Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | The Bluest Eyes in Texas

The Bluest Eyes in Texas
Marilyn Pappano
Army hero Logan Marshall would avenge his foster parents' murders or die trying. So when P.I. Bailey Madison offered to help, he couldn't refuse the sexy blonde–though it meant agreeing once the killer was caught, he'd return with her to a family he had abandoned.On the trail, their bickering fights became passionate nights. And he wondered if he would ever be able to let Bailey go. Until they got closer to the killer, and he had to choose: get long-sought revenge or be the hero Bailey deserved….



He wished she was naked, and thanked God she wasn’t.
He couldn’t swallow, couldn’t think or move or speak. Could only want.
She didn’t move or speak either, but just watched him warily. Some kind of hero, she’d called him in that scornful, disappointed tone. Neither his absence nor her shower had improved her opinion of him, if that look was anything to judge by.
But he could change it—if he touched her, if he kissed her, if he tried. He could make her forget he wasn’t the man she wanted him to be, at least for a few hours, but then she would go back to being disappointed and he—he would be tempted to try to be that man. That hero.

The Bluest Eyes in Texas
Marilyn Pappano

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

MARILYN PAPPANO
brings impeccable credentials to her career—a lifelong habit of gazing out windows, not paying attention in class, daydreaming and spinning tales for her own entertainment. The sale of her first book brought great relief to her family, proving that she wasn’t crazy but was, instead, creative. Since then, she’s sold more than forty books to various publishers and even a film production company. You can write to her at P.O. Box 643, Sapulpa, OK, 74067-0643.
To Wanda Strain, my mother, who, like Lexy, understands the value of family.
I know you think a lot of what you tried to teach me went in one ear and out the other, but all the important stuff took. Thank you for that, and for the example you’ve shown us of love, grace and strength.
Whatever I’ve got, I got from you.

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13

Chapter 1
Bailey Madison. Three weeks ago Logan Marshall had never heard the name; now he was so damn tired of it that he’d prefer to never hear it again. Everywhere he went, people mentioned her—Bailey Madison’s looking for you. Did that Madison woman ever find you? What does Madison want with you?
He’d had no clue until he’d found out that she was a private investigator in Memphis, Tennessee. There were only three people in the world who might have any interest in finding him, and he wanted nothing to do with any of them. He just wanted to be left alone to carry out his work, but Bailey Madison was making that damned hard.
He was sitting on a stool at the bar in a shabby tavern outside Pineville, Texas. The place attracted a clientele so rough that Manny—the owner, bartender and bouncer—had never been able to keep a waitress for more than a week. Decent folks kept their distance; even the sheriff put in an appearance only for the occasional homicide.
But Bailey Madison had come wandering in the night before. He shook his head at the utter stupidity of it. Even an outsider could take one look around and know she didn’t belong. The only reason she’d escaped unharmed was because she’d mentioned his name and Manny had taken it on himself to escort her safely back to her car. But he was complaining about it now, not because he wanted thanks for what he’d done but because he wanted to be sure she wouldn’t come around again.
“I can’t be having no woman kidnapped, murdered or worse around here,” he was saying as he chewed the toothpick clenched between his teeth. “Especially no respectable woman from elsewhere.”
Logan’s first impulse was to ask what could be worse than murder, but he knew the regulars at the bar. He couldn’t imagine the woman who would willingly let any of them touch her. For any woman with standards, rape very well might be worse than death.
“You gotta talk to her,” Manny went on. “Make her understand she don’t come back here no more.”
Logan didn’t want to talk to her. Whatever she wanted, whether it was some misbegotten relative wanting to contact him or a lawyer for some recently passed misbegotten relative, he didn’t care. The only people he gave a damn about knew how to find him. The rest could go to hell and take Bailey Madison with them.
But he couldn’t leave her alone to fumble all over the place, blabbing his name and drawing attention to him wherever she went. He had a job to do, and the last thing he needed was attention.
So maybe it was time to make her acquaintance, to persuade her to forget all about him. If money couldn’t do it, threats probably could. He was very good at making threats and equally good at carrying them out. His promises carried weight because he’d never failed to deliver.
He swallowed the last of the beer in his bottle, then slid to his feet. “I’ll talk to her, Manny. Did she say where she’s staying?”
The bartender shook his head. “Prob’ly in town. She say she be back.”
Of course she would. “If she comes back, let her take her chances with Leon.” According to Manny, it was Leon who’d taken the strongest liking to her the night before. The guy was six and a half feet tall, over three hundred pounds, tattooed and pierced and believed wholeheartedly in taking what he wanted. One go-round with him and Bailey Madison would never go snooping where she didn’t belong again.
If she survived.
Manny must have had the same thought, because he scowled at him. “If she comes back, I’ll deliver you to her myself.”
“Gee, thanks for the loyalty.” After tossing a few bills on the bar, Logan walked outside into the bright sunshine. The bar, named Thelma’s, though no one could remember a Thelma ever connected to the place, wouldn’t open officially for another few hours, so if this newest problem did make good on her idiotic promise to return, it would be a while. He could drive into Pineville and take a look around or he could get some sleep to make up for last night’s late hours, then park himself at a table inside and wait for her to show.
He settled for town and slid behind the wheel of his 1968 Plymouth GTX. Pineville was small, with only one motel and a couple restaurants. If Bailey Madison was there, she wouldn’t be hard to find.
It was four miles along the two-lane highway into town, one for every year he’d lived there. He’d come back for only brief visits in the past fifteen years, but nothing had changed. The same businesses were still open, and the same old men still sat on the sidewalk in front of the feed store, rehashing the same old stories. The same sheriff who’d arrested him when he first arrived in town was still in office, still worthless and still hostile, and the same bars shared their Saturday-night customers with the same churches come Sunday morning. Nothing had changed.
Except that Sam and Ella were gone.
And it was his fault.
The motel was located on the opposite side of town, set off the road a few hundred feet, a run-down place whose only saving grace was the distance to the next motel. People too tired to drive another sixty miles stayed there, shelling out twenty-five bucks for a room that smelled like sixty years of travelers. The place was clean, but all the polish and air fresheners in the world couldn’t hide the fact that it was also worn and thread-bare, a last resort.
The only car in the parking lot belonged to the owner, the daughter of Ella’s cousin three times removed. She didn’t blame him for Ella’s death; she would tell him what he needed to know if he just went inside and asked.
He didn’t.
Another slow drive through town revealed only business as usual. There was no strange woman walking down the street—tall, pretty, nice body, according to Manny—and no Tennessee tag adorning any of the cars. Maybe Manny had guessed wrong and she’d taken a room in a nicer motel an hour away. Maybe her promise to come back had merely been idle talk. Maybe she’d moved on to create trouble someplace else.
Instead of heading back to the motel to talk to Ella’s cousin’s daughter, he turned north off the main street and headed out of town. He’d traveled this road hundreds of times—on foot, on the motorcycle he’d bought with the earnings from his first job, in a rental car on his occasional visits back…and once in a funeral procession. That had been one of the two worst days of his life. Considering that at the time he’d still been in the Army, fighting in the war in Iraq, that was saying a lot.
A mile and a half out of town he turned onto a hard-packed dirt road and followed it into thick woods. The countryside here was a world apart from the West Texas town where he’d grown up and the Iraqi desert where he’d spent more than a year and the Afghani mountains the year before that. Everything here was green and overgrown; all the rich color and smells were home to him.
Sam had been a farmer, Ella a farmer’s wife, and they’d had some hopes of making a farmer out of him. They had encouraged him to join the Army after high school; Sam had done it and claimed it made a man of him. But instead of coming home to the farm after his enlistment, Logan had decided to sign up for another three years, then another, and by then he’d been well on his way to a career. They’d worried about him after 9/11 and prayed for him when the war started, and they’d been proud of him.
No one else in his life had ever been proud of him.
And to repay them, he’d brought their killer into their home.
He stopped at the gate where the road narrowed to one lane. The house wasn’t far—up a rise, sitting in the middle of a clearing, with the barn out back and untended fields on three sides. This was probably the first time in a century that the fields had gone untilled, but Logan had never become a farmer. Even if he had, he couldn’t work this land, couldn’t live in this house.
The gate was open, listing drunkenly to one side. He couldn’t remember ever seeing it closed. There was no livestock to keep in, no strangers to keep out—that had been Sam and Ella’s philosophy. Even the sturdiest of gates wouldn’t have kept their killer out—not when Logan had invited him right up to the supper table.
Hands tightening around the steering wheel, he drove through the gate and up the final rise. Like the town, the house was unchanged from the last time he’d seen it. Two stories, painted white, a porch with rockers. It was small enough to fit in one wing of the house where he’d grown up, but it had been more a home to him than anyplace else. He hadn’t known fear in this house or need or violence. Just love and comfort.
And great sorrow.
There was one thing different—the car parked in front of the house. It was one of those imports that passed as a midsize sedan these days. Like millions of other cars on the road, it was red, dusty and unremarkable…except for its Tennessee tags.
What the hell was she doing there?
He parked behind her car, blocking it in between his own vehicle and the stone flower bed in front. He got out and pushed the door up but not shut, then crossed the yard to the porch.
The front door stood open, as it always had on a warm day, with an old-fashioned screen door to keep out pests. It obviously didn’t work against pests of the two-legged variety. It squeaked a bit when he eased it open, then slipped inside. After listening a moment, he heard the creak of a floorboard upstairs and headed in that direction.
He could find his way through the house blindfolded. Ella had never bothered to rearrange anything. She’d had too many other things to do—helping out on the farm when needed, cooking, cleaning, sewing, taking care of the church and the family and the occasional stray teenage boy. Who had the time to worry whether the couch looked better here or there?
He moved stealthily up the stairs, automatically stepping over the ones that creaked, bypassing the half-moon table at the top and avoiding the chest at the corner that visitors always stubbed their toes on. When he reached the room that had once been his, he stopped silently in the doorway.
The woman—tall, pretty, nice body—stood at the window, one of his high school yearbooks open in her hands, using the sunlight to get a better look. So this was Bailey Madison. Who was she? What did she want with him? And what the hell was she doing in Sam and Ella’s house?
Time to find out. Leaning one shoulder against the door-jamb, he folded his arms across his chest and said softly, dangerously, “Come on in, Ms. Madison. Make yourself at home.”

Startled, Bailey choked off a shriek and nearly lost her grip on the annual as she spun toward the door. She hadn’t heard a sound—no car driving up, no footsteps on the wood floor, no creaking on the stairs. Just, one minute she’d been utterly alone and the next Logan Marshall had appeared out of thin air.
She had no doubt the man standing so casually in the doorway was Logan Marshall. Not only did he bear a strong resemblance to the yearbook photo she’d been studying, but there was an even stronger resemblance to his brother, Brady. He was a few years younger, a few years harder and missing Brady’s incredibly sexy mustache, but other than that, the features were the same. Black hair, dark skin, straight nose, sensual mouth and incredible eyes. Startlingly blue, a surprise in the midst of all that darkness.
With a rush of relief that slowed her pounding heart, she closed the yearbook, marking her place with one finger. “Jeez, you startled me.”
He didn’t move a muscle—didn’t come into the room, didn’t smile, didn’t ease that harsh expression at all. He just stood there looking at her, all dark and intense and making her feel cold despite the sun shining in the room. “I wonder why. Because you’ve broken into a house where you don’t belong? Because you’re snooping through a stranger’s belongings? Or because, as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat?”
She swallowed hard. She was about ninety-nine percent sure he was just trying to intimidate her…but that one percent niggled at her. No matter how much he looked like Brady, he wasn’t. He’d lived an entirely different life that very well might have turned him into an entirely different person. While Brady was good, honest and decent in spite of his upbringing, it wouldn’t surprise anyone if Logan was exactly the opposite.
She opted to believe—to pretend to believe—that the tone of voice and the soft words were merely an intimidation tactic. Straightening to her full height of five foot seven, she took a few steps toward him, right hand extended. “I’m paid to be curious. My name is Bailey Madison. I’m a private investigator and I’ve been hired to find you.”
He ignored her outstretched hand and pulled the yearbook away instead, flipping it open to the place she’d marked. It was the senior class photos, and right in the middle of the right page was his. Logan James Marshall. He looked so young in the picture but, at the same time, decades older than the kids around him. Life hadn’t been kind to the Marshall boys growing up, and it showed.
Dropping the yearbook on the nearby dresser, he circled around her. She resisted the urge to turn with him, to avoid turning her back to him for even an instant, but she did watch, first over one shoulder, then the other. She knew he was checking her out, knew what he would see—that her jeans and T-shirt fitted too snugly to provide cover for a weapon of any sort, that nothing of any consequence could be tucked inside her pockets, that her cell phone was clipped to her waistband. She had a couple weapons—one in the purse she’d left downstairs, another in the car—but at the moment she was unarmed…except for her favorite boots, with pointed toes and three-inch heels, and the moves her self-defense instructor had drilled into her.
Completing the circuit, he stopped at the door again, then held out his hand. “Can I see your cell phone?”
She unhooked it from her jeans and was in the process of offering it when abruptly she drew back. “Why?”
“Because I need to call the sheriff and report a burglar.”
She hid the phone behind her back with both hands as if that could somehow stop him from taking it. Her face growing warm with a blush, she swallowed hard again. “I haven’t taken anything.” It was a weak excuse, and sounded it.
“But you did break in.”
The crimson in her cheeks deepened. “I, uh, yeah, I did…manipulate the lock just a little.”
“Why?”
Because there was no way she could excuse the fact that she had broken in, she chose instead to fall back on what they called Charlie’s Rule back at the agency: the ends justify the means. It was so much bull, and she’d argued it with him repeatedly, but her opinions didn’t carry much weight when Charlie was the one who always got the big cases while she spent most of her time doing research on the computer. “Because you’re a hard man to find.”
“Maybe that’s because I don’t want to be found.”
She acknowledged that with a shrug. “A lot of people don’t want to be found. That’s why private investigations is a thriving industry.”
“Why are you looking for me?”
Back in Memphis, when she was spending long, long hours on the computer and the telephone, tracking down every Logan Marshall in the country, she’d figured she would be straightforward with him when she found him: Your niece hired me to locate you, she wants to meet you, let’s head to Oklahoma. She’d known he had run away from home when he was fifteen, that he’d had no contact with any of his family since then, but she’d thought, as she usually did, that honesty was the best policy. After all, his problems had been with his parents, not his brother, and nineteen years gave a kid a chance to grow up, to forgive and forget.
Then she’d begun getting leads on him and had given up the phone and the keyboard for face-to-face interviews with people who knew him, and discovered that to this day he denied the existence of a family, including his brother. He wasn’t likely to welcome the opportunity to reconnect with Brady or to meet his nieces with open arms, so she’d looked for leverage…and found it.
“It’s not a difficult question.” His sarcasm drew her from her thoughts. “Why are you looking for me?”
“I want to talk to you about your family.”
“I don’t have any family.” The dismissal was delivered with the perfect timing, the perfect level of disinterest to suggest that he was telling the truth.
“Denying them doesn’t make them cease to exist. Your parents, Jim and Rita Marshall, are still the powers-that-be in Marshall City, Texas. Your brother, Brady, is living in Buffalo Plains, Oklahoma, with his wife and daughters—Lexy, who’s almost sixteen, and Brynn, who’s almost one.”
“Damn,” he said, his tone so mild it robbed the word of any meaning. “And here I’d been hoping they were all rotting in the ground someplace.”
Bailey stiffened, her shoulders going back, her nerves tightening. She couldn’t care less what he thought of his parents—based on what little she knew of them, she would also wish they were dead—but Brady and the girls were her family, and no one messed with her family without taking her on, too.
“Which of ’em are you working for?”
“Lexy.” She bit off the name, silently daring him to say anything about the niece she adored more than anything. She would see just how disdainful he could be with her size-nine, pointed-toe, three-inch-heeled boot in his throat…after she’d eliminated the possibility of his ever having children himself.
“You must be some P.I.,” he jeered. “Working for a kid.”
She gave him a smug, ugly smile. “I found you, didn’t I?”
Ten seconds ago she would have said he couldn’t have gotten any unfriendlier. But in the blink of an eye, his demeanor turned so cold, so dangerous, that a chill danced down her spine. Though he didn’t move closer, the intensity radiating from him invaded her space, raising goose bumps on her arms, and made her want desperately to take refuge far, far away. “Like I said, I don’t have any family. I left that bunch nineteen years ago and I’ve thanked God for every day they weren’t in my life. I don’t want you in my life either. Tell them you couldn’t find me. Tell them I didn’t give a damn. Tell them I’m dead. Just get the hell out of here, leave me alone and forget you ever heard my name, or you’ll be sorrier than you can imagine. Understand?”
She did. She believed he could make her damn sorry. There was such anger in his eyes, such rage in his soft voice. If she didn’t know at least part of the reason, she’d be quaking in her boots. But she did know. And she’d made a promise to Lexy. She always kept her promises.
Confident that he’d scared her off, Logan turned to leave the bedroom. She let him get a step or two outside the door before she spoke. “I can’t do that.” She was proud—and relieved—that her voice was strong.
He went motionless in the hallway, and once again the intensity came off him in waves. Slowly he turned to fix that icy blue gaze on her.
She’d read somewhere that the most dangerous people were those with nothing to lose. Looking into his eyes, she believed Logan Marshall thought he had nothing to lose.
“I promised Lexy I would bring you to Oklahoma to meet her.”
“She’s better off not knowing me.”
“Probably. But she’s fifteen. Family’s very important to her because she never really had any until this last year. And you can behave like a civilized person for one weekend.”
“And how do you intend to get me there for a weekend?”
“Threats. Coercion. Handcuffs. At gunpoint.” Then she smiled tightly. “Or maybe I intend to make a deal with you.”
The derision that had entered his expression at the mention of handcuffs and a gun faded as his gaze narrowed on her. “What kind of deal?”
“You learn a lot about someone when you’re looking for them. For example, I learned that you’re looking for someone, too. You go to Oklahoma, make nice with your brother and your nieces for a weekend…and I’ll help you find him.”

Logan would give a lot to turn around and walk out of the house, but he could no more walk away from the promise of information than he could stop breathing. Much as he hated it, she had the upper hand and there was nothing he could do—at the moment—but deal with her.
He moved farther into the room. Though she wanted to back off—he recognized that scared-little-bunny look in her eyes—she held her ground, at least until he settled against the dresser, his ankles crossed, his arms folded over his chest so he wouldn’t be tempted to wrap his fingers around her slender throat and squeeze the information out of her. “Who is it you think I’m looking for?”
She pulled the ladder-back chair from the desk where he’d spent too many hours trying to understand algebra and chemistry, sat down and primly crossed her legs. While she gathered her thoughts—or constructed her bluff?—he took stock of her.
She wasn’t particularly tall—a good six inches shorter than him—though with Manny topping out at five foot four, pretty much everyone seemed tall. She was probably somewhere around his age and she was lean rather than slender. She carried some muscle under those tight clothes—her upper arms were well defined and so were her long, strong legs. And she was pretty, her pale brown hair streaked with gold, her hazel eyes solemn, her mouth shaped in a nice cupid’s bow. He always noticed pretty women, though he rarely did anything about it. In some cultures where he’d spent time, too much notice of a pretty woman, and a man could wind up missing vital parts.
Bailey Madison had looked at him a couple times as if she would be happy to remove those parts herself.
Finally, her hands clasped together over her knees, she spoke. “Let’s make the deal first. Will you go to Oklahoma to visit your brother and his family?”
Logan had lived more than half his life in Texas, first in the town that bore his family name, then in Pineville, but he’d never once been tempted to cross the Red River into the neighboring state. He had no intention of doing so now unless the trail he was following led there. But that didn’t stop him from giving her the answer she wanted, albeit grudgingly. “If I have to.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No. When I’ve finished what I’ve started.”
“What you’ve started is taking a long time. I’m talking about one weekend. You can be back in Texas and on MacGregor’s trail by noon Monday.”
At least she wasn’t totally bluffing—she did know he was looking for Pete MacGregor. But a lot of people knew that. Whether she could help him find Mac…that was what counted.
“This Lexy person has waited fifteen years. A few more weeks or months isn’t going to hurt her. Besides, if I go now, what’s to stop you from saying Monday, ‘Oh, sorry, I lied, I don’t know anything’?” Just as he’d lied. He wasn’t going anywhere near Brady or his family. They really could rot in hell for all he cared.
She drew a breath before answering. “The man you’re looking for is Peter Alan MacGregor. He was born October 11, in Chicago. He set a record for suspensions from school before he finally quit in eleventh grade and he had quite a juvenile arrest record before he joined the Army and straightened up. He was on his second enlistment when he got sent to Iraq, where he was wounded in an ambush on his convoy outside Baghdad. He came home on convalescent leave and spent two weeks in this house with Sam and Ella Jensen. A week before he was scheduled to report to duty again, he killed the Jensens, stole seventy-eight dollars and their pickup and disappeared, and he hasn’t been heard from since.”
Inwardly Logan flinched at her matter-of-fact recital of events—so unemotional and damned cold. Sam and Ella had taken Mac in because he’d had no place else to go, because they were generous like that. They had respected him for serving in the Army, had been grateful to him for the dangers he’d been willing to face in the war and they’d felt it was their duty as patriotic Americans to welcome him home. They’d nursed him, opened their house and their hearts and their lives to him, and he’d repaid them by stabbing Ella seven times with her own kitchen knife, by beating Sam to death with a piece of firewood. All for seventy-eight freakin’ dollars and a pickup that wasn’t worth much more.
And it was all Logan’s fault.
Logan’s wrong to set right.
“You could have picked up all that from the newspapers,” he said harshly. Mac’s crimes and Sam’s and Ella’s lives distilled into a few columns that gave just the facts.
“I did pick up all that from the newspapers,” Bailey admitted. “It’s the other things I learned that should be worth a trip to Oklahoma for you.”
“What other things?
She smiled that taut little smile again. “Want to talk while we drive north?”
Sure. When hell froze over. “Give me one piece of information about Mac that isn’t common knowledge.”
Though she considered it for a moment, he had the impression she already knew which piece she would offer. “He has a brother.”
He shook his head. “He didn’t have any family.” That was one of the things that had brought the two of them together. Neither of them had had parents who cared whether they came home from the war alive or in a body bag; there had been no brothers, sisters or cousins sending letters and care packages and no wife or family to go home to when they were wounded. Sure, Logan had had Ella and Sam…but it hadn’t been the same as real family. It was stupid and illogical and it shamed him, but it just hadn’t been the same.
She shook her head, too, chidingly, her hair swaying around her shoulders. “Saying you don’t have family doesn’t make it true. You’re proof of that.”
“Mac was an only child—”
“Of his parents’ marriage. His mother had been married before. When she left her first husband for the bright lights of Chicago, she left her son, too. Mac’s half brother.” The chiding was on her face again when she looked at him. “The man murdered an elderly couple who’d taken him into their home. Do you really think he was above lying about his family?”
Of course not. Mac had no scruples, no morals, no honor. He didn’t deserve to live. But Logan intended to take care of that soon enough.
“Do you know this brother’s name?”
Bailey nodded.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Once we’ve reached an agreement about your going to Oklahoma.”
“With what you’ve already told me, I can track him down myself.”
“You can, but it’ll take time. He wasn’t much easier to find than you were. So…when do we leave?”
“I’ll go as soon as I’ve found Mac.”
She started shaking her head before the sentence was half out and didn’t stop until he was done. “You’re not being reasonable.”
His chuckle sounded harsh in the room. “I don’t have to be reasonable. We have a deal.”
“Not yet.”
Just like that, his brief, ugly humor dissipated. “Look, Mac is wanted by the Army for desertion and by the local authorities for murder—both crimes punishable by death. The longer he manages to hide, the harder it’s going to be to find him, and he’s already got one hell of a head start. I can’t screw around and make nice with some kid I didn’t even know existed before today because that’s what you want. Get your priorities straight or stay the hell out of my way.”
Outwardly she appeared unaffected by his anger. She was cool, calm, serene as she studied him. Finally she stood up. “All right. We’ll find MacGregor first. But as soon as we’ve turned him over to the authorities, then we go to Buffalo Plains. Deal?”
“What’s with this ‘we’? You’ll tell me everything you know, and I’ll find Mac.”
She smiled faintly. “That wasn’t my offer. I said I would help you find him, not leave you to do it on your own. If I do that, who knows where you’ll go when it’s all over? Probably anywhere but Buffalo Plains.”
Logan ignored the insult to his integrity, especially since, at the moment, he didn’t have any. “I don’t need a partner.”
“I’d say you do. I’ve learned more about Peter MacGregor in a few weeks than you have in six months. Of course, if you really don’t want me tagging along for the next few weeks, there’s a simple solution—meet Lexy this weekend. Then I’ll go back to Memphis and you can do whatever you want.”
His scowl made it clear what he thought of her suggestion. He had enough anger and guilt in his life right now without adding Brady to it. Maybe someday he’d be ready to forgive. But he was no closer to that day now than he’d been nineteen years ago.
She closed the distance between them with a few steps and offered her hand once again. “What do you say, Logan? Do we have a deal?”
He looked at her hand—narrow, uncallused, the fingers long and slender, the nails neatly rounded and painted white on the tips. Hostilely he raised his gaze to hers but didn’t take her hand. “I’d rather deal with the devil.”
“And here I thought you were the devil,” she murmured.
She refused to lower her hand, so grudgingly he took it, processing warmth, softness, in the seconds before he released it again. “We have a deal,” he agreed. As he turned away, he muttered, “One you’ll live to regret.”
He was walking through the door, his right hand clenched in a fist as if he could erase the memory of the contact, when she softly answered, “More likely you will.”
He smiled bleakly. No doubt she was right. If he lived, he would definitely regret it.

Chapter 2
Bailey followed him downstairs. He stopped in the hallway, looking to the kitchen at the back of the house, where her purse was visible on the table through the open door, then at the living room to the side. She wasn’t surprised when he turned into the living room. According to the newspaper stories, Pete MacGregor had killed Ella Jensen in her own kitchen, leaving her frail body crumpled in a pool of blood. There were no signs of violence visible in the room—she’d looked for them—but there was a feeling there… And if she’d felt it, how much worse was it for Logan, who’d walked in on the scene with all its horror?
She went into the living room, homey and welcoming in an old-fashioned way. Lace doilies decorated the tables, a lap quilt was folded over the back of the couch and an oval braided rug covered much of the wood floor. When she’d first arrived, she’d studied the knickknacks that filled the flat surfaces, as well as the framed photographs that decorated the walls, focusing on one picture in particular. It was the same one Logan was looking at now—taken in the yard out front one sunny afternoon, him in his Army uniform; a tall, thin man with white hair and thick glasses on one side; a petite, delicate woman in a long skirt and apron on the other. Ella’s hand was resting on Logan’s arm, Sam’s on his shoulder, and they looked proud, all three of them.
Any idiot could guess that Logan blamed himself for their deaths and that he wanted justice. He had resources the local sheriff’s department lacked—notably time and money. Where the Jensen murders were only a small part of the sheriff’s investigative responsibilities, Logan could dedicate himself to nothing else and had ever since leaving the Army six months ago.
She sat down in a worn wooden rocker, sinking into the ruffled cushions that lined the seat and the back and set it rocking. Each backward glide caused a floorboard to creak. It wasn’t annoying, though, but rather comforting, like a soft snore or a tuneless whistle.
Finally he turned from the photo, looked around, then moved to the nearest window. There he brushed the lace curtains aside to lean against the sill, his hands resting on the wood on either side of him. “What do you know about Mac’s brother?”
“His name is Escobar. He lives near the border and he owns a ranch there.”
“What’s his first name? Where near the border?”
She smiled. “I’ll tell you that once we’re on our way.”
His corresponding smile was everything a smile should never be. “Aw, you don’t trust me?”
“Not as far as I could throw you.”
The smile came again. “Remember that,” he said—warned—before he pushed away from the windowsill. “Let’s go.”
He was halfway to the door before she made it out of the chair. She hustled to the kitchen to grab her purse, then reached the porch about the time he hit the sidewalk.
“Hey,” she called. “I can pick a lock to open a door, but I don’t have a clue how to pick one to lock it.”
He didn’t break his stride. “Just press the button in. It’ll lock when you close it.”
She found the button he referred to on the inside knob, pulled the door up, then checked it. It was locked, though without the promise of much security. But even the most impregnable dead bolt in the world wouldn’t have protected the Jensens—not when their killer had been a guest in their home.
Logan was impatiently waiting next to his car, a pair of dark glasses hiding his eyes, when she walked out. “Get your gear.”
“I can drive—”
“You want to take two cars? Fine. Tell me where we’re going in case we get separated on the way.”
It was a perfectly reasonable request under normal circumstances, which these most certainly weren’t. No doubt if she gave him an honest answer, he would slash her tires or take her keys, then drive off and leave her in his dust. She would be lucky if she ever caught up to him again.
“I was suggesting that we leave your car here and take mine,” she said politely.
He looked at her car, and the disdain returned to his expression. “No, thanks.”
“It’s a perfectly good car,” she protested.
“Uh-huh. I bet it gets good mileage, has a half-assed stereo system and tops out at about eighty miles an hour. No way.”
She treated his car to the same disdainful look. “And I bet this guzzles gas like water, has a stereo that can blow out your eardrums at fifty paces and doesn’t even have air-conditioning.”
“Get your gear or stay behind,” he warned.
“Fine. Let me drive.”
The look that crossed his face fell just short of horror. “Nobody drives my car.”
“Make an exception.”
“Why? You afraid I’m gonna leave you by the road first time we make a bathroom stop?”
That was exactly what she was afraid of. She hadn’t told him much, but it was enough to send him in the right direction, and he seemed just the type to leave her stranded in the middle of nowhere.
Her jaw set grimly, she went to the car, retrieved her backup pistol from the glove compartment and slid it into her purse, then returned. “My ‘gear’ is at the motel in town. We’ll have to stop there.”
The entire car literally rumbled with power when he started the engine. She settled into the passenger seat, purse in her lap, Logan just inches away, and wondered just how big a mistake she was making.
A short while later she got at least part of an answer to that when he almost stopped at a stop sign, then turned west onto the main street. She twisted in the seat to face him. “The motel’s the other way.”
He didn’t respond.
“Damn it, Marshall—”
That made him glance her way. “Hey, don’t blame me because you weren’t prepared.”
“It wouldn’t take me five minutes to pack!”
“You can buy new clothes.”
“I don’t want new clothes!”
When his only response was a shrug, she folded her arms across her chest and coldly said, “I want to pick up my clothes. If you don’t turn this car around right now, I’m not telling you one more damn thing about Pete MacGregor.”
The tires squealed as he jammed the brake to the floor and steered to the side of the street. “Then get out. I’ll find this Escobar on my own.”
“I’ll call him. I’ll warn him about you.”
His demeanor turned icy again. “You wouldn’t.”
Of course she wouldn’t. People should suffer the consequences of their actions, which meant Pete MacGregor should spend the rest of his life in prison…or die. She would never help a killer escape justice.
But while Logan might suspect that, he didn’t know it.
“Are you sure of that?” she asked. “Sure enough to put me out here? Sure enough to risk blowing your best chance at finding MacGregor?”
It took every bit of strength she possessed not to squirm under the intensity of his stare. Just as she’d been earlier, he was about ninety-nine percent certain she was bluffing, but that one percent worried him. He wasn’t going to call her bluff. Not this time.
An instant after she reached that conclusion, he glanced in the rearview mirror, then peeled out in a tight turn that left skid marks on the road and drove back through town to the motel. Pulling up in front of the room she pointed out, he scowled at her. “Five minutes.”
Smiling sweetly, she reached across, cut off the engine and snagged the keys before he began to guess what she was doing. She hopped out of the car, slid them into her jeans pocket, then headed toward the room.
She was hastily stuffing clothes into the suitcase open on the bed when he appeared in the open door. She’d come for four days this trip and had brought enough clothes for seven. What could she say? She liked being prepared.
He didn’t cross the threshold but stood smack center in the doorway and watched silently. No doubt he had some mental clock counting down and he would smugly let her know when five minutes had passed. She fully intended to be done before then.
After cramming everything into the suitcase that had come out of it, she zipped it, then grabbed a tote and went into the cramped bathroom, scooping makeup and toiletries inside. With that bag over one shoulder, she retrieved her laptop from the bottom dresser drawer and slung the strap over the other shoulder, then hefted the suitcase from the bed. A glance at the bedside clock showed she had seconds to spare.
“I’m ready,” she announced.
Finally Logan moved out of the doorway, but not to head for his car, as she expected. Instead he approached the bed, nudged the rumpled covers back with one booted toe, then bent to retrieve something from the floor. Bailey looked at the scrap of coral lace dangling from his finger and told herself she wouldn’t be embarrassed. Lingerie was a fact of life. He’d probably seen as much of it as she had. She wouldn’t snatch the tiny filmy panties away from him and hide them as if doing so could erase them from existence.
She took the garment from him in a calm, controlled manner, stuffed them in an outside pocket of the suitcase, then pushed past him with her load to head for the door.
“And here I would have figured you for white cotton,” he murmured behind her.
She pretended not to hear.
She strode to the rear of the car, fished out the keys and unlocked the trunk, then blinked. It was quite possibly the neatest car trunk she’d ever seen—spare tire out of the way, tool kit snugged into a corner, duffle bag tucked into another corner and gun cases neatly side by—
Gun cases. Two obviously held pistols; the other two were for longer guns. He didn’t intend to take any chances with MacGregor. And why should he? The man was a murderer. If he could kill that sweet old couple for nothing, he wouldn’t think twice about killing someone like Logan, who presented far more of a threat to him.
But logic aside, the weapons made her uncomfortable. Sure, she carried a gun—two of them at the moment—but strictly for self-defense. She’d never shot anyone and never would unless there was absolutely no other choice. But going looking for someone armed to the teeth—that was more like hunting, tracking prey, making the kill.
A dark hand suddenly appeared in her line of sight as Logan lifted her suitcase into the trunk, settling it next to the gun cases. He slid the tote bag from her shoulder and fitted it into the space next to it, then made room for the laptop case. Finally he closed the trunk, then held out his hand for the keys.
She started to hand them over, then hesitated. “You are planning to turn MacGregor over to the authorities when you find him, aren’t you?”
For a long time he gazed at her, but thanks to those damn glasses, she couldn’t see anything but a dim reflection of herself. Not that it mattered—even if she’d been looking directly into his eyes, she still wouldn’t have seen anything he didn’t want her to see. Finally his mouth relaxed from its grim set long enough to form an answer. “I’m not a cold-blooded murderer.”
Relief eased over her. She dropped the key ring in his palm, then opened the passenger door, sliding inside. The sun-warmed leather of the seat went a long way toward easing the chill the guns had created inside her. He’d served honorably in the Army and received commendations for his heroic actions in the war. Heavens, he was Brady’s brother. Of course he wasn’t a murderer.
But he also blamed himself for the deaths of two people he’d loved dearly. He wanted justice, needed vengeance. Even she, with no emotional involvement in the case, could make the argument that killing Pete MacGregor where he stood was indeed justice.
But it was pointless to worry about his intentions now. Before he could even be faced with the choice, they had to find MacGregor. She had to keep him from ditching her or from disappearing before he’d kept his end of the bargain. Those were her worries.
MacGregor was his.

Wind rushed through the car, keeping the temperature comfortable even though they were driving directly into the setting sun. Logan’s skin felt raw, as if the slightest touch might send sensations skittering all the way to his brain, and his throat was parched. If he was alone, he would have music blasting from the CD player, adding its own vibrations to those already supplied by the engine and the road, but with Bailey sitting there all prim and pissy, he figured adding music would only get him more complaints.
She hadn’t spoken since that question as they’d stood at the back of the car. You are planning to turn MacGregor over to the authorities when you find him, aren’t you? Fair question. A lie for an answer. He intended to kill Mac—maybe painfully, maybe slowly or maybe he would just put a bullet in his brain and be done with it. Whatever his choice, the bastard would never hurt anyone again when Logan was finished with him.
And then…then he had no clue what he’d do. The past year had turned his life upside down. He’d lost the only two people who mattered, had given up his career to track down their killer, had turned his life over to that obsession. Once it was over, what reason would he have to live? What would he do? Where would he go?
Not to Oklahoma. Not to Brady and his kids.
He’d never imagined his brother having kids. Whenever he thought of Brady, it was always in the past, as if he’d never aged beyond the seventeen he was when Logan left home. His parents had frozen at the point in his memories, as well. As if they had all died and only Logan had survived.
He couldn’t have been so lucky.
They’d reached Dallas in time for evening rush hour. Now, with the major part of the city behind them, he exited the freeway and pulled into the parking lot of a motel that advertised clean rooms and low rates. There was a gas station on one side, a burger place on the other. What more could they ask for?
“We’re stopping?” Bailey asked when he cut the engine under the awning that shaded the motel entrance.
“I’m tired.”
“But I can dr—” She broke off, no doubt remembering their earlier discussion. “Get one room.”
He opened his mouth to make a smart-ass remark, but she cut him off. “With two beds.”
“Aw, damn. And here I was hoping…”
She didn’t even grace that with a scowl.
Inside the lobby the cute clerk came on to him even though she had a good view of Bailey waiting in the car. He was accustomed to that, though it had been a long time since he’d taken anyone up on her offer. He would get interested in sex again sometime. He just didn’t care about it now.
She gave them a first-floor room at the back, away from the highway noise. After getting only a few hours’ sleep the night before, then dealing with Bailey today, he was so damn tired that even the Texas Motor Speedway couldn’t keep him awake.
They left their bags in the room—all three of hers plus his duffle—then at his suggestion, walked next door to the burger restaurant. After standing in line to place their order, they found a table away from the plate glass windows that radiated heat from the sun and sat down to wait for the pimply kid behind the counter to call their number.
On the drive it had been easy not to talk—too much noise through the open windows. Here in the relative peace of a restaurant where business was slow, he could have just as easily remained silent. When he chose, he was good at it. This time he didn’t choose.
“You don’t sound like you’re from Memphis.”
Bailey was playing with the paper wrapper she’d stripped from her drinking straw, flattening it between her fingers, then folding it into neat patterns. At his comment, she glanced up, then crumpled the paper and tossed it onto the table. “I’m not. I grew up in Kansas.”
“The great flat state.” He didn’t wait for agreement or argument. “How’d you end up in Tennessee?”
“I had just graduated from college and spent the summer before law school working for a law firm. I liked the P.I.s they contracted with and thought their job seemed a lot more interesting than the lawyers’. So I forgot about law school, put in some applications and got hired in Memphis.”
“That must have thrilled Mom and Dad.”
“Actually Mom didn’t care either way. She just wanted me to be happy. And my father…was dead. He just would have wanted me to be happy, too.”
He’d heard some parents were like that. If pressed, he would have said that Jim and Rita had just wanted him for their own entertainment. Neither of them had had a paternal bone in their bodies, or if they had, it had long since been broken, the way they’d broken more than a few of his bones. Truthfully, though, Brady had gotten most of the fractures. It had taken them a while to realize that there were plenty of ways to inflict pain without risking the kind of injury that attracted the attention of the authorities.
He wondered idly who they’d taken their rage out on once Brady had left home. It was probably too much to hope that it had been each other.
Steering away from that line of thought, he refocused on Bailey. “Are you a good enough P.I. that you attract clients in other states or are you so lousy that you have to go looking for business in other states where they don’t know you?”
Her smile was small and sarcastic. “The agency is good enough that they don’t have to go looking for business at all. It finds them.”
“Then how did you wind up working for a kid in Oklahoma?”
She toyed with one of the stack of napkins that had come with their drinks, folding it, creasing it with one long, slender finger, then smoothing it flat again. Finally she pushed it away and met his gaze. “Lexy’s my niece,” she said reluctantly, as if it might make a difference.
Did it? It certainly explained her willingness to threaten, coerce and blackmail. This wasn’t just a professional intent on keeping her promise to a client but an aunt determined to make her niece happy, which would make her harder to shake once Mac had been taken care of.
Harder. Not impossible.
The pimply kid called their number over the loudspeaker, and Logan left the table to pick up their tray. After a stop at another counter to add tiny paper cups of ketchup, he returned to the table, passed her food to her and unwrapped the foil paper around his hamburger.
So her sister was married to his brother. That made them almost…nothing. Hell, he didn’t even admit to having a brother. He sure wasn’t claiming Brady’s family, and by rights, his wife’s family didn’t even exist in Logan’s world.
Except Bailey did exist. She was all too real and all too big a pain.
“Is there anything you’d like to know about Brady and the girls?” she asked, her tone cautious as she dipped a thick-cut French fry in ketchup.
“Nope.”
“You know, he might be able to help you with this search. He’s the under—”
“Which part of ‘nope’ did you not understand?”
“Come on. A smart man accepts help when he needs it. This is a tough job to try alone.”
“I’m not alone,” he pointed out dryly. “I’ve got you.”
That made her fall silent for a while, long enough to eat half her hamburger and most of the fries. Then she looked at him again, wearing the expression he was coming to recognize as her stubborn, not-gonna-give-up look. “Aren’t you at all curious about him? About how he left home? About where he’s been and what he’s done these past nineteen years?”
“Nope.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Oh, gee, that hurts my feelings.”
“He’s your brother.”
“Like that means something. These are good burgers, aren’t they?” He dipped the ragged edge of his hamburger in ketchup, then took a big bite. Food was one of the few pleasures he’d found since returning from the war. Endless months of MREs—the prepackaged “meals ready to eat” that were the mainstay of combat troops’ diet—and the periodic hot meals they were served while in camp had left him craving old favorites like pizza, hamburgers and doughnuts. He’d lived off junk food for the last six months and could probably do it for the rest of his life.
Being the stubborn, naive type, Bailey didn’t get the message that he was through with the conversation. “It means something to Brady.”
He slowly chewed another bite while scowling at her. “You’ve got a sister.”
“Three, actually.”
“And you’re just the best of friends with all three of them.”
“We’re close.”
“Goody for you. You wanna be best friends with ’em, fine. It’s none of my business. I don’t wanna be best friends with Brady, and that’s none of your business.”
Her cheeks flushed a pale pink. “I just don’t understand—”
“You shouldn’t mess with things you don’t understand.”
“What about your nieces? Aren’t you the least bit interested in them?”
He considered that while he polished off his burger. He’d never been a kid-friendly person, not even when he was a kid himself. Back then, pain, shame and the fear of discovery had kept him and Brady from getting close to other kids. As he’d grown up, he’d come to view kids as nuisances best kept at a distance. They started life crying, smelly and needy, before turning into a whiny, troublemaking subhuman species. Given a choice, he would never deal with anyone younger than eighteen. At least by then, they’d reached the point where they stood a chance of becoming a real person.
His silence brought a bit of hope to Bailey’s expression that he dashed when he finally answered. “No. Not the least bit.”
She scowled at him as she crumpled her wrapper with enough force that she was probably imagining it was his throat. “You’re a jerk—you know that?”
“A jerk,” he repeated, amused. “Now that really hurts my feelings. Is that the best you can come up with?”
Shoving her chair back so hard it would have fallen if not for the table behind them, she stood up, then leaned toward him. “No. You’re a selfish, self-centered, rude, cold-hearted, unfeeling bastard who doesn’t deserve to have someone like Brady, Lexy and Brynn in his life. You could go straight to hell for all I care, but I made a promise to Lexy, and you made one to me, and by God, we’re both going to keep them or I’ll kill you myself.”
With that, she turned on her heel and strode to the door. He watched her go as he finished his fries. If he was lucky, she would find her way back to Pineville, pick up her car and get the hell out of his life.
But he hadn’t been lucky in a long time.
He wasted another ten minutes before clearing his table and heading for the motel. As he rounded the back corner, the first thing he saw was Bailey, sitting on the sidewalk outside their room. It was hard to tell from her stony expression whether she’d cooled down. Not that he cared. Traveling with an unwanted companion was tough. Having her too pissed off to talk to him, though, just might make it bearable.
He unlocked the door, went inside and left it standing open. He was pulling back the covers on the bed nearest the door when she finally came inside.
“It’s not even eight o’clock,” she commented.
“You can tell time. Good.”
“You can’t be going to bed before eight o’clock.”
He bunched up the bedspread to one side, then untucked the sheets from under the mattress before facing her. “I got about three hours’ sleep last night and I’ve been dealing with a major pain in the ass today. I’m tired. I want to sleep. You can watch TV or read the Good Book—” he gestured toward the battered Bible on the night table “—or twiddle your thumbs. I don’t care. Just whatever you do, be ready to leave first thing in the morning.”
She yanked the pillows free of the spread on the second bed, mashed them against the headboard, then plopped herself down and switched on the television.
After securing the locks on the doors, Logan emptied his pockets on the nightstand, including his car keys. Bailey’s gaze instantly went to them, then away. Would she hide them as soon as she judged he was asleep? Probably. It didn’t matter. If he left her, it would be someplace a hell of a lot more remote than Dallas.
He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his T-shirt, then stripped to his boxers. When he turned to slide between the covers, he heard a gasp that started loud, then choked off, as if she’d clamped her hand over her mouth. Scowling, he turned to look at her and saw that was indeed what she’d done.
He held her gaze a long time, daring her to ask, but she swallowed hard, lowered her hand and said nothing. Satisfied, he eased into bed, shut off the lamp on his side of the center table, rolled over and went to sleep.

Bailey kept the sound on the television low so it wouldn’t disturb Logan, but she couldn’t concentrate on the show. He’d undressed so casually—something of a surprise considering that they were practically strangers while at the same time not surprising at all considering what an ass he’d been. She’d been trying not to watch—not an easy task when he was all smooth brown skin and hard, sinewy muscle—but when he’d turned his back to her…
His back was striped with scars, some no more than thin, pale lines, others thickened and white. They’d stretched from side to side, from shoulder to opposite hip, some disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers, and they’d looked…horrible.
She could think of only one way to get scars like that: torture. He’d been beaten with a strap of some sort, beaten until his skin was torn, raw and bloody. Her first thought was the war—the enemy wasn’t known for treating prisoners humanely—but he hadn’t been taken prisoner. Besides, these were old scars, existing prior to his time in the Army.
Which left his parents as the most likely source. That explained his hatred for them, his utter lack of interest in whether they lived or died. But why did he hate his brother? God forbid, had Brady taken part in the abuse?
She didn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. She’d watched her brother-in-law with Hallie and with the girls. He was far too gentle, too good a soul. He protected people. He didn’t hurt them.
More likely Brady had been the favored son, the elder who could do no wrong, and Logan resented him for that. She’d read enough about child abuse to know it was sometimes like that—the parents would single out one child for all the punishment, all the rage, while treating the others the way loving parents should.
It was the only explanation she could come up with.
Nearly two hours had passed when a yawn shook her out of her thoughts. She shut off the television and rose from the bed, lifting her suitcase into the space. Usually she slept in a tank top and panties, both so skimpy they were only a step up from being naked. Tonight she dug a T-shirt from the bag, then took it into the bathroom along with her tote bag.
She combed her hair, washed off her makeup, moisturized her face, then changed into the T-shirt. It was about four sizes smaller than she would have liked and eight or ten inches shorter, but unless she developed a fondness for sleeping fully dressed, it was the best she could do. Hesitantly she returned to the bedroom, slid hastily beneath the covers, then reached to turn out the lamp.
For a long moment she lay there, leaning on one elbow, the other hand stilled on the switch, her gaze fixed on Logan’s keys. It wasn’t likely he would leave her there. Surely his preference would run to some West Texas town miles from nowhere. Still, that one percent doubt made her switch off the lamp, then scoop up the keys and slide them under the covers with her. He would probably be smugly amused at this proof that she didn’t trust him, and she was getting tired of his smugness, but better safe than sorry, right?
She’d settled on her side, the key ring looped over one finger and tucked under the pillow that supported her head, and was concentrating on slow, even breaths when a gravelly voice came out of the darkness.
“You counting on me to be gentleman enough to not root through those covers for my keys?”
Damn. She would have sworn he was asleep. “A gentleman would be the last thing I’d mistake you for,” she replied, keeping her own voice quiet in the darkness. “I’m counting on waking up if you do start rooting.”
“You make me sound like a damn pig.”
“I was merely using your word. Besides, sometimes you act like one.”
His chuckle was mild. “Any other insults you want to add?”
“I’ll let you know as they come to mind.” She tucked the covers under her chin, making a tight little cocoon for herself, then plumped the pillow under her head. It would be best to end the conversation right there, to close her eyes and pretend to sleep until she actually drifted off. She doubted he would object.
But she didn’t close her eyes or let things drop. “Those scars on your back…did your parents give you those?”
This time there was nothing light about his chuckle. “The only thing they ever gave me that mattered.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
She couldn’t take offense at his dismissal. An apology was such a little thing, and coming from a stranger, it meant nothing. Nothing could make right what his parents had done to him, except possibly knowing that they would suffer for it in hell.
She listened to his steady breathing for a while. With anyone else, she would take it as a sign he was asleep. With him, assuming anything was likely to prove that trite old saying about making an ass of you and me.
As the bedside clock rolled over to eleven, Bailey was convinced she would never fall asleep, but the next time she glanced at it for confirmation, it read six thirty-three. She was about to turn over and snooze again when her gaze slid past the clock to the other bed. Logan was dressed in jeans and a dark T-shirt, his jaw was freshly shaved, his hair was damp from his shower and he was watching the morning news with the volume muted.
There was something incredibly disconcerting about the fact that he’d been up and about while she’d lain sleeping, dead to the world. It made her feel vulnerable, although clearly he hadn’t disturbed her. She’d slept through whatever noise he might have made, and her little cocoon was tucked as securely as it had been last night. More importantly—she thrust her hand under the pillow, searching until her fingers closed around cool metal—he hadn’t retrieved his keys and abandoned her.
Although she would have sworn she’d made no noise and no movement other than opening her eyes and locating the keys, he knew she was awake. Without glancing in her direction, he asked, “Are you planning to lie there all day? ’Cause I’m leaving in half an hour.”
Slowly she sat up, keeping the covers around her. “I need to take a shower.”
“Then get moving.”
Maybe he had zero modesty, but she did—and no robe either. “Couldn’t you wait outside?”
Finally he turned his head to look at her. His expression was as dry as the desert in August. “I saw you get into bed last night. Unless your panties shrank during the night, there’s not going to be anything new to see this morning.”
Scowling at him, she maneuvered the bedspread free of the other covers, then wrapped it around her before awkwardly rising from the bed. It took an effort, but she managed to make it as far as the bathroom door with her suitcase and tote bag before shedding the cover and disappearing inside. She locked the door, scooted her bags up against it, then tossed the car keys on top.
When she came out a short while later, showered, shampooed and shaved, he was sprawled in the same position, with the volume turned up on the television. He gave no sign of noticing her except to say, “You’ve got nine minutes.”
Brush her teeth, dry her hair, fix it, put on makeup and re-pack in nine minutes? Yeah, right. Even at her quickest, she needed a minimum of fifteen minutes before she would be ready to walk out the door.
She brushed her teeth first, then shoved yesterday’s clothes into an outside pocket of the suitcase. She was just finishing her makeup when Logan’s reflection appeared in the mirror. He came too close, reached around and patted her pockets to locate his keys in the right one. He was wiggling his fingers into the tight space when she spun around, slapping at his hand. “Hey! Stop that!”
He didn’t, of course. “Time’s up. I’m outta here.”
She used one of her self-defense moves, grabbing his hand, putting pressure on the sensitive spot, bending it back. He didn’t let out a squeal like the last guy she’d done it to and he didn’t back off—the last guy had dropped to one knee—but he did stop probing in her pocket.
“I’m ready,” she said in a warning tone.
His gaze flickered to her hair, still wet and combed straight back from her face. She neither wanted nor needed his confirmation that it wasn’t a flattering style, but she could take care of that in the car.
“Just grab my suitcase,” she went on in the same voice, “and I’ll be right behind you.”
“Grab your own suitcase, lady. I’m not your servant.” He yanked his hand free, snatched up his duffle and headed for the door.
Gritting her teeth, Bailey shoved everything but a comb into the tote bag, then rummaged inside for an elastic band and some gold clips. Feeling like a pack mule, she hauled her stuff to the car outside and, smiling the phoniest polite smile she could manage, handed him the keys.
“Are we stopping for breakfast?” she asked as they settled in their respective seats.
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
She did, but she wasn’t about to insist on it. If he wanted to be inconsiderate, let him. Eventually they would have to stop for gas, and when they did, she would stock up on munchies to get her through the quirks of his schedule.
The morning air was cool enough that they didn’t need the windows down more than a few inches, so she took advantage of the relative calm to French braid her hair. It was a job best done by someone else, in front of a mirror and not in the confines of a small car, but at last she was satisfied with the results, at least from the front. She couldn’t see how the back looked and decided it didn’t matter.
“You could just cut it,” Logan said when she was finally finished.
“Or, gee, you could have given me five minutes to dry it.”
He shrugged. “Thirty minutes is plenty of time to shower and make yourself presentable. It’s not as if you were ugly to start.”
Her gaze narrowed as she looked at him, then she offered a simpering smile. “Why, thank you for that gracious compliment, Mr. Marshall.”
Wonder of wonders, he actually shifted uncomfortably and color darkened his face. “I wasn’t offering a compliment—just stating the facts.”
She dropped the comb in her purse, then tilted her head back. It was a lovely morning. She’d slept well; her store of patience wasn’t dribbling away like sand in an hourglass—yet—and she’d made Logan Marshall blush. Things were going so well at the moment that she might even make an effort to be sociable.
Another wonder—the same thought had apparently occurred to Logan, because before she could think of anything to say, he spoke. “How’d you wind up with a name like Bailey?”
“Hey, Bailey is a perfectly respectable name.”
“Yeah, generally a perfectly respectable last name or man’s name.”
“Logan is generally a last name, too.” So was Brady, for that matter.
“Logan’s a family name.”
“So is Bailey…sort of.” When he glanced her way, she shrugged. “When my mother got pregnant the first time, she knew exactly what she was going to name her son—Lee Aubrey Madison the third. But she had a daughter, so she named her Neely. I came next and got Bailey. Then there’s Hallie and Kylie.”
“Good thing she stopped before she got to Holly, Molly and Polly.”
“At least if we all had to be lees, we got unusual lees.” Without pausing, she went right on. “You said Logan’s a family name. Whose?”
“It’s my paternal grandmother’s maiden name.”
“And Brady is…your maternal grandmother’s maiden name?”
His only response was the tightening of his fingers on the steering wheel. “Where do the other lees live?”
“Neely’s in Heartbreak, Oklahoma. She’s a lawyer and her husband’s the county sheriff. Hallie’s in Buffalo Plains, about twenty miles away. She’s a stay-at-home mom and her husband is—” she caught his warning breath “—not open to discussion. And Kylie lives in Dallas, where she’s happily single and breaking hearts every day.”
“Why didn’t you call her last night?”
“Oh, I don’t think that would have been a good idea. She would have asked a lot of questions and she’s not nearly as tactful as I am.” Besides, Kylie would have wanted to do something, and Bailey never could have relaxed with Logan out of her sight. The rat likely carried an extra set of keys to the car and would have been long gone before she returned.
“You’re the tactful one.” His words were heavy with doubt.
“No, actually I’m the smart one. People labeled us when we were kids to help keep us straight. Neely’s the determined one, Hallie’s the popular one, Kylie’s the pretty one, and I’m the smart one.”
“And the hardheaded one,” he muttered.
“Oh, we’re all pretty hardheaded,” she said easily. “Besides, you’ve got no room to talk. You’re about as stubborn as they come.”
He treated her to a dry, sarcastic smile and repeated her earlier words to her. “Thank you for that gracious compliment.”
“Hey, I told you I’d pass on any impressions as they came to mind.” She kicked off her shoes, propped one foot in the narrow space between window glass and door frame, then pressed the stereo on button. “Let’s see if we can agree on good music.”

Chapter 3
They couldn’t.
She liked country; he liked rock. She could listen to classical; he’d rather have a root canal without anesthesia. She couldn’t stand techno; he wasn’t about to sit through unending hours of jazz.
The radio went back off and stayed that way.
“God, does this state never end?” she groused. It was mid-afternoon, and the temperature had risen a few degrees past comfortable about sixty miles back. She looked cranky, and Logan felt it.
“Nope, it goes on forever. When I left home, it took me six months to get from Marshall City to Pineville.”
That made her look at him—something she’d avoided doing after they’d gone through the entire radio dial, AM and FM, three times without finding anything to agree on. He’d been happy being ignored and he’d done a good job ignoring her in return, though he had stopped for lunch when he heard her stomach growling.
“You were fifteen,” she commented. “Where did you go?”
Vaguely he wished he hadn’t mentioned that last part. The last time he’d talked in any detail about running away had been to Sam and Ella, right after he’d gotten caught stealing food from their crops.
But he’d opened the subject, and nearly twenty years had gone by, and none of it really mattered anymore. “I hitched rides to Dallas and stayed there a while, until I realized I hadn’t gone far enough.” He’d been doing okay. He’d hooked up with some other homeless kids, and they had shown him the ins and outs of living on the street. He’d gone hungry a lot, and home had been a ratty mattress in an abandoned building, but it had been a better life than he’d ever known living in the family mansion in Marshall City.
Then one day he and his buddies had been hanging out downtown, picking pockets, looking for trouble, and he’d seen a familiar face. Business trips to Dallas weren’t unusual for his father; he’d just never thought he could possibly run into him in a city of that size.
That afternoon he’d headed east, intending to keep moving until he’d reached the Atlantic Ocean. He’d made it only so far as Pineville. A few years later, when he hadn’t needed to run, he hadn’t stopped at the ocean. Germany, Korea, Afghanistan, Iraq…
“What made you stop in Pineville?” Bailey asked.
“My last ride let me off there. I was headed east, but he’d turned north before I realized it. He let me out at the Jensens’ road. I was hungry, so I decided a little alfresco dining would be nice and I got caught.” He shrugged as if that was the end of the story.
“Most people who catch someone stealing from them don’t invite him into their homes and make him a part of their families.”
“No,” he agreed quietly. “Most people don’t.”
“They must have been very special.”
They’d never been able to have a family of their own—not that they hadn’t tried. Ella had miscarried four times, and the one baby who’d made it to term had died three days after birth. That was when she’d accepted that God intended her to mother other people’s children, and she’d done it with a vengeance. Everyone in town had regarded her as the mother or grandmother they’d always wanted.
“Is there any doubt that Pete MacGregor killed them?”
“None.”
“Is there any proof?”
Logan felt the tension growing inside him. It was always there, and had been for nearly a year, but sometimes it was so strong he could feel it hum. This was one of those times. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, ground his jaws together and answered in carefully controlled words. “I left that morning to go to a doctor’s appointment. The only people at the farm were Sam, Ella and Mac. When I got back that afternoon, I found Sam’s body in front of the barn and Ella’s on the kitchen floor. The farm truck was missing, and so was Mac. Who do you think killed them?”
“He could have been a victim, too.”
“Right. Someone breaks in, kills an eighty-year-old couple and leaves them where they fall, but they dispose of the body of the young, six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound man who was staying with them.”
“Maybe he was taken hostage.”
“Okay. You’re a burglar. You break in to a place and you think you might need a hostage to ensure your escape. You have a choice between two frail little eighty-year-olds and a twenty-something, six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound soldier. Which one are you gonna choose?”
“I’m just considering the possibilities.” She laid her hand on his arm, and the muscles clenched even more. A glance at the speedometer showed the needle hovering between ninety and ninety-five. With a deep breath, he eased off on the pedal until the speed dropped back to the legal limit. Then he shrugged off her touch. She didn’t look offended or rebuffed or really much of anything but thoughtful.
“Where are we headed?” he asked to break the silence. So far she’d given him simple directions—get on the interstate and keep going west.
“To the border.”
“There’s a hell of a lot of border. Where in particular?”
“I’ll tell you when to turn.”
He didn’t like being in the dark. If he’d learned anything in the Army, it was how to lead. He’d held a hell of a lot of responsibility, especially in the war, and he’d lived up to it. It rubbed him the wrong way to now be denied even the most basic of information.
Not that she didn’t have a good reason for withholding it.
“You have any reason to believe Mac has anything to do with this brother of his?”
She propped her bare feet on the dash, wiggling her toes for a minute before letting them relax. Her skin was pale gold, her nails were painted crimson and a silver band encircled the second toe on her left foot. A matching chain around her ankle was just visible under the hem of her jeans leg.
There was something…appealing about the sight. Something that made him think of those tiny little panties he’d picked up in her room back in Pineville. That made him wonder if she was that small all over, if she was wearing a similar bit of silk and lace right now, if she wore any other jewelry he couldn’t see.
Jeez, they were feet, he berated himself. Prettier than most, more decorated than most, but utilitarian just the same. Definitely no reason to be thinking in any way about sex.
Finally she looked his way, but with sunglasses covering half her face, he couldn’t read anything in her expression. “Are you looking for an explanation for his lies regarding his family? He didn’t know about the brother and therefore he didn’t lie when he said he didn’t have one?” She gave a shake of her head. “A couple years ago MacGregor got arrested for public drunk in the town where his brother lives. You think that was just coincidence?”
Of course it wasn’t. And it stood to reason that, being in trouble with the law again—in serious trouble—Mac would turn to his brother for help.
“And how did you find that out?” he asked sourly.
“I have my sources.”
“You got a cop friend to run a criminal history, didn’t you?” He didn’t need more of an answer than the pink staining her cheeks. “That’s illegal, you know.”
“Charlie’s Rule. The ends justify the means.”
“Who’s Charlie?”
“A guy I work with.” She said it so casually that Logan knew immediately there was more to the relationship than that. A guy she was adversarial with, was jealous of or was intimate with? A guy who’d seen those same tiny panties, only with her in them?
It didn’t matter to him. He’d never cared about anyone’s sex life but his own, which had been pretty much nonexistent in recent years. She could be sleeping with half the men in Memphis and he wouldn’t give a damn. Not as long as she kept her end of the bargain and helped him find Mac.
“What else did you find out about this brother?” He was scowling, he realized. Probably because the sun was low enough in the western sky to blind a man. So what if the visor blocked the worst of the glare and his sunglasses took care of the rest? It was still there, and he knew it.
“Señor Escobar is a rancher. He’s married and has two children.”
“And you’re going to help with him how?”
This time when she looked at him, she was smiling. “Despite his married status, Señor Escobar considers himself a ladies’ man. I consider myself a lady. We should have a great deal in common.”
Logan’s chest tightened until the only breaths he could take were shallow. Escobar might be a hundred and eighty degrees opposite from his brother…or he might be just as dangerous, maybe even more so. And she was planning to toy with him? “This is your great plan—flirt with the guy in the hopes that he’ll spill his brother’s whereabouts in the heat of passion?”
“I don’t intend to sleep with him,” she said haughtily. “Look, we can’t decide on any course of action until we get to town and see what’s what. Who knows? Escobar may not have anything to do with MacGregor. He may have zero interest in protecting a brother he may not be close to.”
That was logical. How much would he risk for Brady? Nowhere near as much as Brady had once risked for him.
“What about the law in this town? Are they honest, corrupt, incompetent or just inefficient?”
“I don’t know. But they did arrest MacGregor.”
“Public drunk isn’t a big deal,” he pointed out. Escobar might not have cared that his brother was inconvenienced and out a few hundred dollars for the fine, especially if Mac was guilty. But something bigger like desertion or murder, something that carried a bigger punishment than a night in jail and a fine, that he very well might care about.
“What does it matter if the cops are corrupt?” Bailey asked. “You can turn MacGregor over to the state cops or the state bureau of investigation or the Army or someone.”
She was right about his options. There were any number of agencies who would be more than happy to make an arrest on a double homicide. But the question mattered because he didn’t want to kill any cops, not even dirty ones, along with MacGregor.
“You are intending to turn him over,” she said tentatively when he offered no response.
He scowled at her. “I told you, I’m no murderer.” He had killed a lot of people, but not one who hadn’t been trying to kill him at the same time. If he needed the rationalization, he had no doubt Mac would try to kill him, too. But he wasn’t intending to rationalize his actions. His plan was simple: Mac was going to die.
One way or another—self-defense or cold-blooded murder—Logan was going to kill him.

The sun had long since set when they finally stopped for the night. Bailey, so tired she could hardly keep her eyes open, roused when Logan pulled up to the entrance of a motel a few hundred yards off the interstate in El Paso. As he went inside, she straightened in her seat, then looked around.
Light spilled from everywhere—street lamps, neon signs, headlights—to dispel the night’s darkness. The area was typical for its location—fast-food restaurants, motels ranging from good to beyond seedy, bars, gas stations and convenience stores. This particular motel—not good, but not seedy—shared its parking lot with a two-pump station and a convenience store and its roof with an establishment identified in pink neon as Pepe’s Cantina. The vehicles on the motel side of the lot were mostly big rigs, on the cantina side, mostly pickups and nondescript sedans. Logan’s GTX stood out, while her car would have blended right in.
Logan returned with a key, hardly noticing that she was alert, and drove to the side lot away from Pepe’s. She’d passed the last two hundred miles in an exhaustion-induced fog, wanting desperately to stretch out somewhere and sleep. He’d shown no such interest, though, and damned if she was going to whine or plead for a break.
He parked in front of Room 17, hefted his duffel out of the trunk, then left her to retrieve her own bags and close the trunk. By the time she did so and made it to the sidewalk, he was already inside the room, turning on lights and lowering the temperature on the air conditioner.
The room was about as clean as she expected—she wouldn’t walk barefooted on the carpet, but crawling under the covers wouldn’t give her the willies. She dropped her bags on the bed farther from the door. Only the need for the bathroom and a slathering of moisturizer on her wind-burned skin kept her from joining them.
Feeling marginally better when she came out of the bathroom, Bailey grabbed her tote off the bed, set it on the counter next to the sink, then spun back around. Her suitcase was where she’d left it, Logan’s duffel was where he’d left it and the door was closed…but there was no sign of Logan. She reached the door in three strides and jerked it open. The GTX was still parked outside, but its owner was nowhere to be seen. Damnation! Where had he gone, what was he doing and why had she let him out of her sight?
Walking back into the room, she closed the door hard. The rush of air sent a piece of paper fluttering from the foot of the first bed onto the stained carpet. Gone to Pepe’s for a beer, it read in sharp, bold letters.
Great. Instead of crawling into bed and getting the sleep she craved, she was going to spend the next however long in a smoky, noisy bar drinking a beer she didn’t want just so she could keep an eye on the partner who didn’t want her. Wonderful.
“Lexy, I hope you appreciate this,” she muttered as she grabbed her purse and headed out the door.
Pepe’s Cantina didn’t disappoint. As bars went, she’d been in worse—Thelma’s immediately came to mind—but she’d seen plenty better. The lighting was too dim by half, the music too loud by half, the air too polluted to breathe. Before she’d gone ten feet inside the door, a niggling pain started in her forehead with the intention of becoming a full-blown headache.
After giving her eyes time to adjust to the low light, she scanned the crowd. There were a lot of men wearing cowboy hats, a lot of women with big hair. Everyone’s jeans were tight, their smiles bright, their moods cheery. They’d come out tonight with the goal of having a good time and, by God, they weren’t going to fail.
Except for the lone man standing at the bar. He leaned his elbows against the scarred wood, dangled a bottle in one hand and gazed at the couples on the dance floor with a nine-mile stare.
She made her way across the room, slid onto the stool next to him and ordered a beer before swiveling to face him and smiling brightly. “If you’d mentioned you wanted a beer, I would have walked over with you.”
“If I’d wanted you to come with me, I would have mentioned it.” He tilted the bottle to his mouth and took a healthy swallow. “I figured you’d be snoring away by now.”
“I don’t snore.”
“Of course you don’t. That was just a funny little rattle the car developed a hundred miles ago.”
She would have said she hadn’t slept in the car—tried to, wanted to, even drifted into a state of semiconsciousness, but never actually slept. But she didn’t argue the point with him. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Why would I be?”
“Because you drove over six hundred miles today.”
He glanced at her for a moment before twisting farther around to catch the bartender’s attention and order another beer. “Six hundred miles is nothing,” he said, then added, “However, six hundred miles with you…”
The bartender delivered both beers at once. Bailey took a sip of hers, cold and sour, and thought longingly about the bed awaiting her. If she offered a respite from her company in exchange for his car keys, would he agree? Maybe. Definitely, if he had a spare set of keys somewhere.
Turning the stool, she faced the dance floor, as Logan was doing, and took another small sip of beer. Without a doubt, he was the best-looking guy in the place, as well as the least approachable. Though the women gave him admiring looks, not one hit on him, asked him to dance or even did more than smile hesitantly on the way past.
She wasn’t so lucky. She’d managed to down maybe a third of her beer when a bear of a man walked right up to her, stopping a little too close and greeting her with a grin. “Hey, darlin’, wanna dance?”
He was very big, broad-shouldered and muscular. His beard was neatly trimmed, his long hair pulled into a ponytail. He wasn’t scary or even unattractive. He just roused zero interest in her. She smiled politely and said, “No, thank you.”
“Oh, come on. I’m good on the dance floor.”
“I’m not.”
He gave her a long look that started at her face and drifted its way down to her toes, and the grin widened. “Now I don’t believe that, sugar. Come on, let me show you how good you can be.”
“I appreciate the invitation, but—” He caught hold of her hand and was pulling, making her scramble to her feet to avoid falling into his arms. She caught her balance a short distance from Logan, then moved a few steps closer to him as she tugged to free her hand. “Really, my boyfriend doesn’t like for me to dance with other guys.”
The man’s gaze shifted from her to Logan, apparently sizing him up and finding him no threat—clear evidence that he’d had far too much to drink. “Aw, you don’t mind, do you, buddy?”
Logan’s smile was thin and amused. “No, not at all. Go on, sweetheart. You’ll enjoy it.”
Bailey shot him a killing look. “I wouldn’t think of leaving you here all alone, honey.”
“Nah, I don’t mind. Go ahead and take a spin around the dance floor. I’ll wait for you over there.” With his bottle, he gestured toward an empty booth along the far wall, then pushed away from the bar.
Wishing looks could kill, she watched him go, then turned her attention back to her admirer when he pulled on her hand. “What’s your name?”
Taking the question as a sign of surrender, the big guy smiled ear to ear. “Billy.”
“Well, Billy…” Stepping closer, she straightened his collar with her free hand, then brushed nonexistent lint from his shoulder. “If you don’t let go of me right now, I’m going to have to hurt you. Now, I don’t mind hurting you, but it’s just going to embarrass you in front of all your friends, and then you’re going to get pissed off with me and we’ll both go away thinking badly of each other. You don’t want that, do you?”
He gave her another of those long looks and finished it even more tickled by her words than when he’d started it. Ducking his head the necessary distance to bring his mouth close to her ear, he asked, “And just how do you think you’re gonna hurt me, sweet pea? You gonna do some kind of karate chop? Or maybe you got a nasty left hook? No, I know—you’ve got some kind of secret powers.”
Bailey sighed regretfully. “You really want to do this?”
“More than you can guess.”
Billy’s amusement grew with each moment that she considered her options. He had likely reached the conclusion that she’d merely been bluffing when she stomped her boot heel into his instep, kneed him in the groin, then kicked him across the backs of the knees, sending him crumpling to the floor in a groaning heap.
Crouching beside him, she bent to look into his face. “Satisfied, Billy?” she asked sarcastically before giving his shoulder a vigorous pat. “Don’t hold a grudge, will you?”
She ignored the curious looks as she straightened and crossed the dance floor to Logan’s booth. “Stand up,” she commanded, and to her surprise, he did. Taking a cue from his action that morning, she wriggled her fingers into the right front pocket of his jeans, searching for his keys, and he grabbed her wrist.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, applying just enough pressure to keep her hand still. “You want it that bad, sweetheart, just ask.”
“Give me your keys. And your wallet.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because I’m tired and disappointed in you and I want to go to bed.”
“Go to bed. I’m not stopping you.”
“I want your keys and your money and your weapons to make sure you’ll be here in the morning.” She was standing closer to him than she’d ever been, close enough to feel the heat and the tension coming off his body. Close enough to hear the hitch in his breathing. Close enough to see the faint surprise in his eyes as the denim of his jeans tightened across her hand.
She glanced down automatically, unable to see any sign of his arousal in the dim light but feeling it just the same. Heat warmed her face as she jerked her gaze up again. Her throat had suddenly gone dry, making it impossible for her to swallow, but she tried anyway. “L-let go, and I’ll pull m-my hand out.”
“Maybe in a minute,” he replied, his voice silky, steadier than hers had been. But he did let go, let her slide her fingers free and take a step back. A moment later he picked up her hand, laid his keys in her palm, then added the battered wallet from his hip pocket.
“Now go away,” he said quietly. Warned quietly. “Leave me alone.”
She was happy to comply.

I’m disappointed in you.
Logan hadn’t needed to ask what she’d meant by that. He’d spent fifteen years of his life with Brady, who always did the right thing, the hero thing. Brady never would have walked away and left her with the gorilla. He would have taken care of the guy for her, and she would have been grateful for the rescue. Everyone Brady rescued was supposed to be grateful.
Well, Logan wasn’t into the hero thing and never had been. She was a grown woman; if she wanted to go into a bar, she should be prepared for whatever happened. Besides, she hadn’t needed his help. The gorilla had been eight inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier, but she’d walked out the door while he’d lain on the floor, whimpering and holding his balls. It was only in the past few minutes that his buddies had finally gotten him to his feet and out of the bar.
Not that it mattered whether she thought less of him for not intervening. Once he’d taken care of Mac, he would never see her again. She was nothing more than a necessary nuisance…
…who had given him the first hint of a hard-on in months. It didn’t have anything to do with her, of course. Any woman who shoved her hand in his jeans pocket and started groping like that would have brought the same response. That was what happened when he went so damn long without. While it was nice to know that part of him was still alive, he had neither the time nor the desire for anything beyond justice. Vengeance. Once he’d gotten that, then he could think about sex.
He finished his third beer and debated a fourth, but, suddenly feeling the exhaustion of the day, decided against it. His eyes were gritty and wanted nothing more than to close and stay that way for six or eight hours, and he couldn’t take a deep breath to save himself. In his two years in Afghanistan and Iraq, he’d learned his physical limits and he knew he’d reached them.
Sliding out of the booth, he headed for the door. When he stepped out, the chill night air served to rouse him a little. Hunching his shoulders, he shoved his hands into his jeans pockets…and found the room key among the change in his left pocket. Had Bailey gone to the office and talked the clerk out of another key? Was she waiting outside the room or had she headed back to the bar to find him…and run into the gorilla and his friends on the way?
Refusing to acknowledge the sudden chill as anything close to panic, he lengthened his strides and turned the far corner of the motel. The sidewalk in front of Room 17 was empty. Of course it was, because she was inside the room, tucked in her bed in that T-shirt and those ridiculously tiny panties.
He unlocked the door and swung it open, only to find the room empty. The bathroom door was open, the light off, and there was no sound but the hum of the air conditioner.
He was about to head back to the motel office when a look at the Plymouth stopped him. She had the keys to his car. If she couldn’t get into the room and didn’t want to brave the bar again, what better place to wait?
Sure enough, she was curled up in the backseat, her head pillowed on her purse, his jean jacket tucked around her. It was proof of her exhaustion that she’d managed to doze off in the cramped space, because she damn sure couldn’t be comfortable all twisted up like that.
Logan leaned against the rear quarter panel, hands resting on the cool metal. Maybe the gorilla wasn’t the type to take public humiliation personally…but he could just as easily have wanted retribution. A lone woman against one man might not be a problem, but against three? He should have walked her to the room, not so much for her own safety but for the safety of the information she hadn’t yet given him. He wasn’t into the hero thing, but he did believe in protecting what was his.
He rubbed his hands over his eyes, then turned and rapped sharply on the window. The first three taps brought no response at all. After the second three, she finally shifted and damn near slid into the floorboard before catching herself.
“Come on, Madison, let’s go to bed,” he called through the closed window.
Innocent words to conjure up not-so-innocent images. It was her fault, for looking softer and sweeter when she was only half-awake, for the braid that had come loose and the tendrils of pale brown hair that framed her hazy expression.
It took her a moment to reach the door handle, to push the passenger seat forward and to maneuver through the narrow space. She swayed and would have stumbled out of the car if he hadn’t caught her, hands on her shoulders, deliberately keeping her at a distance. As soon as she seemed steady, he let go and locked the car door while she headed blindly for the bed visible through the open room door. She didn’t move her suitcase, didn’t bother to undress, but took a header onto the bed, pulled the denim jacket around her again and lost consciousness again.
Sleeping in her clothes wouldn’t hurt her—he’d done it for months at a time in the war. Neither would sharing half her bed with a suitcase. She’d just proven she could sleep damn near anywhere. And if she got cold, well, she’d wake up long enough to pull the covers over her.
Still, after locking the door and securing the chain, he moved the suitcase to the floor, then unzipped the clunky black boots and set them next to the bag. He pulled her purse strap from around her neck and over her shoulder—just so she wouldn’t risk choking herself in the night—and set it on the nightstand, then pulled the loose half of the bedspread up to cover her.
He wasn’t being considerate but, rather, selfish, he told himself as he stripped to his boxers and crawled into bed. She wasn’t the best of traveling companions under good circumstances; she was likely to be even worse without a good night’s sleep. He was just looking out for himself.
As he’d done since he was fifteen.
As he would always do. Just himself, and nobody else.

Logan had always been a light sleeper. Rita Marshall hadn’t liked it when her sons slept through the alarm, and the punishment for disrupting her morning routine had been severe. She’d also had a fondness for hauling them out of bed at odd hours of the night, using their disorientation at the abrupt awakening against them, so he’d learned over the years to awaken quickly and to come instantly alert.
The room’s quiet was broken only by the distant sound of traffic. Light filtered in through a crack in the drapes above his bed and sent a wedge of illumination across the floor and onto the opposite bed. That bed was empty at the moment; it must have been Bailey’s movement that roused him. He lay motionless on his left side as his gaze searched the dark room for the source of the noise. He located the shadowy form an instant before it disappeared into the bathroom. After the door closed, the bathroom light came on, seeping underneath the door to illuminate a patch of dirty brown carpet.
The bedside clock showed that it was three forty-seven. If he wanted to be a real bastard, he could be up when she returned and insist that they go ahead and hit the road. He didn’t move, though. He was still tired. She hadn’t deigned to share with him how much farther they had to go, but hands down, it was better to do it well rested. Who knew? He could drive into the town where Señor Escobar lived and see Mac right off the bat…or Mac could see him. Best to be sharp.
The bathroom light went off an instant before the door opened. When she approached the bed, the light through the curtains showed her feet, narrow and pale, with that silver chain wrapped around one ankle. It also showed a length of bare leg—she’d removed her jeans while she’d been up and had traded her shirt for a doll-sized tank top. It clung everywhere and ended well above the panties that hugged her hips. If he was interested in sex or in her, it would be torture to lie there in his bed the rest of the night while she lay in hers wearing so little.
But he wasn’t interested in sex or in her, he thought as he adjusted his erection to a more comfortable position. All he cared about was finding Mac and seeing that he paid for Sam’s and Ella’s murders.
Bailey slid into bed and tugged the covers high around her neck, gave a soft sigh and closed her eyes. He debated saying something—to let her know he wasn’t asleep, that he’d seen her—but decided against it. It would just embarrass her.
And then he wouldn’t get to see her like that again. His current lack of interest in sex aside, that would be cause for regret.

It was nearly noon when they stopped for lunch in a dusty New Mexico town. Esperanza was exactly how Bailey had imagined a small desert town to look—mostly shades of brown, not too prosperous, not too hospitable. The only green was on the occasional building or sign, and the only hint of friendliness was in…well, her. Neither the waitress nor the other customers in the diner showed any sign of welcome—or curiosity, for that matter.
“Esperanza,” she said thoughtfully as she removed the lettuce from her BLT and laid it aside. “That means ‘hope’ in Spanish, doesn’t it? Wonder how you say ‘lost hope’?”
“Why do you order a BLT if you don’t like lettuce?” Logan asked.
“Because if I asked for a BT, no one would know what I wanted. Do you speak Spanish?”
“Some.”
Which probably translated to fluently, she thought as she chewed a bite of crispy bacon and vine-ripened tomato.
“Do you?”
She shrugged. “I know the important phrases, like Where’s the bathroom? and I need chocolate. What other languages do you speak?”
“A little German, a little Korean, some Farsi.”
“What did you do in the Army?”
This time he shrugged. “How much farther?”
“Maybe twenty miles.”
“Twenty miles? Then why the hell did we stop here?”
“Because I thought we needed to discuss your plan.”
He squirted jalapeño ketchup over his burger, replaced the top half of the bun, then took a hungry bite. While he chewed, he looked everywhere except at her.
“You do have a plan, don’t you?”
He chased the food with a gulp of pop, then scowled at her. “My plan is to find out if Mac is in the area.”
“Which you can’t do by just showing up in town. This guy knows you. He’d disappear into the woodwork if he saw you snooping around where he’s hiding out.”
“If he’s hiding there.”
“Right. If. But we’ll never know if you go waltzing into town.”
His scowl deepened, but he didn’t admit that he hadn’t thought that far ahead. For months, Bailey knew, his search had been fruitless, going places Mac had been, talking to people Mac had seen, but long after the fact. Covertness hadn’t been an issue. Now it was. “So what do you suggest?” he asked grudgingly.
She smiled. “Simple. I’ll waltz into town.”
“And…?”
“Ask questions. Gather information. Find out whatever I can.”
“And you’ll be successful because…?”
“Mac doesn’t know me. I do this sort of thing for a living.” Just a little lie, she told herself. She did help locate missing people; she’d just never been out in the field before. “And I’m a woman.”
“And that gives you an edge?”
She filched a couple of his fries from his plate, dipped them in the spicy ketchup and enjoyed them before replying. “Men still have a lot of old-fashioned notions about women. They see them as weaker, more delicate, in need of their protection. They think we’re not as smart, not as capable, and they want to take care of us. I’m talking about most men, mind you. There are a few exceptions.”
Color rose into his cheeks, shading them dark bronze, but she thought it was from annoyance rather than embarrassment. “You didn’t need my help last night.”
“No, I didn’t,” she agreed. She’d handled the situation all by herself. On the one hand, it had been something of a triumph seeing all those self-defense classes pay off. On the other…maybe it was the wrong attitude for an independent career woman to have, but it would have been nice if Logan had cared enough to step in. Brady would have. Her other brother-in-law, Reese, definitely would have. Practically every man she knew would have considered it his duty to rescue her from Billy’s unwelcome attentions. But not Logan. He wouldn’t have cared if the jerk had thrown her over his shoulder and carried her out of the bar.
It made her think a little less of him.
“If you had needed help, I would have been there.”
That was an easy statement to make when the situation was over and done with. Maybe it was true, maybe not. Either way, it was good to know that he’d placed definite limits on their partnership. If she got into trouble with Mac or his brother, she wouldn’t make the mistake of counting on Logan to help her out.
Dismissing the subject, she turned to business. “The town we’re going to is Nomas. Legend says that a group of travelers were crossing the area a hundred and fifty years ago in the hottest July anyone could ever recall. After days of blistering heat, sand and wind, one of the travelers insisted he would go no más—no more—and it stuck, though somewhere along the way it became one word and the accent transferred to the first syllable. It’s about a half mile north of the border and has all the conveniences—motels, restaurants and bars. Mac’s brother has a ranch about five miles east of town that backs right up to the border. Whether he actually does any ranching is anyone’s guess.”
“Have you been there?”
“No. I checked it out on the Internet. Great little resource when you need information.” Of course, he didn’t look like a computer-friendly person. Come to think of it, he didn’t seem much of anything-friendly. He loved his car, but that was the only thing he showed any fondness for.
And Sam and Ella Jensen. He’d loved them, and blamed himself for their deaths. If nothing else, she could cut him some slack for that.
“Unless I find out that Mac’s not there, you’ll have to keep a low profile. That means staying out of sight at the motel. It also means—” she let her gaze drift out the plate glass window to the GTX parked out front before turning a big grin on him “—letting me drive your car.”
“When hell freezes over,” he muttered before taking the last bite of his burger. “Nobody drives that car but me.”
“I know.” And that would make it even sweeter when she slid behind the wheel. All that power…and all the satisfaction of knowing it was killing him…too sweet.
He stood and tossed a couple ones on the table, then picked up the check. “What’s going to be your excuse for asking questions about Mac? He’s not the sort of person who will take kindly to some nosy broad poking around.”
She stood, too, and studied her reflection in the window. “I haven’t decided yet.” Grabbing a handful of her shirt in back, she pulled it tight, then slid her free hand over her stomach. “Maybe I’ll be searching for the father of my baby.”
That brought a scowl that made the others look like mild grimaces, and he murmured something as he stalked off to the cash register near the door. Catching the words stupid and idiot, she decided not to ask him to repeat the rest.
It was hot and sunny, with a dry breeze out of the west. Bailey would have appreciated just a drop or two of humidity, even if it did make the heat more uncomfortable. Too much time in this environment, and she feared she might shrivel up and blow away in that wind.
“Seriously,” Logan said after putting a few miles between them and the diner. “You need a reason for asking about Mac. What is it going to be?”
“Seriously I don’t intend to ask about Mac to start. I intend to look around, meet some people and go from there. Who knows?” she added as she kicked off her sandals, then propped one bare foot out the window. “Maybe I’ll romance the information out of Hector.”
She expected some sort of response from Logan—Pete MacGregor’s brother’s name is Hector Escobar?—but he remained silent so long that she finally looked his way. His jaw was clenched tighter than usual, and he had the steering wheel in a grip better suited, she imagined, to her throat.
He shifted his gaze to her for only an instant before turning back to the road. “This isn’t a game,” he said, grinding out the words. “If you can’t get that through your head, you need to get the hell back to Memphis where you belong. Pete MacGregor is a cold-blooded killer, and I doubt his brother is much better.”
“I don’t know,” she said more carelessly than she felt. “You and Brady are brothers, but you’re nothing alike. Mac and Hector are only half brothers, and they didn’t grow up together. For all we know, Hector could be a God-fearing, churchgoing, law-abiding man.”
“Providing refuge for his fugitive brother? I doubt it.”
She didn’t have to doubt it—she had proof otherwise. Hector Escobar had an arrest record going back to his teen years and had spent time in prison on drug and assault convictions. In the pictures she’d seen of him—booking photos and prison shots—he was one scary-looking man. Big, tattooed, with wild hair, a wild beard and wild-eyed. But he hadn’t been arrested even once in five years. Maybe he’d grown up and gotten his temper under control. Or maybe he’d just gotten better at what he was doing.
But Logan didn’t need to know any of that. He might actually show concern for her safety, though he’d be more likely to use it as an excuse. He would ditch her, take care of Mac on his own, then disappear again without a thought for his promise to meet Lexy. Because she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, she was sticking to him until the day she delivered him to his family in Buffalo Plains.
“It’s not a game,” he repeated, still looking and sounding as if he might grind his molars down.
“I know that. You know, I’ve dealt with people like Hector before.” Another lie, unless via the computer counted as dealing with. “Don’t worry about it. I can take care of myself. Remember?”

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