Twice A Target (Task Force Eagle) (23 page)

“So you wrote that cowardly note and left.”

“But this time is different. We’re—”

“Sure as hell is. You have a job to go to. A life away
from this valley. A career. No reason to stay here as soon as Bobby’s custody’s
all set with me and we catch this killer.”

“If you believe that, you weren’t listening when I
told you why I thought about investing in the Circle-S.”

“You say you want a home and a family, but for how
long?”

Tomorrow he’d need all his professional senses tuned
if the trap they’d devised were to work. How could he wall off his emotions
from duty if he spent the night in her bed? She’d be leaving, not tomorrow, but
soon, and he needed more entanglement with her like he needed a kick in the
head.

“Good night, Maddy.” He turned and walked away. It was
one of the hardest things he’d ever done. A small voice in his head asked if it
was also the stupidest.

*****

An hour later, Maddy tossed, awake and aching with
emptiness in the king-sized bed. He wanted her. She knew it. But something—his
overinflated sense of responsibility and pride—had stopped him. And his
embedded distrust of her had sunk deeper than she could root out.

Too much stood between them. When she left, she
couldn’t return. Ever.

Good thing she’d already telephoned her agent and
arranged for a flight from New York to Paris in two weeks. She curled into a
ball in the dark. The hurt grabbed at her throat, suffocated her.

The bedroom door swung inward, shafting light across
the foot of the bed. Holt stood in the opening. Barefoot, he wore only boxers.
His hair stood on end as if he’d tortured his pillow the same way she had.

“If I can’t sleep for wanting you, I’ll be no good to
you tomorrow.” She couldn’t see his face, but every muscle gilded by the hall
light bulged with strain, radiated tension.

The ache in Maddy’s chest eased a notch, and her heart
throbbed an erratic beat. He may not love her, but she’d have one more night,
one more memory, by heaven.

She sat up and peeled off her sleepshirt. She summoned
a welcoming smile. “Come here. You can get some sleep—later.”

Chapter 23

Saturday’s blue sky provided the perfect weather for
the Cowboy Action Shooting matches at the Circle-S. When Holt wasn’t looking,
spring had slipped over the Rockies with soft air and green leaves. The only
ominous darkness existed inside him. He and Maddy arrived at nine-thirty, in
time to observe competitors sign in.

“Except for the registration packets, you’d think we’d
stepped into the Old West,” she said. “And the lack of horses.” Which were all
safely stabled far beyond the action and noise.

The porch on the main house now sported a false-front
street scene with a saloon’s swinging door and a general store. Several dozen
people in period and Western-movie attire milled around before it on the broad
lawn. Welcoming everyone, Will Rafferty glad-handed his way through the crowd.

Holt watched Maddy eye the six-guns strapped on every
hip and the standing racks full of Winchester and Marlin lever-guns and
double-barrel and pump shotguns. It was obvious what she was thinking. Whether
replica or refurbished antique, every firearm was deadly. And anyone here, even
Will Rafferty, could be the person hired to kill her.

Those around the sheriff’s conference room had agreed
the killer was someone local. Some uncertainty about that ate at him. No one
had been seen in the high meadow or near the Valley-D. And here was Maddy in a
crowd of both locals and strangers. Her shoulders shook in a small shudder
before she focused her camera on the colorful crowd.

A woman in a divided skirt and leather vest regaled a
huge, mustached man in the blue and gold uniform of the United States Cavalry
with her exploits at the last match. A tinhorn gambler in a black Western-cut
jacket and string tie stood to one side and surveyed the crowd. Maddy scowled
at him as if imagining him plotting his opportunity. Holt could put her mind at
rest on that one, at least.

“Those two are probably swapping lies,” he whispered.
“And the gambler’s Doc Warner, Bobby’s pediatrician.”

“The pediatrician, really? Paranoid, that’s me, seeing
bad guys everywhere.” She lifted her chin. “I need to get a grip, think about
my job today, whether the three different lenses I brought are adequate.”

He’d make damned certain she made it through the day
alive, even if it meant hovering over her like a Secret Service Agent
protecting the First Lady.

While they people-watched, a Rock County cruiser
pulled up and disgorged Sheriff Foley and Luke Rafferty. Agents Bonnyman and
Salazar arrived separately and threaded into the crowd. Even Chris Hawke in
cavalry scout garb appeared and waved to them. Another undercover DEA agent was
supposed to keep an eye on Luke, although Holt had suggested they confront the deputy
with their suspicions.

When Maddy spied Luke, she nudged Holt. “You were
going to tell me what the DEA uncovered about him.”

“He didn’t leave Denver in disgrace after all. Luke’s
partner was killed during a raid on a gas station stick-up suspect. No one but
Luke blamed Luke for his partner’s death, although that’s why he resigned and
came home.”

“And why he doesn’t talk about it.” Sadness overlay
the anxiety in her eyes. “Doesn’t seem like much of a reason to suspect him.”

For now. Holt rotated the tension from his jaw. “Guilt
and self-loathing can send a man down the wrong road for no good reason at
all.”

“Suspect everyone. Trust no one. Is that your motto?”
Her tone and smile didn’t match. On a sigh, she turned her camera toward the
assortment of vendors setting up stands.

He blinked at the cynicism. “In this situation, it
sure as hell is.”

Signs hawked local crafts, food, “Authentic Western
Duds,” and supplies for antique guns. Will hadn’t mentioned vendors. Another
set of possibilities. The pressure in Holt’s jaw shot warning salvos down his
spine.

“I’ve photographed a few historical re-enactments and
Renaissance festivals,” Maddy said. “Those enthusiasts staged a rehearsed show.
The competition here adds a layer of excitement and realism the others lacked.”

Babbling, talking too fast. “You okay, Maddy?”

“I’ve had photo gigs in many dangerous spots
before—war-ravaged countries and earthquake-leveled cities where aftershocks
could slam you at any minute. I’ve never deliberately set myself up as a target.
But I can do this.”

“Like you said, immerse yourself in taking your
pictures and forget about the danger,” he said. “Trust me and the others to do
our jobs.”

A wistful smile quirked her mouth. She placed a soft
hand on his cheek. “Trust. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

Uh oh.
She was no longer talking about letting
him protect her. “Maddy, I trust you in lots of ways. You’ve saved my ass in
more ways than one by staying to look after Bobby. Not to mention ranch work.
You put yourself in the crosshairs of a killer in a fight that never should’ve
been yours. I trust your courage. I trust you to take care of my nephew. I
trust you to see this through.”

“But even though we’re married, you don’t trust me to
stay with
you
. You can’t let go of the past. I see it in your eyes.” In
hers, tears glistened. “Is it guilt, Holt? Is it doubt about my character? Or
do you simply not love me?”

Before he could reply, Will Rafferty joined them.

“Hey, lovebirds,” Will called. “Heard you eloped. You
should’ve told us. Too bad about the barn. But we could throw a wedding party
and barn raising all in one.” He clapped Holt on the back.

Holt straightened his hat brim and rubbed his nape.
Will knew nothing of the joint DEA-sheriff’s office plan. Once he found
out—supposing his innocence—would he remain the genial host? “Seems like
everyone knows already. No need to send out engraved announcements.”

Will guffawed. He handed them each a booklet of the
day’s shooting events. “Let me take you away from this unromantic bum, ma’am.
I’ll show you around, explain the stages and the layout for the day.”

Holt was supposed to keep his distance while
coordinating props for the stages of shooting. Maddy ought to be safe until the
matches started with their noisy cover of gunfire, smoke, and hullabaloo, but
he didn’t like sending her off alone with their host. Or anyone.

“Holt?” Her pansy eyes widened with anxiety before she
caught herself and smiled.

“I’ll be around...if you need me.”

She dropped her camera case and flung her arms around
his neck. “I’ll always need you,” she whispered. “You’d better get used to it.
But I’ll be fine for now.”

She kissed him deeply. He hesitated, but then his arms
went around her, crushing her to him as he returned the embrace, physically
communicating all the passion and conflicting emotions he couldn’t otherwise
express.

Making love with her had shown him how much he needed
her. It had fanned his feelings into such a swirl he might never sort them out.
He had to stop that whirlwind and steel himself to be the professional she
needed to protect her. But for now, he was enjoying losing himself in her.

“If this goes on any longer, I’m going to sell
tickets,” Will said.

Grinning, Maddy backed away and slung her case over
her shoulder.

“See you later,” Holt muttered.

She waved and strode away with the rancher.

Holt meandered along at a distance while Will showed
her each of the six one-to-four-gun “stages,” or competitive courses of fire.
The stages were placed around the outbuildings, in the corral and in one
meadow. Each stage required the shooters to act out a scenario by blasting
steel targets in a prescribed sequence with pre-1899-style weapons. Scoring was
based on timing and accuracy. For that day, about eighty shooters had registered,
and they would rotate among the stages in “posses” of eight or ten.

Excusing himself to go check on some of the props,
Will left her at the first stage, outside the hay barn.

Holt hung back as she focused and began capturing the
scene on film. Neither of them had dressed for this time-machine trip. Her
denim jacket and faded jeans weren’t out of place, but the Notre Dame cap
didn’t quite cut it. She bent and twisted to snap pictures. He couldn’t stop a
grin. She was already deep into it, unaware of his surveillance as he gathered
props for the next stage.

The front of the barn had been transformed into the
inside of a saloon, complete with card table and dummy gamblers. The scenario
involved a crooked game and an escape, the booklet said. It required the
shooter to use both a pistol and a rifle. Six-guns held only five rounds, with
one chamber left empty for safety. Silhouettes of other gamblers blocked the
path to a steel-drum horse. Smaller targets designated as “vultures” completed
the stage.

Bronc was in the first posse to compete. As he
prepared to shoot, he grinned at Maddy and tipped an enormous black hat made
even more towering with an eagle feather. His bib-front flannel shirt, leather
gauntlets, homespun trousers, and high black boots fit his alias of “Buffalo
Bronc.” Most of the shooters looked too twenty-first-century well fed to be
authentic, but Bronc’s wiry form and weathered face made him kin to Buffalo
Bill’s prairie marksmen.

Buffalo Bronc took his place at the card table, and a
beep began the timing. Acting outraged, Bronc leaped to his feet, and his
six-gun blazed at the two cheating cardsharps still seated opposite him.

The metal targets rang like bells as they were hit,
and gunsmoke hung in the crisp morning air. Its acrid smell drifted to Holt
with the usual scents of hay and dust. Maddy clicked at Bronc shooting the
prescribed targets in sequence.

She knelt in front of the smattering of colorfully
dressed on-lookers and waiting shooters. A prime target. Dammit,.

Holt swept a gaze around the vicinity of the barn. Any
guns visible were holstered or carried with the action open. The club members
were fiercely rigid about safety, thank God. But might someone
pretend
to be careless?

Gunfire erupted again as Bronc dashed out onto the “street”
and blasted the three “gamblers” in his way. Holstering his pistol, he mounted
the “horse.” From the saddlebag, he withdrew a rifle and shells. On another
beep from the timer, he loaded a round and leveled one vulture, reloaded and
wasted the other vulture. A final beep ended the shoot.

After collecting his spent shells, Buffalo Bronc
swaggered over to Maddy. Holt couldn’t hear their words, but he’d bet the old
cowboy was downplaying how well he’d done and expounding on how hard the next
stages would be.

She photographed two more shooters before she moved on
to another stage. Will had said he wanted pictures of the action at all six
stages as well as the winners and the team shoot at the end.

Holt’s other duties called him to the opposite side of
the ranch compound. He helped settle a dispute between two vendors about a
prime location. Then he and Chris Hawke carried new dummies to a stage where a
novice shooter had pulverized the wrong targets.

Chris nodded toward where Maddy was snapping the adjacent
stage. “Looks like your lady’s having a blast,” he said as they entered the
corral.

Holt winced. She crouched nearly in the line of fire.
Anything for a good angle. “Very funny choice of words.”

His friend’s ebony eyes gleamed. “You spotted the
undercover agents?” He set the ranch-wife dummy in the wagon.

“A few. Bonnyman’s competing in two of the stages and
the team shoot. Talked the Denver club into including her. The sheriff and Luke
are just patrolling.”

Chris frowned. “Making their presence obvious may be
too much of a deterrent. You’re hoping to invite an attack, or am I mistaken?”

“That’s the plan.” Holt’s spine tingled from neck to
butt. “My sixth sense tells me the shooter’s here. Whether he’ll try anything
is anyone’s guess. I’m surprised you’re part of this shindig. Not your sort of
thing.”

Chris’s Indian scout outfit consisted of cavalry
trousers and a fringed shirt topped with a beaded headband. He shook his head.
“Faith asked me to come. Said they needed the help. This is the biggest match
the Circle-S has ever hosted.” His opaque gaze invited no more questions.

Chris and Faith Rafferty had dated for a time before
her injury. But what happened to the relationship was a mystery. Holt wouldn’t
ask now.

The shooting events progressed through the day and
wore on his nerves. He gritted his teeth and tried to remain calm for Maddy’s
sake. She appeared to be having the time of her life, laughing and joking with
the costumed shooters, changing filters and lenses as fast as she could click
through the frames.

By mid-afternoon, all the shooters had finished the
six stages. While the officials tallied the results, a team shoot between two
of the clubs would take place. In the meadow, Holt and Chris hung two thick
wooden posts horizontally between supports. Each team would race to cut their
post in two with a blast of firepower from all their weapons—pistols, rifles,
and shotguns.

Two-by-tens formed three tiers of a makeshift
grandstand against the barn, and chattering shooters filed into them for the rest
of the entertainment. An empty corral joined the barn at its far end along with
a jumble of small sheds at both ends. A light breeze blew across the meadow,
bringing with it the scents of new grass and meadow muffins.

Maddy rushed to him and hugged him around the waist.
“This has been such fun. I totally forgot about the danger.” She glanced around
conspiratorially. “Looks like our shooter chickened out.”

Because others were watching the honeymooners and to
please himself, he flipped off her cap and kissed the top of her head. “I hope
you’re right. But the horses aren’t all in the barn yet.”

She sputtered a laugh. “How folksy. Or is that secret
agent code?”