Lone Star Lover (2 page)

She huffed good-naturedly. “You missed my husband’s burgers and grilled onions more than likely.”

“That, too.” Jake slid onto a stool at the bar, while glancing toward the pool tables. He’d hoped that a couple of the boys he used to play eight-ball with while working undercover would be around. But no luck.

“You just missed Hank and Pete,” Marjorie said, bringing out a frosty mug and filling it from the tap with beer. “You won’t believe this, but Hank has a date tonight.”

“Hank?”

“Yes, sir.” She set the draft in front of him and then wiped her hands on her apron. “Never thought I’d see the day that old codger would step out of his dungarees long enough to catch a lady’s eye.”

Jake nodded his thanks for the beer, and glanced around. The place was empty except for three tables, all occupied by couples, talking, smiling, oblivious to anyone else in the dimly lit room. Apparently Hank wasn’t the only who’d be keeping feminine company tonight. Looked like date night in Appleton. The idea depressed Jake. When was the last time he’d taken a lady to dinner, or a movie or even for a drink?

When he’d finally broken his cover, he’d hoped to ask one of the local gals out. Kate Manning was an attractive woman, whose family operated a large ranch not far from town. Like everyone else in the county, she’d known him as one of the Double R hired hands. She’d also suspected him of being a rustler. By the time the real rustlers were caught, and Jake could set the record straight, he’d discovered that Kate was getting married.

Figured. He never seemed to meet decent women anymore. In his line of work, he was surrounded by junkies, the occasional hooker and confidential informants.

“You gonna be wanting a burger? Barney’s out back having a smoke but I can get him to—”

“No, don’t bother him. I can’t stay long. I came to see Sheriff Harding, but I figured I’d drop by to say hey and shoot a game of pool if the guys were around.”

She shook her head apologetically. “Christmas week is always slow around here. For ten years I’ve been telling Barney we ought to close for the week, but he’s too stubborn.”

Jake smiled and sipped his beer. Funny how at home he felt here, more at home than he did in his own tiny corner of Houston. He lived in a nice enough apartment with all the amenities, but he didn’t know his neighbors or even the couple who owned the corner store where he bought beer and bread once a week. Although he had to admit he’d put no effort into socializing.

While living here, as part of his cover he’d hung out with the other ranch hands, did some drinking, shot pool and swapped stories, using the name Brad Jackson. After the guilty parties were arrested, the word quickly spread that Brad was really Jake Malone, Texas Ranger. Some of the guys had gotten their noses bent out of shape because he’d lied to them, but most of the men understood that he’d had a job to do, and were grateful that he’d been instrumental in catching the rustlers.

“You got big plans tomorrow night?” Marjorie asked, while putting some elbow grease into polishing the scarred oak bar.

“Nah.” Jake shrugged. “I don’t like being on the road with all the amateurs.”

She chuckled. “Ain’t that the truth. We’re going to be open, but nobody who gets liquored up leaves here with car keys. I can promise you that.”

Someone had plugged the jukebox and selected a sappy eighties ballad. The love song filled the silence, annoying Jake. He got to his feet.

“Speaking of getting liquored up…” He dug into his pocket and withdrew a few bills that he laid on the bar. “I don’t need to finish this beer. I’ve got to head back to Houston.”

“You sure you don’t wanna eat something first?”

“Next time.” He set his hat back on his head and slapped the side of the bar. “Say hey to Barney for me.”

“He’ll be sorry he missed you. So will the rest of the boys. If you change your mind about tomorrow night, a whole group of them are coming around,” Marjorie called after him. “You can always bunk at our place till you’re ready to drive home.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” He left the warmth of the bar, hunching his shoulders in deference to the cold as he headed toward his truck still parked in front of the sheriff’s office two blocks away.

He passed the decorated shop windows that he hadn’t noticed the first time…displays of fake snow, Christmas trees and plastic Santas that would be put away in a couple of days.

They made him smile. Funny how he’d taken to the small town. Twice while undercover an eerie feeling of déjà vu had swept over him. The experience had kind of spooked him. Not that he’d ever admit it to a single soul.

At his truck door, he paused and glanced back toward Barney’s. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to spend New Year’s Eve here. He didn’t have anything else to do since he’d already turned down invitations from two rangers he worked with. Nice guys but they were married and their parties usually involved other couples, which always made Jake feel like a third wheel.

He didn’t have to decide now. Tomorrow he’d see if he felt like company or just sipping a cold beer in front of the TV. He climbed into his truck, popped in a Tim McGraw CD and headed down the highway toward Houston.

One thing he hated about the drive to Appleton was that for over fifty miles the landscape was boring, with nothing to look at but mesquite and yucca and scrub oak. About twenty minutes away from town, and not having passed a single car, he had to crank up the volume of the CD to help him stay alert. That’s why he almost didn’t hear the gunning of an engine behind him.

By the time he checked the rearview mirror, the enormous black 4x4 was bearing down on him so fast he thought he’d have to swerve off the road to avoid being hit. At the last minute, the truck swung into the other lane and passed him.

Jake swore loudly, and then watched in amazement as the other truck slowed down, made a U-turn, and headed straight toward him. He applied the brakes and cut to his right. The other driver did the same, but instead of pulling off the road or around Jake, he stopped his truck so that it effectively blocked traffic either way.

Was the guy drunk? Or just plain nuts? Jake saw the driver’s door open, and he hesitated before opening his own door, wondering if taking his gun out of the glove box would only make the situation worse. In the next second, he saw the sun glint off a 9mm in the man’s hand. He raised the barrel and aimed it at Jake through the windshield.

“No sudden moves, boy. Just get out of your truck nice and slow.” Short, heavyset and balding, the man looked familiar.

Jake didn’t budge. “You want money, my truck? What?”

“What I want is for you to get out of that damn truck and into mine.
Now
, Malone. I ain’t gonna tell you again.”

It suddenly registered where he’d seen the man. In court, during Levi Dodd’s trial. That meant he either worked for Dodd or Wellsley. Shit. No way in hell was Jake getting into that truck. If he did, he was as good as dead.

“I know you,” he said, stalling, while he slowly moved his booted foot off the brake and toward the accelerator.

The man walked closer, leveling the gun, his face flushed. “Put your hands where I can see them and get out of that damn truck.”

Jake made his move. He grabbed the steering wheel at the same time he pressed his foot onto the accelerator. The truck shot off the pavement into the brush. The man fired, and the bullet shattered the door window, missing Jake by inches. He ducked from the flying glass, trying to maintain control of the wheel. The truck bucked and dipped over the uneven ground. Two more bullets whizzed past the side of Jake’s head.

He couldn’t see a damn thing in front of him. What the hell was going on? He blinked, felt something wet on his face. Blood. Shit. He blinked again, saw the big mesquite tree at the last moment and jerked the wheel. The truck rolled once, and then again.

Jake’s head hit the top of the cab. He thought he’d rolled again, maybe five times, he wasn’t sure. It felt as if he was spinning, being pulled down. Drowning in a sea of dust and wind. His vision blurred and his lids drooped even as he fought to keep his eyes open. He had to get out. Away from the shooter. His gun. He needed to get to his gun. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t keep his eyes open. The darkness took over.

A flash of memory jolted him. He forced his eyes open. Managing to peer through slits, he stared at the sharp-needled yucca not five feet away. He was in the desert. But where? How had—? He’d been driving from Appleton. That’s right.

His truck. Where was it?

His head and back hurt like a son of a bitch but he forced himself to roll onto his side. He squinted to cut the sun’s glare but all he could see was open country. No truck. No highway. Nothing but miles of blue sky, endless stalks of yucca, clumps of cactus and an army of scraggly mesquite.

He tried in vain to moisten his lips. He needed to get out of the sun. Using all his might, he pushed himself up on one elbow. But the pain was too much. He fell back onto the hard ground and surrendered once again to unconsciousness.

“If I have to tell you one more time to stop calling me Miss Kitty, I’ll give you back to them Rangers.” The older woman glared, the heavy black kohl around her eyes making her look as fierce as a Comanche warrior.

Rebecca hid a smile as she scurried across the small cramped room to the kettle of water she’d left on the fire. Two weeks ago she would’ve run and hid had she heard such a threat. But she knew Kitty didn’t mean it. She’d been nothing but kind to Rebecca. More than kind, she’d protected her. If not for Kitty, Rebecca was certain she’d be dead.

Kitty wagged a finger at her. “I told you before, I’m not but six years older than you.”

It was more like twelve, but Rebecca didn’t correct her. Besides, the other whores were always gossiping about one thing or another, in a rather mean-spirited way at times. Just because they claimed Kitty was thirty-six didn’t mean it was so.

Rebecca used a rag to pick up the kettle and carry it to the basin sitting beside the cot. As she poured the water, her gaze went back to the stranger with the long dark hair. Even though his eyes were closed, she knew they were blue. Not a murky greenish-blue like hers, but a darker, more mysterious blue she’d never seen before. He’d opened them twice in the two days he’d been here, but with his fever so high and the amount of blood he’d lost, he’d stayed conscious for only a minute or two.

“Do you think he’s going to die?” she asked Kitty.

From her seat beside the stranger, she blinked up at Rebecca in surprise. “No, honey. He’s gonna be all right. I wouldn’t be wasting my time on a dead man.” She looked over at him and wrung out the cloth she used to bathe his wounds. “Even one that handsome.”

Rebecca stared down at the man. He
was
handsome, she had to admit, with his square jaw softened by a dimple in his chin, and his perfect mouth. At the direction of her thoughts, her insides clenched. How horrible for her to notice such a thing.

Had she no decency left?

She saw that Kitty was waiting for the fresh dressing, and Rebecca handed her a piece of gauze. “I overheard the doctor say he’d lost a lot of blood.”

“It’s like that with head wounds. Don’t you worry. I’ve nursed more than my share of men back to health. He’ll come around, you’ll see.” Kitty patted her arm, and then met her eyes, Kitty’s green ones darkening with worry. “You’ve got to eat more, honey. Starving yourself isn’t gonna help matters.”

Rebecca moved her arm. “I’ll get more water.”

“I’ve got enough to worry about. Don’t make me fret over you, too.”

Rebecca managed a small smile as she reached for the kettle.

“No more warm water. He’ll need a cold compress once I’m done.” Kitty finished applying the fresh dressing and then got to her feet. “I have to run over to the saloon. You keep the cloth pressed to his forehead.”

She nodded, not happy about being left alone with the stranger, though he was in no condition to do her harm. If Kitty had asked her to go to the saloon for her it would have been worse. Rebecca shuddered thinking about those horrible Rangers who leered at her and made awful remarks. She hated those times that she had to be in the same room with them, or had to pass them on her way up the stairs. How very much she wanted to hide a knife in the folds of her skirt, but she’d promised Kitty she wouldn’t do that again.

“I won’t be long.” Kitty threw a wool shawl around her slim shoulders. “He won’t cause a fuss. I reckon he’ll sleep into the night. When Doc Davis gets back, he’ll take over.”

Rebecca watched her friend disappear out the door, and then perched on a stool near the wood-burning stove and rubbed the chill from her hands. The cloth had stayed put on the man’s forehead so she saw no harm in keeping a small distance away from him. It wasn’t that she was afraid. The man was so weak that the scout who’d found him in the desert had had to carry him over his pack mule to town.

He’d had no horse, no hat, and no gun, not even a gun belt. Kitty thought he might be one of those city slickers from back East who couldn’t ride worth spit and didn’t have enough sense to strap on a gun. She held that belief on account of his fancy boots and store-bought shirt.

Rebecca’s gaze drew to the man’s bare broad shoulders and upper chest, showing above the sheet that had been draped over him. His skin was tanned and hard, his chest and arms corded with long lean muscle. She didn’t have a lot of experience with men, whether they came from the city or not, but she didn’t reckon he looked like a greenhorn. She’d helped bathe him some, so she knew his hands weren’t soft either, kind of tough and calloused.

She glanced at the well-tooled boots sitting on the floor near the foot of the cot. They didn’t look like anything she’d ever seen with the stitching so even and perfect, but then it had been a long while since she’d been around civilized society. It was a shame about his fine shirt. She’d tried to get the blood out, scrubbing so hard that her fingers ached. But the stains barely faded.

Outside, a loud bang came from the direction of the saloon. She jumped up and ran to the window. The noise sounded like a gun. But the Rangers allowed no one but themselves to be armed in town. If someone had broken the rules, it would get ugly out there.

Parting the curtains slightly, she peeked out. Not a soul was on the street. An eerie calm had settled. Rebecca prayed Kitty was all right. For her friend’s sake, and for her own.

A man walked out of the saloon, and she immediately released the parted curtains, afraid to call attention to herself. Silly because a person would have to strain to see her, and it certainly wasn’t a secret that she’d been helping Kitty here at Doc Davis’s place, but living in the shadows had become second nature to her since being brought to the small town.

“Ahh…where…ah—” Behind her the man groaned.

She spun around, her heart racing.

He was trying to push himself up on one elbow. The cloth that had been swathing his forehead lay on the plank floor, and he’d shoved the sheet down to his waist.

“Don’t,” she said, rushing toward him, and then abruptly stopped a couple of feet away. “You’re hurt. Please, don’t try to get up.”

He looked up at her, a dazed expression on his face, the pain in his beautiful blue eyes twisting inside her like a knife.