The Lonesome Lawmen Trilogy

by Pauline Baird Jones

  She propped a shoulder against the metal wall, her arms crossed over her chest. She chose the defensive pose on purpose. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark, wool pants, his attitude that of the supplicant, which was a far cry from his usual take-charge approach. Which meant he was more than a little worried.

  “What’s up, Donovan?” The clock was ticking in her head, but curiosity drowned it out.

  He hesitated, as if not sure where to begin. “I could be crying wolf,” he admitted.

  She didn’t state the obvious, that he usually was the wolf. He shifted, as if he felt claustrophobic in the small box.

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning and move to the end?” She punctuated this with a pointed look at her watch. If he didn’t get to the point, she’d miss dessert. She hated missing dessert.

  He nodded. “I’m working for Merryweather Biotechnologies. The usual security consulting, only professional and personal this time. Their work is cutting edge, some of it top secret and under government contract. Earlier today, one of their top scientists, John Knight, collapsed and was rushed to the hospital. He died two hours ago.”

  The elevator doors slid open. Bryn stepped out into the lobby and stopped, facing Donovan.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But—”

  “It’s complicated.” He hesitated again, then said, “His daughter, Prudence, accompanied him to the hospital, but now she seems to be missing.”

  His tone had changed when he said her name, though she couldn’t isolate just how. Bryn felt her instincts ramp up as his gaze avoided hers.

  “According to the nursing staff, there was some kind of argument. She left looking—” he stopped.

  “Looking?”

  He hesitated. “Agitated. Real agitated.”

  “And the father? How did he look?”

  Donovan’s brows snapped together in a scowl. “Pleased. The nurse said he looked pleased.”

  “That’s hardly a federal offense,” Bryn said, though her tone was gentle.

  “I know.” He sighed, shaking his head. “And it’s a good reason to take a time out. But Pru—Miss Knight is more than his daughter. She’s his research assistant. And critical to his work. His highly classified, very valuable work. And she’s not the kind of person to ignore a page.”

  “And your gut is telling you that something’s wrong?” Bryn had learned to appreciate the value of the twitching male gut, though she liked hard facts the better.

  “Her car’s in the parking lot outside the hospital,” he said, his gaze avoiding hers.

  Bryn looked out the lobby’s glass doors at the blowing snow. “Has she ever gone AWOL?”

  His face told her that she’d hit on a question he didn’t want her to ask. He nodded again, this time reluctantly. “He keeps—kept her on a short leash when he was around, but he traveled a lot. Conferences and stuff. And she has some money of her own from her mother. When he’s gone, she takes off, too. Though not like this. She parks in a garage downtown and disappears in the mall, sometimes for several days.”

  How did he know? She held back the question, sensing he wouldn’t answer it anyway. It was clear that he had more than a professional interest in Miss Knight. When a woman was involved, he usually did. Maybe that was what was making him twitch.

  “I have some contacts in the DPD,” she said, thanks to Jake’s brother, Luke, who was a homicide detective. “I can ask a few questions. I might get some answers.”

  Or she might not. It was too soon to know much and the storm would complicate more than Donovan’s problems before it moved east.

  “Do you have a picture?”

  He pulled a manila envelope out of a pocket and handed it to her. “Here’s her vitals, car stats and a picture.” He waited until she took it. “Also my personal cell phone number. Call me if—”

  “Of course, but I can’t promise much, Donovan.”

  “I know.” He held her gaze for a long moment. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” She tapped the envelope. “I’ll be in touch.”

  She left him standing on the sidewalk, an improbably forlorn figure with the storm for his backdrop. In the garage, her SUV was cold and reluctant to start. As she waited for it to warm, she thought about her arrival in Denver with Jake just over a year ago. Her skirt—and her attitude—had been so tight, Jake had had to lift her into the cab of the truck he’d rented.

  Donovan was right. She had changed, though not so much she waited to open the envelope. She was curious to see the woman who’d made Donovan Kincaid worry. She pulled out the sheets and found the promised vitals on Prudence Knight, along with a picture that was even worse than the usual driver’s license mug shot. Probably her company ID. She had that “deer in the headlights” look. Her stats put her at five-eight, but the unkind camera shrunk her a bit. Her hair, blond, was pulled sternly back off her face, and she wore a pair of large, studious glasses perched on the end of her nose. According to her birth date, she was young enough to be Donovan’s daughter. Which had never stopped him in the past. Not his usual squeeze, though, unless she looked better in the flesh. From the picture, she could get no sense of who Prudence Knight was or how she felt about daddy’s short leash around her neck, but there must be something there. She’d not only managed to break free on occasion, she’d managed to lose Donovan, which Bryn knew from personal experience wasn’t easy.

  That brought her back to wondering why Donovan had been following Prudence Knight? If she were so critical to her father’s research, why would he risk pissing her off? Without answers, all she could do was speculate, which she could do just as well at her destination. She stowed the information and backed out of her spot, then turned truck and self in the direction of the restaurant. With a little luck, she might make it in time for dessert.

  * * * *

  Goldie, buried in a mound of quilts, had slipped into a light slumber. Earlier, she’d found one of Dani’s flannel nightgowns and a pair of Phoebe’s Snoopy slippers for her icy feet. Luke was uneasy with the question of a concussion still unresolved. The last time he checked, her pupils were normal and responsive to light, but she also had three nasty bumps on various sides of her noggin. He’d feel better when she could be checked into the hospital, but for now the storm had settled in over them like a broody hen.

  He should phone his mom or she’d pin his ears back for making her worry. He could feel it, even with miles and Mother Nature between them. He felt reluctant to call her or his brothers. He hadn’t planned this. So why didn’t he want to talk about it? He tried the words out in his head, but nothing sounded right. Just thinking about telling his mother made him feel exposed, uncomfortable. Because he was an adult, he pressed himself harder. What was he afraid she would pick up on?

  It wasn’t hard to figure out. Against his better instincts, he felt attracted to Goldie. He’d have to be made of rock not to feel his senses stirring under the circumstances. He was a man, alone in the wilds with a beautiful woman. Trouble was, he’d come here to find closure, not to rev his motor over someone who didn’t even know her name. Plus, he didn’t want to get teased about it. His brothers could squeeze more mileage out of random chance than anyone he knew. They’d sense his guilt and, like sharks who smell blood, they’d be after him with about as much mercy. He needed to know more about Goldie before he exposed them both to that. He didn’t like questions without answers.

  It was odd, her showing up here on the same day he happened to be coming. The only person who knew he was coming here was Dani. If there was a malignant purpose in Goldie’s presence, it wasn’t directed at him. Had she really lost her memory? When he looked into her eyes, he believed her. Now that her remarkable eyes were closed…he wasn’t so sure. It was time to start thinking like a cop. The only clues he had, except for the lady herself, were her clothes. Or what was left of them.

  He picked up her blue jeans. The fabric was soft, comfortable, and well worn. No laundry marks or tags. Nothing in the pockets b
ut some bits of lint. Not surprising, since most women carried a purse. She’d probably lost it when she fell. Her shredded cotton tee shirt was also soft from multiple washings and without pockets. An experienced hiker, she’d spent her money on her jacket and boots, which looked worn but cared for. The boots were scuffed from her tumble but had survived better than the jacket. In addition to the bullet hole in the sleeve, he found more rips than he could count. The pockets yielded a set of keys and an innocuous shopping list.

  He studied the handwriting. It was precise and graceful, very legible, and a bit old-fashioned. The list looked like what he’d buy for a high-energy hike. The keys were hanging from a Harry Potter key ring. There was also an anonymous security card key, but no identifying initials, either personal or professional. Two of the keys could have been house or apartment keys. A car key and a computer lock key. The rest were too anonymous to speculate about.

  He started to toss her jacket back onto the chair, but stopped when a hard object banged against his leg. He felt the body of the jacket and found it in the lining. An inside seam gave way when pressure was applied. Velcro closed the opening. He pulled it open and found a nifty looking personal digital assistant. It looked a bit like the PDA Dani had bought for Matt. Dani loved technology toys like Harry Potter loved Hogwarts. He flipped open the cover and found a power button. When the screen flickered to life, a password prompt appeared, denying him access to its contents. For the first time in a year, he wished he had Dewey Hyatt close to hand. If anyone could crack this puppy, it was Hyatt.

  Interesting that she’d stowed it inside her coat like that. Why hide it—unless she had something to hide? And if she was faking her memory loss, what did she gain?

  Time, which the storm gave her anyway, but she hadn’t known that when she woke up.

  Freedom from explanations? If she were involved in something illegal, finding herself alone with a cop would be a lot of motivation to play dumb. With those eyes and that face she could convince Clinton to be good. He may be too old for her, but he wasn’t immune. There was no way to think his way to a solution. He had no facts and precious few clues. Unless he quit thinking like a cop and turned into a psychic—which wasn’t likely to happen. All roads led back to Goldie. As if on cue, she whimpered in her sleep. Her head whipping in one direction, then the other. She moaned, her movements becoming more frantic in the short time it took him to reach her side.

  He hesitated, then touched her shoulder, afraid wake her too fast.

  “Goldie?”

  She gasped once more, then her eyes popped open. “No!”

  “You’re safe, Goldie,” he said. “It’s just a nightmare.”

  “Oh.” She blinked at him, for a moment not sure who he was or where she was. Luke. Cabin. Mountains. Colorado. Right. She rubbed her face as images from her dreams slipped around in her head, too fast for her to hold onto specifics, leaving behind the sense they’d been menacing. She inched her way upright, her muscles protesting. A faint, minatory voice from out of the mist ordered her to sit up straight with her knees together. She knew that voice, but before she could name it, it retreated back into the mist, satisfied she was behaving like a lady.

  “How’s the head?”

  “It’s fine, thank you.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you.” The feelings from the dream were fading, though she wasn’t eager to risk sleeping again. The firelight flickered, casting shadows on the walls and on Luke’s face. It was peaceful, comforting, and intimate. “Don’t let me keep you. It must be very late.”

  “After one and I can’t sleep either.” Luke settled in the chair closest to her. “Want to try your hand at Trivia? Might trigger a memory.”

  She nodded, despite a reluctance to trigger more memories. What are you afraid of, Goldie?

  She watched Luke unearth the game from a chest in one corner. He switched on the light, sending many of the shadows scampering into the far corners. She didn’t mind. She could see him better. She enjoyed the way he moved and the confident sway of his shoulders. That voice from the mist tried to censure her, but it was faint and easy to ignore. He turned, almost catching her staring. She hurried into distracting speech, “You said something about brothers earlier, didn’t you?”

  Luke pulled the coffee table between them and opened the box. “Two. Both younger than me.”

  What if she had brothers or sisters? Or parents still living? Would they be looking for her? Worried about her? She felt alone, but that didn’t mean that she was. That there weren’t people who needed her, loved her. What if it was family that was the burden she was escaping from? Goldie chose her piece. It felt odd and unfamiliar in her hand. Did that mean she’d never played the game before? “Tell me about them.”

  Tell me about you, was what she wanted to say. She didn’t know this man. He could be the reason she was here. Part of some elaborate plan. Of course, that assumed she was important enough for a plan, elaborate or not. She didn’t feel important. Or dangerous enough to shoot at.

  All she had was her instincts, and she didn’t know if she could trust them. Had they let her down in the past? Or steered her right? Did she have common sense? Or was she an airhead who was lucky to get from point A to point B? There was no way to know. She could resist the attraction that pulled her toward Luke. She could, but she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to feel responsible; she wanted to be free.

  Free of what? Or was it who?

  Was she married? Her mind rejected that vehemently. A glance at her hand reassured her. No ring and no sign there’d ever been a ring, though some people didn’t wear rings. She didn’t feel married. She felt…new. It felt lovely to be here, to smile at Luke while he talked and rolled the dice. She liked his laugh. It was deep and infectious. She laughed with him. It hurt, but felt good, too. She needed the endorphins.

  Endorphins? Maybe she was a doctor.

  THREE

  Bryn paused in the doorway to shake the snow off her coat before handing it to the coatroom clerk. She was glad she’d traded in her lethal high heels early in her adventures in the Mile-High City. In honor of the storm, she’d also traded in her cowboy boots for snow boots with deep treads because she didn’t intend to break her neck, or any other bone, crossing an icy parking lot.

  Her coat dealt with, her gaze swept the restaurant, looking for the Kirby table. Her nose inhaled the yummy food smells filling the warm air. It was easy to spot her group. It was the largest in the room, dominating a large portion of a corner that had probably been quiet before it was invaded. The table had a finished-eating look that didn’t bode well for her empty tummy—which promptly grumbled.

  Two empty chairs drew her attention. One, she knew, was hers. A frown started between her brows until she spotted Dewey Hyatt. Part of her expected the other empty chair to be his. Though he wore an official bracelet on his ankle, it would be easy beans for him to shed it. For the first few months of his electronic probation, tension had coiled her insides like a malignant snake as she waited for him to vanish. Disappearing was his specialty. It was hard to believe he could give up a habit so deeply ingrained into his psyche.

  Against the odds, there he sat, a high-tech thief at a table full of lawmen. Lanky and rather nondescript, he managed to look appealing next to the highly “descript” Kirbys. The charm helped, of course. He was loaded with it. It brightened his brown eyes and disguised a face so ordinary it verged on homely. His mouth was mobile and nicely shaped, with an infectious grin and a dimple that sometimes popped out on his left cheek. In a perfect world, the fluidity of his face and body could have put him in serious contention with comic Jim Carrey. Dewey had an instinct for comedy and for mining her sense of humor. She’d grown accustomed to him and even let herself enjoy it, despite her best efforts not to.

  She told herself she had him working with her to try and trick him into exposing Phagan, but Bryn couldn’t lie to herself forever. In a yearlong campaign, Dewey’d managed to m
ove her past mere liking and into the dangerous territory of warm regard. She’d even pondered various possible, and even some impossible, happy endings.

  Jake’s career had survived his marriage to the paroled Phoebe, but he was a man. Men could do some things that a woman in law enforcement couldn’t. It wasn’t fair, but it never had been. She knew that going in and had figured it was worth it. Now, though, when she looked on the happiness of Jake and his brother, Matt, she wondered if a girl could sacrifice too much for a career.

  With Dewey present and briefly mooned over, she turned her attention to who wasn’t there. She could see Matt with his Dani, their son on his lap instead of in the high chair the restaurant provided. Dani was still packing a few of her pregnancy pounds, but the extra weight suited her. She’d had a few pounds too many shaved off her during her ordeal as a government witness. Mark looked like he was going to be a chip off his dad’s block, but Dani didn’t look like she minded. Happiness suited her.

  Phoebe still glowed, too. Bryn remembered the first time she’d seen her, just over a year ago. She’d been singing in a band in a bar in Estes Park. Her eyes had a “no trespassing” sign posted in them and so much sad, it was painful to look at her. Jake had torn that sign down. Jake was always cheerful, but now it was biggie-sized, with a huge dollop of contentment. If she felt inclined to jealousy, she had only to remind herself of what both couples had suffered to be sitting there together.

  Debra Kirby sat at the head table, her eyes worried as they studied the empty chair. It still startled Bryn how much Jake and his mom looked alike. Both were light, compared to the dark-visaged Matt and Luke, who everyone said took after their dad.