Her Heart-Stealing Cowboys [Hellfire Ranch 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Jennifer August

  “Whitty!” Tag barked.

  The man clamped his jaws shut and looked down at his shiny shoes.

  Tag felt like he’d just smacked a puppy but he didn’t have time to soothe the old man’s bent nose.

  “Tag, did you hear that?” Deputy Carson asked. She was frowning at the door. One hand was on the knob but the other was on the butt of her weapon. She’d dropped into a defensive stance.

  He stiffened. “Hear what?”

  “I don’t know. A sound from inside maybe? A squeak or screech or something?”

  Tag shooed Whitty out of the way and to a safe spot then pulled his weapon and positioned himself on the opposite side of the door.

  “Open it,” he said grimly.

  She pushed the door open. Nothing happened.

  “On three,” he mouthed to Carson.

  She nodded and he lifted his hand to count them in.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  He swung into the doorway crouched low, gun held steady. The air inside the room was dank and foul, like fetid pond water in the middle of a blazing summer. The closet door was bent open, which partially obscured his view. He leaned to the side and visually scanned the room but didn’t see anything. At the back of the small space the curtains twitched and flapped.

  “I’ll go in first,” he whispered to Carson. “Cover me.”

  Again she nodded.

  He rose but remained as hunched as he could and stepped inside. The bathroom door was closed so he flattened against the small corner leading into the main room and scooted down. Gun at the ready, he poked his head around the corner then yanked back.

  He stood. “Clear,” he whispered. He motioned to the bathroom door. Carson eased next to him. Tag grabbed hold of the knob, twisted it, and shoved inward. The dark room was hard to see into and he flipped the light switch. The shower curtain was pushed to the back wall in a crinkle of plastic. The tub was empty.

  “Clear,” he said again.

  He moved toward the back of the room with Carson hot on his heels. There was something about the window that didn’t look right.

  He heard Boone and the techs arrive then move into the room.

  “God, it reeks in here. Fischer never knew how to keep anything clean,” the FBI agent said.

  Tag pulled open the curtain, conscious of Carson’s weapon pointed steadily over his shoulder. He sure as hell hoped she didn’t have to shoot, because he’d end up deaf for days.

  The open window stared blankly back at him. The sash was up far enough to let a man get through. Tag cautiously poked his head out the window and looked up and down the sidewalk and parking lot.

  He didn’t see a damn thing except a few cigarette butts and the window screen.

  He eased back inside. “Boone, get your people over here and see what they can find. I think our perp might have been in here.” He frowned as he re-holstered his weapon. If the sound Deputy Carson heard had come from inside the room then it was likely the guy was still on the premises.

  “Boone, you got this?”

  The FBI agent looked up from his discussion with a blue-jumper-clad technician. He scowled. “What? You’re leaving? You got a hot date?”

  Tag hesitated but time was fast slipping away. “Carson heard something just as we opened the door. I think he got out through that window. If he did, there’s a chance he’s still around somewhere.”

  “And getting away quick,” Boone said. He looked back at the tech. “I’ll leave Deputy Carson here for you while you process the scene.”

  “But—” the deputy in question protested.

  “Stay, Carson,” Tag said. “We need to check this out but I need someone I can trust back here.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Tarah, the tech said. “Appreciate your vote of confidence.”

  Tag didn’t bother to respond but headed for the door with Boone fast on his heels. They hurried down the hallway and to the back door where they spilled into the parking lot.

  “Damn, he could have gone anywhere,” Tag muttered.

  “Yep. Wonder if he had a car?”

  “Maybe.” Tag looked up at the building. The second floor was only accessible through the elevator or stairs found inside the building. “No one came in the main hallway while we were there so it’s a good bet he went elsewhere.”

  Tag rushed down the hall toward the front door and pushed through into the blazing sun. He shaded his eyes and scoped out the parking lot and street in front of the hotel. He didn’t see a thing.

  Boone cursed and re-holstered his gun. “Son of a bitch got away.”

  Tag also holstered his weapon. “Damn.”

  They trudged back to the hotel. Tag stiffened as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer lighting and he caught sight of Donald Alcott leaning against a soda machine. The young man straightened and headed for them. He walked like a man with purpose.

  Irritated heat pricked the back of Tag’s neck.

  “Sheriff, I heard there was some excitement here.”

  “Yeah? How’d you hear that?” Tag headed for Fischer’s room without stopping to listen.

  The determined reporter dogged his steps. “It’s what I do. Is this related to the murder in your jail?”

  Tag whirled and came close to snagging the man’s shirt in his fist. Boone was at his side instantly with an expression that warned him not to do anything stupid.

  Tag glared down at the younger man. “Ongoing investigation. No comment.” The words were difficult to get out through the tight clench of his jaw but he managed.

  The reporter reached out and grabbed his arm. Tag stared down at the hand. He noted the ragged fingernails and ink-stained skin. The rounded part of a bandage looped over his wrist. He wore a watch, which surprised Tag. He figured most people under the age of forty used cell phones as timekeepers.

  He counted to ten.

  “Remove your hand,” he said softly.

  Alcott’s fingers quickly lifted. “Sorry, Sheriff. I just wanted to get some information. The public has a right to know.”

  “Go on, kid,” Boone said. “You’re in the middle of an active crime scene. You get any closer and we’ll have to charge you.”

  The man’s eyes went flint hard. “With what?”

  Boone’s smile was as equally hard. “Assault for one thing. You laid hands on a law enforcement officer.”

  “But that’s not fair,” Alcott cried.

  For once Boone’s implacable face made Tag want to grin. He hoped the reporter was about to pee his pants.

  “Fair is a myth. I’m sure we can think of a few more things, too. Enough to get you out of our hair for a while.”

  Tag snorted and turned away. He made a beeline for the room. A jaunty whistle echoed at the far end of the hall. Tag looked up and saw Charles Reynolds come down the stairs. He stopped and stared at the open doorway of Fischer’s room then at Tag. His face quickly became alarmed.

  “Is everything all right, Sheriff?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Please go about your business.”

  The man remained at the foot of the stairs. “Should I go back up?” he asked. “I can take the stairs at that end.” He pointed toward the other side of the hotel.

  “No,” Tag said. “Just stay close to the wall and don’t touch anything.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man inched his way into the corridor and stopped at the open doorway. He craned his neck to look inside. “What’s going on anyway?”

  “Move along, sir,” Tag said. His irritation was growing faster than a suckling pig on a sow’s teat.

  “Certainly.” He started to leave then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “Sheriff, I know this isn’t exactly the best time to ask, but I was wondering if I could have a few moments of your time in the next couple of days?”

  Five. Six. Fuck. “What for?” he asked with a bite in his voice.

  The man grinned and swelled his barrel chest out. “You may have heard that I’m working on an autob
iography of Alfons Huber. Did you know he designed your office and jail cell?”

  Tag blinked. “No, I didn’t.”

  The man’s crew cut head nodded. “Yes, he did. I was wondering if I could come in and take a few pictures and talk to you about the effectiveness of the space?”

  “Effectiveness?”

  “Yes.”

  The man stepped forward but Tag held up his hand. “Stay against the wall, please.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” He flattened his back to the wall again. “I’d like to know what renovations have been made to the building over the years. Not that I expect there to be many. He was a very good architect, you know.”

  Tag rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Contact my office for an appointment.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff. I’ll let you get back to what you’re doing.”

  Tag started to turn then hesitated. “Mr. Reynolds,” he called out.

  The man turned around. “Yes?”

  “How long have you been in Freedom?”

  “A week or so. Maybe eight days.”

  “Where were you this afternoon?”

  A frown creased his forehead. “Why?”

  For the first time, Tag caught the underlying tone of a faint German accent. The single word also held wariness.

  “Just answer the question,” Tag said.

  The frown grew deeper. “Well, I spent most of the day in town visiting various people asking about Huber. I did some research in the library and at city hall. I had a beer this afternoon at the Chrome Barrel and dinner at the Tin Star—I saw you there, remember?”

  “Did you give blood?”

  The blond man’s face paled and Tag felt a momentary stab of empathy.

  “No,” Reynolds said. “I hate needles.”

  Me, too. “When did you get back to the hotel?”

  Reynolds glanced at his watch. “About an hour ago.”

  Tag noted the man’s comments. “So five forty-five? Where is your room?”

  “That sounds about right. I’m on the second floor. Room 224.”

  “Did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary while you were here in the last hour?”

  The man’s lips pursed and he tapped a finger to the side of his nose. He shook his head. “No, sorry. I took a nap and watched a little television.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “I like to watch Judge Judy every once in a while.”

  Tag grunted as he flipped his notebook closed and shoved it in his pocket. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Reynolds. You’re free to go.”

  The man lingered a moment longer. His gaze strayed into the room. “Well, good luck.”

  He walked slowly down the hallway and pushed out of the building.

  “Tag, get in here,” Boone said.

  Tag stomped to the doorway but found the small entry blocked with Whitty and Boone.

  “What is it? Did you find something?”

  Boone grinned and held up a plastic-encased laptop. “Let’s hope Fischer did more than just play solitaire on this thing.”

  A swell of anticipation lifted Tag’s chest. “You gonna take it down to Austin?”

  “Yep. I’ll go now.” Boone filled out the chain of evidence card and handed it to him. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. At least a few hours but maybe a day or so.”

  Tag nodded. “I can handle this, Boone.”

  The man’s dark-black eyes regarded him steadily. “Take care of Rebecca while I’m gone.”

  Tag cocked a brow. “I think the lady can take care of herself.”

  “So what?”

  He nodded and stepped out of the way so Boone could pass. “All right. I will. Now get out of here.”

  He watched his friend stride down the hallway. He hoped whatever they found on Fischer’s computer helped finger his killer.

  “Sheriff,” Tarah called from inside the room. “I’ve got some good prints here.”

  He found her crouched in front of the nightstand staring at a box of tissues.

  “Are they Fischer’s prints?” he asked.

  “Won’t know until we run them. We also found a wadded up tissue in the closet.” She carefully applied fingerprint powder then did a lift and smoothed the tape onto a white card. She marked it and moved to the next print.

  “Find any prints on the safe?”

  “A few,” she replied. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the open window. “Mike found some blood, a small piece of fabric, and a button on the window sill. It’s been bagged and tagged, too.”

  Tag raked a hand through his hair. He felt oddly off-kilter. Whatever actions he took right now in this investigation would be closely examined, twisted, skewered, and possibly thrown out due to a conflict of interest. He had to proceed with the utmost caution. Hell, he shouldn’t even be here. Maybe he should have taken the computer down to Austin.

  Uncertainty bit at him and he fisted his hands. He wasn’t used to this kind of swirling doubt.

  “Carson, you’re lead right now.”

  “Me?” she asked.

  “We all know I’m a suspect. I can’t afford to have any hint of impropriety with this scene.”

  Comprehension dawned and she straightened. “Yes, sir. That’s a good idea.” Carson cocked her head. “Maybe you should get back to your office?”

  As much as he detested the thought of leaving he knew she was right. “Yeah,” he said. “Watch your back.”

  “I will.” Her green eyes regarded him solemnly. “I believe in you, Tag.”

  Her soft spoken support made his chest tighten. “Thanks, Sam.” He cleared his throat. “Radio if you need anything. Check in every thirty minutes. No exceptions.”

  “Will do,” she promised and tossed him a jaunty salute.

  Tag spun and stalked from the room and headed for his car. He cursed six ways to Sunday when he saw Donald Alcott leaning against it.

  “Son, don’t make me give you a ticket for loitering.”

  The young man’s face was placid but his eyes burned with curiosity. “Come on, Sheriff. Have a little pity. I’m just trying to do my job.”

  “Your job is in Bastrop,” Tag said. “Doesn’t have anything to do with Freedom. Why are you in my town anyway?”

  Donald rolled his eyes. “My editor wanted a lifestyle piece on the Hitching Post. Wants a big spread on its history and all that crap. Personally, I think he’s using me to scope out the location for his daughter. She’s getting married next year.”

  Tag didn’t fight a small smile. “So he’s using you for an errand boy, huh?”

  “Looks that way.”

  Tag rounded the car and unlocked the door. “I don’t like reporters,” he said evenly.

  Donald started. “Why not?”

  Because I’ve seen what sleazy tactics they use to get their desired version of the truth. His sister’s face flashed through his mind. He saw her gap-toothed smile and braided pigtails splashed across the gray pages of the Bastrop Herald along with the accusatory headline that caused him and his parents unending grief. He didn’t remember much after the first few days of that incident, but he knew they’d been hounded by reporters so much that his parents nearly broke under the strain.

  He’d also run afoul of several embedded journalists while he’d been stationed in Iraq and Afghanistan. They’d made his stomach turn. Some of the bastards used doctored photos to elicit empathy but made the environment that much more hostile for his troops.

  Tag reined in his rampant thoughts. This kid was not a part of his past. Didn’t even know anything about it and Tag would do anything required to keep it that way. He pulled out his notebook and shifted into his best subtly intimidating stance.

  “How long have you been in town?” he asked.

  “Not gonna answer, huh? Wow, Sheriff. You are a man of mystery. Keep up this elusive act and all the women will be swooning over you.”

  He stared at the reporter over the roof of the car. “Funny guy. Answer the question.”

  Donald shrugg
ed. “A few days.”

  “Where were you this afternoon?”

  “Investigating. Is it true the lock to the jail cell was undisturbed? The camera was not working, right? The killer had disabled it.”

  Tag tensed. “You know I’m not going to confirm or deny information in an on-going investigation.” What he really wanted to know was how the reporter found out about the camera.

  Something must have shown on his face because Alcott grinned. “I’m a really good reporter, Sheriff. I have my sources and I’m not obliged to share them with you, even under penalty of contempt.”

  Tag nodded. “That’s true. Unless you’re the killer.” The young man barely flinched at the not-so-subtle statement. Interesting. Tag made another note in his book. He’d have Carson check the man’s background thoroughly. “Investigating what? Give me specifics, Alcott.”

  The muscular young man huffed and nibbled at his thumbnail. The bandage on his wrist flapped backward and he smoothed it back into place. “I hit up some of the businesses on the Hex. Talked to some of the shopkeepers, like Hank and Sadie and Clint Howard. I had an early dinner at the Tin Star.”

  “Did you give blood?”

  Alcott nodded. “Yesterday.”

  “When did you get back to the hotel?”

  He looked at his watch. “A quarter to six, I guess.”

  “Hear or see anything?”

  “Nope. Sorry. I went to my room and did some research.”

  “228?”

  Alcott started. “Yeah. How’d you know that?”

  Tag flipped his notebook closed and grinned because he’d surprised the young man. “Just doing my job, Alcott.” He opened the car door and eased into the sweltering interior. He cranked the engine and opened all four windows before turning on the AC. “Don’t leave town.”

  “Why not?” His blue eyes widened and the scruff of blond hair flopped over his forehead. He shoved it away and revealed a growing frown. “Am I a suspect?” he demanded.

  Tag pointed the vents at himself.

  “That’s not fair,” Alcott said. He leaned down and gripped the door frame. “Why? What could I have to possibly gain by killing Fischer?”

  Tag shrugged. “I don’t know but I aim to find out. You’re a reporter. You should know that everyone has something to hide. Something in their past they want to protect. Maybe Fischer knew something about you and the only way to keep him quiet was to kill him.”