“No. I’ve never heard of him.”
“The thing is, destruction like that looks to be personal. You gotta figure there’s some kinda connection.”
“I’m telling you I don’t know him.”
The sheriff turned to Linc. “What about you? Appears you’re in the picture now. Whole town’s talkin’ about Carly staying with you out at your place. This guy got some kind of beef with you? Maybe he’s taking it out on the little lady?”
Carly’s mind slid past the irritating phrase to the news that the whole town was talking about her. But then she had known that already.
“I’ve got enemies,” Linc admitted. “None by the name of Ray Archer.”
“Well, I guess we’ll see.” The sheriff lumbered to his feet, hitching his pants up so they fit better over his belly. “Anything new turns up, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, till we find this guy and bring him in, you best keep your eyes open.”
Linc made no reply.
It wasn’t surprising that a man as successful as Linc had enemies, but obviously so did she.
Carly felt as if the weight of the world had settled on her shoulders. Who the hell was Ray Archer? Was the trashing of her house really personal? If so, why was his anger directed at her?
Chapter Nineteen
Linc pulled the truck out onto the road and started back to the ranch house. As the GMC picked up speed, he hit the command button on his steering wheel.
“Dial Ross Townsend,” he said into the mic. The call went through and the phone began to ring.
“Townsend.” Ross’s voice came over the speaker.
“The guy who trashed Carly’s house? Name is Raymond Jackson Archer. He’s out of Austin, arrested six days ago on a domestic violence charge, and skipped bail. I want everything you can find on him.”
“I’m on it,” Townsend said.
“You still at the house?”
“I was planning to drive back to Dallas this afternoon, but I can work from here if you think I need to stay.”
“Plan on it. I want that info ASAP. I’ll talk to you when I get there.” He disconnected the line.
On the seat next to him, Carly rode in silence. She’d had a rough day and it was just early afternoon.
In the distance, the big iron gates of Blackland Ranch appeared, guardsposted at the entrance. Linc groaned as he spotted the group in front of the wrought-iron fence. The protestors were back, milling and marching and singing, waving their signs in the air.
“I really don’t need this today,” he growled. He already had more than enough on his plate without this bunch of crazies. “There’s a dirt road into the back of the ranch, but it’s pretty rough and it’s miles out of the way. Might be worth the trouble.”
“We’re already here,” Carly said, stating the obvious.
Linc pulled up and the gates slowly swung open. A couple of protestors tried to push their way onto the property but two guys on ATVs rode up and blocked their way.
Linc drove through the gate to the sound of shouts and jeers and the gates closed behind them.
“I’m liking your helicopter better all the time,” Carly said.
Linc felt the pull of a smile. “It does have its advantages.”
Passing the main house, he drove on down the dirt road toward home. Once they were settled inside, he walked over to the wet bar built into a wall in the living room and opened the dark oak cabinet.
“You want a drink? I’m pouring myself three fingers of whiskey. You’re welcome to join me.”
“Sounds perfect,” she said. “I’ll take mine neat.”
