Classified Cowboy. Mallory Kane
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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.
The red lacy thing and the creamy smooth flesh that it barely covered. He growled under his breath as his body reacted to what his eyes saw.
Snapping his gaze back to the dirt road, he clenched his jaw and lifted his chin. Forget what Nina Jacobson is or isn’t wearing, he warned himself.
He had enough on his plate right now. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to separate his personal and professional life.
Yeah. Separate them so well that one of them no longer existed. His awareness turned to the slight weight of the star on his chest. That star, with its unique engraving and aged patina, represented who he was.
Wyatt Colter, Texas Ranger.
And as he knew very well, there was no place in a Ranger’s life for personal complications.
“Would you at least tell me what Shane said?”
Nina’s voice broke into his thoughts. It was breathy and low—sultry. Like a hot summer Texas storm. Like her.
He didn’t bother to answer her.
Shane Tolbert had sounded groggy, embarrassed and angry all at the same time. But that was nothing compared to how he was going to sound—and feel—once Wyatt had ripped him a new one, right before he did the same for Sheriff Reed Hardin.
Wyatt’s first act upon hearing about the discovery of the bodies less than forty-eight hours ago had been to demand two guards on the crime scene twenty-four hours a day. Sheriff Hardin had countered that one guard per eight-hour shift was plenty. “Nobody’s bothered the scene,” the sheriff had said. “There were a few folks who drove up there on the first day, right after the road crew discovered the bones. Most notably Daniel Taabe and a couple of his cronies, who wanted to know if what the road crew had unearthed was a historical burial site. But after that … nothing. My deputies can handle things just fine.”
Wyatt had requested the extra men from his captain, but the captain had sided with the sheriff.
Now, as he’d known he would be, Wyatt had been proven right. If there had been two men guarding the site, this wouldn’t have happened.
He roared up to within a few feet of the crime-scene tape and slammed on the brakes.
To his amusement, Nina uttered a little squeak when the anti-locking brake system stopped the Jeep in its tracks.
He jumped out, leaving the engine running. He stalked over to Sheriff Hardin’s pickup, where Deputy Tolbert was sitting on the tailgate, with Doc Hallowell and the sheriff hovering over him.
“Need to go to the hospital?” Sheriff Hardin was asking as Wyatt walked up.
Doc Hallowell shook his head. He reached inside the black leather bag sitting beside Tolbert.
“Sheriff,” Wyatt said.
“Lieutenant.” Hardin didn’t look at him. He pointed a pocket flashlight at Tolbert’s head. “That’s a nasty cut.”
“I’m going to stitch it right here,” Doc Hallowell said, searching in his bag, “as soon as I can dig out my suture kit.”
A doctor making a house call or a crime-scene call. Wyatt shook his head. Small towns. They were a mystery to him.
“What happened?” Nina asked from behind him.
Wyatt wished he could pick this damn crime scene up and transport it to a secure location. He desperately needed some time alone here. Just him and the crime scene, and maybe Olivia Hutton, the top-notch crime scene analyst. He could use her expertise, but while she was available to him as part of the task force, she hadn’t