You're Not Safe (Texas Rangers)

by Mary Burton

  The dog barked and licked and ran around in circles.

  Greer appeared at the winery’s main door. She’d bound her dark hair in a braid. Jeans and a white blouse hugged her figure and already he imagined peeling both off.

  She smiled when she saw him and crossed to give him a kiss. She felt warm and soft in his arms and he hardened at her touch. “I was beginning to think you got lost.”

  “Had some final paperwork to fill out. Never thought retiring would be quite that much work.”

  Her brow knitted. “Are you sure about this, Bragg? We could manage the distance to El Paso. It wouldn’t be easy but we would manage.”

  “Afraid it’s too far for me. And it’s time I didn’t spend so much time on the road but here with you and Mitch.”

  She studied his face as if searching for signs of doubt. There were none. She smiled. “Well, it will be nice having you around the old homestead.”

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and tucked her against him. He’d damn near lost her, and he wasn’t going to take any moment for granted.

  When the ambulance had arrived she’d been in bad shape. The drugs Jack had pumped into her system had suppressed her breathing and slowed her heart. That slow-beating heart, docs figured, is what saved her. She’d not bled out as fast as Dr. Stewart had anticipated, creating barely enough time to stop the bleeding and clean the drugs from her system.

  Mitch had also survived his wounds. After his recovery he’d asked to return to Bonneville. Greer had gladly agreed, and he now worked with José managing the fields. He also talked about studying viticulture at UT.

  Unraveling the tangle of Jack Trenton’s life had taken time, but Bragg and Winchester had unraveled each knot. Jack’s father had been hiding his son’s violent behavior for years until finally it had exploded in fury and Meg Trenton had been murdered.

  Jack’s father, worried about scandal, had lied to the doctors at Shady Grove, saying his son needed time to recover from his sister’s death. Jack had stayed at Shady Grove a year.

  At the camp, Jack had become obsessed with Elizabeth. When the other kids had left, he’d witnessed Elizabeth’s sense of loss. That image had remained with him all these years.

  When Jack had finally broken free of Shady Grove, his hope was to find Elizabeth. But she had vanished, and his father had kept a careful, watchful eye on his son. On Jack’s release, he’d changed his name and gone to medical school, proving to be a brilliant and talented student. Ironically, he’d gained prominence as a gifted psychiatrist who’d helped countless people. When his father had died last year, Dr. Stewart, no longer under his father’s scrutiny, had stopped taking his meds. And then he’d seen Greer on television and his old desires had roared to life. As a medical professional, he’d found a way to consult with Shady Grove and gain access to old records, containing real names.

  Months ago, his attack on Greer had left her bleeding badly, forcing the medical professionals to cut off her bracelets, so they could stop the hemorrhaging. When she’d awoken, she found Bragg sitting at her side holding the cut silver rings, his chin covered in thick dark stubble and his eyes heavy with fatigue and worry.

  Her mother had also come to the hospital and sat at her side until she’d woken up. The two had hugged, cried together, and were trying to mend fences. The progress was slow and uneven but they were trying.

  Bragg had stayed at Greer’s side through her recovery, and three days later when she’d been released he’d driven her home.

  When her bandages had come off and the stitches were removed, Greer asked for her bracelets, saying she didn’t want to forget the past. It had been her mother who’d taken the bracelets and had them refashioned into one that now included gems for Rory, Sara, Jennifer, and Michael. Greer never took off the bracelet, but she also no longer dwelled on the past as often.

  Now as Bragg held Greer close, he savored the warmth of her body. He rested his chin on her head. Words that had never come easily to him slid over his lips. “I love you.”

  She hugged him closer. “I love you.”

  He grunted and hugged her tighter. “Still want me underfoot?”

  Greer leaned back, studied his serious face, and grinned. “You sure you’ll be elected sheriff?”

  He winked and kissed her on the lips. “Lady, with you at my side, I’m sure of everything.”

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

  Mary Burton’s

  next romantic-suspense thriller,

  COVER YOUR EYES,

  coming in November 2014 from

  Kensington Publishing!

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Thursday, October 13, 3 A.M.

  Dixie Simmons’s pink cowboy boots, tipped in silver and embossed with glittering stars, clicked against the rain-soaked pavement. A rainstorm had flashed through Music City hours ago and left the air crisp, colder than normal and heavy with moisture. Burrowing deeper into her fringed leather jacket, she shoved chilled hands into her pockets, fingering the roll of wrinkled one-dollar bills from the night’s tip jar. The brisk air snapped at her bare thighs but didn’t slow her on-top-of-the-world gait or spark a bit of remorse for her choice of attire. The black miniskirt wasn’t warm but it showcased her long legs, always a crowd-pleaser at Rudy’s honky-tonk.

  Tonight she’d been the last to sing at Rudy’s bar, the centerpiece of Lower Broadway’s four-block stretch of honky-tonks and restaurants. The one A.M. time slot was not the best spot on a Thursday but considering Rudy hadn’t been expecting her, she’d appreciated the spot, the chance. Some singers might not give one hundred percent to the late-night crowd, but not Dixie. She’d sung as if her life hung in the balance, or better, that a talent-hungry music producer sat in a darkened corner. She’d been spot on tonight, quickly forgetting about the gig’s mix-up while singing Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” When she’d switched to a Taylor Swift song she’d energized the crowd, who soon were whooping and hollering. Applause followed her when she’d left the stage, her black mini swishing around her thighs. The rush of excitement had rivaled great sex.

  The club’s owner, Rudy Creed, had watched her from behind the bar, clearly pleased by the way she’d roped the crowd’s attention. He’d stopped her on the way out and had said there’d been folks asking after her. “They think you’re good. Worth following,” he’d said.

  Worth following.

  Lordy, but she wanted to be worth following more than the breath she took. She’d been on the music circuit for three years—a long time to be waiting tables, knocking on closed music executive’s doors, and sinking every extra dime into publicity stills and demo CDs. One record producer had shown interest months ago; they’d slept together but lately he’d been dodging her. However his noes, as far as she was concerned, were warm-ups to a yes, so she’d kept after him. She’d finally gotten him on the phone days ago and he’d been pissed by her persistence. “Yeah, you got talent but stay the fuck away from me.”

  All she’d heard was you got talent.

  The metro buses didn’t run this late so she’d been forced to walk west on Broadway and past the hotels before turning on the tree-lined side street where she’d parked her car. Her cute pink boots cramped her toes and dug a blister on her heel.

  Momma would have complained about the walk, the cold, and her feet. Momma understood hard work but she didn’t understand dreams or the cost of fame. Just last night, Momma had begged Dixie to take the secretary job in Knoxville, but Dixie had refused.

  Dixie wanted to be a star. Wanted everyone to know her name. Just needed the right break.

  Worth following.

  Maybe, she’d finally paid enough dues. Maybe soon she’d look back on tonight and recognize the exact moment her life changed.

  Her chest puffed with pride as she imagined people wanting her. She liked being wanted.

  As she rounded a corner and headed north, a group of men on the opposite side of the street passed going south. They wore
jeans, blue jackets, and collared shirts popped up in a collegiate kind of way. She guessed they were students at Vanderbilt University. The men slowed their pace and a couple stared at her with wolfish gazes.

  The flicker of pride grew brighter. She liked male attention almost as much as the stage. She savored the feminine power she brandished, knowing it could derail any man’s train of thought right off the tracks.

  Dixie paused and bent forward to adjust a tassel on her boot. One of the boys whistled.

  She grinned and waved, her excitement building. She’d have crossed that street, maybe suggested a party, but tonight another man waited.

  She tossed the boys a wave, and when they called her over, she pouted and shook her head no before hurrying toward her car parked a half-block away. The boots bit into her little toe.

  Dixie fished her phone out of her purse, dialed a familiar number, and waited. The phone rang once. Twice. Dollar-store bracelets rattled on her wrist as she untangled a blond hair extension from a silver feather earring.

  The phone kept ringing.

  Sugar used to pick up on the first ring. He’d be breathless and excited as if he’d been waiting anxiously for her call. But lately, if he answered, he let the phone ring five or six times and his hello carried less anticipation.

  Four. Five. Six. He picked up on the seventh ring. “Dixie.” He’d wrapped her name in a honey-flavored bourbon, his drink of choice.

  “Hey. Want some company tonight?”

  Hesitation and then, “Not tonight, Dixie. I’ve an early morning.”

  Jealousy scratched as she imagined another blonde lying beside him in his bed singing sweet songs in his ear. He liked blondes who could sing. The sound of a woman’s voice crooning in his ear made him hot. The first song she’d sung to him had been “You’re Still the One.”

  “I thought you wanted me to come by tonight.” No missing the pout underscoring the words.

  He yawned. “I know, but I’m tired. It was a long day.”

  In the early days, he’d never been tired when she called. She’d been his tonic. His muse.

  His rejection amplified her craving for attention. She nestled closer to the phone, imagining she could touch him. “Sugar, I can wake you up. That is a promise and a guarantee.”

  “Not tonight, Dixie. In a day or two.” The soft edges hardened.

  Rebuff coupled with cold and sore feet stripped her of patience. “Why are you doing this to me? I thought I was special.”

  He sighed into the phone. “You’re special. But enough is enough. We need to take a break. People are watching.”

  As she ducked her head, her long hair curtained off her face. “Who?”

  “People. And that’s all you need to know.”

  “You have names. I want them.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  They’d been careful, never to be seen in public, opting for hotels on the outskirts of town. She recalled there had been a hotel clerk who had eyed her as if he were trying to read her thoughts. Did he put the pieces together? “It does to me.”

  “Let it go, Dixie.”

  Let it go.

  What an ass. He’d promised her the moon and now he was kicking her to the curb.

  Dixie peeked back toward the group of boys, now half tempted to double back. A party with them would teach him a lesson. “You’ll be sorry.”

  “I’m not now but I could be real sorry. I’ve a lot riding on the next thirty days. I don’t want trouble.”

  He’d given her the boot and still she clung. “Are you going to call me soon?”

  “Sure. Sure.” He hung up.

  Dixie stood for a moment, the phone still pressed to her ear, not really believing he’d ended the call. When the dial tone buzzed in her ear, she pocketed her phone.

  As much as she wanted to imagine his begging for forgiveness, she’d traveled this road enough times with other men to know the score. When men like him lost interest, it was over. And if any lessons had stuck in her twenty years on this earth, it was to cut her losses and move on to the next opportunity.

  After a successful gig, she was juiced and full of energy and the idea of going home and staring at her four walls didn’t top the option list. She wanted a man. Her skin tingled and she conjured up the man at the bar who’d glared at her hours ago with burning desire as he’d pressed the napkin with his phone number into her hand. He’d not say no to her.

  At her car, a twelve-year-old black Buick with silver chrome wheels, she unlocked the front door and tossed her purse inside. Those boys were almost out of sight but she figured if she drove she could catch up to them. If they went to Vanderbilt, they might have a bit of money. And money always made the time pass faster. Thunder rumbled, promising rain.

  Moistening her lips, she smiled at the sound of footsteps behind her. The boys had returned. Running her tongue over her lips so they glistened, she drew in a breath and turned. “Hey.”

  For an instant, she registered a dark hoodie and a face hidden behind a hockey mask, but before she could scream a metal rod whooshed through the air and struck her on the side of her head.

  Intense pain stole her breath. She staggered and fell to cold concrete, which tore the naked flesh of her palms and knees. Her cell jostled out of her pocket and hit the ground hard enough to pop off the back.

  She blinked once and then twice, trying to regain focus. She’d been hit before, but never like this. She raised a trembling hand to her cheek, now slick and swelling with blood. Oh, God. Not her face.

  A cold metal rod pressed against her shoulder and she collapsed against the ground. “Scream and I’ll cave in your skull.”

  Jesus, was she being mugged? She’d been mugged before. It sucked to hand over hard-earned tip money, but sixty bucks seemed a fair trade for her life. “My pocket. I’ve money. Take whatever you want.”

  Black-booted feet moved within inches of her face. “I don’t want your money.”

  Dixie groaned. Not a mugging? Then it was rape. Another indignity she’d survived. Her shattered cheek throbbed, reverberating lightning bolts of pain through her entire body.

  She moistened her lips, bracing. She’d not beg or plead. She was tough. She would survive.

  But the attacker stood there, staring, watching, gloating.

  Dixie drew in a deep breath, curling the fingers of her hands. Tears pooled in her eyes as she waited to be flipped on her back and have her skirt tossed up. She grit her teeth. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing. You’re a whore and a harlot.”

  “I don’t want to die.”

  In answer, the attacker quickly raised the rod and brought it down hard and direct against her shoulder. She gasped in a breath, the pain so blinding she couldn’t make a sound as she rolled on her back. Her vision blurred into black splotches. She wanted to fight, but couldn’t string two thoughts together. Whatever was gonna happen, it wasn’t going to be good.

  “Why?” she gasped.

  “Whore. Harlot. I’ve had it with watching you parade your pert little ass around. I’ve had it. You’ve hurt too many people.”

  Dixie blinked her vision into focus and glimpsed dark eyes staring at her through the mask. The tire iron rose. She braced, hoping against hope she could mitigate the blow’s damage by tensing.

  “No mercy,” the stranger said.

  The next blow struck her temple and in a flash her vision went dark.

  Baby exhaled, breathless and excited.

  An hour ago Dixie had flickered bright on the stage, swishing her skirt and flirting with the crowd. Now Dixie’s crumpled body lay on the cold, damp ground in a pool of blood.

  Four well-placed blows had obliterated the sweet, seductive siren’s high swipe of cheekbones, full red lips, creamy skin, and thick eyelashes into a pulp. No whore deserved to go into the next world with her looks. That smacked of injustice in Baby’s book. A beautiful whore could well strike a deal with the Devil and then return to the earth to haunt.

>   The idea of Dixie’s returning had Baby gripping the cold iron, clammy with sweat, high and slamming it on Dixie’s face in another crushing blow. Blood splattered. Bone crushed. Again and again the tire iron struck until finally, Baby, breathless and blood-soaked, stopped.

  Stepping back, a satisfied smile curled at the utter ruin and destruction of one once beautiful.

  Dixie Simmons wouldn’t be parading her tart ass around town anymore or singing those songs designed to ruin men’s lives.

  Dead and gone.

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2014 by Mary Burton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

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  ISBN: 978-1-4201-2507-8

  First Electronic Edition: April 2014

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-3618-0

  eISBN-10: 1-4201-3618-6