The Missing Mccullen. Rita Herron
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Cash insisted he was innocent.
Like she hadn’t heard that before.
A year ago, she’d represented a man named Davis Turner, who claimed he’d been framed for murder. After losing her ex-husband and son, she’d been in a bad place. Vulnerable.
Davis was charming, convincing, and seemed compassionate. She’d broken the cardinal rule of not getting involved with a client and had allowed their relationship to become personal.
She had gotten him acquitted in record time.
Two days later, she realized he’d played her. She’d overheard him talking to his mistress on the phone. He’d admitted he was guilty.
Worse, he was a free man because of her, and he couldn’t be retried for killing his wife.
She’d hated herself for being so naive. Hated that she may have put another person in danger by helping a killer walk.
She wouldn’t make that mistake with this case. If she took it.
Despite her father and Joe McCullen’s friendship, that was a big if.
Cash Koker had to convince her he was innocent.
Resolved, she opened the door to the sheriff’s office and entered. A tiny older woman with gray hair sat at a reception desk. Her name tag read Imogene.
BJ identified herself. “I’m here to meet with Cash Koker.”
A tough-looking man in a sheriff’s uniform, probably in his midthirties, appeared in the doorway. He might have been handsome if his scowl wasn’t so off-putting.
He hitched his thumb toward the back. “You the attorney gonna represent that scumbag in there?”
BJ stiffened. It sounded as if the sheriff had already convicted Cash.
Did he have concrete evidence proving Cash was guilty?
* * *
CASH HAD TO get out of this cell.
He’d been here all weekend, shut off as if he was one of the most wanted people in Wyoming.
Dammit. He hated to be confined. Small spaces triggered bad memories of being locked in the closet when he was a kid in foster care.
He lurched up from the cot and paced the cell. He’d racked his brain all weekend, struggling to piece together what had happened Friday night. Had someone drugged him?
Was he with Sondra when she was murdered? How did he end up in a motel with her?
And what about Tyler? Where was that precious little guy?
Panic seized him at the scenarios that flashed through his head. He’d had his share of bad knocks in foster care and knew the dark side of the human mind. Knew the depravity that existed, and how difficult it was for a little kid to defend himself against those bigger than him.
He bit the inside of his cheek, battling despair. Maybe the sheriff had it wrong. Sondra had been upset when she’d called him to meet her. She could have dropped Tyler with a friend for safekeeping.
If so, wouldn’t that person have come forward when news of her murder was revealed? Surely Elmore and the sheriff had posted an Amber Alert by now and had people searching.
If Sondra’s killer had kidnapped Tyler, though, there was no telling what he’d do to the little boy.
Elmore had money. He’d probably made enemies. If someone wanted to get back at him, killing Sondra and kidnapping her child was the way to do it.
Cash dropped onto the cot and lowered his head into his hands. He’d called the lawyer in town, but got the message machine. So far no one had shown up.
Hell, for all he knew the man was in Elmore’s pocket.
The door connecting the sheriff’s front office and the cells screeched open. Cash braced himself for another interrogation.
The sheriff stomped toward him, but he wasn’t alone this time.
A young woman with hair as black as coal and skin like ivory followed him. Cash couldn’t help himself—his gaze swept over her, from those sexy black stilettos, to the curves hidden beneath her stuffy suit, to the wary look in her startling green eyes.
His body instantly hardened. After all, he was a man. And any man would appreciate her femininity.
Although whatever reason she was here, she didn’t look happy about it.
He lurched up from the cot and raked a hand through his hair, well aware he looked scruffy and hadn’t showered in days. Even though he’d washed his hands, the scent of Sondra’s blood still lingered on his skin, and he wore drab prison clothes.
Jasper’s boots shuffled on the concrete as he approached. When he reached Cash’s cell, he halted, keys jangling in his beefy hand. The woman stood beside him, her dainty chin lifted high as if she was assessing Cash.
“Koker, this woman claims she’s your lawyer.” Sheriff Jasper looked at him as if Cash was an animal who needed to be put down, not have representation.
He narrowed his eyes. “My lawyer?”
The woman cleared her throat. “Mr. Patton had a stroke. My name is BJ Alexander.”
Damn, her husky voice made Cash’s body tighten even more.
“Sheriff Jasper, I need to talk to my client in private,” she said. “Open the cell, please.”
Jasper scowled at her, but jammed the key in the cell door and opened it. For a brief second, something akin to fear flickered in the woman’s eyes.
She might be tough, but she was afraid of Cash.
That didn’t sit well in his gut.
He would never lay a hand on a woman, at least not in violence.
But that damn sheriff had probably already convinced her he was guilty.
* * *
BJ SCRUTINIZED CASH. The man looked rough. Hair a little too long. Eyes deep, dark. Distrustful.
Body...well, hell, he was built. Broad shoulders. Tall. Muscles everywhere.
Which meant he was strong enough to overpower a woman.
The McCullens had just learned they had two brothers who’d been kidnapped at birth. They thought Cash was one of them.
Since she’d spoken to them, she’d done her research.
Cash had grown up in the foster care system. At twelve he’d been placed in a ranch home for troubled boys. He’d learned ranching skills, and as an adult had worked on several spreads across Wyoming. He’d moved half a dozen times, though, which made her wonder if he was searching for something, or if he’d been asked to leave.
The head of the ranch for boys had described him as sullen, brooding, angry. Said he needed guidance from a strong male.
Guidance he’d never received.
Two of his employers claimed he was an excellent rider, a natural cattleman and that he’d kept to himself but done a good job. After a season or two, he’d left of his own accord, saying it was time for him to move on.
He was a drifter. Probably had a new woman in every county he moved to.
All the more reason she should maintain her professional demeanor. She wouldn’t fall prey to his charms like she had with Davis.
Although at the moment, Cash looked beaten—not like a womanizer. The disdain in his eyes was palpable.
“Sheriff, please show Mr. Koker to an interrogation room so we can talk.” At least they would both be more comfortable. Sitting on that tiny cot beside Cash Koker was not an option. Sex appeal radiated from him in waves. There was also an air of danger about him that put her on edge.