Mallory Kane - Classified Cowboy

Nina paused, then crossed out that last word.

—who were involved in one of the disappearances. The Rangers put together a Special Investigations Task Force.

Nina paused, clicking the cap of the ballpoint pen she held. If the site was a Native American burial ground …

Her pulse jumped slightly. She couldn’t deny her excitement. New burial sites were rare. A junior professor getting a chance to be the principal on such a find was even rarer.

In fact, she wasn’t sure why Professor Mayfield had acquiesced so easily when she’d asked him to let her take his place on this task force. Maybe he already knew the site wasn’t old.

That thought gave her mixed feelings. She’d love to have a significant find with her name on it. On the other hand, she couldn’t forget the real reason she’d requested to be on this task force. That could be Marcie lying out there. If it was, then she deserved a proper burial, as well as closure.

Nina clicked the pen angrily. Who was she kidding? If her best friend had been murdered, she deserved vengeance.

Nina twisted her thick black hair in her left fist and lifted it off her neck. Glancing down at the pad, she saw that she’d written vengeance and then underlined it three times.

She crossed through it and took a deep breath. Okay, Dr. Jacobson. Get it together. You’re a professional.

Plan: Tomorrow students will construct a plywood platform from which we can extract the bones with as little disturbance of the site as possible. Until I can determine whether the site or any part of it is of archeological significance (a historic burial site), I am compelled to treat the entire site thusly.

First order of business: take samples of the three femurs for physical examination, dating and DNA extraction.

Nina chewed on the cap of the pen and read back over what she’d written, but she found it hard to concentrate. At least she’d gotten her first impressions down. She could add to it tomorrow.

She set the pad and pen on the bedside table, set her cell phone alarm for 7:00 a.m., and then turned off the lamp and sank down into the warm bed. But light from a streetlamp reflected off her camera lens. She turned her back to it.

It would take only five minutes to transfer the photos and send them.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered to herself.

Tonight, the camera taunted her.

Sighing, she threw back the covers and turned on the lamp. She retrieved her laptop and booted it up, then grabbed the camera and transferred the photos into an e-mail and sent it off to Pete.

By the time she was done, her arms and legs were thoroughly chilled. She turned off the lamp and dove under the covers.

Despite how tired she felt, it took her a long time to fall asleep. To her surprise, it wasn’t thoughts of the burial site or the identities of the remains buried there that kept her awake.

The image that seemed burned into the insides of her eyelids was of Wyatt Colter lying in a matching double bed not forty feet from hers, his broad bare shoulders and torso dark against the white sheets. Was he also having trouble sleeping?

Even if he was, she doubted it was because he was picturing her lying in bed this close to him. More likely, if he were fantasizing about her, it was a dream of watching her mud-covered backside recede as he ran her out of town.

She sniffed and squeezed her eyes shut. She had no idea why she couldn’t stop thinking of Wyatt Colter. Probably she was just too tired to concentrate on anything rational, and too excited about the case to calm her mind for sleep.

She concentrated on her breathing, counting each breath until she dozed off. But as soon as sleep claimed her, an image of Wyatt rose in her vision—in boxers. In briefs. In nothing.

“Stop it, Nina!” she growled as she turned over and pounded the pillow again.

Finally her breathing relaxed, and her brain began to banish the sensual but disturbing images.

A SHRILL RING pierced Nina’s eardrums.

She moaned and squeezed her eyes shut. It wasn’t her phone. That wasn’t the theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Which one of her neighbors had gotten a new, hideously loud tone? She pushed her nose a little deeper under the covers.

“Colter.”

The low, commanding voice reverberated through her. Her eyes sprang open.

Colter. Bones. Marcie. Her thoughts raced. Had something happened at the site?

She sat up and kicked off the covers, squinting at the clock on the bedside table.

Four o’clock in the morning. She’d been asleep for over three hours. It didn’t feel like it.

“Son of a … No. You stay there.” Wyatt’s voice, even through the connecting door, was deep, harsh, commanding.

She held her breath listening, her heart fluttering beneath her breastbone. She pressed her hand against her chest.

Fear? No. She wasn’t afraid of Wyatt Colter. Maybe a little intimidated by his larger-than-life presence. But her reaction was definitely not fear. Now, if she were a criminal, she’d be afraid. Or a subordinate who’d screwed up.

“Have you called Hardin?”

Something had happened.

She shot up out of bed, grabbed her jeans and pulled them on, balancing on tiptoe as she zipped and fastened them. She didn’t even bother combing her hair, merely twisted it into a ponytail as she thrust her feet into her muddy work boots.

“Call him. I’ll be right there!” Wyatt’s voice brooked no argument.

Just as she pulled the Velcro straps on her boots tight, Wyatt’s door slammed. The picture hanging over her headboard and the glass lamp on the bedside table rattled.

She shoved her arms into her hoodie and threw open the door to her room. Wyatt’s broad shoulders were just disappearing down the stairs.

“Hey, cowboy. Wait for me!” she called.

His head cocked, but he didn’t slow down.

She started out, then realized she didn’t have her camera. It took only a fraction of a second to decide. If she went back, he’d be gone.

She vaulted down the stairs two at a time, landing at the bottom with a huff and a scattering of dried mud.

“What the hell are you doing?” Wyatt growled. “Go back to bed.”

Betty Alice poked her head out from the door behind the desk in time to hear Wyatt’s words. Her eyes sparkled, and she snorted delicately.

Nina’s face heated, and she sent Betty Alice a quelling glance. To someone who didn’t know what was going on, she supposed Wyatt’s words had sounded suggestive.

“Go on.” Wyatt sounded like he was shooing a disobedient dog.

“Not a chance, cowboy. Where are we going? Did something happen at the site?”

“We aren’t going anywhere.”

“You can’t keep me away from my bones,” she declared pugnaciously.

“Your bones?”

Now Betty Alice’s pupils were dark circles surrounded by white.

“It might be your crime scene, Lieutenant, but I’m the forensic anthropologist. They’re my bones.” Nina lifted her chin. “That was Deputy Tolbert, wasn’t it? Something happened at the site.”

Wyatt blew air out in a hiss between his teeth and tossed a peppermint into his mouth.

“Got another one of those? I didn’t get a chance to brush my teeth.”

He glowered at her, but she kept her expression carefully neutral. Finally he dug into his pants pocket and pulled out a cellophane-wrapped disk and tossed it toward her. She swiped it out of the air with no effort.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll pay you back.” She was pretty sure she heard another growl as he spun on his boot heel and headed out the front door.

WYATT DIDN’T SAY a word on the drive out to the crime scene. He was in no mood to deal with Nina Jacobson. Against his better judgment—almost against his will—he cut his eyes sideways. They zeroed in on that red lacy thing that peeked out from under her half-zipped hoodie.