Полная версия
Cowboy Cop
THE ONLY WITNESS WAS HIS SON—AND NOW HE’S THE KILLER’S NEXT TARGET
Miles McGregor had dedicated his life to justice, and with his latest arrest behind bars, the detective finally had more time to spend with his son, Timmy. Then the unthinkable happened—Timmy’s mother was murdered before his eyes. Miles’s only choice was to bring his little boy to the Bucking Bronc Lodge, a ranch where young boys heal….
Jordan Keys is an expert at rehabilitating children. But when it comes to Miles, she is lost. The sexy detective is harder to reach…and a whole lot less willing to try. Before long, though, a killer comes calling and Jordan witnesses the true power of Miles McGregor. And just how far he’ll go to rescue them from this living nightmare.
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 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.
Jordan tried to ignore the fear that rippled through her. Miles McGregor was a dangerous man.
Cowboy Cop
Rita Herron
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Award-winning author Rita Herron wrote her first book when she was twelve, but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former kindergarten teacher and workshop leader, she traded her storytelling to kids for writing romance, and now she writes romantic comedies and romantic suspense. She lives in Georgia with her own romance hero and three kids. She loves to hear from readers, so please write her at P.O. Box 921225, Norcross, GA 30092-1225, or visit her website, www.ritaherron.com.
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CAST OF CHARACTERS
Detective Miles McGregor—Miles will do anything to protect his son and make sure the man responsible for the boy’s mother’s death pays.
Jordan Keys—Guilt-stricken over her younger brother’s death, she’s determined to help Timmy. But she can’t fall for the boy’s father, a handsome Texas cowboy, because he’ll leave her like dust in the wind when the case is solved.
Timmy McGregor—The only witness to his mother’s murder, but he has no memory of that night….
Marie Younger—Timmy’s mother died at the hands of the Slasher. But was she as innocent as she seemed?
Robert Dugan—This smooth-talking businessman was convicted of being the Slasher, but he swears he was set up. Does he want revenge because he was wrongly accused or because Miles pointed out what a monster he is?
Renee Balwinger—She gave Robert Dugan an alibi for the murder of Timmy’s mother—but is she lying to protect the man, who also happens to be her lover?
Janet Bridges—Dugan was in love with her, but now she’s missing. Is she helping him, or running from him herself?
CeeCee Dugan—Dugan’s mother: is she really alive?
Paul Belsa—He was Marie’s lover. Could he have killed her instead of Dugan?
Pruitt Ables—What does he have to do with Dugan and the Slasher crimes?
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Excerpt
Prologue
The verdict was in.
Perspiration beaded on Detective Miles McGregor’s neck. He hoped to hell it was guilty. Robert Dugan deserved to die.
He had killed four women so far, brutal stabbings that had left his victims raw and exposed to the elements, suffering as they bled out, alone and frightened.
The coldhearted bastard.
Marie’s face flashed in his mind, a reminder that his son’s mother could have been a victim just like these other women.
Remorse hit him for the way their relationship had soured over time. They’d had a brief affair when he was in between cases a few years ago, and she’d gotten pregnant. He’d offered to marry her, but she hadn’t wanted it. She said he was married to the job.
That was true. But during this case he’d worried about her. Not because he was in love with her, but he did care, dammit. And his son needed them to be on the same page. To get along.
He’d make it up to her for not being around the past few months. He’d be the man she wanted. The one she deserved.
The father his little boy, Timmy, needed.
He took a deep breath, splashed cold water on his face, then grabbed a paper towel and dried his beard-stubbled face. One look into the mirror and he cursed.
Damn, he looked like hell.
He hadn’t slept since this case had started, since he’d seen that first victim’s body. He’d thought catching the maniac would help him rest, but still the images haunted him.
Only seeing Dugan rot in jail would ease the pain.
He tossed the paper towel into the trash, strode from the men’s room toward the courtroom, then slipped inside and took a seat on the bench behind the prosecutor. He’d testified, and now he wanted to watch the look on Dugan’s face when he was convicted and sentenced to death row.
At least he hoped to hell he was convicted. DNA evidence had been iffy, and Dugan had managed to make sure he’d left no witnesses behind, so circumstantial evidence, a partial fingerprint, the profile from the Behavioral Crime Unit and Miles’s testimony had made the case.
He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants. It might not be enough.
A low murmur of voices rippled through the courtroom as the door opened, and the jurors filed in, heads bowed, faces pinched and drawn. Twelve people who held the future of one man in their hands.
A future that, if he was released, would cost more women their lives.
Miles had no doubt in his mind about that.
The bailiff cleared his throat. “All rise for the Honorable Judge Fenton.”
Everyone stood while the judge entered, then Dugan strode in, his slender face etched with worry in spite of the cool facade he tried to paint as he took his seat.
The judge pounded the gavel, then asked for the verdict, and the jury foreman stood and handed the bailiff the envelope. The man who’d led the jury was a hard-assed construction worker who Miles had liked on sight because he could tell the man had been raised right, to respect women and see through the fake charms of men like Dugan.
A real polished smooth talker who had undoubtedly seduced his way into close proximity to his victims and made them feel safe—until he’d slit their throats.
The soft rustle of clothing and shaky breaths reverberated through the room as the judge opened the envelope and perused its contents. Without batting an eye, he handed the envelope back to the bailiff, who passed it to the foreman.
“Mr. Dugan, please stand for the reading of the verdict,” Judge Fenton said.
Miles studied Dugan as he buttoned his suit jacket, then Dugan shot him a smug smile and squared his shoulders.
Judge Fenton gestured toward the foreman and he nodded.
“On the first count of murder, we find Robert Dugan guilty.”
Collective sighs of relief filled the room, then heads nodded as the same verdict was handed down for the other three murder charges.
Miles’s heart pounded as they polled the jury and a unanimous count was confirmed.
Dugan’s breathing faltered slightly, the only sign he was affected by the verdict, then the judge announced that the sentencing would be delivered in three days. Dugan’s lawyer, a female who looked as if she too had fallen for Dugan’s fake charms, patted his shoulder, mumbling, no doubt, about filing an appeal.
Then the police stepped forward to escort Dugan back to his cell. The crowd dispersed, hushed voices murmuring about whether or not they agreed with the trial’s outcome, and Miles shook the prosecutor’s hand then stepped into the hallway.
Cameras flashed, reporters swarmed. Dugan’s attorney tried to shield him, but her client seemed to like the attention.
In fact, he looked over at Miles and a slow sadistic smile creased his face. Then he mouthed the words You’ll pay.
Miles’s heart pounded, even as he knew that he was safe for now.
But if Dugan was ever released, he’d have to watch his back.
Dugan turned and waved at the crowd, pausing to insist to the press that he was an innocent man. That he’d been framed.
Bile rose in Miles’s throat, but he ordered himself not to react. Instead, he stepped outside into the muggy Texas air.
Heat suffused him in a cloud of steam rising from the pavement, and the fact that he hadn’t slept for days intensified his fatigue.
He’d vowed to make it up to his son and Marie for leaving them for days on end without so much as checking in, for missing Timmy’s birthday and Christmases and the rodeo at the BBL, for being exactly what Marie said he was: married to the job.
He’d start now. This Christmas he would be there to play Santa for his boy.
He headed toward his Jeep but his cell phone chirped—his friend from the Bucking Bronc Lodge and fellow detective Mason Blackpaw, who’d worked the Slasher case with him.
A bad feeling pinched his gut.
Was Blackpaw calling to congratulate him on the verdict or for another reason?
He punched the connect button. “You heard the verdict, Mason?”
“Yeah. But we have a problem.” Blackpaw hissed a sound of disgust that confirmed Miles’s earlier premonition.
“What?”
“There was another murder.”
Miles gritted his teeth at the words he didn’t want to hear.
“Where? Who?”
“Another woman, name’s June Kelly.”
“And?”
“It’s not good, McGregor. Her throat was slit just like the other four.”
Miles dropped his head into his hands and cursed. Dammit, no.
The M.O. was the same as the murders Dugan had just been convicted of.
Which meant Dugan was either innocent, he had a partner or there was a copycat killer.
No...he was sure Dugan was guilty.
But hell, this was bad—even if Dugan was in jail, a killer was still out there hunting....
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
JORDAN KEYS 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.
