Bucking Bronc Lodge 04 - Cowboy Cop Read online

  And she was far away from the gang who had stolen her brother’s life.

  She was safe tonight as well.

  The porch light she’d left on broke the darkness, and she ordered herself to relax. Miles had the sheriff, and deputies were hunting Dugan and his accomplice. All she needed to do was to focus on Timmy and his recovery.

  She dug in her pocket for her keys, climbed the porch and let herself inside. But the moment she stepped through the door, she sensed something was amiss.

  Instantly, she scanned the den and adjoining kitchen. The books she’d brought to read, the files on the gang, her computer, everything was exactly where she’d left them.

  She crossed to her bedroom, and sighed with relief when she didn’t see anyone inside. Just her clothing, which was all in place. Even the pillows were stacked on the bed the way she’d arranged them.

  Her experience with the B-2-8s’ intimidation tactics had taught her to pay attention to details.

  They had vandalized her apartment, scrawled graffiti on the side of her car, all warning signs that she had been targeted for testifying against them, the police suggested.

  That was only one of the reasons she’d come to the BBL. But her main focus was not to escape, it was to help other lost kids.

  She had to do that or it meant Richie had died for nothing.

  Another twig snapped, the sound of footsteps maybe? She craned her neck to look out the window and peered through the darkness, but a dozen different night shadows moved. Horses galloping in the distance, cows grazing, the wind picking up steam and hurling tumbleweeds across the dirt paths.

  The ranch housed dozens of employees and far more campers, yet it seemed deserted and spooky tonight.

  Then an image of her little brother’s face appeared.

  She closed her eyes, shook her head and shut the curtain. God help her, she was losing it, becoming paranoid.

  She had to get a grip.

  Hoping to calm herself, she poured a glass of wine and carried it outside to the porch. She’d keep vigil for a while, chase the ghosts away.

  One sip and she tried to relax. She hugged her jacket around her and let the good memories of her childhood back into her soul. The times she and Richie played soccer together. The zoo trip when he was Timmy’s age and he’d made monkey noises the entire ride home. The way he’d crawled into her bed when he’d had a nightmare.

  She’d promised to always keep the monsters at bay.

  But she’d failed.

  She glanced through the window at the ranch land. She wouldn’t fail this time.

  The kids would be up tomorrow filling the ranch with their chatter and laughter, the ranch bursting with life.

  An hour of studying the landscape told her she had imagined all the shadows and turned them into monsters. Finally the wine lulled her and she yawned, went inside, locked up and crawled into bed.

  But sometime later during the night, she stirred. The whisper of someone’s breath bathed her cheek. The husky sound of a murmured voice.

  The coarse touch of a man’s hand against her cheek.

  She jerked awake, gasping for a breath, searching the room. Someone had been standing over her.

  The curtain was flapping against the wall, the window open, the scent of sweat lingering behind.

  * * *

  MILES STUDIED THE PICTURE of the latest dead woman, Renee Balwinger, his heart hammering. She fit the profile of the others Dugan had murdered.

  Attractive, dark hair, brown eyes, lived alone...

  He strode into the cabin, spread out the files of the first four victims he’d brought with him and began to study them, searching for some connection they might have missed.

  The first four women:

  Sandra Broderick—thirty-four, married once, divorced two years ago, worked as a waitress at a saloon in Santa Fe.

  Gwen Peterson—thirty-two, separated from her husband, hostess at a steak house in Corpus Christi.

  Eileen Gates—thirty, divorced, managed a motel outside Dallas.

  Ruth Norman—thirty-four, engaged, worked at a rental car place at the airport.

  Once again, he considered why Dugan had targeted them. At first glance, he and the sheriff assumed the victims were random. They lived in different areas, didn’t know one another, did not frequent the same malls, stores or gyms. Their computers hadn’t turned up anything either—they weren’t friends on Facebook, no business or prior school connection. None of them belonged to a singles group or dating service online either. Even their Twitter accounts, which only two of them had, did not cross.

  Dugan had to have met them the old-fashioned way—randomly at their jobs. Which meant something about that first meeting had triggered his interest. Then he’d focused his obsession on them.

  Miles took another moment to scan the notes he and Blackpaw had taken on each woman. Of course they’d first looked at ex-spouses, boyfriends, lovers, and although there definitely had been some animosity between Sandra and Eileen and their exes, both due to alleged affairs the women had had, both men had alibis. Gwen’s husband had insisted that he had asked for the separation because he’d found a younger woman, but one of Gwen’s friends had implied that Gwen had hooked up with another man the day after the separation.

  He flipped to the page detailing the FBI profiler’s statement. According to their specialist, the killer was narcissistic, had an inflated ego, was charming, handsome and could easily persuade a woman into going with him.

  Which fit Dugan to the T.

  Most serial killers took a trophy from their victim, creating their own signature. The Slasher had done so by not only cutting the women’s throats, but he had taken their wedding and engagement rings.

  That in itself implied that infidelity was part of the pattern the killer used in choosing his victims.

  Although Ruth was engaged, so far they had uncovered no affair. Of course, Dugan could have perceived her friendliness as flirtation and read her wrong.

  Either that, or the fiancé was in the dark.

  He massaged the base of his neck where tension knotted his shoulders and shot down his spine as he read further.

  None of the friends or family of any of the victims had recognized Dugan or admitted to seeing him with the four victims, and Dugan’s name hadn’t appeared on a rental car agreement or motel registry. Which didn’t mean he hadn’t used the services, only that he’d been smart enough to pay cash or use a different name. He had paid for dinner at the steak house where Gwen worked, but buying dinner didn’t constitute a crime.

  Frustrated, he pulled the file on the fifth victim, the woman who had died while Dugan was in prison.

  June Kelly. The same physical characteristics—dark hair, brown eyes.

  June apparently lived with her boyfriend, Wally Carlton, who was in the marines and currently deployed. She’d been a single mom, the only victim with children so far—well, other than Marie—and worked at a coffee shop outside of Austin.

  According to friends, she had been faithful to her husband while he was overseas, but one of her husband’s friends who had recently returned from Iraq had been spending a lot of time with her and her little girl.

  Maybe they had passed the friendly stage to something more?

  Dugan had certainly traveled around. He probably thought choosing victims from different counties would slow the lawmen down from connecting the crimes, but computers made communication between departments easy.

  Still, Dugan hadn’t physically murdered June. Someone else had.

  Because they’d been impressed with Dugan’s work and wanted to win his approval? Because they were working together? Or because he wanted the same glory and fame the press had dolled onto the Slasher?

  If the men were partners, the murders could have been a game. They might have even taken turns committing the crimes, establishing alibis for some to throw off the cops, then showing off their kills to one another.

  The last file made him lose his b
reath.

  Marie...

  His hands shook as he flipped it open and looked at the photo. The crime scene photos were gruesome, almost identical to the other victims.

  But the M.O. didn’t fit—he and Marie hadn’t been married. And she hadn’t been cheating. Although she had been dating someone else, which Dugan could have perceived as cheating.

  No. This kill was personal, meant to get revenge against him.

  Blackpaw’s theory nagged at him. He wouldn’t be doing his job if he didn’t at least consider the possibility that the man she’d been dating, Paul Belsa, could have killed her for some reason and made it look like Dugan.

  Belsa could have somehow gained access to the police files or read the trial transcripts and learned the details.

  Acting on instinct, he looked him up on Google. He clicked the link to the first website and information about Belsa’s business filled the screen, a list of international commercial real estate deals that were impressive.

  That must have been how Marie met him, through the real estate office where she used to work.

  His pulse drumming, Miles punched Belsa’s name into the police database and ran a check on him, but nothing showed. Not even a parking ticket.

  That seemed odd, but not odd enough to paint him as a murder suspect. Besides, what motive would he have for killing Marie?

  Wiping sweat from his brow, he closed her file, then focused on Dugan. The profiler insisted that understanding Dugan’s past would help them understand his motives and catch him. So far, it hadn’t worked. And he didn’t want to understand why the man would butcher women.

  But if he had to get inside his head to catch him, he’d damn well do it.

  Next he skimmed the interviews with Dugan. Dugan had been smooth, slick, confident, almost in-their-faces with the fact that he was smarter than the law. He also hadn’t indicated any animosity toward women, which Miles had expected to come through. No strict religious upbringing, which sometimes was the case with offenders of this type.

  In fact, according to Dugan, he’d had the perfect family. A stay-at-home mother, devoted father, and he was a single child who they’d doted on. His mother had died of cancer ten years before and his father had been killed in a car accident. Neither event appeared to have triggered Dugan’s killing spree.

  So what had set the man off?

  A scraping sound jarred him from his thoughts, and Miles went to the window and looked outside. No cars, no animals in the yard...no one that he could see. But still, he felt as though someone was out there.

  The scraping sound echoed again, and he frowned, then realized it was just a tree branch blown against the glass. Suddenly, another sound broke the quiet.

  Thrashing. Something hit the floor. A cry.

  Timmy.

  His heart jumped to his throat, and he raced into his son’s room. The night-light he’d installed glowed softly, allowing him just enough light to see that there wasn’t an intruder.

  But Timmy was thrashing in the bed, whimpering and crying, fending off the monsters in his sleep.

  Miles swallowed back the pain the sight stirred, then lowered himself on the bed beside his son and shook him gently. Timmy jerked awake, his eyes full of terror.

  “It’s all right, sport, I’m here.”

  Timmy whimpered again, a raw sound that tore at Miles, and Miles stretched out beside him and pulled him against his chest. “I won’t let anything else hurt you, Timmy. Not ever again.”

  His son’s tears dampened his shirt. Or maybe it was his own.

  Miles didn’t know and he didn’t care.

  He’d do anything to take away Timmy’s nightmares. Only he didn’t know if he could.

  And that scared him more than anything.

  * * *

  JORDAN KEPT AN EYE OUT for anyone suspicious as she and Timmy entered the barn to saddle horses for their evening ride. All week she’d been on edge.

  The night she’d awakened to the opened window still haunted her.

  Who had been inside her cabin? The man who’d killed Timmy’s mother? Was he here on the BBL?

  Or what if it was one of the B-2-8s?

  Surely they hadn’t found her here. Besides, she and Brody had both checked the boys’ records for affiliations to the gang and found nothing.

  Timmy tugged at her arm, a sign that he was learning to trust her. He still hadn’t talked, but in the past week he’d made baby steps, going on a hike with the other campers his age, picking up sticks for the fire and helping her brush down the horses. He’d also regained his appetite.

  “What is it, Timmy?” She knelt beside him. “You do want to take that ride, don’t you?”

  He gave a little nod, then she saddled the two horses they’d chosen.

  She squeezed Timmy’s shoulder. “I’m so proud of how well you’ve learned to handle Smoky. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve been riding all your life.”

  A tiny movement of his mouth hinted that he appreciated her praise, but he didn’t quite smile.

  “Come on, let’s lead the horses outside.” She handed him Smoky’s reins, and she took the palomino named Winnie. More gray skies greeted them as they headed into the riding arena where they’d practiced the day before.

  “I thought we’d ride out to the creek,” Jordan said. “We’ll be back by dinner and you can catch up with your dad and your group.”

  Thankfully Wayling had taken him under his wing, and Kenny, Johnny Long’s stepson, was here this week, and he seemed to have befriended Timmy, too. Johnny volunteered at the BBL, like Miles, and Kenny had stayed at the ranch numerous times so he seemed to know everything about the ranch and its operation.

  She helped Timmy into the saddle, then climbed on top of Winnie and nudged the horse, leading the way. Timmy was a natural rider and guided Smoky to follow Winnie.

  Jordan scanned the property, the fresh air chilly but invigorating as they rode across the field, past the stables where Johnny and Brody were teaching some of the older boys how to tie rope knots.

  She waved to the group, pointing out that Timmy would learn to tie knots with his own group if he was interested. “Did you and your daddy ride before?”

  Timmy shrugged, his little body steady in the saddle. They crossed the east ridge, then she paused to point out the cattle grazing in the pasture. “I think the hands plan to herd the cattle to the south pasture next week. If you want, maybe we can join in the ride.”

  She nudged Winnie to a trot, and Timmy kept up, but they paused to watch a deer drinking from the creek.

  Suddenly the hair on the back of Jordan’s neck prickled. She twisted her head around, searching the horizon. Horses...cattle...more deer...squirrels...woods and bare land...

  A sound cracked the air, and Winnie jolted. Smoky dug his hooves into the ground and began to balk. The sound splintered the air again, and Jordan’s breath caught as a bullet whizzed by her head.

  “Timmy, get down!”

  But her warning came too late. His horse bolted, Timmy lost his balance and slid off the animal just as another bullet ricocheted off the tree beside her.

  She bit back a scream, panic slamming into her as Timmy hit the ground.

  Chapter Six

  Jordan’s breath caught. Dear God, please don’t let him be hurt!

  She yanked on Winnie’s reins and steered her to a tree, then jumped down, scanning the woods in search of the shooter.

  Another shot ripped by her head, and she ducked to avoid being hit, crouching low as she rushed toward Timmy. He looked stunned, but he was trying to sit up. A good sign.

  Dirt coated his jeans and smudged his face, but she didn’t see blood or any visible injuries. Had he hit his head?

  She lifted his chin to look at his face. His eyes looked clear, and thankfully she didn’t see any bruises on his forehead. “Timmy, are you all right? Are you hurt anywhere?”

  He looked dazed, worrying her more, so she checked his arms and legs, but they didn’t
appear injured. Smoky had gotten spooked and had taken off galloping back toward the stables. “Come on, we have to get out of here.”

  Jordan took his hand. “Stay low. I’m going to climb on Winnie then pull you up and we’ll head back.”

  He clung to her hand as they ran to Winnie. Trees rustled nearby, a limb cracked and the wind whistled. She thought she saw movement by the mesquites, a shadow. Maybe a person? But he looked as if he was moving away from them.

  Was it the shooter? Was he on foot? Fleeing?

  Not wanting to wait around in case she was wrong, she stuck her foot in the stirrup, swung her leg over the saddle, then reached down for Timmy. With one swift pull, she swung Timmy up behind her. Timmy grunted and wrapped his arms around her waist.

  “Hang on, sweetie,” she said. “And lean your head down against my back.”

  He did as she instructed and she bent forward, hugging Winnie as she nudged her into a gallop. The wind picked up, adding a chill to the cold seeping through her as they crossed the pasture. The gray skies seemed dismal, what little sun had managed to weave its way through the clouds already fading as night set in.

  She checked over her shoulder every few feet to make sure no one was on their tail, her heart drumming frantically.

  She bypassed the bunkhouse for Timmy’s group, raced past the dining hall, sighing with relief when the stables slipped into view. Timmy shivered against her, and she steered Winnie into the pen, then helped him down and climbed down herself.

  Justin, one of the older teens, greeted them. “Have a nice ride?”

  “There was some trouble.” She shook her head and handed him the reins. “Did Smoky come back?”

  Justin nodded. “I put him in the stall. I wondered—”

  “Thanks,” Jordan said, cutting him off. “Do you mind taking care of Winnie? I need to talk to Miles right away.”

  “Sure.” Justin’s eyes crinkled with concern. Miles and Brody had both explained the situation to the counselors, prompting them to be on the lookout for anyone suspicious.

  She examined Timmy’s head and arms and legs but didn’t see any visible injuries.