Her Cowboy Avenger (14 page)

“They know about you...about our history together. Just as I thought, it made things look even worse. Now they’re even more convinced I killed Bobby.”

“How’d they find out?”

“Walt said he remembered the fuss my father caused over our relationship back then. When he started looking into your background, it all came back to him.”

“Or it never left,” Matt said slowly.

Her frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

“Who better to track me down than a sheriff with police resources?”

“You think Walt’s the one who sent you that article and brought you here?”

“Could be. It would explain how the person who sent the article knew where to find me. If he had something to do with Bobby’s death and wanted to make you look bad, getting me to come here probably was a good way to do it.”

“But Walt still doesn’t have any kind of motive as far as I can tell. And why would he even bother to go to all that trouble when he’d already have plenty to try to frame me with here, especially since he had no reason to believe you would come?”

“I don’t know,” Matt admitted. “It’s just a thought.”

“I’m sure you’re right about one thing, though. I knew whoever brought you here wasn’t doing it to help me.”

“Are you sorry I’m here?” he asked gently. He wouldn’t blame her if she was. Not with the trouble his presence meant for her. Not after what had happened that morning.

Her eyes flickered to his face, then held, stroking over his skin intensely. He went still inside, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

No, that was a lie,
he acknowledged. He knew what he wanted the answer to be. He just couldn’t bring himself to admit it.

“No,” she said finally. “No, I’m not.”

The tightness that had gathered in his chest eased. “Good,” he said. “Because somebody might not have intended for my presence to help you, but that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Same thing as before. Get to the bottom of this. If the sheriff is even more determined to pin this on you, then we just have a little more motivation to solve this thing quicker.”

Her lips twitched humorlessly. “I didn’t really need any more motivation, but all right.”

Matt suddenly recalled the conversation he’d overheard in town, the reminder that it wasn’t just the sheriff who was out to put this on her. It was seemingly everybody in town, which she already knew. They might not need any more motivation, but they certainly had plenty of it.

Unfortunately, they were out of leads at the moment. He wasn’t sure where they could go from here.

Then he looked up and saw the now-familiar word still screaming from the front of the house in bloodred paint.

MURDERER.

No, they didn’t need more motivation. The crude vandalism was evidence of that. But at least that was something they could do.

He nodded at the wall. “I should take care of that. I got the paint. I’ll get started now.”

She followed his gaze. “Good idea. I’ll help you. It’ll be faster that way, and I want it gone as soon as possible. Just let me just put this inside,” she said, indicating the bucket. “I’ll be right back.”

He watched her go, unable to help admiring her walk, glad to see the confidence, the purpose, back in her stride as she quickly climbed the front steps and moved into the house.

The fact that she looked damn good in a pair of jeans didn’t hurt, either.

He shook his head, quickly turning away to start unloading the paint from the truck. Those were exactly the kind of thoughts he couldn’t be having, for both their sakes. Things were messy enough between them.

He hadn’t apologized for earlier, he realized, hadn’t made it up to her. They seemed to have moved past it, and he doubted she’d be interested in bringing up what had happened any more than he really did. It didn’t matter. That look on her face remained with him, reminding him just how carefully he had to tread from now on. He had no interest in seeing that look on her face again.

He’d hurt her enough. He wasn’t going to do it again.

Chapter Eleven

A little after one-thirty in the morning, Matt made another slow circle around the house. He’d started his watch early that night, earlier than what he suspected was necessary, but he wasn’t taking any chances. The night before, the vandal had shown up after two. If he made a return appearance tonight, it would likely be around the same time or later, deeper into the night, but it could be earlier, too. Either way, Matt wanted to be ready.

He doubted he’d be getting much sleep tonight anyway. After everything that had happened that day, there was too much going on in his head, too much on his mind. Weston. Marshall.

Elena.

Stopping in front of the house, Matt breathed deeply, pulling the air into his lungs to clear his thoughts, and stared out over the yard. As he stood there, a vague sense of unease washed over him, making his skin crawl in response.

He didn’t have to wonder about its cause, as he took in the shadows surrounding him, the dark spaces nearby untouched by lights or the moon where anyone could be lurking, hiding. He didn’t sense anyone watching, but his skin still tingled with awareness, the feeling of danger heavy in the air, the knowledge that trouble could be moments away.

Turning slightly, he glanced back at the house. They’d managed to get the front repainted. It seemed the fastest and easiest way to cover the graffiti, which was what mattered most. The paint he’d found almost matched the wall’s original color. He doubted Elena would forget the message had been there, but she had seemed relieved not to have to look at it anymore.

They’d worked well together, he thought, his mouth curving at the memory. First painting the wall, then taking care of things around the ranch. They’d fallen into a natural rhythm that had come easily, picking up each other’s cues, working in sync. It had been nice. He probably shouldn’t think about it, give it more meaning than it deserved, but he couldn’t deny it was true.

The lights were on in the house. He was sure she was still up, probably keeping a watch of her own. Maybe even looking back at him...

With a sigh, he turned away. He needed to keep moving. Not only was there plenty of ground he needed to cover, but it was the only hope he’d have of occupying his mind and thinking of anything else.

Distracted, he heard the muffled footsteps a split second too late.

It was the flash of motion that caught his eye, the sense that something was coming at him—fast.

He started to turn, spotting something arcing toward his head—

He automatically lifted his right arm to block the blow. Instead of his head, the object—hard, metal—slammed into his forearm. Pain exploded in the bone and shot up to the shoulder, his whole body seeming to be jarred by the hit. He reeled back on his heels, a reflexive roar of agony rising into his throat.

There was no time to release it or reach for the gun in his waistband. The attacker was already coming at him again, raising his arm to land another blow.

Seeing it coming, Matt erupted into motion. He threw out his left arm, aiming for the arm wielding the object, blocking it before the attacker could bring it down. Almost at the same time, he pivoted, sending his right elbow straight into the intruder’s gut. The bastard folded over with a grunt. Before he could straighten, Matt brought his left arm down, the force of the hit making the guy lose his grip on the object in his hand.

With a growl of rage, the intruder lunged forward, his head still bent, driving his fist in Matt’s ribs. Stomach tensing against the pain, Matt quickly returned the blow, then another, and another as the man came back throwing punches. They circled round each other, arms thrashing, hands landing punches and grabbing at clothes.

He caught only flashes of his opponent as they grappled. Tall. Broad shoulders. Black clothes. Ski mask covering the face. No way to identify him. More than anything he wanted to rip off the mask, see the bastard’s face. The drive fueled him with every punch he threw, each one he dodged. He didn’t care about getting hurt. Fending off blows was all about being able to get to the guy. Matt had to get to him, had to take him down. He had to be stopped.

“Hey!”

The woman’s voice came as if from a great distance. He barely heard it over the thumping of his heartbeat as he battled with the intruder, unable to slow for an instant, not willing to give an inch.

In the far recesses of his mind, the identification was made.

Elena.
She was out here.

The thought only pushed him to fight harder. She shouldn’t be here. It was dangerous. This bastard was dangerous. He wanted to hurt her—

A gunshot sliced through the air, the noise nearly deafening.

Matt and his opponent froze simultaneously, both shocked into stillness by the loudness, the nearness of the gunshot.

What had happened? Had someone been shot—

The intruder recovered first, landing a blow to Matt’s gut, which he never saw coming. Pain ripped through his abdomen, his body automatically folding over in response. The bastard gave him a hard shove, sending him crashing to the dirt.

Matt had barely landed before he was putting his hands out to ground himself, shoving the pain aside, ready to push back to his feet. Raw fury pulsing through him, he jerked his head up, already searching for his opponent, prepared to launch himself back into the fray—

Only to see the intruder making a break for it, sprinting toward the barn.

“Stop!” the female voice shouted.

The intruder didn’t obey, vanishing into the shadows on the side of the barn.

Matt swallowed the curse he really wanted to yell at the top of his lungs. Not only had the bastard gotten the better of him—and that was reason enough for his fury—but he’d gotten away, free to come back and try something again.

Seconds later, he heard Elena hurry over, sensed her crouching at his side.

“Matt? Are you okay?”

He turned to look at her. She sat on her haunches, her gun still clutched in her right hand. With the moon shining down over her shoulders, she looked like some kind of avenging angel.

He sat up, grimacing as his body groaned in protest. “You shouldn’t have come out here. You could have been hurt.”

“Me? You were the one in a knock-down, drag-out fight.” Rising to her feet, she extended her hand to him to help him up. “Come into the house. I have some pain relievers. I have a feeling you could use some.”

“I’m fine,” he said.

“I don’t believe you.”

He looked up at her. She stood there, hand extended, waiting.

Finally, with a groan, he took it. For a moment the feel of her soft hand in his threw him, and he nearly groaned again.

Soft. God, she was soft.

Then he felt her start to tug to help him to his feet. He nearly shook himself. Maybe the intruder had landed a blow to the head, knocking the sense out of him, without him noticing. He was starting to feel a little woozy.

He let her help without giving her his full weight. If he did, he’d only pull her down on top of him, and then...

No, that wouldn’t be good at all.

Once he was on his feet, she released his hand all too soon and started for the house, leaving him to follow.

As he started to, Matt glanced behind him into the darkness. He wondered if the intruder was gone or lingering in the shadows, watching.

Just in case it was the latter, Matt did his best to hide how sore he felt, walking to the front steps as smoothly as possible. After he’d climbed them, he turned back, planted his legs on the porch’s wooden planks, and slowly scanned the night, sending a message to the bastard.

He’d gotten away twice now.

He wasn’t getting away a third.

* * *

“
H
AVE A SEAT,”
E
LENA SAID
, waving toward the chairs at the kitchen table. Her heart still pounding in the aftermath of what had happened, she made her way to the counter and reached in the cabinet for the bottle of pain relievers she knew was there.

Pouring a glass of water from the sink, she turned around to find Matt had done as ordered. Seeing him in the light, he didn’t look as bad as she’d feared he would. His hair was a mess, his clothes rumpled, but there weren’t any visible bruises or scratches on his face or neck. But then, from what she’d seen, he and his attacker had been aiming most of their blows at their torsos. As she watched him shift in his seat, wincing as he twisted his upper body, she could only imagine how bad the damage was there.

She was tempted to ask to take a look, see whether he wanted her to check his injuries. Then a shiver rolled through her at the very idea of his bare torso, and she had to admit it would be a very bad idea.

Instead, she moved to the table, placing the glass of water in front of him. She uncapped the bottle and shook out two pills, holding them out to him. From the way his lips thinned, she was convinced he was going to refuse them. Finally, with visible reluctance, he took them. She almost rolled her eyes.
Men.
Always trying to act so tough.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I have a first-aid kit.”

“The thing that hurts worst is my pride.” He shook his head. “Can’t believe he got the drop on me.”

“Not really,” she pointed out. “You caught him just in time to block that hit.”

He raised his head. “You saw?”

She nodded, the terror of those moments coming back to her so strongly it was like she was seeing it again. She’d been at her window, unable to sleep, when she’d seen Matt walking in front of the house, then the attacker had come rushing at him from out of nowhere, the tire iron clutched in his fist, aimed at Matt’s head. She’d been helpless to do anything to warn him as it had come swinging down. She didn’t know how, but he’d managed to sense the attacker’s ambush just in time to dodge the blow. “I wanted to say something, warn you. When I saw him coming at you with that tire iron—”

“So that’s what it was,” he muttered. “Hurt like hell.” He automatically moved his left hand to his right arm, no doubt over the spot where the blow had landed.