with the terrain, she’d opted to stay on the dirt road she’d driven last night. Though a good two inches of new powder covered the road, she didn’t have any trouble discerning the path.

The magnificent landscape reminded her of a painting. The dark had hidden the blanket of white stretching out as far as the eye could see, broken only by the occasional copse of trees or outcropping of rocks. Off in the distance, majestic mountains rose like fingers pointing skyward, as if to remind her to look toward heaven.

Her breath puffed out in a small cloud in the frigid air. “Lord, thank You for the beauty all around me. Thank You for Your protection every day. Lord, I ask for Your guidance.”

Because she didn’t know what to make of Wyatt or the situation. Someone tried to frame him for murder, but they’d done a sloppy job, which led her to believe it wasn’t a very thought-out plan. Whoever was behind this wasn’t organized and didn’t really know what they were doing.

Was this some sort of personal vendetta against Wyatt? Or more of a spur-of-the-moment attempt by the killer to camouflage his identity? Was it someone on the ranch? Or could Wyatt have killed George and tried to make it look like a setup?

So many questions, but she had two weeks to figure it out. And she would. For her aunt and uncle. For that cute little freckled girl. And for the brooding, albeit handsome, rancher who seemed to carry the weight of the world on his wide shoulders.

When she’d left the house, she’d seen a couple of men already up and working in the barn and a few more in the big equipment shed. She’d taken a cursory look around. Asked a few questions of the hands. None had anything of use to tell her. None owned a motorcycle or knew of anyone who’d have been out the night before.

She’d asked Uncle Carl last night if he knew of anyone who owned a motorbike, but he didn’t. She hadn’t told them about the bike following them. She didn’t want them to worry any more than they already were. She doubted anyone had slept well. She hadn’t, which was another reason she’d needed the run. To clear the cobwebs from her brain.

At the four-mile mark on her pedometer, she turned around, heading back toward the ranch house. A shadow overhead grabbed her attention. She slowed her pace to watch a low-flying prop plane. She kept her eyes on the plane, noting that the aircraft flew in a grid pattern over the land. Back and forth, back and forth. She’d heard of cattle ranchers surveying their herds via the air. Maybe Wyatt had someone keeping watch over his cattle and horses from above.

She returned to the house to find Aunt Penny up and dressed. Spencer was waiting at the door. He sniffed her feet before losing interest and disappearing around the corner of the living room.

“You’re up early,” Penny said. “Would you like coffee?”

“Please.”

“Do you run every day?”

“Most days.” She sipped from the blue-and-white ceramic mug of steaming coffee Penny handed to her. “So what’s the story with Wyatt and the sheriff? Uncle Carl said there’s bad blood between them.”

Penny pressed her lips together to form a tight line. “Sheriff Landers is Wyatt’s stepfather.”

“Ah.” That explained why the sheriff had been both antagonistic yet reasonable. He could have easily pushed to keep Wyatt locked up until morning at least—or longer if he’d wanted to be a real pain. But he hadn’t. Because of their family connection, no doubt. Though she’d sensed tension between them.

“Where is Wyatt’s dad?”

“He passed on a decade ago.”

A knock sounded at the kitchen door. Penny set her coffee in the sink before moving to answer the knock. Gabby and Wyatt stood on the threshold, bundled up for the walk across the driveway.

Gabby entered with an abundance of exuberance to see Spencer. “Here, doggy, doggy. Spencer.” She disappeared into the living room with Penny hot on her heels.

Wyatt gave Jackie an apologetic smile. “Hope you don’t mind. She was dying to come see your dog.”

“Not at all. Spencer will love the attention.” She set her mug on the counter. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“No, I’ve already had two cups.” He eyed her running gear. “Exercising?”

“Running helps get me going in the morning.”

“You came prepared.”

“I did.” She remembered what she’d seen on her run. “Do you have a plane surveying your cattle and horses?”

A scowl darkened his gaze. “No. But I know the one you’re talking about. The white plane with the blue stripe. I’ve seen it occasionally. More so lately. Flies pretty low.”

“That’s it. If he’s not flying on your behalf, I wonder what he’s doing.”

“Beats me. I can’t control the airspace over the ranch.”

“Worth checking on. There’s gotta be some federal regulations about low-flying aircraft,” she commented.

He shrugged. “Could be. I’ll check into it. I’ve got work to do. Ranch won’t run itself.” With that, he tipped his hat and then headed toward the kitchen door.

“Wyatt.”

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Yes?”

“Be careful. Make sure you’re always with someone. Or two or three someones.”

One dark eyebrow rose. “I can take care of myself.”

Her mouth quirked. His ego was a bit touchy. She’d have to remember that. “I’m sure you can. But you don’t want to leave yourself open to another frame job. Or, worst-case scenario, leave Gabby on her own.”

Her meaning dawned in his dark eyes. “Right.” He tipped his hat and walked out.

Every instinct told her to get up and follow him. As a bodyguard, her first priority was always to keep the protectee within reach. But he wasn’t her protectee. He wasn’t her client.

She’d come here with the promise to her aunt and uncle that she’d keep an eye on the investigation into who killed George Herman. Though thinking about who they were and why they’d tried to frame Wyatt for the murder burned in her veins like molten lava.

Her dormant investigative skills clamored to be put to work. They were skills she hadn’t had to use often since leaving the Atkins County sheriff’s department and going to work for Trent Associates as a protection specialist. Guarding people rarely required investigating murder.

She made her way to the living room and stopped in the arched doorway. Gabby sat on the floor with Spencer’s head on her lap while Aunt Penny read her a story from a thick volume of children’s classics. Seeing the child and dog so cozy made Jackie’s heart twist in her chest. Her gaze moved to her aunt, to the contented expression on her lined face.

Jackie was glad God had brought this little girl into her aunt and uncle’s life. Yearning gnawed at her as strong as hunger. Maybe someday God would give Jackie a little girl, too.

But first she would need a husband.

After her debacle with Jarrod, she wasn’t sure she was up to the task of looking for one. Finding a husband meant putting her heart on the line again. It would take a special man to coax her to venture toward marriage. As of yet, God hadn’t brought such a man into her life. Maybe He never would.

Quietly she turned away from the touching sight and headed upstairs to shower and dress for the day.

An hour later, she headed outside dressed in thick wool cargo pants, a Dri-FIT T-shirt beneath a fleece pullover, a parka and insulated boots. She walked to the barn in search of Wyatt.

She came across her uncle in one of the stalls with a huge, beautiful black stallion. He pawed at the ground as Uncle Carl brushed his coat.

Leaning on the stall door, Jackie said, “He’s gorgeous. What’s his name?”

Carl smiled. “Alexander. He’s a studhorse. We’re getting him ready for a live cover in a few weeks.”

“Do I want to know what that is?” she asked.

He laughed. “Making baby horses.”

“Ah. Enough said.” She glanced around. “Have you seen Wyatt?”

“May not be back from feeding the cattle.”

The scuff of a boot on dirt alerted Jackie just as Wyatt said, “I’m right here.”

Jackie turned around to find herself nose to chest with Wyatt. The scent of him, spicy and masculine, sent a shiver sliding over her. She tilted her head back. “Careful, cowboy. Sneaking up on me could get you hurt.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said with a slight twitch to his lips.

She planted her hand on his chest and applied pressure. She was more annoyed by her reaction to him than his closeness. “A little space, buckaroo, if you don’t mind.”

He grinned outright but stepped back. “You were looking for me?”

Trying to ignore how his devastating grin played havoc with her pulse, she strived for an authoritative tone. “I want you to take me to see where George Herman lived.”

His grin evaporated. He gave her a curt nod. “What do you hope to find?”

“Something—anything—to indicate why he was killed.”

“I’m sure the police have gone over the place with a fine-tooth comb.”

“True, but they didn’t have you along.”

“I’ve already told you, we weren’t close.”

“No, but you knew the man for twenty years. Maybe you’ll see something that seems normal to anyone else, but you know it is out of place for him.”

His expression turned thoughtful. “Okay. Let’s go. While we’re out, we’ll also check the feed shed.”

Pleased by his proactiveness, she smiled. “Good idea.”

“But I’m driving.”

“Knock yourself out, cowboy.” She followed him out of the barn to a dark blue 4x4 truck on steroids. Huge treaded tires, like ones on a tractor, dwarfed the body of the vehicle.

“You drive a monster truck?”

“When I need to get out on the land.” He shrugged. “Besides, my regular rig is in police custody.”

Right. The truck they’d found the incriminating knife in.

He came around to the passenger side and opened the door. “Need a lift?”

In her younger days, a remark such as that would have earned him a right jab or a stomp to his insole. Maturity had cooled her temper and allowed her to see the offer for what it was—politeness. “I can manage, thank you.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender and took a half step back.

Thankfully, a bar jutted out of the side of the cab near the door. She reached up, barely managed to grab the bar, then swung one foot up to the running board, nearly doing the splits, and pulled herself up. Standing on the running board, she glanced back at Wyatt.

His lips twitched. “I’m duly impressed.”

“You should be,” she shot back and slid into the passenger seat. Good thing she stretched every day. That stunt could have seriously hurt.

He shut the door, came around to the driver’s side and hefted himself up into the seat. The truck’s engine rumbled like a pride of hungry lions.

“Do you enter this bad boy in monster-truck rallies or something?”

He scoffed. “No. Not my thing.”

Somehow she didn’t think so. Wyatt struck her as the homebody type. A man who liked his castle and didn’t need to show off his testosterone to feel like a man. Not that she thought he was a wimp. There was strength in his hands, his arms. After her shower this morning, from her bedroom window, she’d watched him hefting hay bales from the back of a truck. The man was strong. Probably knew how to throw a punch, too.

But was he good with knives?

She’d give him the benefit of the doubt because she trusted her aunt and uncle implicitly. However, she would still need evidence. Her training wouldn’t let her get away with less.

And so far that evidence pointed toward a setup.

But the question was, who was the mastermind? Someone out to get Wyatt? Or Wyatt trying to make it seem as if someone else was setting him up?

They drove to what looked like a small subdivision about ten minutes from the main house. “Are we still on your property?”

“Yes. These homes are leased to the ranch hands.”

“You provide your hands with their own homes on your land?”

“I do. Keeps them close, and they have a place to call their own for as long as they work on the Monroe ranch.”

“I’m impressed,” she admitted.

He slid her a glance. “Thanks.”

She popped open the door.

Putting a hand on her arm, he said, “Let me help you down, okay? Wouldn’t want you to twist an ankle or something.”

Heat from his touch penetrated the layers of clothes and seared her skin. “Uh, sure.”

He climbed out, leaving behind a cold spot where his hand had been. Disconcerted by her reaction, she undid her seat belt, slid out onto the running board and waited for him to join her. He placed his hand on her waist. She settled her hands on his shoulders. Awareness shimmered over her, and attraction arced like a neon streak. She was surprised they weren’t glowing.

He easily lifted her off the running board and slowly lowered her down to the ground. Her hands slid from his shoulders, down his arms, over the hard muscle of his biceps. When she had her balance, she nearly jumped away. Taking a steadying breath, she forced herself to tamp down the attraction.

The last thing she needed was to find herself with some sort of crush on this cowboy.

Better to concentrate on what they’d come to do so she could get back to her life without any damage to her heart or her pride.

At the front door, Wyatt removed a set of keys from his pocket and slid one into the lock. But the pressure of his hand pushed the unlatched door open.

Alarm bells went off in Jackie’s head. She reached for her SIG hidden beneath her coat.

“The sheriff’s people must not have closed the door all the way,” Wyatt commented with a scowl.

Just as he moved to cross the threshold, she yanked him back. “Wait.”

She inspected the door frame and the hinges.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

“Explosives.”

“Excuse me?”

“Welcome to my world.”

He eyed her warily. “Seriously?”

Satisfied there weren’t any trip wires, she said, “Never enter a questionable door without checking for a bomb. Too many targeted people have walked into a deadly blast.”

Wyatt blinked and stared, his gaze bouncing between her face and the gun in her hand. “You really do this stuff for a living?”

She grinned. “Yep.” She toed the door open and then entered, leading with her weapon.

“What in the world?” Wyatt said as he stepped in behind her.

The placed looked like a twister had recently touched down.

FOUR

Wyatt knew the mess he was seeing wasn’t normal for George. Despite their differences, Wyatt had been inside George’s house several times. The old man had been particular about having things orderly and neat. One of the many things George would get after Wyatt about. He didn’t feel the ranch was as organized or run as efficiently as it could be.

But he never had a solution, only complaints.

Everything has a proper order, George would say. If you don’t honor that, you end up with nothing but chaos.

Ironic that George’s life should end in chaos. His place trashed, his body broken and his death a mystery. Didn’t get much more chaotic than that. Regret slammed Wyatt again. George had been decent. But now it was too late to tell him that.

Jackie advanced, her weapon drawn. She opened a closet door, peered inside and then shut it. She moved down the hall and out of sight. A moment later she returned, her weapon out of sight. “No one here but us.”

“Did the sheriff’s people do this?” he asked, appalled at the idea that they’d destroy George’s house.

“No way.” Jackie set her hands on her hips. “This place has been ransacked. The sheriff’s department wouldn’t have done this. And if the sheriff had found the house like this, there’d be crime-scene tape up.” She shook her head. “This was done recently.”

Meeting her gaze, he asked, “Motorcycle guy?”

“Hard to say.”

He stared at the couch, its cushions ripped apart and the stuffing strewn all over. The coffee table had been dumped on its side. Books littered the floor in front of a bookcase that ran the length of the wall from carpet to ceiling. George had loved his books. The cover jacket of one caught his attention.

Stepping gingerly over a broken picture frame—an image of George with Wyatt’s father, Emerson—he bent to pick up the book.

“Freeze!”

Startled by Jackie’s barked command, he stilled, bent forward with his hand outstretched. His gaze shot to her. “What?”

She unzipped her parka to reveal a black waist pack. She unzipped the pack and withdrew two sets of disposable gloves, the kind you see in doctors’ offices. She handed a pair to him. “Only touch the edges of anything. We don’t want to leave any prints or smudge any viable ones.”

Disconcerted, he took the gloves. “We should call Landers.”

“We will, once we’ve had a chance to poke around.”

“If there was something here worth finding that would lead to George’s killer, don’t you think the law and whoever did this would have found it?”

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Shaking his head, he picked up the book, careful to touch only the edges of the faded gilt spine. The brushed-cloth cover was frayed at the edges, the pages inside yellowed. He opened the cover flap and read the inscription.

Emerson Stone Monroe, 1854

Wyatt’s great-grandfather and his father’s namesake.

This had been his father’s favorite treasure. The volume he held in his hand was a first edition, American printing, worth some money. Wyatt hadn’t seen the book since he was a kid. He’d wondered what happened to it. “Why did George have my father’s book?”

“What’s that?” Jackie asked. She’d moved to the desk in the corner and was methodically looking at every item on the surface and in the drawers.

“Moby-Dick. It was my father’s at one time. Not sure why George had it.”

“See, you found something odd that anyone else wouldn’t have known was out of place. Maybe your dad gave it to him as a gift.”

“Could be.”

“Check it. Maybe George hid something in it.”

Wyatt leafed through the pages and discovered an envelope addressed to George in Emerson Monroe’s rigid lettering. Wyatt’s heart squeezed tight. He knew what this was. Upon his father’s death, Wyatt, Wyatt’s mother, Carl and Penny Kirk, and George all received an envelope from Emerson. Wyatt’s letter was tucked away in his top dresser drawer. Sadness crept in as he recalled every word he’d memorized.

Dear Son,

If you’re reading this, then I have left this earth. I know I haven’t always been the best father or made the best decisions, but I want you to know that I love you. I am proud of you. Proud of the man you are becoming. A man so much better than me.

Emerson

With shaky hands, Wyatt slipped the single sheet of paper from the envelope and read the letter Emerson Monroe had written to his friend George.

George,

Watch over my son. See that he makes good decisions and exercises good judgment. Traits you have that I don’t. Thank you for being a good friend.

Emerson

Wyatt wasn’t sure how he felt about the note or the fact that his father had asked his friend to “watch over” him. Had George stayed on the ranch all these years out of duty to Wyatt’s father? He felt as if he’d taken a hoof in the gut. Memories of all the times Wyatt told George to worry about his own responsibilities while Wyatt took care of the day-to-day running of the ranch horrified him.

He opened the book to replace the letter and envelope. A small scrap of paper fell out. He picked it up and stared at the numbers written across the front.

41557922-104952393

He turned the scrap of paper over. Blank on the

other side.

“Do you know about this upcoming town-hall meeting?”

Jackie’s question drew his attention away from the strange numbers. “There’s one a month. Nothing special about them. Mostly a chance for folks to get together. Why?”

She held up a flyer just like the one he had at home. She flipped it over. “Look at this.”

In big, bold letters were the words KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT OR ELSE.

Tucking the piece of paper back into the book, he crossed to her side. “Sounds like a warning.”

“Yep. And whatever George knew got him killed.”

“Why didn’t Landers find it?”

“It was stuck to the back of a National Geographic magazine.” She pulled out her cell phone. “Time to call the sheriff.”

Twenty minutes later they greeted Landers in the driveway.

“What are you two doing out here?” Landers asked.

Wyatt’s defenses bristled at the accusing tone in his stepfather’s voice. “I own the house.”

Landers cut him a sharp glance. “I’m well aware of that. However, you shouldn’t be anywhere near the place, not while you’re still a person of interest in the investigation.” He pinned Jackie with a hard look. “You should know this.”

She shrugged, clearly unrepentant. “I’m a private citizen now. Came here with the property owner. No laws were broken.”

Jackie had said something before about having been in law enforcement. At the time he hadn’t thought too much about it, but now he was curious to know in what capacity she had served.

“It doesn’t look good,” Landers groused.

“Murder’s never pretty, boss,” Jackie shot back.

Wyatt fought the urge to laugh. He really liked her spunk.

“We did find something of interest, though,” she said.

Landers’s gray eyes widened. “You went inside and searched the house?”

“To make sure whoever trashed the place wasn’t still lurking about,” Jackie stated. She held up the flyer for the town meeting with her gloved hand. “I’d say George had an enemy. We just need to find out who.”

“Not we, Ms. Blain,” Landers said in an adamant tone. “You two stay away from my investigation.”

“Some would consider you investigating your stepson a conflict of interest,” Jackie said, her tone bland.

Landers narrowed his gaze. “I’ve already put in a call to the state police. They’ll be sending someone over to assist.”

Jackie’s mouth quirked. “Good to know.”

Landers reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and used it to take the flyer from Jackie’s hands. “Now, I suggest you two go back to the main house and stay there. Let me do my job.”

With a snap, Jackie yanked off the plastic gloves. “Have you found the primary crime scene yet?”

Exasperation crossed Landers’s face. “Stop fishing, Ms. Blain. You know I can’t divulge information on an ongoing investigation.”

Jackie’s lips twisted in a wry half smile. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“Why do you say that?” Wyatt asked, finding their banter entertaining and informative.

“Because if they had found the place where George had been murdered, then they would be asking you questions to see if they could place you at the scene. But because you’re still walking around a free man, I’m guessing they have yet to determine George’s whereabouts the night of his death.”

Landers looked at Wyatt, his gray eyes probing, almost pleading. “Wyatt, for your mother’s sake, please don’t do anything to throw any more suspicion on yourself. Stay close to home and out of my way.”

With that, Landers strode away, carrying the threatening note by the corner. Wyatt stared after him, pleased by Landers’s show of concern for his mother’s peace of mind.

“What’s up with you and your mom?” Jackie asked, peering at him intently.

“I haven’t talked to her.” The last thing he needed was to deal with his mother. Her calls had increased in the past twenty-four hours. She’d want to smother him with concern and demand an explanation. Just as she had the night Dina had died. But he wasn’t willing to tell anyone what happened that horrible night. No matter what.

Jackie tucked her arm around Wyatt’s and led him to his 4x4. “Come on, cowboy, we’ve another stop to make before we do as the sheriff asks.”

* * *

Half an hour later, they stood at the fence line on the southwest corner of the property. The fresh snow from last night’s storm had covered the tire tracks of the motorcycle. They drove along the fence for several yards but saw no signs of damage or tampering.

“Our mysterious cyclist most likely doubled back and left the property,” Jackie said. She had her hands jammed into the pockets of her parka. Wild blond curls stuck out from beneath the edges of her bright pink beanie. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes were bright in the winter sun.

Attraction flared and he tamped it down because the last thing he needed was to be distracted by her beauty.

“What form of law enforcement were you in?” he asked.

She met his gaze. “I was a deputy sheriff in Atkins, Iowa.”

That explained the driving. But then again, being from Boston also explained her driving. He shook his head. “You’re just full of surprises.”

Her grin knocked him back a step. Keeping himself immune to her charms was proving impossible.

“I like to keep things interesting.”

Though his mouth felt as if he had cotton balls stuffed into his cheeks, he asked, “What made you decide to go into law enforcement?”

With a shrug, she said, “I wanted excitement. I grew up watching reruns of Charlie’s Angels. The original series.” Her grin widened. “I wanted to carry a gun.”

Warning bells clanged in his head. This wasn’t a girl who wanted to shoot pop cans off fence posts with a pelt gun. She wanted to chase drug runners and wear spandex. What was spandex, anyhow? All he knew was that it melted next to Wyoming campfires. He adjusted his hat. “And which character did you want to be?”

He was sure she’d say Farah Fawcett’s. She was an icon even beyond the TV show.

“Sabrina.”

The tomboy. Okay, so much for thinking he could predict anything about Jackie Blain. “Why?”

“She was the smartest, the most savvy and the one who saved the day more than the others.”

He couldn’t say whether her assessment was true or not. He’d only seen the show a few times. And only to watch Farrah. “Why did you change professions?”

Her expression grew pensive. “Personal reasons.”

Concern hit him like a cold wind across the plain. “Were you injured?”

The thought of a bullet tearing through her perfect skin slammed through him, making his fist curl to keep himself from reaching out to her.

She let out a humorless laugh. “No. Nothing like that.”

Hardness settled in her blue eyes, making them shine like crystal. She looked away, and he glimpsed a shadow of hurt. Something bad had happened to her, something that still caused her pain. But apparently she had no intention of sharing her inner turmoil with him.

Which was fine with him. He had enough of his own secret torments. He didn’t want to take on anyone else’s.

Yet he couldn’t stop the welling compassion making him want to take her in his arms and soothe away whatever haunted her.

He jammed his hands into his pockets.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them.

“We should get back to the house for lunch,” he finally said when he couldn’t take the tension any longer. “Gabby’ll be wondering about us.”

“I’m sure she’s having fun with Spencer,” Jackie said, her expression clearing, her smile tender. “He’s getting spoiled with so much attention. I’m afraid when we go back home he’ll be one sad puppy.”

Wyatt had a feeling there would be several sad people, too.

* * *

When they arrived back at the ranch, Wyatt put the book he’d taken from George’s house on the bookshelf in the living room. He supposed he should have okayed it with the sheriff, but because the book belonged to the Monroe family, Wyatt didn’t see the need to ask permission. He’d apologize later if need be.

Gabby skidded to a stop in the doorway. “Daddy!” she squealed and ran toward him.

He scooped her up into his arms. White powder dusted her nose, and a smear of chocolate ran the length of her chin. “What have you been up to?”

“I made chocolate-chip cookies,” she said with pride.

He lifted his nose to smell the air. “Hmm. I can smell them baking. What a big girl you are to be making cookies.”

She grinned. “I am a big girl.”

There was a knock at the front door. Wyatt set Gabby down. “Go on back to the kitchen,” he directed her and headed toward the living room as Penny came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron.

“I’ll get it,” Wyatt said. He reached for the doorknob and opened the door.

The man standing on the porch wore a thick wool coat over a navy blue suit, white dress shirt, red power tie and black, shiny wing tips. His salted hair was barely visible beneath the wool watch cap pulled low over his ears.

“Good afternoon, Wyatt,” Richard Pendleton said.

Irritation sluiced through Wyatt’s blood. This was the fourth time in the past month the man had shown up uninvited on his porch.

The first time, Wyatt heard him out. The man represented a mining corporation. The Degas Group wanted to buy the mineral rights to his property and the transportation rights to use it during the mining of his neighbors’ land.

Wyatt had no intention of agreeing to either request. “What are you doing here? My answer has not changed.”

“May I come in?” he asked, undaunted. His expression was polite, his gaze friendly.

“I’d rather you didn’t. We have nothing to talk about.”

“You may want this to go away, but it’s not going to. Your neighbors won’t let it. We’ll double our offer,” he said.

They’d already offered him a half a million dollars. Now they wanted to give him a million? For rights that may or may not pan out.

Neither he nor his father before him had ever allowed any type of surveying on the Monroe ranch. Wyatt had too much respect for the land to even contemplate robbing the soil of the minerals God had enriched it with, whatever they may be. Nor was he going to allow outsiders to use the road his father had built and grant his neighbors access to it out of a sense of community.

“No.”

The congenial facade dropped. Pendleton narrowed his brown eyes. His voice dipped to a menacing growl. “You won’t be able to keep the land tied up forever, Mr. Monroe.”

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