B.J. Daniels - High-Caliber Cowboy

“You caught me,” she said in a silken voice as she turned, one hand holding the flashlight she’d had pointed on the safe, the other empty.

She was in her late twenties to early thirties with wide brown eyes, striking features and the kind of innocence that did something to a man.

“Put down the flashlight. Gently,” he ordered.

She gave him a look as if she thought he was being overly cautious, but did as he asked.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

She blinked. “I was about to open the safe.”

“I can see that. Why are you breaking into Mr. VanHorn’s safe?” he asked impatiently.

Her face was flushed from exertion and wet from the rain, her errant lock of hair soaked. “I wanted to see what was inside?”

“Do you think this is funny?” he demanded reaching for the two-way radio to call this in.

“No,” she said quickly. “I’m just nervous. This is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this.”

His hand stopped shy of the radio. “You’re in a world of trouble.” More than she knew, once he called the ranch manager….

She nodded, a slight tremble of her lips and an edgy flicker of her gaze toward the door giving away her tension. She should have been scared since he was holding a shotgun on her, had caught her red-handed trying to break into his employer’s safe and she had no way out.

“Do you have to hold that gun on me?” she asked, her big brown eyes wide with fear. “I’m not armed. You can search me if you don’t believe me.”

It was a nice offer but he shook his head and swung the barrel of the gun downward away from her. Hell, he could see every curve of her body in that outfit she was wearing. It was time to radio Red Hudson, the ranch manager. His instructions had been quite clear. “No authorities. We handle our own affairs on this ranch.”

Resting the shotgun in the crook of his arm, he stepped deeper into the room and unclipped the two-way radio at his hip.

“Please don’t call anyone,” she pleaded, motioning toward the radio. “I was just out here trying to get a story. I’m a reporter.”

He held the radio but didn’t press the key to talk. “A reporter?” He hadn’t expected that. “Odd way to get a story, by vandalizing and breaking into a man’s property.”

“I didn’t know of any other way since a man like Mason VanHorn, with his kind of power, requires desperate measures,” she said. “He can buy all the cowboys he needs to keep his secrets.” She gave him a look as if to say he was proof of that.

“Mason didn’t buy me.”

“I thought you worked for him,” she said.

“I’m just night security.”

She nodded, but clearly believed he was one of VanHorn’s henchmen.

Brandon swore under his breath, upset that she had the wrong impression of him—and yet reminding himself that this woman was a criminal under the law. He didn’t have to explain himself to her.

He started to raise the radio.

“What does he pay you?” she asked quickly. “I can’t pay you much but—”

“I’m not for hire. Look, if this is your first offense, the judge will probably go easy on you.”

She sounded close to tears when she said, “You know if you turn me over to Mason VanHorn, I will never see the local law, let alone a courtroom.”

He hated that she was right. VanHorn would take care of this in his own way. Brandon didn’t want to think what the rancher would do to this woman.

“I need to sit down,” she said suddenly, and swung her hip up onto the edge of the desk before he had a chance to tell her not to move. “I’m sorry. I can stand if you want.”

She slid off the corner of the desk, a movement as graceful as a dancer’s. A movement designed to distract, to hide her true intention.

He never saw it coming. Never actually saw her grab the brushed-copper desk lamp. Never saw it in the air until he was forced to raise the shotgun to deflect the blow.

The lamp hit the barrel in a loud clash of metals. The bulb broke, showering him in fine glass. He ducked instinctively as the lamp clattered to the floor and he dropped the two-way radio.

He opened his eyes, feeling the broken glass on his cheeks, wanting to brush it off, but resisting the urge.

He darted a look behind the desk. She was gone. Not that he’d really expected her to still be standing there.

He whirled and rushed to the doorway, the shotgun still in his hands. Stopping at the threshold, he looked both ways down the hall in case she was waiting with another weapon.

The hall was empty.

He rushed toward the bathroom. Would she go out the way she’d come in?

The bathroom was dark. The window still open. The wet curtain billowing in with the wind and rain. He lunged toward the dark opening, determined to catch her. She’d been fast, but he was faster.

He’d only taken a step into the room when he was hit from behind. Pain radiated through his head. She must have been hiding in the room across the hall.

It was his last thought as the white tile floor came up at him just before the darkness.

ANNA HATED that she’d had to hit him and hoped it hadn’t been too hard. But he’d given her no choice. She couldn’t let him turn her in. Especially before she got what she’d come for.

Hurriedly, she moved back down the hall. She’d found the combination taped under the center drawer of the desk, having discovered a long time ago that men like Mason VanHorn changed their combinations all the time out of paranoia.

But because of that, they had trouble remembering the new combination, had to hide it someplace so it would be handy.

Back down the hall, she stepped around the broken lamp and glass and went to the safe again. She spotted the two-way radio and kicked it behind the curtain.

Starting over after the earlier surprise interruption, she turned the dial, hoping she’d bought herself enough time to finish what she’d started. She began to dial in the numbers she’d memorized.

She’d known she might get caught in the house tonight. There was always that chance. But she’d never dreamed the man holding the gun on her would be Brandon McCall.

She tried not to think about him lying on the floor in the bathroom. She was angry enough to hit him again. And to think that at one time she’d had fantasies about the kind of cowboy Brandon McCall would grow up to be. Definitely not a cowboy doing Mason VanHorn’s dirty work.

The tumblers thunked into place and after a moment, the safe door swung open. She heard a groan from down the hall in the bathroom and was glad he was alive, but sorry he was coming around already. She hadn’t wanted to kill him, just keep him out of her hair; if she could just finish here and get away without having to hit him again—or him shoot her.

Standing on her tiptoes, she peered into the safe debating whether to take everything or try to go through it here and chance getting caught again.

The question turned out to be moot. She stared into the cold dark cavity. The safe was empty. Not just empty, but dusty inside except for the spot where there’d been something. Unfortunately, that something was gone.

Another groan from down the hallway.

Tears burned her eyes. Mason VanHorn had moved the papers. She was too late.

She turned, blinded by hot tears of anger and frustration, and started out the door. A thought stopped her. She hurried back to his desk. Earlier she’d searched it, the desk drawers and the file cabinets, but hadn’t found what she was looking for.

Now she picked up the phone and hit redial on a hunch. If he’d taken the precaution to clean out the safe, he might have taken other precautions, as well.

After four rings, a voice mail message picked up. “You’ve reached Dr. Niles French. Leave a number and I’ll get back to you.”