Cowboy Fever. Joanna Wayne

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СКАЧАТЬ don’t give a—” She threw up her hands. “This isn’t about the mother. It’s about getting justice for a helpless infant. And our evidence is indisputable.”

      “Until a defense attorney starts whittling away at it.”

      “There is nothing to whittle.” Her irritation was building so fast, she couldn’t contain it. “There was excessive retinal hemorrhaging, and bruising on the baby’s arms and stomach that was not consistent with a fall. That infant died from NAT.”

      “Calm down,” Cortez said. “You don’t have to convince me the cause of death was nonaccidental trauma delivered by a heartless bastard. I don’t doubt the autopsy findings. But jurors aren’t always swayed by printed reports. They react to emotion. That’s why I’m counting on your testimony.”

      “And nothing will stop me from appearing at that trial.”

      “Good.”

      “So what is this visit really about?”

      “Now that Bateman’s out of jail there’s a good chance he’ll try to contact you himself.”

      “To try to frighten me into refusing to testify?”

      Cortez nodded.

      “It won’t work, Detective, no more than his threatening notes have or last month’s visit from his thug friend who showed up in the E.R. pretending to be ill.”

      “The trial is only nine days away. Bateman will be getting desperate. He may up the ante.”

      The tone of the detective’s voice alarmed her. “Surely you don’t think I’m in any kind of danger.”

      “I just think you should be careful. If you so much as see him hanging around or get a phone call from him, I want to know about it. There’s a chance I could take that information to the judge and get the bail decision reversed. Having Bateman behind bars is our only assurance that he won’t skip the country and hide out in some remote area of Mexico.”

      So it wasn’t her that the detective was worried about. But she was as interested in seeing Hank Bateman behind bars as he was—permanently locked away, where he could never harm another helpless infant.

      But she had other concerns, as well. “I have a seven-month-old daughter. I can’t have her in danger.”

      “She won’t be. Neither will you. I’ll see to that.” Cortez pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and dropped it onto the table in front of her. “Keep this with you. Call me on my cell if Bateman tries to make any type of contact with you.”

      She picked up the card and quickly committed the number to memory. Fortunately, that came easy for her. It was what got her through med school when she was too crushed by her mother’s death to cram for finals.

      They finished the conversation quickly. By the time she was ready to leave, her mind was back on the gunshot victim she hadn’t been able to help.

      He was young, someone’s son, maybe even someone’s husband or father. He’d never make it home tonight, and their lives would never be the same without him.

      She’d majored in emergency medicine because she liked saving lives. More often than not, she did. But even one life needlessly lost to violence was too many.

      Her car was parked about a hundred yards from the E.R. exit nearest the ambulance entrance. The back parking lot was almost deserted this time of night. An uneasy feeling skirted her senses, probably due to too much talk of Hank Bateman. She scanned the area. All was quiet.

      When she reached the shiny black Acura that she’d purchased just last week, she pulled her keys from her handbag and unlocked the door. She was about to slide in when she sensed movement to her left.

      “Get in.”

      A man grabbed her left arm and shoved what felt like the barrel of a pistol into her side. Panic seized her, crippling her reflexes, deadening her senses. She was about to slide into the seat submissively when her survival instincts kicked in.

      If she got into the car with this brute, she might never escape alive.

      Her former self-defense instructor’s words came back to her in fragmented pieces. Use what you have. Cause a scene. Fight for your life.

      “Get in, bitch. Do what I say so that I don’t have to use this gun.”

      “If it’s money you want …” She slung her purse at his gun hand as she frantically fit the metal car key between her fingers, fashioning a weapon of sorts.

      He shoved her. She fell forward, no longer feeling the force of the gun. She punched the man, aiming for his left eye. The metal end twisted as it buried in his eye socket.

      He yelled and flailed, blindly knocking the keys from her hand. She hit the pavement running.

      She was almost back to the walkway when the heel of her shoe caught on a strip of uneven pavement. Her foot came out of it and she pitched forward, her right wrist twisting beneath her as she tried to catch herself.

      She heard the squeal of a car as it sped away. Please let it be the gunman.

      But a hand touched her right shoulder. Horror reached deep inside her and she threw back her head and screamed.

      The guy backed off. “Is there a problem?”

      The voice echoed through her mind. Familiar. Haunting. She started to shake. Heart hammering in her chest, she turned and looked at the man standing over her.

      “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I heard a yell and then spotted you running across the parking lot.”

      Her heart skipped erratically as she studied the man who’d come to her rescue. The same depths to the dark eyes she remembered so well. The same thick, unruly hair. Even the same worn Stetson—or one exactly like it.

      He stared at her as if she were a ghost.

      Her heart turned inside out.

      “Dakota.” It was the only word she could manage without totally falling apart.

       Chapter Four

      “Viviana.” Dakota muttered her name and stared at the woman who’d haunted so many of his dreams. He was reeling, so stunned at seeing her that he had trouble getting his mind around what had just happened or even why he was here. His memory was jolted by a dizzying stab of pain when he reached to pick up her shoe.

      “Who let the bulls out?”

      Jim arrived on the scene with his usual rodeo flair, still in his trademark oversize red-and-black jersey and loose shorts. A bit of the clown makeup was still smeared around his eyes, though he’d wiped it off as best he could on the way over with his dirt-smeared bandana.

      Viviana stiffened and her eyes signaled an increased anxiety level. “Who are you?”

      “He’s a friend of mine,” Dakota said quickly. “We СКАЧАТЬ