Cowboy's Texas Rescue

The inmate’s eyebrows beetled, and he shifted restlessly on the seat. “No. No, we can’t have that. Can’t risk someone calling the cops.” He looked down at the orange coveralls he wore, as if realizing his attire screamed his status as an escaped felon. Raising a speculative glance to Chelsea, he waved the gun at her. “Give me your clothes.”

She blinked. “What?”

Her captor started peeling off his prison garb, revealing a second weapon he’d tucked in his underwear. Another gun, although this one had a funny shape and was painted with yellow stripes on the wide muzzle. Maybe a stun gun?

He caught her curious stare and grated, “Strip! Now! I want your clothes.”

“But it’s freezing!”

He gave her a sneer. “That’s your problem, girlie, not mine.”

A shudder rolled through Chelsea, and she fought down the wave of nausea that churned in her gut. Her brain scrambled for something, anything, that would distract him. Anything that would give her the upper hand and a chance to call for help.

“Come on. Hurry up! Gimme your clothes, damn it!” He waved the gun under her nose. “Don’t test me, girlie. I swear I will shoot you and take the clothes off your corpse if you don’t get ’em off now!”

Hands shaking, Chelsea grasped the hem of her sweater and tugged it off over her head. Tears filled her eyes as the chilly air nipped her skin.

He snatched the pink pullover from her, then bent to shove the orange coveralls and second gun under the front seat. And Chelsea seized what might be her only chance.

Lunging for her purse, she grappled for her cell phone and thumbed the call button. 9-1—

“Bitch!” Her kidnapper yanked the phone from her, jabbed the power button and threw the phone on the floor of the backseat. “That’s it,” he growled. “Get out.”

Fear rippled through her. Heart thundering, gut roiling, Chelsea blinked back tears. “N-no. Please! I won’t try it again. I just—”

“Damn right you won’t try it again.” He climbed out of the car, opened the driver’s door and poked her with the gun. “Get the hell out of the car!”

Shivering with cold and terror, Chelsea scanned the horizon again, praying for help. No one. Nothing. She struggled for a breath as dread squeezed her lungs. Was this it? Was this how she’d die?

The encroaching storm clouds blotted out the sun and made the afternoon seem more like evening. Despair darkened her hope.

The convict yanked her out of the car by the arm. “I said get out!”

Chelsea screamed as loud as she could. Maybe someone, somewhere, would hear and—

A stunning blow found her cheek.

“Shut up! Give me those jeans now, or I’ll do it myself.” The man’s dark eyes narrowed on her.

Hands shaking, she stripped off her jeans, while humiliation and tears stung her cheeks. Icy wind whipped around her, and she shivered. “You have what you want. Please, just let me go.”

“And let you sing to the cops where you saw me and which way I was headed?” He scoffed. “No chance.” He reached out and stroked her face, sending a ripple of revulsion to her core. “But because you’ve been so helpful, I’ll let you live. For now.”

Chelsea released a breath of relief…too soon.

After snatching the key from the ignition, the gunman grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the back of the Caddy. He keyed open the trunk and turned to her. “Get in.”

Chelsea eyed the trunk, and her knees wobbled. “Please, just…just let me g—”

“Get in!” he roared, pointing the gun at her.

“But you said—”

The convict grabbed her, his arms pinning hers to her sides, and shoved her toward the open trunk.

“No! Please!” She fought him, fought hard, clawing, biting, struggling. But in the end, all she got for her efforts were another smack on the head from the butt of the gun and scraped legs when he forced her into the trunk.

Chelsea gasped in terror as he slammed the trunk closed and she was swallowed by darkness. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and fought to remain calm. She could get out of here. She had to. Just think. Stay calm and think… .

As long as she didn’t give him a reason to shoot her, she still had a chance to figure out how to escape. Tears stinging her eyes, she sent up a prayer…and started searching for a way out of Ethyl’s trunk.

Edward Brady stomped back to the driver’s seat of the old Cadillac, chafing his cold arms and grumbling. Of all the women and all the cars that stopped at the gas station that afternoon, he had to pick the troublemaker who was driving on fumes. He hiked up the jeans that sagged on his hips, then dropped onto the front seat and scowled. Stupid girl’s pants didn’t even fit.

Squeezing the steering wheel, he glared through the windshield and fumed over the bad turn of luck. He was a sitting duck, stranded here on the highway, and the dark clouds rolling in warned his luck was about to get much bleaker. He needed a new plan.

He slapped the steering wheel and bit out a blistering curse. He’d spent months plotting this day, planning his escape, and thanks to stupid rotten luck and the bitch with the too-big jeans, his dream of freedom was all going in the toilet. If he were caught now, he’d be put on trial for killing those cops. In Texas, that meant the death penalty.

Brady shuddered. He refused to get caught now. He’d come too far, had too much at risk. He needed transportation, a hideout that was off the cops’ radar, weapons, food…and he needed it fast. When that storm hit, if he didn’t have shelter, he could die of exposure. And wouldn’t that be sorry freakin’ irony?

In the trunk, the woman started banging on the lid and shouting for help.

Brady gritted his teeth. Maybe he should kill her and be done with it. “Shut up!” he yelled. “I’m trying to think out here!”

Movement in the rearview mirror caught his attention. A truck was approaching. Half of him wanted the truck to stop. He could shoot the driver and take the truck.

But if the truck’s driver heard the woman’s shouts for help, he’d be screwed.

Brady slumped down in the seat. Just drive on by, pal. Just drive on by.

But the truck slowed as it passed.

The banging from the trunk got louder. “Help! Someone help! Please.”

Turning the ignition key one notch to access the battery power, Brady opened the window, switched on the radio and turned it up full blast.

Jake narrowed his gaze on the ancient Cadillac sitting on the shoulder of the isolated highway. As he drove past the parked car, he spotted a man in the driver’s seat, slumped low, his expression dour. Car trouble? If so, the poor schmuck could be waiting hours for a wrecker out here. Big trouble, what with the winter storm approaching.

Jake’s conscience kicked him. Be the Change You Wish To See had been his mother’s mantra, paraphrasing Gandhi, as he grew up. She’d lived by those words. And died by them.

No matter how pressed for time he was, trying to reach the hospital before the snow hit, he had to at least offer the guy help. Pulling to the shoulder in front of the Caddy, Jake jammed his black Stetson on his head and cut his engine. The screech of electric guitars and chest-vibrating thump of bass wafted to him, growing exponentially louder when he opened his truck door to climb out. The dude in the Caddy had a heavy metal rock party for one blaring through open windows.

Before exiting the truck cab, Jake recalled the report of the escaped prisoner, took his SIG-Sauer 226 from the glove box and stuck the pistol in his jeans at the small of his back.

He scowled as he walked toward the Cadillac. Open windows when the temperature hovered in the low thirties? Maybe the guy was high on something. “Hey.” He shouted to be heard over the blaring music as he approached. He flashed a friendly smile and tugged the brim of his cowboy hat. “You need any help?”

The man, wearing a rather effeminate pink pullover sweater, shot Jake a wary look but didn’t answer, didn’t bother to turn his radio down. The bass continued thudding, and high-pitched voices screamed unintelligible lyrics.

“Can you turn the music down?” Jake asked, stopping a few steps from the driver’s door and stooping to peer through the window at the man behind the steering wheel. His feminine attire, his odd behavior and his unresponsiveness all rang warning bells in Jake’s head.

The man shook his head and leveled a flat stare.

“Are you having car trouble? Do you need help?” Jake asked, yelling to be heard over the ruckus.

“I’m fine.” The man shifted slightly and jerked his head toward the looming clouds. “You best move on before that storm hits.”

Jake lifted an eyebrow. “I could say the same for you.”

“Mind your own business,” the guy snarled.

Jake gritted his back teeth and swallowed his retort. If the surly jerk didn’t want his help…screw him.

He’d turned to leave when the pounding he’d assumed was the bass from the speakers sounded from the rear of the Caddy. From the trunk. He stopped and listened, turned back toward the driver.

Was that scream part of the music or…

His senses ramping into high alert, Jake edged toward the rear of the vehicle, reaching behind him for his pistol. The guy could be a drug smuggler. A human-smuggling coyote. Or about a half-dozen other options that sprang to mind. Jake divided his gaze between the man and the interior of the car as he did a fast check for weapons, for hiding passengers, for contraband as he crept backward to check the trunk. “Buddy, why don’t you step out of the car and—”

Jake’s adrenaline spiked.

An orange jumpsuit had been stuffed halfway under the backseat.

The escaped prisoner lunged from the car, whipping a gun out from under the pink pullover.

Instantly Jake raised his own weapon and squeezed off a shot. Spinning, he dived behind the protective cover of the Caddy’s rear bumper. The inmate—Edward Brady, the radio had called him—returned fire. Brady’s rounds deflated a back tire and pinged off the heavy steel fender.

Hearing the scuffle of feet, Jake peered around the back of the Cadillac. Brady was running toward Jake’s truck.

“Oh, hell no, you’re not takin’ my truck,” he growled. Jake leveled his pistol, aiming for the guy’s leg rather than a kill shot. He’d leave the cretin alive for the local authorities to deal with. He fired once, and the inmate fell to the ground, clutching his left leg. Staying behind the protection of the Caddy, Jake crept to the passenger door, reached inside to turn off the blaring music, then eased forward to the front fender. “Toss your gun toward me now, or I’ll shoot your other leg!”

Brady returned a scathing epithet and fired twice toward the Caddy.

Jake scowled his irritation but kept his focus on subduing Brady. He narrowed his eyes on the weapon Brady had. It looked like a .40 Smith & Wesson M&P. Pretty typical police sidearm. Sixteen rounds in a standard magazine. Call it eighteen rounds, in case he was wrong about the model of pistol, and it was a 9 mm instead. Jake made a few calculations—two shots to kill the police officers in his getaway, four shots fired at him just now. Brady could have as many as a dozen rounds left. Brady needed to surrender the gun or spend those remaining rounds.

“Toss me the gun!” Jake repeated.

Brady answered with two more shots toward the Cadillac. Jake fired near Brady once to encourage returned shots. The escaped inmate didn’t disappoint. Five more shots.

By lifting his hat into Brady’s view, Jake drew three more rounds. Jake monitored the injured convict from behind the Cadillac, waiting for more shots.

Instead the gunman struggled to his feet and headed toward Jake’s truck again.

Muttering a curse under his breath, Jake darted after Brady, overtaking him easily and knocking him to the pavement. With a punch to the jaw, Jake disoriented Brady enough to wrest the police sidearm from the escapee, which he quickly stashed at the small of his back. Then twisting the man’s arms up behind his back, Jake dragged Brady to his feet and shoved him back toward the Caddy. “Had to do it the hard way, didn’t you?”

Brady glared at him and bit out another curse that would make a sailor blush.

In the glove compartment, Jake found a roll of duct tape—probably the same one the owner of the car had used liberally on the vinyl seats—and he helped himself to a strip for Brady’s filthy mouth. Next Jake bound the inmate’s ankles and wrists, leaving Brady’s arms in front of him so that he could self-administer pressure to his bleeding leg. After dumping the inmate on the backseat, Jake ripped a larger hole in the jeans around the man’s gunshot wound and gave the injury a cursory inspection. The gash was deep but was still a flesh wound. No broken bones or major blood vessels damaged. The thug would live to be a burden to society.

Jake yanked off the man’s sock and pressed it against the wound. “Hold still while I tape that up to stanch the bleeding.”

Brady glared at him the entire time as he pulled the duct tape around the man’s leg, creating a makeshift bandage. Nothing fancy, but good enough to stop the bleeding until the authorities arrived. “Keep pressure on that to slow the bleeding.”

With his prisoner subdued, Jake took the Cadillac’s keys from the ignition and moved toward the trunk to investigate the thumping noises he’s heard earlier. Leveling his weapon with one hand, he keyed open the trunk and cautiously raised the lid.

Chapter 2

Tremors racked Chelsea, a combination of the cold, her fear and the surging adrenaline in her veins. She curled in a tight ball, trying to stay warm and keep her panic at bay. She’d never been claustrophobic, but being locked in the Cadillac’s trunk was making her rethink that position.

Fumbling blindly, she’d tried to open the trunk from the inside to no avail, and her attempts to punch out a taillight and flag a passing car had been equally futile. Ethyl was a tank, and no amount of awkward kicking or beating on the walls of the trunk had made any difference.

And then she’d heard a car approach. Slow. Stop. But as soon as she’d cried for help, her captor had cranked the radio loud enough that the car shook.

The exchange of gunfire had been terrifying and deafening. Whoever had stopped to offer his help had been armed—not such a big surprise. This was Texas after all. But not knowing who’d won the battle, if the escaped convict had killed again, had her strung tight. Tears stung her eyes knowing help was so close…and still so far.

A rattle came from the trunk lock, and she tensed. Oh, please, God, let it be someone to rescue her and not that maniac killer!

The lid lifted, and daylight poured into the pitch-dark of the trunk. she shuddered as a stiff icy wind swept into the well of the trunk, blasting her bare skin.

“Ah, hell,” a deep voice muttered.

Her pulse scampered, and she squinted to make out the face of the man standing over her.

The gun in his hand registered first, then his size—tall, broad-shouldered, and his fleece-lined ranch coat made him appear impressively muscle-bound. Plenty big enough to overpower her if he was working with the convict.

A black cowboy hat and backlighting from the sky obscured his face in shadow, adding to her apprehension.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, stashing the gun out of sight and undoing the buttons of his coat.

“N-no.” When he reached for her, she shrank back warily. Her dishabille caused nervous skitters to dance along her nerves, left her feeling vulnerable. Awkward. Cold as hell.

And where was the convict? She cast an anxious glance around them, down the side of the car, searching. Was he dead? Waiting to pounce when she climbed out of the trunk?

She jolted when her rescuer grasped her elbow.

“Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you.” The cowboy leaned farther into the trunk. “Let me help you out of there, and you can have my coat.”

His coat… She almost whimpered in gratitude, anticipating the warmth. Heat from his fingers burrowed to her core as he steadied her and helped her rise to her knees. When she caught her first good glimpse of his square jaw and stubble-dusted cheeks, her stomach swooped. Oh, Texas! He was a freaking Adonis. Greek god–gorgeous with golden blond hair, cowboy boots and ranch-honed muscles. He lifted her out of the trunk, and when he set her down and her knees buckled with muscle cramps, cold and fatigue, she knew she couldn’t dismiss old-fashioned swooning for at least some of her legs’ weakness. He draped the coat around her shoulders, and the sexy combined scents of pine, leather and man surrounded her. She had to be dreaming… .

Relief surged through her. Rescue!

“You can sit in my truck and get warm while I deal with Brady and call the cops.” He stepped past her and reached up to close the trunk lid. Keeping a kind blue-eyed gaze on her, he slammed the trunk lid closed.

She nodded her understanding. “Th-thank you.”

A movement in the backseat of the car drew her attention. the convict glared at her through the shattered rear window, and a chill raced through her. As she held the inmate’s malevolent leer, he raised his tape-bound hands. Clutching the stun gun.

He aimed.

Terror shot through her, and she screamed, “Look out!”

Too late.

She heard the hiss and crackle of the electric current. She watched helplessly as the cowboy stiffened, his face contorting in pain. His body jerked and writhed as the convict continued to feed a disabling electric current through the twin probes piercing her rescuer’s neck.

“Stop! You’ll kill him!” Tears of horror, fear and sympathy puddled in her eyes. She rushed toward the cowboy, desperate to do something to help. But…if she touched him, would she receive the debilitating shock, too?

Overwhelmed by the current coursing through him, the cowboy’s legs crumpled. As he slumped to the ground, his head hit the back fender, then thumped hard on the pavement.

Chelsea gasped and staggered toward the cowboy’s prone form. He lay eerily still.

Oh, God. Ohgodohgodohgod. Please don’t let him be dead!

When the crackling noise stopped, Chelsea plucked the prongs from the cowboy’s neck and felt for a pulse. She released a shaky sigh when she palpated a steady throb.

Hearing scuffles from the car, she rose warily to peer into the backseat. The convict pulled The tape from his mouth, wincing and growling obscenities, then set to work gnawing at the tape on his hands with his teeth.

Fresh prickles of fear spun through Chelsea. The inmate would be free soon, and she had no doubt he’d be set on vengeance. She needed a way to protect herself. Think!

She glanced around. The cowboy’s truck sat about one hundred feet down the road. If she made a dash for it, could she get there before the inmate shot her? Unlikely. And what about the cowboy? She couldn’t steal his truck and abandon him. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm her adrenaline-charged brain enough to make quick, logical decisions. With another glance over the trunk, through the shot-out window, she watched the inmate rip tape from his wrists, then bend down, presumably to work on freeing his feet.

Her gaze darted to the broken glass. Gunfire…

The cowboy had been holding a gun when he opened the trunk!

Dropping to her knees beside the cowboy, she shook him. “Where’s your gun? I need your gun!”

Still no response. Either the stun gun or the hit he took to his head had knocked him out.

She heard Ethyl’s back door squeak open. The inmate was coming… .

With frantic hands, Chelsea patted down the cowboy. Chest, waist, hips…dear God, the man was solid muscle. Finding nothing, she grabbed an arm and tugged, struggling to turn him over. Groped behind him…

“Nice try, girlie.”

Gasping, Chelsea jerked her gaze up.

The convict hovered over her, a gloating expression twisting his face.

Icy fear slithered down her spine. Finally, her fingers closed around the butt of a gun, and she yanked it from the cowboy’s belt. Swinging the weapon toward her kidnapper, Chelsea gritted her teeth. “Stop where you are!” She worked up enough spit in her dry mouth to swallow. “Don’t come any closer, or I’ll shoot.”

The convict hesitated, eyeing the gun. He had a wad of white cloth taped to a bleeding wound on his leg. “You won’t do it. You could never live with yourself knowing you’d killed another human being.”

Her pulse kicked. Was he right? Could she pull the trigger if she had to? “If you force my hand, I will kill you to save my life—” she nodded toward the unconscious cowboy “—and his.”

The convict’s expression hardened. “Get back in the trunk, girlie, or I’ll fry you like I did John Wayne.”

The frigid wind and her fear brought the sting of tears to her eyes again. She blinked hard, fighting to keep the inmate in focus, her attention glued on him. Shoot him. Just shoot him. It’d be justifiable homicide.

Her hands shook, and her stomach roiled. “Just…t-take his truck and leave us here.”

The inmate’s eyes narrowed, and his brow furrowed as he studied the gun in her hands. “Good idea. But…you’ll still be in the trunk. Just in case you had any ideas about goin’ to the cops.”

He took a step forward, and Chelsea tensed, her finger curling around the trigger. “I said stay back! Don’t touch me.”

“Go ahead,” the convict taunted, “shoot me. I dare you.”

He took another step toward her, and Chelsea squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Her insides clenched at the telltale sound.

With a low rumbling laugh, the inmate closed in on her. “Well, well. Maybe you would shoot. Too bad you’re out of bullets.”

Brady knocked the emptied gun out of the brunette’s hands and nudged the cowboy with his toe. The guy was out cold. Good. He gave the guy a hard kick in the ribs. “Sorry son of a bitch.”

“Don’t!” The brunette moved between him and the cowboy. “Leave him alone! Haven’t you hurt him enough?”

“He shot me!” Brady growled back, pointing to his bleeding leg. “I should put a bullet in his head and be done with him.”

“No!” She draped herself over the cowboy’s body like some modern Pocahontas saving John Smith, and Brady scoffed. The girl had guts, standing up for the cowboy, trying to protect him, but Brady had other plans for the jerk.

“Get out of the way, or I’ll kill the both of you!” He shoved her with his foot, and pain radiated up his leg.

“With what? The gun’s empty.” She raised her chin, visibly shivering in the cold. Or fear. He liked the idea that he scared her.

He leaned toward her, getting in her face. “With my bare hands if I have to. But I hear if you get juiced long enough with one of these babies—” he waved the stun gun “—you’ll go into cardiac arrest.” He leered at her. “Care to try it and see?”

She gasped and pulled away but stayed planted between him and the unconscious cowboy. Firming her jaw, she rallied for another show of chops. “A car could come by anytime. Do you really want to be seen standing here with me nearly naked, you holding that gun thing and him slumped on the ground? We’re bound to cause a passerby to take a second look.”

Brady frowned. She had a point. He had to do something with them and get moving. Before the cowboy woke up. Before a cop spotted him. Before his leg bled out.

Before this sucky day took another piss on him.

He needed to cover his tracks and find a hideout. Fast.

He opened the Caddy’s trunk and faced the girl. “Get up!” he ordered the brunette. “Get his arm. Help me put him in the trunk.”

Limping forward and keeping most of his weight on his good leg, he shoved a hand under the cowboy’s armpit and waited for the girl to comply. When she hesitated, he snarled, “Look, girlie. I’m in pain, and I’m in a hurry. I have exactly no patience left.” He aimed the stun gun at her. “Get him up.”