High-Caliber Cowboy

Standing perfectly still, he listened for any sign of the vandal. The bathroom door was open and he could see light coming from down the hall.

Moving cautiously, he stepped out of the tub to the doorway. Across the hall, he could see what was clearly a little girl’s room. A spoiled little girl’s room, from the frilly canopy bed to the inordinate amount of stuffed animals filling the room. It surprised him, since a little girl hadn’t lived in this house in years.

He ventured out into the hall, hoping Mason VanHorn didn’t come home early and catch him here. He cringed at the thought of the rancher finding a reviled McCall not only in his house, but dripping on his hall rug.

The flickering faint glow of a flashlight spilled from the last open door on the hallway. He froze, listening. It sounded like someone was opening and closing file cabinet drawers.

He crept toward the sound and the flickering light, moving cautiously, the shotgun in his hands.

As he neared the open doorway, he could hear the intruder riffling through papers, opening and closing desk doors. What was he looking for? Wouldn’t a vandal just start tearing up the place? Spray-paint the walls with words of protest instead of going through files?

He stopped as the house fell silent. At the sound of a metallic tick, tick, tick, Brandon stepped into the room¸ the barrel of the shotgun leading the way as he wondered what the vandal had done with the crowbar he’d been carrying. Hopefully he’d left it out in the rain after breaking in through the bathroom window.

The vandal had his back to him, the flashlight beam focused on the dial of a wall safe.

Brandon reached over and hit the light switch. “Freeze!”

The figure froze.

The room was one of those fancy home offices with the massive wooden desk, the expensive leather chair, a nice oak file cabinet and a brushed copper desk lamp with a Tiffany shade. Nice.

The person behind the desk with his back to Brandon was smaller framed than he’d first thought—and from the shape, definitely not a teenager. Nor a man. The hourglass figure was all female and only accentuated by the tight black bodysuit she wore. A long lock of dark hair had escaped the black stocking cap and now hung dripping down her back.

“You caught me,” she said in a silken voice as she turned, one hand holding the flashlight she’d had pointed on the safe, the other empty.

She was in her late twenties to early thirties with wide brown eyes, striking features and the kind of innocence that did something to a man.

“Put down the flashlight. Gently,” he ordered.

She gave him a look as if she thought he was being overly cautious, but did as he asked.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

She blinked. “I was about to open the safe.”

“I can see that. Why are you breaking into Mr. VanHorn’s safe?” he asked impatiently.

Her face was flushed from exertion and wet from the rain, her errant lock of hair soaked. “I wanted to see what was inside?”

“Do you think this is funny?” he demanded reaching for the two-way radio to call this in.

“No,” she said quickly. “I’m just nervous. This is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this.”

His hand stopped shy of the radio. “You’re in a world of trouble.” More than she knew, once he called the ranch manager….

She nodded, a slight tremble of her lips and an edgy flicker of her gaze toward the door giving away her tension. She should have been scared since he was holding a shotgun on her, had caught her red-handed trying to break into his employer’s safe and she had no way out.

“Do you have to hold that gun on me?” she asked, her big brown eyes wide with fear. “I’m not armed. You can search me if you don’t believe me.”

It was a nice offer but he shook his head and swung the barrel of the gun downward away from her. Hell, he could see every curve of her body in that outfit she was wearing. It was time to radio Red Hudson, the ranch manager. His instructions had been quite clear. “No authorities. We handle our own affairs on this ranch.”

Resting the shotgun in the crook of his arm, he stepped deeper into the room and unclipped the two-way radio at his hip.

“Please don’t call anyone,” she pleaded, motioning toward the radio. “I was just out here trying to get a story. I’m a reporter.”

He held the radio but didn’t press the key to talk. “A reporter?” He hadn’t expected that. “Odd way to get a story, by vandalizing and breaking into a man’s property.”

“I didn’t know of any other way since a man like Mason VanHorn, with his kind of power, requires desperate measures,” she said. “He can buy all the cowboys he needs to keep his secrets.” She gave him a look as if to say he was proof of that.

“Mason didn’t buy me.”

“I thought you worked for him,” she said.

“I’m just night security.”

She nodded, but clearly believed he was one of VanHorn’s henchmen.

Brandon swore under his breath, upset that she had the wrong impression of him—and yet reminding himself that this woman was a criminal under the law. He didn’t have to explain himself to her.

He started to raise the radio.

“What does he pay you?” she asked quickly. “I can’t pay you much but—”

“I’m not for hire. Look, if this is your first offense, the judge will probably go easy on you.”

She sounded close to tears when she said, “You know if you turn me over to Mason VanHorn, I will never see the local law, let alone a courtroom.”

He hated that she was right. VanHorn would take care of this in his own way. Brandon didn’t want to think what the rancher would do to this woman.

“I need to sit down,” she said suddenly, and swung her hip up onto the edge of the desk before he had a chance to tell her not to move. “I’m sorry. I can stand if you want.”

She slid off the corner of the desk, a movement as graceful as a dancer’s. A movement designed to distract, to hide her true intention.

He never saw it coming. Never actually saw her grab the brushed-copper desk lamp. Never saw it in the air until he was forced to raise the shotgun to deflect the blow.

The lamp hit the barrel in a loud clash of metals. The bulb broke, showering him in fine glass. He ducked instinctively as the lamp clattered to the floor and he dropped the two-way radio.

He opened his eyes, feeling the broken glass on his cheeks, wanting to brush it off, but resisting the urge.

He darted a look behind the desk. She was gone. Not that he’d really expected her to still be standing there.

He whirled and rushed to the doorway, the shotgun still in his hands. Stopping at the threshold, he looked both ways down the hall in case she was waiting with another weapon.

The hall was empty.

He rushed toward the bathroom. Would she go out the way she’d come in?

The bathroom was dark. The window still open. The wet curtain billowing in with the wind and rain. He lunged toward the dark opening, determined to catch her. She’d been fast, but he was faster.