by Terri Reed
“Plenty of people live without knowing their DNA makeup.”
“And just as many suffer because of the lack of knowledge. And there’s enough stories on reality shows to support my statement.”
He stood abruptly. “Give it a rest. We’ve covered this ground, and I have no intention of doing as you suggest unless it becomes a life-threatening situation. And then only if absolutely necessary.”
* * *
Watching him stalk to the bookshelf, she knew she should bite her tongue, keep back the words that were even now spilling out. “Secrets have a way of eating at a person until they crumble.”
She didn’t want that for Wyatt or Gabby. She knew firsthand how her ex-fiancé’s secret affair had hurt when it came to light. Not only had she felt the sting of his secret, but her family—and his—had been devastated.
Just as Gabby would be if one day she learned Wyatt wasn’t her biological father.
Her heart hurt for the pain Wyatt carried. Not only inside, but she could see it also in the hunch of his shoulders and the tight lines around his mouth.
From the sound of things, his marriage had been far from blissful. Jackie wasn’t naive. She knew it took two for things to go bad, but still... He blamed himself for his wife’s death even though he wasn’t directly responsible, and Dina’s last words to him were ugly and hurtful. Words that even three years later ate away at him.
Had Dina had an affair? With whom?
That would explain the hateful things she’d said. Was Gabby Wyatt’s biological child or not? That was harder to know. If Dina was so resentful of being stuck on the ranch, she might have been slinging words like arrows at Wyatt, hoping on hitting the target...his heart.
Useless anger at Dina revved through Jackie’s blood.
On one hand she understood why he wouldn’t pursue the truth. He was Gabby’s daddy regardless of DNA. But on the other hand, not knowing was tearing him up inside.
Only the truth would bring him peace. Somehow she’d have to make him see that. Maybe then he could move on. Be content. Happy. Find love again.
An ache that wasn’t physical in nature thrummed through her. She chose not to examine the cause. Doing so would only stir up longings and yearnings she had no business entertaining.
Not responding to her statement, Wyatt pulled down a book, flipped it open and plucked out a piece of paper from between the pages. He walked back to the couch, the book and paper in his hands. “I found this in my father’s book.”
For a moment she stared into his dark eyes, deciding whether to continue to push or to let the subject of Gabby’s paternity go.
She relented. For now.
Her gaze dropped to his outstretched hand. The piece of paper he held out.
“The book from George’s house?” She took the square sheet by the corner between the tips of her fingers. “What are these numbers?”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure.”
She stared at numbers scrawled across the page. Could this be a clue that would lead them to George’s murderer?
ELEVEN
“Maybe it’s his bank account number,” Wyatt said.
“Could be.” She studied the digits: 41557922-104952393. “Is this George’s handwriting?”
He nodded grimly. “Yes.”
“It could be a life-insurance policy number or a loan number. I’ll have Simone run them. She’s really good at ferreting out information in the cyberworld.”
“Who’s Simone?” He sat back down on the couch.
“A coworker. She’s the closest female friend I have. A former homicide detective out of Detroit. We bonded over our shared law-enforcement pasts.”
Though Simone’s past was much darker than Jackie’s. Jackie had picked up on hints of this but had been unprepared when Simone had finally opened up. The painful truth had made Jackie’s reasons for leaving the Atkins sheriff’s department seem petty in comparison. Simone had had to make a difficult choice—to let the man who killed her childhood best friend either live or die.
In the end, her fellow officers had taken the decision out of her hands, but going through the turmoil had left a deep scar.
“I appreciate what you’re doing for us,” Wyatt said.
“My aunt and uncle think of you and Gabby as family.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
She held his gaze. A deep longing welled to the surface. She wanted to be included in those feelings of family, of belonging. Even though she had her parents and her friends at Trent, she knew there was something missing in her life. She’d never let it bother her before coming to the ranch. Now the hollow space inside of her ached like an abscessed tooth, and she was coming up empty-handed on ways to numb the pain.
She liked this man way too much.
Which didn’t bode well for her peace of mind.
Yanking her gaze from his, she focused on the myriad books lining the shelves. She rose and crossed the room to read the titles on the spines. Lots of nonfiction books dealing with ranching and horses and cattle.
The fiction titles ranged from popular fiction to classics. She reached for a dog-eared copy of the complete work of Edgar Allen Poe. She could still remember reading the “The Pit and the Pendulum” in high school. She’d had to write a paper on the story. Though she’d received an A, she couldn’t recall what she’d written.
“That’s one of my favorites.”
Wyatt’s voice came from close behind her. Awareness darted down her back. The man was much too light on his feet. She replaced the volume. “Kind of dark, don’t you think?”
“I went through a dark phase,” he commented and reached past her to pull another thick book from the shelf.
Warmth from his big body touched her like a heat lamp. His spicy aftershave and the fresh scent of shampoo swirled around her, making her skin tingle. She fought the yearning to turn her head and lay her cheek against the soft fabric of his shirt, to nestle into the expanse of his chest.
The sound of glass crunching from outside the window raised the fine hairs at the nape of her neck.
Reacting instantly, she reached for Wyatt with her good arm and dragged him to the ground. “Stay put,” she ordered.
In a half crouch, she hurried to the couch. Before reaching for her weapon, she turned off the tableside lamp, throwing the room into darkness. She palmed her weapon and proceeded toward the window where the noise had come from. Flattening her back against the wall, she pushed aside the curtain to chance a peek out the window. A shadowy figure crept along the porch toward the front door.
“Jackie,” Wyatt whispered. He moved so that he was at her elbow. “Is someone out there?”
“Shh,” she hissed, wishing the man had stayed down like she’d asked. How was she supposed to protect him if he didn’t cooperate? She darted toward the front door as more glass crunched beneath the stranger’s feet.
Frustrated by her lame arm, Jackie debated how best to confront the trespasser and decided a confrontation wasn’t the best course of action, not with Wyatt within target range.
Instead, she flipped on the porch light.
There was a muffled curse and then the pounding of footsteps as the intruder fled down the porch steps. Jackie yanked open the front door and stepped out onto the porch in time to see the man get on a motorcycle, start the engine with a loud roar and, in a spray of snow and dirt, take off down the road.
“How do you suppose he got onto the ranch without us hearing the motorbike?” Wyatt said as he halted beside her on the porch.
“Probably walked it in.”
“Brilliant trick with the glass,” he commented.
She followed his gaze to the smashed remains of the lightbulbs she’d sprinkled around the porch. “It worked.”
“That
it did.”
She hustled him back inside. “I’m going to call Sheriff Landers and let him know.”
“I’ll check on Gabby.”
Left alone in the dark living room, Jackie tried to make sense of the past two days. First there was the sloppy attempt at framing Wyatt for murder, then a professional sniper tried to take them out and now an amateur effort to break in. Something wasn’t jibing. It felt as if there were two different agendas being played out here.
Still mulling over the inconsistency, she made the call to the sheriff. Not that there was much he could do because the perp got away. But he promised to keep an eye out for anyone on a motorcycle.
Settling back on the couch, Jackie’s arm ached and she had the sinking feeling it was going to be a long night.
* * *
When Wyatt returned to the living room, he found Jackie on the couch looking cute, vulnerable and beat-up. Dark circles marred the delicate skin beneath her eyes. The square bandage on her forehead and the sling covering her left arm were constant reminders of their earlier ordeal. She’d had a hard knock to the head and her arm had to be hurting, yet she was toughing it out, trying to be attentive and ready to protect. The same feeling he got when he looked at the mountains on a summer night squeezed his heart.
He sat next to her on the couch and put a hand on her shoulder. “Relax. Try to rest.”
She stiffened with a protest. “No, I have to stay alert.”
“You won’t be any good to me or Gabby exhausted,” he insisted. “We’ll hear if anyone disturbs the glass again. Though he’d be one dumb thug to tromp through it twice.” He grinned at her.
For a moment he thought she’d bolt, but then she sat back, tucking her feet beneath her.
He hadn’t asked for a bodyguard, but if he had he’d have chosen Jackie. She’d proved she was good at her job. But she was also human. And so very attractive to him.
He tugged the afghan off the back of the couch and draped it over her, then leaned back and gave in to his own exhaustion, hoping the light of day would bring a better perspective on the situation.
* * *
Jackie awoke with a start. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Wyatt’s arms were wrapped around her, cocooning her in warmth. Immediately she stiffened. She couldn’t remember moving into his embrace. Nor did she remember giving into sleep. She was usually much more professional. How had she allowed this to happen?
But more importantly, how did she feel about being so close to Wyatt?
She honestly didn’t know.
The first rays of daylight sneaked in through the closed curtains. The house was still. Yet something had jarred her awake.
The pounding of feet running up the porch stairs, the crunch of glass and the rapid bangs of a fist against the door jerked her upright. On autopilot she reached for her weapon and sprang up. Her sore shoulder pinched with the movement, reminding her of the danger they faced.
“Wyatt! Jackie!” her uncle yelled through the closed door.
Instantly, Wyatt awoke and vaulted to his feet. Jackie made it to the door ahead of him. She yanked it open to find a haggard-looking Carl standing there. Dread exploded in her chest. Had something happened to Aunt Penny? “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Alexander. He’s missing!”
It took a moment for her uncle’s words to register. Alexander. Wyatt’s prize studhorse. Missing.
She tucked her gun into her waistband.
Wyatt pushed past Jackie to stand on the porch. “Tell me what happened.”
Carl ran a hand through his graying hair. “I came out this morning to feed him and the mares like always. The barn door was open, his stall empty.”
“Did you check the corral?”
“Yes.” Carl shook his head. “I’ve looked all over the ranch. I have the hands out searching the pastures now.”
Without a word, Wyatt turned on his stockinged feet and disappeared back inside the house.
Jackie met her uncle’s frantic gaze. “Did you hear anything last night?”
Carl rubbed his chin. “I thought I heard a motorcycle, but I didn’t see anything or anyone.”
Jackie nodded as new possibilities began to form in her head. “Someone tried to break into the house last night. He got away on a motorcycle.” And now she wondered if the intruder last night had only been a distraction to prevent them from hearing or seeing someone taking the horse.
“This isn’t good. If something happens to Alexander...” He pressed his lips together.
“What?” she asked.
“The ranch is barely afloat. Alexander’s stud services are the only thing keeping Wyatt out of the red.”
And losing the horse might be the thing that would force Wyatt to accept the deal offered by the Degas Corporation. Granting his mineral rights to the mining company could prove to be a lucrative endeavor. Not only for him but for his neighbors. Taking the deal would be a solution to any financial problems. But Wyatt wasn’t a man motivated by money or greed. He was determined to make the ranch work on his terms. She admired that about him.
Obviously someone had different ideas about letting him conduct his business the way he wanted.
The shadow of a plane crossed her line of vision. This was the second time she’d seen a prop aircraft flying over the ranch. It flew low enough that she had no trouble making out the big numbers along the body in dark blue paint. Wyatt also had mentioned seeing a plane several times.
Was the aircraft the same one she’d seen before?
She wanted to know who owned that plane. And if they could help locate Wyatt’s horse.
Wyatt returned wearing a thick leather jacket, his Stetson and cowboy boots.
“Where are you going?” Jackie asked, though she figured she knew. He wasn’t the type to sit by and do nothing. He’d want to be out there searching for Alexander. Which might just be what the person targeting him wanted—Wyatt away from the protection of the main ranch.
“I’m going to find my horse,” he said, confirming her suspicion.
“Not without me, you’re not,” Jackie stated firmly. “Uncle Carl, can you ask Aunt Penny to come over to be with Gabby?”
“Of course,” Carl said. He bounded down the porch stairs and headed back to his house.
“I appreciate that you want to help—” Wyatt started to say, but he stopped when she held up a hand.
“Don’t even say it. I’m coming with you to search. For your protection.”
“You’re injured.”
She didn’t need reminding. The ache in her shoulder was making itself known nicely on its own. “I can manage. Just give me a few minutes to change into some more appropriate clothing.” The velour tracksuit wouldn’t do for a horse-rescue mission.
His lips twisted in wry resignation. “Hurry up,” he said. “I’ll get the truck warmed up.”
She rushed to the living room to slip her feet into her sneakers before heading out the door and back to her aunt and uncle’s to change clothes.
Gingerly she removed her arm from the sling and tossed it aside. She tested her shoulder. Though stiff and tender, she could move her arm in the socket. Careful not to jostle her shoulder overly much, she changed into jeans, a cable-knit sweater and well-worn cowboy boots her aunt lent her. She was ready to go.
She took the time to make a call to the local airstrip. The county’s small airport catered to private planes.
With a few questions, she had the answer she was looking for. The plane she’d seen flying over the Monroe ranch belonged to the Degas Corporation. Her next call was to her boss, James Trent. Quickly she explained the situation.
“Sit tight and I’ll call you back,” he said.
Reassured that he’d know what to do, she hung up, tucked her phone next to her weapo
n inside the bag strapped around her waist, grabbed her jacket and headed out the door. She found Wyatt and his monster truck idling out front.
She climbed inside. “So what’s your plan?”
He sat staring out the window, his hands gripping the steering wheel. “I don’t have one.”
Jackie’s cell chirped. She dug it out and answered. James had contacted the Degas CEO. Of course he’d know the man, Jackie thought. James had contacts all over the world and in every major company. He was a man people turned to when they needed protection.
He gave her a cell number to call.
“Jackie, be careful, okay?” Trent said.
“Always.” She hung up. To Wyatt she said, “I have a plan.”
She called the number James had given her. A moment later a man answered. The connection wasn’t good. Static crackled, making the man’s voice hard to hear. “Gunderson.”
“Mr. Gunderson, my name is Jackie Blain. Are you the pilot of plane 55473?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I need your help. You’ve been flying pretty low over the Monroe ranch. Have you seen a black stallion roaming free?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I saw him about an hour ago,” Gunderson said. “Do you have a map of the area?”
She turned to Wyatt. “Map of the area?”
He pulled one out of the glove box and handed it to her. The map was faded and yellowed but would serve their purpose.
“I’ll give you the land coordinates of where I saw the horse last,” Gunderson said.
“Hold on a second.” She grabbed a pen from the glove box. She held the pen over the edge of the map. “Ready.”
Gunderson’s voice crackled over the line as he rattled off two sets of numbers. “I’ll fly back that way to see if he’s still out there.”
“Awesome. Thanks,” she said and hung up.
She stared at the numbers she’d written. Something niggled in her brain, but she didn’t have time to try to figure it out. Quickly, using the numbers, she had her finger on a spot on the map. “Here. This is where the pilot said he’d seen him last.”