The Cowboy's Son. Delores Fossen
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his gun so that he’d be ready. He had to protect his son at all costs, and if necessary, that would include an out-and-out fight. He wasn’t going to lose someone else he loved to this nameless, faceless SOB.
Though the cold burned his lungs and his boots seemed unsteady on the ice-scabbed pasture grass, he didn’t slow down until he reached the stables. Dylan went to the rear of the building so he could approach the intruder from behind, and peered around the corner. The person in black hadn’t moved an inch and was about fifty feet away.
He checked his watch. It’d been nearly fifteen minutes since the housekeeper had called the sheriff, and there was no sign of him. Dylan decided not to wait.
The wind worked in his favor. It was whipping so hard against the stables that it muffled his footsteps, and he halved the distance before he was heard. Dylan already had his gun aimed and ready when the intruder dropped the binoculars and spun around.
It was a woman.
She was pale and trembling, probably from the cold, and she reached inside her jacket, as if it were an automatic response to draw a weapon.
“Don’t,” Dylan warned. He wanted her alive to answer the questions he’d wanted to ask for twelve years.
She nodded and without hesitation lifted her gloved hands in surrender. “Dylan Greer,” she said.
It wasn’t exactly a question so Dylan didn’t bother to confirm it. “Mind telling me why you’re trespassing on my property?”
She didn’t answer. She just stood there staring at him.
Dylan didn’t want to notice this about her, but she looked exhausted and fragile. He didn’t let down his guard, though. There was too much at stake for him to do anything but stay vigilant.
He inched closer, so he could get a better look at her face. Definitely pale.
And definitely attractive.
Something he shouldn’t have noticed, but it would have been impossible not to observe that about her. Her eyes were dark chocolate-brown and a real contrast to the strands of wheat-blond hair that had escaped her black stocking cap.
“I don’t know you,” he said.
“No.”
Funny, he thought he would. Well, if she was the person responsible for two deaths. But he was beginning to doubt that she was the monster he originally believed her to be.
She didn’t look like a killer.
And he hoped his change in attitude didn’t have anything to do with those vulnerable brown eyes.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Collena Drake.” She studied his face as if her name might mean something to him.
It didn’t.
But Dylan kept pressing. “What are you doing here?”
She looked away. “I needed…to see you.”
That hesitation and gaze dodging made him think she was lying. “The sheriff will be here any minute to arrest you for trespassing.”
“Yes. I figured if you spotted me that you’d call the authorities. I don’t blame you. If our positions were reversed, I would have done the same thing.”
Her rational, almost calm response confused and unnerved him. “Then why come? Why risk certain arrest?”
And he was positive he wasn’t going to like this answer. What would make this visit that important?
But the answer didn’t come after all. He could see that she was breathing hard. Her warm breath mixed with the cold air and surrounded her face in a surreal opal-white fog. Mumbling something that Dylan didn’t understand, she reached out with her right hand, grasping at the empty space, until she managed to catch on to the side of the building. The grip didn’t help steady her.
She crumpled into a heap on the ground.
Dylan didn’t let down his guard, or his gun, but he rushed to her to make sure she was okay. She’d apparently fainted, and when he touched her face, he discovered that her skin was ice-cold. After cursing, hesitating and then realizing there was nothing else he could do, he scooped her up into his arms and took her into the empty birthing stables.
He deposited her onto the hay-strewn concrete floor and flipped the switch on the wall to turn on the lights and the heater. Still, the place wouldn’t be warm for hours, so he grabbed a saddle blanket from the tack shelf and covered her with it.
Dylan checked the time again. The sheriff was obviously running late, and he debated calling an ambulance. Her color wasn’t great, but her breathing was steadier now and she had a strong pulse. This didn’t appear to be a life-threatening situation.
Since she had no purse, Dylan stooped down beside her and checked her coat pocket for some kind of ID. He found a wallet, a small leather flip case and keys. He looked inside the wallet and located her Texas driver’s license.
If the license was real, and it certainly looked as if it was, then her name was indeed Collena Drake. She was twenty-eight, five-feet-nine-inches tall, and she lived in San Antonio, a good two-hour drive away. Also in the wallet were credit cards and about three hundred dollars in cash, but no photos or other personal mementos to indicate exactly who this woman was.
However, the flip case gave him a clue.
It was a private investigator’s badge.
That didn’t answer any of Dylan’s questions, but it did add some new ones to the list of things he wanted to know about this fainting trespasser.
He pulled open her jacket and immediately saw the shoulder holster and gun. Since he didn’t want to take the chance of being shot, he extracted the weapon and put it in his own pocket.
“Miss Drake?” Dylan said, tapping her cheek. He took out his phone to call for an ambulance, but he stopped when she began to stir. “Are you all right?”
Her eyelids fluttered open, and she ran her tongue over her wind-chapped bottom lip. “What happened?”
“You passed out,” he informed her. “Are you sick?”
She hesitated, as if giving that some thought. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Are you pregnant?” Not that there were any visible signs of a pregnancy, but then it would be hard to see a baby bump behind that loose sweater.
Something went through those intense dark eyes. Something painful. “No. Not a chance.” Collena Drake held on to the blanket but maneuvered herself to a sitting position. In the process, she brushed against a post, specifically a raised nail head that caught onto her stocking cap. “It’s been a while since I’ve eaten. I’m light-headed.”
Dylan shook his head. “For a trespasser, you didn’t exactly come prepared, now, did you? You nearly froze to death and you’re starving. Is this your way of asking for an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner?”
“No,” she snapped. She pulled off her stocking cap, and her blond hair spilled onto her shoulders. She untangled the yarn from the nail and slipped the cap back on. “I didn’t come here for food.”
He hadn’t thought for a minute that she had. “Then, maybe it’s a good time for you to tell me why you did come?”
“Because you’re Dylan Greer.” She inched away from him. “I saw you yesterday. You were in town.”
That was true. He had gone into town the day before to do some early Christmas shopping. However, during all his errands, Dylan hadn’t seen this woman.
That caused his concern level to spike again.
Because Dylan wanted to make sure she understood that he didn’t approve of her, her presence or what she’d done, he leaned in closer. Too close. So that they were practically eye-to-eye.