The Lonesome Lawmen Trilogy

by Pauline Baird Jones

Her forefinger made a path down his ring finger, her face taking on a sultry look that was easy to assume with her insides doing a slow lava boil. “All sorts of things.”

  He cleared his throat. “Good thing I have nothing to hide.”

  Maybe he didn’t. She explored the place on his finger where a wedding ring should be, her gaze never leaving his face. “No ring. No wife?”

  What would he do with that question?

  Jake swallowed, wishing he’d gotten a drink with ice. “No.”

  For someone who was supposed to be reading his hand, she was spending a lot of time looking at his face. “Past or present.”

  Her low murmur could have meant anything. Each finger was touched, and turned, all surfaces tantalizingly explored. Her smoky gaze pinned him in place and stirred heat in his gut.

  “This is interesting.” She waited several seconds, a hundred heartbeats. “You’re a hunter.”

  She wouldn’t have felt the flinch if she hadn’t been holding his hand. His brows drew together in a quick frown.

  “Hunter?”

  She gave him a smile edged with triumph. She’d got him off guard. Good. “Hands can’t hide what you’ve done to them.”

  Jake’s stomach felt as if he’d taken a big drop on a roller coaster. He got a grip and asked lightly, “What—do I hunt?”

  She shrugged. “Just know it’s personal. And you’re more driven than most.”

  His stomach did another drop, until he saw a swiftly veiled gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. Not magic. Just an old fashioned lie-detector test, watching his eyes with her finger on his pulse. Damn, she was good. “Driven by what?”

  Her lashes lifted, her eyes meeting his. “Justice.” Her fingers stroked his palm, stealing his breath. “But—”

  Jake lifted a brow in a question his tight throat couldn’t voice.

  “There’s mercy there, too. Like the horns of a dilemma.”

  Her gaze locked with his for a long, hot moment while Jake struggled to clear his head. With an effort, he leaned into her space, determined to turn the tables on her. “Aren’t you going to tell me who I’ll marry, how many children I’ll have? My mom would like to know.”

  Her lashes hid her eyes. “Let’s see.”

  She turned his palm up, tracing the lines inside, a sultry abrasion from a finger pad roughened by contact with guitar strings. “This is your life line. It’s very long but bumpy. You take a lot of risks.”

  “Is that the tactful way of telling me no woman would have me?”

  “That—and this.” The nail of her forefinger, just long enough to be squared and serviceable, marked the place where another crossed his lifeline. “Your commitment line.”

  “Commitment line? I’ve never heard of that one.”

  “Really? Yours is very short.”

  He studied the line she indicated. It was very short. He looked up, his face just inches from hers, and chuckled. The sound emerged huskier than he liked. So far this game was a draw. “Is the divorced pot calling the unmarried kettle black?”

  She leaned back with a sultry laugh. “I was sixteen.”

  That got his attention. “Sixteen?” He shook his head. “Was it legal?”

  “Don’t know. Made sure the divorce was.”

  “How long before the waitress?” He was convinced that story was true.

  “Six months, more or less. Our Jesse isn’t naturally inclined toward monogamy.”

  “Why did you marry him?” Jake hadn’t meant to ask, but their game had turned unexpectedly serious. Her eyes didn’t change, her body didn’t tense at the question. So why did it feel as if she’d moved away from him?

  “Seemed like the thing to do at the time.” At the time. For a moment that time weighed in against her. The girl she’d been pushed at the barrier holding her in. Jake was dangerously easy to tell things to, she’d felt it when they touched. Everything about him invited confidence, promised security, but there was no security for her. She broke contact, sitting back as far as the plastic seat would allow. “And Jesse, well, I think he confused himself with Sir Galahad, what with me being a kid and on my own and all.”

  For an instant he caught a glimpse of that kid in her eyes before the protective veil of her lashes dropped. He felt an unexpected distaste for his duplicity. I’m the good guy, he reminded himself. “I can understand the compulsion to play white knight.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve learned to look out for myself.” Her mouth thinned and firmed, clearly setting out a No Trespassing sign. Her eyes warned him to heed it.

  He’d never been known to read posted warnings.

  “Phoebe—”

  “Time to head for the barn. It’s past late, and I was up real early.”

  Her withdrawal turned into a pain deep in his gut, but he just nodded. “Sure.”

  He slid out and helped her up. He shouldn’t have, but he kept her hand for the walk to his truck. She didn’t pull her hand away, but she didn’t hang on either. Just accepted it. How did he know she’d had to accept a lot of things in her relatively short life?

  Inside the truck, she leaned forward, her hand on the radio dial. “Do you mind?”

  Jake wasn’t eager for silence either and nodded.

  She played with the dial and soon music flowed out of the speakers, filling the silence with a country love song. She relaxed, her fingers absently picking out the chords of the song on an invisible guitar, her musky scent drifting on the cool air coming in the window.

  At a light, the sound of her soft vocal added to the mix invited him to look at her. He found her face unevenly illuminated by a nearby streetlamp, her lips in the right shape for her song about shutting up and kissing.

  Phoebe felt him watching and looked. The heat in his eyes stopped her in mid-hum, her lips still pursed around the words. She gave a nervous laugh and switched off the radio.

  “Good song,” Jake said.

  “Yeah, we get a lot of requests for it.” She brushed her hair back. “Light’s green.”

  “Is it?” He let up on the brake. “I thought it was yellow.”

  She gave a tiny cough that might have been a laugh and said, “Turn right at the next street. It’s up that rise on the right.”

  A single lamp glowed behind the curtained window of a small cabin of a house. The light from a streetlight hinted at a well-kept yard, and the porch light showed the way down a straight, neat sidewalk through trimmed grass to a blue door.

  He got out and started around the truck. She didn’t wait for him. He wanted to take her hand again, but it was a line he shouldn’t have crossed the first time.

  He walked beside to her up to the blue door, watched her dig a key out of her pocket, insert it in the lock and push open the door. When she turned to face him, an undercurrent of desire made a circuit between them.

  Shut up and kiss me. He could hear the words in his head, waited to see if they’d be in her eyes when she faced him.

  Phoebe wanted to kiss him so bad, her lips hurt. It made her nervous as a teenager on her first date as she stepped across the threshold and turned. In the dim glow of the porch light he looked as calm and steady as a rock.

  “Thanks—for the food and the ride.”

  “Next time I’ll do better.”

  Next time. She shouldn’t feel a surge of pleasure. How much time could she spend getting probed by those eyes without spilling her secrets? Her brain sent down excuses, but her mouth said, “Sounds good.”

  “Good night, Phoebe.”

  “Night, Jake.”

  While he waited, just out of reach, she backed up until she could shut him from her view. It seemed a long time before she heard the slam of the truck door, the fire of his engine, the slow fade as he drove away.

  She’d taken her share of missteps rock climbing, felt herself tumble through space, waiting for the sharp tug of the belay to stop the imperative summons of gravity. Felt the jarring collision of flesh to rock. But this—this was falling without a belay—r />
  Course, the up side was, it wouldn’t be flesh smashing into rock—

  She shook her head and tossed her purse onto a table. Only took a moment to shrug off her jacket. She fought with her boots in little hopping steps that took her down the short hall into the living room. The boots got kicked into a corner.

  She started working at the stubborn zip of her jeans, determined to be undressed by the time she hit the bed. She needed to get unconscious, the faster the better. There was no tingling, no sense of premonition. Just a sudden awareness of movement behind her.

  She felt a hand touch her shoulder.

  “Took you long enough to get home, Phoebe,” Earl said.

  * * * *

  Jake had followed his instincts into a lot of places, some dangerous, some boring, some that led nowhere, though most of the time they led him right where he needed to go. He had good instincts, accepted them as a gift from God, the same way he did the desire for hunting that Phoebe had so neatly nailed.

  What kept him sniffing until he was certain there was nothing left to smell—well, that was sometimes gift, sometimes curse, depending on the situation. The fact was he couldn’t stop going forward until he got what he was after. It was the way he was. He’d put his life on the line, come close to losing it more times than he admitted to his mom, but this—Phoebe—was uncharted territory for him.

  Not the desire, he knew about desire, knew how to channel it into less dangerous byways before it got out of hand. Now his instincts were broadcasting a warning he didn’t want to hear.

  He wanted her, not the fugitive she might lead him to. Alone in the truck, he could admit it, could admit that something about her made him want to try a different kind of hunting—the kind a man did when he met the one woman exactly right for him.

  He could feel lust drawing him off the scent, beckoning him to try this new direction, despite the question marks hovering over her. Some blanks he could fill in. Her mother was a drunk who’d probably been knocked around by her dad. She sang and played guitar in a honky-tonk band, talked tough while retaining the air of a lady. Had a good brain, great verbal skills, despite the fact she’d apparently run away from home before graduating. Married too young, divorced too young, but still on good terms with her ex.

  And she managed the highly suspect JR’s.

  None of it added up. Yet.

  Phoebe didn’t lend herself to a straightforward equation, like two plus two equals four. No, she was an algorithm of unknowns, where y was a lot of questions and x stood for something he shouldn’t be feeling. He was afraid the final equation could be…explosive.

  He picked up his cell phone and punched in Matt’s office number. His brother was assigned to the Denver office of the US Marshals Service and could give him access to the kind of information he needed to clear the lust out of his head.

  Their different investigative styles sometimes caused friction, but that didn’t stop Jake from calling when he needed help. When his brother answered, Jake asked, “Don’t you ever go home to your wife?”

  “She’s gone until tomorrow.” Matt’s voice had an undertone of contentment that Jake still wasn’t used to hearing coming from his tough big, brother. His marriage to the romance writer he’d been assigned to guard last year had changed Matt, Jake decided. Happiness had actually sharpened his instincts. After all, he had Dani waiting at home.

  “Tomorrow is today,” Jake said after glancing at the clock on the dash.

  “Cut the crap, Jake. You find anything?”

  Matt had been derisive about Jake’s lead. Figured it for a cold, dead end. He still wasn’t sure what it was, but cold and dead it was not, he thought, thinking about Phoebe. “Maybe. You find anything when you ran JR’s under the big microscope?”

  Matt was quiet a moment. “Maybe.”

  Jake sighed. Matt hated being wrong. Too bad Jake had wanted him to be right this time. Because if JR’s was dirty, then so was Phoebe.

  “Give me what you got.”

  “I got nothing but suspicious indicators right now. Got my best guy hound-dogging it for you.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “No problem. You coming in to my office tomorrow?”

  “Not until the afternoon.”

  “What are you doing in the morning?”

  “Applying for a job.” Jake grinned and broke the connection.

  * * * *

  Bryn pushed the door of her motel room closed and leaned against it with a sigh of relief. It would take a long, hot shower to get rid of the palm prints on various parts of her anatomy. Fortunately Jesse Mentel had been overcome by alcohol before she had to cuff him. Good thing, too. She had a feeling he’d have enjoyed it.

  She flicked on the light, shuddered at the sight of the ugly little room’s aging cowboy décor and headed for the bathroom. She was almost past the bed before her brain registered what her eyes had seen. The single red rose and square white envelope on her pillow.

  In the space of one breath, she pulled her piece and did a fast but thorough check of the room. She wasn’t surprised when she found nothing. Phagan’s style was definitely hit-and-run. She sank onto the bed and eyed the envelope with equal parts ire and resignation. Phagan was getting bolder and way too romantic.

  “I’m too tired for this.” Instead of sympathy, the A/C kicked on, indifferent that the temperature outside had dropped too many degrees for the modified bimbo Jake had insisted she wear. She wanted to ignore the note and step under the hottest shower this dive could summon up. She wanted to tumble into bed and dream of lying on a recliner with a box of Godiva chocolates on the table and a romance novel in hand.

  She picked up the envelope, opened it and two gift certificates fell out. One was for Godiva chocolates. The other for a bookstore. There was also a flyer advertising the latest Dani Gwynne romance novel. Across the bottom, Phagan had written TelTech, Inc. Beneath it was a heart with an arrow through it.

  With a moan, she fell back on the horseshoe-patterned bedspread and stared at the ceiling. It didn’t help, so she rolled to her side and pulled the rose within reach of her nose. The rich, sweet scent drove out the stale room smell. The soft petals brushed her nose like a lover’s caress and—

  A sudden knock at the door sent her heart skittering into pound mode.

  “Bryn?” Jake’s voice was muffled but easily identified.

  Bryn hastily tossed the rose and scrambled to open the door.

  Jake held up a white sack.

  “Followed my nose to an all-night bakery.” He put her aside and strode into the room, stopping when he saw the rose.

  “I didn’t get one of those on my pillow.”

  “Someone has a sense of humor.”

  “Uh-huh.” Jake took the lone chair and opened the bag. “Bagels and cream cheese. No coffee. Don’t want to mess with your beauty sleep.”

  She sat down on the end of the bed, taking the sliced, cream cheese smeared bagel he held out to her.

  “How did it go with Jesse?” Jake took a hearty bite out of his bagel.

  “He was probably an octopus in another life. Has the same size brain,” she said. “If he’s a master thief, there’s something not right in the universe. What about you?”

  On the other end, Jake paused, reluctant to throw Phoebe to Bryn. Mercy wasn’t exactly Bryn’s strong point. On the other hand, Phoebe’d be fine if she was clean. A big, unlikely if.

  “The lady has secrets,” he said, and added to himself, lots of them. “Think you can work on your own tomorrow?” He stood up, reaching the door in two strides.

  Bryn looked at the note sitting on her nightstand. “I think I can manage something. What’ll you be doing?”

  He opened the door, then turned to face her. “Gonna apply for a job.”

  He was out of the room, the door closed behind him, before Bryn could get out, “Why—”

  “Men.” She looked at the rose, then at the bagel. At least they weren’t totally useless.

 
FOUR

  Phoebe reacted instinctively to Earl’s hand on her shoulder.

  She grabbed it and in one smooth movement twisted around to face him. This turned his hand under and forced him away from her. His muffled exclamation turned to a yelp when she pushed his hand up between his shoulder blades and shoved him into the wall, using her knee to hold him there.

  “You got two seconds to explain what you’re doing in my house,” she growled into his ear.

  He cussed, the words muffled by his proximity to the wall.

  “That’s not an explanation.”

  This violation of her space had adrenaline singing through her bloodstream in an out-of-control flood. She twisted her fingers in his hair and shoved his face into the wallboard, then went to jerk his head back for round two. Instead of his head jerking back, the hair came off in her hand.

  “What the—”

  “It’s me! Dewey!”

  “Dewey?” Her heart was pumping fight-or-flight so loud, she almost couldn’t hear him. She stared at the wispy wig in her hand, then the tufted, full head of hair on the back of his head. “Dewey Damn Hyatt?”

  She threw down the wig and stepped back, her body shuddering with a reaction that now had nowhere to go.

  “In the slightly bruised flesh.” He eased his arm down, flexing the fingers once before turning around. Using the wall for support, he dabbed at the red trickling out the corner of his mouth, then rubbed it between his fingers. “I guess I shouldn’t have sneaked up on you.”

  “You forget I don’t do victim anymore?” She pushed her hair off her face with hands that shook from the surge of violence she hadn’t known was in her. She didn’t waste time asking how he got in. Hadn’t made a lock that Dewey couldn’t pop. “Let’s get some ice on that.”

  His face and body might be Earl, but his grin was vintage Dewey, though crooked now as one side of his mouth began to puff out.

  Her kitchen was a pleasantly impersonal room with carabiner wind chimes hanging above the tidy sink. Even at night, the white walls and yellow countertops appeared sunny and cheerful. Phoebe rummaged through a first-aid kit until she found a disposable ice pack and twisted it to break the seal between its chemicals.