She ended the call and then sat motionless, remembering. Whenever she got involved, things became complicated, sometimes dangerous. El Paso had taught her that.
But she couldn’t ignore the fear she’d felt, or the things she’d seen. Or that a teenage girl was out there somewhere, captive, terrified, maybe fighting to stay alive.
If calling meant trouble landed on her doorstep again, so be it. She couldn’t stand by and do nothing.
Cheyenne deserved better. Anyone would.
Chapter 2
A Texas Ranger for over two decades, Vince Cooper had seen his fair share of nasty crime scenes. This one, however, lodged under his skin.
A woman who hadn’t deserved such a violent end lay still beneath the harsh investigative lights. Blood pooled on the living room hardwood where she’d bled out from a slashed throat. Fingers numbered nine. The rest of the house was spotless.
The evidence team had been working diligently for over an hour. Except for Debra Wilson’s lifeless body, there were no leads yet. No forced entry, no droplets in the hall, no bloody footprints, and no apparent motive.
Tonight’s call seemed routine; an anonymous woman had requested a welfare check.
She’d been paying attention. The house had been dark for days. No cars coming and going. And she’d noticed the Wilsons’ cat, which didn’t usually wander.
Coop stopped at the end of the driveway, gaze sweeping the quiet street. No one was out at this time of night, but neighbors likely watched from behind drawn curtains and cracked blinds. One of them had made that call and refused to give a name. Someone troubled enough to care but wary of authorities. He wanted to understand both her caution and her concern.
Coop took off his Stetson and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Even after dark, the heat and humidity clung to everything like a damp blanket.
What he wouldn’t give to be home right now, reclined, cold beer cracked open, game on low.
Instead, he started across the street toward the only house still lit. It was a small place with white siding, wind chimes tinkling lazily in the breeze, and a couple of potted plants drooping from the heat. It looked cozy, quiet, and normal.
He stopped halfway across the street and cocked his head. A high-pitched wail cut through the stillness. Not a siren. Not a kid. A smoke alarm. His head swung toward the little house; a floodlight in need of a new bulb glowed dimly at the rear corner.
Quickening his pace, he headed toward it. His boots thudded on the pavement, the alarm growing louder and shriller. He was climbing the steps, debating whether to knock or kick in the door.
He didn’t get the chance to decide. A cat bolted off the porch with a hiss as the door burst open. Then a smoking metal disk shot past his face and hit the boards with a violent clatter. It came to a spinning stop an inch from his boots.
Coop stared at what appeared to be a decorative stove cover—warped from the heat, metal charred, paint melted—then at the woman in the doorway.
“Oh my gosh,” she gasped, coughing and fanning her face with an oven mitt as a cloud of smoke billowed behind her. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t expect anyone to be standing there!”
She barely reached his shoulder, maybe late-thirties, flawless skin, and gorgeous. But she was dressed as if she’d come from a concert, circa 1970s, in a gauzy purple dress, a black lace choker hugging her throat, and boots laced up the front. Wisps of honey-blonde hair had escaped whatever had tried, and failed, to contain them.
Dispatch had described the anonymous caller as “a bit flighty,” and there had been mention of a cat. He was pretty sure he’d just found her.
Inside, the alarm shrieked on like a dying banshee.
“Ma’am,” he said, raising his voice to be heard, “is there a fire?”
“No! Well… sort of! I turned on the wrong burner again!” she said, still waving the mitt and coughing. “It’s fine! Everything’s fine!”
It was absolutely not fine.
She darted back inside. Coop followed because the last thing he needed tonight was a second crime scene.
Acrid haze that burned his nose and stung his throat filled the kitchen. Herbs hung drying near the stove. Or they had been drying, before being sacrificed to the havoc she’d unleashed. But there were no visible flames.
He strode to the sink and threw the window open. He also flipped on the exhaust fan over the stove. When he turned, she had dragged a chair under the alarm and climbed up.
“Ma’am, I wouldn’t—”
On her toes, stretching and trying to pry off the alarm cover, the chair wobbled.
