Classified Cowboy

  Nina flipped through the photos taken at the crime scene and stopped when she noticed one of herself and Wyatt, the two of them so focused on each other they hadn’t even noticed a flash going off.

  They were standing together, Wyatt’s expression was hot, even passionate, and his posture was open, powerful, protective. She was leaning toward him, her neck slightly arched, as if opening herself to his kiss.

  Needing a distraction, she turned to Wyatt and said, “Take me to the lab.”

  “No, it’s too late. Besides, you’re exhausted. I need to take you upstairs and put you to bed.”

  He looked at her, his blue eyes twinkling, and a hot thrill coursed through her at the idea of him lifting her in his arms and carrying her upstairs. She swallowed, and the twinkle in his eyes faded, replaced by an intensity she hadn’t seen before. He looked like…

  He looked like he did in the photo. Hot, powerful, passionate.

  Something started to burn deep inside her. She lifted her chin just slightly and they stared at each other. Then Wyatt blinked, breaking the moment.

  But not before some silent promise was made.

  MALLORY KANE

  CLASSIFIED COWBOY

  For my Daddy, who loves reading my books.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mallory Kane credits her love of books to her mother, a librarian, who taught her that books are a precious resource and should be treated with loving respect. Her father and grandfather were steeped in the Southern tradition of oral history and could hold an audience spellbound for hours with their storytelling skills. Mallory aspires to be as good a storyteller as her father.

  Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband, their two fascinating cats and, at current count, seven computers. She loves to hear from readers. You can write her at mallory@mallorykane.com or via Harlequin Books.

  Books by Mallory Kane

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  927—COVERT MAKEOVER

  965—SIX-GUN INVESTIGATION

  992—JUROR NO. 7

  1021—A FATHER’S SACRIFICE

  1037—SILENT GUARDIAN

  1069—THE HEART OF BRODY MCQUADE

  1086—SOLVING THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

  1103—HIGH SCHOOL REUNION

  1158—HIS BEST FRIEND’S BABY†

  1162—THE SHARPSHOOTER’S SECRET SON†

  1168—THE COLONEL’S WIDOW?†

  1180—CLASSIFIED COWBOY

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Lt. Wyatt Colter—A lieutenant in the Special Investigations Unit of the Texas Rangers, he was assigned to protect Marcie James, but she was kidnapped on his watch. Now he’s obsessed with solving the mystery of her disappearance.

  Nina Jacobson—This beautiful forensic anthropologist pulled strings to get assigned to investigate the mysterious bones uncovered in Comanche Creek. She’s not about to let Wyatt out of her sight until the mystery is solved.

  Marcie James—On the eve of testifying in a shady land deal, the mayor’s assistant went missing and hasn’t been heard from in two years. Was her disappearance by choice or against her will?

  Daniel Taabe—Did this leader of the Native American community in Comanche Creek steal bones from the crime scene?

  Woodrow “Woody” Sadler—The mayor seems cooperative, but could he have greased the way for Jonah Becker’s fraudulent land deal?

  Deputy Shane Tolbert—Did his stormy relationship with Marcie James indicate a violent nature?

  Trace Becker—Jonah Becker’s ruthless son would do anything to protect his daddy’s money.

  Billy Whitley—How far would he go to cover up his illegal dealings?

  Charla Whitley—Charla’s position with the mayor’s office could have come in handy when her husband, Billy, needed her help.

  Jerry Collier—Marcie’s former boss almost came to blows with Daniel Taabe and was heard threatening Marcie.

  Jeff Marquez—As an EMT at a teaching medical center, he was in the perfect position to help Marcie fake her kidnapping and death.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter One

  “Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Texas Ranger Lieutenant Wyatt Colter slammed the door of his Jeep Liberty and crossed the limestone road in three long, crunching strides.

  It had taken him longer than he’d intended to get here. Jonah Becker’s spread was huge—as big as Comanche Creek, Texas, was small. Becker had twelve thousand acres. The entire city limits of Comanche Creek would fit in the southeast corner of the spread.

  Right now, though, Wyatt was much more concerned with the northwest corner, where human bones had been unearthed by the road crew, which Becker had fought so hard to keep off his land.

  This small piece of real estate was Wyatt’s crime scene, and the owners of the two mud-spattered SUVs had breached it. Where in hell was the deputy assigned to guard the scene?

  Just as he drew in breath to yell again, the growl of a generator cut through the damp night air. A large spotlight snapped on with an almost audible whoosh. He headed toward it.

  “Ben, hit your light!” a kid yelled. His long-billed baseball cap sat askew on his head, and his pants looked as if they were going to fall off any second.

  A second light came on. Now that there were two lights, Wyatt could see more people. He had to get this under control now, or his crime scene would be totally contaminated.

  “Hey!” Wyatt grabbed the kid’s arm.

  “Ow, dude. Watch the shirt.”

  “Where’s the deputy sheriff?”

  “I don’t know.” The kid shrugged and peered up at Wyatt from under his cap. “What’s the nine-one-one?”

  “The nine-one-one is you’re stomping on my crime scene. Who the hell authorized you to be here?”

  “My boss the hell did, dude.”

  Wyatt tightened his fist in the boy’s shirt. “I’m not dude. I’m Lieutenant Wyatt Colter, Texas Ranger. Now, who authorized you to be here?”

  The kid’s eyes bugged out. “I, uh, I’m an anthropology major. This is part of my Forensics 4383 course. If we’re lucky, we’ll see signs of murder on the bones.”

  Wyatt’s anger skyrocketed. He twisted his fist in the kid’s shirt, showing him he didn’t appreciate his comment.

  “Those are human beings,” he growled. “Show some respect.”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  Forensics course. He should have guessed. The students were from Texas State. They were here with Dr. George Something, the head of the Forensics Department. He’d been called in by Wyatt’s captain. And without asking, he’d brought a bunch of ghoulish kids with him.

  No way was Wyatt going to allow students to stomp all over this scene. He had a very good reason for wanting to make sure nothing—and that meant nothing—went wrong.

  This time.

  As the head of the Texas Rangers Special Investigations Unit, Wyatt hadn’t been surprised when he was assigned to investigate a suspicious shallow grave containing badly decomposed remains. What had surprised him was that his assignment was in this town.

  The last time Wyatt had seen Comanche Creek, it had been through a haze of pain and the stench of failure as he was loaded into an ambulance two years ago.

 
The idea that he was here now, to possibly identify the body of the woman he’d failed to protect back then, ignited a burning in his chest. He absently rubbed the scar under his right collarbone.

  “Where’s your boss?” he snapped.

  “Over there.”

  Wyatt looked in the general direction of the kid’s nod. There was a group of people standing inside the tape, right in the middle of his crime scene. He caught flashes of light as one of them took pictures.

  “Which one?”

  “In the hoodie.”

  Wyatt raised his arm an inch, nearly lifting the kid off his feet. All three had on hooded sweatshirts. “Try again.”

  “Ow, dude! I mean, sir. The black hoodie. Taking pictures.”

  Wyatt let go of the kid and turned on his heel.

  So the forensic anthropologist was going to be his first problem. He was the only member of the task force that Wyatt knew nothing about. He’d been appointed by the captain.

  Wyatt had chosen the rest of the team. He’d picked Reed Hardin, the sheriff of Comanche Creek, and Jonah Becker’s daughter Jessie, because of their familiarity with the area. He had hopes that Ranger Sergeant Cabe Navarro’s presence would ease the tension between the Caucasian and Native American factions in town.

  He’d never worked with Ranger Crime Scene Analyst Olivia Hutton, but she had an excellent reputation, even if she was from back East.

  It was the captain’s idea to use an anthropologist from Texas State University. “They have one of the premier forensics programs in the United States,” he’d told Wyatt.

  “And besides, the governor’s looking for positive press for the new forensics building and body farm Texas State just built.”

  Great. Politics. That was what Wyatt had thought at the time. And now his fears were realized. The professor was trying to take over his crime scene.

  “Well, Dr. Mayfield,” Wyatt muttered. “You might be the head of your little world, but you’re in my world now.”

  As he strode over to confront the professor, he took in the circus the guy had brought with him. Two spotlight holders, plus four other students milling around. Add to that three rubberneckers drooling over his crime scene, and it equaled nine people. And that was eight—nearly nine, too many.

  He stopped when the scuffed toes of his favorite boots were less than five inches from the professor’s gloved hand and toeing the edge of a shallow, lumpy mud hole.

  “Hey, Professor.”

  The guy had hung his camera around his neck and was now holding a high-intensity pocket flashlight. He shone it on Wyatt’s tooled leather boots for a second, then aimed it at a white ruler with large numbers on it, propped next to what looked to Wyatt like a ridge of dirt.

  “Okay,” Wyatt muttered to himself, pulling his own flashlight out and thumbing it on. En garde. He crossed the other man’s beam with his own. “Hey. Excuse me, Professor?” he said loud enough that heads turned from the farthest spotlight pole.

  Wyatt heard drops of rain spattering on the brim of his Stetson as the guy thumbed off the flashlight and pushed his hoodie back. Wyatt spotted a black ponytail. Oh, hell. This was no gray-haired scholar with a tweed jacket and Mister Magoo glasses. He was a long-haired hippie type.

  Just what he needed, along with everything else. He hoped the guy didn’t have a cause that could interfere with this investigation.

  The professor rose from his haunches and lifted his head.

  “Hey to you.” The voice was low and throaty.

  Low, throaty and undeniably feminine. Wyatt blinked. It matched the pale, oval, feminine face, framed by a midnight-black crown of hair pulled haphazardly back into a ponytail.

  He’d heard that voice, seen that face, wished he could touch that hair, before.

  “Oh, hell,” he whispered.

  “Yes, you already said that.”

  Had he? Out loud? He clamped his jaw.

  She turned to look at the kid with the spotlight. “Let’s get that canopy back up. It’s starting to rain.” Then she gestured to the two standing beside her. “Help them. No. Leave my kit here.”

  Then she tugged off her gloves and wiped a slender palm from her forehead back to the crown of her head. The gesture smoothed away the strands of hair that had been stuck to her damp skin, along with several starry droplets of rain.

  Wyatt wasn’t happy that he remembered how hard she had to work to tame that hair.

  “I have to say, though, I’m really fond of hey. You’re just as eloquent and charming as I remember,” she said.

  He felt irritation ballooning in his chest. He could show her eloquent and charming.

  No. Screw it. She didn’t deserve to see his charming side. Ever.

  “The name listed on the task force was George Mayfield, from some university. Not Nina Jacobson,” he informed her.

  Her lips, which were annoyingly red, turned up. “Texas State. And that’s right. It was supposed to be George Mayfield. Think of this as a last-minute change.”

  “I’m thinking of it as a long, thick string being pulled. Where’s Spears?”

  “Who?”

  “The deputy who’s supposed to be guarding my crime scene.”

  “Oh. Of course. Kirby.” She smiled. “He’s very helpful. I told him he could leave.”

  “And he did?”

  She nodded.

  He was about two seconds away from exploding. He lowered his head, and water poured off the brim of his Stetson, onto her pants.

  “Oh!” she cried, brushing at them. “You did that on purpose.”

  “I wish,” he said firmly, working hard not to smile. “I want these people out of here.”

  “No.”

  “What? Did you just say no?”

  “That’s right. No. I need them here. It’s already started to sprinkle rain. If we’re not careful, we’re going to lose evidence.”

  That reminded him of what she had said about the canopy. “You took down the canopy? Have you totally contaminated the scene?”

  “The canopy was collapsing. It was about to dump gallons of water right into the middle of the site.”

  He glowered at her. “Well, I’m not having a bunch of college brats stomping all over my crime scene. This is not a field trip. It’s serious business. More serious than you may know.”

  Nina’s pretty face stiffened, as did her sweatshirt-clad shoulders and back. “I am perfectly aware of how serious this find is. You, of all people, should understand just how aware I am.”

  Now his eyes were burning as badly as his chest. He squeezed them shut for a second and took a deep breath, trying to rein in his temper. “Get them out of here,” he said slowly and evenly.

  Nina’s eyes met his and widened. To her credit, she lifted her chin. But she also swallowed nervously, and her hand twitched. She showed great control in not lifting it to clutch at her throat.

  But then, she’d always showed admirable control, unlike her best friend, Marcie. It had baffled him how the two of them—so completely different—had ever become so close.

  He held her gaze, not an easy task with those intimidating dark eyes, until she faltered and looked away.

  He’d gotten to her, and he was glad. Last time they’d seen each other, she’d had the final word.

  It’s your fault. My best friend could be dead, and it’s all your fault. You were supposed to protect her.

  She stepped past him with feminine dignity and walked over to the kid whose pants were still drooping.

  He heard him say, “Yes, ma’am.” Then he heard her say, “Okay, guys. Let’s put this equipment away. We’re done for the night. We’ll get started again in the morning.”

  Wyatt turned and found Nina staring at him. “They’re done, period, Professor.”

  This time her chin went up and stayed up. “We’ll see about that tomorrow, Lieutenant. And I’m not a professor. I’m a fellow.”

  Wyatt felt a mean urge and acted on it before his better judgment could stop him. He
shook his head. “No, Professor, you’re definitely not a fellow. I can attest to that.”

  “Go to hell,” she snapped.

  “Charming,” he muttered.

  She turned away, so quickly that her ponytail almost slapped her in the face, and followed the students to the SUVs.

  Wyatt took off his hat and slung the water off the brim, ran a hand through his hair, then seated the Stetson back on his head. The rain had settled into a miserable drizzle, the drops falling just fast enough to seep through clothes and just slow enough to piss him off.

  He went back to the Jeep and got a roll of crime-scene tape. Obviously one thickness of yellow tape around the perimeter wasn’t warning enough. Not that twenty thicknesses would actually keep anyone from getting to the newly discovered grave, but the tape, plus the deputy, who was supposed to be here by midnight and guard the scene until morning, would be a deterrent.

  At least for law-abiding folks.

  By the time he was finished retaping the perimeter, three times over, most of the equipment was gone from the site and the two SUVs had loaded up and left.

  He looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. An hour until Sheriff Hardin’s second deputy arrived. He debated calling Hardin and reaming him and his deputy for leaving the crime scene unguarded. But he could just as easily do that tomorrow morning.

  He crossed his arms and surveyed the scene. At least the rain had stopped for the moment. He took off his hat again and slapped it against his thigh, knocking more water off the brim, then seated it back on his head.