Joanna Wayne - Cowboy Conspiracy

Not that she had a clue what shape the house would be in. It had stood empty for over a year now and the man who’d been managing the property was visiting his son in California.

All he’d told her over the phone was that the house would need an ample application of soap and elbow grease and paint. She’d decided to move in and fix it up one room at a time as she found the time and the money.

She had some savings but not enough for major repairs. Her husband’s medical bills had taken most of it before he died three years ago. And last year, she hadn’t earned a dime.

“I’m hungry, Momma,” Jaci said, though Kelly suspected she was more bored than anything else.

“There’s a McDonalds’s out on the highway,” the mechanic offered. “I can give you a lift over there if you’d like and pick you up when your car’s ready. It’s got a nice play area.”

Jaci jumped around excitedly. “McDonald’s. Please, Momma. Please.”

Hours at a McDonald’s surrounded by squealing kids and the odor of fries—or sitting here rereading for the twentieth time the two storybooks Jaci had brought with her in the car.

That was a no-brainer.

“That would be terrific,” Kelly agreed. Jaci could play off some of her energy, have the chicken nuggets she loved and then she’d likely sleep all the way to the Hill Country. They’d be back on track and hopefully to Mustang Run before the predicted thunderstorms set in.

Surely nothing else could go wrong today.

Large drops of rain splattered the windshield as Wyatt pulled off the highway and next to one of the gas pumps at a 24-hour truck stop. Eighteen-wheelers lined the truck parking area off to the right, the drivers no doubt sleeping soundly in their fancy cabs.

He was the only gas customer and the parking lot in front of the café was empty except for a motorbike that looked as if it had seen its best days years ago, and a snazzy new Corvette.

Wyatt climbed from his brand-new double-cab pickup truck, his going-away present to himself for trading a job he loved for a reunion with his father.

All he owned was either tossed into the backseat or stored in the truck’s bed beneath the aluminum cover. That included the fancy rod and reel the other homicide cops had presented him with as their going-away memento.

Stretching to relieve the kinks from his muscles, Wyatt massaged the stiff tendons in his neck. The beers he’d enjoyed with his buddies last night had left him with just enough headache pain to dull the fun of hitting the road.

The splatters became a pelting downpour as he filled his gas tank. A gust of icy wind almost blew his black Stetson off his head. He tugged the hat lower with his free hand.

Just as he was returning the fuel handle to its cradle, a late model Honda Accord pulled up across from him and a woman stepped out.

The wind was blowing so hard now that the sheltering canopy above them did little to keep them dry. She pulled a denim jacket tight and glanced around nervously.

He tipped his hat. “Rough night for traveling.”

“Yes. I was hoping the rain would hold off for another hour,” she said, cautiously avoiding eye contact as she unscrewed her gas tank.

There was no one in the passenger seat, but he spotted a little girl in the backseat. Her face was pressed against the window as she peered at him. She opened the door for a better look.

“Don’t get out of the car, Jaci. It’s cold and you’ll get wet.” When the girl closed her door, the woman quickly locked it with the remote on her key.

“You’re getting wet, too,” Wyatt said. “Why don’t you let me finish gassing up for you and you and the kid make a run for the café before it gets any worse?”

“We’re not going in. And thanks for the offer, but I really don’t need any help.” Her tone and stare clearly told him to back off.

Smart woman. He was harmless, but plenty of men weren’t. And a woman and a kid traveling alone would make an easy target for some of the perverts he’d dealt with.

If he was still carrying his APD identification, he could probably reassure her, but he was no longer a cop, at least not officially.

“I’d give the rain a few minutes to slack off before I hit the road again. Just a suggestion,” he said, tipping his hat again.

He headed inside for a cup of coffee as the wind and rain picked up in intensity. He was less than thirty miles from Mustang Run but in no hurry to get there. He’d decided about forty miles back that he’d check in to one of the town’s two motels for the night and then drive out to the ranch in the morning.

He needed a good night’s sleep before he faced Troy.

Troy Ledger, convicted of murder, but still claiming his innocence. Wyatt hoped to God he was, but he’d read and reread the trial notes so many times he knew every last detail. If he’d been on that jury, he’d have come to the same conclusion they had. Guilty of murder in the first degree.

That was the Troy he’d be facing. But it was the other Troy he had been thinking about ever since he’d crossed the Texas line.

The father who’d chased monsters from his bedroom, taught him to ride a horse and a bike. Given him his first pony. The father who’d stayed with him all night when that pony had been so sick they thought they might have to put her down.

Wyatt stamped the water from his worn Western boots and made a stop at the men’s room before entering the café proper.

“C’mon in,” the waitress welcomed when he finally stepped into the main area of the café. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, blonde, with heavy, smudged eye makeup.

“You made it just in time,” she said. “Sounds like a whopper of a storm kicking up out there.”

“Is this your usual January weather?” he asked.

“No, but nothing about the weather’s predictable in this part of Texas. One day you’ll be in shorts, the next day you’ll be wearing sweats. Where are you from?”

“Texas originally, but I’ve lived in Georgia for most of my life.”

“Welcome back to the Lone Star State.”

“Thanks.” He shed his jacket and dropped it to one of the counter stools.

She handed him a plastic-coated menu. “You looking for dinner or just coffee and a warm, dry spot to wait out the storm?”

“Both.” He checked out her name tag. “I’ll start with a cup of black coffee, Edie.”

“The cook’s already gone for the night,” she said as she poured the coffee and set it in front of him. “I can fix you a burger or a sandwich and fries. I can do most of the breakfast items, too. There was chicken tortilla soup, but a couple of truckers finished that off about thirty minutes ago.”

“Whatever you’re cooking now smells good.”

“I’m making the guy in the back corner a grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich. I recommend it.”

“Then I’ll have that.”

“You got it.”

Wyatt glanced at the only other customer. He was bent over a road map that he’d spread across the narrow table. His hair was shaggy and looked like it hadn’t been washed in days. His jeans were faded and frayed at the hem. Heavily tattooed muscles bunched beneath a wife-beater T-shirt, and there was a wicked scar at his collarbone.

He might be a perfect gentleman with a spotless record, but he was the kind of guy who always courted a cop’s attention.

But Wyatt was no longer a cop. He turned his attention back to the front of the café. The rain slashed against the huge front windows now, and he thought of the woman in the Honda again. If she was trying to drive in this deluge, she was in for trouble. Visibility would be reduced to a few feet.

The bell above the front door tinkled. Wyatt looked up as the woman who’d said she wasn’t coming in herded the kid inside and toward the restrooms on the right. Hopefully that meant she’d decided to sit out the storm here.