Texas Revenge Target
Author
Jill Elizabeth Nelson
Reads
16.1K
Chapters
17
Hiding in the Texas desert… with a vengeful cartel in pursuit. After Texas Ranger Brianna Macguire catches up with the fugitive she's hunting, she finds herself ensnared in the crosshairs of a revenge-driven cartel — and evading a sniper attack. Cameron Wolfe, a man in hiding and with a bounty on his head, offers Bree shelter…only for Cameron's secrets and Bree's attackers to catch up with them both. While they're on the run in the Texas desert, danger stalks them at every turn. Can they outwit their relentless enemies before they both lose their lives?
ONE
Texas Ranger Brianna Maguire—Bree, if a person wanted to stay on her good side—leaned back in the saddle as she guided her palomino gelding, Teton, down the semisteep grade of a dry wash. Her stomach roiled, but not because she doubted Teton’s surefootedness. Images of the too recent shootout between law enforcement and a violent gang of cattle rustlers kept intruding on her concentration and freezing the breath in her lungs.
Had that life-altering event happened a mere thirty-six hours ago? An eternity had passed and yet only a moment since she’d shot a crook, but not in time to prevent her Special Response Team colleague, Will Stout, from taking a fatal bullet. If only she’d been a split second faster, Will might be alive, and his two young children might still have a daddy. But it was the rustler who had survived, though he’d likely spend the rest of his life behind bars and in a wheelchair. If any satisfaction existed in that knowledge, it tasted bitter.
Chipped rock and pebbles disturbed by Teton’s big hooves skittered ahead of them into the ravine’s mesquite-tufted floor. Saddle leather creaked, the gelding snorted, and Bree began a soft, encouraging patter with her voice. Odors of desert plants and dust teased her nostrils, and she swallowed a sneeze as Teton brought her to the bottom of the gash carved in the terrain by flash floods over time immemorial. Her pulse rate spiked at another splotch of red glistening on a rock. She followed the telltale mark to the right, deeper into this fold in the tableland.
The midmorning sun beat down on Bree’s shoulders and she swiped the arm of her long-sleeved shirt across her forehead beneath the brim of her Stetson hat. Late summer’s intense heat baked West Texas’s arid Llano Estacado prairie, and she couldn’t allow sweat to dim her vision. If the sporadic blood droplets she was following came from a human being, she could be on the trail of Leon Waring, the fugitive leader of the cattle rustlers.
In the violent shootout between a joint law enforcement task force and his rustler gang near the town of Levelland, Waring had been wounded. The gun battle had left several dead, including Will, as well as numerous injured, on both sides. Of the criminal gang, Waring and one or two low-level desperados had escaped. A statewide manhunt was underway for Waring, in particular—a manhunt that she was no longer officially a part of due to being placed on leave after shooting someone in the line of duty. Leave was standard procedure, and Bree had no doubt the review of her actions would shortly result in restoration to active service, but she had no intention of sitting out the hunt for Waring.
She was the only one who seemed to think the fugitive, escaping cross-country into the night on an ATV, had headed into the Llano to hide. Everyone else was looking east, where larger towns and cities would afford medical care and a place to hide for a wounded crook. But Waring was born and bred on the Llano, and if his wound wasn’t too bad, this was where he’d go. And Bree was just the person to hunt him down. The Llano was her childhood backyard, too.
So, like any other sensible veteran of law enforcement, she’d taken advantage of the unexpected leave to go home. But when she’d reached the familiar comfort of the Double-Bar-M, the ranch she co-owned with her brother, she’d saddled up Teton and headed out. Apprehending Waring was a personal mission, even though finding a trace of him in the vast rugged country wasn’t likely. She simply needed to feel like she was doing something productive.
Bree had not located the crook’s ATV or even ATV tracks, but then the sudden appearance of blood droplets had given her renewed but guarded hope. The blood trail could well come from an animal, and one of God’s creatures might need to be mercifully put down. If so, she’d have to deal with the frustration of not locating the violent crook. Too bad the terrain made sneaking up on whatever lay ahead nearly impossible.
Her horse’s shod hooves clicked sporadically against scattered stones. As the wash deepened into a canyon strewn with boulders and dark crevices, Bree kept her head on a swivel and her ears perked for any indication of an ambush. Sounds foreign to the natural environment reached her ears and Bree tugged Teton to a halt. The animal stood still, head high, ears aimed forward toward a bend in the canyon. Clearly, the gelding heard the murmur, too.
Human voices?
Bree swung her leg off the saddle and lowered herself to stand beside her horse. She dropped the ends of the reins to the earth. Teton was trained to remain in place when his reins were grounded by his rider. With one hand, Bree pulled her rifle from the saddle holster and unsnapped the sidearm at her belt with the other. She might be happening upon an innocent situation, like cowhands out looking for strays, but she wasn’t about to discount potential danger. Not with a desperate criminal at large and the blood trail that had led her here.
Carefully placing her booted feet to avoid loose rocks or brittle vegetation, Bree made her way toward the bend in the canyon. When she reached the curve, she halted and squatted behind a boulder. Slowly, she peered out from behind cover and bottled a gasp.
She’d been right to believe the notorious rustler had fled to the Llano. His burly form leaned up against the cliff wall. A bloody arm hung limply at his side, but the other arm pointed a pistol at a man who stood with his back to her but trained a rifle in the rustler’s direction. Apparently, Bree had been mistaken that she was the only one pursuing Waring into the wilderness. Then again, this could be a random encounter between the fugitive and a local hand. The guy was dressed like a rancher in faded and dusty denim pants, a long-sleeved checked shirt, and a sweat-stained cowboy hat. However, with only the broad back of the rifleman to go on, she couldn’t claim to recognize the person engaged in the standoff with the wounded rustler.
“I’m more willing to shoot than you are,” Waring snarled, a manic glint in his inky eyes. The sheen of sweat coating his scruffy face glistened in the sun. “I’ll blast you before you pull the trigger. Now, drop that weapon and get out of here before I put you down.”
Bree opened her mouth to warn the guy not to believe Waring would allow him to leave.
“This rifle’s got a hair trigger.” The man’s words emerged, steady as the rock she hid behind. “If you shoot me, it’ll go off, and we’ll both be buzzard food.”
Bree didn’t recognize the deep voice. Who was this stranger and how had he ended up confidently facing off with a fugitive?
“Now, put your gun down,” the man went on, “and I’ll do the same. Then I’ll treat your wound. You’re not looking so well, buddy.”
The crook’s face crinkled in a snarl and his body tensed, preparing for action.
“Drop it, Waring!” Bree stood tall and stepped forward, rifle at the ready. “If this guy doesn’t shoot you, I will.”
The fugitive’s fevered gaze swiveled toward her, along with the barrel of his gun. As the direction of the rustler’s weapon shifted, the rifle in the stranger’s grip blasted. Waring’s pistol flew from his hand. The crook doubled over and sank to the ground, clutching both arms to his chest. Even if the stranger’s bullet had struck only Waring’s gun, the impact would have hurt—maybe even broken a bone in the fugitive’s gun hand.
The stranger turned his head to Bree and his smoke-gray eyes met her green ones. Nope, this guy was not among her law enforcement colleagues, nor was he a local rancher. She knew all the owners and ranch hands in this area. If she’d ever met this man before, she would have remembered him—not only for his rugged good looks, but from the faint but distinctive scar that arched a one-sided parenthesis from the corner of his left eye almost to his ear and then nearly to the edge of his firm mouth. Whoever he was, the squint lines around his eyes labeled him a long-time outdoorsman, and the traces of silver at the temples of his short sable-brown hair suggested an age only slightly greater than her own forty-three years.
Now, for the big question—was he friend or foe? The guy had shot the weapon out of Leon Waring’s hand, swift and accurate as a striking rattler.
Bree kept her rifle at the ready. “Texas Ranger Bree Maguire. And you are?”
Tension drained from the stranger’s face and he lowered his weapon. “Cameron Wolfe. You must be Dillon Maguire’s sister. He’s told me about you.” The edges of the man’s lips tilted upward in a slight smile.
Bree’s gut clenched. Why would this guy know Dillon and what had been said?
The man’s smile turned to a grin. “Relax. I’m your new neighbor. I bought the Franklin place.”
Bree huffed. She’d known the Franklin heirs were selling out after the death of their father because none of them had any interest in ranching, but Dillon had failed to tell her the place had sold. However, to be fair, she had pretty much blown onto the ranch site and blown right out again on Teton without saying much more than Hi and Be back later to her brother. Dillon would have tried to talk her out of traipsing the Llano on her own, but the bloody shootout near Levelland had disturbed her on levels she hadn’t come to terms with yet, and she’d needed to be alone. Finding Waring’s trail was a happy result that she now had to conclude properly.
“Pleased to meet you, neighbor, but I have to secure this prisoner.” Reaching for the zip ties she kept in a pouch on her belt, Bree lowered her rifle and stepped past Cameron’s tall, sturdy figure. “This man is a wanted cattle rustler and murderer.”
A crumpled, bleeding mess, Waring glared up at her as she approached. “I got mean friends with a long reach.” His voice came out a breathy snarl. “You won’t keep hold of me. They’ll kill you.”
Ignoring the threats, Bree leaned toward the fugitive. “Leon Waring, I’m arresting you on suspicion of—”
A sharp tug on the ponytail that hung down her back coincided with a rifle blast echoing through the canyon. In her peripheral vision, strands of flame-red hair floated free of her head as time seemed to slow to a crawl. The fugitive’s eyes went wide, fixed on her. The rifle in Bree’s hand suddenly weighed a ton, dragging against her arms as she forced it up to her shoulder. She began to whirl on the rancher, who must have shot at her, every movement constrained as if by quicksand.
Then a heavy body slammed into her, thrusting her into a crevice in the rock face, and time snapped back into sync. Bree fought, kicking and attempting to head-butt her traitorous neighbor. Her rifle was out of play, crushed between their struggling bodies. Together, they struck the unforgiving stone wall and the shade of the crevice enveloped them.
“Stop fighting,” Cameron’s voice rasped in her ear. “It wasn’t me. Someone’s shooting from above.”
Bree went still, the sense of his words penetrating her fierce resistance. Every detail of her surroundings etched upon her consciousness—the throbbing of her pulse in her ears, the groaning of the wounded crook on the other side of the crevice, the chill of the rock at her back, and the lingering odor of gun smoke overlaid by the buttery-leather aftershave her neighbor wore.
Pregnant silence fell. Bree’s heart hammered in her chest.
Then another sharp report quickly followed by a third sent shards of rock ricocheting into their meager hide. Most peppered the stone face around them, but one stung Bree’s cheek, sending a warm trickle down her face. By her neighbor’s sudden grunt, one or more bits of shrapnel must have hit him also.
At best, the sniper above could hold them in the crevice until his ammo ran out. Then they could break cover and go after him. At worst, if this was one of Waring’s alleged friends, the fugitive could overcome his wounds and recover his gun. Then she and her new neighbor would be at the ruthless criminal’s mercy.
Cam breathed in the earthy scent of horse mixed with a pleasant fresh-rain shampoo the woman used. Her height—approximately five and a half feet if he had to estimate—put the top of her head just under his nose. The crevice in the canyon wall was not nearly big enough for two adults, even if one of them was a slender female. If the gunman above got the right angle for his shot, he could bounce a bullet off the rock right into one of them. Then there was the wounded desperado the redheaded ranger had attempted to arrest. He might recover enough to attack them as well. They couldn’t stay where they were in the hope of survival, yet he had no safe exit strategies in mind.
But when had “safe” ever been a part of his life?
“I’m going to duck and roll toward that boulder a few feet from us. Cover me while I do that. From there, I may be able to spot the shooter and put him out of commission.”
“Right.” Bree jerked a nod. “I’ll keep the attacker busy dodging bullets.”
Cam grinned, meeting the ranger’s steady gaze. She was no-nonsense. No argument. The ranger knew what needed to be done and was ready to do it—an attitude he immensely appreciated. People who ran rather than stood had once cost him everything worthwhile in his life—except faith in God, and sometimes he barely clung to that. Firming his jaw, he batted away the swarming memories and stuffed the pain back down into the black hole where it belonged. Now was not the time to wallow. If ever he permitted that time to come.
With no further thought or discussion, Cam dropped and rolled out of cover. A bullet slapped the rock face above him, but a cacophony of fire from Bree halted the attack. Since she couldn’t see the assailant, she might not be sending bullets anywhere near him, but only an idiot would put his head up under that firestorm.
Cam reached the boulder and crouched behind it. He readied his rifle and ventured a peek past the cover of the rock toward the cliff top about fifteen feet up. The ranger’s firing ceased and silence rang as loudly as gunfire.
Then the top of a Western hat peeked above the cliff’s edge. Cam fired, and the hat flew. A loud yelp carried from above. He’d either hit the sniper or scared him silly. A receding scramble of feet on loose scree met his ears. Had the shooter fled?
Cam turned his head toward Bree, still undercover in the crevice. She met his gaze with wide eyes and a shrug of her shoulders. The shadow of her hideaway softened the clear-cut planes of her face, lending an exotic flavor to her striking features. Bree Maguire was not pretty—that description was entirely too bland. Nor was she beautiful in the standard sense. Yet a guy would look twice when she passed by. For sure and certain. Cam tore his gaze away and concentrated on listening.
No sound came from the wounded man Bree had addressed as Leon Waring. Had the man fled? Or had he retrieved his gun and now awaited someone brave or dumb enough to poke their head out? Must be his day for being brave or dumb because he ventured a peek. Then he drew back, processing what he had seen.
He settled grim eyes on Bree. “I don’t think you’re going to have to arrest that Waring fellow.”
“He escaped?” Her tone held equal parts anger and anguish.
“Eternally.”
“Oh.” Her eyes rounded.
In the distance, a motor started up. The rumble carried faintly across the tableland. Not a truck-size motor. Probably an ATV.
Cam grimaced. “I think our sniper had enough of people shooting back.”
Bree’s full lips compressed into a thin line. She took a step out of the crevice, posture alert and rifle at the ready. Her exposure brought no response.
“I think you’re right.” She nodded at him as Cam stood from his crouch.
He walked toward the still, crumpled figure on the ground near the ravine wall, then knelt and placed two fingers against the man’s neck. Cam looked up at the ranger and shook his head.
“He’s gone, Ranger Maguire.”
“Call me Bree. You’ve more than earned that right.” Her stiff posture sagged. “I would have liked to bring him in still breathing, so he could answer publicly for his crimes.”
“What did the guy do?” Cam rose and faced her.
“He is—was the leader of a particularly vicious gang of cattle rustlers. For the past ten months, his crew has been swooping into remote pastures, scooping up whole herds of cattle with semitrucks and leaving no witnesses behind. Lots of murdered ranch hands and hundreds of thousands of dollars of property stolen. People don’t realize rustling is alive and well in the West or how lucrative slick operations can be. And then the night before last—”
She clamped her lips shut, and her face washed pale, revealing a scattering of light freckles across her nose and upper cheeks that her tan had concealed. Whatever she had been going to say choked her up considerably.
Cam stopped himself from pressing the issue. He was out of touch with the media reports more often than not, but no doubt, the next time he went to the coffee shop, someone there would let him know what had happened. Rural areas thrived on hearing and telling the latest news to keep life interesting. If he hadn’t been camping out hunting strays for the past two days, he’d probably already know whatever had gone on.
He frowned at the rustler’s body. “I’ve got a packhorse at the far end of this box canyon where I’ve been keeping the strays I’ve rounded up. We’ll probably have to leave my kit behind and use old Myra to haul this guy out of here.”
Bree didn’t respond. She was staring at Waring’s body also. At last, she stirred and looked up at him.
“I wonder who murdered this guy and took shots at us? Was someone trying to shut him up?” She pursed her lips and nodded her head. “Kind of confirms the notion we’ve been batting around at headquarters. Someone behind the scenes was coordinating the rustling activities—someone intimately familiar with where big ranchers pasture their stock.”
“Someone Waring could expose.” Cam completed the logical progression of thought.
Bree nodded. “I should go get the satellite phone in the pack on my horse. If you would wait here, I’ll just be a minute, Mr. Wolfe.”
“Call me Cam. You’ve more than earned the right.”
He deliberately echoed Bree’s words and added a grin to cover a sudden, surprising clench in his gut at using the name that went with his new identity. Usually, saying the name, which he actually liked better than his original, didn’t bother him. It hadn’t mattered the first time he’d identified himself to this woman before the shooting had started. Maybe the discomfort came from repeating the identity to an official of the law. Or maybe his unwelcome attraction to his neighbor added significance to the necessary deception. Except it wasn’t really deception. Cameron Wolfe was now his legal name. He squelched the foolish introspection and maintained his grin.
“Cam, it is.” She nodded with a smile and turned away. “We need to notify—”
Cam hissed in a sharp breath, cutting off her sentence. She whirled, gaze hunting for danger.
“You were the target.” The words exploded from his mouth as his gut twisted. “The shooter was aiming to kill you first. If you hadn’t moved to bend over Waring at the exact right second, you’d be dead now. The bullet took your ponytail clean off.”
What was this woman not telling him about her situation? Could her predicament place him back in the crosshairs of ruthless criminals he’d turned his life upside-down to escape?