Deadly Cover-Up. Julie Anne Lindsey

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      WYATT STONE DOUBLE-CHECKED his GPS as the quiet country road turned to gravel beneath his sturdy truck tires. He knew Gladys Ames lived on a rural property, but this was nearly isolated. No wonder she had been scared.

      He drove with one hand on the wheel while he dug through a pile of papers on his dashboard with the other, fishing for a business card in decent condition. Normally, Wyatt was better organized, but his fledgling private security business had been growing legs faster than he could keep up or recruit a staff large enough to handle all the work, and that left Wyatt running on caffeine and determination more often than sleep and preparation.

      A set of bobbing headlights appeared around the next pitted gravel bend and headed his way, demanding the lion’s share of the narrow road and forcing Wyatt’s truck onto the grass with two wheels. The sheriff’s cruiser lumbered past at a crawl, leaving Wyatt to wait for the opportunity to forge on. Once he could, Wyatt pressed the gas pedal with a little more purpose than before. Gladys Ames had sent several messages to Fortress Security over the past few days, arranging for protection while she “handled some business,” but Wyatt wasn’t supposed to start work until tomorrow. So what had she gotten herself into that required a sheriff’s presence since their last correspondence?

      He slid his truck into the space behind a small yellow hatchback and climbed down from the cab.

      A brunette with a baby in one arm and a half dozen assorted duffel bags dangling from her shoulders and hands froze at the sight of him.

      It wasn’t the first time a lone woman had looked at him that way. It wouldn’t be the last.

      His size and general appearance put most folks on edge, especially women. Certainly at night. Definitely alone.

      Wyatt stopped moving.

      “Ma’am.” He tugged the curved brim of his worn-out Stetson and nodded. “I’m Wyatt Stone from Fortress Security, a private protection agency in Lexington. I’m here to see Gladys Ames.”

      This dark-haired beauty didn’t speak or budge, though her arms must’ve been feeling the weight of her burdens. She was lean and tall for a woman, but Wyatt still had more than a half a foot on her. Like most people he met in this business, she looked incredibly vulnerable, breakable and scared. And he had a bad habit of looking dangerous, or so he’d been told.

      Wyatt ran through a mental list of ways to get past this beautiful guard dog without scaring her any further. He was there to help Gladys Ames, and a general web search had revealed her to be in her seventies. Definitely not this woman.

      “I have a business card,” he offered, “and a signed contract for services to begin tomorrow morning. I told Mrs. Ames I’d come sooner if I could. No additional charge, of course.” Honestly, coming here straight from his last job had saved him five hours of traveling back to Lexington only to turn around and leave for River Gorge in the morning. He was going right past anyway. It made sense to start work a few hours early in exchange for an extra night of boarding.

      The woman adjusted her baby on her hip and struggled with the cluster of bags hanging all over her. “Grandma hired you?”

      “Yes, ma’am.” Wyatt outstretched his hand, a new business card wedged between his fingers. “How about a trade? I take those bags off your hands, and you have a look at the card. Is Mrs. Ames inside?” He checked his watch, hadn’t even thought about the time or a seventysomething woman’s schedule. It was already after nine. “I don’t want to wake her.”

      Tears sprang to the beauty’s eyes and a small whimper puckered her rosebud mouth. “She’s in the hospital.”

      Wyatt’s senses went on alert. “Why?”

      The woman slouched. Her face twisted in grief and agony. She made the proposed trade, then gathered her little girl more tightly against her chest, stroking her puffy brown curls.

      Wyatt scanned the scene, impatiently waiting for an answer to his question. Had someone hurt his new client before he’d even gotten there? The road-hogging cruiser came back to mind. “Why was the sheriff here?”

      “Grandma’s in the hospital because she fell. Sheriff Masterson was here because there was a break-in. He dusted for prints and took some photos of the mess, but nothing was missing as far as I can tell. He made a report and said he’d follow up.”

      Wyatt stifled a curse and headed for the house as eight years of military training and a lifetime of natural instinct snapped into effect. “How badly was Mrs. Ames hurt? Was anything taken? Who found her when she fell? I need as many details as you have.”

      He let himself inside and unloaded the bags onto a tweed couch beside the door. He ran his fingers along the jamb and door’s edge looking for signs of forced entry, then did the same with the windows before moving on.

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