Pursuit of the Truth

by K. D. Richards

  Parsmons’s words hit Nadia with a force similar to a knock to the head. “What! Why?”

  Parsmons rocked back on his heels, happy to be the center of attention. “Mr. Dexter lawyered up, but his arsonist kept detailed notes and recordings for just such an occasion. It was all part of Mr. Dexter’s campaign to get you to sell Shelton Hotels.”

  Even with all that she’d just been through, it was hard to believe Mike would go so far in his quest to get Shelton. And she planned to do everything she could to make sure he didn’t weasel out of the consequences.

  Parsmons and Agent Johnson said their goodbyes and headed for the exit. Nadia watched as the federal agent left the hospital through the ER entrance and strolled toward the black SUV Gideon leaned against. Gideon opened the passenger door for the agent. She paused at the open door, saying something that made Gideon throw back his head in laughter before getting in.

  Nadia glanced at Ryan, whose mouth hung open like the clown at a carnival ball-toss game, just waiting for someone to toss a ball in.

  It was a nice, if short, break from wondering whether Nate was okay.

  She’d insisted Ryan drive her straight to the ER, but the doctors hadn’t allowed her to see Nate. Ryan assured her Nate would be okay, that the bulletproof vest had caught the worst of it, but she wouldn’t stop worrying until she saw for herself that Nate was fine.

  As worried as she was about Nate, she couldn’t help replaying in her mind something Ryan had said.

  Love comes at you when you least expect it.

  Love. Did he mean that he loved her? Because she knew without a doubt that she loved him. Had loved him since the day, over a year ago, when he’d first walked into her office. Whether it was propriety, professionalism or just simple fear that had been keeping her from admitting it, it wouldn’t stop her from going after what she wanted now. And what she wanted was Ryan West in her life. Forever.

  She glanced at him, and he squeezed her hand. “Nate’s tough. He’ll be okay.”

  The doors marked Authorized Personnel slid open, and a doctor strolled into the waiting room. “Miss Shelton?”

  “That’s me.” She hurried toward the doctor, Ryan on her heels.

  “Your brother will be fine. He’s bruised, but none of the bullets penetrated his skin. We’re going to keep him here for observation overnight, just as a precaution. He inhaled quite a bit of smoke, and we want to make sure there’s no damage to his lungs.”

  She exhaled heavily. “Thank goodness.”

  “The police said it would be okay for you to go in and see him, if you’d like,” the doctor said.

  Her relief flagged at the reminder that even when Nate left the hospital, it might not be for home. Nadia and Ryan passed through the doors the doctor had come through, still holding hands. It wasn’t difficult to discern which cubicle Nate was in. A uniformed NYPD officer stood at attention in front of only one of the curtained areas that lined either side of the ER.

  The officer nodded at them, obviously having been told that they were okay to enter.

  Ryan stopped outside the curtain. “I’ll wait for you here.”

  She bussed a kiss on his cheek. She was ready to share her life with Ryan, but her relationship with Nate was in a precarious place. She preferred that these opening salvos into whatever relationship they might have going forward be made in private.

  Nate’s eyes were closed when Nadia pushed through the curtain.

  His face was gray, and the strain of the last year showed in the lines that marred his face.

  “Nate.”

  His eyes opened, and his lips turned up into a trembling smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me ever again.”

  Nadia reached for her brother’s hand, surprised to feel hot tears on her cheeks. “I just spent eleven months thinking you were dead. Of course I want to see you.”

  “I’m so sorry, Nadia.” Nate’s voice broke. “I just didn’t know what else to do.”

  “We’ve got a lot to talk about. But you, me and Uncle Erik, we’re all the family each other has, and we’ll work through it.”

  She stayed with Nate a few more minutes before promising to be in touch the next day.

  Ryan waited on the other side of the curtain. “You ready?”

  She nodded, falling in step next to him.

  They were silent on the walk from the hospital to the car.

  Ryan held the passenger door to his SUV open for her just as Gideon had for Agent Johnson, and just like the agent, Nadia paused before getting in the car.

  “You can drop me off at my apartment.”

  Ryan’s mouth turned down in a frown. “Is that what you want?”

  Her gaze swept the ground. “I can’t keep imposing on you. Smith isn’t a threat anymore.”

  “No, he isn’t. And he’s not why I want you to stay with me tonight either.”

  Nadia looked into Ryan’s eyes. “You want me to stay.”

  “I do. I know I said I wanted to keep things professional between us, but I lied. It’s never just been a working relationship with us, least of all these last few days.”

  Nadia felt heat rise on the back of her neck at the thought of just how unprofessional they’d acted several times over the last few days. Still, she wouldn’t have changed a thing.

  She smiled. “No, it hasn’t been. I want to see where this goes. I haven’t exactly had great luck in the relationship department, but I think you just might be the man to change that, Ryan West.”

  She moved around the open door and slid her arms around his waist.

  His arms came around her, drawing her close. “You know, I have been told I am the best at what I do.”

  His mouth met hers, proving that he was, in fact, the best at one thing.

  * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Hideout at Whiskey Gulch by Elle James.

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  Hideout at Whiskey Gulch

  by Elle James

  Chapter One

  “Here’s the last of what we had on your mother’s case.” Sheriff Richards slapped a box marked Evidence on the desk and straightened. “Now, if you don’t need anything else from me, I’m late for dinner with my daughter. His brow dipped and he planted his hands on his hips. “Since she learned how to tell time, she doesn’t let me off without a firm reprimand.”

  Matthew Hennessey’s lips twisted in a wry grin. “Like father, like daughter?”

  The sheriff nodded. “She may look like her mother, God bless her—” he jabbed a thumb toward his chest “—but she’s every bit as stubborn as her dad.”

  “Go,” Matt said. “And thanks for digging into this case.”

  “It’s the least we could do. I was on the initial investigation back when your mother was found. There just wasn’t a lot to go on. There didn’t seem to be a motive. So many people in town loved her. She was always helping others. All we could think of was that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Matt nodded his head. “But out in the middle of a rancher’s field?”

  “Not far from where she lived. We didn’t find any tracks indicating she’d been taken there by a vehicle. Nor did we find any drag marks in the dirt as if she’d been killed at or near her home and then dragged out into the field. It was if she’d gone there on her own and someone shot her there.”

  Matt frowned at the thought of his mother out at night, alone in a rancher’s field. “The ballistics report on the bullet they pulled out showed that she was hit by a bullet from a .45 caliber weapon.”

  The sheriff nodd
ed. “We checked the registered weapons in the county. Everyone we know who owns a .45 had an alibi.”

  “The owners might have bad friends who ‘borrowed’ their guns, though. And I’m sure, the registered guns aren’t really the ones you had to worry about,” Matt said.

  “Right. It was the ones that weren’t registered we couldn’t account for.” The sheriff sighed. “I wish we had more for you.”

  “Me too,” Matt said. “I want to know what happened.”

  “I understand. If you need anything else, or find something we missed, don’t hesitate to contact me. If I’m not available, contact Deputy Jones. I let her know you were looking into your mother’s case.”

  “Thanks.” Matt ran a hand through his hair and stretched the kinks out of his back. “Do you mind if I stay awhile?”

  “Not at all. No one uses this office, unless they have a long report to write. Things are pretty quiet now, so I don’t anticipate anyone needing the space anytime soon.” The sheriff gave him a two-fingered salute. “Gotta go.”

  “That’s right. Your daughter is waiting.” Matt gave the man a chin lift and focused on the documents in front of him.

  Four hours later, the sun had gone down and Matt’s belly rumbled. He’d worked through dinner. Not that he had any plans for the meal, but four hours was long enough. In that time, he’d read every word of the depositions, deputies’ reports and the state crime lab’s detailed analyses of the evidence processed. The medical examiner’s report had been the hardest to go over.

  His mother had been shot point-blank in the chest, dying instantly. She’d been left in that field until a rancher had noticed turkey vultures flying over her body. He’d gone out to investigate, thinking it might be one of his cows. By the time the man had found Lynn Hennessey, she’d been dead at least two days.

  Matt rubbed a hand over his face. Should he head to his apartment over his auto repair shop in town or go out to the Whiskey Gulch Ranch, where he’d moved some of his things into a spare bedroom there?

  Matt shook his head. He still couldn’t believe he was equal owner of one of the largest and most profitable ranches in Texas, and that he no longer had to work for a living. He had enough money from his father’s estate he never had to work another day in his life, other than to keep the ranch running and profitable.

  All the years he’d never known who his father was, the man had lived in the same small town where he’d grown up.

  All the damned years.

  His mother hadn’t breathed a word.

  Matt might never have discovered his heritage if his mother hadn’t died prematurely. His father wouldn’t have known of his existence. It all had to do with the letter she’d left with her lawyer, informing James Travis that he’d had a son from their short relationship. If his father hadn’t learned of his bastard son before being killed, he would have left his entire estate to his legitimate son, Trace Travis. Instead, he’d left everything to both sons to share equally.

  Though he still had vehicles to repair, Matt preferred staying out at the ranch, where the peace and quiet helped him sleep better. Not that Whiskey Gulch was a bustling city with major traffic noise keeping people awake at all hours. But there was the occasional hot rod vehicle cruising down Main Street, mufflers rumbling loudly.

  Matt had always dreamed of having a few acres to get lost on. Never in his wildest imaginings had he thought he’d own so much.

  It wasn’t that he needed to possess anything that had belonged to his father. He would happily have sold his share to his half brother. But his father had bequeathed his entire estate to his two sons. If one of the half brothers wanted out of the ranch, the entire ranch would be sold off and they’d split the proceeds. To keep the property in the family, the ranch had to remain intact and they had to learn to work together. They were doing that, too, and not just concerning the land. With other former military, they’d begun a protective and investigative force that helped victims when law enforcement couldn’t quite keep up or provide protection. They’d begun calling themselves “The Outriders.” So far, the coalition consisted of Matt, Trace and Irish Monahan, all trained combatants. Soon they’d be joined by others, as they expanded their reach and capabilities.

  Matt stacked the documents in a neat pile on the desk, stood and stretched the stiffness out of his muscles. He should have gotten up hours ago to get the blood flowing.

  His cell phone buzzed where he’d left it lying on the desk. The caller ID indicated Rosalynn Travis, his stepmother. That word still stuck in his craw. He picked up the phone and answered, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Hey, Matthew.” Rosalynn was one of the nicest humans Matt had ever encountered, which made it hard for him to hate her. In fact, he liked her tremendously, which gave him twinges of guilt when he thought about the mother he’d loved. And she always called him Matthew, just like his mother had.

  Rosalynn continued, “I was just checking to see if you planned on staying at the ranch tonight.”

  “I am,” he said. “I’m leaving the sheriff’s office now.”

  “Oh, good,” she said. “Have you had dinner?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You don’t have to stop on your way to pick up something, if you don’t want to,” Rosalynn said. “I left pot roast warming in the oven. There’s a salad and a fresh pitcher of iced tea in the refrigerator.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Travis.”

  “Matthew, you don’t have to call me Mrs. Travis. Rosalynn will do.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you don’t have to call me ma’am.” She laughed. “It makes me sound so old.”

  “Yes, ma’am—Mrs. Travis.” He shook his head.

  She sighed. “Don’t worry about it. We’re still getting to know each other. Be careful out tonight. Trace said there were a lot of deer alongside the highway on his way home this evening.”

  “I’ll be on the lookout,” he promised, and ended the call.

  He stopped at the front desk to let the deputy on duty know he was leaving.

  When he stepped out into the night, he looked up at the stars shining brightly overhead.

  He’d been many places when he’d been on active duty in the Marine Corps, but nowhere did the stars shine brighter than here in Texas. When a leg injury ended his career as a Marine, he’d come home.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he stepped off the curb and mounted his motorcycle, pulled on his helmet and buckled the strap beneath his chin. Matt started the engine and twisted the throttle, giving it some gas while still in neutral. The deep rumble between his legs got his blood moving and his pulse kicking up a notch.

  He roared out of the parking lot and onto Main Street, moving slowly as he passed his auto shop, checking for anything out of place. The quiet of Whiskey Gulch was deceiving. Who would have thought anything bad could happen here? Yet, his mother had been shot to death four years ago, and the murderer had never been apprehended. He could still be in the area. He could be one of his neighbors. All the more reason not to trust anyone until he found the killer.

  * * *

  AUBREY BLANCHARD FIT the key in the lock of the cottage, twisted it and pushed the door inward. Her day had been long yet rewarding.

  As a home health care worker, she’d gone to six different houses that day to administer to the people who weren’t able to take care of themselves, or who needed a nurse to check on them once a week to draw blood or monitor their vital signs. Unlike her previous job, working in the emergency room of one of Houston’s largest hospitals, she had time to spend with each patient, listening to their worries and doing the best she could to make them comfortable. Some of them just needed human contact.

  She sighed as she entered the home she’d rented when she’d first come to Whiskey Gulch. It wasn’t really a house so much as a cottage, situated on the very edge of town. Behind it was a fenc
ed field where cattle and horses grazed. On the days she got home early, she sat on the covered back porch and watched the sun set over the hills and thanked her lucky stars she’d found the place so quickly after applying for the home health care position she’d found online.

  Houston had all the amenities, but it didn’t have the peace and quiet Aubrey’s soul craved. For the past two months she’d lived here, she’d kept to herself when she wasn’t at work. Aubrey needed the space from others, from her own relatives and from her past.

  She bent to scoop up the mail on the floor in the entryway that had been shoved through the narrow slot in the door. Among the advertisements for an oil change and a pizza sale was a large envelope with the name of a law firm in the return address.

  Aubrey sighed. “It’s about time.” With the culmination of a yearlong process and thousands of dollars of legal fees, her divorce was final. She didn’t have to open the envelope to verify. Her attorney had called a week ago, letting her know of the ruling and that the documents would be coming to her soon. She was a free woman.

  A deep sadness filled her for what was, what could have been and what was now her reality.

  She tossed the ads, divorce papers and her purse on the antique dining table and headed for the kitchen. Thankfully, the house had come with furniture that had belonged to its last owner. The real estate company that had handled the rental hadn’t said a word about what had happened to the last owner. Aubrey assumed she’d died of old age. Three weeks after she’d settled in, Aubrey was corrected on her assumption. One of Aubrey’s patients had set her straight on that account. The prior owner had been murdered four years ago.

  When Aubrey had heard that bit of news, she’d taken it with a grain of salt. The old woman who’d told her about the owner’s murder was suffering from dementia and didn’t recognize her own children.

  When she’d had a day off, Aubrey had looked the story up on the internet, then gone to the local library and researched area newspapers that had more on the tragedy than online snippets could provide, finding Lynn Hennessey’s obituary from four years ago. She went on to locate the article about her death, and how she’d been found in the field not far from her home, shot once in the chest.