B.J. Daniels - Twelve-Gauge Guardian

She froze, her gaze taking in the cheap motel room. She’d put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and it was clear that the maid hadn’t been in.

The bed was rumpled from the few hours of sleep she’d managed to get the night before and her towels were on the bathroom floor where she’d dropped them after a quick shower this morning.

She glanced behind the door, then at the open closet. She didn’t like surprises and almost laughed out loud at the thought as she stepped cautiously in, pulling the pistol and closing the door and locking it silently behind her.

The room was small. Lumpy double bed, bathroom, closet. Not a lot of places for a person to hide. She checked under the bed, in the closet and behind the bathtub shower curtain. Empty.

Tucking the pistol back into the waist of her jeans, she checked her overnight bag. Someone had gone through it. What had they been looking for? Evidence, she thought. Or identification? She’d left neither in the bag.

Walking over to the window, she saw how they’d gotten in. The latch was broken on the sill. She’d planned to go to another motel tonight anyway. The window looked out on the alley, a stand of trees and an old house that had once been painted white.

Raine felt her pulse thrum in her veins and her heart began to pound at the sight of the aging house. She could almost smell the rank mustiness. She hated old houses.

Closing the curtain on both the window and the past, she quickly packed up the few belongings that she hadn’t put in storage when she’d left home, then placed a call to a local car repair shop and made arrangements to have her flat tire fixed and her car brought into town, saying she would pick it up later.

She knew it was just a matter of time before that cowboy came looking for her. She was still shaken by her run-in with him at the hotel. He’d looked so much like the man she’d seen lying in the parking lot last night that it had taken her completely off guard.

Glancing around the room, she made sure she hadn’t left anything, then walked to the door with her overnight bag in hand. She opened it a crack to look out. The hallway was empty.

She pulled the gun from her waistband and, unzipping her overnight bag, laid it on top, making the weapon more accessible should she need it.

As she pushed open the outside door, she scanned the parking lot. The lot was empty except for the pickup she was driving and a large, luxury car with Texas plates parked at the opposite end.

Trying not to hurry, she walked to the pickup, tossed in her bag and climbed in after it. For a moment, with the doors locked and the gun handy, she just sat, not sure what to do next.

Run. Just drive in any direction and get the hell out of here. She could dump the pickup somewhere down the road. Early this morning, she’d dug in the pickup’s glove box looking for information on the man who’d shoved her out of the way of the van last night and had pulled up short when she’d seen who the truck was registered to. Cyrus Winchester of Winchester Investigations of Denver, Colorado.

What were the chances that the man who’d come to her rescue just happened to be a private eye?

She started the pickup but still didn’t hit the road. She was kidding herself if she thought she could leave. Even if she had her car and had left this pickup where Cyrus’s twin brother could find it, she couldn’t run. She’d hate herself the rest of her life if she didn’t follow through with this. Wasn’t it time she learned the truth—not to mention got the justice she deserved?

Last night the parking area behind the old hotel had been too dark to see the person driving the van. But Raine figured he had to be the same one who’d slashed her tire. He’d been waiting for her.

You were set up, girl.

It certainly looked that way. But why had someone gone to the trouble of luring her to Whitehorse? Surely not just to run her down in the hotel parking lot. They could have killed her in L.A. since at least one of them obviously knew where to find her—and where to send the messages that had gotten her here in the first place.

Why, after all these years, try to kill her? It made no sense. They had no reason to believe anyone was after them. But now the sheriff’s department would be looking for the dark-colored van because the driver had put Cyrus Winchester in the hospital.

And his brother would be looking for Raine. Finding her in a town the size of Whitehorse would be child’s play—for both the cowboy and the attempted killer.

Any woman in her right mind would hightail it out of town and not look back.

But Raine Chandler wasn’t just any woman, she thought with a curse.

Cyrus looked pale, his head bandaged and a series of tubes and cords running from his lifeless body.

Cordell took his brother’s limp hand in both of his and sat down hard on the chair next to the hospital bed. No wonder he’d felt the connection broken between them.

“Cy, I’m here,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m going to find out who did this to you and take care of it. In the meantime …” He glanced away from his brother’s face, trying to compose himself. He didn’t want his brother to hear the fear in his voice. “I just want you to rest so you can wake up soon.”

He heard the scuff of a shoe sole behind him and turned to see the doctor standing in the doorway. He squeezed his brother’s hand and, reluctantly letting go, rose.

“Tell me about my brother’s condition,” he said, motioning for the doctor to come out into the hallway with him. He didn’t want to talk about it in front of Cyrus. He’d heard that comatose patients could hear what was being said to them and around them, and from the doctor’s grave expression the diagnosis wasn’t good.

“I’m Dr. Hanson,” the elderly man said, searching Cordell’s face. “Identical twins. You certainly gave my nurse a start.” He grew more sober. “As she told you, your brother is in a coma. He was already comatose when he was brought in so we were unable to get any information from him.”

“What caused the coma?”

“Blunt force trauma to the back of his head. There was also some bruising around the hip and left leg as if he’d been struck.”

“Like being struck by a vehicle?” Cordell asked. “Apparently he pushed a woman out of the way of a speeding van. She didn’t see what happened to Cyrus, but found him lying on the pavement.”

The doctor nodded. “That would be consistent with his injuries.”

Cordell had thought he would get the whole story from his brother once he reached the hospital. Now he saw that if he wanted to know any more about the accident he’d have to ask the woman. But first he had to make sure Cyrus was going to be all right.

“What can we do for him?” he asked the doctor.

“There appears to be no bleeding or swelling of the brain that requires surgery, but we will continue to monitor your brother closely. Right now he is stable, his vital signs strong. A coma rarely lasts more than two to four weeks.”

Others last for years, Cordell thought. “I know my brother. He’s a fighter. He’ll come out of this.” Soon, he prayed.

The doctor gave him a sympathetic smile. “We certainly hope so. Some patients recover full awareness. Others require some therapy.” His look said some were never the same. “We won’t know the full extent of your brother’s injury until he regains consciousness.”

If he ever does. Cordell kept hearing the words the doctor didn’t say. He felt helpless. But there was one thing he could do while he waited for his twin to come back and that was to get the bastard who’d done this to him.