Joanna Wayne - Cowboy Swagger

“You can take her when we’re through.”

“There won’t be time. I’m working a wedding tonight. Georgia is not happy. Both you and Melinda owe me big-time.”

“Get me some great shots of Troy Ledger arriving at the little house of horrors and we’ll both be in your debt.”

“So the infamous Mr. Ledger hasn’t arrived yet?”

“No sign of him, but according to reports of when he left the prison, he could drive up any minute.”

“What happened to Melinda?”

“She’s on assignment in Austin for her real boss. You know, the guy who actually pays her. She thought she’d be back in time to help me out, but got stuck in traffic.”

“So that’s why I got drafted.”

“Which reminds me, do you mind if I camp out at your place tonight? I have an interview scheduled with a developer just outside Mustang Run at an ungodly hour in the morning.”

“You want my house and my expertise with the camera? That will cost you,” Collette teased.

“Let’s hope this turns out to be worth it.”

“Take the left side of my garage tonight. I’ll park on the right.”

“I remember. You know, you may actually be better at this assignment than Melinda.”

“Not likely. Ghosts are not within my area of expertise,” said Collette.

“No, but you’re local. That should be worth something. Pictures of Troy Ledger inside the haunted house would catapult Beyond the Grave to the hottest paranormal magazine on the racks. And then I could actually pay Melinda—and myself.”

“Local or not, fat chance I’ll get inside that house. I’ll be lucky if I get a shot of him entering the door.”

“Then I guess Melinda and I will be forced to break in the house the first time Troy Ledger leaves.”

Collette covered her ears. “Don’t confess planned illegalities to me. I’m the sheriff’s daughter.”

“Like you’d turn us in to him. You barely speak to the man.”

“Yes, and let’s keep it that way.”

“Speaking of illegalities, are you still getting calls from that weirdo?”

“Occasionally. The calls are pretty lame, but they’re starting to get to me.”

“Sic the sheriff on him.”

“I don’t know what he could do since the guy only spouts harmless utterances of devotion. What are you hoping to get today for the article?” Collette asked, changing the subject.

“I’m thinking the tag will be ‘Troy Ledger returns to the house that drove him to murder,’“ Eleanor said, holding up her hands as if framing the article.

“Last I heard, he was still claiming his innocence. And he was released from prison.” Collette removed her camera from the case and adjusted the lens.

“Sure, but released on a technicality,” Eleanor countered.

“The prison psychiatrist interviewed on the morning news claimed Troy Ledger has never shown one sign of violent behavior since his conviction. She said she’s certain of his mental stability and even went so far as to say that she wouldn’t hesitate to trust him with her own son.”

“Shrinks, what do they know?” Eleanor glanced at her watch. “Do you think he killed his wife?”

“My opinion doesn’t count for much. I was ten at the time.”

“Your dad must think he’s guilty. He arrested him.” Eleanor stretched for a better look as a commotion ensued at the back of the crowd.

A black pickup truck approached, driving up to the front door and sending the reporters who’d gathered there flying to get out of the way. A sexy hunk of a man in boots, worn jeans and a Western hat climbed out, a man who was decades too young to be Troy Ledger.

He looked around and shook his head before stamping to the door. Once there, he pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and poked one into the lock.

“Holy Smoley,” Eleanor said lustfully. “I’d sleep with ghosts any night as long as that cowboy was in the bed with us. Do you know him?”

“He could be one of Troy Ledger’s sons. I think he had four.”

“Five,” Eleanor corrected. “Dakota, Tyler, Dylan, Sean and Wyatt.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

“And a couple of major investigative articles on the crime. FYI, I think Troy Ledger is as guilty as sin and I renege on any offer to sleep with one of his sons, not even if it guaranteed me a picture of ghosts.”

Collette aimed and started shooting, still looking for something familiar to help her identify the stranger. She’d known a few of Troy Ledger’s sons, but that was years ago when they were mere boys.

The guy pushed open the door but didn’t go inside. Instead he scanned the crowd as if looking for someone. Flashbulbs popped, and he blinked and squinted in defense. Reporters started yelling questions and trying to stick mikes in his face.

“Are you a relative of Troy Ledger?”

“Is Troy coming back to the ranch?”

“Will he move back to Mustang Run?”

The cowboy put up a hand as if to quiet the group. Amazingly, they obliged him, though Collette was certain the cooperation wouldn’t last long unless he gave them something they wanted.

“You’re trespassing,” he said. “And looking for a story that was milked dry seventeen years ago.”

“Who are you?” a reporter yelled from the back of the group.

“Dylan Ledger, son of the convicted murderer.” He tipped his hat as if mocking them and propped a hand on the door frame.

Dylan. She remembered him more than the others. He had been a year ahead of her and had ridden the same bus to school and back. Even then he’d been cute, but he’d aged to perfection.

Someone pushed a mike into his face. “Have you forgiven your father for killing your mother?”

“My relationship with my father is none of your business.”

“Is your father going to live here on Willow Creek Ranch?”

“I have no idea what my father’s plans are for the future. End of story, so you may as well go out and find yourselves some real news.”

He scanned the crowd again. When his gaze fixed, Collette was certain that he was looking right at her. She felt the impact of his stare right down to her toes, a kind of heated awareness that set her on edge.

Eleanor poked her in the ribs with her elbow. “He recognizes you.”

“No way. I was scrawny and wore braces when he saw me last.”

“And now you’re gorgeous and you’ve acquired breasts. You’ve got his attention. Ask him a question.”

“I’m a photographer, not a reporter.”

“He doesn’t know that.” She took Collette’s free hand and waved it in the air. “Ask him if he thinks the house is haunted.”

Again, Dylan stared straight at Collette. “I’ll grant one interview,” he conceded, as if it were an afterthought. “In private. The redhead in the jeans and yellow shirt,” he said, pointing at Collette.

Eleanor slapped her on the back and pushed her forward. “Go get ‘em, girl. But don’t forget the pictures. And be careful.”

Collette panicked. She didn’t represent a legitimate news organization, and she’d never conducted a real interview. She was terrific at what she did, but that was photography, usually for weddings or at least happy family occasions.

Eleanor gave her another shove. “What are you waiting on?”

Collette gave up and pushed her way through the crowd. Some reporters moved out of her way to make it easier for her. A few guys deliberately blocked her path, and two made sexist comments about her looks doing her work for her.

She had a couple of words for them, too, but she managed enough restraint to keep them to herself. When she reached Dylan, he escorted her inside and closed and locked the door behind them. Her stomach rolled, though she couldn’t blame the uneasiness on the house’s aura. It looked and felt like any other sprawling ranch house, except for the musty odors that came from years of being closed off from life, wind and sun.