The Marshal's Witness (19 page)

Jessica’s lips curved up, smiling for the first time since that terrible night when Ryan had walked out of her life. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Shut up and kiss me, Ryan.”

He laughed just before his lips touched hers.

Epilogue

Ryan took full advantage of his newfound bribery skills to gain one last favor from WitSec. The Justice Department granted him permission for a reunion with his family, for a very special occasion.

With a heavy contingent of U.S. Marshals surrounding them, Ryan and Jessica were married in Colorado on the Jackson family ranch.

On a horse.

Not each of them
on separate horses, as originally planned.

On one horse, together, with Ryan holding Jessica tightly around the waist.

Because Jessica had discovered she was scared to death of horses.

Ryan thought that was hilarious. He couldn’t stop laughing until she called him “Elvis.”

Then his eyes went dark and he chased her around the barn, demanding to know who had told her his middle
name.

If he could keep a secret, so could she. And since she had so much fun when he caught her, she planned on keeping this secret for a very long time.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt of
Cowboy Cop
by Rita Herron!

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Chapter One

Three months later

“Dugan is out.”

Miles’s fingers tightened around his cell phone as he wheeled
his SUV around and headed toward the station. “What?”

His superior, Lieutenant Hammond, didn’t sound happy. “Based on
the Kelly woman’s murder and some technicality with the chain of evidence when
they’d searched the man’s place, Dugan’s lawyer
got his conviction
overturned.”

The past few weeks of tracking down clues and false leads day
and night taunted him. He released a string of expletives.

Hammond cleared his throat. “If we’d found evidence connecting
Dugan to a partner, maybe things would have gone differently, but...”

Hammond let the sentence trail off, but Miles silently finished
for him. If
he and Mason had found such evidence, Dugan would still be in a
cell. And the world would be a safer place.

But they’d failed.

The day Dugan’s verdict was read flashed back. Dugan’s threat
resounded in his head—
you’ll pay.

“Now that he’s back on the streets—”

“I know. He’s going to kill again,” Miles said.
And he’s probably coming after me.

His cell phone chirped,
and he glanced at the caller ID.
Marie’s number.

Damn, she was probably on his case for working again last night
and missing dinner with Timmy. He’d thought he might have found a lead on the
copycat, but instead he’d only chased his own tail.

The phone chirped again.

You’ll pay.

Panic suddenly seized him, cutting off his breath.
Dammit...what if payback
meant coming after his family?

“I have to go, Hammond.” Sweat beaded on his neck as he
connected the call. “Hello?”

Husky breathing filled the line, then a scream pierced the
receiver.

He clenched the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip. He
had to clear his throat to speak. “Marie?”
God, tell me
you’re there....

But the sudden silence sent a chill
up his spine.

“Marie, Timmy?”

More breathing, this time followed by a husky laugh that
sounded sinister, threatening...evil.

Dear God, no...

Dugan was at Marie’s house.

He pressed the accelerator, his heart hammering as he sped
around traffic and called for backup. The dispatch officer agreed to send a
patrol car right away.

A convertible nearly cut
him off, and Miles slammed on his
horn, nearly skimming a truck as he roared around it. Brush and shrubs sailed
past, the wheels grinding on gravel as he hugged the side of the country
road.

Images of the dead women from Dugan’s crime scenes flashed in
his head, and his stomach churned. No, please, no...Dugan could not be at
Marie’s house. He couldn’t kill Marie...not
like the other women.

And Timmy...his son was home today with her.

The bright Texas sun nearly blinded him as he swerved into the
small neighborhood where Marie had bought a house. Christmas decorations
glittered, lights twinkled from the neighboring houses, the entryways screaming
with festive holiday spirit.

Somehow they seemed macabre in the early-morning light.

He shifted gears, brakes squealing as he rounded a curve and
sped down the street. He scanned the neighboring yards, the road, the trees
beyond the house, searching for Dugan.

But everything seemed still. Quiet. A homey little neighborhood
to raise a family in.

Except he had heard that scream.

His chest squeezed for air, and he slammed on the brakes and
skidded
up the drive. He threw the Jeep into Park, and held his weapon at the
ready as he raced up to the front door.

Cop instincts kicked in, and he scanned the outside of the
house and yard again, but nothing looked amiss. He glanced through the front
window, but the den looked normal...toys on the floor, magazines on the table,
TV running with cartoons.

Only the Christmas
tree had been tipped over, ornaments
scattered across the floor.

He reached for the doorknob, and the door swung open. His
breath lodged in his throat, panic knotting his insides. No sounds of holiday
music or Timmy chattering.

Gripping his weapon tighter, he inched inside, senses honed for
signs of an intruder.

Slowly, he made his way through the den to the
kitchen. The
Advent calendar glared at him, mocking him with a reminder that Christmas was
only a few days away.

There was a half-empty coffee cup on the counter and an
overturned cereal bowl on the table. Milk dripped onto the floor.

Timmy...God...

Terror seized him.

A creaking sound suddenly splintered the air, and he swung
around, braced to shoot but
he saw nothing. Then another sound came from above,
water running...the shower? No, the tub...overflowing...

He clenched his jaw, then inched toward the staircase, slowly
climbing it and listening for an intruder, for Marie, for his son.

Any sign of life.

A quick glance into Timmy’s room and it appeared empty. Bed
unmade. Toy airplane on the floor. Legos scattered.
Stuffed dinosaur on his
pillow.

Where was his son?

His hand trembled as he bypassed the room and edged toward the
bedroom where Marie slept. One look inside, and his heart stopped.

The lamp was broken on the floor. Pillows tossed on the carpet.
The corner chair overturned. Glass shards from the mirror were scattered on the
vanity.

A sea of red flashed in
front of him. Blood...it soaked the
sheets and led a trail into the bathroom.

His stomach revolted, but he forced himself to scan the corners
of the room before slowly entering the bathroom. Blood streaked the floor and
led toward the claw-foot tub.

A groan settled deep in his gut.

Marie. Her eyes stood wide-open in death. Blood dripped down
her neck and bare
chest. Her arms dangled lifelessly over the tub edge, one leg
askew.

For a moment, he choked. Couldn’t make himself move. He’d seen
dozens of dead bodies before but none so personal...none that he cared
about.

Emotions crowded his throat and chest, and he gripped the wall
to steady himself. He had to. Had to get control. Slide that wall back into
place so he
could do his job.

Every second counted.

Fighting nausea, he slowly walked toward her and felt for a
pulse. Although he knew before he touched her that it was too late.

Dugan had done this. Had gotten his payback by killing his
son’s mother.

That creaking sound suddenly echoed again. He froze, hand
clenching his gun, then spun around.

Nothing. Except the
evidence of Dugan’s brutal crime.

Where was Timmy?

For a fraction of a second he closed his eyes on a prayer. The
sound echoed again...

The attic.

Heart hammering double-time, he headed toward Timmy’s room. The
door to the space had been built inside his closet. Timmy had called it his
secret room.

Had Dugan found it?

Hope warred with terror as he inched
inside the closet and
pushed at the door. It was closed, but he had insisted the lock be removed for
fear Timmy might lock himself inside and be trapped.

Now he wished he’d left that damn lock on so his son could have
locked Dugan out.

Darkness shrouded the cavernous space as he climbed the steps.
He tried to move soundlessly, but the wood floor squeaked. As he reached
the top
step, a sliver of sunlight wormed its way through the small attic window,
allowing him to sweep the interior.

It appeared empty, but he had heard
something.

“Timmy,” he whispered. “Son, are you here?”

Praying he was safe, Miles examined the room. Timmy’s toy
airplanes and horses, his train set...

Another squeak, and he jerked his head around. An antique
wardrobe sat in the corner, one Marie had used to store old quilts. He held his
breath as he approached it, then eased open the door.

Relief mingled with pain when he saw his little boy hunched
inside, his knees drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. He had
buried his head against his legs, silent sobs racking his body.

“Timmy, it’s okay, it’s Dad.” Anguish
clogged his throat as he
gently lifted his son’s face. Blood dotted Timmy’s T-shirt and hands, and tears
streaked his splotched skin, a streak of blood on his left cheek.

But it was the blank look in his eyes that sent a wave of cold
terror through Miles.

Timmy might be alive, but he was in shock.

He stooped down to Timmy’s level and dragged him into his arms,
but his son felt limp, as if the life had drained from him just as it had his
mother.

Three weeks later

J
ORDAN
K
EYS
WATCHED
the
busload of new campers arrive at the Bucking Bronc Lodge, her heart in her
throat. The troubled kids ranged from ages five to sixteen.

Her brother had fit in that category. But he was gone now.

Because she hadn’t been able to help
him.

She fisted her hands, silently vowing to do better here. She’d
read about the BBL and how hard the cowboys and staff worked to turn these kids’
lives around, and she wanted to be a part of it.

If she saved just one kid, it might assuage some of her guilt
over her brother’s death.

A chilly January wind swirled dried scrub brush across the dirt
and echoed
through the trees. She waved to Kim Woodstock, another one of the
counselors and Brandon Woodstock’s wife, as she greeted the bus, then Jordan
bypassed them and headed straight into the main lodge to meet with Miles
McGregor and his five-year-old son, Timmy.

Apparently Miles also volunteered at the BBL, but this time
he’d come because he needed solace and time to heal
from a recent loss.

So did his little boy, who they believed had witnessed his
mother’s murder.

A thread of anxiety knotted her shoulders as she let herself in
the lodge. The empty spot where the Christmas tree had stood made the entryway
seem dismal, but truth be told, she was glad it was gone. The holidays always
resurrected memories of Christmases past, both good
and bad memories that
tormented her with what-ifs.

Shoving the thoughts to the back of her mind, she grabbed a cup
of coffee and made her way back to the wing Brody Bloodworth had recently added
to serve as a counseling and teen center.

The moment she stepped into the room, she sensed pain emanating
through it. Like a living, breathing entity smothering the air.

Little Timmy, a dark-haired boy who looked scrawny and way too
pale, sat in the corner against the wall, his knees drawn up, his arms locked
tightly around them as if he might crumble if he released his grip. The poor
child didn’t even look up as she entered, simply sat staring through glazed eyes
at some spot on the floor as if he was lost.

For a moment, she couldn’t
breathe. What if she failed this
little guy, too? What if he needed more than she could give?

Inhaling to stifle her nerves, she pasted on a smile, then
glanced at the cowboy standing by the window watching the horses gallop across
the pasture. His back was to her, his wide shoulders rigid, his hands clenching
the window edge so tightly she could see the veins bulging
in his broad, tanned
hands.

She cleared her throat. “Mr. McGregor?”

The subtle lift of his shoulders indicated he’d heard her, then
he hissed something low and indiscernible between his teeth and slowly turned to
face her. Dark brown hair like his son’s, except his was shaggy and unkempt,
framed a face chiseled in stone. His jawbones were high, his face square, his
eyes the color of a sunset, brown and orange and gold, rich with color,
but...dead.

That was the only word to describe the emptiness she saw
there.

He removed his Stetson, then walked toward her and held out a
work-roughened hand that looked strong enough to break rocks. Everything about
the man, from his muscular build, his towering height, his broad shoulders
and
those muscular thighs, screamed of masculinity.

And a raw sexuality that made her heart begin to flutter.

But anger also simmered beneath the surface of his calm, anger
and something lethal, like a bloodthirsty need for revenge.

She didn’t know all the details about his relationship to
Timmy’s mother, but she understood that anger. She also knew where it led...to
nothing good.

“I’m Jordan Keys,” she said, finally finding her voice. “Nice
to meet you.”

“There’s nothing nice right now,” he said in a gruff voice.

Jordan stiffened slightly. Obviously he was in pain, but did
that mean he didn’t want her help? A lot of men thought counseling was bogus,
for sissies...beneath them.

“Maybe not, but you’re here now, and I
see you brought your
little boy.” She gestured toward Timmy, who still remained oblivious to her
appearance. “So let’s talk.”

He worked his mouth from side to side as if he wanted to say
something, but he finally gave a nod. “Brody filled you in?”

“Briefly. But I’d like to hear the details from you.”

“Of course. We’ve seen doctors—”

“Not in front of Timmy,” Jordan
said, cutting him off. “Let me
talk to him for a minute, then we can step outside and discuss the
situation.”

His mouth tightened into a grim line, but he nodded again. This
man didn’t like to be ordered around, didn’t like to be out of control.

And he had no control right now.

Which was obviously killing him.

She understood that feeling as well.

She slowly
walked over and knelt beside the child. “Timmy, my
name is Miss Jordan. I’m glad you came to the BBL. We have horses here and other
kids to play with and lots of fun things planned.”

His eye twitched, but he didn’t reply or look at her.