High-Caliber Cowboy. B.J. Daniels
If she was right, then the evidence was at the house—just not in the safe. She would have to go back. Tomorrow night, once it got dark.
She’d have to get back into that house, even knowing that they’d all be waiting for her. All the ranch hands and hired thugs. Mason VanHorn, if he heard about tonight—and Brandon McCall.
And if she was really unlucky, the man she feared the most, Dr. French.
Chapter Three
Tuesday
Sheriff Cash McCall had just gotten to his office when the phone rang.
“This is Johnson Investigations in Richmond, Virginia,” said a woman with a wonderful Southern accent.
“I’m calling in regard to Lenore Johnson. She is in your area on an investigation and we haven’t received word from her for several days. She had made a prior arrangement to call yesterday afternoon at a set time. She did not call. We have reason to believe she might have met with foul play.”
An investigator all the way from Virginia? “I can’t file a missing person’s report for forty-eight hours on an adult, but I would be happy to take the information,” Cash told her.
“We’d appreciate that. Because of the nature of our business, I’m afraid I can’t give you the details of the investigation. However, I can tell you where she was staying, the make and model of the car she was driving and give you her description.”
“All right.” Had she been a tourist, Cash wouldn’t even have done that much in the first forty-eight hours. Usually people just lost track of time and forgot to call. But since she was an investigator… And since he was a nice guy who had taken this job to help people…
“She was staying at the Shady Rest Motor Inn in Sheridan. The rental car was a dark green Dodge Dakota, license MT 3-178649. Ms. Johnson is forty-six years old, five-foot-seven, auburn hair, chin-length, slim build, brown eyes. She was armed.”
“This investigation,” Cash asked. “She considered it dangerous?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s all you can tell me.”
“At this point. If we haven’t heard from her in forty-eight hours, I will be happy to disclose additional information. That will give me time to contact our client.”
“Your client? Who you also can’t divulge at this point,” Cash said.
“That is correct.”
He groaned inwardly. “But you’ll call me if you hear from her.”
“Of course. At once. We greatly appreciate your assistance, Sheriff.” She gave him her number and hung up.
Cash called information in Richmond, Virginia, and asked for Johnson Investigations. Same number as the woman had given him.
He had just hung up when he got the call from the Antelope Flats Clinic. He was surprised—and instantly worried—when he heard Dr. Porter Ivers’s stern voice.
“You might want to come down here,” the elderly doctor said….
BRANDON WAS SITTING UP on the gurney at the Antelope Flats Clinic when his brother came in.
“How’s the head?” Cash asked.
Brandon swore under his breath. Dr. Ivers must have called him after Brandon had come stumbling in, bleeding all over the floor.
“Better.” His head hurt like hell. But nothing like his pride.
“You weren’t in that bar fight out at the Mello Dee, were you?” Cash asked. “I’m looking for the guys who tore up the place last night.”
“Nah.” If he told Cash about last night, he’d have to tell him about the night security job at VanHorn Ranch. He already knew his brother’s response to that.
Nor could Brandon tell him about the vandalisms out there since VanHorn hadn’t reported them. As sheriff, Cash would have to pay Mason VanHorn a visit, demanding to know why he hadn’t been called—and warning VanHorn not to take the law into his own hands.
Once Brandon’s name came up, VanHorn would be beside himself to think he’d had a McCall working for him. Heads would roll. And Brandon—if not shot—would be out of a job. And the VanHorns and McCalls would be at it again.
But Brandon didn’t kid himself. None of that was why he couldn’t tell his brother. This was about salvaging some of his pride and that meant getting the vandal in his sights again. Hell, he’d been so close to her that he’d smelled her perfume, seen the hint of perspiration on her upper lip, knew the exact shade of her honey-brown eyes.
Unfortunately, he’d fallen for her helpless reporter act and had a sore head to prove it.
If he told Cash the truth, he’d never get a chance to catch the woman. And he would catch her. He was counting on seeing her again. His gut told him she hadn’t left town, that even though she’d gotten into the safe, she wasn’t finished with Mason VanHorn. And this time, Brandon would be waiting for her.
“So how’d you get your head bashed in?” Cash asked. He had his sheriff face on, which Brandon knew meant he’d keep at it until he got the truth out of him. Or something close.
“It was stupid,” Brandon said sheepishly, looking down at the floor. He’d perfected this look over the years after getting caught in countless shenanigans. All the McCall boys got into trouble. It was almost a tradition. And as the youngest McCall male, he’d had to sow his share of oats, as well. But at thirty-three, he was taking the longest to straighten up.
He looked at the floor and said, “There was this bull out in a pasture and there was this woman…”
Cash groaned. “You were showing off. This woman have anything to do with why you’ve been staying out all night for days on end?”
“’Fraid so.”
Cash shook his head but smiled. “Our little sister thinks it’s serious.”
It was serious all right. Just not in the way eighteen-year-old Dusty thought. “Yeah, that Dusty’s a real authority on romance,” Brandon quipped.
“Doc says you don’t have a concussion.”
“Just a few stitches,” Brandon said, trying to play it down.
“Twelve is more than a few. What’d you hit?”
“Must have found the only rock in the field when I came off the bull,” Brandon said. “But, hell, big brother, you had more stitches than that when you were young.”
“When I was young? I’m only a few years older than you. And I can still kick your butt.”
Brandon grinned. “Might have to see about that someday.” He quickly changed the subject. “Heard Molly’s back from visiting her mom in Florida.” Molly was the woman his brother had fallen in love with and from what Brandon had seen, Cash was more than serious about her. “Is that weddin’ bells I hear? Bet Shelby’s already bought a mother-of-the-groom dress for the wedding.”
Shelby was their mother, but after not being part of their lives for more than thirty years and suddenly returning, her five now-grown children couldn’t bring themselves to call her mother.
“You tryin’ to change the subject?” Cash asked, eyeing him.
“I don’t want to talk about my love life, okay?” His nonexistent love life, especially.
“Neither do I,” Cash said. “You want me to call J.T. and tell him you won’t be doing any work at the ranch today?”
“That would be great,” Brandon said, sincerely touched. Cash was offering the equivalent of an olive branch. “You know J.T. He’ll think I busted my head open on