Delores Fossen - Wanted

He was close enough to Lyla now that he heard her make a sound of surprise mixed with a whole lot of fear. Her reaction made Wyatt think she hadn’t known that an armed man was less than thirty feet away from her.

An armed man who clearly wasn’t listening to a thing Wyatt was telling him to do.

The guy didn’t drop his gun. He stayed put, just tossing out the occasional glances. Once Wyatt had Lyla safely inside, he was going to do something about this nonlistening moron. That didn’t mean killing him. No. That was the last thing Wyatt wanted, because he wanted answers from him, too.

“Don’t move,” Wyatt reminded Lyla when she lifted her head. She dropped back down but looked at him as if trying to figure out who he was.

Or rather, pretending to do that.

Since her pretense and the reaction to the gunman could all be a ruse, Wyatt kept his attention on both her and the gunman. He made his way across the narrow dirt road that stopped directly in front of her house. Each step was a victory because there were no shots being fired at them. He really wanted to keep it that way.

Wyatt hurried the last few yards to her, and he moved directly in front of her, making sure he was between her and the gunman.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice shaking as hard as the rest of her.

“I was hoping you could tell me.” He took aim at the barn and stood. “Is your front door locked?”

“No.”

Good. Though he’d figured she hadn’t bothered to lock it. Not usually much crime out in the rural part of the county. Of course, usually wasn’t the norm right now.

“Stay behind me,” Wyatt instructed. “We’re going inside.”

Where he hoped she wouldn’t try to kill him. But then, he figured her plan didn’t include murdering him.

Nope.

She or someone else had put too much in motion to outright kill him.

Well, unless the plan had changed and someone was trying to cut their losses and make sure there were no loose ends with equally loose lips. If that was the case, then both Lyla and he could be targeted to die.

She didn’t argue about going inside with him, and Lyla slid her hands over her stomach and practically pressed herself against his back as they inched across the yard. Wyatt could feel the tight muscles in her arms. Could feel her warm breath hit against his neck.

And he could feel her fear.

He shifted his position a little as they went up the steps. He had to keep Lyla shielded, but he also had to make sure the gunman didn’t try to go in through the back of her house.

That led him to his next problem.

If someone was trying to nix a plan that was already in motion—like this one—there might be another attacker waiting inside. Or maybe this was all part of Lyla’s plan—get him inside so she could move on to the next step.

Whatever the heck that was.

Despite the don’t be stupid warning echoing through his head, Wyatt opened the door and stepped inside, keeping her next to him. His attention and gun slashed from one side of the living room to the other.

Nothing.

Well, nothing that he could immediately see anyway. It wasn’t a large room, but there was a dark red sofa and two chairs. Not easy hiding places, but he checked anyway. Then he checked for what could pose the most immediate danger.

Lyla Pearson herself.

“Are you armed?” he asked, but didn’t wait for her to answer. Wyatt shoved his hand inside her coat and gave her a quick pat down.

She gasped and tried to push him away, but Wyatt held his ground. “I don’t carry a gun,” she insisted.

“Maybe not, but you have one registered to you.”

Her eyes widened. “How’d you know that?”

Wyatt just tapped the marshal’s badge clipped to his belt.

Lyla still looked confused by all of this. Heck, maybe she was. After all, if she’d truly set up the gunman pretense, she would’ve had to have known that Wyatt would be there at that exact moment. He’d kept this visit secret. Not even his five foster brothers knew, and they were all marshals, too. He hadn’t wanted to tell them anything until he’d figured out what was going on.

The figuring out started now.

“Back door locked?” he asked. He pulled her inside, keeping her against the jamb.

“I’m not sure.”

“Stay put,” Wyatt snarled, and he hurried into the kitchen. If anyone was hiding, they would have to be in the fridge, because the pantry door was wide-open and he could see inside. He turned the dead bolt on the door to lock it.

She didn’t ask why he’d done that, but he could feel her fear go up a notch. Or maybe she was faking that, too. At any rate, she was breathing through her mouth, and the pulse on her throat was skittering a mile a minute.

Wyatt went back to her, waited. Listened. But he didn’t hear anyone inside, or out, for that matter. So, he grabbed the cordless landline phone and handed it to her. “Call 9-1-1 and request backup.”

Her hand brushed against his when she took the phone, and for just a split second, their eyes met. Hers were brown, just as her file had said, but what wasn’t in her file was they were deep and warm.

Oh, man.

He didn’t need to be thinking of her eyes. Or anything else, for that matter. She could be one of the most conniving criminals he’d ever met.

Or maybe an innocent pawn.

Until Wyatt knew which, her eyes and the rest of her were off-limits.

While she made the call, Wyatt got her all the way inside and kicked the door shut. He locked it. But he didn’t move. He stayed put, waiting to make sure they were indeed alone. Waiting, too, to see if she’d make some kind of move.

She didn’t. Lyla called 9-1-1 just as he’d asked.

The window on the east side of the room was both a blessing and a curse. It allowed Wyatt a decent view of the back side of the barn. The last place he’d spotted the guy with the gun. But that window was also a danger, since the gunman could see them and shoot right through the glass.

“A deputy’s on the way,” Lyla relayed once she’d finished the call.

Good. But the nearest town, Bulverde, was a good thirty minutes away, and he was on his own until then.

“Who’s out there?” she asked.

“You don’t know?”

Her breath rattled in her throat. “I have no idea.” She shook her head and caught onto the door, maybe because she didn’t look too steady on her feet. “He can’t shoot me. I’m pregnant and he could hurt the baby.”

If this was an act, she was damn convincing.

Wyatt glanced around, looking for the safest way to approach this—for both him and her. “Get down on the floor in front of the sofa.”

It wasn’t a perfect location. Not by a long shot. But it would get her out of direct line of fire of that window, and with her on the floor, she wouldn’t be able to attack him.

She moved to do just that but then stopped and stared at him. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t have to lie about this. “You’re going to tell me that after I take care of the guy by the barn.”

Her stare tightened into a glare, and with that glare aimed at him, she eased down onto the floor.

That freed him up to hurry to the hall entry, where he spotted three doors. Probably two bedrooms and a bath. All the doors were open, but unlike with the pantry, he didn’t have a clear look inside any of them.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “How did you know there’d be a gunman at my house?”

Tricky questions, both of them. If she didn’t truly know the answers, then they were both in some Texas-sized trouble.

“I’m involved in an investigation, and you might have something to do with it,” he settled for saying.

“I don’t understand. What investigation?”