The Cowboy Target. Terri Reed

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      “If you’re coming, you better get in.” With that, Jackie shut the door.

      For a moment he stood there in stunned silence. He’d never met anyone like this woman. On the surface she looked sweet and almost fragile with her small stature and delicate features, but he’d glimpsed the hard steel beneath that soft exterior when she stood up to his stepfather, the sheriff.

      That earned her points in his book. Just as long as she didn’t get too used to bossing him around.

      He opened the passenger door and eyed the dog, who stared back impassively at him. “I’m not riding in back.”

      The mutt looked friendly enough, but Wyatt wasn’t taking any chances. He kept his hands far away from the drooling canine’s mouth. That jaw looked pretty strong.

      Jackie whistled softly and pointed her finger toward the floor. The dog hopped down between the captain’s seats. Wyatt settled into the passenger seat and barely had his seat belt buckled before she took off, her foot a heavy weight on the accelerator.

      “Whoa, there is a speed limit,” he said.

      She eased up on the gas. “Sorry. Force of habit. Driving aggressively is part of my job.”

      Curious, Wyatt studied her profile. There was just the slightest hint of freckles across her cheeks. She had a nice jawline and a slender neck. Delicate, even. “And what job would that be?”

      “I work for Trent Associates. We’re a protection specialist agency.”

      “You said that. But what do you do?”

      The droll glance she sent his way made him feel as if he’d just said the Grand Tetons were molehills. “Protection.”

      He tucked in his chin. “Protection? As in bodyguard?”

      “Yep.”

      He couldn’t picture this itty-bitty woman protecting anyone. A smile tugged at his lips. “Let me get this straight—you’re a bodyguard?”

      She sighed. “I know. Difficult to believe, right?”

      “You could say that.”

      “I get that a lot. At first.” She slid another speculative glance his way. “What were you thinking I did for a living?”

      He eyed her authoritative grasp on the steering wheel and amended his earlier assumption. “I’d have guessed schoolteacher, or principal, even.”

      She laughed. “No. But I do like kids.”

      A leaden weight settled on Wyatt’s heart, and he turned to watch the Wyoming sky out the passenger window. Images of his daughter floated through his mind. The day she’d taken her first steps, the night she’d split her lip on the coffee table, her delight when she opened her Christmas presents. His heart ached that Gabby would grow up without a mother.

      As they reached the outskirts of town, Jackie pointed to the computer display on the dashboard. “You can put your address in the GPS system.”

      He shook his head. “That would take you the long way around. We’ll go a more direct route. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

      “Suit yourself. So, tell me about George Herman.”

      The image of George’s battered face came to mind with a fair dose of horror and regret. Had he said “good job” to George lately?

      Wyatt ran a hand over his face. “Not much to tell. My dad hired him as a ranch hand about twenty years ago. He was a hard worker when he wanted to be. Had strong opinions about most things and a penchant for fighting.”

      Her eyebrows rose. “Ever with you?”

      “We’ve had our share of arguments over the years. He didn’t think I was running the ranch the way I ought to.”

      “Any of these arguments turn physical?”

      He slanted her a sharp glance. She sounded just like his stepfather in interrogation mode. “Why would you ask that?”

      “Prior history always plays a part in a case like this. Establishes a pattern. Motive. You two could have been arguing and it turned physical. His death could have been an accident.” She looked at the road, then casually met his gaze. “Do you drink, Mr. Monroe?”

      “No, I don’t drink. And I didn’t kill him.” Why did everyone want to believe he did?

      “I didn’t say you did. Just pointing out one theory.”

      “I’d rather you didn’t.” He pointed to a dirt road up ahead on the left. “Just past the mailboxes, take a left.”

      She took the turn. The vehicle’s headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the snow-covered dirt road. “Okay. Then who else wanted him dead? Did he have any enemies? Threats made to his life?”

      “I don’t know.” He’d thought about that while he’d sat in the jail cell. George wasn’t the most congenial of souls, but Wyatt couldn’t think of anyone on the ranch or in town who’d want to hurt him. “He didn’t confide in me. I don’t know if he’d been threatened or felt that he was in danger. We weren’t close.”

      She fell silent as she drove. Wyatt watched the world outside the vehicle pass by. He didn’t need daylight to know every inch of his family spread, to see the yawning expanse of flatland stretching off to the left of the road. To the right, the distant outline of the Snowy Range Mountains reaching toward the heavens was barely visible against the night sky.

      “Does this road get much traffic?” she asked, her gaze straying to the rearview mirror.

      He shook his head. “No. Only goes to the house. Why?”

      “We’re being followed.”

      He twisted around in the seat. Behind them lay only darkness. “I don’t see anything.”

      “It’s there. I caught a glimpse of moonlight reflecting off chrome.”

      If someone hadn’t just tried to frame him for murder, he’d think the woman driving the SUV was paranoid or crazy. Or both. But considering that this morning he’d found a dead body on his porch and had spent the past several hours in jail being grilled like rainbow trout on the barbecue, he wasn’t going to doubt her.

      If she said something was behind them, he believed her. Still, he couldn’t see anything.

      He powered down the window. Cold air swirled through the cab of the SUV. The sound of the rig’s tires crunching over the packed snow and dirt nearly masked an out-of-place noise. The rev of an engine. But not from a car or truck.

      Sticking his head out the window, he strained to listen, to discern what it was he heard.

      “A motorcycle,” he decided and rolled the window back up.

      “Anyone at the ranch have a motorcycle?”

      “No. Not that I know of.”

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