The Junkyard Cowboy (Tall, Hot & Texan Book 3)

by Christie Craig

  She blushed. “Sorry.”

  He’d expected her to lie. The fact that she hadn’t surprised him. And impressed him.

  “It’s okay.” He grinned. “Live and learn. Next time I decide to save a damsel in distress, I’ll get dressed first.”

  A laugh escaped her lips. “I’m a damsel?”

  “Yup.” And there’s that smile again. She had that morning-after, still-in-bed-look he loved on a woman after spending the night with her. No make-up. No pretense. Only he hadn’t spent the night with this one. Well, not all night.

  Frankly, he hadn’t spent the whole night with any of the women since his divorce. And having a soft, naked woman next to him in bed as he fell asleep had been one of his favorite things in life. Damn his wife for taking that away from him.

  He wanted it back.

  Some day.

  She spoke up again. “Look, I think I said this last night, but it merits saying again. Thank you. I don’t even want to think what would have happened if you hadn’t been there. And I fully intend to pay for your door.”

  “Not needed. I just had to replace the hinges. Did it before I left last night.”

  “Did you have to hire a wrecker to get my car out? Do I owe you for that?”

  “No, I used my tractor to pull it out.”

  Another knock sounded at her hospital door. Clay looked back as Jake and Mark walked in.

  Clay nodded. “I brought her car.”

  “No problem pulling it out?” Jake asked.

  “No,” Clay answered.

  Mark looked at Jennifer. “How are you this morning?”

  “Better,” she said. “Tell me you caught the guy?”

  “Not yet, but thanks to Clay, we’ve got some good leads.”

  Jennifer’s gaze shifted back to him and smiled again in appreciation, then shifted back to Mark. “Are you going to send Grumpy Gus home with me?”

  “Grumpy Gus?” Mark asked.

  “The guy at the door. I tried talking to him this morning. He’s not friendly.”

  “Yeah,” Mark answered. “He’s not one of our more social butterflies. But no, he won’t be going home with you. He works for the department, and they won’t put anyone on your case until we prove it’s Mitchell. Getting him here for the night was a push.”

  “Then I guess you’ll just send a car by to check on me?”

  Clay sure as hell hoped that wasn’t their plan. He’d seen that guy up close and personal, and he didn’t look like a quitter. Clay inched closer.

  “No,” Mark said. “This time it’s a little more serious.”

  “I’ll lock my doors, keep my phone close—”

  “That’s not going to work.” Mark and Jake looked at each other as if they knew something else. “We just left your place. Someone broke in during the night.”

  “Broke in?” Her eyes rounded with fear. “Pumpkin?” she asked.

  “Your cat’s fine,” Mark said. “I took it home. But it’s clear you can’t go back there until we catch this guy. You can stay—”

  “No,” Jennifer said. “I know what you’re thinking. And no. I can’t go home with either of you.”

  “The guy tried to kill you.” Clay put in his two cents.

  Mark looked from him back to Jennifer. “We don’t—”

  “I can’t,” Jennifer snapped. “If it were just you, I’d say yes, but it’s not. It’s my friends. I mean, I like you guys, but you’re cops.” Her frown deepened. “Actually, if something happened to either one of you, Macy and Savanna would hate me, and I would hate myself. I’ve been down that road, and I’m not going again. So, no.”

  Mark’s frown deepened. “What we’re suggesting—”

  “I could rent a hotel. He couldn’t find me.”

  Mark’s jaw tightened. “It’s not safe for you to be by yourself.”

  Jennifer’s shoulders broadened, her chin inched up. Then her determined gaze shot to Clay. “How about him?”

  “What about me?” Clay asked.

  “You could watch me. You used to be a cop. If something happened to you . . .” she hesitated then frowned. “I would still care, but just not . . .”

  “That much.” Clay laughed. Jake and Mark coughed, attempting to hide their laughter.

  Jennifer rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “It’s okay.” Clay found it more humorous than insulting.

  “I’d pay you. Or better yet we could barter. I mean, no offense, but your office could use some work.”

  “Work?” Clay asked. “You mean cleaning?”

  She made a face. “No, I’m an interior designer. But I could help you clean some, too.”

  He lifted one brow. “It’s . . . it’s a junkyard.”

  “It’s still a business,” she countered. “And if it was well-decorated a client would be more inclined to pay more for your products. I’m not saying it’s your fault. Most men have zero sense of design.”

  “Which is mostly my point,” Clay said. “My clientele are men. They don’t care—”

  “Caring isn’t the issue. Just walking into a well-designed office will make them feel your product is more valuable.”

  Clay looked at the other two men for help. All they did was cough again. “Look, I don’t think . . .”

  “You need a color theme, a focal point. Add a little feng shui to the office, and it would look like a million bucks. I can already envision it in my head.”

  So could Clay, and it scared the hell out of him. A junkyard with pink ruffled throw pillows and candles.

  “It’s not that bad of an idea,” Jake said, which earned him a stern scowl from Clay.

  “It’s a junkyard,” Clay insisted.

  “No, I mean about her staying with you,” Jake explained. “You were right, there isn’t a B&B anywhere near your place, so the guy just set her up to go there probably because it’s isolated and has bad cell reception. He wouldn’t look for her there. And it’s not too far of a stretch from what you’ll be doing for the PI agency.”

  The hell it wasn’t. No way would Clay sign up to play bodyguard. Especially if the body was as tempting as Jennifer’s and reminded him of what he’d sworn he could live without for a while.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t even have an extra bedroom—”

  “I’ll sleep on the sofa,” Jennifer added. “And I could give your house a makeover, too. Please.”

  “The house isn’t . . . It’s an ol’ farm house.”

  “I like farms,” she countered. She sucked on her bottom lip then released it, and it came out all wet, red, tempting. “Please.”

  Caught in her pleading gaze, he felt the heels of his boots sinking into a pile of shit he’d unknowingly stepped in. He couldn’t do this. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  • • •

  Clay stormed into his house. Devil, Pete’s dog, crawled off the lumpy sofa and met him in the entryway.

  Clay stared at the dog and the lackluster house and called himself an idiot. Dropping his keys on the antique sewing machine, he stormed into his bedroom to snatch up any dirty underwear or socks lying around. No way in hell was he putting her on the sofa.

  But then he stared at the mismatched furnishings that probably wouldn’t cut garage sale quality. His gaze shifted to the bed, and he recalled he hadn’t really had a restful night of sleep in the thing. It wasn’t so much lumpy as it was just sunken in. He’d bet the thing was older than he was.

  He heard the front door open and close, and he shot out of the bedroom. Pete stood in the living room, shuffling through a handful of mail.

  “Electric bill came in,” Pete said opening the envelope. “Hopefully, we can get old man Perry to finishing paying for the two calves we sold him. That should take care of it. Or do you have an extra hundred bucks laying around?”

  That was the only good thing about this. Mark Donaldson assured him that he would be paid for his services. Only, he couldn’t tell Jennifer. And that somehow felt wr
ong.

  “Well, crappers. It’s a hundred and ten dollars. I told you not to run the air conditioner. You got that money?”

  Clay ignored Pete’s question and asked one of his own. “Is your mattress better than the one in my room?”

  Pete frowned. “Perhaps, but my bones are older.”

  Clay walked over to the room and opened the door. His inherited cowpoke, looking unhappy, followed him and stood by the door.

  Clay stared into the room and made up his mind. It wasn’t just the mattress. The furniture didn’t look as scratched and dented, even the paint job wasn’t as faded. But the two Playboy calendars nailed to the wall would have to go.

  “Well, your bones are going to have to get used to my mattress for a while.”

  “You’d take an ol’ man’s mattress right out from under him?”

  “I’m not taking it. Our guest is. You’ll move to my room.”

  “Our guest?” Pete asked.

  “It’s a long story.” Why the hell hadn’t I stuck to my guns and just said, “No”? Oh, yeah, because she looked at me with those innocent big blue eyes and said, “Please.”

  Clay ran a hand over his face. “Get anything you need from this room.” He looked back at the unmade bed. “Do we have a nice set of sheets?”

  “We got a clean set,” Pete said. “Not that those there are that bad. I changed them last week.”

  “Oh, hell,” Clay muttered. “I warned her.”

  “Warned who?’ Pete asked. “Wait. Her? Our guest is a her?”

  Clay’s mind raced with things he needed to do. Like make sure the bathroom was stocked with toilet paper. Oh, hell, did they own a towel that didn’t have holes in it? He needed to make a run to Walmart. His ten-thousand-dollar cushion just got smaller.

  “What in hells bells is going on?” Pete asked.

  Clay exhaled. He had to tell him. Yet he had to somehow convince the man that he couldn’t go blabbing this around town. Dolly, Texas wasn’t that far away from Pipersville, and it simply wouldn’t do for word to get out that she was staying here.

  In fact, Jake and Mark had suggested he tell anyone who asked that she was an old girlfriend from Houston. But he didn’t plan on lying to Pete.

  “Go grab the sheets,” Clay said. “I’ll get the broom and mop. While we clean, I’ll explain things.”

  Pete scratched his chin and eyeballed him. “Don’t know if I’m gonna like this.” He started out. “She’d better be pretty.”

  She was. Too pretty. Too soft. Too . . . everything.

  Looking at his watch, he recalled Jake saying it could be as late as six tonight before the doctor showed up to release her. Clay still started stripping the bed. Then he sniffed the bare pillow that looked as if it had outlived its time. It smelled like Devil, Pete’s dog.

  In a few minutes, the old man showed back up with a set of sheets. One look at the folded and faded cotton material in Pete’s hands told Clay that they’d seen better days. Add the fact that the pillowcases didn’t match the sheets, and he could only imagine what an interior designer would think of these accommodations.

  Pete met his gaze. “It’s got a little hole in it, but it’s at the foot of the bed.”

  Okay, towel, sheets and pillows. “This is not going to go well,” he muttered, then looked back up at Pete. “Do we have any Lysol spray?”

  “Don’t think so. I’ll check.” Pete started to leave then turned around. “Can she cook?”

  “I don’t know,” Clay said. “She’s an interior designer.”

  “A what?” Pete scratched his head.

  “She fixes up people’s houses.”

  “Well there’s a few fence posts loose out front. Not sure it’s woman’s work, though. Oh, hey, I finished off those leftovers. If we’re gonna have company, we should have some food in the fridge.”

  Clay closed his eyes. This really was going to be a disaster.

  Chapter Five

  Bundy pulled up in front of the house, congratulating himself for maintaining his calm. As a kid, he’d spent a lot of time praising himself, hoping to counter the degrading damage his father had done.

  Last night, he’d been so angry he hadn’t thought right. He’d gone to Jennifer Peterson’s condo. When she hadn’t been there he’d let himself in and tossed the place. It hadn’t been a smart move.

  But one he could recover from because he was thorough. He had spent the last three weeks dogging Jennifer Peterson’s steps. He knew her favorite restaurants. The park where she liked to jog. He knew where her fiancé worked. Hell, he even knew the woman that the idiot of a fiancé was screwing.

  Was the bastard blind? Jennifer Peterson was loads prettier than his little toy. Too bad he was going to lose her now.

  But of all the information he’d acquired, the best was that he knew where her friends lived. And when the shit hit the fan, women always turned to their friends. Even if they didn’t go stay with them, they knew where she was. All he had to do was convince them to tell him.

  When he saw someone pass in front of the window, he leaned forward and his bruised balls pinched in pain. Reaching down he gently tried to adjust them into a more comfortable position. As soon as he took care of Jennifer, he was going to take care of the guy who’d done this to him.

  Nobody bruised his boys. Not anymore.

  Focused on the window, Bundy saw someone walk past again. He’d been hoping to see Jennifer, but the big belly told him it was her friend.

  He exhaled. None of his jobs had included hurting a pregnant woman. It was too close to hurting a kid. He really preferred not to do it.

  But if she got in his way, or if she didn’t tell him what he needed to know, he’d do it. His name was Ted Bundy, wasn’t it?

  He’d prefer to wait until night, but damn it, he was tired of waiting. Chances were his prints were already loaded up on the database. They could know who he was. Or would soon.

  Which meant he would have to leave Texas. Start over somewhere else.

  Not really a hardship. It wasn’t as if he had anyone who cared. No friends. Not one person who’d miss him. Well, maybe his parole officer. Bundy could tell the man actually liked him. Or liked who Bundy pretended to be for his benefit.

  He looked back at the window, his impatience fading fast. He didn’t need to wait.

  He reached down for his door handle.

  • • •

  Jennifer was only slightly aware that the car had come to a stop. Not that she was asleep, just exhausted. She hadn’t slept last night and hadn’t even napped today. Every time she came close, she’d been jarred awake remembering being chased into the junkyard. The way she’d gotten her pulse down was to remember being saved by Clay Connors.

  Was that the reason she’d concocted this whole plan? He made her feel safe.

  Sitting up, she looked at the house. It was almost six in the evening, and the sun had already taken on a golden hue. Unfortunately, the good lighting didn’t help.

  Clay was right. It was an old farmhouse. A small, paint-chipped house with a wraparound porch. A wooden kitchen chair was positioned beside the door. At one time, she’d bet the place had been cute. Quaint. Like one of those rustic B&Bs people stayed at to remove themselves from real life.

  She just hoped this alternate life included running water. And electricity.

  Two trucks, one old enough that it matched the house and a newer black one, were parked on the grass of the side lawn. A few hundred feet away was a fence and a barn that looked in worse shape than the house. A couple of horses grazed in the fenced-in pasture.

  Something moving on the front porch brought her gaze back to the house. A dog, a very large, muddy-brown colored dog of indeterminate breed sat up. He had long ears, short hair in places and long hair in others. Some of it looked wiry, some soft. He stood, stretched, and stared at the car as if debating if they were barking worthy.

  Jake gazed out the windshield then looked back at her, his forehead baring concerned wrinkle
s. “You know, if you prefer to stay—”

  “No,” she answered before he said it. The farther away she was from her friends and their families, the better. She didn’t want any of this to bleed over onto the people she loved.

  “Clay’s a nice guy,” Jake said. “I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I didn’t think—”

  “I know.” Not sure how she knew, but she did. Bad people didn’t make you feel safe. Did they? Oh, hell, it was too late to have doubts.

  “But I hadn’t seen the house,” Jake finished.

  “It’s fine. I’m not a prima donna.” The first sixteen years of her life, she’d lived in a trailer.

  Right then the front door opened and a wiry little old man sporting a head of thick gray hair walked out. His jeans were worn, his red-checkered shirt looked faded. His belt buckle was the biggest thing on him. He wasn’t wearing a hat, but still looked like the epitome of an old cowboy.

  Clay followed him out onto the front porch. The second she saw him, or maybe the second she felt his eyes on her, her breath caught in her chest. He wore the same clothes as earlier, but for some reason, standing on the old farmhouse porch, he seemed taller, stronger, more . . . masculine.

  She pushed back the feminine assessment and reminded herself that he wasn’t what she was looking for. And she was done playing the odds. She needed protection until Jake and Mark caught this guy, or until after the trial. And Clay had done a pretty good job of that the night before. As logical as those thoughts were, she realized how illogical she’d been.

  Instead of studying the back of her eyelids on the drive here, she should have taken the time to ask Jake some questions about her bodyguard. Not because she didn’t trust him, but because it was awkward staying with a stranger.

  “Is that his dad?” she asked.

  “No. His dad died when he was in the academy. He mentioned his grandfather’s friend worked for him. I’m guessing that’s him.”

  “Is he new in town?” she asked, hoping that might explain the condition of the house.

  “Yeah, he’s only been here a couple of weeks. He inherited the place from his grandfather.”