Cowboy Swagger

Joanna Wayne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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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 organization. Her debut 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 bestseller list for romance and has won many industry awards. She is also a popular speaker at writing organizations and local community functions and has taught creative writing at the University of New Orleans Metropolitan College.

Joanna 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 Joanna at PO Box 852, Montgomery, Texas 77356, USA.

To all my readers who love cowboys.

To my grandsons, who have taught me what it means to

totally lose your heart to a child—though they

are growing up fast.

And to my hubby who will spend many hours driving

me around the beautiful Texas Hill Country to research

the setting for the books in the SONS OF

TROY LEDGER.

Chapter One

Murderer’s kid! Murderer’s kid! Murderer’s kid!

The taunts reverberated inside Dylan Ledger’s brain as he approached the Mustang Run Elementary School. Seventeen years after his father’s conviction, distant echoes of the mocking still tied knots in his stomach.

Or maybe it was the significance of the day that brought the old rancor home to roost. His father’s homecoming. The murderer’s return to the scene of the crime, as one radio news announcer had so bluntly put it.

Dylan slowed and stared out the window of his truck. The flagpole was topped with the American colors, and just below that the Lone Star State banner waved in the gentle breeze. Cows grazed the fence line that kept them off the playground.

Kids were filing out of the building to board the yellow school buses that had lined up in front of the building. It was late May, but apparently classes were still in session.

Cars formed another line, mothers waiting to take their children home. Memories flooded his mind. He and his brothers had waited in that line on the fatal day eighteen years ago this September. His mother had never come.

He grimaced and pushed the memories back to the dark crevices of his mind, the way he’d learned to do years ago.

Only now that he was back in the town where his life had been ripped apart, he realized he wasn’t nearly as detached from the past horrors as he’d thought. Even worse, he wasn’t sure why he’d come back or what he really hoped to gain from this.

The traffic light in front of the school turned red. His gaze drifted to a woman who’d just stepped from her vehicle and was waving frantically, probably trying to get the attention of her kid. The woman’s hair was so red it looked like fire in the bright sunlight.

She turned his way for a second. His gaze was riveted on her, not only because she was a knockout. She reminded him of someone, though he had no idea whom.

The light turned green. He lowered the truck’s window as he drove slowly through the town and then turned onto the narrow dirt road that led to the family ranch. The odors of earth, grass and even the occasional whiff of manure were a welcome change from the smells of car exhaust and fish from the open market a few steps from his tiny apartment back in Boston.

Rolling hills stretched in all directions as far as he could see. A grouping of magnificent horses stood in a fenced pasture, mingling with a few young colts. A cluster of persimmon trees gave shade to some longhorns. A dog barked in the distance, and a flock of coal-black crows cawed noisily from their perch atop a weathered gate. In a few miles he’d be home.

Who was he kidding? He had no real home. Not in Texas and certainly not back in Boston where he’d never really fit in.

A tractor bounced and rumbled along the road in front of him. Dylan slowed. The driver of the tractor pulled to the edge of the road and gave a two-fingered wave as Dylan passed him.

A minute or two later, a red Jeep Wrangler bore down on him from behind, passing the tractor and riding the tail of Dylan’s truck for a minute before passing him, as well. The driver of the vehicle appeared to have a cell phone glued to her ear. He couldn’t be sure due to the mass of wild, red curls that tumbled to her shoulders.

Same hair. Same vehicle. It had to be the woman who’d captured his attention at the school, but there was no child in the Jeep. Her car disappeared around the next curve. She was in a damn big hurry to get somewhere.

Another vehicle came up behind him, chased Dylan’s bumper around a curve and then passed him. The van had the name of an Austin TV channel emblazoned on the door. It hit Dylan then that they were rushing to the same place he was heading. The media were once again gathering at the Ledger ranch with teeth bared.

Fury burned in Dylan’s veins as he drove the rest of the way. Did the media never have the decency to just back off?

The metal gate was propped open. The wheels of his truck rattled over the cattle gap, and he kept driving. There was no need to latch the hook; the varmints were already inside.

A sense of gruesome déjà vu attacked him as he drove the quarter of a mile to the house. But he wasn’t a kid any longer. He’d handle whatever came his way.

COLLETTE MCGUIRE GAVE UP on finding a decent parking spot and left her Jeep in a grassy area just north of the house. She grabbed her camera, then pushed through the dozen or so reporters and photographers who were clumped around the front door of the Ledger ranch house.

A lot like vultures, she thought, guilt surfacing that she was one of them.

She shivered and looked around her, always wary, hating the unfamiliar fear that had crawled inside her over the past few weeks.

“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

She turned to find her friend, Eleanor Baker, maneuvering through the restless reporters and heading her way.

“Thanks for answering my SOS,” Eleanor said.

“Next time could you give me a little more notice? I had already told Alma I’d pick up Georgia from school on my way home and take her shopping. Her eleventh birthday is this weekend.”

“Your niece is already eleven?”

“Yes. Can you believe it?”

“Not really.” Eleanor glanced around. “Where is she?”

“I got to the school in time to have her catch the bus. I postponed the shopping trip.”

“You can take her when we’re through.”

“There won’t be time. I’m working a wedding tonight. Georgia is not happy. Both you and Melinda owe me big-time.”

“Get me some great shots of Troy Ledger arriving at the little house of horrors and we’ll both be in your debt.”

“So the infamous Mr. Ledger hasn’t arrived yet?”

“No sign of him, but according to reports of when he left the prison, he could drive up any minute.”

“What happened to Melinda?”

“She’s on assignment in Austin for her real boss. You know, the guy who actually pays her. She thought she’d be back in time to help me out, but got stuck in traffic.”

“So that’s why I got drafted.”

“Which reminds me, do you mind if I camp out at your place tonight? I have an interview scheduled with a developer just outside Mustang Run at an ungodly hour in the morning.”

“You want my house and my expertise with the camera? That will cost you,” Collette teased.

“Let’s hope this turns out to be worth it.”

“Take the left side of my garage tonight. I’ll park on the right.”

“I remember. You know, you may actually be better at this assignment than Melinda.”

“Not likely. Ghosts are not within my area of expertise,” said Collette.

“No, but you’re local. That should be worth something. Pictures of Troy Ledger inside the haunted house would catapult Beyond the Grave to the hottest paranormal magazine on the racks. And then I could actually pay Melinda—and myself.”

“Local or not, fat chance I’ll get inside that house. I’ll be lucky if I get a shot of him entering the door.”

“Then I guess Melinda and I will be forced to break in the house the first time Troy Ledger leaves.”

Collette covered her ears. “Don’t confess planned illegalities to me. I’m the sheriff’s daughter.”

“Like you’d turn us in to him. You barely speak to the man.”

“Yes, and let’s keep it that way.”

“Speaking of illegalities, are you still getting calls from that weirdo?”

“Occasionally. The calls are pretty lame, but they’re starting to get to me.”

“Sic the sheriff on him.”

“I don’t know what he could do since the guy only spouts harmless utterances of devotion. What are you hoping to get today for the article?” Collette asked, changing the subject.

“I’m thinking the tag will be ‘Troy Ledger returns to the house that drove him to murder,’“ Eleanor said, holding up her hands as if framing the article.

“Last I heard, he was still claiming his innocence. And he was released from prison.” Collette removed her camera from the case and adjusted the lens.

“Sure, but released on a technicality,” Eleanor countered.

“The prison psychiatrist interviewed on the morning news claimed Troy Ledger has never shown one sign of violent behavior since his conviction. She said she’s certain of his mental stability and even went so far as to say that she wouldn’t hesitate to trust him with her own son.”

“Shrinks, what do they know?” Eleanor glanced at her watch. “Do you think he killed his wife?”

“My opinion doesn’t count for much. I was ten at the time.”

“Your dad must think he’s guilty. He arrested him.” Eleanor stretched for a better look as a commotion ensued at the back of the crowd.

A black pickup truck approached, driving up to the front door and sending the reporters who’d gathered there flying to get out of the way. A sexy hunk of a man in boots, worn jeans and a Western hat climbed out, a man who was decades too young to be Troy Ledger.

He looked around and shook his head before stamping to the door. Once there, he pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and poked one into the lock.

“Holy Smoley,” Eleanor said lustfully. “I’d sleep with ghosts any night as long as that cowboy was in the bed with us. Do you know him?”

“He could be one of Troy Ledger’s sons. I think he had four.”

“Five,” Eleanor corrected. “Dakota, Tyler, Dylan, Sean and Wyatt.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

“And a couple of major investigative articles on the crime. FYI, I think Troy Ledger is as guilty as sin and I renege on any offer to sleep with one of his sons, not even if it guaranteed me a picture of ghosts.”

Collette aimed and started shooting, still looking for something familiar to help her identify the stranger. She’d known a few of Troy Ledger’s sons, but that was years ago when they were mere boys.

The guy pushed open the door but didn’t go inside. Instead he scanned the crowd as if looking for someone. Flashbulbs popped, and he blinked and squinted in defense. Reporters started yelling questions and trying to stick mikes in his face.

“Are you a relative of Troy Ledger?”

“Is Troy coming back to the ranch?”

“Will he move back to Mustang Run?”

The cowboy put up a hand as if to quiet the group. Amazingly, they obliged him, though Collette was certain the cooperation wouldn’t last long unless he gave them something they wanted.

“You’re trespassing,” he said. “And looking for a story that was milked dry seventeen years ago.”

“Who are you?” a reporter yelled from the back of the group.

“Dylan Ledger, son of the convicted murderer.” He tipped his hat as if mocking them and propped a hand on the door frame.

Dylan. She remembered him more than the others. He had been a year ahead of her and had ridden the same bus to school and back. Even then he’d been cute, but he’d aged to perfection.

Someone pushed a mike into his face. “Have you forgiven your father for killing your mother?”

“My relationship with my father is none of your business.”

“Is your father going to live here on Willow Creek Ranch?”

“I have no idea what my father’s plans are for the future. End of story, so you may as well go out and find yourselves some real news.”

He scanned the crowd again. When his gaze fixed, Collette was certain that he was looking right at her. She felt the impact of his stare right down to her toes, a kind of heated awareness that set her on edge.

Eleanor poked her in the ribs with her elbow. “He recognizes you.”

“No way. I was scrawny and wore braces when he saw me last.”

“And now you’re gorgeous and you’ve acquired breasts. You’ve got his attention. Ask him a question.”

“I’m a photographer, not a reporter.”

“He doesn’t know that.” She took Collette’s free hand and waved it in the air. “Ask him if he thinks the house is haunted.”

Again, Dylan stared straight at Collette. “I’ll grant one interview,” he conceded, as if it were an afterthought. “In private. The redhead in the jeans and yellow shirt,” he said, pointing at Collette.

Eleanor slapped her on the back and pushed her forward. “Go get ‘em, girl. But don’t forget the pictures. And be careful.”

Collette panicked. She didn’t represent a legitimate news organization, and she’d never conducted a real interview. She was terrific at what she did, but that was photography, usually for weddings or at least happy family occasions.

Eleanor gave her another shove. “What are you waiting on?”

Collette gave up and pushed her way through the crowd. Some reporters moved out of her way to make it easier for her. A few guys deliberately blocked her path, and two made sexist comments about her looks doing her work for her.

She had a couple of words for them, too, but she managed enough restraint to keep them to herself. When she reached Dylan, he escorted her inside and closed and locked the door behind them. Her stomach rolled, though she couldn’t blame the uneasiness on the house’s aura. It looked and felt like any other sprawling ranch house, except for the musty odors that came from years of being closed off from life, wind and sun.

Dylan’s hand brushed the back of a worn leather couch as he walked past it. “At least the air conditioner works.”

And worked well, she noted. The house was pleasantly cool and free of dust and the myriad spiderwebs that would have given it a true haunted look. Someone had obviously readied the place for Troy Ledger’s arrival.

Dylan walked to the kitchen. She followed him.

He opened what appeared to be a new refrigerator. “There are soft drinks, bottled water and beer,” he said. “What’s your pleasure?”

“Water would be nice.”

He handed her a bottle of water and took a beer for himself. She nodded her thanks.

He unscrewed the top from his beer. The silence grew awkward.

“Why me?” she finally asked.

“You passed me back on the road.”

“That’s not much of a reason.”

He took a long swig of the beer. “Guess I just wanted to know why the hurry. Is news that scarce in Mustang Run?”

“Frankly, yes.”

“Must be an exciting town.”

“About the same as when we were at Mustang Run Elementary School.”

His eyes narrowed. “Should I recognize you?”

“I’d worry if you did. I’ve changed a lot since fifth grade. I’m Collette McGuire. I was a year behind you in school.”

He nodded as if he’d just had an ah-ha moment. “Collette the tattletale. You’re right. You’ve definitely changed. Is your father still sheriff?”

Her only claim to fame. In this case, it would work against her. “Yes, he is.”

“Is he part of the welcoming committee waiting outside?”

“I didn’t see him out there. As far as I can tell, the mob is all media sharks.”

“Like you?”

“Not exactly. I mean I am with the media today, but I’m not a reporter.”

His eyebrows arched.

“I’m a photographer—with Beyond the Grave,” she added hesitantly. “It’s a magazine that explores the paranormal.”

His muscles bunched, and his lips pulled into a tight line. “Let me guess. You want to help me connect with my dead mother.”

Ire burned in her veins. “I don’t communicate with the dead.” Or some of the living, either, she silently added.

He took another swig of the beer and leaned against the counter. “So why is Beyond the Grave interested in Willow Creek Ranch?”

“Word around town is that your house is haunted.”

“You people need to get a life.”

In theory she agreed with him. That didn’t keep his arrogance from rubbing her the wrong way. He’d been gone for years. What did he know of their town or her? But she should probably cut him some slack considering the reason he’d come back to Mustang Run. Besides, Eleanor and Melinda did need those pictures.

She placed her camera case on the kitchen table. “I realize the timing is not the greatest for you, but since you invited me inside, why not let me take a few pictures? And if there’s anything you want to say for the magazine, I can see that you’re quoted accurately.”

“I’ve nothing to say. But go ahead. Take your pictures.” He glanced at his watch. “Make it fast. My father will be here any minute now, and I seriously doubt he’ll be as accommodating as I’m being.”

“Thanks for the warning.” She started snapping pictures of the kitchen. Try as she might, she couldn’t find a way to make the place look spooky. She fared no better in the family room. The space just looked lonesome and bereft of human touch.

Intent on working quickly, she didn’t notice that Dylan had joined her in the family room until she caught sight of him in her viewfinder.

Her heart skipped a beat or two from the sheer masculinity of the man against the backdrop of the huge stone fireplace. The slow burn he ignited crept to her cheeks. She lowered the camera without taking the shot.

Dylan propped a booted foot on the low hearth and an elbow on the mantel. “What makes people say the house is haunted?”

“Some claim that they’ve seen a woman in white out by the gate when they pass it at night. She tries to wave them down as if she needs help. If they stop, she disappears.”

“Is that it?”

“Not quite. Some claim to have seen a woman standing at one of the windows.”

“Superstitious fools.” Dylan raked his fingers through his hair, parting the sandy locks into deep grooves that quickly filled back in place. “Are you one of them?”

“One of the superstitious fools? No. I have too much trouble with the living to worry about ghosts.”

Her cell phone rang. Probably Eleanor with instructions as to what photos she wanted for the magazine. “Excuse me,” she said, reaching for her phone.

“No problem.”

“Hello.”

“I saw you go inside the house with Dylan Ledger.”

Apprehension ground in her stomach. The lunatic who’d been stalking her must have followed her to Willow Creek Ranch.

She walked back to the kitchen, hopefully out of Dylan’s hearing range. “I told you to stop calling me,” she whispered.

“I can’t do that. We’re soul mates, Collette, meant to be together.”

She took a deep breath, hoping it would settle her shaky nerves and shakier voice. “I’m not anything to you, and if you don’t stop harassing me, my father will arrest you, throw you in jail and lose the key.”

“I’m not afraid of your daddy, Collette. But I have a message for him. Tell him I’ll soon be sleeping with his precious daughter. And you’ll like it. I promise you that.”

Her skin crawled. As much as she dreaded the thought, she was going to have to get a gun. This guy was nuts.

She broke the connection and rejoined Dylan. “I’m sorry for the interruption.”

“You look upset. Is something wrong?”

“It was a nuisance call.” She tried to take another picture, but her hands shook and she had trouble holding the camera steady.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Dylan asked.

He was far too astute to buy her feeble excuses. “Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just that there’s this guy who’s bothering me. I’ll deal with it.”

She went back to taking pictures, and this time her hands remained calm. She finished in record time and walked to the kitchen. Dylan was staring out the window, his face a hard mask that revealed no emotion. She felt a weird connection with him, as if growing up in Mustang Run were a bond in itself.

She stepped closer. “It must be tough coming back after all these years. It’s a nice thing to do for your father.”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure I’m doing it for him.”

So things weren’t fully settled between them, which made his inviting her in even more strange. “Did you stay in touch with him over the years?”

He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Which meant he considered it none of her business. Fair enough. Only he was the one who’d started with the questions. “Why did you really let me in to take the pictures, Dylan?”

“You looked familiar. I just realized it’s because you look like your mother.”

“You remember my mother? I wasn’t even aware that you’d met her.”

“She came over the day my mother was murdered. She cooked dinner for my brothers and me. My memories from that night are sketchy, but I remember her telling us that no one would hurt us and that it was all right to cry. She stayed until my grandparents got here.”

“Where was your dad?”

“Being questioned by the deputies—and your father.”

Yep, that pretty much defined her parents. Mom had always been there to comfort. Her dad was always there to find fault and uncover the hidden sins.

“How is your mother?” Dylan asked.

“She had a stroke and passed away a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry, “Dylan said. “Go ahead with your pictures. My father won’t like it, but the skeletons have been rattling around in this house for too long already. Might as well shake a few out for your readers.”

His voice was gruff and his tone edgy, an attempt, she suspected, to hide his emotions. Dylan was all man in every way that showed, but somewhere deep inside him, there must be some remnant of the boy who lost not only his mother to a brutal murder, but life as he knew it.

The clatter of voices outside rose to a crescendo. She joined Dylan at the window. A white truck was speeding down the road to the house.

“The return of Troy Ledger,” Dylan said.

Troy Ledger, not his father. That said a lot. His father might have gotten a get-out-of-jail-free card, but he obviously wasn’t getting a pass from Dylan. Maybe she had more in common with Dylan than she’d thought.

Surprising herself, she pulled out a business card. “If you need to talk, I’m available. You can call my photography studio or my cell number. Or you can stop by anytime. I live in the old Callister place. It’s the yellow house just past the Baptist church.”

“Your husband might not appreciate that.”

“What makes you think I’m married?”

“I saw you at the elementary school when I passed.”

“I was there to pick up my brother’s daughter, or rather to tell her I couldn’t pick her up and that she should ride the bus home.”

Their eyes met again as he took the card from her. His were tempestuous, yet mysteriously seductive. “I hope this works out for you,” she said.

“Yeah. Same for you. Be careful with the jerk who’s giving you a hard time.” He handed her the camera case and then walked her to the front door just as the back door swung open. “See you around.”

“Yeah, cowboy. See you around.”

She had a feeling he wouldn’t be looking her up. That was probably for the best, she told herself. He was far too complicated. She’d seen that in his intense, brandy-colored eyes. And she had complications and problems enough of her own.

Oddly, though, she found herself hoping that he’d call.

Chapter Two

He kept his distance, remaining unnoticed from his position behind the woodshed and sheltered by the low branches of a spreading live oak tree. Lifting his binoculars to his eyes, he watched as Collette McGuire walked out of the house and squeezed through the mob of reporters who were all but wetting their pants over the arrival of what looked to be the infamous Troy Ledger.

The wind tousled her hair like a lover might, lifting and teasing the fiery red curls before letting them fall to her narrow shoulders. Collette McGuire was both beautiful and spunky. Neither altered the outcome, but they had changed the game, likely even prolonged it.

She was a woman who could tempt any red-blooded male, even one as scarred and damaged as he was.

Too bad she had to die.

Chapter Three

Dylan dried the plate and put it away. The dishes were old, probably the same ones they’d eaten off of when he was a kid. Still, they were as unfamiliar to him as the man standing next to him.

Troy Ledger was tall and gaunt with slight bags under his tortured eyes and wrinkles that dug deep furrows across his brow. His nails were chewed down to his flesh, and a jagged scar ran along his right cheek and down to his breastbone. His forearms were muscled. He’d likely be a tough contender in a fight.

Fifty-five years old but he looked like a man who’d lived through hell. He acted only half alive, as if he’d been reduced to going through the motions, except that twice that afternoon he’d seemed to be in the grip of a mood so intense he could barely control it. One of those times, he’d clutched the glass he was holding so tightly that it shattered in his hand.

Dylan would have liked to ask what he was thinking at that moment, but his dad had set the rules of engagement from the moment he’d walked into the house. They’d shared a quick handshake and greeting, and then his dad had withdrawn so deeply into himself, Dylan might as well have been invisible.

They’d spoken briefly since then—about the steaks Dylan had grilled for their dinner, about the price of beef these days, about the weather. The closest they’d come to anything personal was when the formidable Troy Ledger had asked Dylan if he was married. He’d said no. His dad had only nodded. Who in hell knew what that meant?

His brothers had been right. Coming here was a mistake. But now that he was here, he’d stick it out at least a few more days. No reason to hurry off. No one was waiting for him anywhere.

“What are you going to do about the ranch?” Dylan asked when the dishes were all put away.

“Raise cattle, same as other ranchers.”

“Cattle cost money.”

He was pretty sure his dad didn’t have any. They were never rich, and the little Troy had would have been swallowed up by lawyers’ fees and taxes on the ranch.

Dylan had learned that much from his father’s attorney who’d handled the estate—the estate consisting of the ranch and this old house. The attorney had contacted Dylan and his brothers when their father’s release had become imminent and suggested they welcome him home. Dylan had been the only one who’d accepted the proposal. At his father’s request, the attorney had mailed Dylan a key to the house.

The family of Dylan’s mother was in much better financial shape. His and his brothers’ inheritance from their grandparents had gone into a trust fund that had put them all through college.

Uncle Phil had been upset when Dylan decided to go into the army after graduation instead of joining his uncle’s extremely successful advertising firm. Dylan had wanted to do something for his country and he’d needed adventure. The army had offered both.

Troy stuffed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “Able Drake’s backing me for a start-up herd.”

“Do I know him?”

“Not likely. Lives up in Dallas now, but he’s from these parts.”

Dylan couldn’t help but wonder if Able was someone Troy had met in prison. As far as he knew, no one on his mother’s side of the family had ever mentioned the man, but then they hadn’t even spoken his father’s name in years. They were all convinced he’d killed their beloved Helene.

Dylan had acted as if he believed it, too. But he hadn’t. The father who lived in his dreams and imagination could never have killed his mother.

“Is Able the one who readied the house for you?” Dylan asked.

“He had it done.” His father looked around as if noticing the place for the first time. “Not much of a house, is it?”

“Structure’s okay,” Dylan said. It was the only positive thing he could think of.

“Used to look better,” his dad said. “Back when …” He stopped midsentence, looking as if pain was digging into his ruddy flesh like sharp nails.

“Yeah,” Dylan agreed. “It used to be better.”

His dad rubbed the old scar. “I’m beat. Think I’ll head on off to bed.”

And avoid any more feeble attempts at conversation with the son he hadn’t seen since the day he’d been convicted. All the boys had been there that day to say goodbye, against their grandparents’ will.

Dylan tried to muster up a bit of resentment for his father’s eagerness to escape his company. It didn’t come. Truth was, he wasn’t up to talking tonight, either. The chasm that separated them after years of zero communication was too deep and wide to be bridged by a steak and a few attempts at meaningless small talk.

“I’ll take the back bedroom,” his dad said.

Not the big bedroom he’d shared with Dylan’s mom, though Dylan had spotted him standing at that door earlier, staring into the room, his muscles strained and his expression as pained as if he’d been kicked in the gut by an angry bull.

Dylan sure as hell wasn’t sleeping there, either. “I’ll take my old bedroom. I checked earlier and it looks like all the beds have new sheets on them.”

“Guess the old ones would have rotted by now.”

Troy walked away, leaving Dylan standing alone in the kitchen. Memories gathered around him like a suffocating fog. His mom stirring big pots of stews and soups at the range. Her singing while she worked. Trays of fresh-baked cookies cooling on the counter. Her long hair flying when she’d grab him and dance about the kitchen. Her fragrance when she’d pull him into a hug. Her arms around him when he’d had a nightmare.

Returning footfalls in the hallway yanked him from the bittersweet reveries. He swallowed hard and turned to see his dad’s tall, lean body filling the open doorway.

“Thanks for being here, Dylan.”

The words were husky, as if they’d been pushed through a scratchy throat. His dad’s eyes looked moist. Dylan’s started to burn.

“Sure thing,” Dylan said. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

He turned away as his dad’s retreating footsteps echoed down the hallway. The connection had been brief, but it had been there. It was a start.

Dylan searched the cupboard for a real drink, something strong enough to fight off the memories and regrets. He found a bottle of whiskey. Not his brand but now was not the time to be choosy.

He poured a couple of fingers of the amber liquid into a glass, swirled it around and then sipped it, welcoming the burn that trailed down his dry throat. He pushed through the back door and into the gray of twilight. Too restless to sit, he finished the drink, left the glass on the back steps and walked to his truck.

He’d be back, but right now he had to get out of here before the ghosts from his past made the woman in white who appeared for the superstitious think she was living in a freakin’ mausoleum.

COLLETTE RAISED THE CAMERA and framed the image of the bride dancing with her preadolescent nephew, an adorable red-haired lad who was stepping all over the hem of her gorgeous gown. The bride, Isabelle Smith, barely twenty-one herself, showed no sign of irritation.

This was her day, and the glow of love emanated from her like stardust. The only bad thing about stardust was that it had such a limited shelf life.

Not that Collette had anything against marriage. She might even take the plunge one day—just not any day soon. She liked her independence and had never met a man who’d tempted her to become a “we” instead of a “me.” But she had to admit, the bride did look ravishing and blissfully in love.

Collette had known Isabelle and her whole family for years. They went to the same church that Collette had grown up in, and Isabelle’s father had helped Collette raise a prize-winning pig back in her 4-H days. Her own father had been too busy enforcing the law and making inane rules for her and her mother to follow.

She also knew the groom and his family. Carl Knight’s dad owned the local hardware and feed store. His mother taught at the new consolidated high school. Carl was in the Marines and had worn full-dress uniform for the ceremony. He’d be shipping off for Afghanistan soon.

Even as she’d taken pictures of the couple exchanging the vows, Collette had prayed he’d return safely. She suspected many of the guests were doing the same.

She moved to another corner of the dance floor that had been set up beneath the white tent. The country band switched from a lively two-step to a romantic ballad, and Isabelle’s grandparents joined the group on the dance floor. Collette couldn’t help but smile as she got a couple of great shots of them snuggled in each other’s arms and swaying to the music.

Setting her camera on a nearby table, she checked her watch. The reception would start winding down soon, but she was sure that she had enough formal and candid shots to satisfy the bride and her family. At least she would once she captured the newlyweds leaving for their honeymoon.

“Care to dance?”

She spun around at the unfamiliar voice.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” she lied. “I just didn’t know anyone was behind me.” Stupid response considering they were beneath a rather crowded tent. She hated that the recent phone calls had made her so apprehensive that she sometimes jumped at her own shadow.

“I’m Brady Collins, friend of the groom.”

He extended his hand. A nice hand, she had to admit, attached to a slim blond guy with cobalt-blue eyes and an enticing smile. There was no spark when his hand wrapped around hers. Obviously, he was no Dylan Ledger.

“I’m Collette McGuire, the photographer.”

“I noticed. You’ve been doing a heck of a job, but I’m sure the happy couple would forgive your abandoning your post for one dance.”

“The offer is tempting, but not in my contract.”

“Ah, the prettiest woman at the reception would have to be a woman of principle.”

“Thanks,” she said, “though we both know the prettiest woman at the wedding tonight is unquestionably Isabelle.”

“Only because she has the unfair advantage of the wedding glow.”

Carl picked that moment to rescue his bride from the awkwardly energetic nephew. Collette reached for her camera. “Your friend Carl looks pretty happy himself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really do have to get back to work.”

“Can’t blame a guy for asking.”

She didn’t, but even if she hadn’t been working, she wasn’t really interested in meeting anyone tonight. Working the wedding had helped, but the stalker’s call this afternoon had left her more nervous than usual. Not only that, but try as she might, she hadn’t been able to fully shake Dylan from her mind.

She doubted he’d call, but instead of turning her cell phone off completely as she usually did when working an affair, she’d left it on vibrate tonight. There was no rational explanation for how he’d affected her. All she knew was that she wanted to see and talk to him again.

She took a few more pictures and then stepped outside the tent, walking a few yards away for a breath of fresh air. Silvery strings of moonlight filtered through the trees, and the music that had been loud and vibrating inside the tent was softly romantic in the background.

She took out her phone and called her house, not that she had any doubts Eleanor had made herself at home once Collette had left for the wedding. Eleanor was outgoing and resourceful, no doubt part of the reason for her success as a freelance investigative reporter. And they had been friends since their first year at the University of Texas.

The phone rang until the answering machine picked up. Disappointment swelled. Eleanor must have decided to drive back to Austin instead of spending the night after all.

Ordinarily, Collette was fine going home at night to an empty house. Her stalker had infiltrated those feelings of safety, replacing them with irritating spurts of apprehension. If the calls kept up, she was going to have to break down and buy a gun or maybe get a dog. A big, ferocious-looking dog who’d bark like crazy if anyone came sneaking around the house she rented from the Callisters. Maybe she’d get both.

Mustang Run was a peaceful town, but it hadn’t totally escaped violence. She’d been reminded of that quite vividly while taking pictures inside the Ledger home today.

She wondered if a dog or a gun would have saved Dylan’s mother. Not likely if Troy Ledger was actually guilty of killing her.

Thoughts of Dylan crowded into Collette’s mind. She did her best to push them aside. She didn’t need a guy with a tortured soul in her life. But impulsively she slipped her hand into her pocket and let it slide across the leather case that held her cell phone.

The phone remained still and silent.

DYLAN TIPPED THE BOTTLE of cold beer to his lips and took a long swig. Mack’s Haven was exactly how he would have pictured a typical small-town Texas bar. Smoky. Loud. Friendly. A down-home kind of place. A worn wooden sign pronounced, “No Dancing on the bar with your spurs on.”

Smoky and loud didn’t bother Dylan. Nor did the sign, since he not only didn’t own a pair of spurs, he had no plans for dancing on the bar. Neither was anyone else at the present time, though the cozy dance floor was crowded.

The friendly part of the equation was the drawback. Far too many of the patrons had felt it their duty to introduce themselves and make the stranger welcome.

Dylan probably came across as antisocial, but explaining who he was would have led to questions he couldn’t answer about his return to Mustang Run. So far he’d managed to give only a first name and resist the invitations to dance by a couple of affable young women. Another beer and he might not be so inclined.

He hadn’t planned to end up here tonight, but when the musky memories from the day his mother had been killed began to pound inside his skull, he’d spotted the bar and seen it as a temporary escape.

The buxom blonde waitress in a seductive cotton T-shirt and a pair of denim shorts returned to his table. “Want another of the same?”

“Better not.” He pulled out his wallet. “What do I owe you?”

“Two beers—ten dollars and eighty cents.”

He gave her a ten and a five.

“Thanks.” She took the money but didn’t walk away as he stood to leave.

“Are you new to the area or just passing through?”

“Most likely passing through. You take care,” he said and walked away before she followed up with another question.

He climbed in his truck, revved the engine and started back to the ranch, slowing as he passed the house he’d already identified as the one in which Collette McGuire lived. Lights were on. She was still up, though not necessarily alone.

Still, she had said stop by anytime.

He pulled in the driveway and kept his truck running. There was no sign of Collette’s Jeep, but she could have parked it in the garage.

He wondered what the hell he was thinking driving up to somebody’s house this time of the night. Not to mention that he’d be opening himself up to a barrage of intrusive questions.

He should turn the truck around right now before Collette spotted him. But the dread of going back to the ranch tonight got all mixed up with the crazy desire to see Collette again. She’d been easy to talk to, almost like running into an old friend in the midst of an enemy camp.

He shut off the car and, just as he killed the lights, he caught a glimpse of movement behind the house. It could have been a large dog or possibly a deer, but it had sure looked like a person. He turned the headlights on again, but whatever it was had disappeared into the trees and shadows.

An owl hooted in the distance as he got out of the truck and walked the uneven concrete path to the steps. Light from inside the house gave a soft glow to the wide porch.

Pots of blooming flowers lined the three steps. A swing half-filled with colorful pillows hung at one end of the porch. Two white rocking chairs and more potted plants lined the other side.

The house looked as if it should belong to a family, not a feisty, single professional like Collette. He hesitated before he knocked, listening for voices. The house was silent. He rang the doorbell and waited. No response. Either she wasn’t home or didn’t want to see him.

Still, he couldn’t quite dismiss the figure he’d thought he’d seen running from the house. That left him with an uneasy feeling, and he’d learned it was always best to trust his instincts for danger. One of his commanding officers had claimed that Dylan sniffed out trouble the way a bomb dog trailed the scent of explosives.

His muscles tensed and he hammered his fist against the door. “Collette? Are you in there?”

He called her name again as he turned the knob and the door swung open. He stepped inside. The foyer opened into a dimly lit living room. The illumination came from a lamp and a cluster of candles resting in a copper dish. Magazines were scattered about the sofa, and a glass of wine sat on the coffee table. Nothing was amiss.

“Collette?” he called again. “It’s Dylan Ledger. Are you here?”

His call went unanswered.

Lights were on in the back of the house, but all was quiet. He started down the hall. And then he saw the blood. Just a trickle, creeping past an open doorway ahead of him. Curses and panic rattled his skull as he followed the crimson trail into the kitchen.

And to the body lying face down in the middle of the floor.

Chapter Four

The body was not Collette’s. Relief merged with dread as Dylan studied the scene.

The victim was fully clothed in jeans and a UT T-shirt. Blood oozed from a cut on the back of the head. A golf-ball-size knot had swelled around it. The blood that spilled across the floor came from a stab wound to the woman’s right shoulder, but the bleeding that must have spurted at first had all but stopped.

A bloodied knife lay a few feet from the body. A small skillet stood on its edge against a table leg.

Dylan knelt to check for a pulse. It was rapid, but weak. Her skin lacked the clamminess and paleness that indicated shock, but other than the uneven and shallow rise and fall of her back, she wasn’t moving or responding.

Afraid to chance compounding her injuries or starting the bleeding all over again, he left her on her stomach as he took out his phone and called 911. Thankfully, telling the 911 operator to send an ambulance and law enforcement to the old Callister place near the Mustang Run Baptist Church was all the address he needed to give.

“You’re okay,” Dylan whispered as he covered her with a checkered cloth he’d yanked from the table. “I’ve called for an ambulance.”

She wasn’t worried. She was out cold.

Possibilities raced through his mind. Had that been her attacker Dylan had seen running from the scene? Or could the killer still be in the house? He might even be holding Collette hostage.

Dylan struggled to stay calm so that he could weigh the options. He should have paid more attention when Collette had talked of the lowlife who was harassing her. He should have asked questions. Should have …

Hindsight. Always 20/20 and totally worthless.

Muscles tense and hard as stone, he stepped to the counter and took a clean knife from the block.

Leaving the kitchen, he explored the rest of the house, room by room. There were two bedrooms, two baths and a small, uncluttered office. One of the bedrooms had clothes spilling from an open piece of luggage. The other was neat except that the yellow shirt Collette had been wearing today was draped over a wooden rocker.

There was no more blood and no sign of Collette. He went back to the kitchen and checked on the victim. She was still breathing, but still out.

He heard the hum of a motor and the crunch of tires as a vehicle pulled onto the driveway, the same way the attacker must have heard him when he drove up.

Dylan rushed to the front door and spotted Collette exiting her Jeep. Alone and safe. Suddenly his body felt as if he’d been released from a killing chokehold.

He opened the door and waited for her.

“Dylan. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I took you up on your invitation to stop by anytime.”

“Eleanor must have let you in. I was afraid she’d gone home when she didn’t answer the phone. I guess she told you I was working a wedding tonight.”

“I haven’t talked to Eleanor.”

“Then who let you in?”

There was no good way to tell her this. “There’s a problem, Collette.”

A siren sounded in the distance.

“What kind of problem?”

“An attack.”

“On whom?” Her eyes widened. “Where’s Eleanor?”

“In the kitchen. She’s hurt. I’ve called an ambulance. They should be—”

Collette bolted toward the kitchen. He followed her, feeling helpless when she went ghostly white and fell to her knees beside her friend.

“Eleanor. Eleanor, say something. Who did this to you? Talk to me. Please talk to me.”

“I’ve called 911.” As the wail of the sirens grew louder, Dylan knelt beside her and explained what he knew and how he’d come to find the body.

She shuddered and leaned against him. He put his arm across her shoulders, feeling awkward. He’d never handled emotion well.

She pulled away as the ambulance stopped in front of the house and a rush of footsteps sounded on her front porch. “It was him, Dylan.”

“Who?”

Her eyes were moist, but her tone was harsh and accusing. “The man who keeps calling me. He must have come here looking for me, but he found Eleanor instead.”

“I wouldn’t jump to conclusions.” He stood and tugged her to her feet as the room filled with paramedics. By the time they had Eleanor inside the ambulance, more sirens sounded and two squad cars arrived on the scene.

Four armed men in khaki uniforms got out. Two of the deputies had guns pulled, both aimed at Dylan. For the first time, it hit him that he’d put himself into a very compromising position.

The oldest uniformed man glared at him before stepping between him and Collette. “What happened here?”

“My friend Eleanor was spending the night with me. Someone broke in and attacked her while I was photographing Isabelle Smith’s wedding. She was hit at least once on the head and stabbed with one of my kitchen knives. The ambulance just left. They’re taking her to the hospital.”

“Did she name her attacker?”

“She was unconscious. She’ll be afraid when she comes to. I need to go to the hospital so that I can be with her.”

“You’ll need to answer a few questions first.”

Dylan stepped forward. “I’m the one who found the body. I can probably tell you more about the situation than Collette can.”

The man turned toward him. “Who the hell are you?”

“Dylan Ledger.”

The lawman rested his hand on the butt of his holstered gun. “And I’m Sheriff Glenn McGuire, so you better have a damn good explanation for what you’re doing in my daughter’s house.”

COLLETTE CRINGED at her father’s reaction to Dylan. Could he for once just listen to the facts before going off half-cocked?

“Dylan is here because I invited him here.”

“I hope you have a hell of a good reason for doing something that stupid.”

“Did you ever think that he might have saved Eleanor’s life by arriving when he did? He may have saved mine, as well.”

“Right now I’m thinking how the Ledgers are back in town one day and we already have a brutal attack. What’s Eleanor’s last name?”

“Baker. Eleanor Baker. You’ve met her before, Dad. She visited our house frequently when we were in college.”

The sheriff rubbed his chin. “Eleanor? Isn’t that the reporter who writes about ghosts?”

“Yes.”

“I warned you about hanging out with the likes of her and Melinda Kingston. Kooks attract other kooks. One day you’re gonna start listening to me.”

Dylan walked over to stand next to Collette and slipped a hand to the small of her back. “You might want to cut Collette some slack, Sheriff. It’s rough enough that her friend was attacked.”

“I don’t need advice from the offspring of a murdering son of a bitch.” He turned back to Collette. “Do you know of anyone who had it in for her?”

Collette took a deep breath. “I don’t think she was the intended victim. I think the man was here because of me.”

His brows arched. “Why would anyone want to hurt you?”

“I’m not sure that’s what he intended, but some man has been calling and harassing me over the past few months. He claims to be in love with me, but I don’t even know him.”

The sheriff glared at Collette. “You’ve been stalked by a psycho for months and you never bothered to mention it to me?”

“He never threatened to hurt me.”

She couldn’t tell if it was anger or frustration that pulled her father’s face into deep lines and caused the veins in his face and neck to pop out.

“I should have told you,” she said, “but you’ve told me before that there’s not much you can do if there’s no threat of violence.”

“Did you at least change your phone number when he started calling?”

“I couldn’t very well do that. My cell is the only number clients have to reach me. It’s on my business cards and my Web site.”

“Did he always call you on your cell phone?” the sheriff asked.

“Always.”

“Let me see the phone.”

“It won’t help,” Collette said, handing the phone to her father. “The caller ID always said Unavailable or Out of Area.”

The sheriff checked out the phone before handing it back to her.

“There are only two vehicles parked outside,” the sheriff said.

“Eleanor’s car must be in the garage. Mine would be, too, except that I stopped out front when I saw Dylan’s truck.”

“Check the garage, Brent,” he told one of the deputies. “Be nice if the perp stole the victim’s car, so we’d have a known vehicle to chase.” Sheriff McGuire turned to Dylan. “Where was Eleanor when you arrived?”

“Facedown on the kitchen floor.”

The sheriff led the way with the deputies a step behind. Dylan and Collette followed.

“Don’t let my father intimidate you,” she whispered to him.

“Don’t give it a thought. As long as he goes after the lunatic attacker, the rest is insignificant.”

She liked Dylan more by the second.

Her father stepped over the stream of blood. “Tell me exactly what you found.”

Dylan described the scene as best he could.

The sheriff stooped to get a better look at the knife and the skillet as he listened. When he’d heard enough, he stood and rocked back on the heels of his boots.

Brent joined them in the kitchen. “There’s a blue Ford Mustang in the garage.”

“That’s Eleanor’s,” Collette said.

The sheriff nodded. “Brent, wake up the CSI team and tell them I want a full workup on the scene. Chuck, put the state patrol on alert. Tell them we’ve got a dangerous nut on the loose and may need some help tracking him down. He can’t have gotten too far away from this location yet.”

“I’m on it,” the middle-aged deputy said.

“Good. I’ll get with them shortly with whatever pertinent details we can come up with. The rest of you stand guard here and make sure none of the evidence is tampered with until we get prints and any other evidence they can find.”

The men jumped to do his bidding.

“We’ll talk on the porch,” her father said to Collette. “I need more information on your stalker before you leave for the hospital. And, Ledger, don’t even think of cutting out before I get through with you.”

DYLAN STOOD AT THE EDGE of the porch staring at the scene that had completely changed since he’d arrived at Collette’s less than half an hour ago. The quiet had evolved into a chaotic grind of activity, talk and barked orders.

The “ifs” and “buts” of the situation roared though his mind with the same frenetic energy. If he’d left the bar a few minutes earlier, he might have arrived in time to save Eleanor from being attacked. If he’d chased down the figure running from the house, he might have caught the bastard. If Collette had arrived a few minutes earlier, she might have been the one assaulted.

Collette collapsed onto the porch swing and wrapped her arms around her chest although the night was warm. He turned toward her, struck by how incredibly vulnerable she looked.

She hadn’t fallen apart even in the first shock of seeing her friend’s condition, but she looked as if she was on the verge of it now.

She needed a pair of strong arms wrapped around her, but probably not his. Her father had made it plain that Dylan was the outsider here, persona not grata just by virtue of who he was.

“I should have never let Eleanor spend the night. If she’d driven back to Austin after we left your ranch, she wouldn’t have been hurt.”

Dylan thought it best not to point out the possible fallacy of that statement. Collette was certain that the man who’d made the disturbing phone calls to her was behind the violence. That wasn’t necessarily so. Eleanor might have enemies of her own.

He leaned against the support post near the edge of the steps. “How well did you know Eleanor?”

“We’ve been best friends since college. The two of us and Melinda Kingston met our first year at UT. We hit it off from the get-go. The three of us shared an offcampus apartment from our sophomore year right through graduation.”

“Where does Melinda live now?”

“In Austin, in the same apartment complex as Eleanor. Along with their regular jobs, Melinda and Eleanor are the editors and owners of Beyond the Grave. I was helping them out when I met Eleanor at your ranch today.”

“Is Eleanor married? Divorced? In a relationship?”

“Not married and no steady relationship. She’s a workaholic and a much-sought-after freelance investigative reporter. She’ll do whatever it takes to get her story.”

And that kind of fervor likely earned her all kinds of enemies, he thought. “Any particular reason why she stayed overnight instead of driving back to Austin?”

“She was interviewing a man just outside Mustang Run early tomorrow morning. She thought it would be easier to just stay here instead of driving back to Austin. She hadn’t counted on running into a lunatic.”

Not in what seemed to be a quiet, rural Texas town. It had probably seemed even quieter and more peaceful almost eighteen years ago when Dylan’s mother had been murdered in similar fashion mere miles away. That time the perpetrator had used a gun.

Damn!

He’d been doing a good job of keeping his own dark memories out of this, but now that he’d acknowledged them, they slunk into his consciousness like a pack of howling coyotes. But this wasn’t about the past or him.

“I know you’re going to the hospital to see Eleanor, but I don’t think you should come back here by yourself after that.”

“I live here.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to spend the night here tonight.”

She put her foot flat on the porch to stop the gentle swaying of the swing. “Are you suggesting I stay at your ranch?”

He’d definitely not been suggesting that. “Haunted houses make for a lousy night’s sleep,” he said, keeping it light.

She shrugged. “I’ll be fine, and once my father gets tired of interrogating you, you should go home and get some sleep.”

He should. He probably wouldn’t. “Your father obviously doesn’t approve of our being friends.”

“He seldom approves of anything I do. I like it that way.”

And yet she still lived on his turf, in the same small town she’d grown up in.

She pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her full skirt. “I should call Melinda. She’ll want to know about the assault. And then she can get in touch with Eleanor’s mother in Houston.”

He nodded and waited.

By the time she broke the connection, he could see new frustrations setting in. “Was there a problem?”

“Melinda was spaced-out on her migraine drugs. She insisted she call Eleanor’s mother and she offered to call a cab and go to the hospital, but I told her to stay home. She’s a zombie when those headaches set in.”

He walked over and dropped to the swing next to Collette. She rested her head on his shoulder and his need to pull her into his arms jumped into overdrive.

This was not the time to have these feelings. And Collette was definitely not the woman to be having them for. It was also not the time to be a jerk, so he slipped a comforting arm around her.

The front door swung open, and the sheriff stepped onto the porch. He stood like a stone statue, scowling as if he’d caught them in some immoral act. His censure of Dylan couldn’t have been clearer.

Screw him, Dylan thought. Yet he stood and moved away from the swing.

The sheriff continued to stare him down. “I have plenty of questions for you, Dylan Ledger, but first I want to hear from my daughter.”

The sheriff walked to the edge of the porch and spit a wad of tobacco into the dirt before turning to Collette. “What do you know about this stalker and why haven’t you come to me about this before now?”

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