When Things Got Hot in Texas

by Lori Wilde

  He looked concerned, but opened a few cabinets and found one. When he brought it to her, his gaze met hers and he whispered, “Thank you.”

  She nodded and realized that, as crazy as it seemed, it almost felt as if they were a team. Playing host together.

  Right before they were about to sit at the kitchen table, Mark showed up.

  “And?” Jake asked before Mark sat down.

  “I agree, there’s nothing that says it’s connected. Supposedly, the owner came home from his work trip this morning, but he was off running errands when I stopped by.”

  “You thought it was connected to the Mitchell case?” Jennifer asked.

  “We just wanted to check it out.” Jake grabbed a paper plate.

  They all settled around the table, and the conversation shifted from the case to Savanna’s approaching due date.

  “I will be there,” Jennifer said, realizing if the baby came early, they might think it was too dangerous for her to go. “Even if she comes early. I didn’t take Lamaze classes for nothing.”

  Jake and Mark glanced at each other.

  “I’m sure we can work it out,” Mark said. “We just can’t have you anywhere near your apartment or old hangouts.”

  “Fine.” She reached for her tea.

  “And I’m going back to work Monday,” Bethany added in a defensive tone.

  Jake and Mark both shoved pizza into their mouths.

  “Not if it puts you in danger,” Savanna and Jennifer and Macy piped at the same time.

  “He’s not even after me,” Bethany said.

  “But he knows where you live and knows you know where Jennifer is.” Mark talked around his mouthful of food.

  Jake joined in after swallowing. “Meaning, he had to have followed Jennifer there. And you admitted that Jennifer’s been to your work twice in the last few weeks. So, chances are he knows where you work.”

  “I’m a big girl. I have a gun. I’ll be fine.”

  “Give us until Wednesday,” Jake said. “After the trial, it should be over.”

  “Not happening. I’ll continue to stay with you guys, but I’m going to work.” She used her lawyer tone and, apparently, neither of the guys was bold enough to stand up to her.

  “Don’t do this,” Jennifer said. “If something happened, it would be my fault.”

  “Nothing is going to happen!” Bethany said.

  Clay snatched another piece of pizza. “So, Jennifer should just go back to her place.”

  Bethany shot him the look that Jennifer knew she saved for stupid suspects on the stand. “Are you an idiot?”

  Yup, that was the look all right.

  “No.” Clay shrugged, not appearing insulted. “It just seemed since you didn’t respect everyone’s concern for you, you’d be okay with her putting herself at undue risk.”

  Bethany opened her mouth to shoot back, then shut it.

  Everyone at the table sat silent and stunned. Clay had bested Bethany.

  He was, Jennifer concluded, a very smart man. A person had to respect that.

  That thought, the respect part, didn’t settle too well over her, but she wasn’t quite sure why.

  “What else do you have?” Clay asked the guys as soon as they walked outside. When Mark requested Clay show them the barn, Clay suspected they had something and didn’t want to talk about it in front of the women. Jennifer had a right to know, but perhaps it was more about Mark protecting his pregnant wife. Clay understood that.

  “We got a hit on the prints,” Mark answered.

  “And?” Clay asked.

  “His name is Ted Bundy. Or Ted Bundy, Junior.”

  Clay shook his head. “Seriously?”

  Jake nodded. “Oh, he’s not related to the famous Bundy, but the name alone is disturbing. However, more disturbing is that he’s already done an eight-year stint in prison for murder.”

  “A hired hit?” Clay asked.

  “Yeah,” the two men agreed at the same time.

  “Shit!” Clay said. “So, I was right. He’s a professional.”

  “Yeah,” Jake added. “He hangs his hat in Dallas. We’re still unable to tie him to Mitchell. Mitchell’s lawyer swears he isn’t behind it. We’re waiting to hear back on rentals outside the local area for a dark-colored Cruise.”

  “Is this guy still on parole?” Clay asked.

  “Yeah,” Jake said. “We contacted his parole officer. He seemed shocked Bundy was back to his old tricks. We debated having the officer call Bundy in, but decided since he hasn’t missed an appointment, and he’s due for one next Friday, it might be our best bet at catching him.”

  Mark shifted a little closer. “Professionals don’t normally hang around for a second shot. Not that we should lower our guard. I say we see this through until the trial. Today’s Saturday. We only have six days.”

  “I agree,” Clay said. “Maybe you should check out the car rental places near Dallas. Or I could?”

  “Already doing that,” Jake said. “And you’re doing something. Watching Jennifer.”

  He nodded, but wanted to do more.

  “From what I’ve seen,” Mark added, “you’re more than capable of the job.”

  Clay glanced at him, uncertain what he meant.

  “Anyone who can corral Bethany like you did can handle anything.” Mark laughed.

  “That’s because I’m not afraid of her.” Clay leaned against the fence.

  “We’re not afraid of her,” Mark said. “It’s our wives we’re afraid of. Messing with your wife’s friends lands you in the dog house.”

  Bingo came trotting over.

  “How many horses do you have?” Mark asked.

  “Just two.”

  “You ride?” Mark reached out cautiously to pet Bingo.

  “Yeah, I take them out at least a couple times a week.”

  Jake spoke up. “Are those your cattle I saw up the road?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many do you have?” Mark asked.

  Bingo moved away from Mark and rubbed her neck on Clay. “Eight. We had more, but Pete sold some to pay the back taxes. I plan to buy more cattle later. I’ve got forty acres. It’s not a bad spread.”

  Mark glanced around. “So, you’re not new to ranching?”

  “No. I grew up on one.”

  “We nicknamed him Country Boy in the academy,” Jake said teasingly. “But he turned out to be a hell of cop, too. He worked homicide in Houston for . . . how many years?”

  “Five.” Until I killed a kid. Clay glanced back to pasture.

  “And this is what you want to do? Ranch?” Mark asked.

  Clay remembered the conversation with Jennifer. “I’m still trying to figure that out,” he admitted aloud for the first time. “But ranching seldom pays the bills. I’ll need to do something. Between the detective agency and the junkyard, it might be enough.” But would it feed his recently-rekindled need to be a cop?

  He sensed they were waiting on him to finish. “I’ve always kind of seen ranching as more of a lifestyle than a job.”

  One he’d gotten away from when he left for college. And now he wondered if that had been a mistake. There was something about taking care of the land, the livestock, that gave a person a sense of purpose. Not that he could do it alone, but like his dad he’d need to hire hands to pull most of the work. And God love Pete, but he’d need more than him.

  For that, he needed money.

  “I thought you might be at the junkyard today.” Jake swatted at a mosquito.

  “It’s not officially open yet,” Clay said. “I still have a couple of buildings in the back that I haven’t gone through. I might try to get back there Monday. I’ll take her with me.”

  “Are you and Jennifer getting along?” Mark asked. “I mean, I know she’s. . . emotionally charged—that’s how Savanna describes her—but she’s a good person.”

  “No, she’s fine. We’re doing good,” Clay said.

  “How good?” Jake’s question
came loaded.

  Clay grimaced, remembering the kiss and remembering the crazy, nesting kind of feeling that had come over him when she was pulling thorns out of his foot, and then making iced tea in his . . . his and Pete’s . . . kitchen.

  “I’m not in the market for a relationship.” And having a fling with a friend’s wife’s best friend was stupid. Clay wasn’t stupid.

  “Don’t worry. You’re not her type, anyway,” Mark said grinning. “You’re not a funeral director.”

  Clay remembered Jake saying something before about a funeral director. “What gives with the funeral director?”

  “She’s husband hunting,” Mark said.

  That bit of news sent a stampede of red flags stomping all over him. Now he was extra sorry he’d kissed her. Or had she kissed him? Oh, hell, it didn’t matter. It couldn’t happen again.

  “She found some internet site that lists the divorce rates for all careers.” Jake chuckled. “Divorce rates for funeral directors are low.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not all she’s measuring a man by.” Mark snorted. “She found something that said a short man, with hair, and a small dick is less likely to walk out of a marriage. Oh, and he can’t be rich, either.”

  Clay laughed because he was certain they were joking. They laughed, but not as if they’d been teasing. “You’re pulling my leg, right?”

  Both guys just laughed harder and shook their heads.

  Chapter 10

  If Bundy hadn’t been looking for the ball-busting scum, he might have enjoyed the ride in the country. The sky was blue, the sun kept going in and out of the big, white, fluffy clouds. As a kid, Bundy had loved to find a spot to hide out and try to decipher the different shapes in the clouds. He’d gotten his worst beating from his daddy for doing it, too. He was supposed to have been mowing the lawn.

  Bundy slowed down when he drove past the junkyard. It looked closed. No truck. He hadn’t known it was up and running until the sign had lit up the other night. He’d never have picked this place to do his job if he’d known the thing was open.

  Now the sign wasn’t on. That was no way to run a business.

  As tempting as it was to stop, he knew that could be a mistake. Better to come back at night. He reached under the brown wig that had cost him a fortune. He’d bought it last year for times just like this. Times when cops were hunting for a big, bald guy.

  He drove on down the farm and market road, slowing down again when he passed the yellow house he’d ransacked the night before. The black Chevy truck that had been parked out front wasn’t there now. Where had the homeowner been last night?

  Bundy had come back. But first he wanted to drive around and confirm there wasn’t another house nearby with a black Chevy truck. It would really suck if he’d turned over the wrong house.

  He hadn’t gotten back up to the speed limit when he heard sirens. A quick glance back confirmed his worst fear. The sheriff’s car was about fifty feet behind him.

  Shit!

  Taking a deep breath, he debated his options.

  There weren’t that many. The damn Honda wasn’t what you would call a get-away car.

  He reached over to the passenger seat, grabbed his gun, and tucked it inside his pants. After a quick straightening of his wig, he slowly pulled over.

  The men had walked outside, and Jennifer stood up and started tossing the paper plates into the garbage.

  Eyeing the burnt pie, Bethany stood up and walked over to the stove. “Okay, Martha Stewart wannabe, fess up.”

  “Fess up to what?” Jennifer pushed the garbage down into the bin to make room for more.

  Bethany chuckled. “Please. We’ve heard of getting to a man’s heart through his stomach. I just thought you’d go with alternate methods first. Like wear a low-cut top. But I guess with a cowboy--”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” Jennifer said.

  “No. She has a point,” Macy said. “Cooking for a man is a sign of affection.”

  “Fine,” Jennifer conceded. She hated it when they all teamed up to make a point. “I was trying to impress a man. Never mind that I failed. But it wasn’t Clay. It was Pete.”

  “Pete?” Savanna asked.

  “He lives here. He’s a cute old cowboy. Emphasis on the old.” She opened a pizza box and found they hadn’t even touched one of the pies.

  “Do you guys want to take it home with you?”

  “No, keep it,” Macy said.

  Jennifer stuck the pizza in the fridge.

  “Pete?” Bethany said. “Now she’s making up imaginary friends.”

  “She’s not making him up,” Macy said. “Jake mentioned him.”

  “Oh,” Bethany said. “So, you’re really telling me you’re not at all interested in the junkyard cowboy? There are no sparks? No zing? No ba ba bing?”

  “It’s not like that.” She collected the empty pizza boxes to toss away.

  “Right. You’re on the search for a little-penised funeral director.”

  “Would you stop with the small penises?” Jennifer gave the boxes a good push into the trash. “The guys could come in and hear us.”

  “Right.” Savanna, now standing by the stove, poked at Jennifer’s burnt pie. “It looks like it would have been good.”

  “Yeah.” Jennifer turned to run water in the sink for the dishes. “Mom taught me how to bake it. It was the only thing she taught me how to cook.” But damn, after all this time, it shouldn’t hurt to talk about her. But it did. And she knew why.

  The ashes of guilt still lingered. All those years of professional help and girlfriend therapy hadn’t washed it away. Not all of it.

  The kitchen got quiet.

  Bethany went to the table to collect the glasses. “Well, I can’t deny I’m relieved you don’t like the guy. He’s clearly a jerk. Did you hear how he came at me? Like some wise ass.”

  Jennifer swung around. “He was not a wise ass. He was right.”

  Bethany grinned and looked at Macy and Savanna. “There it is. The spark. I knew I saw it. And did you hear her defend him?”

  Jennifer closed her eyes and suddenly wanted to cry. “I can’t handle this.”

  “Handle what?” Savanna left the pie to shoulder up against Jennifer.

  Jennifer swallowed her unshed tears. She might as well tell them. She would eventually. “He kissed me. Or I kissed him. I don’t know who did it. But no sooner than it happened we both pulled back and said the same thing.”

  “Said what?” Bethany rubbed her hands together. “Yum?”

  “No. We both apologized and said it shouldn’t have happened.”

  “That’s depressing,” Bethany said. “Was he that bad of a kisser?”

  “No, it was . . . awesome. Maybe the best I’ve ever had.” She recalled oh, so clearly how it had felt to have his body on top of hers, his lips on hers, his sleepy sexy gaze on her. “But it was the right thing to stop it.”

  “The right thing is overrated,” Macy said.

  “Not this time. Not only is salvageable material management at the top of the divorce rates, but he put himself through school working as a bartender and a roofer.”

  “Oh, that’s not good,” Macy said. “They both have the highest rates of divorce.”

  “How do you know?” Savanna asked looking at Macy.

  “I googled it.” Macy shrugged. “I’m not saying I buy it, but--”

  “And it gets worse,” Jennifer continued. “Add his family history of divorce and the fact that he’s already been divorced himself, and it’s almost a given that any relationship with him will end in heartbreak.”

  “Sometimes you have to gamble on things,” Savanna said. “Take a risk. A leap of faith.” She bit down on her lip. “He’s so hot.” She chuckled.

  “I agree,” Macy added, and Bethany nodded.

  “I can’t,” Jennifer said. “I’m going to be thirty-one next month. I know what I want, and it’s time I stop looking for it in all the wrong places. Plus, you’re forgettin
g one very important thing.”

  That thing that had been running amok, banging against Jennifer’s better judgment, pinching her pride, and hanging on her heartstrings.

  “What are we forgetting?” Macy asked.

  Jennifer tightened her spine. “That he said it was a mistake, too.”

  To feel rejected when she’d been going to reject him was insane. So, explain why she felt it—why she was now even more tempted to stick her toe in the relationship water to test the temperature.

  Bundy’s heart thumped against his chest bone. He put the car in park, straightened his tie, and lifted the collar of his shirt up to make sure it hid his tattoo. He should have never gotten the damn thing. It had gotten him arrested the last time.

  Through the side mirror, he watched the sheriff get out of his car. He was a big man. It might take more than one bullet.

  The sound of his window going down filled the car. Bundy’s head itched from the wig, the tie felt like it was choking him, and his palm itched with the need to feel the weight of his gun. But his gut said, “Not now.”

  “Howdy.” The sheriff neared the window.

  “Hello Officer. What’s the problem? I’m almost sure I wasn’t speeding.”

  “Nope,” the sheriff said. “But your brake lights aren’t working.” He dipped down and eyeballed the front of the car.

  Was he checking out the wig? Could he tell it was wig?

  “You got a license?” the sheriff asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Being the Boy Scout he was, he’d already put the right one in his wallet. The one that identified him as Harold Coleman of Tennessee, and pictured him with the wig. He handed it to the man. “Car’s a rental. Sorry about that. I’ll make sure to let the agency know.”

  “What’s brings you out to my part of the woods?” the sheriff asked.

  Could it be this easy? Could he drive away from this without killing anyone?

  Thankfully, Bundy had noticed the road signs. “Heading to Glencoe. Applying for a job at Jackson Canning Company.”

  The man studied the license.

  “Kind of nice out here,” Bundy said.