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

by Christie Craig

  “Yeah,” Billy said.

  Of all the guards, Hal was the only one Billy liked. In his fifties, Hal reminded him of what a father should be. Once Hal had even shown him pictures of his grandkids. Billy wondered if the man’s family appreciated him, or if they took him for granted the way Billy had done with Mace. No more, though. Somehow he was going to make his sister proud.

  Hal’s gaze shot to the stack of books. “School going okay?” he asked.

  “Fine,” Billy grunted.

  He and Hal made their way down the prison halls, their footsteps echoing. The thrill of leaving for a few hours stayed with Billy until he crawled into the van and saw a tattooed forearm resting on the back of a seat. David Tanks glanced at him over a shoulder. The man’s sneer had 24-karat evil stamped all over it.

  “Heard your sis came by today,” the murderer whispered. “Heard she’s hot. I can’t wait to get me some of that. I’m going to fuck her hard, Billy boy—right before I slit her throat.”

  Chapter Two

  It was five on Tuesday evening when Jake leaned back in his chair and tried to clear the paperwork from his desk. He spotted the pad where he’d written down Ellie Chandler’s info. It had been a whole day, and so far he hadn’t done a thing with it. Yes, he’d told her she needed to go to Homicide, but his gut told him she hadn’t done it. He supposed he should follow up.

  He grabbed his cell phone and dialed. Ripping off the sheet of paper, he tossed it in the trash. He wouldn’t learn anything, but for his conscience’s sake he’d do it. Then he could forget the whole incident.

  “Sergeant Anders,” his buddy in Homicide answered.

  “Stan, it’s Jake. Look, I had this girl come in yesterday . . .” He gave Stan the short version, about arresting Tanks and adding a bit of male color commentary, including, “Gorgeous. Stacked. But the voice!”

  Stan laughed. “I don’t see a problem. Keep your tongue in her mouth or keep her mouth busy.”

  Jake grinned, finished his story, and asked if they’d had any headless corpses show up.

  “Didn’t you hear about the John Doe case?” Stan asked, the earlier humor missing from his tone.

  “Don’t yank my chain.” Jake leaned against his desk.

  “No chain yanking here. The body washed up in the Houston Ship Channel about six months ago. Clear Lake’s handling things. They still haven’t ID’d the guy. The body was in bad shape.”

  “Great.” Jake snatched the crumpled notepaper out of the trash can. It looked as if he and Miss Squeaky Voice were destined to meet again. Damn if he probably didn’t owe her an apology, too. Sons of Baptist preachers always apologized when they made mistakes.

  “Baldwin!” Donaldson barged into his office, his posture rigid.

  “I’ll call you back, Stan,” Jake said, and disconnected. He turned to his coworker. “What’s up?”

  “There’s been a prison break. A guard and an inmate were shot. Doesn’t look good for either one. Three other inmates escaped. Captain said you know one of them—David Tanks.”

  Jake sighed. Oh yeah. He’d definitely be seeing Miss Squeaky Voice again.

  • • •

  Leaving the library, Macy realized her day was about to get worse. She’d forgotten her cash bag, so she had to swing home to pick it up. The stop would make her five minutes late for work, which meant the assistant manager, Mr. Prack—the employees referred to him as something funnier, if a bit obvious—was going to give her hell. Ever since she’d turned him down for beers and a night in the sack, he’d been particularly hard on her. Yeah, she could slap a sexual harassment charge on him, but it would mean losing a job—a job close to home and with perfect hours. As long as the pervert kept his hands to himself, the verbal hell wasn’t enough to make her jump ship.

  Of course, he was the least of her worries. Macy’s heart and mind were stuck on Billy. Stuck on her inability to change his circumstances.

  Unlocking the door to her house, she stepped inside. A thump sounded. She paused and listened to the eerie hum of the old home. “Elvis?” Her voice vibrated in a strange silence. “Here, kitty, kitty.” She stepped farther into her living room, but the silence still felt too loud. Then she saw him. “Elvis?”

  Her long-haired gray tabby stood beside the sofa, near the coffee table. A candy dish and a few peppermints lay on the floor beside him. Macy had a big desire to fall on the couch, hug her cat, and have herself a good cry. And a peppermint.

  The blinking on her answering machine caught her eye. She gave Elvis a scratch, glanced at her watch, then hit the play button.

  “Hey, this is Ellie Chandler,” a voice screeched from the machine.

  Elvis hissed and darted out of the room. Macy flinched, but it was for a different reason than the squeaky, high-pitched tone. She hadn’t decided if she would or wouldn’t contact this woman. All that talk about danger had to be Billy’s overactive imagination, didn’t it? Then again, maybe she’d give the prison warden a call tomorrow. Just to give him a heads-up.

  Ellie’s voice continued. “Billy said to call. I think David is up to something. I went to talk to that cop, Jake Baldwin . . . He’s the cop who put David away. I thought maybe he might help, but he seemed more interested in my boobs than what I had to say. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s working for David. What a jerk. Not like your brother.” She paused. “I know you don’t know me from Adam, and it probably sounds crazy me falling for him while he’s in prison, but I just want you to know I love Billy. Really love him.”

  What kind of woman fell in love with inmates? Macy wondered. She herself had made some mistakes in her life, but none like that.

  Grabbing her moneybag, she darted out the door for work. She’d worry later. There was no time for it now.

  It wasn’t until much later that night that Macy had time to breathe, but she’d worried the whole time. She parked her Saturn back at Papa’s Pizza and sat listening to the final minute of the tape she’d recorded, her notes about constitutional law. Listening to tapes while she delivered pizza had saved her butt on finals before. Tonight, however, her heart wasn’t into it. She’d been preoccupied with Billy, with the fear she’d seen in his eyes. Her mind kept replaying images of pulling her four-year-old brother into her lap and saying, There aren’t any trolls, Billy. Really, they don’t exist. You don’t have to be scared. But had she been wrong?

  A knock at her window had Macy jumping off her seat. Sandy, the other female driver, smiled through the window. Macy got out.

  “Was I right?”

  Sandy, a single mom and college student, always wore a smile. If Macy had time, she figured they might actually become friends, but between school, work, family, and a few hours of volunteering at the church garden, time didn’t exist.

  “Yup. He was a big tipper. Ten bucks.” Macy adjusted her baseball cap, which advertised Papa’s Pizza.

  Sandy nudged her shoulder.” Told you. Did you loosen your buttons like I said?”

  “No. But I fluttered my lashes at him,” Macy teased. In truth, flirting didn’t appeal to her these days, not even for a big tip. They walked to the front door of Papa’s Pizza, where the smell of yeast and spicy tomato sauce hung thick.

  “Macy!” a voice called out.

  “Prick alert,” Sandy muttered.

  Macy dropped her pizza warmers on the counter. “Yes, Mr. Prack?”

  “Your mom’s called six times, said it was crucial you call her.”

  Macy remembered her cell phone was temporarily out of order. No money, no service.

  “Then some squeaky-voiced female called,” the restaurant manager snapped. “Seven messages altogether—and you know we don’t allow personal calls.”

  “Sorry,” Macy said. She turned to the cook, who slid a pizza onto a rack to cool. “Where am I off to now?”

  Mr. Prack leaned in. “Nowhere. Declare your bank and clock out. Call your mommy on your own time. And fix your hair, it keeps falling down. If you want to look sexy on the job, g
o work at a bar.”

  Macy ground her teeth. The more she considered, maybe this job wasn’t worth it.

  “I thought I got off first,” Sandy spoke up. “But I don’t mind working.” The last hour could gain a runner big bucks, and as a single mom she had it tough.

  “I’m fine with it if you are,” Macy said.

  As she wrapped things up, she thought about calling her mom. Or about not calling. Her mother would want a verbal report on the visit with Billy, but Macy hadn’t figured out how much to divulge. All her mom needed was another reason to cry.

  Just as she stepped toward the door, Anthony the cook called out, “Macy, I got two cheese pies we had to redo. Want ‘em?”

  “Thanks,” Macy said. She hadn’t had dinner yet, so she took the boxes and said her good-byes for the night. Maybe it’d be nice to go home early. Maybe catch the late-night news. Maybe she could catch up on last night’s lost sleep.

  But as she got into her car, she saw the scrap of paper she’d abandoned on the passenger seat: Ellie’s address.

  “I didn’t promise I’d go,” she muttered, gripping the steering wheel. Then again, what would it hurt to just talk to the girl? Maybe she could get some info that would help in her conversation with the warden tomorrow. And yeah, she had definitely decided to talk to the warden.

  As she pulled out of the lot, two cop cars pulled in. She hoped it was the Rude Police, arriving to arrest Mr. Prack.

  She soon parked in front of her brother’s girlfriend’s old frame house. The place looked about as “reasonably priced” as Macy’s rental. It was an old, not-so-good residence in a not-so-good neighborhood, where some not-so-good things happened to good people. Taking a deep breath, Macy remembered the squeaky voice on her answering machine.

  “You’re going to owe me big, Billy,” she muttered.

  As Macy stepped out of the car, she caught sight of the boxes in the back. An idea arose. If Ellie’s voice grew to be too much, one of these pizzas might shut her up.

  The night’s silence thickened as Macy walked up to the front door. In the back of her mind she heard Billy saying, I’m scared for Ellie—and you, too. The hairs on her neck did a little dance. Ignoring a tingle of fear, she knocked. No answer.

  Macy moved to the window and peered inside. A light beckoned from a room in the rear. Seeing it, she moved down the steps and ambled toward the back. The inky blackness reminded her of every horror movie she’d ever seen. Her foot banged into a metal trash can, sending up the smell of rotting fruit. A cat shrieked in the bushes next door. A dog barked. Fear fluttered in her stomach.

  Macy bit her lip and moved around a few flowerpots. “It’s nothing,” she muttered. Balancing her pizza in one hand, she put one foot in front of the other. The hairs on her neck did another prickle dance. The chorus of noise exploded again, only louder. A dog. A cat. Something like a kicked trash can. And . . . was that a man’s voice in the middle of the chaos?

  She darted up onto the back porch. Footsteps echoed behind her. Right behind her. She screamed. The pizza box flew up in the air. She jammed her elbow back and hit a solid male mass that didn’t budge. But she hit it hard enough that an oomph of air struck her neck. Chills tap-danced down her spine. She bolted off the porch and away.

  She’d barely hit the ground when someone snagged her arm. Her second scream pierced the night. No stranger to a man’s weak spot, she hiked up her knee. The mass she hit this time wasn’t so solid.

  “Son of a . . .” Her attacker’s grip weakened.

  Macy yanked free, and her hat went flying. Her assailant’s hand latched onto the front of her shirt. She heard her uniform buttons rip. She hiked her knee up again and hit pay dirt one more time.

  Her attacker cursed and started to crumple. But he didn’t fall alone; he took her down with him. Her body hit the ground with a thud. Hard. And before she could react, the man rolled over, pinning her to the ground with his body.

  “Police!” A voice yelled from the side of the yard. “Hold it right there.”

  Thank God! “Get him off me,” Macy screamed. Her attacker’s weight and warmth continued to suffocate her.

  “Don’t move,” her assailant hissed with puzzling authority.

  She stopped jerking and gasped for air. The man on top of her pushed up onto his elbow, allowing her breathing room. She focused on his scowl until the beam of a flashlight hit her eyes. The orb of light then lowered, and her attacker glanced down, following it. Macy’s own gaze shifted, and she saw what had drawn his attention. Her shirt lay open, her blue bra and chest spotlighted. She jerked to sit up.

  His hand shot out and pushed her back to the ground. “I swear, you knee me again and . . .”

  “You okay?” asked the man who’d claimed to be a cop. He’d walked up to the two of them.

  Was he blind? No, she wasn’t okay! “He attacked me!” she shrieked. She gave the self-proclaimed cop a quick once-over. He was blonde, about six feet. He wasn’t in uniform, but he had a gun and an official-looking flashlight. However, neither the gun nor the flashlight was aimed at her assailant.

  Nope. They were aimed at her.

  “Fine,” muttered the man on the ground beside her. He sat the rest of the way up.

  Macy reached to close her shirt, but the cop yelled, “Freeze!”

  Her attacker, who she was beginning to believe might also be a cop, shifted forward and pulled the garment closed. While the movement didn’t seem hostile, or sexual, his words weren’t exactly friendly. “You got any weapons on you? Any needles?”

  She managed to squeak out a no.

  He ran his big hands firmly down her black polyester pants to check for weapons. “She’s clean.”

  The flashlight moved from her eyes. Macy’s gaze flickered from the blonde with the gun to the dark-haired man she’d just kneed twice. Still grimacing, he pulled out a badge. She scanned it.

  “I didn’t know. You grabbed me and—”

  “I said, ‘Police.’“ He spoke between gritted teeth.

  “Maybe at the same time the dog barked and the cat howled.” She started to sit up.

  “Not so fast!” He pressed a palm on her leg. “Until I can stand up, you’re not moving.”

  The heat of his hand on her thigh zipped through her, and her breath caught. A cool April breeze hit her breasts, and she realized her shirt had fallen open again. His eyes shifted down. In spite of his orders, she yanked her shirt closed.

  “Who are you?” He raised his hand from her leg, and his gaze darted to her hat on the ground. Picking it up, he eyed the cap, and then his gaze shifted to her uniform. “I asked you a question,” he snapped.

  “Macy Tucker.” The idiot who just assaulted a police officer. I guess my brother’s not the only criminal in the family.

  As Macy sat up, the blonde cop stepped closer, his gun and light still in his hands. “You okay, Baldwin?” he asked.

  Baldwin? Ellie’s message rang in Macy’s head. Surely not Jake Baldwin?

  “You delivering a pizza to this address?” the dark-haired man asked.

  Macy’s panic inched up a notch. Had something happened to Ellie? Is that why the cops were here? “What’s going on?”

  “I ask the questions,” he replied. “Why were you sneaking— ?”

  “I wasn’t sneaking.” But her heart skipped a beat.

  He eyed her hat again. “So, you were delivering pizza?”

  She hesitated. She needed time to think, to rationalize. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was working with David. That’s what Ellie had said about Baldwin. What if she and Macy’s brother weren’t crazy? What if this was a dirty cop?

  “There’s a pizza over here,” the blonde officer said, flashing his light across the ground.

  Baldwin eyed her. “It’s late for a delivery, isn’t it?”

  Still clutching her shirt, Macy pondered the wisdom of lying to the police. “We’re open until midnight,” she responded. Not a lie.

  “Kind of strange t
hat no one’s home,” he accused. “Who ordered it?”

  “I . . .” Something about his eyes bothered her. They were either dark blue or brown, she couldn’t tell which, but she didn’t like the way they analyzed her or the way his gaze had shifted to her chest. And she remembered the feel of his body pressing her against the hard ground, causing things to tingle that hadn’t tingled in a long time, a not-so-subtle reminder that she hadn’t been close to a man in a long time. She definitely didn’t like this and didn’t want those tingles.

  More uncomfortable than ever, she stated another truth. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

  “Really? What’s your name again?”

  “Macy Tucker. And yours?” Don’t let it be—

  “Sergeant Jake Baldwin.” The cop pressed a fist to his thigh.

  Her hopes dashed, Macy’s heart pounded with indecision. Tell him the truth. Don’t tell him. What if he’s a dirty cop?

  “I’m sure you’ve got identification on you,” he said.

  “It’s in my car.” Her gaze shot back to the house. “Something happen here?”

  “Why don’t you get me your ID?” The cop got to his feet and motioned for her to do the same. Either she hadn’t hit her mark perfectly or he had balls of steel.

  Standing, blouse held tightly together, she walked to her car. There she used her right hand to dig her wallet from her purse. Her left hand kept her shirt closed. The blonde cop, standing under the spray of a streetlight, watched her with a keen eye, while Baldwin walked around her vehicle and studied the license plate, her hat clasped in his hands. He met her at the driver side door and took her driver’s license.

  “Why did you try to run, Pizza Girl?” He studied her license before returning it.

  “Because you scared the crap out of me,” she answered.

  “I told you I was police.”

  “And I told you, I didn’t hear you identify yourself. I heard the dog, the cat, and the trash can. Didn’t you hear the commotion?”

  “Maybe I did.” He set her hat back on her head and gave it a playful little twist. The action matched a suddenly playful look in his eyes.