Delores Fossen - Wanted

“Too late.”

Declan cursed. “You’re with her?”

“Yeah. Now why don’t you tell me why that’s a bad idea?” Wyatt insisted.

“Because according to the informant, by going to her, you just signed her death warrant.”

Chapter Four

Death warrant.

Those two words kept going through her head, and each time, they robbed Lyla of her breath. Not that her breath was anywhere near steady yet, despite the several hours they’d spent at the sheriff’s office and hospital getting her checkup. All was well with the baby, thank goodness, but it might be a while before she could rein in this feeling of panic. Her racing heartbeat, too. And the adrenaline crash.

Yes, she had that going on, as well.

Despite the clean bill of health from her obstetrician, none of this stress could be good for the baby. But then, neither were those bullets.

It was the too-fresh memory of those bullets and those two words, death warrant, that had made Lyla get in the truck with Wyatt after they’d finished giving their statements to the deputy.

Now she was debating that decision to allow him to place her in his protective custody. She wasn’t thinking straight, but what she did know was that Wyatt seemed to want to keep her alive and safe. And he seemed capable of doing that.

Capable of wrecking her life, too.

But maybe once she got all of this sorted out, there’d be no need for protection. No need to dodge gunmen lurking on her ranch.

“You’re sure this criminal informant was telling the truth about the death threat?” she asked. “Because if he’s a criminal, how can you trust him?”

“He’s getting paid to spill his guts, and if what he spills is a lie, then the payments dry up.” He paused, mumbled some profanity. “Unfortunately, this guy’s reliable, and he said somebody’s got their eye on you.”

“But he didn’t know who.” It wasn’t a question. Lyla had already pressed Wyatt on that when he’d first told her about the threat. “Then how could the criminal informant know anything about the other details if he doesn’t even know the person’s identity?”

“Bad people talk. Sometimes too much, and this guy plays a fly on the wall so he can make money. He says someone’s going to force you to cooperate with altering evidence, and if it doesn’t work out, then you’ll be eliminated. Dead,” he clarified.

Even if the informant had lied, she wasn’t immune to just the threat of it. Mercy, how had things gotten this far out of control?

“I should be in San Antonio P.D.’s protective custody,” she tossed out there. “Not yours.”

He spared her a glance with those intense blue eyes but kept his attention on the rural road that would take them to his family’s ranch.

Which she was certain wasn’t a good idea at all.

“Those guys took shots at me, and that makes this federal now.”

It was weird. Though he’d practically barked that at her, his voice was far from a bark. Everything that came out of Marshal McCabe’s mouth seemed smooth as silk. And genuine. Yes, he was a charmer, all right. Even when he was accusing her of assorted crimes.

Like stealing the embryo that belonged to him and his late wife.

“You can’t possibly want me at your family’s home,” she reminded him.

“I don’t. But I don’t want you dead, either. And right now, I’m your best shot at not being dead.”

Even that came out as an easy drawl, but it still slammed into her. She couldn’t die. Couldn’t be shot. Because anything that happened to her, happened to her precious baby, as well. But somehow, someway, she had to distance herself from this silver-tongued cowboy lawman. Once she was at the ranch, she’d need to start making calls to arrange for some private security. And a bodyguard or two.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” he added a moment later. “If I hadn’t uncovered what was going on, the person behind this wouldn’t have ordered a hit on you. At least not until you’d done everything they want you to do.”

None of that was reassuring, especially the last part. “But what do they want me to do?”

“I don’t know yet. But it won’t be legal, and doing it won’t necessarily keep you alive. Right now, I’m your best shot for staying in one piece.”

Again, not reassuring, since it was obvious he distrusted her. Probably hated her, too, because he still had his doubts about her involvement in all of this. She wasn’t sure if she even wanted to address that or just make those calls to get her out of there.

Wyatt took the turn toward the ranch, and moments later the house came into view. Except, house didn’t seem the right word to describe something that size. She’d heard of Kirby Granger’s spread, of course, but she hadn’t expected this. Miles and miles of pastures. Hundreds of Angus cows. And she spotted four barns, along with a small house and another massive brick one that looked as if it’d recently been built. Yet another one was under construction.

Heaven knew how many people and buildings were on the parts of the property she couldn’t see.

Wyatt pulled to a stop directly in front of the main house, where there were several ranch hands milling around, all armed. A middle-aged woman with graying red hair stepped out.

“Declan called,” she greeted them, the worry obvious in her voice. “He said someone shot at you.”

But Wyatt just shrugged. Like his voice, it seemed to be an easy drawl, too. There was certainly no crazy panic in his body language, but Lyla was sure there was plenty in hers.

“The others call Wyatt a bullet magnet,” the woman added, glancing at Lyla.

Lyla’s gaze whipped to him. “Why do they call you that?”

Wyatt frowned. “Why do you think?”

“Oh, God,” she mumbled.

“God’s probably the only one who hasn’t taken a shot at me yet.”

The woman gave him a scolding look. “His brothers say he’s a bullet magnet because someone’s always trying to mess up his pretty face. But they don’t say that around me. They know I don’t like joking about stuff like that.”

She came closer when Lyla and Wyatt made it onto the porch, and she slipped her arm around Lyla’s waist. “I’m Stella Doyle, a friend of the family. I take care of Wyatt and the others when they let me.”

“The others?” Lyla asked.

“Wyatt’s foster brothers. Dallas, Clayton, Harlan and Slade. Mine and Kirby’s own son, too—Declan. They’re all marshals like Wyatt here, and they’re all my boys.”

Wyatt brushed a kiss on the woman’s cheek. “Where’s everyone?”

“Dallas took the womenfolk and Clayton’s baby to his and Joelle’s place.” She tipped her head in the direction of the new house, which Lyla had noticed. “He said he talked to you about that.”

“He did. I just thought it’d be better if there were fewer people here tonight. Is Harlan with them?”

Stella nodded. “Slade, too. You’re expecting some kind of trouble?”

“Trying to prevent it.” Wyatt glanced at the curvy dark-haired woman who was sweeping the porch. A maid, no doubt. “When’d you hire her?” he asked Stella.

“Last week. Why?”

“I just want the ranch on lockdown for a while. Give her and any other new help a few paid days off. That includes ranch hands.”

Stella gave an uneasy nod, and she wasn’t the only one who was uneasy. It hit Lyla then. If someone had been watching her, then maybe they’d done the same to Wyatt. With all the activity going on, it would be easy to get someone onto a ranch this size.

“And now I need help with our guest,” Wyatt continued. “This is Lyla Pearson, and she’ll be staying with us for a while.”

Stella volleyed glances at both of them. “Your girl?” she asked Wyatt.