Trouble With the Law

by Becky McGraw

  “Sean’s wife. You want to know who S.C. is? Well I can tell you who it isn’t—Sean Collins. I’m going to get their financial records to prove it.”

  “You’re dead, Trace,” Ronnie said flatly. “You can’t go anywhere, or someone is going to see you. We’re too close here for you to risk that.”

  Ronnie was right. If Carrie saw him she probably would call the police. She hated him. Her giving this box to Seth to give to him did not mean she had forgiven him. It only meant that she wanted it out of her sight, because it reminded her of Sean. Of Trace and his connection to her dead husband.

  Trace sat back down at the table and the long slow roll happened again. Trace growled and took out his pocket knife. He stuck it in the slot on the lock and twisted forcefully. The lock didn’t give, so he twisted in the other direction. Something popped and the lock hung in the hole. He tried to pull the latch over the lock, but it wouldn’t fit. Taking the blade of his knife, he shoved it behind the face of the lock and drove the heel of his hand against it. The lock popped off, bounced on the table then fell on the floor. Trace laid down the knife and his hand shook as he flipped the latch upward.

  The lid squeaked as he pushed it back on the hinges and his heart sped up in his chest. He picked up the baseball that was signed by all the members of their championship police league team six years ago. Spinning it around, he read the names and his eyes burned. At least two of those guys were dead now. One was a beat cop who was taken off guard in a traffic stop, and the other one was Sean. Senseless tragedies.

  Sean had been the pitcher for their team. It made sense that he would keep the ball, and that it would mean a lot to him. That he gave it to Trace meant a helluva lot to him. Emotion clogged his throat as he sat the ball back in the box. He moved his thumb, and something caught his attention. One of the names appeared to be crossed out. He picked it up again and examined it closer. Thumbing away a dirt streak that partially occluded the name, he realized Sean had crossed out Seth’s name from the ball.

  Seth isn’t on our team anymore. It was almost as if he heard Sean whisper that message in his ear. Emotion built like a powder keg inside of him, Trace gripped the ball in his hand tightly, and a roar exploded from him as he reared back and threw it as hard as he could at the wall across the room. It ricocheted off of the cold concrete blocks then pinged on the walls around the room until it stopped.

  That is what Sean was going to tell him the night he died. Sean was killed by a service revolver. With a bullet the same caliber as the one that Trace carried. And it wasn’t any damned wonder. Seth Copeland didn’t have the flu that night. He had to kill Sean to keep him from talking.

  “Have you lost your frigging mind?” Ronnie asked breathlessly. “You could have hit one of us.”

  “No, I think I finally found it,” Trace replied as he sat the ball aside, and took out the key from the bottom of the box. He weighed the key in his hand, then closed it in his fist. It was a key to his old locker at the station. Those were the only two things in that box, but Sean had known he would get it. And he did. Seth had set him up.

  It had been Seth who tipped off Ray Brown that he was at his sister’s house. It had been Seth who put that bag of drugs and money into his locker. It had been Seth who took those bribes from Leland. Because instead of fighting to take down that drug ring, he was taking bribes from Leland Rooks to give them information.

  That information led to Sean’s death. For fucking money. Well, Seth Copeland was going to pay for killing Sean, but Trace wasn’t going to be asking for money. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath then stood. “Seth Copeland is a dead man,” he announced in a choked voice. He met Ronnie’s eyes. She looked like she did think he’d lost his mind. “I’m going back to jail, but I’m going to deserve it this time.”

  He staggered around the table, but before he got to the door, it flew inward and Dave walked inside.

  “I got a call from the lab,” he said in a voice as close to excited as Trace had ever heard Dave Logan use. “They found prints on the zip lock and paper bands Conner Lucas dropped off on his way out of town.”

  “Did they identify them?” Ronnie asked leaning back in her chair to look at him.

  “They did.”

  “And? Do I have to beat it out of you?” Ronnie asked leaning forward in her chair looking like she was about to get up and do that.

  “They ran it through the criminal record database and got nothing. I told them to try the CHL database, and then the department database for Amarillo police employees. They hit pay dirt,” he said smugly. Dave surprised Trace by smiling, as he announced, “The partial print they found on the bag of drugs belongs to Detective Seth Copeland. And the full thumb print on the money band belongs to one Senator Leland Rooks who is the proud owner of a concealed handgun.”

  Allison Rooks whimpered, Lou Ellen let out a country girl whoop, and Trace felt like his knees were going to buckle, so he grabbed the table and rested his butt on it. Ronnie put her hand on his knee. “That is the best damned news I’ve had in four years,” she said with fierce relief in her tone. Ronnie pushed against his knee to stand and walk over to hug Dave Logan’s waist. “Thank you.”

  “Thank Conner. He’s the one who thought about getting the old evidence tested. I just gave him the name of a lab I work with.”

  She leaned back and looked up at Dave. “No, thank you for everything. We couldn’t have figured this out, survived long enough to figure it out, without your help.”

  Ronnie tiptoed and kissed Dave’s cheek and his face flushed. “You’re welcome,” he said gruffly and pushed her away. “Right is right, and wrong is for nobody,” he said with a soft smile. “Someone told me that once.”

  “I think that was me,” Ronnie volleyed back with a return smile. She sucked in a breath then turned toward Trace. “All we have to do now is get this evidence to Susan Whitmore in the morning, and I think that will wrap things up. I’m also going to file a petition to have your conviction overturned. If they give me crap, I’ll go to the governor. I’m not shy.”

  Things had turned around so quickly, Trace’s head was spinning. He was too stunned to speak, so he nodded. Ronnie walked up to him and put her hand on the side of his face. “Cat got your tongue now?”

  He turned his face and kissed her wrist. Ronnie swiped his cheek with her thumb then leaned toward him to kiss the same place. She kissed lower, until her mouth brushed his at the corner. Trace woke up and with a growl, he pulled her to him for a desperate, needy…thankful kiss.

  At sunrise the next morning, Trace sat at a table in the kitchen of the housing trailer Dave had let them use the night before sipping a cup of coffee. He hadn’t been able to sleep last night he was so excited. And he hadn’t been able to make love to Ronnie, because the sleeping arrangements were barrack-style bunk beds in a common bedroom.

  Today he would finally clear his name. Today, his father was going to be taken down. Today, Seth Copeland would learn a lesson about being a dirty cop. The same lesson he had set Trace up to learn four years ago.

  Today was the first day of his life as a free man. And he owed it all to the redhead who walked into the kitchen in the stiletto heels and red power suit. He owed Ronnie Winters his life. He would never be able to repay her.

  But there was one thing he could do. That was let her go.

  As much as he wanted her, needed her—loved her—after this was over today, he was cutting her loose. He had all night to think about it. Hanging onto her, trying to keep her isolated out in the country where she was out of her element, denying her talents to other wrongly accused people, would be a travesty. The world needed Ronnie Winters to defend them. Righting wrongs and standing up for what was right is what Ronnie Winters was born to do. What she’d spent her life training to do. Trace wouldn’t be surprised if there was an S under that silky white blouse she wore.

  Staying in town, living in her world, wasn’t an option for him either. Once he had his freedom again, he was
going to find some space. Somewhere he could think and enjoy the life he’d reclaimed. That place was not in the city, in the fast lane he’d lived in for too long. Even with the stress he’d been under out at the Diamond Bar Ranch, he remembered again how much he loved working with his hands, living in the country, working with animals at his grandfather’s ranch when he was growing up. It was simple, honest work. Exactly what Trace needed to soothe his soul.

  “Morning, beautiful,” he said taking a long sip of his coffee.

  Ronnie poured herself a cup of coffee and walked over to sit at the table with him. “Morning, handsome,” she said with a smile. “Are you excited about today?”

  “You have no idea,” he replied, taking another sip of his coffee. “I couldn’t sleep last night, but I noticed you did.”

  “Like a baby. It was the first good night’s sleep I’ve managed in three weeks.”

  “You ready for today?”

  “Susan Whitmore better be ready,” she said cockily. “I’m about to hit her with both barrels between the eyes.”

  Trace laughed. God, he wanted to go just to see the Shark Lady confront the Barracuda. It would be a fight to the finish, he was sure. He had no doubt Ronnie would win, but Susan would give her a run for her money. “Just stay out of her reach,” he warned with a grin.

  “Damn, I love seeing you smile again,” Ronnie said and her face turned pink.

  Ronnie Winters blushed. Trace was so shocked he grinned wider. “You’re pretty when you blush, but you better not do that around Susan. She’ll eat you alive.”

  Ronnie cleared her throat then put on her Shark Lady face. Arrogant, confident and so damned sexy he wanted to drag her onto his lap and fuck her senseless. “I promise she’d choke. I’m not sweet or tender,” she said.

  Trace reached across the table and thumbed the corner of her pinched mouth. “I beg to differ, ma’am. That is the sweetest mouth I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Spicy,” she corrected and leaned her head against his hand.

  “Sweet and spicy,” he agreed, stroking his thumb over her lower lip.

  She jerked her head back. “You’re going to ruin my lipstick. Back off. No kissing right now,” she said gruffly.

  “I remember you liking it when I ruin your lipstick.” He’d had it all over his face too when he kissed her in the bedroom at the lodge.

  “Don’t distract me right now. Dave and I need to get going soon, so I don’t have time to fix my face again. I promise there’ll be plenty of time for kissing later.”

  Trace dropped his hand back to the table and cupped it around his coffee mug. No there wouldn’t be. “Ronnie we need to talk.”

  “Not now!” she hissed, as she slid back her chair to stand. “I need to focus, Trace.” Ronnie began pacing behind her chair. “This is too important for me to fuck it up.”

  “Chill out, Red. You have this,” he said with a laugh. “And whatever you do, don’t drink any more coffee.”

  Ronnie huffed out a breath, and sat back down. “I’m sorry, I’m keyed up. I want to get this over with.”

  So she could get back to her life. The one that didn’t include him. “Ronnie, I…” he started, but Dave Logan walked into the kitchen. Now wasn’t the time, he thought and held his tongue.

  The man must not own anything but camo and black t-shirts, Trace thought. Trace had a lot of room to talk about fashion right now. He was still wearing the same jeans and shirt he’d pinched from Caleb the night of the party. Last night. Jesus, it seemed like centuries had passed in the last twenty four hours. He almost wished that were true. Because if time passed in those increments he’d have a lifetime with Ronnie.

  Trace stood when Ronnie did, and her eyes met his. “Good luck, Red,” he said with a smile.

  She snorted and gave him that haughty look he knew well. “I don’t need luck. I’m the best, remember? We’ll call you when it’s over.” She bent and picked up the black satchel. Dave picked up the files and her notebooks.

  “Well, kick butt and take names, then, Shark Lady,” Trace said as they walked toward the door.

  “Now, that we can do,” Ronnie said with a laugh and a last glance over her shoulder.

  An hour later, Trace was cooking breakfast when his mother walked into the kitchen. She walked up behind him and put her arms around his waist. After a quick squeeze, she stood to the side, leaning against the counter. “Today is going to be a good day,” she commented and he could hear the happiness in her tone. “The best day I’ve had in a long time.”

  “Me too, Mama,” he said and flipped the egg he was frying in the skillet. “You hungry?”

  “I could eat something,” she said with a laugh. “But I’m not sure I’ve ever had anything you cooked. I wasn’t even sure you were paying attention when I taught you how.”

  “I was paying attention,” he said and met her eyes. “I always pay attention to what you have to say. You’re a smart woman.”

  Allison laughed, but her eyes got serious. “That woman is smart too, son.”

  Trace knew she was talking about Ronnie. “I know, but she’s not the one for me.”

  “You could do a lot worse, and I think she loves you.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It also doesn’t matter if I think I love her either. We’re too different, and want different things.”

  “What do you want?” She asked and watched him baste the grease on top of the egg.

  “I want to be a rancher like grandpa. I want to work with my hands and have the space to breathe. Somewhere to start over.”

  “Done,” Allison said. “Your grandpa’s spread is yours.”

  His heart tripped in his chest and Trace’s eyes flew to hers. “You sold it, Mama.”

  “It’s for sale again,” she said with a soft smile. “And it’s yours.”

  Emotion closed off his air, as the spatula dropped from his hand and clattered on the stove. Everything in the world he’d ever dreamed of was right there. “Oh god, Mama…” he said sucking in a shuddering breath. He’d been living in hell for the last four years, and now he was going to live on his grandpa’s ranch. His ranch. He was going to be a rancher. “I don’t know what to say,” he said and hugged her to his chest.

  “Just say you’ll stay out of trouble out there, and I’ll be a happy woman. This has been too much, son.”

  “I agree,” he replied. But it was almost over. And he was going to stay as far away from more trouble as a man could get. His grandpa’s ranch was at least twenty miles from the nearest town. His little slice of heaven. His happy place. His own ranch. “I love you, Mama. You always know what I need. Thank you for not giving up on me.”

  She laughed. “Like that was going to happen. I knew something smelly was going on and that your damned daddy was behind it all. I’d like to kill that man. He’s lucky I didn’t just put a pillow over his head in his sleep and help us all.”

  “Prison isn’t fun, Mama.”

  “Seeing you in that ugly orange color is the only thing that kept me from it. I look awful in orange,” she said with a watery chuckle.

  “He’ll get his,” Trace assured her. Because Ronnie Winter’s was at Susan Whitmore’s office right now driving nails in his coffin. Adding bars to his prison cell. Trace didn’t give a damned which was the end result. Either way he’d never have to deal with the man again. And neither would his mother.

  Trace was in the living room pacing in front of the television. The stupid sitcom on the television that usually had him laughing wasn’t even penetrating the thick fog of worry that clouded his brain. It was almost dusk and he hadn’t heard a word. He’d called Dave’s cell phone at least twenty times and he hadn’t answered.

  His mother and Lou Ellen were taking a nap, and all Trace had to do was listen to the tick of the clock on the wall and keep an eye on the TV for any news breaks. Nothing. If they didn’t get back soon, he was going to wear the soles out of his borrowed boots. He heard a loud squeal and rattling outside the trailer, so he
ran to the window and saw the automatic gate opening. Trace ran to the door and flung it back on its hinges.

  Two black SUVs rolled through the opening and Trace’s heart sped up. Behind them were two police cruisers, and another black SUV. Suspicion tickled his brain. What if Dave and Ronnie had double crossed him, cut a deal to turn him over to the feds? Maybe they hadn’t been able to convince Susan to drop the charges against him, and they had to turn him over to avoid charges themselves. Susan was a tough woman, he knew that. He had a bad feeling she wasn’t going to be easy to convince.

  Trace stepped out onto the porch, so he had room to maneuver in case that was the situation. In his mind he worked out a plan. In for a penny, in for a pound. What the hell did he have to lose? He watched to see who was the driver of the lead SUV. That man would have the keys to the vehicle. But the man put the SUV in park and Trace didn’t see him take the keys out of the ignition. He got out of the vehicle quickly and shut the door.

  Even better.

  A blond woman he recognized as the Barracuda herself stepped out of the passenger’s door and slammed it. Her serious blue eyes met his and a chill raced down his spine, as she took even strides toward him. The back door of the SUV opened and his eyes tracked there over her shoulder. Relief washed through him when Carlos Ramos moved around the door and shut it. His arm was in a sling, and he wasn’t wearing a suit. Carlos wasn’t dead, and he was evidently on the mend. He even tilted his chin at Trace as he walked toward the porch.

  Movement on the other side of the SUV caught his eye and he looked over there. A red suit, auburn hair, then a broad smile made his shoulders relax a little when Ronnie walked around the front of the vehicle. She was smiling, that was good right?

  “Trace Rooks?” Susan said gruffly as her foot landed on the bottom step.

  Trace could barely hear her voice over the pounding in his ears. It was all he could do to shove words past his constricted throat. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Susan stuck her hand out to him. “I want to thank you.” Shock rocked him and it took a second for him to move to shake her hand.