Heart instantly racing, blood rushing, lungs shrinking, she put the pedal to the metal.
The car’s high beams raced after her. It rammed her. Again. And again.
Her car skidded off the road into a ditch. She tried driving out, but the wheels spun. Shit!
Shit! Shit!
The car passed her, but then turned back around. The headlights went bright and almost blinded her.
She grabbed her phone, only to remember the dead zone.
Shit!
She glanced around and saw some lights behind her to the right. The junkyard. The sign was no longer flashing, but there were still lights on in a building behind the gate. Please God, let someone be there. Please God, let the gate be open.
Please God, don’t let me die.
She bolted out of her car and took off.
She heard a car door slam. She heard footsteps racing behind her. Heavy, mean footsteps thudding against the hard ground. Footsteps getting closer.
And closer.
She ran hard. Fast. Didn’t breathe. She ran like her life depended on it.
Because she was pretty damn certain it did.
• • •
Clay, standing under the spray of water, had just sudsed up his hair when he heard it. Crack. Pop. Squeal. Sounded like his front door slamming open, followed by a squeal from a dying squirrel. A feminine dying squirrel.
“Help me!” The two words came out half-screamed, half-breathless.
What the hell?
He bolted out of the shower, went to grab a towel, only to realize he’d left the towel and clean clothes he’d brought from the house in the bag beside his desk.
He tore out for the tiny bedroom, reached for his dirty jeans on the twin bed, but another scream, more desperate than the first echoed from the front office. Then a loud slam, bam, crash followed that sounded like someone had just broken down the door. Never mind that he hadn’t locked it.
The screamer must have.
Someone must be after her.
He snatched his gun, also on the lumpy mattress, and took off bare-assed and baffled.
As he cut into the hall, he heard another scream and a clunk as if someone was being slammed against a wall.
And yup, that was exactly what was happening. And that someone was a dark-haired woman small enough to be described as petite, and the man slamming her was a big guy who needed to be taught a lesson. Clay’s gut knotted.
“Stop right there!” Clay held out his gun.
Big and bald guy swung around, and when he did he pulled out a weapon. A .45 if Clay saw it right.
The minuscule increment of time stopped. Guns drawn, they stood there measuring each other. The guy’s size, a good three-hundred pounder, gave Clay a start. No doubt Clay’s nakedness did the same for the man.
“Drop it!” Clay spoke in his official-sounding police tone. His finger on the trigger tightened, but goddamn it, he didn’t know if he could pull it. The last time he had, he’d killed a kid.
Not an innocent kid, but a kid nevertheless.
Unfortunately, the big guy didn’t seem to have a problem. He lifted his gun. Clay dove behind the desk, and when he hit the floor, his weapon slipped from his grip and skidded across the room. The man fired his gun, and the bullet found a home in the wall.
The woman screamed.
Shit!
“What’s your problem?” Clay yelled to keep this asswipe’s attention on him and not the woman. He rolled to the edge of the desk and peered out cautiously. Big dude was focused on the other side the desk. The woman saw Clay, then he and she both saw the big guy aim his gun toward the desk.
“You’re my problem,” the guy spit out.
“No!” The brunette screamed and bolted forward and jumped onto the man’s back. Her legs barely wrapped around his middle. She latched one arm around his neck, and with her free hand scratched at the man’s face.
It wasn’t the best move, but it was the distraction Clay needed. He shot up and grabbed the guy’s wrist, pointing the gun away.
“Run,” he screamed at the woman still piggy-backing the guy.
But like most women Clay knew, she didn’t listen. If anything, she hung on tighter.
The asswipe, unable to see due to her hand and nails in his face, reached back with his free hand, grabbed her by her hair and flung her across the room. She flew like a rag doll and crashed against the wall. Clay saw her land, limp and possibly unconscious. Furious at himself for not shooting the bastard earlier, a wave of rage washed over him.
He always fought better when mad.
Still holding the guy’s wrist, forcibly pointing the gun away from him, and now the girl, Clay kneed him in the balls. The bastard dropped the gun and cupped his privates. Clay gave the guy his best right hook.
His best wasn’t enough. The bastard stumbled backwards, but didn’t fall. Clay’s knuckles throbbed, but then he saw the guy’s gaze shift to the gun. Clay dove for the weapon, got it, rolled over and aimed it. But the attacker’s back was to him as he ran out.
Gun tight in his hand, Clay bolted to his feet and raced to the door. He saw the guy sprint through the gate. A car sat right on the other side. Another one was in the ditch.
As angry as Clay was, he couldn’t shoot the guy in the back.
Holding the gun tight, in case the perp returned, he ran across the room to the woman. “Hey, you okay?”
She moved, attempted to sit up, but looked dizzy, disoriented, innocent. And beautiful.
“It’s okay.” He knelt down beside her, his gaze flipping from her to the door. He heard a car start up and tires squealing. “It’s okay. He’s gone.”
Her head dropped forward and blood, lots of blood, came pouring down her forehead.
“Shit,” Clay muttered.
Almost right beside her was the bag he’d brought from the house. He pulled out a towel and went to press it to her head.
She pushed it away. Her round blue eyes blinked. “You’re . . . naked.”
“And you’re bleeding. I’m going to look at your head.” He kept his voice calm, in spite of the fury roiling inside his gut. Fury at the bastard who’d hurt her. Fury at himself for not stopping it sooner. “Lean forward, okay?”
She nodded, but didn’t do it. He wasn’t sure if it was panic or the blow to the head. Either one wasn’t good.
He gently guided her head down and carefully parted her hair until he found the wound. The gouge was deep and wide and gushing. At the least, she needed stitches.
“It’s just a scratch,” he lied and pressed the towel to the cut. “Are you hurting anywhere else? Anything broken?”
“I don’t think so.” She didn’t sound certain.
“Who was that man?” Because no one was screaming or blaming each other for things, he didn’t think this was a domestic situation. This felt a lot more sinister.
“Don’t know, but . . .” She blinked. Blood flowed down her forehead.
“But what?” he asked, giving the door another check.
She shifted as if to get up. He stopped her and pressed the towel to her head. “No. Don’t move just yet. Okay? Look at me.”
This time she did as he said. “I’m testifying. I think . . .” A weak, scared little noise slipped off her lips. “He was going to shoot you. And me.” Tears filled her round, scared eyes.
“He didn’t.” Clay eyed the door and then put the towel in her hand. “Hold this to your head. Tight.” He moved her hand to her head. She held it there.
“You’re naked,” she repeated.
“I know.” He stood up. She looked away. “I’ll get dressed as soon as I call the police.” First, he moved to the door, which he noticed was half hanging off the wall. He peered out just to be sure the guy was really gone.
“Is that your car in the ditch with its lights on?” He glanced back.
She was staring at him, or his ass. “He hit my car and ran me into the ditch.”
She looked so small, so damn vulner
able and bloody, that he got pissed at himself all over again for not shooting that bastard the second he saw him pinning the woman to the wall.
“Dead zone.” Her voice shook. He heard her teeth chattering. Panic had set in. “My . . . cell wouldn’t work.”
“I have a landline.”
Her gaze shifted to the door. “He isn’t coming back, is he?” Tears filled her large blue eyes again. A couple slipped down her cheeks.
“No. He’s gone.” Clay moved to the desk and called 911. He stated he needed an ambulance and the police, gave his name, address, mentioned the junkyard, and said there’d been shots fired. They told him to stay on the line. He didn’t.
Hanging up, he found the paper he’d written Jake Baldwin’s number on and dialed it. One glance back at the woman trying not to look at him, and he set the gun down, grabbed the cowboy hat on his desk, and held it over his privates.
He was supposed to meet Jake at Bo’s Bar, only a few miles away, in ten minutes. That meant Jake should be on his way to this area. Jake didn’t cover Dolly, Texas, but chances were he knew who did.
It never hurt to have someone on your side. Even if you were on the right side of the law.
“Baldwin,” Jake answered the line.
“It’s me, Clay. Look, I . . . got a problem.” Cowboy hat still in place, his gaze found that problem again, she was visibly shaking and staring at his hat. “Some guy chased a woman into my office at the junkyard. He appeared to be . . . a professional, if you know what I mean.”
“Professional? You mean, hit man?” Jake asked, doubtful.
“Yeah.”
“Shit. Is she okay?”
“Nothing too serious. I called 911. The police and ambulance should be here shortly. Considering I’m new in town and have a weapon, any way you could come by here?”
“Hell, yeah. It’s the one located off Jack Rabbit Road, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m less than five minutes out.”
Clay hung up. He looked back at the woman. She’d dropped the towel, blood flowed down her face, and she hugged herself as if freezing. Hurrying, he set his hat on the desk, found the bag, pulled on his jeans without underwear and grabbed his gun. She watched him the whole time. Then he dropped down beside her.
“It’s okay.” He wrapped his arm behind her, snatched up the towel and held it to her wound. His other hand kept a tight grip on his gun. Every few seconds, he’d glance back at the door.
“I’m cold.” Her voice shook.
She leaned against him. The second that soft weight pressed to his bare side, he felt something turn inside him. It had been a hell of long time since anyone had leaned against him, since he’d taken care of anyone besides himself.
Her dark hair, like threads of silk, feathered across his bare chest. She felt so small, so vulnerable, so feminine, that he felt . . . more like the man he used to be before his wife had emotionally neutered him.
And while there was nothing exactly sexual about what he felt, he found himself looking at her left hand to see if she was taken.
The engagement ring, and not a small one, had him both disappointed and . . . relieved. As nice as it was to feel like someone’s protector, to feel more like his pre-divorced self, he knew he hadn’t completely stopped protecting himself.
“What’s your name?” When he glanced at her face, she had her eyes closed.
She didn’t answer. He recalled someone saying a person with a concussion shouldn’t go to sleep.
“Come on, stay awake, okay? Tell me your name. Tell me something about you.”
Chapter Three
Bundy loathed people who got in the way of his jobs. He’d run as fast as he could to his car, as fast as he could with his balls throbbing, his jaw aching, and two of his teeth rattling in his mouth. He was madder about getting his balls busted than about missing his shot. It hurt. And he remembered too clearly the times his father had inflicted that same pain.
He started the car and drove off as fast as possible. Wiping his face, he felt the sting on his face and his left eye. That bitch had done that. But damn, he’d planned on making it quick and easy. Now, she’d have to suffer. Like his dad had suffered.
And that man. The naked idiot. What kind of guy ran around naked? He’d have to pay, too.
It was a mile down the road when he realized he’d left his gun and slammed on his brakes. It couldn’t be traced back to him. But . . . he glanced down at the gloves on the passenger seat. He’d been about to put them on when she’d run from her car.
That meant the effing gun probably had his prints on it.
He’d screwed up.
• • •
“Hey, now you’re scaring me.”
She heard a voice, but not really the words. Had she fallen asleep? Where was she? Her eyelids felt so heavy. She kept her eyes closed but tried to think. Something had happened.
Something bad.
She felt cold.
She felt weak.
She felt dizzy.
Her head hurt. Her hand hurt. Her heart hurt.
Her heart?
She remembered. Charles had left her. Bethany and Savanna had accused her of not loving him. And damn it, they were right. Her heartache wasn’t about losing him, but about her lifelong dreams being pushed out of reach. Again.
She wanted a family. Like the family she’d lost. A mother. A sister. A daddy who gave a damn.
The mental fog continued to lift, and she remembered something else. Something really scary.
Someone had tried to kill her. Her lungs swelled. The big guy. The big guy with a spider-web tattoo whom she’d seen at Juan’s Place.
Someone else had protected her. A . . . naked guy? Was she dreaming?
The fog continued to rise. Realization set in. Someone had an arm around her. She felt... safe. Or safer.
“What’s your name?” The voice was male. Deep. Sexy. Texan.
She opened her eyes and looked over at the shirtless dark-haired, bright green-eyed—her gaze lowered—with-jeans-on man.
“You were naked,” she blurted out before she meant to.
“Yeah.” He smiled. “I was . . . in the shower. If you’d let me know you were coming, I’d’ve showered earlier.”
“I didn’t plan . . .” She saw his smile. Nice smile. He was joking. A flashback hit. Him holding a cowboy hat over . . . Then she recalled him naked and fighting the big guy. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“You saved me.”
His smile faded. “I should have done better.” Sincerity sounded in his voice.
She realized he was holding something to her head. She reached up to pull it away.
“Let’s keep this here. The ambulance should be here any second.”
Ambulance? The scent of old pennies suddenly filled her nose, and she felt a sticky sensation on her face and her hands. She looked down and saw blood. Lots of blood.
Bam! Another flashback shook her. A gun. She’d heard gunfire. Her heart took a nosedive.
“Am I shot?” She gaped up at him.
“No.” His voice, his gaze resonated tenderness. “You tried to save me. You jumped on the guy’s back and rode him like a bad bull.” A grin came through in his voice and then whispered across his lips. “You almost made it to seven seconds.”
She started to pull away but got dizzy.
The sound of a car pulling up seemed too loud. Tall, dark and Texan leapt to his feet. His warmth gone. Shivering, she watched him rush to the half-hanging door. He held a gun. Her heart did a few more marathon laps around her chest. It didn’t help when a bloody towel fell from the top of her head into her lap.
That was a lot of blood.
He glanced back. “It’s okay. It’s a friend of mine.” He stepped right outside the door. “It’s clear.” Her clothing-optional hero called out.
Dizzy again, Jennifer collapsed against the wall.
“Tell me it isn’t Jennifer!” a voice bellowed from o
utside the door.
A familiar voice. She was still trying to identify it when Jake, Macy’s husband—Macy being the newest member of the Got-Your-Back-Club—stormed inside. His gaze found hers, and he rushed over, knelt down, and took her hand. “I thought that was your car. Are you okay?”
“I think. Help me up.”
“No,” Shirtless Hero said, then he looked at Jake as if he’d misspoken. “It’s just . . . she was thrown pretty hard. Something could be broken.”
Jake nodded. “Clay’s right. Stay down. But talk. What happened?”
The story about seeing the guy at the restaurant, about having an appointment to see the B&B owner came out slowly. “He must have followed me.”
“Or there isn’t a B&B,” Clay said. Both Jake and Jennifer glanced at him. “I don’t know of a B&B anywhere around here, and considering everyone here knows this area has terrible cell reception, this whole thing could have been a ploy.”
Just freaking great. She really needed that job!
• • •
As the paramedics checked out Jennifer Peterson—Clay now knew her full name—he spoke with the county sheriff. He’d been right about Jake knowing the guy. It made things easier.
It shouldn’t surprise him that Jake knew Jennifer. Dolly and the surrounding towns weren’t Houston. People knew people. But how well did Jake and Jennifer know each other? Was the engagement ring on her finger from Jake?
While he and Jake had been pretty close going through the police academy, and even a few years afterwards, they’d lost touch over the last seven years.
As Clay answered the sheriff’s questions, his gaze kept shifting over to the paramedics to confirm Jennifer was okay.
When the sheriff walked away to speak to his deputy, Clay moved over by Jake, who’d hung close to Jennifer’s side the whole time.
Jake ran a hand over his face. “Damn, I’m glad you were here. No telling what would’ve happened if you hadn’t been.”
“Is she going to be okay?” Clay asked.
The Junkyard Cowboy (Tall, Hot & Texan Book 3) Page 3