Wanted by the Lawman (Lawmen of Wyoming Book 2)

by Rhonda Lee Carver

  “What the hell did you say?”

  “I’m leaving. Moving out. Taking a different path. Hasta La Vista baby. You choose what you want to call it.”

  “And go where? You have nowhere to go.”

  “You shouldn’t worry about where I go. You have enough to think about with regards to the investigation your smack dab in the center of. Also, just so we’re clear, I know about you and Patricia, your secretary.”

  “H-How?” he stammered.

  She chuckled coldly. “Actually, I didn’t, but you just answered my question. Eventually the truth comes out.” She started for the closet, but he blocked her, grabbing her shoulders and hugging her.

  “You can’t do this,” he said quietly.

  “I can, and I will.” She faced him.

  “Really? Then you should know that you’re as deep in this as I am. Do you think I hired you as my assistant because you’re handy with a keyboard and a phone? You signed your name to many documents.”

  She wouldn’t allow his threats to change her mind. He’d manipulated her long enough, although he did scare her a little. Over the last few weeks it seemed the walls were tumbling down around him. She didn’t want to go down with the ship. “Say what you want, but it won’t change the facts. I’ll even leave all those tight dresses and wigs you like so much and maybe you can convince Patricia to change her identity.” For the first time in a long time she felt vindicated.

  He gave her a glaring look that tore through her. “You’ll come crawling back. You wait and see. You have an easy life here and can’t make it out there on your own with no money or prospects. Or maybe you should take those fancy dresses because you might need them when you’re looking for a way to pay the bills.”

  His words bounced off her. It was high time she got back on her own two feet. For years now she’d worked for Rory, slept with Rory. Made his dinner and his bed. Did everything he asked—at least to a certain extent.

  “Well, at least I won’t be here, with you.”

  What Rory didn’t know was that she did have some place to go. When her grandmother, Agnus, passed away last year, she’d left her house in Wyoming to Wynn, although she hadn’t seen her grandmother or anyone on that side of the family in twenty years. The attorney told Wynn that most of the property had been sold right before Agnus passed, but the remaining two acres and house remained, which Wynn inherited as next of kin. She’d kept the inheritance a secret, thinking one day she might need a place. At least she’d planned far enough ahead that she wouldn’t be living on the street.

  Wyoming was far away from New York, and exactly what she needed.

  “You’re not leaving.” Rory’s jaw hardened.

  “Get it through your head. I’m leaving,” she said through clenched teeth.

  He grabbed her arm and jerked her hard against him. She saw his hand and a glint of metal about the same time she heard a soft click then a cool touch on her wrist.

  “I guess I get to use these after all.” One corner of his mouth slid up into a dangerous smile.

  Wynn dropped her chin. One cuff wrapped her wrist and the other circled his. She tilted her head, catching him in what she hoped was a deadly glare. “Unlock these handcuffs at once!”

  “Not happening. After you’ve had time to think about all this, you’ll see that leaving isn’t the best idea.”

  “This is wrong. This is kidnapping. Let me go!” She gave a jerk of her hand and the cuffs jingled. “Where is the key?” she seethed.

  “Safely tucked away.” He patted his front pocket. “You won’t get to it because I plan to stay awake all night to see that you behave yourself.”

  “Go to hell! This won’t keep me here.”

  He laughed. “Calm down. You’ll be thanking me later.” He winked and touched her cheek, but she jerked her face away.

  CHAPTER 2

  AFTER DRINKING HALF a bottle of whiskey, Rory passed out. Unfortunately, which he must have thought would seal his plan to keep her from leaving, he fell asleep with his back against the door to her closet so if she somehow got away, she couldn’t get to her clothes.

  He didn’t understand how badly she wanted to leave.

  Once he was snoring and had been out for an hour, she wiggled her cuffed arm, testing him. No movement from him.

  Slowly, she leaned in, careful not to wake him, and touched his shirt where he said he’d placed the key. Carefully, she slid one finger inside the pocket, feeling for her freedom nestled there. Just as he had said, the key was in his pocket. She was a little shocked that he hadn’t made things a little harder. Wasting no time, she grasped the key. He groaned, shifting his shoulders and his lids popped open. Her breath stilled in her lungs. Sweat beaded on her forehead. He moaned something inaudible, blew out a breath laced in stale whiskey, then closed his eyes, his snoring returning, deeper this time.

  Thank God!

  Within seconds, she had the handcuffs unlocked and was standing, looking down at the slumped man she’d once loved. Once thought he was a kind man. He had his hand tight around the neck of the whiskey bottle, about the only thing he loved these days. He’d be out for a good six hours, but she couldn’t risk moving him to get into her closet.

  Scanning the inside of the bedroom, she worked her bottom lip. After tonight, she couldn’t stay and wouldn’t be back. Wynn didn’t need her clothes to be happy. They were only material things.

  In his closet, she found his gym bag, dumped out shoes and other odds and ends, but kept the hand weights inside because a woman always needed to have some form of protection with her. Dragging it out to her dresser, she quickly removed everything out of the drawers, dropping clothes on the floor in her haste. At her vanity she grabbed a handful of bottles, dropped them in with her clothing and started to slide the zipper close when she paused, eyeing her jewelry case. Although she didn’t plan on ever wearing anything from the box again, she deserved every diamond and gold bracelet because she’d worked for each piece. So, she dropped the entire contents into the bag.

  Sliding her feet into a pair of flats she had sitting by her vanity, she quietly tugged the bag down the hallway and the long, spiral staircase, panting by the time she made it to the ground floor. She guessed the jewelry and weights must weigh a ton. From the entry table she grabbed her purse and took out her car keys, laying them aside. If she planned to sever all ties, she had to leave everything Rory had his name attached to. That included the Lexus. Wynn didn’t need the luxurious car any longer, at least not where she was going. It would only draw attention to her and that was the last thing she needed.

  In her wallet, she counted two hundred in cash. Plenty for a plane ticket, but what would she eat on when she got to Wyoming? She wouldn’t be using her credit or debit card because she didn’t want him tracking her down. Remembering the cash Rory had hidden in his office, Wynn hurried to use the key from under the desk calendar and unlocked the bottom drawer, taking out the envelope buried under a stack of files. He didn’t know she knew the stash was there. Inside it, she counted a thousand, all in twenties, so crisp the bills felt like they’d never been used.

  “Sorry, Rory,” she whispered. A part of her felt guilty for taking the money, but this was nothing compared to what Rory had in his bank accounts, yet she no longer cared. She’d go back to eating beans and rice if that meant freedom from a life that didn’t suit her. A life where she wasn’t respected.

  Standing at the threshold, she turned to give the luxurious condo one last glance and then she walked out, closing the door quietly behind her.

  ~~~**~~~

  “Wakey, wakey.”

  Rory fluttered his eyes open, blinking against the bright light and pain in his temples. Bringing his hand up to rub his forehead, he heard a jingling of metal and then he remembered why he was asleep on the floor. He brought his chin up and jerked when he came face-to-face with anger, and it wasn’t Wynn. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “You have a nice place here, Salvano.�
� The balding, pockmarked-faced man knelt beside Rory.

  “You’re not supposed to come here, Garvey.” Movement in the doorway made Rory look, half expecting to see Wynn, but it was Garvey’s goon who was broader and meaner-looking. Where the hell is Wynn?

  “When you decided not to show up with the delivery, Striker and I decided to pay you a visit.” Garvey swiped a pudgy hand down his broad, whiskered jaw.

  “What time is it?”

  “Time for you to get up from the floor and give us the merchandise,” Striker said from the doorway.

  Garvey snickered and stood. “You heard the man. Get the hell up.” He nudged Rory in the ribs with the toe of his polished shoe.

  “I’ll get your shit, but then I want you both out of my house.” Rory pushed himself up from the floor and stretched his aching back, noticing that several of the drawers on Wynn’s dresser were open and empty. He’d figure out where she had gone later.

  “We’ll be glad to get out of your hair once we have what we came for,” Garvey followed him to the closet, “and let you get back to whatever kink you’ve been freaking.”

  Rory stepped into his closet and made an opening in the row of clothes. Reaching down for the gym bag, he grasped empty air instead. Dropping to his knees, he frantically searched the floor, corner to corner, and came up empty. His balls shrunk to the size of walnuts. Fuck!

  “What’s the fucking hold up, shithead?” Striker bellowed.

  His mind racing, Rory looked at the locked box where he kept his loaded Glock. He didn’t have the key on him to open it. No doubt, the two goons were packing and would shoot him dead before he could place his finger on the trigger. Mother fuck! Wynn had left him, and she must have taken the bag where he’d stashed the delivery. What the hell would he do?

  The only choice he had was to face the bastards.

  Once on his feet, he took two steps, but came to a halt when Garvey planted a large hand into his chest. “Where’s the merchandise, Salvano?”

  “We have a problem.” The dangling handcuffs clanked loudly.

  Striker, who had been standing from a distance up to this point, strolled to the center of the bedroom, looking at Rory with beady, cold eyes that could make a warrior tremble. He’d always wondered if the man wasn’t born from his mother’s womb but the devil’s loins. “Did I hear we have a problem?” Striker reached into his back pocket and took out a switchblade. With a flick of his wrist, the six-inch blade opened, the metal glinting. Using the tip of the blade to clean out from underneath his fingernail, he looked up. “I don’t like problems.”

  “What’s the fucking problem, rodent?” Garvey growled.

  “The goods…they’re gone.”

  Striker paused the knife on his finger and sighed, nailing Rory with a hard gaze. “Gone? As in lost?”

  “I had the delivery here. I promise you, it was here last night,” Rory pushed a hand through his hair, feeling like he could vomit. A drop of blood splattered on Striker’s shoe from where he cut himself. He didn’t even notice. “Hey, the rug is Egyptian and it cost a fortune. I don’t want it ruined.”

  “Fine. Garvey, take care of the rug,” Striker demanded.

  “Will do.” Garvey grinned as if he enjoyed throwing his weight around.

  Striker made his way across the room and stopped at the vanity, examining the contents while Garvey rolled up the rug.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” Rory started to cross the room but stilled in his tracks when Striker lifted a hand.

  “You said you didn’t want the rug ruined, right? There’s always that possibility, and from my experience, a white, Egyptian rug never looks good with a puddle of blood.”

  Rory went pale.

  Garvey laughed.

  Striker picked up a bottle, brought the perfume to his nose and inhaled. “Mm, that’s nice. I like a woman who smells like flowers. I met a woman once while in Paris who smelled this good. What happened to her, Garvey?”

  “She cheated on you. She didn’t need the perfume anymore.” Garvey picked up the rug. “What do you want me to do with this, Strike?”

  “Let’s see how this goes. For now, lean it against the wall.” Striker set the bottle down and picked up a framed picture of Wynn and Rory taken on their first date. “This is your bitch, Salvano? What the fuck is a sexy fox like this doing with a wet noodle like you? Beats me why she’d marry you.” He shook his head.

  Garvey was laughing so hard now he snorted.

  “She’s not my wife,” Rory corrected.

  “If you’re fucking her, she’s your wife. That’s the problem with the world today. People don’t put a ring on it and then they’re fucking wondering why their sorry-ass is left alone,” Striker snarled. “I guess money can buy a good piece of pussy.” He swiped his elbow across the frame to clean it and sat it back into place. “Question is, where is that beauty now? By the looks of you, and these empty drawers, you’ve been fucked, then fucked over.” He used the blade to point at the handcuffs on Rory’s wrist.

  “I don’t have a clue where she went,” Rory mumbled.

  Striker groaned then came to stand within several feet of Rory, the blade still gripped in his fist. “It appears you have a habit of losing things.”

  “The shit was here,” Rory stammered. “I’ve never betrayed you guys. I wouldn’t.”

  “We hear that a lot.” Striker brought the knife up and scraped the blade down Rory’s cheek, drawing blood. The man rubbed the blade across his pant leg. “Looks like you do bleed red like every other mother fucker. The bitch left with the goods, didn’t she?”

  Rory’s gaze swept across the room. “No. She wouldn’t.” Yet, he knew she did.

  “I see doubt in your eyes, brother.” Striker made a gesture at Garvey who then stepped over to the dresser and pulled out each drawer, knocking them to the floor.

  “All empty,” Garvey said.

  “Then I guess money can’t keep a good piece of pussy.” Striker exhaled. “Either you’re lying to me, or you don’t keep your bitch on a short leash, my friend. Did she catch your wick in another candle? She decided she’d seal your death?”

  “The goods have to be around here somewhere.” Rory swept a hand through the air.

  “I don’t think so. I think the beauty took off with our shit. Problem is, no shit, no money. Not good.”

  “She wouldn’t do that,” Rory stammered.

  “Just like she wouldn’t leave you? By the looks of things, she didn’t walk, she ran. It’s possible the sweet princess betrayed you, Boss, Garvey and me. You know that can’t happen.”

  “She didn’t know the goods were in the closet. She never knew.” Rory placed his hands on his hips, looking back and forth frantically from Striker to Garvey. “She had no clue about my side job.”

  “I. Want. To. Believe. That.” With each word, Striker tapped the knife in the center of Rory’s chest. “But you don’t have a good track record these days, buddy. Your usefulness has been downgraded. And as you know, we don’t carry dead weight—dead weight that likes the sauce a little too much. Too much risk and we can’t have that shit. Not when the feds are sniffing around like a dog looking for a bone.”

  “What are we going to do, Strike?” Garvey asked.

  “Good question. What should we do, Salvano?”

  “I’ll get the merchandise back. Give me some time,” Rory’s voice shook.

  CHAPTER 3

  “WHERE’S PHOENIX AND Kiersten?” Zander looked down the table at each of his brothers, Cullen, Kace, and Nixon who all gave a shrug with their linebacker shoulders.

  “How the hell do I know? I’m not their effing keeper,” Kace muttered, still irritated from the black eye he’d received while apprehending a suspect earlier that day.

  “Come on, bro. Black and blue brings out the color of your eyes,” Nix teased.

  “Go to hell.” Kace looked like he could rip a man apart with his bare hands. At six-four and as large as a house, no one ever
wanted to find out if he could. Zander guessed the guy who punched Kace probably got a lot worse than a black eye in return.

  Beatrice, mother of the Cade clan, lightly smacked Kace on the shoulder. “Watch your language,” she corrected him. Although all her kids were adults, she still made sure they walked a fine line of respect, at least while they were at home.

  “Ma, I said hell,” Kace sniffed loudly. “I said worse when I was in diapers.”

  “Yes, and we washed your mouth out with soap.”

  “Can we eat now? Dinner’s getting cold,” Nixon groaned. “I’m starving.”

  “Not until we say grace,” Beatrice, who had been a starlet back in the day, still carried herself with grace and beauty, although she’d traded her heels for cowboy boots when she met Bo Cade. She often told stories on how he swept her off her feet although she’d kicked and screamed. She took a seat at one end of the table, while her husband sat at the other. “Bo darling, you want to say prayer?”

  He bent his silver head and said a quick prayer. “Dig in, sons,” he announced. All the Cade sons took their looks after their Pa who was strapping, even in his early sixties. Although Beatrice lectured him, daily, that it was time to retire from the ranch, he always responded, “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.” For Bo, after a twenty-year career as a cop, he was in retirement. He got up at sunrise every morning and did the chores and never complained once. Beatrice did back off a little when he sold some livestock and built her an indoor pool. They were still in love and if ever one of the Cade men met a woman and wanted to marry they had big shoes to fill to compare to their parents.