Her Heart-Stealing Cowboys [Hellfire Ranch 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (9 page)

She shrugged. “Not touchy, it’s just uninteresting.”

“Are you going to make me call bullshit again? I hate cussing in front of a lady, but you’re bringing it out in me today.”

“I think that’s my cue to call bullshit on you.”

Wade laughed. The hard curse sounded odd coming from her clipped, Yankee accent. Around Freedom
bullshit
had at least three syllables depending on the speaker. Some liked to elongate bull and others dropped a
y
in shit.
Bull-sheeyut
.

“How about we go out to the bus and I’ll hold your hand while you donate? Then you can tell me all about your wicked childhood while you’re munching on your cookies and juice.”

She tipped her head and the blonde ponytail swung tantalizingly. “You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?”

Wade rose and held out his hand. He couldn’t control his shudder of lust when she stood and took it.

He tucked her into his side and walked through the restaurant. “What’s life without a little challenge?”

The man left the restaurant with an easy, slow stride as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He even nodded to a crowd coming in and held the door open for a straggling older gentleman. He kept a careful air of joviality around him as he walked along the sidewalk and headed for the Calico Queen.

He was quite annoyed with himself. He should have known Fischer had taken a room in the hotel.

Why didn’t I?

The little man had taken great pains to hide his identity from the hotel owner and he probably hadn’t come out very often. That made sense considering his job in town. He also thought Fischer quickly realized just how fucking
friendly
the people of Freedom were. Stranger or not, every blasted citizen seemed to feel the need to hone in and ferret out information from anyone who crossed the city limits.

Good thing he’d been well-prepped for his own mission. He imagined Fischer had been blindsided by the good people at least once and that probably sent him scurrying back to his room until he could skulk in the night.

His lips twitched. “Serves you right, you little rat bastard.” Fischer was disliked by most people, himself included. But for whatever reason the boss had liked the dead man.

Until he’d ordered him killed.

He fished out his disposable cell phone and dialed.

“What do you know?”

No greeting. No small talk. The boss just got down to business. A shiver ran over him. He was the coldest, hardest man he’d ever run across. Getting mixed up in his schemes had likely been a bad idea, but the money was too damn good to turn down. And as long as he did his job, he was probably safe.
Probably
.

“Fischer had a room at the hotel. Did you know?”

“No. You get inside yet?”

He waited at an intersection for the walk light to turn white and allow him to cross. He’d noticed everyone in Freedom obeyed the crosswalk instructions. Since it was vital for him to blend in as much as possible for a stranger—which admittedly wasn’t easy—he waited.

“I’m on my way,” he said. The light turned and he walked into the intersection. A horn beeped and he looked up.

Betty Wagner waved at him from the cab of her beat-up truck.

He lifted a hand in return and pasted a smile on his face. The fake, wide grin made him feel like an idiot but they loved it here.

God save me from country bumpkins.

He made it across the street and picked up his pace. He figured the sheriff wouldn’t be leaving the Tin Star for at least another ten or fifteen minutes. Sadie could talk the ear off an elephant then move to the other side and keep going.

He unlocked his rental car and dropped inside. The engine turned over and a wave of molten hot air blasted his face. He grimaced and opened the door again.

Damn Texas heat.

“Is there anything specific I should look for?” he asked the man on the other end. The worst of the heat dissipated and he put the car into reverse then headed for the Calico Queen. The drive would take all of five minutes but he needed as much time as he could garner.

“His laptop. Fischer was clever and conniving. I have a feeling he’s kept meticulous notes on everything we’ve done.”

His heart faltered. “Notes? Like with names?” A cold shiver blustered through him despite the hot May sun.

“Yes and more information, as well. In the last few weeks he’d been making some inquiries I did not authorize.” A staccato bark of laughter rang in his ear. “He might have been the sneakiest bastard I had on payroll but he wasn’t the smartest. I found out what he was doing minutes after he made the calls.”

Understanding dawned on him. Besides his screw up with Jake Logan and Olivia Martinez, it seemed Fischer had also sought to make his own deals behind the boss’s back. What an idiot.

“Okay, computer. Anything else?”

“Look around, but I doubt you’ll find much that’s useful. I won’t tell you how to do your job, just make sure you get it done. Do it quickly and quietly. I think it’s time you get out of Freedom, too.”

He pulled into the hotel parking lot and climbed from the car.

He opened the door to the Calico Queen and headed down the hallway to Fischer’s room. “I need to stay here at least another few days,” he said.

“Why?”

The cold disapproval made him swallow hard. Orders were to be obeyed instantly.

“I’ve been interacting with people and they know who I am. Who they
think
I am. I can’t just leave without rousing suspicion.” He looked around the deserted hallway but lowered his voice anyway. “It won’t take that damn FBI agent long to figure out the sheriff didn’t have anything to do with Fischer’s death. If I leave now, they might put two and two together.”

Another long silence had him worrying his bottom lip. He checked the doors as he moved through the hallway and stopped when he reached room 120.

“I’m at his room. I’ll call you when I have the laptop.”

“Good.” The line went dead.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and checked the hall again. Overhead he heard the hum and whine of a vacuum cleaner. Good, that meant the maid wouldn’t be back down here for a while.

He pulled out his wallet and flipped open the hidden back panel to withdraw his pick and tension wrench. He fitted the pick into the lock and narrowed his eyes as he felt for the tumblers.

Within seconds they clicked and the door snapped open. He grinned as he stepped inside.

“Piece of cake.”

Whitcombe had assured him the rooms were perfectly safe even without the advent of modern technological wonders such as electronic key-card locks. Breaking in through one of those would have taken a little bit more time but not much.

He shut the door with his hip and surveyed the small room. Except for the dank smell, it was identical to his. The hallway in which he stood held the bathroom and closet doors.

The queen-sized bed sat along one wall with a green duffle bag slouched drunkenly next to it. A box of tissues, a remote control, and a beer bottle littered the nightstand. A double window dominated the far wall, and a chest of drawers with an old-fashioned tube television faced the bed. A digital alarm clock glowed red next to the television.

No computer to be seen.

The air in the room was still and humid. The air conditioning unit under the window was silent and he wondered if Fischer ever turned the thing on. He could probably bake cookies in here it was so damn hot.

He headed for the dresser and reached out to open a drawer then stilled. He didn’t have any gloves with him. He’d not anticipated the need for them today. The only things he carried were his usual knife and lockpick set. He’d been out in town, seeking information on Fischer’s death at the usual hotbeds of gossip. The people of Freedom would put modern intelligence networks to shame.

“Damn,” he muttered. He was running out of time. The sheriff had to be on his way soon.

He went to the duffle and carefully peeled back the limp opening. The rank stench of unwashed socks and underwear gagged him and he coughed as he shoved the bag away.

“Christ,” he muttered and wiped a hand over his mouth. So he wouldn’t use socks to cover his hands.

The white-and-tan tissue box caught his eye. He plucked a tissue out and the box toppled over. Reflexively, he caught it before the box hit the floor. Setting it back on the nightstand, he pulled another tissue out then headed for the dresser.

His heart started to pick up its pace as sweat pooled along his collarbone. Careful to keep the tissues between his fingers and the laminate wood, he opened each drawer. Every last one of them was empty.

“Damn it, Fischer. Where is it?”

He surveyed the room again and tried the nightstand drawer but it held nothing. He slammed it with so much force the lamp wobbled.

“Calm down,” he ordered himself. “Breathe. Concentrate. Think.”

He took in several deep and calming breaths. After the third one he turned and headed for the small hallway. He slipped open the closet door and looked up on the single wooden shelf.

“Bingo,” he said.

A flat, black hotel safe perched on the shelf with the door firmly shut. He tried a number of usual combinations—1111, 6969, 1234—but nothing worked. He should have known Fischer wouldn’t make this easy.

Another trickle of sweat dripped from his forehead and into his eye. He shook his head to dislodge it. Another bead quickly took its place. He wiped the moisture away with the tissue as he glared at the unresponsive lock.

“Come on, Fischer. What is it?”

He tried a few more combinations but the damn safe refused to open. He was going to have to take it with him. He reached up and grabbed the metal side and yanked on it but the tissue made his hold tenuous. He balled them up and shoved them in his pocket only to have one fall out and bounce to the corner of the closet.

“God damn it. I don’t need this aggravation.” He bent to pick it up and toppled over and crashed into the wall. He barely caught himself with a grab at the hanging ironing board. A sharp sting came from his palm. He looked down then cursed again and brought his hand to his mouth to suck away the blood. What the hell had he cut himself on? He checked the side of the board but didn’t see anything.

Just as he reached up for the safe again, he heard voices in the hallway outside and a large number of footsteps.

The sheriff! “Shit,” he whispered.

He tugged at the safe but it refused to budge.

The voices grew louder and more distinct.

His heart thudded and he pulled again.

Nothing.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He backed into the room and glanced wildly around. He had to get out and the front door was no longer an option.

The knob rattled.

“Wait, Whitty.” The sheriff’s voice sounded loudly through the door. “Let’s try the key Fischer had on him. We need to make sure we can prove this is his room beyond a shadow of a doubt. Gotta give him some credit. He was smart to put it on his key ring and disguise it. Deputy Carson, you got the key?”

He turned and sprinted for the window. He shoved aside the room darkening curtains and flipped the locks on the windows and shoved. It went up with a loud screech.

He froze for half a second then busted out the screen and looked around. No one was in the parking lot. He scrambled over the sill but his shirt caught on the metal window frame. A button popped off and he heard the shirt rip.

His nostrils flared as he tried to keep his temper in check. He really liked this shirt. It was one of his favorites.

Focus!

He reached through the window and yanked the curtains closed. He picked up the screen and tried to shove it in place but the damn thing was too old and rickety.

Through the thin slice of curtain he saw the door open.

He dropped the screen and took off at a dead sprint.

* * * *

“Stay back, Whitty. Carson, get up here with that key,” Tag said.

Boone and the two FBI techs stood a few feet away waiting for the all clear.

The deputy was at his side in an instant. He was glad to see she’d donned gloves. She slid the key into the lock and turned it gently. Nothing happened.

He frowned and looked at her. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “It’s unlocked.”

Tag and Boone shared a look. “Unlocked?”

“Oh, I’m sure you must be mistaken,” Whitty piped up. “We stress the importance of safety to all our guests. We insist they lock their door when they leave and use the safe if they have valuables. Of course we also have a bank of safety deposit boxes at the front if they prefer, but most guests like the in-room safe because they can change the code themselves. And when they’re in their room alone, we also remind them to use the chain and deadbolt. Why, I remember—”

“Whitty!” Tag barked.

The man clamped his jaws shut and looked down at his shiny shoes.

Tag felt like he’d just smacked a puppy but he didn’t have time to soothe the old man’s bent nose.

“Tag, did you hear that?” Deputy Carson asked. She was frowning at the door. One hand was on the knob but the other was on the butt of her weapon. She’d dropped into a defensive stance.

He stiffened. “Hear what?”

“I don’t know. A sound from inside maybe? A squeak or screech or something?”

Tag shooed Whitty out of the way and to a safe spot then pulled his weapon and positioned himself on the opposite side of the door.

“Open it,” he said grimly.

She pushed the door open. Nothing happened.

“On three,” he mouthed to Carson.

She nodded and he lifted his hand to count them in.

One.

Two.

Three.

He swung into the doorway crouched low, gun held steady. The air inside the room was dank and foul, like fetid pond water in the middle of a blazing summer. The closet door was bent open, which partially obscured his view. He leaned to the side and visually scanned the room but didn’t see anything. At the back of the small space the curtains twitched and flapped.