Ambushed At Christmas. Barb Han

      “THIS IS MY TRAIL,” Leah said, hearing the defensiveness in her own voice. Deacon Kent’s serious gray-blue eyes scrutinizing her were throwing her off-kilter. She reholstered her weapon, resting her hand on the butt for comfort and because she needed to touch something to push her reset button. Her fingers still tingled with sensations from touching the good-looking cowboy.

      “You weren’t scared to come out here alone after what happened last night?” It seemed like it was his turn to dig information out of her. She figured, with his connections, after one phone call from him to headquarters she’d be hauled into the chief’s office to explain why she’d accused a Texas millionaire—billionaire?—of tampering with a crime scene. She hadn’t specifically accused him and there was something about the cowboy—those serious eyes sure seemed honest—that almost had her believing he wouldn’t play that card. But she hadn’t made detective at the age of thirty by taking people for their word or letting every good-looking male off the hook.

      She pulled out her earbud and stuck it in between them. “That’s why I only use one earbud. Keep the other one free to listen so no one surprises me.”

      “But I caught you off guard and that’s why your heart’s still thumping. Anyone else could’ve done the same thing.” He emphasized his point by dropping his gaze to the base of her throat, causing all kinds of heat to flush her cheeks.

      “I was jogging. That’s why my heart was, is, racing.” Kent placated her by letting that little lie fly by. Being courteous must have been part of his Cowboy Code. “The path isn’t that busy at this time of night. It’s not rush hour. It’s not isolated, either.”

      He shot her a look of disbelief, but she had no plans to detail out how hard she’d fought against her fears and why it was even more important to her now to face them.

      “You can take those gloves off.”

      He did, and her traitorous heart fluttered in her chest like a schoolgirl crush when she saw there was no ring on his left-hand finger. She told herself that she was just doing her job. It was true enough. She did get paid to notice things.

      “Mr. Kent—”

      “Call me Deacon,” he insisted.

      She didn’t like being informal with someone she’d considered a possible suspect a few minutes ago, but figured if she threw him a few bones, he’d walk away without a formal complaint. The other irritating part about him was how much his voice—a dark ale kind of timbre—trailed down her spine, causing tingles she didn’t even want to consider. “Deacon.” His first name sounded less awkward coming out of her mouth than she’d expected. That little tinge of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips almost made her feel like he enjoyed hearing it. “I can see that your intentions are good, if misguided.”

      He started to cut her off but she held her finger up to quiet him. The move would probably be gasoline on a fire.

      Instead of flying off the handle, he smiled a smug smile, folded his arms and leaned back against the tree like they were old friends having a casual conversation. This guy was too smooth and full of contradictions. His calloused hands said he worked hard but a man with his family money wouldn’t have to work a day. His tanned olive skin said he spent his days outside. He was tall and strong; she’d seen his jeans stretch against seriously muscled thighs when he walked.

      Normally, sizing someone up for a threat didn’t seem invasive or personal in the way being with Deacon Kent did.

      “I can understand your interest in this case. However, I shouldn’t need to warn you the person responsible is dangerous. You might think investigating on your own is smart, but—” A tree branch snapped a few feet away, causing her to jump. She pulled out her phone and put on the flashlight app before bringing the light to a small brush.

      Deacon was already investigating. He’d covered the distance between them and the brush in seconds. He was fast.

      Leah swept the area and then moved behind him.

      “It’s nothing. Animals,” he said, sitting back on his heels. His hands were on his knees when he turned his head.

      A scream split the air.

      Deacon hopped to his feet and started toward the cry for help as Leah darted to his side. She’d drawn her gun and was sweeping the area from side to side with it as she tore toward the sound.

      Around the next turn, a man stood over a woman who was rocking back and forth on the ground.

      The cowboy ducked behind a tree almost at the same time as Leah. She noted his familiarity with law enforcement tactics.

      “Get your hands in the air where I can see them and stay right where you are,” Leah commanded.

      The man, who wore a hoodie, took a couple of steps back and thrust his hands in the air.

      “Freeze,” Leah said. She appreciated Deacon not going rogue and trying to take over the situation. Some people would. She kept one eye on Hoodie while she asked the woman, “Where are you hurt?”

      “My leg. I tripped over something,” the woman managed to shout in bursts through forced breaths. “Didn’t see those rocks and rolled my ankle.”

      “I’m going to get you some help. First, I need a little more information.” She could see the woman was in agony. One of the first rules of good policing was never run to an injured party. The man standing over her could use the move to his advantage and attack. Or, this could be a setup to throw her off base where she could be ambushed. There could be others waiting to jump out from the nearby brush. Leah had been trained not to take the chance. Given that she had a three-year-old son who’d be orphaned if anything happened to her, she doubled down on cautious police work. Her primary goal at the beginning of every shift—like most officers she knew—was to make it home to loved ones safely.

      “You, sit down and keep your hands where I can see them,” Leah demanded of the man.

      He dropped down.

      Leah wasn’t quite ready to holster her gun. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

      “Stacy Rutledge.” She was rocking back and forth faster.

      “Mind if I check on her?” Deacon asked.

      “Go ahead,” Leah stated.

      “You with the hoodie. What’s your name?” she asked the man sitting back on his heels with his hands folded around the back of his neck.

      “Kevin Lee,” the man said.

      For all she knew, Kevin wasn’t really his name. He might’ve intended to take advantage of a woman who’d been injured on her run. Of course, he didn’t have to be the murderer from last night in order to be a criminal. There were plenty of other types of crimes against women. Her imagination was running wild, getting the best of her on this one and she knew it.

      She thought about the fact that there’d been no witnesses to the crime last night, no description of the perp.

      Tonight’s run had been a bad idea from the start.

      No matter how hard she’d tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

      “Show me your face,” Leah demanded.

      “I need to move my hands to do that.” Kevin sounded scared and confused. His reaction said he was caught off guard and most likely didn’t have criminal intent.

      “Only enough to remove your hoodie,” she stated with authority.

      He complied, revealing short black hair. He had a prominent nose set on an otherwise average clean-cut face. No warning bells sounded based on his looks but she had no description of the man from last night’s deadly attack to work with and no criminal profile yet. Whoever had attacked Jillian Mitchell had been strong enough to drag her off the trail, subdue her