The Junkyard Cowboy (Tall, Hot & Texan Book 3) Read online

  “No,” he muttered.

  She paused from digging out the splinter. “So, it’s not your chosen profession?”

  “It might end up being,” he said.

  “Might?”

  “I know enough about cars. I can do it while I run the ranch.”

  “You don’t see ranching as your career?” Ranchers actually had a low divorce rate.

  “Not really. It isn’t enough.”

  “Hmm.” Her mind continued to race. “Besides being a cop, what else have you done?” Police officers weren’t in the top fifty percent, but they reported less than grand marriages.

  “Worked a feed store.”

  What was the divorce average of feed-store worker?

  “What else?” She doused his foot with more alcohol.

  He hissed again. “When I was going to college, I did a lot of different things.”

  She stopped. “Like what?” She wondered if she could average out his different careers. But then he already had other things going against him. His broken home life. His own divorce. His height. His build. His . . . size?

  “I bartended for about a year.”

  Well, shit. That was the career with the highest divorce rate. Followed by massage therapists and roofers. “And?”

  “Construction. Mostly roofing.”

  That sealed the deal. The risk was too high.

  One by one, she got out his splinters. He started to pull his foot away. “Let me put some more alcohol on it.”

  “Thank you.” The soft breeze brought with it the sound of an engine. She looked up. A car moved down the long drive. “Is that . . . ?”

  “It’s Jake and everyone.” He pulled his foot off her lap. “They called right before . . .” He glanced at her. “You should change your clothes.”

  “Everyone? Are the girls with him?” She bolted up.

  “Jennifer,” he repeated in a firmer tone.

  “What?”

  He frowned up at her. “Your shirt is practically transparent. Unless you’re okay with—”

  She let out a squeal when she saw her nipples were visible. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I tried . . . to tell you. And I didn’t . . . look.”

  “Really?” Accusation gave the one word color, and she swung for the door.

  “I tried . . . not to look. Tried . . . real hard.” His words reached her ears as she entered the house. “And failed.”

  • • •

  “You brought pizza?” Jennifer stepped out of the bedroom with a dry bra and shirt on just as everyone moved inside.

  Macy glanced at her husband. “Jake said he told you.”

  “Jake told me,” Clay spoke up, and his gaze met Jennifer’s. “I forgot to tell her about the pizza.”

  He’d also forgotten to tell her he could see her boobs. “I tried to,” she recalled him saying, and damn if she didn’t remember him suggesting she change clothes. Yet he’d neglected to add the pertinent information about being able to see her breasts.

  “Oh, my!” Devil moved in, and Macy took a cautious step back.

  “He’s friendly,” Jennifer assured her. “He should even smell good. He just had a bath.” She glanced at Clay, and he was staring at her.

  “He’s kind of cute,” Savanna said.

  “No, he’s not.” Bethany laughed. “He’s ugly.”

  “Speaking of smell. Is something burning?” Savanna asked.

  “My pie.” Jennifer frowned. “I already pulled it out of the oven.”

  “You baked a pie?” Bethany asked.

  “Yes,” Jennifer said.

  “I didn’t know you baked.”

  “You don’t know everything about me.” Jennifer hugged her support group gals as Jake and Clay took the pizzas and the boxed salads to the table.

  “You baked a pie?” Bethany repeated. “Are you okay?”

  “Just peachy.” Her tone lacked credibility. She hadn’t recovered from the kiss. Or from the fact that she’d accidently participated in a wet t-shirt contest.

  “What does everyone want to drink?” Clay stepped between the kitchen and living room door.

  “You got some sweet tea?” Savanna asked.

  “Uhh.” Clay’s gaze met hers. She read it to mean he didn’t know how to make tea. “We have some tea bags.”

  “Let me help,” Jennifer said. Everyone walked into the small kitchen. It wasn’t exactly crowded, just extra cozy, with all her friends. Yet an odd awkwardness hung on.

  While she set some water to boil on the stove to make tea, Clay found some paper plates.

  “Where’s Mark?” Jennifer asked.

  “He went to check on the house that was burglarized up the street.”

  “A house was burglarized?” She glanced at Clay.

  “He didn’t tell you that either?” Bethany asked.

  Clay, standing on the other side of the kitchen, flinched ever so slightly. “She slept late. We’ve barely talked.” He walked out of the kitchen.

  Her friends huddled around. “Is everything okay?”

  “Just strange,” she answered, and when Clay returned with metal folding chairs, she looked back at the stove.

  Macy leaned in. “If it’s that strange, you could come back with us.”

  “No, it’s fine.” She added sugar to the boiling water then looked at Clay. “Do you have a pitcher for tea?”

  He looked concerned, but opened a few cabinets and found one. When he brought it to her, his gaze met hers and he whispered, “Thank you.”

  She nodded and realized that, as crazy as it seemed, it almost felt as if they were a team. Playing host together.

  Right before they were about to sit at the kitchen table, Mark showed up.

  “And?” Jake asked before Mark sat down.

  “I agree, there’s nothing that says it’s connected. Supposedly, the owner came home from his work trip this morning, but he was off running errands when I stopped by.”

  “You thought it was connected to the Mitchell case?” Jennifer asked.

  “We just wanted to check it out.” Jake grabbed a paper plate.

  They all settled around the table, and the conversation shifted from the case to Savanna’s approaching due date.

  “I will be there,” Jennifer said, realizing if the baby came early, they might think it was too dangerous for her to go. “Even if she comes early. I didn’t take Lamaze classes for nothing.”

  Jake and Mark glanced at each other.

  “I’m sure we can work it out,” Mark said. “We just can’t have you anywhere near your apartment or old hangouts.”

  “Fine.” She reached for her tea.

  “And I’m going back to work Monday,” Bethany added in a defensive tone.

  Jake and Mark both shoved pizza into their mouths.

  “Not if it puts you in danger,” Savanna and Jennifer and Macy piped at the same time.

  “He’s not even after me,” Bethany said.

  “But he knows where you live and knows you know where Jennifer is.” Mark talked around his mouthful of food.

  Jake joined in after swallowing. “Meaning, he had to have followed Jennifer there. And you admitted that Jennifer’s been to your work twice in the last few weeks. So, chances are he knows where you work.”

  “I’m a big girl. I have a gun. I’ll be fine.”

  “Give us until Wednesday,” Jake said. “After the trial, it should be over.”

  “Not happening. I’ll continue to stay with you guys, but I’m going to work.” She used her lawyer tone and, apparently, neither of the guys was bold enough to stand up to her.

  “Don’t do this,” Jennifer said. “If something happened, it would be my fault.”

  “Nothing is going to happen!” Bethany said.

  Clay snatched another piece of pizza. “So, Jennifer should just go back to her place.”

  Bethany shot him the look that Jennifer knew she saved for stupid suspects on the stand. “Are you an idiot?”


  Yup, that was the look all right.

  “No.” Clay shrugged, not appearing insulted. “It just seemed since you didn’t respect everyone’s concern for you, you’d be okay with her putting herself at undue risk.”

  Bethany opened her mouth to shoot back, then shut it.

  Everyone at the table sat silent and stunned. Clay had bested Bethany.

  He was, Jennifer concluded, a very smart man. A person had to respect that.

  That thought, the respect part, didn’t settle too well over her, but she wasn’t quite sure why.

  • • •

  “What else do you have?” Clay asked the guys as soon as they walked outside. When Mark requested Clay show them the barn, Clay suspected they had something and didn’t want to talk about it in front of the women. Jennifer had a right to know, but perhaps it was more about Mark protecting his pregnant wife. Clay understood that.

  “We got a hit on the prints,” Mark answered.

  “And?” Clay asked.

  “His name is Ted Bundy. Or Ted Bundy, Junior.”

  Clay shook his head. “Seriously?”

  Jake nodded. “Oh, he’s not related to the famous Bundy, but the name alone is disturbing. However, more disturbing is that he’s already done an eight-year stint in prison for murder.”

  “A hired hit?” Clay asked.

  “Yeah,” the two men agreed at the same time.

  “Shit!” Clay said. “So, I was right. He’s a professional.”

  “Yeah,” Jake added. “He hangs his hat in Dallas. We’re still unable to tie him to Mitchell. Mitchell’s lawyer swears he isn’t behind it. We’re waiting to hear back on rentals outside the local area for a dark-colored Cruise.”

  “Is this guy still on parole?” Clay asked.

  “Yeah,” Jake said. “We contacted his parole officer. He seemed shocked Bundy was back to his old tricks. We debated having the officer call Bundy in, but decided since he hasn’t missed an appointment, and he’s due for one next Friday, it might be our best bet at catching him.”

  Mark shifted a little closer. “Professionals don’t normally hang around for a second shot. Not that we should lower our guard. I say we see this through until the trial. Today’s Saturday. We only have six days.”

  “I agree,” Clay said. “Maybe you should check out the car rental places near Dallas. Or I could?”

  “Already doing that,” Jake said. “And you’re doing something. Watching Jennifer.”

  He nodded, but wanted to do more.

  “From what I’ve seen,” Mark added, “you’re more than capable of the job.”

  Clay glanced at him, uncertain what he meant.

  “Anyone who can corral Bethany like you did can handle anything.” Mark laughed.

  “That’s because I’m not afraid of her.” Clay leaned against the fence.

  “We’re not afraid of her,” Mark said. “It’s our wives we’re afraid of. Messing with your wife’s friends lands you in the dog house.”

  Bingo came trotting over.

  “How many horses do you have?” Mark asked.

  “Just two.”

  “You ride?” Mark reached out cautiously to pet Bingo.

  “Yeah, I take them out at least a couple times a week.”

  Jake spoke up. “Are those your cattle I saw up the road?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many do you have?” Mark asked.

  Bingo moved away from Mark and rubbed her neck on Clay. “Eight. We had more, but Pete sold some to pay the back taxes. I plan to buy more cattle later. I’ve got forty acres. It’s not a bad spread.”

  Mark glanced around. “So, you’re not new to ranching?”

  “No. I grew up on one.”

  “We nicknamed him Country Boy in the academy,” Jake said teasingly. “But he turned out to be a hell of cop, too. He worked homicide in Houston for . . . how many years?”

  “Five.” Until I killed a kid. Clay glanced back to pasture.

  “And this is what you want to do? Ranch?” Mark asked.

  Clay remembered the conversation with Jennifer. “I’m still trying to figure that out,” he admitted aloud for the first time. “But ranching seldom pays the bills. I’ll need to do something. Between the detective agency and the junkyard, it might be enough.” But would it feed his recently-rekindled need to be a cop?

  He sensed they were waiting on him to finish. “I’ve always kind of seen ranching as more of a lifestyle than a job.”

  One he’d gotten away from when he left for college. And now he wondered if that had been a mistake. There was something about taking care of the land, the livestock, that gave a person a sense of purpose. Not that he could do it alone, but like his dad he’d need to hire hands to pull most of the work. And God love Pete, but he’d need more than him.

  For that, he needed money.

  “I thought you might be at the junkyard today.” Jake swatted at a mosquito.

  “It’s not officially open yet,” Clay said. “I still have a couple of buildings in the back that I haven’t gone through. I might try to get back there Monday. I’ll take her with me.”

  “Are you and Jennifer getting along?” Mark asked. “I mean, I know she’s . . . emotionally charged—that’s how Savanna describes her—but she’s a good person.”

  “No, she’s fine. We’re doing good,” Clay said.

  “How good?” Jake’s question came loaded.

  Clay grimaced, remembering the kiss and remembering the crazy, nesting kind of feeling that had come over him when she was pulling thorns out of his foot, and then making iced tea in his . . . his and Pete’s . . . kitchen.

  “I’m not in the market for a relationship.” And having a fling with a friend’s wife’s best friend was stupid. Clay wasn’t stupid.

  “Don’t worry. You’re not her type, anyway,” Mark said grinning. “You’re not a funeral director.”

  Clay remembered Jake saying something before about a funeral director. “What gives with the funeral director?”

  “She’s husband hunting,” Mark said.

  That bit of news sent a stampede of red flags stomping all over him. Now he was extra sorry he’d kissed her. Or had she kissed him? Oh, hell, it didn’t matter. It couldn’t happen again.

  “She found some internet site that lists the divorce rates for all careers.” Jake chuckled. “Divorce rates for funeral directors are low.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not all she’s measuring a man by.” Mark snorted. “She found something that said a short man, with hair, and a small dick is less likely to walk out of a marriage. Oh, and he can’t be rich, either.”

  Clay laughed because he was certain they were joking. They laughed, but not as if they’d been teasing. “You’re pulling my leg, right?”

  Both guys just laughed harder and shook their heads.

  Chapter Ten

  If Bundy hadn’t been looking for the ball-busting scum, he might have enjoyed the ride in the country. The sky was blue, the sun kept going in and out of the big, white, fluffy clouds. As a kid, Bundy had loved to find a spot to hide out and try to decipher the different shapes in the clouds. He’d gotten his worst beating from his daddy for doing it, too. He was supposed to have been mowing the lawn.

  Bundy slowed down when he drove past the junkyard. It looked closed. No truck. He hadn’t known it was up and running until the sign had lit up the other night. He’d never have picked this place to do his job if he’d known the thing was open.

  Now the sign wasn’t on. That was no way to run a business.

  As tempting as it was to stop, he knew that could be a mistake. Better to come back at night. He reached under the brown wig that had cost him a fortune. He’d bought it last year for times just like this. Times when cops were hunting for a big, bald guy.

  He drove on down the farm and market road, slowing down again when he passed the yellow house he’d ransacked the night before. The black Chevy truck that had been parked out front wasn’t there now. Wher
e had the homeowner been last night?

  Bundy had come back. But first he wanted to drive around and confirm there wasn’t another house nearby with a black Chevy truck. It would really suck if he’d turned over the wrong house.

  He hadn’t gotten back up to the speed limit when he heard sirens. A quick glance back confirmed his worst fear. The sheriff’s car was about fifty feet behind him.

  Shit!

  Taking a deep breath, he debated his options.

  There weren’t that many. The damn Honda wasn’t what you would call a get-away car.

  He reached over to the passenger seat, grabbed his gun, and tucked it inside his pants. After a quick straightening of his wig, he slowly pulled over.

  • • •

  The men had walked outside, and Jennifer stood up and started tossing the paper plates into the garbage.

  Eyeing the burnt pie, Bethany stood up and walked over to the stove. “Okay, Martha Stewart wannabe, fess up.”

  “Fess up to what?” Jennifer pushed the garbage down into the bin to make room for more.

  Bethany chuckled. “Please. We’ve heard of getting to a man’s heart through his stomach. I just thought you’d go with alternate methods first. Like wear a low-cut top. But I guess with a cowboy—”

  “You’re being ridiculous,” Jennifer said.

  “No. She has a point,” Macy said. “Cooking for a man is a sign of affection.”

  “Fine,” Jennifer conceded. She hated it when they all teamed up to make a point. “I was trying to impress a man. Never mind that I failed. But it wasn’t Clay. It was Pete.”

  “Pete?” Savanna asked.

  “He lives here. He’s a cute old cowboy. Emphasis on the old.” She opened a pizza box and found they hadn’t even touched one of the pies.

  “Do you guys want to take it home with you?”

  “No, keep it,” Macy said.

  Jennifer stuck the pizza in the fridge.

  “Pete?” Bethany said. “Now she’s making up imaginary friends.”

  “She’s not making him up,” Macy said. “Jake mentioned him.”

  “Oh,” Bethany said. “So, you’re really telling me you’re not at all interested in the junkyard cowboy? There are no sparks? No zing? No ba ba bing?”