The Cowboy Target

by Terri Reed

  “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 hi
s 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?”