Native Cowboy

by Rita Herron

  “No, but I understand you were in combat, that you suffered,” he said. “That you were held prisoner. That had to be tough.”

  A tense silence ensued. “I was a soldier, that’s what I was trained for.”

  “But even soldiers crack under torture,” Mason said. “And then you came back home and thought you were free, but you couldn’t escape it, could you? The nightmares started, you couldn’t sleep.”

  “No, I couldn’t,” Morningside said, his voice edged with pain. “But I got through prison ’cause I thought my wife was here waiting on me. Only she wasn’t.”

  “Your wife, Isabella, is she all right in there?” Mason asked. “Because I know you really love her and don’t want to hurt her.”

  “Shut up about my wife. She didn’t understand.”

  “How could she?” Mason asked. “She wasn’t there, but maybe you can tell her. You two can sit down and talk. She is willing to talk, aren’t you, Isabella?”

  “Yes,” the woman cried.

  Mason sighed in relief. At least she was still alive.

  “It’s too late for talking,” Morningside said. “Too late for us.”

  “No, it’s not too late,” Mason said. “Not too late to get help.”

  “You’re lying,” Morningside yelled. “Just like they did over there. You’re the enemy, all of you are.”

  “That’s not true,” Mason said, sensing he was losing the man. “The enemy is in your head, Lapu, but I can help you make those voices go away. Make those nightmares fade.”

  Suddenly the sound of a window crashing rent the air, and Mason saw a figure at the front window, kneeling, a shot gun poking through the shattered glass.

  “Stay back, Blackpaw. I told you it’s too late. This is between me and my wife.”

  Mason’s hand slid down to his gun. His job was to protect innocents, and he couldn’t let the man kill Isabella.

  So he stepped closer and prayed that today was not the day he’d lose his life to the job.

  * * *

  CARA WAS SO DISTRACTED with worry over Mason that she could hardly focus on the kids.

  “It itches,” ten-year-old Buddy said as he clawed at his stomach.

  “I know, sweetie,” Cara said. “But try not to scratch.” She rubbed lotion on the patches of infected red skin.

  Then she gestured to the extra bottles on the counter and addressed the counselor in charge of the group. “Take these back to the cabin and keep the boys coated. Hopefully, they’ll feel better soon. Meanwhile keep them occupied so they won’t scratch so much.”

  The counselor rolled her eyes as if that was an impossibility and she was ridiculous to even suggest it. Cara smiled, knowing the girl was right, but she’d done all she could do. Her phone jangled, and she stepped aside to answer it, waving to the boys as they filed out.

  “Dr. Winchester.”

  “It’s Sherese, Cara. Listen, I checked the messages on the clinic’s service, and Delia Nez phoned that she’s worried about her little boy. She said her car died so she can’t bring him in and wanted to know if you could stop by and take a look at him.”

  “I’m on my way,” Cara said.

  She went to tell Brody, but he was leading a riding session with Johnny Long and Brandon Woodstock, so she left a message explaining that she had a house call.

  Then she grabbed her purse and headed to her car. She punched Delia’s number as she started the engine, but it rang several times, worrying her more. She wished she’d given Sherese more information.

  Her mind turned to Mason and the fact that Morningside might hurt Isabella as she left the BBL. Had Mason been able to get there before something terrible happened? Had he convinced Morningside to accept help?

  Maybe if she’d gone with him, she could have helped somehow?

  Worry gnawed at her.

  Mason was such a hero he might barge in to save Isabella and end up getting shot himself.

  Her lungs fought for air at the thought. No...Mason had to be okay. Her son needed him.

  She needed him.

  Her belly tightened as if her baby sensed her anxiety, and she forced herself to breathe slowly in and out. For a brief moment, she considered the fact that she might be in labor but wrote it off. It had to be another Braxton Hicks contraction. She’d been having them on and off for days.

  A second later, the pain subsided, and she crossed the highway, drove a few more miles on the main road, then turned left onto the street leading to Delia’s. Last year, Delia had bought a small house outside town near her parents so they could keep the baby while she worked nights. There had been major tension between her and the little boy’s father when she refused to live on the reservation.

  Another contraction tightened her stomach as she neared the small brick house, and she frowned at the fact that the house looked dark. Only a low light burned in the back bedroom.

  Had Delia given up on her and called her parents or a friend to drive them to the hospital? She hadn’t said exactly what was wrong with the five-month-old, but what if it was serious?

  Anxiety knotted her shoulders as she parked and climbed out. Her back was throbbing, and she paused to catch her breath and let the contraction pass, then shuffled up the stone walkway. Delia’s Civic was sitting in the drive, two of the tires flat, confirming that she hadn’t been able to drive it.

  She stepped up to the door and listened for anyone inside, but silence greeted her. Frowning, she raised her hand and knocked. She continued to massage her back while she waited, but no one answered. Delia must have found a ride....

  Still, she turned the knob and the door opened. Her heart pitched, but she inched inside. “Delia?”

  She thought she heard a sound from the back. The baby crying?

  Alarmed, she hurried toward the bedroom. She glanced in the baby’s room, but the baby wasn’t in the crib. Then she heard water running. Maybe Delia had the baby in the bathtub and hadn’t heard her knock.

  Marginally relieved, she called her name again and turned to the left to the woman’s bedroom. A lamp burned low beside the bed, and she froze in horror.

  Dear God, Delia was lying on the bed, her stomach cut open, blood covering her and the sheets. A scream caught in her throat.

  Then she spotted a stone lying at the top of the woman’s head and a navel fetish on top of it.

  Choking back nausea, she turned to run, but suddenly something slammed into the back of her head. She cried out, staggering to remain upright and make it outside to her car, but another blow sent her reeling forward.

  The world spun, darkness descending as she collapsed on the floor and fell into oblivion.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Morningside dragged Isabella in front of him, his arm around her throat, his gun poised through the window.

  “Listen to me, Morningside,” Mason shouted. “You don’t want to hurt Isabella. She’s the mother of your child.”

  “But she took my little boy away from me,” the man yelled.

  “I didn’t do that,” Isabella cried.

  Agent Whitehead’s voice echoed over Mason’s ear mic. “The back door is locked. We can break in, but I don’t want to spook him.”

  Mason spoke in a low voice into the mic. “No, wait. Let me see if I can convince him to release Isabella.”

  “Copy that,” Agent Whitehead said.

  Mason would do his best to get a peaceful resolve, but if Morningside didn’t give up, they would take him down. He just didn’t want Isabella to be hurt in the process.

  “I’m sure Isabella wants you to be part of your son’s life,” Mason said, intentionally lowering his tone as he inched toward the house. “But if you hurt her, that’s not going to happen.”

  “No, she and her fancy lawyer cut me out of his life, said I was crazy,” Morningside yelled. “After all I did for this country, my family doesn’t even want me.”

  “That’s not true,” Isabella said. “I just want you to get help, to get well.”

&
nbsp; “Think about it,” Mason said as he inched another step closer to the house. “You don’t want to hurt the mother of your child.”

  “Please, Lapu,” Isabella pleaded. “Turn yourself in. We’ll go for counseling and when you’re better, we’ll work out a way for you to see Jimmy.”

  “Do you hear her?” Mason asked. “She wants you to be part of the family. You’ve had a rough time. Don’t make it worse.”

  “It’s already bad,” Morningside muttered.

  Mason was so close now he could see Isabella trembling in Morningside’s hold. “It’s not too late for you,” he assured the man. “Just think about all the holidays to come. Don’t you want to be there for Jimmy on Christmas morning?”

  “If I turn myself in, I’ll be in jail, not with my little boy on Christmas.”

  “And if you don’t, your son might be left without a mother or father. Is that what you want for him?”

  A battle raged in Morningside’s eyes. The anguish of what he’d done and what he had become.

  “Please, put down the gun, and let Isabella go. Every little boy needs his mommy.”

  A pain-wrenched sob erupted from Morningside.

  Mason held out his hand. “Come on, Morningside, do the right thing for your little boy. Give him the family he deserves.”

  Morningside looked as if he was going to relent and drop his gun, but a noise sounded from the back, and he pivoted and fired his gun. Isabella screamed and dropped to the floor.

  Mason cursed and raced forward, then threw open the door. “Morningside, put down your weapon.”

  A quick glance told him Isabella was okay. Morningside swung around toward him, his gun raised.

  “What was that?” Agent Whitehead said into the mic.

  “A noise, then Morningside fired. Where’s the sheriff?”

  “I’m here,” McRae said. “It was just a dog in the trash.”

  “Relax,” Mason said softly to Morningside. “It was just a dog outside. Now put down the gun before someone gets hurt. Because if you shoot me, Morningside, you’ll never see your son again.”

  Of course he was going away for a long time for the bombing and endangering lives, and for murdering three other women, but Mason didn’t point that out.

  “Please,” Isabella said, rising to her knees. “Lapu, I don’t want to have to tell our little boy that his father killed a lawman.”

  Morningside began shaking then, his eyes clouding with emotions, and he started to swing the gun on himself.

  Dammit, the son of a bitch wasn’t getting off that easy.

  Mason jumped him, knocked the gun backward and they fought for it. A shot rang out and hit the ceiling, plaster raining down. Isabella ducked for cover behind the couch, and Agent Whitehead and the sheriff stormed in.

  Mason wrestled the gun from Morningside and tossed it to the side, then slammed his fist into Morningside’s face. Morningside spit blood, then Mason rolled him to his stomach and slapped the handcuffs on him.

  The bastard was going to jail.

  * * *

  CARA STIRRED FROM unconsciousness, her head throbbing. But her back was aching, as well, and her abdomen had seized into a tight knot.

  She opened her eyes and tried to look around, but the room was dark, and her vision was blurry. She tried to remember what had happened, panic choking her as she recalled going into Delia’s house.

  And finding her dead.

  Then the world had gone black.

  Nausea rolled through her, and she suddenly realized she was moving. She struggled to get up, but hit her head on something hard, and her hands and ankles were bound.

  Lord help her. She was in a car, in the trunk. The engine was humming, the heat seeping through the back, the tires grinding over the gravel.

  They were on a dirt road.

  Good God, Texas had tons of dirt roads that led to open spaces and deserted land.

  All places to hide. Or to kill someone and dump their body.

  A chill engulfed her as the images of the dead women flashed in her mind. He’d cut out their reproductive organs....

  But she was carrying a baby.

  Would he hurt her baby just to punish her?

  Another pain riddled her belly, and she choked back a panicked sob and tried to think.

  Who was driving the car?

  Mason was supposed to be on the reservation where Morningside was holding Isabella hostage. So if Isabella’s husband was on the res, who had kidnapped her?

  Had he escaped and killed Delia then waited to ambush her?

  The world blurred again as another pain struck her, and the car hit a pothole, one so deep she bounced and slid sideways, slamming her shoulder into the side of the trunk.

  Tears slid down her cheeks, fear robbing her breath.

  She wanted to hold her baby in her arms. To love her son and rock him and watch him grow up.

  Wrestling with a panic attack, she inhaled sharply. She couldn’t fall apart.

  Her son depended on her holding it together, so when the driver stopped, she could try to reason with him.

  But the image of Delia’s brutalized body haunted her, and she was terrified there was no reasoning with the man who’d slaughtered her.

  * * *

  AGENT WHITEHEAD and the sheriff quickly descended, and Sadie joined them to check Isabella for trauma and shock. Carter stood by Sadie’s side, a protective male over his new bride.

  Mason jerked Morningside up and hauled him toward the sheriff’s car.

  “You said you were going to help me see my son,” Morningside said, although an empty wariness filled his eyes.

  A twinge of sympathy surfaced, but Mason couldn’t allow emotions. Morningside had been hurt, wronged in the service, but he could have chosen help over the path of destruction he’d sought.

  “We’ll talk about that once I get your statement,” he said. “I want to know details about the bomb you threw into the Winchester Clinic, and all the women you’ve stalked and murdered.”

  “What?” Shock stretched across the man’s face. “I threw that bomb in the clinic, but everyone got out okay.”

  “You could have hurt Dr. Winchester and her unborn baby as well as the other patients and the assistant who worked there, a woman with a child that needs her just as much as your son needs his mother.”

  Morningside’s eyes flattened, a faraway look creeping into them as if he was reliving some other time.

  “They were the enemy,” he said, an odd screech to his voice. “They took my little boy away. We have to destroy the enemy.”

  “The other patients weren’t enemies,” Mason barked as he placed his hand on the man’s head and shoved him down into the back seat of the car. “And neither was Nellie Thompson, Yolanda Farraday or Angelica Mansfield.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Morningside fought the handcuffs, rattling them as he kicked at the backseat.

  “I’m talking about the other women you murdered,” Mason barked. “The ones you buried with the stones.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong.” Morningside balked again, his eyes wild. “I didn’t kill those women.”

  Rage fueled Mason’s temper. “You cut out their damn reproductive organs and left navel fetishes at Dr. Winchester’s.”

  Morningside shook his head in denial, then continued to shout his innocence as Mason slammed the door, locking him in the car.

  “You did a good job there, Detective Blackpaw,” Agent Whitehead said.

  “I just want a confession for those murders. I don’t want this bastard ever seeing the light of day again.”

  Agent Whitehead’s expression reflected concern. “Something’s not right.”

  Mason turned his back to the man who was ranting and beating at the window. “Don’t tell me you believe him.”

  She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “He’s definitely disturbed, and I heard him confess to the bombing, but I’ve been thinking about this. It’s unusual for a serial kil
ler to change his M.O. Morningside chose a public venue to make a statement with the bomb. That’s a totally different profile from a man who literally butchers a woman in cold blood and buries her in a ritualistic style.”

  Mason glanced at the car where Morningside was still vehemently denying the murder accusations, and cold fear knotted his insides. They’d found all those photos on his wall, which made him look guilty.

  And he’d been ready to beat the hell out of the man for a confession.

  But what if he was wrong?

  Sweat exploded on his forehead, and he gestured to the sheriff. “Drive him to the station and lock him up. I have to call Cara and make sure she’s okay.”

  Agent Whitehead stepped aside, and he punched in Cara’s number. Her voice mail clicked on automatically, which struck him as odd. Dammit, where was she?

  Frantic, he called Brody. “She’s not here, man. She left a note saying she was making a house call.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Couple of hours,” Brody said. “Why? Is something wrong?”

  Mason explained that they’d arrested Morningside, but that there might be a second suspect, that the Navel Fetish Killer might still be on the loose.

  “I’ll ride out and check her cabin,” Brody said.

  “Let me know if she’s there.” Mason paced by his car while the sheriff climbed in the front of the squad car and started the engine. But Agent Whitehead still looked worried.

  His mind raced with the possibilities. The clinic was closed, and Sadie Whitefeather was here. Maybe Sherese would know.

  He called her number, his heart ticking as he waited on the reply. Four rings later and Sherese answered.

  “Sherese, it’s Detective Blackpaw. Do you know where Cara is?”

  “One of our patients, Delia Nez, called in that her little boy was sick and she had car trouble and couldn’t make it to the clinic. Dr. Winchester drove out to see them.”

  Mason pinched the bridge of his nose. “Have you heard from her since?”

  “No.” Sherese’s voice cracked. “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Mason said. “Give me that address.”

  Sherese recited it, and he put it to memory and raced toward his car.