Mallory Kane - Classified Cowboy

Classified Cowboy

Mallory Kane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Cover

Title Page Classified Cowboy Mallory Kane www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author About the Author MALLORY KANE credits her love of books to her mother, a librarian, who taught her that books are a precious resource and should be treated with loving respect. Her father and grandfather were steeped in the Southern tradition of oral history and could hold an audience spellbound for hours with their storytelling skills. Mallory aspires to be as good a storyteller as her father. Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband, their two fascinating cats and, at current count, seven computers. She loves to hear from readers. You can write her at mallory@mallorykane.com or via Harlequin Books.

Dedication For my Daddy, who loves reading my books.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Copyright

MALLORY KANEcredits her love of books to her mother, a librarian, who taught her that books are a precious resource and should be treated with loving respect. Her father and grandfather were steeped in the Southern tradition of oral history and could hold an audience spellbound for hours with their storytelling skills. Mallory aspires to be as good a storyteller as her father.

Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband, their two fascinating cats and, at current count, seven computers. She loves to hear from readers. You can write her at mallory@mallorykane.com or via Harlequin Books.

For my Daddy, who loves reading my books.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Texas Ranger Lieutenant Wyatt Colter slammed the door of his Jeep Liberty and crossed the limestone road in three long, crunching strides.

It had taken him longer than he’d intended to get here. Jonah Becker’s spread was huge—as big as Comanche Creek, Texas, was small. Becker had twelve thousand acres. The entire city limits of Comanche Creek would fit in the southeast corner of the spread.

Right now, though, Wyatt was much more concerned with the northwest corner, where human bones had been unearthed by the road crew, which Becker had fought so hard to keep off his land.

This small piece of real estate was Wyatt’s crime scene, and the owners of the two mud-spattered SUVs had breached it. Where in hell was the deputy assigned to guard the scene?

Just as he drew in breath to yell again, the growl of a generator cut through the damp night air. A large spotlight snapped on with an almost audible whoosh. He headed toward it.

“Ben, hit your light!” a kid yelled. His long-billed baseball cap sat askew on his head, and his pants looked as if they were going to fall off any second.

A second light came on. Now that there were two lights, Wyatt could see more people. He had to get this under control now, or his crime scene would be totally contaminated.

“Hey!” Wyatt grabbed the kid’s arm.

“Ow, dude. Watch the shirt.”

“Where’s the deputy sheriff?”

“I don’t know.” The kid shrugged and peered up at Wyatt from under his cap. “What’s the nine-one-one?”

“The nine-one-one is you’re stomping on my crime scene. Who the hell authorized you to be here?”

“My boss the hell did, dude.”

Wyatt tightened his fist in the boy’s shirt. “I’m not dude. I’m Lieutenant Wyatt Colter, Texas Ranger. Now, who authorized you to be here?”

The kid’s eyes bugged out. “I, uh, I’m an anthropology major. This is part of my Forensics 4383 course. If we’re lucky, we’ll see signs of murder on the bones.”

Wyatt’s anger skyrocketed. He twisted his fist in the kid’s shirt, showing him he didn’t appreciate his comment.

“Those are human beings,” he growled. “Show some respect.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Forensics course. He should have guessed. The students were from Texas State. They were here with Dr. George Something, the head of the Forensics Department. He’d been called in by Wyatt’s captain. And without asking, he’d brought a bunch of ghoulish kids with him.

No way was Wyatt going to allow students to stomp all over this scene. He had a very good reason for wanting to make sure nothing—and that meant nothing— went wrong.

This time.

As the head of the Texas Rangers Special Investigations Unit, Wyatt hadn’t been surprised when he was assigned to investigate a suspicious shallow grave containing badly decomposed remains. What had surprised him was that his assignment was in this town.

The last time Wyatt had seen Comanche Creek, it had been through a haze of pain and the stench of failure as he was loaded into an ambulance two years ago.

The idea that he was here now, to possibly identify the body of the woman he’d failed to protect back then, ignited a burning in his chest. He absently rubbed the scar under his right collarbone.

“Where’s your boss?” he snapped.

“Over there.”

Wyatt looked in the general direction of the kid’s nod. There was a group of people standing inside the tape, right in the middle of his crime scene. He caught flashes of light as one of them took pictures.

“Which one?”

“In the hoodie.”

Wyatt raised his arm an inch, nearly lifting the kid off his feet. All three had on hooded sweatshirts. “Try again.”

“Ow, dude! I mean, sir. The black hoodie. Taking pictures.”

Wyatt let go of the kid and turned on his heel.

So the forensic anthropologist was going to be his first problem. He was the only member of the task force that Wyatt knew nothing about. He’d been appointed by the captain.

Wyatt had chosen the rest of the team. He’d picked Reed Hardin, the sheriff of Comanche Creek, and Jonah Becker’s daughter Jessie, because of their familiarity with the area. He had hopes that Ranger Sergeant Cabe Navarro’s presence would ease the tension between the Caucasian and Native American factions in town.

He’d never worked with Ranger Crime Scene Analyst Olivia Hutton, but she had an excellent reputation, even if she was from back East.

It was the captain’s idea to use an anthropologist from Texas State University. “They have one of the premier forensics programs in the United States,” he’d told Wyatt.

“And besides, the governor’s looking for positive press for the new forensics building and body farm Texas State just built.”

Great. Politics. That was what Wyatt had thought at the time. And now his fears were realized. The professor was trying to take over his crime scene.

“Well, Dr. Mayfield,” Wyatt muttered. “You might be the head of your little world, but you’re in my world now.”

As he strode over to confront the professor, he took in the circus the guy had brought with him. Two spotlight holders, plus four other students milling around. Add to that three rubberneckers drooling over his crime scene, and it equaled nine people. And that was eight—nearly nine, too many.

He stopped when the scuffed toes of his favorite boots were less than five inches from the professor’s gloved hand and toeing the edge of a shallow, lumpy mud hole.