“You really don’t want to get involved with this, Bart Collingsworth. You really don’t want to get involved with me.”

He touched her arm. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

Jaclyn didn’t answer, but when he took her hand in his, she let him lead her back to the porch. “Tell me one good reason I should trust you.”

Bart smiled. “Because from the looks of things, you don’t have anyone else to go to for help and I’m offering.”

“You’re making a big mistake, cowboy. A monumental mistake.”

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Bart Collingsworth – Convinced Jaclyn is in trouble, he feels compelled to help her and must fight the almost overwhelming attraction he feels from the moment they meet.

Jaclyn McGregor – Though wary, she is forced to accept Bart Collingsworth’s help in finding her friend, who has disappeared without a trace.

Lenora Collingsworth – The strong but loving matriarch of the Collingsworth clan.

Langston, Matt and Zach Collingsworth – Bart’s brothers.

Jaime Collingsworth and Becky Ridgely – Bart’s sisters, both of whom live at Jack’s Bluff Ranch.

Margo Kite – Jaclyn’s friend who has disappeared from New Orleans.

Ed Guerra – Local Texas sheriff.

Senator Patrick Hebert – Louisiana politician believed to have been having an affair with Margo Kite before her disappearance.

Candy Hebert – The senator’s wife.

Win Bronson – Senator Hebert’s right-hand man.

Rene Clark – Foreman at Paradise Pleasures, a small Texas ranch owned by the senator and some of his friends.

Clay Markham – Private investigator hired by Bart Collingsworth.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joanna Wayne was born and raised in Shreveport, Louisiana, and received her undergraduate and graduate degrees from LSU-Shreveport. She moved to New Orleans in 1984, and it was there that she attended her first writing class and joined her first professional writing organisation. Her first novel, Deep in the Bayou, was published in 1994.

Now, dozens of published books later, Joanna has made a name for herself as being on the cutting edge of romantic suspense in both series and single-title novels. She has been on the Waldenbooks Bestselling List for romance and has won many industry awards. She is a popular speaker at writing organisations and local community functions and has taught creative writing at the University of New Orleans Metropolitan College.

She currently resides in a small community forty miles north of Houston, Texas, with her husband. Though she still has many family and emotional ties to Louisiana, she loves living in the Lone Star state. You may write to Joanna at: PO Box 265, Montgomery, TX 77356, USA.

Texas Gun Smoke

JOANNA WAYNE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Thanks to all the readers out there who love a

good romance and keep buying my books. A

special thanks goes to Ruth Foreman, a reader

who has been with me since my very first book.

Though we’ve never met in person, we have

become good friends via e-mail. She is a

constant source of inspiration, an optimistic,

cheerful person dedicated to her faith and

family. Even losing her home to the devastating

floods of Katrina couldn’t destroy her loving

spirit. She’s the kind of fan that makes

writing a real joy.

Chapter One

A light rain started to fall, making the road that wound its way to Jack’s Bluff Ranch dangerously slick. Not a safe night out for man nor beast. Most days Bart fell into the former category. He slowed his pickup truck and turned up the volume on his radio, singing along with George Strait, though one of them was a bit off-key.

Bart stretched, then shed the necktie he’d loosened much earlier. He hadn’t wanted to drive into Houston tonight, especially in this monkey suit. But his mother had refused to take no for an answer. Not that he didn’t agree with her that philanthropy was important or that her work in spearheading the drive to raise funding for the new children’s wing at the hospital was a worthy task; but sipping champagne and making small talk with a gaggle of rich socialites wasn’t his scene.

It still amazed him that his mother could waltz from ranch life at Jack’s Bluff to Houston society functions so effortlessly. The only dance Bart knew was the two-step, and that was the way he liked it.

His mom had opted to stay in town and spend the night with his brother Langston and his new family, leaving Bart to make the hour-plus drive home alone. Normally he wouldn’t have minded, but tonight he could have used the company just to stay awake and alert. It had been a long day. Ranching was not a nine-to-five job.

He caught sight of a pair of bucks at the edge of the road in front of him. He slowed even more. You never knew when a deer would take a notion to run right in front of you. He’d totaled a pickup like that last year. Worse part was it had killed the doe.

The rain picked up. He turned on the defroster to clear the windshield. The visibility improved only slightly, but he’d be home in less than ten minutes.

He tried to stifle a yawn, then jerked to attention. What the hell? Two cars were speeding toward him, driving so close they were all but swapping paint.

A second later he saw sparks fly as the outside car sideswiped the other and sent it rocking and bouncing along the shoulder before the driver managed to get all four wheels back on the highway. If this was some teenage game of chicken, they were taking things way too far. Somebody was likely to get killed. Maybe him.

He slowed and took the shoulder as the cars collided again. This time the smaller one went flying off the road. It slid down an incline and then rolled over, coming to a rocking upside-down stop a few yards ahead of Bart. The lunatic driving the attacking car sped past him.

Bart screeched to a stop, grabbed a flashlight and jumped from his truck. He took off running toward the wrecked car. Its wheels were still spinning when he got to it.

He aimed a beam of illumination inside the car. There was only one occupant—a woman who was draped over the steering wheel, upside down but still held in place by her seat belt. Blood trickled across her left temple and matted in her blond hair. She lifted her head, shaded her eyes from the light and shrank away from him.

The door was jammed, and he had to work with it for a few seconds to pry it open. “Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer, but her face was a pasty white and her eyes were wide with fear.

“Take it easy. You’re safe now.”

“You tried to kill me.”

“Not me, but someone did.” He leaned in closer so that he could see the head wound. The cut didn’t look particularly deep, but a nice little goose egg was forming. “What hurts?”

She stared at him, looking dazed and still fearful as she touched her fingertips to the blood. “I must have hit my head.”

“Probably against the side window when you went into the roll. For some reason, your air bag didn’t deploy.”

“The light had gone off. I was going to get it checked.”

A little late for that now. He pulled her against him while he loosened the seat belt. He lifted her out of the car and stood her on the ground. She was lighter than a newborn calf and short, probably no more than five-two or -three. Thin, almost waiflike. But movie-star pretty.

She swayed, and he put an arm around her shoulder for support. “My truck’s over there.” He pointed to where it was parked on the opposite side of the road. “Let’s get you in it and out of the rain while we wait for an ambulance.”

“No!” Fear pummeled her voice. “No ambulance. I’ll be okay. I just…” She swayed again and might have lost her balance completely if he hadn’t been supporting her. “I just need a minute for my head to clear. And I need my handbag.”

“Right.” He found it with its strap tangled in the brake and accelerator pedals. He worked it loose and handed it to her. She clasped it tightly in both hands as rain dripped from her hair and rolled down her face. He pulled the silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the water and blood away.

“Who are you?” she whispered, her voice shaky.

“Bart Collingsworth. And don’t worry. I’m just a Good Samaritan who happened to be passing by.”

He took her hand and led her across the street. Once she was safely settled in the passenger seat, he closed the door, calling 911 as he rounded the truck to the driver’s side. Like it or not, he was calling for an ambulance and law enforcement. He was still giving the operator the information when he climbed behind the wheel.

“I know you said you don’t want an ambulance,” he said once he’d broken the connection. “But there’s a small hospital in Colts Run Cross—not much more than a clinic with a few beds, but they’ll call in a doctor to check you out. Better to be safe than sorry.”

“I’ve already had more than enough of Colts Run Cross.”

“I take it you’re not from around here.”

She stared out the front window into the darkness and rain. “Is anybody?”

“A few lucky souls. I live on a ranch a few miles down the road. Jack’s Bluff. You just passed it.”

She trembled and clasped her hands in front of her, nervously twisting the wedding band on her left hand. “I didn’t notice.”

“Guess not, with that lunatic trying to run you off the road. What was that about?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Then you don’t know the driver of the other car?”

“No.”

“But you must have had some kind of altercation for him to react so violently.”

“He just came out of nowhere, sped up behind me and forced me off the road.”

Either she was lying or this made no sense at all.

She leaned back and closed her eyes. She looked incredibly fragile, like a porcelain doll that had been left out in the rain.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. I just don’t feel like talking.”

He left it at that until she finally shifted and opened her eyes, still looking straight ahead.

“You know, if you really want to be a Good Samaritan,” she said, “you could drive me into town and drop me off at a cheap motel. I can handle things from there.”

“You were awful woozy back there. You’d be better off seeing a doctor. But you’re welcome to use my phone if you want to call your husband.”

She twisted the gold band on her finger as she shook her head. “No, thanks.”

“I can call for someone to tow your car or you can just wait and have the sheriff do it.”

Finally she turned to face him. “If you live on a ranch, why are you dressed like that?”

“It was tux night at the campfire. But I’m a genuine cowboy. Got boots and spurs and everything.”

“Then maybe you could get some of your cowboy buddies to pull my car back to Jack’s whatever you said.”

“Jack’s Bluff.”

“Right. Take the car there and I’ll come for it later.”

“Your car’s got four wheels straight up in the air. You need a tow truck for this job.”

She shrugged. “I’m short of cash and I don’t have a credit card on me.”

“Tell you what—I know a local mechanic with his own tow truck. I’ll call Hank Tanner and have him take the car to his garage. You can settle up with him later.”

“Whatever.”

“He’ll want a name.”

“Jaclyn.”

Sirens sounded, and Bart caught sight of flashing lights speeding toward them. The ambulance had made excellent time.

“Last name?” he asked.

She ignored the question.

“If you’re in some kind of trouble, you should level with me. Maybe I can help. I could at least follow the ambulance to the hospital and see that you’re in good hands tonight.”

“In trouble? I am trouble, cowboy. Thanks for the offer. But forget about the car. Forget about me, too. I’ll be just fine.” In spite of her assurances, a tear escaped and rolled down her right cheek.

Bart’s insides kicked around like a stallion on a short rope. He had his doubts that anything she’d said tonight had been the truth. Well, except that she was trouble. Likely in trouble, as well. None of which was any of his business.

But he was wide-awake now, and the hospital wasn’t but a few miles away. Besides, what red-blooded cowboy could resist trouble that came in a package that was five foot two and blond?

Chapter Two

Sheriff Ed Guerra had called just as Bart was about to follow the ambulance into town. Once Bart gave him the lowdown, the sheriff asked Bart to hang around. Bart couldn’t think of a good reason to refuse.

There was no trace of the sheriff’s usual good humor when he strode over to the crime scene in the steady rain. Bart had already dug his work poncho from the metal toolbox in the bed of his truck, along with an old Western hat that had seen better days. The temperature was supposed to turn a bit cooler following the front that produced the rain, but right now it was still warm and muggy for late October.

Ed adjusted his umbrella as he approached the upside-down car. “Well, don’t this just take the whole biscuit! You can bet there’s a dadgum sight more to this story than meets the eye.”

“I took the liberty of checking in the glove compartment for the registration papers on the car. The vehicle belongs to Margo Kite of New Orleans, Louisiana,” Bart said, handing the document to the sheriff.

Ed held it under the umbrella so it wouldn’t get wet while he adjusted his flashlight to illuminate it. “But you said the driver’s name was Jackie.”

“Jaclyn—at least that’s what she told me, but she could have been lying. She wouldn’t give a last name. I guess the car could have been borrowed.”

“Or stolen,” Ed said. “Approximate age of the injured?”

“Early twenties.”

Ed rubbed his chin. “Not a teenager, then. Was she under the influence?”

“I didn’t smell alcohol on her breath.”

“Stoned?”

“Didn’t appear to be.”

“Pretty?”

“Not bad.”

“I was afraid of that. The pretty ones are always the most trouble.”

“I’ll add that to my list of truths to live by.”

“No, you won’t. You young studs never do. I’ll run a check on the license plate. See what turns up.”

Bart took a better look at the car while the sheriff made his call. It was a late-model Buick Lacrosse in an off-red metallic finish. It would take a skilled body man to put it back in decent shape.

Only the trunk seemed to be relatively undamaged. Bart opened it and pulled out a blue nylon duffel with a slight rip in the side, apparently not as important to Jaclyn as her handbag had been. The only other items in the trunk were the typical spare tire, a few tools and three liter-size diet sodas that would probably spew their contents the second they were opened.

“Car hasn’t been reported as stolen,” the sheriff said as he rejoined a Bart a few minutes later. “Your Jaclyn might have borrowed it from New Orleans Margo.”

“She’s not my Jaclyn, but she did say she was from out of town.”

“Did you get a good look at the car that ran this one off the road?”

“I saw two bright lights coming at me and then a blur of metal as it sped past. New-style headlights, so I’d say it was a late-model car. A full-size sedan, but I can’t give you the make, color or any identifying marks—except that it had to take some serious damage when it collided with the Buick.”

“I’ll have all the area body shops keep a look out for it, but unless the driver’s got peanuts for brains, he won’t take it anywhere near here to have it repaired. And he won’t be driving around Colts Run Cross with the telltale damage.”

“My guess is he’s not from around here,” Bart said. “The locals aren’t given to road rage.”

“I’d have to agree,” Ed said. “More likely this is trouble Jaclyn brought with her from Louisiana. Did she say why she was in the area?”

“No, actually, she said very little. She was woozy at first and then clammed up except for saying that she didn’t need an ambulance.”

“But she left in an ambulance, right?”

Bart nodded. “They were taking her to the hospital in Colts Run Cross.”

“Good. I’ll question her there. You say you don’t think she was seriously injured.”

“She had a blossoming goose egg on the left side of her head next to a wound that oozed blood, but she didn’t appear to have any broken bones or to be in much pain.”

Ed looked back to the car and shook his head. “She’s lucky to walk away from that.”

“Damn lucky.”

“Okeydoke. I’m going to call Hank’s Garage and tell him this is a two-man towing job. Then I’ll shoot some pictures of the car while I’m waiting on Hank. That camera of mine don’t take the sharpest of photos in the dark, but it will have to do. If I wait until morning and this happens to go to trial, some slick city lawyer will say the crime scene was compromised overnight. Humph. Compromised by a bunch of field mice and armadillos.”

“I have Mother’s fancy camera in my truck. She wanted pictures of the reception tonight.”

“Reception, huh? That explains why you’re wading mud in those city-slicker shoes. They’re ruined now anyway, so how about you taking over as crime-scene photographer?”

“I can handle it.” Bart went to his truck for the camera. The duffel was still in his hand, so he tossed that into the backseat of the extended cab. That gave him an even better reason to show up at the hospital. Not that the sheriff couldn’t have taken it with him.

When Bart returned, Ed was on the phone with Hank and aiming his superbright flashlight at the skid marks in the middle of the road.

“Definitely looks intentional,” Ed said when he’d finished with Hank. “Little Miss Jaclyn has some tough enemies or some real mean friends.”

“Looks that way. But she isn’t a ‘miss.’ She was wearing a wedding band.”

“Bingo. When there’s a husband or a boyfriend, I always have a first lead.”

Anger surged inside Bart as he snapped pictures, first of the skid marks and then walking around the car to get views from every angle. He hoped Ed was wrong about the husband being behind this. It was tough to think any man could do this to a woman. But a man who’d sworn to love and cherish Jaclyn…what kind of perverted bastard would he have to be to pull a stunt like this?

“That should do it,” Ed said after Bart had taken a couple dozen shots. “As soon as Hank gets this vehicle righted and on the tow truck, I’m going to the hospital and have a talk with the victim. I’ll keep you posted as to how this turns out.”

Bart nodded and said his goodbyes without mentioning that he planned to stop by the hospital as well. He didn’t want to have to explain his reason for doing so, mainly because he didn’t really understand it himself.

He climbed behind the wheel, turned the key in the ignition and pulled onto the highway. Five minutes later he reached the gate to Jack’s Bluff. He could turn in and forget all about no-last-name Jaclyn just as she’d told him to do. But whatever she was into, whether her husband was behind her trouble or not, she definitely could use a friend with a broad shoulder to lean on tonight.

His shoulders had nothing better to do.

BART HAD BEEN AT THE hospital for over an hour before Dr. Cane—a tall, lanky fellow with unruly shocks of bright red hair and horn-rimmed glasses—finally came to the emergency waiting room to give him an update. “The patient is seriously disoriented and experiencing traumatic amnesia, probably caused by swelling near the brain.”

Bart stared at Dr. Cane. “Are we talking about the same woman? The one involved in the car wreck less than two hours ago?”

“That’s the one. The ambulance driver said you gave her name as Jaclyn, but she’s not responding to that now. She has no knowledge of who she is or how she got here.”

“Did you look in her handbag for identification?”

“Two of the nurses searched the purse and wallet thoroughly. There was no driver’s license or any other form of identification.” Dr. Cane scratched his whiskered chin. “How did she seem when you were with her?”

“She was a tad woozy when I pulled her out of the car,” Bart admitted, “but she was responsive. We carried on a conversation of sorts.”

“That would be consistent with the diagnosis of transient amnesia due to trauma. The increased swelling from the time of the wreck until the present has interfered with memory functions. This is unusual but not unheard of, even with a minor concussion such as the patient has.”

“How long do you expect the amnesia to continue?”

“Just until the swelling is reduced. She could be functioning normally in a few hours or it could last as long as a couple of days. It would be extremely rare for it to continue for more than forty-eight hours but not impossible.”

There was no reason not to believe Dr. Cane’s diagnosis, but still Bart had a hard time buying it. “Do you think she could be faking the amnesia?”

“That’s always a possibility.”

And with Jaclyn, Bart considered it more than a possibility. There were just too many things that didn’t add up, like what a Louisiana girl was doing on a dark Texas road alone so late at night. And more bizarre, why had some homicidal crackpot decided to run her off the road for no apparent reason?

Dr. Cane pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “We’re keeping her overnight for observation, longer if necessary. I’ll consult with a neurologist tomorrow, but if her condition worsens or continues past forty-eight hours, we’ll move her to a facility in Houston.”

“Can I see the patient?”

“I don’t see why not. Since you’re the last one she spoke to before the onset of amnesia symptoms, seeing you might trigger a memory. But don’t tire her out or upset her. The sheriff called and he’s on his way to the hospital to question her about the wreck. He was just waiting for us to finish the examination and assign her to a room. She’s in 224.”

Bart thanked the doctor for the info and took the stairs to the second floor.

“What brings you out on such a rainy night?”

He stared at the nurse who’d spoken, a girl he’d graduated with from Colts Run Cross High School. No longer a girl, she was pregnant—and from the looks of the bulge, ready to deliver most any day.

“Hi, Cindy. I didn’t know you were working here.”

“Yeah, for just over a year. I worked in Houston for a while, but when I got married we decided to move back here. I married Bud Johnson. You remember him. He was a couple of years ahead of us.”

“I remember.” And he really didn’t want to make small talk tonight. “I’m here to see the patient who was admitted tonight with a concussion.”

“Oh, the mystery woman. How do you know her?”

“I don’t. I just came up on the car wreck after it happened.”

“Then you must be the one who called for the ambulance. She doesn’t remember any of that.”

“So I heard.” Bart held up the duffel. “I got this from her car and thought she might need it.”

“Did you check it for ID?”

“No.” He hadn’t realized he’d need to until a few minutes ago.

“You can let her check it. She’s awake. Room 224. But if the two of you find out who she is, we could sure use that information for her records.”

“You got it.” He stopped at the door and tapped lightly.

The whispered, “Come in,” was so faint he could barely make it out.

He stepped inside. Jaclyn’s light blue hospital gown fell off one slender shoulder as she rose to her elbows. She jerked it back in place, then stared at him blankly, either not recognizing him or doing a good job of faking it.

“Hello, Jaclyn. I brought you this,” he said, swinging the duffel onto the foot of the bed. “It was in the trunk of your car. I thought you might need it.”

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Bart Collingsworth, but we’ve met before. I pulled you from the overturned vehicle earlier tonight.”

“Then I should thank you, though I don’t remember it. I don’t even remember my name, but Dr. Cane says the fog will clear up quickly.”

“Do you want me to go through your duffel and see if there’s any identification in there?”

She stiffened and then shrank back into the blue gown that fit like a loose sheet. “If you’ll hand it to me, I can do that for myself.”

He handed it to her—and was exceedingly glad he had when she pulled out a pair of white lacy panties and a matching bra. She tossed them onto the bed without notice, working her way through a pair of jeans and two long-sleeved cotton shirts.

“There’s nothing here that helps,” she said.

“Someone ran you off the road. Does that help?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What about the name Margo Kite?”

“No.”

She answered quickly, but not before he noted an impulsive wince. “If you’re afraid of someone, Jaclyn, the sheriff can make sure you’re protected.”

“I’m not afraid.”

He wasn’t convinced. In fact, he was almost certain it was fear or apprehension that shadowed her slate-colored eyes. “Do you want me to stay with you until morning?”

“No. Why would I? I don’t know you.”

“Just an offer. I’ll get out of here and let you rest, but if you change your mind about wanting company or if you need anything, you can have the pregnant nurse named Cindy give me a call. She knows how to get in touch with me.”

But Jaclyn had turned away and was staring at the wall. He backed out of the room and quietly closed the door behind him. He still wasn’t convinced she had transient or any other kind of amnesia, but whatever she was into, she didn’t want his help. That was good enough reason to get the devil out of here and get some sleep himself. He had a busy day tomorrow. Still, his heart twisted a little when he looked back and saw how lost she looked in the formless hospital gown.

The pretty ones are the most trouble. Definitely a truism worth remembering.

JACLYN HEARD THE DOOR shut behind Bart and fought the unexpected but excruciating ache to call out to the cowboy with the quick humor and mesmerizing smile. She wouldn’t let herself make that mistake, not when she knew his offer of help would be about as lasting as this little show she was putting on. As soon as he found out who she really was he wouldn’t be able to get away from her fast enough.

He’d know already—they all would—if she hadn’t gotten to her driver’s license first. She’d taken it out of her handbag while she’d been waiting to see the doctor and hidden it beneath the folds of the bloodstained blouse she’d been wearing at the wreck.

So the hero cowboy could just go back to his bunkhouse and forget all about her.

Still, Bart Collingsworth had a way about him. Too bad that trusting anyone at this point could be a deadly mistake.

Chapter Three

Bart spent a restless night and got up aggravated with himself for letting thoughts of Jaclyn rob him of needed sleep. He had plenty to do without worrying about a woman who didn’t want his help. He tried to concentrate on issues at hand, checking the progress of the new fence going up in the northwest pasture and meeting with his brother Matt to discuss the possibility of increasing their Angus herd size by ten percent over the next twelve months.

By noon the meeting with Matt had concluded and Jaclyn had moved to front and center of his thoughts again. He started to go up to the big house for lunch but instead drove right by it and toward the gate. It wouldn’t hurt to check on her and make certain she was recovering from amnesia—if she’d ever actually had any memory problems.

He reached the hospital at ten after twelve and went straight to the second floor. A middle-aged nurse carrying a meal tray spotted him before he reached Jaclyn’s room.

“You’re one of Lenora Collingsworth’s sons, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Bart.” It was difficult to go anywhere in Colts Run Cross and not run into someone who knew him or a member of his family.

“I’m Bev Garland. I know your mother from our Feed the Children program. She’s on our board of directors.”

“I’ll tell her I ran into you.”

“You must be here to see the mystery woman.”

“How did you guess?”

“Easy—she’s our only patient. And I heard you were the one who rescued her from the wrecked car last night.”

“I just happened to be the first one to show up. How is she?”

“She ate a big breakfast and she seems to be feeling fine, but she can’t remember a thing. Poor woman. She can’t even call her husband and tell him she’s safe.”

“Is it okay if I stop in and see her? I promise I won’t stay long.”

“Stay as long as you like, but I don’t know how much conversation you’ll get out of her. She hasn’t said but a few words to any of us all morning. I think the confusion is making her depressed. I was just taking her a lunch tray. You can tag along with me.”

“Thanks.” His boots clomped across the tile while her rubber-sole shoes barely made a sound. The nurse balanced a tray of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green peas in one hand and tapped on the door with the other, though she didn’t wait for a response before pushing into Jaclyn’s room.

“I have lunch and a visitor,” the nurse announced in a singsong voice that sounded as though she was talking to a toddler.

She set the tray on the table that swung over the bed. The covers were tousled and pushed back. Jaclyn was nowhere in sight. “You have company, honey,” the nurse said again, this time looking toward the closed bathroom door.

There was no response.

Bev asked about Bart’s grandfather Jeremiah, who was recovering at home from a stroke, and listened to his explanation before walking to the bathroom door and tapping lightly.

Still no response. She knocked again, then turned the handle and pushed the door open. “Not in there,” she said, turning back to Bart. She shrugged her shoulders and placed her hands on her bulging hips. “Now where did that woman get off to?”

“Are you certain she wasn’t discharged?”

“I was standing right here when Dr. Cane said he wanted to keep her another day. The patient didn’t even put up an argument.” Bev opened the small locker built into the wall. “Now this is strange. Her clothes are missing.”

“Looks as if she discharged herself,” Bart said.

“I don’t know where she’d go when she didn’t even know her name.”

Which gave a lot of credence to his belief that the amnesia was faked in the first place.

“I better call Dr. Cane and let him know his patient ran out on him and her bill.” The nurse was muttering to herself as she shuffled from the room.

Bart grabbed a piece of chicken on his way out. Seemed a sin to let good fried chicken go to waste. He took the stairs again and exited through the back door. He was almost to his truck when he caught a glimpse of someone hunched down and darting between cars.

A second glance and he knew it was Jaclyn, her handbag and duffel flung over her shoulder, trying car doors. He dashed across the parking lot, reaching her just as she found the kind of easy mark she’d been looking for. Not only was the door of the white compact car unlocked but the keys were also dangling from the ignition—not all that uncommon in Colts Run Cross.

Bart grabbed her arm as she started to climb behind the wheel. “Care to explain what you’re doing?”

She groaned. “Don’t you have a life?”

“Not nearly as exciting as yours.”

“I was only going to borrow the car.”

“We call taking a car without permission ‘stealing’ in Texas.”

“You do have the quaintest customs.” She stepped away from the car. “Now I suppose you’re going to call that nice sheriff so that I can spend some time in one of your friendly jail cells.”

“I’m giving it serious thought.”

“Look, no harm was done. I didn’t even start the engine. Why don’t you forget the sheriff and give me a ride to the nearest Greyhound bus station so that I can go home?”

“What about your amnesia?”

“That’s the neat thing, see. My memory came back, just like the doctor said it would.”

“Then I guess you have a last name now?”

“Sure. It’s Jones. Now are you going to give me a ride or not?”

Jaclyn Jones. He doubted that. “Why take a bus? You could just rent another car. The one you were in is going to be out of commission for a while.”

“Like I said last night, I’m a little short of cash.”

“Tell you what—level with me about who ran you off the road and why, and I’ll give you a ride wherever you want to go.”

“I’ve already leveled. I don’t know the who or the why. And what do you care, anyway?”

“Call me nosy—and law-abiding.” Bart started punching numbers on his cell phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“The sheriff.”

She grabbed his hand before he completed the call. “Okay, I’ll tell you everything.” She scanned the area. “Just not out here in the parking lot. Where’s your truck?”

“A couple of rows over.”

She walked with him to his vehicle, then threw herself into the passenger side and propped her duffel between them. “It’s an ugly story.”

“I wasn’t expecting Cinderella.” Though with Jaclyn, it could well be a fairy tale. “Why don’t we start with your real name?”

“Jaclyn Jones.” She spelled Jaclyn for him.

“I’ll buy the Jaclyn part. The nurses couldn’t find your driver’s license last night. Where is it?”

“I left it in my other handbag.”

“How convenient. What part of Louisiana are you from?”

“I’m currently living in New Orleans.”

That might actually be the truth. “So what brought you to Colts Run Cross?”

“I don’t see as it’s any of your business, but I’m having an affair with a married man who lives in Houston. We wanted to go somewhere where we could venture out of the bedroom for a change and not risk running into anyone we knew.”

“Where’s the boyfriend now?”

“We got into a fight last night, and I broke it off with him. He went berserk and evidently followed me when I left the motel.”

“Which motel?”

“I don’t remember the name of it, just some shabby, nondescript motel. Anyway, I’m sure he’s cooled down by now and is ready to beg my forgiveness.”

“But not sorry enough to rent you another car or even drive you home?”

“I’m going home to my husband and putting all this behind me—at least I am if I can get there.”

Bart didn’t know how much, if any, of her story was true, but it would explain why she hadn’t wanted to call her husband. He started the truck and backed out of the parking spot. A few minutes later he was headed in the same direction from which he’d come, toward Jack’s Bluff and the spot where she’d been run off the road last night.

“Did you talk to Hank about your friend Margo’s car?” he asked.

She visibly bristled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The Buick was registered to a Margo Kite. I was assuming that was a friend—unless you stole the car from her.”

She looked away. “Right. Margo. I’ll explain everything to her when I see her again.”

Her cell phone jangled. She said hello, but that was it. After that she merely listened as her muscles grew taut. Her hands were shaking by the time she broke the connection.

“Was that the boyfriend?”

“Yeah.” Her shoulders slumped and she kicked off her shoes and pulled her feet onto the seat with her. “He’s a jerk. So what’s new?”

Neither of them spoke until he was almost to Jack’s Bluff. He slowed the car as they approached the gate. The smart thing to do would be to keep driving to the bus station, but the inconsistencies were eating away at him.

The story she’d told about the lover was no more convincing than her having had amnesia. The only thing he was certain of was that someone had tried to kill her last night, and from all indications she was still afraid.

All of which was none of his business. He tried to drill that mantra into his brain but got nowhere. She was scared and distrustful but vulnerable. Dropping her off at a bus station without knowing she’d be safe seemed excessively cold and cruel for a man who stayed up all night with horses in labor and lost sleep worrying over a premature calf.

He turned left and opened the metal gate to the ranch with the remote attached to his visor.

Jaclyn snapped to attention. “Hold it right here, cowboy. I did not agree to make any unscheduled stops with you.”

For a woman begging favors, she could sure climb on her high horse in a hurry. “You missed lunch at the hospital. I thought you might be hungry. And even if you’re not, I am.”

“Are you sure we’re just stopping here for food?”

“What else would it be?”

“You’re a man. I’m a woman. Surely you can figure that out.”

“I wouldn’t seduce you on a bet.” Not exactly true, but it sounded good. The problem was he didn’t know exactly what he hoped to accomplish by spending additional time with Jaclyn. He just wasn’t quite ready to let it go. And he was always ready to eat.

JACLYN STARED AT THE house, which sat a few yards from where Bart had stopped the car. It was a two-story frame structure set in a clump of sycamores and oaks and a few types of trees she didn’t recognize. A covered front porch ran the length of it, with a wooden swing at one end and a couple of painted rockers at the other.

There was no landscaping except the natural Texas countryside of grass, scrubby brush and a large pond a few yards behind the house, but it still looked welcoming. Maybe it was the pot of blooming begonias by the door. A fish jumped as she scanned the sun-glittered water, a streak of silver that broke the surface with a splash.

“Some bunkhouse,” she said as she followed Bart to the porch.

“I like it. The menu choices will be limited, but I can rustle up a sandwich.”

“A sandwich is good.” She wasn’t particularly hungry, but it could be a long time before she made it back to Margo’s New Orleans apartment. She wouldn’t be buying much in the way of food along the way. Her cash resources weren’t just low, they were scratching bottom. Worse, she was no closer to the information she needed. The trip to Colts Run Cross had been a total bomb.

“The begonias are beautiful,” she said as Bart opened the front door and waited for her to enter.”

“Compliments of my mother. She thinks I need flowers.”

“Your mom brings plants to the ranch?”

“Yeah. No reason for you not to know,” Bart said. “This isn’t a bunkhouse, it’s my house, and Jack’s Bluff Ranch belongs to my family.”

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

“You didn’t ask.”

But she should have known from her first look at the tux. Apprehension swelled. The rich always stuck together. If she’d had any thought of telling Bart the truth, it was out of the question now.

“I haven’t done much to the inside of the house yet,” Bart said as he held the front door open for her to enter. “I mostly spend time on it in the winter when work on the ranch slows down a bit. I don’t do much but sleep here in the summer. I’m usually busy until late and then grab dinner up at the big house with the rest of the family.”

The big house—as if this were a cracker box. It was three times the size of her one-bedroom efficiency back in Shreveport. She looked around. The front room was empty except for a couple of recliners and a TV boxed in between bare shelves. But the windows were splendid, floor-to-ceiling and offering a pastoral vista that stretched as far as she could see.

“Nice room,” she said. “I like the view.”

“I don’t like to feel closed in.”

She followed Bart to the kitchen, keenly aware of how sexy he looked in his jeans, Western shirt and boots and how well he fit in his world. A world as different from hers as night and day.

Bart opened the door to the refrigerator while Jaclyn absorbed the ambience. She ran her hand across the top of a rectangular oak table with cuts and scratches and an abundance of character.

“My great-great-grandfather made that,” Bart said. “It had been retired to a storage barn behind the original bunkhouse. I decided it needed to be rescued.”

“So you don’t just rescue damsels in distress?”

“I’m a softy at heart.”

He looked plenty tough to her, but the idea of family belongings being passed down in any condition was a foreign concept to her. “Is the potbellied stove a family heirloom, as well?”

“It is, but notice I have an actual electric range for cooking—well, for scrambling eggs and making coffee. That’s the extent of my culinary skills.” Bart pulled out two packages wrapped in butcher paper. “How about a ham-and-cheese sandwich?”

“Fine. I’ll be glad to help, but I need to wash up first.”

“The bathroom is just down the hall, second door to your right. Excuse the unfinished walls. My sister Becky insists it should have wallpaper and keeps bringing home patterns that look like someone spilled sherbet on them.”

Becky was missing the mark. Bart was clearly not a pastel kind of guy, and even unfinished, the house reeked of him. Virile. Masculine. It smelled of him, too, all outdoorsy and musky, with scents of leather and coffee thrown into the mix.

He was unlike any of the men who’d come and gone in her life, and she’d have to stay on guard every second to keep from believing he might be different enough that she could trust him. This time she couldn’t screw up.

BART STARTED TO SLICE a fresh tomato but stopped to stare at the handbag Jaclyn had left on one of the kitchen chairs. The unexpected urge to snoop swelled inside him. It wasn’t the kind of thing he’d normally do, but he didn’t ordinarily become entangled with a woman like Jaclyn. While he was considering the action, she returned, grabbed the purse and marched back to the bathroom with it safely clutched in her hands.

He left the knife and the tomato on the table and stepped out the back door. The temperature had dropped to the low sixties, delivering the first real hint of fall. Leaves drifted to the damp earth, and a couple of crows heckled him from the branches of a hackberry tree.

He made a quick call to Langston’s private number at Collingsworth Oil and was amazed when he actually got him on the first try. Langston was the mover and shaker in the family, the only one of the four brothers who’d actually taken to the business world.

“You got a minute?” he asked as soon as Langston answered.

“If it’s important, I’ll find one. What’s up?”

“I was wondering if you’d make a call to your buddy Aidan Jefferies for me.” Aidan was a homicide detective for the Houston Police Department and he and Langston had been buddies for years.

“Is there a problem at the ranch?”

“No, it’s a long story, but I’m trying to run down some information on a woman who was in a wreck out this way last night. It’s important and rather urgent.”

“I can give you his cell phone number if you want to call him yourself.”

“No, I only have a minute, but if you’d just ask him to see what he can find on a Jaclyn Jones or a Margo Kite, both of New Orleans…” He spelled Jaclyn the way she’d spelled it for him in the hospital.

“Do you have social security numbers on them?”

“No. All I can tell you is that Jaclyn is in her early twenties. And the address for Margo was…” He tried to recall the information from the registration, but all he could remember was a street name. “Margo lives on St. Anne—or at least she did at one time.”

“That’s not much to go on, but I’ll give him a call for you.”

“I’d appreciate that. Tell him he can call me back on my cell phone if he learns anything.”

“You got it. I expect to hear the rest of this story when we both get a minute.”

The screen door squeaked open and Jaclyn joined Bart on the back porch. “Sure thing. Right now I’ve gotta run.” Bart broke the connection and returned the cell phone to his pocket.

“I thought you were making sandwiches,” Jaclyn said, looking at him suspiciously.

“I got a call from one of my brothers.”

“And I guess you had to tell him about rescuing the ditzy blonde.”

“Are you ditzy?”

“Only if it suits my purpose.”

She’d finally said something he believed.

“So are we going to eat or not?”

He followed her back through the screen door. In minutes they were seated at the old oak table, munching on sandwiches and chips. Bart had milk with his. Jaclyn had a diet soda. Bart tried to make conversation, but Jaclyn managed to sabotage every attempt with silent shrugs or one-word responses.

They’d finished the meal and rinsed the dishes and were walking back to the car when Aidan called back. It was quicker than Bart had anticipated.

Aidan got right to the meat of the matter. “The New Orleans PD took a missing-persons report on a Margo Kite, age twenty-three, on October seventh.”

Today was October twenty-third, so they were talking just over two weeks ago. “Who filed the report?”

“A woman named Jaclyn McGregor, who claimed to be a friend. She spelled her first name the same way as your Jaclyn Jones, for what that’s worth. The police took the report but virtually dismissed it, as Miss Kite had given up her apartment as of October fifteenth and told the landlady that she was leaving the area. She was reportedly unemployed.”

“That’s it?”

“There were two Jaclyn Joneses in New Orleans with police records—one for writing bad checks, the other for having a grand total of twenty parking tickets. One was age thirty-two, the other age forty-five.”

Wrong age to be the Jaclyn staring at him now and obviously listening to his conversation. But the Jaclyn McGregor who’d filed the missing-persons report on Margo Kite had possibilities. “I appreciate the help on that.”

“Want to say what this is about?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Okay, then hope that helps.”

“It could.” He brought the call to a quick end and grabbed Jaclyn’s arm so that she couldn’t walk away. “That was a bit of interesting information, Jaclyn McGregor.”

“Let go of me,” she ordered, but the look on her face and the depths of her eyes told him all he needed to know.

“Why did you lie about your last name?”

“I’m a chronic fibber. I’m a procrastinator, too. And I hog the covers. Now just drop me off at the bus station and forget you ever met me. Better yet, drop me off at the highway and I’ll thumb my way back to town.”

“Now that’s smart.”

She stiffened. “What do you want from me, Bart?”

“The truth.”

“So you can regale the family tonight with tales of the daring rescue of the mystery woman who’d been run off the road by a lunatic? Why don’t you just go out and get a life of your own?”

“I think you’re in trouble. I might be able to help.”

“Well, you can’t. So let it go.”

“Have you found Margo Kite?”

Her eyes shadowed and she trembled. “What do you know about Margo?”

“Only that you filed a missing-persons claim. Is that why you’re in Texas—to search for Margo Kite?”

Jaclyn paled. Her composure was wavering fast. “Maybe.”

“There was no boyfriend last night, was there?”

She turned away.

“Tell me about your friend’s disappearance, Jaclyn. I have lots of connections. I might be able to help. If not, you haven’t lost anything but a few minutes of your time.”

“You really don’t want to get involved in this, Bart Collingsworth. You don’t want to get involved with me.”

He let go of her arm. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”

She didn’t answer, but when he took her right hand in his, she let him lead her back to the porch and to the swing that creaked in the slight breeze. “Tell me one good reason I should trust you, Bart Collingsworth.”

“Because from the looks of things, you don’t have anyone else to go to for help. And I’m offering.”

“You’re making a mistake, cowboy. A monumental mistake.”

Chapter Four

Jaclyn was quaking on the inside though trying desperately to keep up her facade of confidence. It was foolish to trust a man she barely knew when she’d never been able to trust anyone before, but he made a valid point, and right now it was the only one that mattered. She was desperate to find Margo, and he had the resources to help her do it.

Birds were chirping in the trees near the house, accompanied by the occasional mournful mooing of cows in the pasture beyond the pond. Jaclyn gathered her thoughts, then took a deep breath and blurted out the fact that haunted her every waking hour. “I did file a missing-persons report on my friend Margo two weeks ago. No one has seen or heard from her in over three weeks, and I know she’s in some kind of trouble—or in danger.”

Bart’s eyes narrowed. “Has she disappeared like this before?”

“No. We kept in touch almost daily by e-mail, and she called at least once a week. And she always responded immediately if I asked her something or left a message for her to call me back.”

“That seems a bit excessive for two grown women.”

“This from a man whose mother brings him flowers?” The wisecrack popped out before she thought. Sarcasm was a defense mechanism she’d taken up early on and couldn’t seem to break. “Look, I’ve had some hard times lately. Margo’s the kind of friend you can count on. So when she didn’t answer my SOS e-mails or phone messages to see what was up, I panicked and caught a ride to New Orleans with a coworker.”

“Had she said anything to make you think she could be in trouble?”

“Just the opposite. My last e-mail message from her was on September twenty-ninth. She wrote that things were going well and that she’d have big news for me soon.”

“That’s all she said.”

“Yes, but I took it to mean she had a promising job offer. She hasn’t worked since she was laid off from her job as a bartender at one of the restaurants in the French Quarter in August.”

“Maybe she didn’t get the job and hates to admit it.”

“I considered that, but it’s not like Margo not to stay in touch no matter what’s going on. When I got to her apartment, I knew it was more. She didn’t just move out. She’s either on the run because she’s afraid or she’s been abducted or…” Or worse, but Jaclyn wasn’t ready to deal with that possibility yet.

“That’s a pretty extreme assumption.”

“You wouldn’t think that if you’d seen her apartment. It looked as if she’d stepped outside and never come back in. There was a full pot of coffee, and her computer was still on. So was the ceiling fan in her bedroom and there was a load of wet towels in the washing machine. Even her car was still there and parked in her regular parking spot.”

“But no Margo?”

“Right.” The fear multiplied with every word of explanation. It was just so clear that Margo had not left of her own free will.

“Did you check with the landlady or the neighbors?”

“That was the first thing I did. The landlady hadn’t seen her since she gave notice on September thirtieth that she would be moving out on October fifteenth.”

“You didn’t mention she was moving.”

“I didn’t know it. I was guessing it was due to her getting the job and part of the surprise.”

“What did the neighbors say?”

“There was only one. Margo lives in one of those narrow three-story buildings with apartments over a ground-level shop, so there aren’t many tenants. The man who shares the third level with her told me he hadn’t seen or heard her in at least two weeks. The elderly woman who has an apartment next to the landlady’s on the second floor is visiting her son in San Diego and has been away since the middle of September.”

“I’d have to agree with you that this doesn’t quite add up. Did you explain everything to the police?”

“I tried. They took the information down, but all they would focus on was that she was a legal adult who’d given notice to the manager of the apartment complex that she was moving out. They asked if there was blood in the apartment. When I said no, it seemed they lost interest.”

“What about friends? A boyfriend?”

“She didn’t have close girlfriends, but there is most definitely a man—a married state senator. She was convinced he was going to leave his wife and marry her.”

“I take it you don’t think he was.”

“Do they ever?”

“I guess some must, considering the divorce rate in this country. Have you talked to the senator?”

“Of course. I got nowhere. He denied even knowing Margo. He’s behind her disappearance—I know it. Now I just have to prove it.” The fury was so strong that talking about him burned her throat.

“What’s his name?” Bart asked.

“Pat Hebert.”

“Patrick Lewis Hebert?”

Her nerves knotted like twisted twine at the recognition in Bart’s tone. “Don’t tell me he’s a friend of yours.”

“No, but I’ve met him. He and some other guys from Louisiana co-own Paradise Pastures—a small ranch about a half hour west of here—and they frequent the local bars and cafés when they’re around. He seems friendly enough, especially with the women. I never got the idea that he was married.”

“Not surprising since he seemed to forget that fact himself,” Jaclyn said. “But if he’s familiar with this area, then that proves he’s the one who lured me to Colts Run Cross in the first place. He’d planned to ambush me all along.”

Bart planted his feet and stopped the gentle sway of the swing. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Exactly how were you lured to this area?”

“I received a phone call two days ago from someone speaking in an obviously disguised voice telling me to meet him in Cutter’s Bar in Colts Run Cross last night if I wanted to find out what had happened to Margo. I showed up at the appointed time, but no one else did. I waited for two hours before I left. Apparently I was set up. He called back when I was sitting in your truck and said that if I didn’t stop looking for Margo, I’d end up dead.”

“You really are convinced that Hebert is behind all of this?”

“Wouldn’t you be under the circumstances?”

“I’d be suspicious, but it’s a big jump from suspicious to accusing a state senator of abducting a lover—or worse.”

And there was no reason for him to stick his neck into that kind of noose.

“If you want out, just say so,” she said, trying for flippant to cover her desperation.

“I didn’t say I wanted out. I just like to have all the facts before I go accusing a politician of wrongdoing, especially of something as serious as foul play involving a mistress. Isn’t it possible that they had an argument or that he broke up with her and she just took off?”

“If he had nothing to do with her disappearance, why deny they were having an affair?”

“Maybe to keep his wife from divorcing him—or to avoid a career-ending scandal.” He fingered his Stetson and tugged it a little lower on his forehead. “I’m still willing to help, but I have one condition.”

She squared her shoulders. “Surprise, surprise.”

“Make that two conditions. Quell the sarcasm and we do this my way, which means I call the shots.”

“Why should I agree to anything?”

“Because you need my help. You were almost killed last night, and from what you’ve said, you haven’t made much headway in finding out what’s happened to your friend on your own.”

“What’s in this for you?”

“Did it ever occur to you that I might be doing this because it’s the right thing to do?”

It had occurred to her, but she still had difficulty buying it. “So does this mean you’re going to drive me back to New Orleans?” she asked.

“Are you staying in New Orleans now?”

“Yes. I talked Margo’s landlady into letting me keep her apartment until the end of the month. She agreed—for a price.”

Bart frowned. “And your husband went along with that?”

“He doesn’t know,” she said, the familiar lie surprisingly sticking in her throat. “His National Guard unit was called into action in the Middle East. He has enough to worry about without laying this on him.”

“I have to take care of some things here at the ranch before I take off. The earliest I can leave is tomorrow morning. I only have one bed here at my place, but you can stay at the big house.”

“With your mom?”

“And the rest of the family. There’s plenty of room. And if you think you have questions about why I’m jumping into the missing-person’s game, you can bet my family will have a hundred more. But don’t worry—I’ll give them some kind of explanation and insist they not give you the third degree.”

The thought of facing the rest of the Collingsworths unsettled her to the point of nausea. She was never comfortable in family situations. They elicited too many memories, all of them bad.

“Don’t worry,” Bart said, no doubt reading her mind from her furrowed brow. “They’ll love you.”

“Sure, cowboy. About the way they’d love a copperhead curled up in the middle of their bed.”

“Just don’t make rattling noises,” he quipped, “and they’ll never know you’re venomous.”

BART’S PICKUP TRUCK rattled and bounced along what loosely passed for a road. Jaclyn’s nerves grew more rattled with each jolt. “So exactly who will be at dinner?” she asked as the jutted roofline of what she assumed to be the big house came into view.

“Tonight it will be my mother, all three of my brothers, my two sisters, my two nephews and possibly my grandfather. He had a stroke a few months ago and he’s been slow to recover. He doesn’t always show up for dinner these days. And, of course, Juanita will be on the scene. She’s the cook.”

“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here.”

“Not quite. My brother Langston’s wife Trish and their daughter Gina won’t be there. They live in Houston, and Gina’s usually buried in homework or busy with extracurricular activities on school nights.”

“How will I ever tell the players without a scorecard?”

“It’ll be easy. Langston’s the oldest brother, the businessman of the family. He’s president of Collingsworth Oil and he’ll probably come right from work, which means he’ll be the only brother not wearing jeans.”

“Don’t tell me he drives out here from Houston every night just to eat dinner.”

“No, we have some business to discuss.”

Probably concerning her. This was getting worse by the second. “What about the other brothers?”

“Matt’s the second oldest. If you look close, you can see a scar on the left temple where he got kicked by a bull during his brief fling in the rodeo world. He’s four years older than I am.”

“Which would make him?”

“Thirty-three.”

“So you haven’t yet reached the moldy age of thirty?”

“Not a speck of mold on my body.”

She had no doubt that was true, though she had no plans to inspect for proof. Physical intimacy with a man like Bart would be a shortcut to heartbreak. She’d run the risk of falling hard, and once he found out the truth about her past, he’d dump her as if she were a mad cow carrier.

“That leaves one more brother,” she said.

“Zach, the baby of the family along with my sister Jaime. They’re twins. Zach is a ladies’ man and a practical joker. Jaime’s the free spirit— Mother’s polite way of saying she’s never met a rule she couldn’t break.”

“I already like her best.”

“Somehow I knew you would. My sister Becky is separated from her husband Nick, a pro football player who everyone gets along with except Becky. She says they have issues. I think that means Nick prefers taking orders from his coach instead of from Becky, but I try not to get involved.”

“Good idea. Are Becky and Nick the parents of your two nephews?”

“Right. David and Derrick are twins, seven years old, mischievous and have boundless energy. Watch out for toads in your bed.”

“Thanks for the warning. And your mom?”

“Lenora Collingsworth. She’s fifty-six and runs circles around all of us. When Jeremiah had his stroke, he shocked us all by having papers drawn up that turned the position of CEO of Collingsworth Enterprises over to her at any point he couldn’t fulfill the required duties.

“The only paying job she’d ever had before was as a waitress before she got married. But she’s amazed us all with her tenacity and ability, though she drives Langston a little nuts with her reforms for the oil company. Collingsworth Enterprises includes ranch operations, but she hasn’t gotten to telling us how to run Jack’s Bluff yet.”

“Collingsworth Oil, Collingsworth Enterprises, Jack’s Bluff Ranch. You sound like the Ewings of Southfork.”

“More scruples and a lot fewer sexual escapades.”

And in spite of the wealth, Bart still appeared to be just an easygoing cowboy with no hidden agenda. But that didn’t mean the same would be true of the rest of his family. Lenora especially worried her. A woman astute enough to step into the role of CEO without prior executive experience would surely see through Jaclyn. She’d know instinctively that Jaclyn was bad news for her son. She’d be right.

Bart pulled into the drive behind a row of pickups, a Porsche, a BMW, a silver Mercedes and a Harley. But it was the sprawling house, not the impressive vehicles, that claimed her attention. It wasn’t elaborate. There were no ostentatious columns or intricate masonry. There were only gables and porches and huge oak trees embracing the structure. It was homey and welcoming—at least that was the illusion it created.

She was hit with a paralyzing attack of nerves. “I can’t do this, Bart.”

“Can’t do what?”

“Intrude on your family.”

“You’re not intruding, you’re an invited guest.”

“But they don’t know me. For that matter, neither do you.”

“We’re feeding you, not adopting you. Just relax.”

One of his brothers walked out the back door and waved. Bart waved back. She gritted her teeth, climbed reluctantly from the car and followed Bart to the house.

“SHE’S WOW MATERIAL,” Zach said. “Not sure you can handle a sweet, young hottie like that, big brother, even if she is the size of a good bottle of tequila.”

Bart poured himself a mug of coffee and leaned against the kitchen counter. “I told you—she’s married to a serviceman. I have no plans to ‘handle’ her. I’m just going to drive her back to New Orleans and see if her friend’s disappearance checks out to be as suspicious as she fears.”

“And if it is?” Matt asked.

“Then I’ll see what I can do to help her find out what happened to the missing woman.”

Zach opened the refrigerator and pulled out a half-gallon container of milk. “Politicians being what they are today, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if Hebert is involved in her disappearance.”

“Whether he is or not, I suspect he’s anxious to keep his affair away from public scrutiny,” Langston said. “But he’s going pretty far if he’s the one guilty of running—or having Jaclyn run—off the road last night.”

“Desperate situations call for desperate measures,” Bart countered. “And if he’s guilty of foul play, the guy is not only desperate and immoral but also depraved.”

“Which would put Jaclyn in serious danger,” Langston admitted.

Bart had especially requested Langston’s presence at the informal after-dinner confab. Langston wasn’t as negative as Matt or as impulsive as Zach and he was used to dealing with difficult situations and political confrontations in the business world.

“So what do you suggest, Langston?”

“I’d say the first step is to hire a good private investigator. I put Clay Markham on retainer for Collingsworth Oil a couple of months ago, so you’re welcome to use him. He’s as good as they come. I’d suggest having a background check done on Jaclyn, as well. She seems nice, but appearances can be deceiving. And then I’d make a personal visit to the Louisiana senator who’s suspected of foul play.”

Zach cut himself a slice of chocolate cake to go with his milk, scattering crumbs as he took it from the cake plate to a napkin. “Foul play? You sound like a politician yourself. Just say it like it is. There’s a good chance Margo was murdered. Then you can get down to the nitty-gritty of finding out who, why and where.”

Bart shook his head. “Don’t let Jaclyn hear you say that. She’s still hoping for the best.”

Matt rocked back on the heels of his boots, his face grim. “Did it ever occur to you that this Margo woman could have blackmailed the senator, then taken off with the money? The way I see it, that’s the most likely scenario. If it were me, I’d buy Jaclyn a plane ticket home, maybe even offer to pay for a private detective for her since you said her husband’s off fighting for our country. Then I’d ride off into the sunset like a smart cowboy.”

“I’ll drive her home,” Bart said. “After that, I may follow your advice.” But he doubted it. There was something about Jaclyn and the situation that had hold of him, and he just couldn’t see himself letting go of it until he had more facts.

He’d have to be careful around Jaclyn for the reason Zach had said. She was wow material. And she was married. But she was also spunky and possibly in real danger. He couldn’t just turn his back on her.

“Keep us posted,” Langston said. “And don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

“Don’t worry. The image of dead hero has no appeal for me.”

“And keep your pants zipped and your heart in tow,” Zach cautioned. “Jaclyn’s the kind of woman who could burrow under a man’s skin without even trying.”

“I have the skin of an armadillo,” Bart said, though he wasn’t sure even that was tough enough to avoid letting Jaclyn get to him. Still, he’d never messed with another man’s wife before—and he damn sure wouldn’t start with the wife of a serviceman on active duty.

Bart and his brothers joined their mother and their sister Becky on the screened back porch for Langston to say his goodbyes.

“Where are Jaime and Jaclyn?” Bart asked, alarmed that Jaime might be somewhere bombarding her with questions.

“Jaime went into town with a couple of her girlfriends,” Lenora said. “Jaclyn seemed tired, so I suggested she go upstairs and get some rest. She seemed grateful for the offer.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Bart agreed, hating the disappointment that he hadn’t gotten to tell her good-night.

“She’s really worried about her friend,” Becky said. “She didn’t say much, but I could hear it in her voice when she talked about the police blowing off her concerns.”

Lenora stood and walked over to where Bart was standing. “I don’t know how the police can do that. I know the area’s had a hard time coming back after Katrina and that the police have their hands full with the upswing in crime, but surely they could have at least questioned people about her disappearance.”

“It’s hard to say what they were thinking or what they’ve actually done,” Bart said, “but I think the situation deserves better than it’s getting.”

“I’m not sure you’re getting involved in this is a good idea, Bart.”

He dropped an arm around his mother’s shoulders. “Aren’t you the one who always says that the Lord expects us to reach out to those in need?”

“Don’t twist my words around, Bart. Jaclyn needs police assistance, and you’re not in law enforcement.”

“I’ve seen all the episodes of Law & Order.”

“This isn’t a joking matter.”

He knew that all too well. “I don’t plan on doing anything stupid or reckless. I’ll be fine, Mom. Now tell me about your day,” he said, eager to change the subject. “Langston says you’re researching the possibility of child care for the employees of Collingsworth Oil who have young children.”

She clearly wasn’t convinced his going to New Orleans with Jaclyn was a good idea, but she was eager to talk about her plans. He listened a good fifteen minutes, then excused himself to go back to his place and get some sleep.

He was walking through his front door when he got a call from Aidan Jefferies.

“I hate to call you this late, but I’ve been out at the crime scene of an armed robbery at a convenience store in southeast Houston. The clerk was shot twice in the head, but we’ve got a good lead on the perp. Anyway, I’d asked one of the young recruits to see what he could find on Jaclyn Mc-Gregor, since that was the name given by the woman who reported Margo Kite’s disappearance.”

“What did he find?”

“A good reason for you to say adios.”

Bart’s blood boiled as he listened to the details of Jaclyn’s recent past. He swallowed the curses that flew to mind as he thanked Aidan and headed back to his car. He had a few words for Jaclyn, and they wouldn’t wait until morning.

Chapter Five

Jaclyn had retired to her room at the Collingsworths’ early, but not because she was exhausted, as she’d claimed. The family camaraderie and familiarity had made her increasingly uneasy. They had tried to make her feel welcome, but that was only because they didn’t know the real Jaclyn McGregor.

So she’d escaped to the guest room and sat here alone. Voices had drifted from downstairs for a while, but it was quiet now, and when she’d heard a truck leaving earlier, she’d looked out the window and seen that it was Bart.

He’d be back at his house by the pond by now, probably with his window open so that the drone of the crickets and the rustle of leaves dancing in the breeze lulled him into a sound sleep. All was well at Jack’s Bluff.

But all was not well with Margo. Jaclyn usually managed to hold on to her optimism during the day. But when night came, there was no holding back the nightmarish possibilities that crept into her mind. No one understood her certainty that Margo was in trouble, but she knew it as surely as she knew that day would follow night—or that Bart would soon find out about her past and drop her, possibly even en route back to New Orleans.

Jaclyn slipped her shirt over her head and dropped it to the bed, then reached behind her to unsnap her bra. She may as well grab a shower and try to get some sleep. She hadn’t brought pajamas with her, but there were white chenille guest robes in the closet, so she’d slip on one of them to traipse to the bathroom just down the hall.

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