Gambling on a Dream (15 page)

She closed her eyes and went back to the day her life shattered around her.

Her skin itched, and a chill prickled her bear arms. Something was going to happen, but good or bad, she had no idea.

“
Got the money?
”
The dealer stepped out of the shadow of the pillar holding up the interstate. At this time of night, about the only thing on the highway was truck traffic. The street, running under the bridge and to the left of the deal, was abandoned.

Eduardo Guerrero was the leader of a small gang, setting up shop in this area. And he was a killer. He had three warrants out for his arrest
--
two for murder and one for armed robbery. It irritated her that she couldn’t haul his ass in for those, but she’d learned a long time ago these thugs knew how to get out of things like that. To get them off the street, the gang had to be toppled.

Armed to the teeth under their leather and denim coats, Guerrero glanced at his lieutenant, who stood back. They didn’t trust her yet. She was losing the edge she had a few months ago when she and Wyatt took down the drug ring within the Blood Dragons.

Turning thirty had been such a pain in the ass.

Especially when she was pretending to be someone who’d just turned twenty-one.

Hell, she could barely remember being that young.

The lieutenant nodded at the dealer and headed toward the street, a switchblade and a gun stuck into his belt. His name was Dominic Sanchez, and he had at least two warrants for drug dealing, and one for armed robbery.

“
Si.
”
She slipped into the Hispanic accent she’d perfected last year and gave Eduardo a come-hither smile. He’d been eyeing her up since she’d met him last month.
“
A grand.
”

He glanced around and held out his hand. His long coat opened to show what looked like a military issue Beretta tucked into his belt.
“
Give me the cash, and you’ll get your product.
”

She reached into the large bag slung over her shoulder and pulled out the money, making sure to give the kid a nice look of the goods her low-cut tank showed off, but just a quick peek. The last thing she wanted was to seem too eager.

For one thing, she was wired to the hilt with a microphone sown into the top’s seam and a small camera fixed in the center flower decoration between her boobs. Second, the greasy creep made her skin crawl, and finally, Wyatt watched and listened in the van out on the street.

She would have preferred not to be so skimpily dressed, and not because she minded the thugs’ lustful stares or the bite of the September night’s air, but she missed her Kevlar vest.

This was the last time she would do this. Her fear of Wyatt’s reaction to the news wasn’t worth the possible danger she put herself and their baby in.

Eduardo handed her a white package wrapped in cellophane. Cocaine. She smiled again and tucked it into the bag. The denim hobo purse hit her bare thigh below her cutoff shorts. She suddenly wished the weight were her Glock and not a small fortune of nose candy.

A car door closing and yelling in the street cut through her like a cold wind as she looked in the direction of the van.

Oh, God, no!

Sanchez held Wyatt with a switchblade knife at his throat as he marched the man she loved across the street. Wyatt glanced at her with a stoic set to his jaw and a gleam in his eyes.

Dear God, he had a plan. She’d seen that expression more than once.

Things happened so fast from there. Wyatt somehow pulled the gun from the kid’s belt and shot Sanchez before he had a chance to realize what was happening. At the same time, Eduardo aimed his gun at Wyatt’s head. She rushed Eduardo and grabbed for the gun. The thug pushed her off, and before Wyatt reached her, the gun discharged.

The pain above her left breast bloomed into a scream of…

“Dawn?”

She jerked her eyes open. Her head rested in her arms on her desk. Sitting up, she swallowed back the sob in her throat. God, how she hated reliving that night over and over again.

Rubbing the sleep and the remnants of the dream from her face, she said, “Chet, what’s going on?”

He shrugged and sat in the seat Wyatt had vacated earlier. “Nothing much.” Nodding toward the sheet of paper on her desk, he folded his hands over his chest. “I figured you’d want the report on the Cartwright twins versus Joe Farley.”

She stretched her neck to the left, then the right, trying to get the kink out of it. How long had she been asleep? She glanced at her watch. Crap, she’d slept at least two hours. “Since you’re smiling, I can assume everything worked out.”

He chuckled and shifted in his seat. “Yep. Hey, I heard some scuttlebutt about that Demello kid being here all night. What’s that all about?”

Dawn glanced at the old stained Mr. Coffee in the corner, but the thing was dry as the Badlands and looked as unappealing too. Damn. She needed a cup of joe.

“You aren’t on the case anymore, Hendricks.” She got up to make a pot of coffee.

A finger of apprehension tickled down her spine from him watching her as she filled the pot from the water cooler next to the file cabinet.

“So you’ve said, but I still care what happens. When you lose the election in a few weeks, this will become my nightmare.”

She narrowed her eyes at him over her shoulder. “Let’s keep politics and your wishful thinking out of it.”

As she poured the water into the reservoir, he asked, “Did he talk?”

She dumped coffee grounds into the basket and turned around. “Not much. Only gave us some details of how the supplier does business.”

“What do you know?”

She put her cup under the flowing stream of dark, pungent coffee, wishing she could hook up an IV of the stuff. “This guy’s bound to screw up.” Stirring in some of the powdered creamer, she looked over her shoulder at him again. “Trust me. They always do.”

* * * *

Dawn downed two pots of coffee and signed off on some of the reports piling on her desk before heading home at around three in the afternoon. She had the air conditioner blasting icy air into her face and the radio turned up to ear splitting, so she could stay awake as she drove.

She knew better than to let herself get this exhausted. But after her dream, she didn’t want to be alone.

Being alone gave her time to think.

What if Wyatt did have everything under control?

What if she hadn’t rushed Guerrero?

Could Wyatt have shot the kid before being shot himself?

She shook her head to dispel the questions as much as to prevent her eyes from closing.

As she crossed the bridge over Oak Springs Creek, she tapped the brake to enter the turn. The pedal went to the floor with no resistance, and instead of going slower, she sped up.

Oh crap!

The brakes were out. She couldn’t panic, not now. Hoping to slow down, she put the truck in low gear. But it was still too fast for the curves in this stretch of Blackwell Road.

A horn blared as she rounded the curve near the entrance of the Estrada ranch. She was over in the other lane, and a truck rushed toward her. Jerking the wheel, she got out of the oncoming pickup’s path and lost control.

The last thing she saw before impact was a mailbox containing the name
McPherson
.

* * * *

Wyatt put away the cans of spray paint and the stencil of his name he’d used to repaint the old mailbox. He hadn’t decided on a name for his place, but figured calling it the McPherson Ranch was okay for the time being. As he wiped his hands on a rag, he looked around at the old junk Luis Estrada had left in the tool shed beside the barn. Rusty garden implements and hand tools hung on a pegboard made from sixteen-penny nails hammered part way into a piece of plywood. The lawn mower parked in the corner was missing its left front wheel.

Thank God, the house had been emptied out. The Estradas moved out over the weekend and headed for Phoenix. On Columbus Day, he’d moved the bulk of his stuff in with help from his family.

Fortunately for him, he didn’t have much. An old leather couch and recliner, flat screen TV he’d mounted to the wall, a kitchen table and chairs, some gym equipment, and his bedroom furniture.

A car horn blast sounded from the road, and he looked out around the doorframe of the shed. A pickup truck with the logo of the CW Ranch swerved to miss a dark blue truck taking the curve in that stretch of the road way too fast.

“What the hell…” He rushed out of the shed to the driveway as the Ford F-150, which he recognized as Dawn’s, crashed into his newly painted mailbox and took out part of the picket fence before coming to rest against the hundred-year-old oak tree standing in the middle of his front yard.

“Dawn!” His heart slammed against his ribs, and he took off at a dead run, jumping over the low fence surrounding the yard. Steam and smoke rose from the ruined engine, and the sour odor of gasoline filled his nose. “Dawn, are you all right?”

He reached the driver’s door and was vaguely aware of the CW pickup pulling into his drive.

A door slammed and the driver of the truck asked, “Wyatt, is she okay?”

“Oh God, Dawn. Are you okay?” Wyatt reached for the handle of her door. His heart raced as images of when she was shot came rushing through his brain. He hadn’t been able to protect her then, and now she’d crashed against his tree. The airbags had deployed, and their deflating mess cushioned her. She moaned but wasn’t awake. Blood trickled from a nasty cut on her forehead.

“How bad is she hurt? She was on my side of the road coming at me like a bat out of hell.” Wyatt recognized the voice of Jeremy Greenberg, the Cartwright’s horse trainer, as he ran up beside him.

He didn’t look at Greenberg. He was too scared for the woman in the broken truck. “Call for an ambulance.”

The ambulance and a fire truck took twenty minutes to get to the ranch. Wyatt stayed with her the whole time.

His dad climbed out of the passenger’s seat of the fire truck as soon as the thing stopped, which surprised him. He must have needed to get way from the mess at home as much as Wyatt. Dad and the two EMTs from the ambulance rushed over to the crashed truck. He glanced inside at Dawn. “Is she okay?”

Wyatt met his dad and nodded. “I think so, but she hasn’t come to yet. She must have hit her head pretty hard.”

His dad motioned for him to step back as his crew and the EMTs got her out the truck and strapped on a gurney. “We’ll take good care of her, son.”

He nodded and ran his hand through his hair. He must have lost his hat when he jumped over the fence. Funny, he hadn’t even missed it until now. He looked around, and sure enough, the old Stetson lay on the grass near the fence. “I know.”

Wyatt jerked his chin toward Greenberg, who leaned against his truck, talking on his cellphone and smoking a cigarette. “He said she was driving erratically and swerved to miss him.”

“Want me to call for a deputy to come out here?” Dad narrowed his eyes on him.

“Yeah, but call Tilly direct. He’ll be in charge until Dawn’s back on her feet.”

“Chief, we’re ready to go,” one of the EMTs called from the back of the ambulance to his father.

Wyatt swallowed and met his Dad’s searching gaze.

Dad jerked his head toward the ambulance. “Go with her. I’ll stay here and wait for Tilly. I’ve had my share of hospitals for a while.”

“Thanks.” With his heart racing, Wyatt nodded and ran for the open gate. On the way, he scooped up his hat. “Hey, wait. I’ll ride along.”

Dawn woke up, her body blazing in pain from her head to her feet. With more energy than the action should have required, she lifted her hand to her pounding head and moaned when she met a large bandage on the right side of her face.

“Welcome back, Sheriff Madison. I’m Dr. Forsyth.”

She turned toward the sound of the voice to find a man wearing a white coat at the foot of her bed, looking at a medical chart. She must be in the county hospital. “What happened?”

“You were in an accident.” The doctor closed the chart and put it back in a slot on the footboard. “You have a concussion, and I put ten stitches in a cut on your forehead.” He moved to the side of the bed and pulled a small flashlight from his pocket.

“Uh…” She blinked when the bright light stabbed through her skull as he checked the pupil of her right eye.

“Sorry.” He moved the light to the other eyeball. “Good.” He finished and moved away with his torture light.

“How long will she be in here?”

Wyatt?
He stood near the window with his hands in his pockets. Her heart did a funny little flip-flop in her chest. What was he doing here?

She quickly answered her own question. He’d probably been here with Rachel when she was brought in and felt obligated to see her.

The doctor turned toward him. “At least overnight for observation.” He folded his arms and smiled at her. “Do you remember anything?”

The last thing she remembered with any sort of clarity was leaving her office. “Not of the accident.”

There was a rap on the door, and the sound hammered through her head.

“Is it okay to come in?” Tilly filled the doorway, holding his tan Stetson in his hand. “I have some news about what happened.”

The doctor headed toward the door. “Sure. Just don’t stay too long.”

“Thanks Doc. You’re the new guy on staff.” Tilly entered the room and faced the doctor.

“Yes. I just moved here about two weeks ago.”

Tilly smiled and held out his hand. “Tillman Kennedy. My wife, Barb, is one of the nurses here. She said you were over in the war. What branch of the service?”

“Ah, Mrs. Kennedy. She keeps me in line.” The doctor shook Tilly’s hand with a broad smile. “I was a contractor over in Afghanistan. But I did six years in the Navy. That’s who paid for my training.”

Tilly laughed. “Well, Barb is good at keeping folks in line. I think you’ll like it here.”

“He knew Rachel from over there too,” Wyatt said from his spot at the window.

Tilly tossed his hat onto a chair in the corner. “Barb said you’re her doctor. Take care of that girl, Doc. And this one too.” He pointed at Dawn.