Mallory Kane - Classified Cowboy

“Hey, Professor.”

The guy had hung his camera around his neck and was now holding a high-intensity pocket flashlight. He shone it on Wyatt’s tooled leather boots for a second, then aimed it at a white ruler with large numbers on it, propped next to what looked to Wyatt like a ridge of dirt.

“Okay,” Wyatt muttered to himself, pulling his own flashlight out and thumbing it on. En garde. He crossed the other man’s beam with his own. “Hey. Excuse me, Professor?” he said loud enough that heads turned from the farthest spotlight pole.

Wyatt heard drops of rain spattering on the brim of his Stetson as the guy thumbed off the flashlight and pushed his hoodie back. Wyatt spotted a black ponytail. Oh, hell. This was no gray-haired scholar with a tweed jacket and Mister Magoo glasses. He was a long-haired hippie type.

Just what he needed, along with everything else. He hoped the guy didn’t have a cause that could interfere with this investigation.

The professor rose from his haunches and lifted his head.

“Hey to you.” The voice was low and throaty.

Low, throaty and undeniably feminine. Wyatt blinked. It matched the pale, oval, feminine face, framed by a midnight-black crown of hair pulled haphazardly back into a ponytail.

He’d heard that voice, seen that face, wished he could touch that hair, before.

“Oh, hell,” he whispered.

“Yes, you already said that.”

Had he? Out loud? He clamped his jaw.

She turned to look at the kid with the spotlight. “Let’s get that canopy back up. It’s starting to rain.” Then she gestured to the two standing beside her. “Help them. No. Leave my kit here.”

Then she tugged off her gloves and wiped a slender palm from her forehead back to the crown of her head. The gesture smoothed away the strands of hair that had been stuck to her damp skin, along with several starry droplets of rain.

Wyatt wasn’t happy that he remembered how hard she had to work to tame that hair.

“I have to say, though, I’m really fond of hey. You’re just as eloquent and charming as I remember,” she said.

He felt irritation ballooning in his chest. He could show her eloquent and charming.

No. Screw it. She didn’t deserve to see his charming side. Ever.

“The name listed on the task force was George Mayfield, from some university. Not Nina Jacobson,” he informed her.

Her lips, which were annoyingly red, turned up. “Texas State. And that’s right. It was supposed to be George Mayfield. Think of this as a last-minute change.”

“I’m thinking of it as a long, thick string being pulled. Where’s Spears?”

“Who?”

“The deputy who’s supposed to be guarding my crime scene.”

“Oh. Of course. Kirby.” She smiled. “He’s very helpful. I told him he could leave.”

“And he did?”

She nodded.

He was about two seconds away from exploding. He lowered his head, and water poured off the brim of his Stetson, onto her pants.

“Oh!” she cried, brushing at them. “You did that on purpose.”

“I wish,” he said firmly, working hard not to smile. “I want these people out of here.”

“No.”

“What? Did you just say no?”

“That’s right. No. I need them here. It’s already started to sprinkle rain. If we’re not careful, we’re going to lose evidence.”

That reminded him of what she had said about the canopy. “You took down the canopy? Have you totally contaminated the scene?”

“The canopy was collapsing. It was about to dump gallons of water right into the middle of the site.”

He glowered at her. “Well, I’m not having a bunch of college brats stomping all over my crime scene. This is not a field trip. It’s serious business. More serious than you may know.”

Nina’s pretty face stiffened, as did her sweatshirt-clad shoulders and back. “I am perfectly aware of how serious this find is. You, of all people, should understand just how aware I am.”

Now his eyes were burning as badly as his chest. He squeezed them shut for a second and took a deep breath, trying to rein in his temper. “Get them out of here,” he said slowly and evenly.

Nina’s eyes met his and widened. To her credit, she lifted her chin. But she also swallowed nervously, and her hand twitched. She showed great control in not lifting it to clutch at her throat.

But then, she’d always showed admirable control, unlike her best friend, Marcie. It had baffled him how the two of them—so completely different—had ever become so close.

He held her gaze, not an easy task with those intimidating dark eyes, until she faltered and looked away.

He’d gotten to her, and he was glad. Last time they’d seen each other, she’d had the final word.

It’s your fault. My best friend could be dead, and it’s all your fault. You were supposed to protect her.

She stepped past him with feminine dignity and walked over to the kid whose pants were still drooping.

He heard him say, “Yes, ma’am.” Then he heard her say, “Okay, guys. Let’s put this equipment away. We’re done for the night. We’ll get started again in the morning.”

Wyatt turned and found Nina staring at him. “They’re done, period, Professor.”

This time her chin went up and stayed up. “We’ll see about that tomorrow, Lieutenant. And I’m not a professor. I’m a fellow.”

Wyatt felt a mean urge and acted on it before his better judgment could stop him. He shook his head. “No, Professor, you’re definitely not a fellow. I can attest to that.”

“Go to hell,” she snapped.

“Charming,” he muttered.

She turned away, so quickly that her ponytail almost slapped her in the face, and followed the students to the SUVs.

Wyatt took off his hat and slung the water off the brim, ran a hand through his hair, then seated the Stetson back on his head. The rain had settled into a miserable drizzle, the drops falling just fast enough to seep through clothes and just slow enough to piss him off.

He went back to the Jeep and got a roll of crime-scene tape. Obviously one thickness of yellow tape around the perimeter wasn’t warning enough. Not that twenty thicknesses would actually keep anyone from getting to the newly discovered grave, but the tape, plus the deputy, who was supposed to be here by midnight and guard the scene until morning, would be a deterrent.

At least for law-abiding folks.

By the time he was finished retaping the perimeter, three times over, most of the equipment was gone from the site and the two SUVs had loaded up and left.

He looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. An hour until Sheriff Hardin’s second deputy arrived. He debated calling Hardin and reaming him and his deputy for leaving the crime scene unguarded. But he could just as easily do that tomorrow morning.

He crossed his arms and surveyed the scene. At least the rain had stopped for the moment. He took off his hat again and slapped it against his thigh, knocking more water off the brim, then seated it back on his head.

Propping a boot on top of a fallen tree trunk, he stared down at the shallow, jagged hole in the ground, his mood deteriorating.

The rain had released more odors into the air. The fresh smell of newly turned earth was still there, seasoned with the sharp scent of evergreen and the fresh odor of rain-washed air. Still, he couldn’t shake the sensation that he could smell death. Even if he knew bones didn’t smell.

A frisson of revulsion slid through him, followed immediately by remorse. He propped an elbow on his knee and glared at the hole, as if he could bully it into giving up its secrets.

Are you down there, Marcie?