Kansas City Cowboy

Kansas City Cowboy
Julie Miller

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“I don’t date, Sheriff Harrison.”

“Look, about the kiss—I didn’t plan that. That’s not why I was waiting in the garage for you. I mean, you do eat, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do. But you don’t owe me anything. I was just doing my job today. I don’t need any thanks from you. And I certainly don’t want to be any more trouble to you. So, good night.”

Mules weren’t the only stubborn thing his folks had raised on their ranch. Boone pulled back the front of his jacket and splayed his hands at his hips. He didn’t get why he was so attracted to this prickly city woman who had to be as wrong for him as his ex-wife had been. But he clearly understood his duty as an officer of the law, and as a man.

“You may not need any thanks, but I don’t leave a lady in trouble …”

About the Author

JULIE MILLER attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at PO Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162, USA.

Kansas City

Cowboy

Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

For Steve & Carolyn Spencer

Your dedication to the arts is such a blessing to our community. You’re smart, talented, generous people who’ve raised a wonderful family and are fun to hang out with. Carolyn, thanks for reading my books.

And Steve, we’ll get you on a cover one day.

Prologue

Boone Harrison never tired of standing atop the rugged Missouri River bluffs and watching the wide, slate-gray water thundering past. The dense carpet of orange, red and gold deciduous trees and evergreens lining every hill that hadn’t been cleared for farming or cut out to put a road through blocked his view of the interstate and made him feel like he was the only soul around for miles.

Even though he was partial to the sheriff’s badge he’d worn for almost fifteen years now, knew most of the folks in the tiny burg of Grangeport and on the farms and ranches in the surrounding county—and liked most of them—there was something peaceful, something that centered him, about getting away for a ride across his land on his buckskin quarter horse, Big Jim. Feeling Jim’s warmth and strength beneath the saddle reminded Boone of where he came from. Smack-dab in the middle of the Missouri Ozarks, his family’s home might not be used as a working cattle ranch anymore, but he rented out enough parcels of grazing land to a friend to keep it well maintained and looking like the thriving operation his father and grandfather before him had run.

Pulling his gaze from the early morning fog off the river some fifty yards below his feet, Boone nudged his heels into Jim’s sides and cantered up over the rise toward the gravel road leading back to the house. A small herd of Herefords scattered as he approached the gate, and for a few mutinous seconds he considered chasing after them the way he had when his parents had been running the place. Give him fifteen minutes—twenty, tops—and he’d have them rounded up and on their way to the next pasture.

But they weren’t his cattle. That wasn’t his job. Boone was forty-five years old. His folks and his grandparents were gone now, and his brothers and sister had moved on. Buried in the county cemetery, married and raising kids in town, gone to the big city to make a career or simply thumbing their noses at ranch life. Boone might be the only one still living on the land where they’d all been raised, but he had other responsibilities now.

Leaving the cattle to settle back down to their sleepy breakfasts, he reined in Jim. “Ho, boy.”

The big buckskin snorted clouds of steam in the chilly autumn air as Boone leaned over the saddle horn to unhook the gate. With the skilled precision of the ten years they’d been taking this morning ride together, Jim walked through the gate. Boone refastened it and, with nothing more than a touch on the reins, Jim trotted up to the road.

Boone had already noticed the tire tracks in the dusty gravel before he topped the next rise.

Company wasn’t part of the morning routine.

Instantly on guard without making a fuss about it, Boone checked the gun on his belt, then pulled back the front of his jacket to reveal the badge on his tan uniform shirt. He adjusted his Stetson low over his forehead and rode the horse in to see who’d come out to the house so early in the day.

He recognized the green departmental SUV parked behind his black farm truck and knew the news wasn’t good. Occasionally over the years, an inmate had escaped from the prison on the opposite side of the river, and his team had been put on alert. More often there was an accident on one of the highways that crisscrossed through town. Sometimes there was a drunk or a domestic disturbance, but his men could handle calls like that without his guidance.

This was something different. Flint Larson, the young man in the tan shirt and brown uniform slacks that matched Boone’s own, stopped his pacing and came to face him at the edge of the porch.

Boone reined in Big Jim, and stayed in the saddle to look Flint in the eye. “What is it?” he asked, skipping any greeting.

They weren’t so backward that cell phones and land-lines didn’t work out here. A visit to the house meant something personal. The pale cast beneath the deputy’s tanned skin confirmed it.

“It’s Janie.” Boone’s sister, the youngest of the Harrison clan. A failed engagement to the blond man standing on his porch, and the desire for something more than small-town living, had taken her two and a half hours away to Kansas City more than a year ago. “She’s dead.” Flint’s voice broke with emotion before he steeled his jaw and continued. “The office just got the call from KCPD.”

Boone crushed his fist around the saddle horn, feeling Flint’s words like a kick in the gut. Janie? Hell. She wasn’t even thirty years old yet. She was loud and funny. She had an artist’s eye and the ability to put her four older brothers in their place. He needed to call those brothers. As the oldest, they’d expect him to take charge of making arrangements. Who were her friends in the city he’d need to contact? What the hell had happened to her, anyway? Driving too fast? An illness she hadn’t shared?

He squeezed his eyes shut as the questions gave way to images of growing up in the house and town flashed through his mind. A lone daughter, spoiled by her parents and big brothers, overprotected, well loved. She could be just as rowdy as the rest of them, yet turn on the ladylike charm whenever …

The images froze and he snapped his eyes back open. Hold on. “The police?”

“Yes, sir.” Flint shifted on his feet. He had to be feeling the shock and loss, too. “That’s not the worst of it.”

What could be worse than Janie’s bright light being taken from the world?

“Tell me.”

“She was raped and murdered.”

Chapter One

Police psychologist Dr. Kate Kilpatrick shivered against the chill that lingered in the damp air and tightened the belt of her chocolate-brown trench coat as she hurried along the sidewalk to the crime scene. She hated being cold. And if this early October morning was any indication, then she was in for a long winter.

Impossibly long if she had to face any more visits to this revitalized area of Kansas City and deal with the job she’d been summoned to.

High heels, the KCPD auxiliary identification hanging around her neck, and the confident authority that she’d honed into a suit of armor over the years got the gathering crowd to part and let her pass with little more than a nod or a touch. She spotted the lanky, red-haired detective, Spencer Montgomery, who headed up the serial rapist task force she’d been assigned to, standing near the yellow crime scene tape that blocked the entrance to an alley between a local flower shop and a gutted warehouse building that was being remade into shops, offices and loft apartments. Summoning her courage on a deep breath, Kate turned off her emotions and braced herself for the death and violence reportedly on the other side of that yellow tape.

“Officer Taylor.” She approached the tall, brawny K-9 officer who was guarding the scene with the proportionately big and muscular German shepherd panting beside him.

He touched the brim of his KCPD ball cap. “Ma’am.”

She grinned up at him. The two had recently become acquainted with his assignment to the task force, as well. “I told you to call me Kate.”

“If you call me Pike.”

“Done.” The nickname was unusual, but the charm was genuine.

The K-9 officer pointed to the trio of police officers conferring next to the wall at the edge of the alley. “They’re over there … Kate.”