Kansas City Cowboy

“There was some jewelry she always wore.” Boone brushed his fingertips against the collar of his shirt. “A necklace of my mother’s. Three or four silver and turquoise rings she’d made. Janie was an arts-and-craftsy kind of gal. She took a jewelry-making class once.”

The M.E. pointed to the paper envelopes and plastic sheaves on the table behind her. “The rings are in evidence bags, waiting to go to the lab upstairs. I didn’t see a necklace. But there are clear signs of a struggle.”

She looked back across the table to Kate, with a look that could only be described as a plea for help. When Boone refused to budge, Dr. Kilpatrick nodded, giving her some sort of permission to continue sharing information with him. He needed to know everything—no matter how gruesome, no matter how tragic. His only solace right now was information—and the justice it would lead him to.

Resuming a mantle of detached practicality, Dr. Masterson-Kincaid pointed one of her gloved fingers at the thin, purplish-gray bruise bisecting Janie’s delicate collar bone. “That would explain this mark. Looks like a chain around her neck was ripped off. Perimortem, judging by the bruising.”

Another treasure stolen from his family. “Did the bastard take it as a souvenir?”

The blonde beside him shook her head. “That doesn’t fit the profile. The Rose Red Rapist hasn’t collected tokens in the past, but it is important to note. Maybe he overlooked it when he was cleaning up the scene.”

“Back in that alley?” Boone would make time for a detour to search the place himself.

Kate shook her head and stepped aside to pull her cell phone from her pocket. “The body was found at a secondary location, like the others. But if we can locate the necklace, we might just find our primary crime scene.” Her gaze slipped up to Boone, no doubt assessing how much information from their interchange he was taking in, as well as what he intended to do with that information. “Can you give me a description of the necklace?”

“A sterling silver locket. Heart-shaped, with a picture of our folks inside.”

“I found a trace of some sort of metallic substance in her hair—could be a piece of a broken necklace. I’ll call Annie and Detective Montgomery to alert them to keep an eye out for it.”

Dr. Masterson-Kincaid circled around the table, urging both her guests to clear the space around the examination table. “I’ll give you some privacy while you’re making your call. I need to take a break and phone my husband, anyway.” She rested her hand on her belly and crossed to the double swinging doors. “Ever since we got the news about the baby, he’s become a little more overprotective. If that’s possible. Um.” Boone glanced over his shoulder as she waited at the door to get his attention. “Take a few moments to grieve with your sister, Sheriff Harrison. But when I get back, I do need to get work. Alone.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“And remember, don’t touch anything.”

Boone nodded.

After the dark-haired woman left, Kate apparently decided to give him some space, too. “I’ll go out there to make my calls, allow you some quiet time—”

“Don’t.” Not understanding the impulse, but not questioning it, either, he reached out and grabbed Kate’s arm. He tugged her back to his side and turned, ignoring her startled gasp as he pulled her into his chest and hugged his arms around her. “Not yet.”

“Sheriff, I …”

For a few moments, she stood there, rigid as a barn board, her arms down at her sides, her nose pressed into his chest. He knew he’d surprised her, knew he was taking liberties with a woman he barely knew. But he needed human contact right now. He needed the reassurance of a beating heart. He needed something strong to hold on to, something soft to absorb the pain and the rage and the grief roiling inside him that threatened to drag him down to his knees and bring him to tears.

As unexpected as the contact might be, there was a sensitive side to the police psychologist he must have tapped into. He felt her slender frame swell against him with a deep breath. And then she nudged her chin up onto his shoulder, wound her arms around his neck and stretched up on tiptoe to hug him back.

“Hush.” She whispered soft words against his ear. Meaningless syllables that soothed him. “I’m so sorry, Boone. Shh.”

Her body was flush against his, her arms around his neck and shoulders clinging almost as tightly as he held her. Boone buried his nose in the delicious scent of her honey-blond hair and let the grief overtake him in deep, stuttering breaths.

He held on as he purged the onslaught of emotion. Sensation by sensation, the blinding need eased and his body and spirit revived. Kate Kilpatrick was of average height, but the high heels she wore lengthened her legs and made her just the right size to fit against him like a hand to a glove. There was nothing remarkable about the shape of her body other than that the subtle curves were all there, in just the right places. She was a sophisticated blend of jasmine shampoo and woman and class.

She was businesslike yet compassionate, strong in body and resolve, yet she was the softest thing he’d held in his arms in a long time. At this moment, she was everything he needed.

But his timing couldn’t be worse.

With something else waking inside him—something that was more about family and the job, more about protecting one’s own than it was about himself—his wants, his needs and the beautiful woman who’d assuaged them both for a few stolen moments—Boone pulled his hands up to Kate’s shoulders and abruptly pushed her away.

He needed the chilly rush of air-conditioning filling the gap between them. He needed to see the self-conscious splotches of color on Kate Kilpatrick’s cheeks. He needed to watch her straighten the front of her coat and tug the sleeves back into place.

He needed to see her fixing her personal armor around her so he could do the same himself.

“Sorry about that, ma’am,” he apologized.

“Not a problem, Sheriff.” She smoothed her short hair back behind her ears. “Sometimes grief can be too much to bear. And I was here.”

“You’ve already done more for me than you should.” And yet he had to ask her to do something else. As of this moment he knew Kate Kilpatrick better than anyone in Kansas City, now that Janie was gone. They were virtual strangers, yet she was the closest thing he had to a friend right now. She was also the best source of information he’d found thus far. Dr. Kate was a pipeline straight to the detectives who were working Janie’s case. He glanced over to give his sister one last loving look, before facing the police psychologist’s guarded expression. “I want to see the crime scene and any evidence your team has on Janie’s murder and the previous rapes that bastard committed.”

The green eyes blinked. Dr. Kate was shaking her head. “Sheriff Harrison … Boone … you need to take your sister home. You need to take care of your family right now.”

He set his hat on his head, adjusting the crown to its familiar, comfortable fit. He closed his fingers around the crisp sleeve of Kate Kilpatrick’s trench coat and the warmer, softer woman underneath, and walked her to the door with him.

Her psych degree and whatever heat was simmering beneath that cool exterior might have her programmed to be all touchy-feely with his emotions. But he didn’t have the time to feel right now. “I need to work.”

THE MAN PEELED OFF his shirt and tossed it into the hamper beside the socks and pants he’d worn last night.

His eyes were glued to the television across from his bed, and on the haughty blonde being interviewed on the morning news show. He paused, stripping down to his skivvies. The bitch was looking right at him, taunting him.

“We will find this man. The task force members investigating these crimes are top-notch specialists—the best in KCPD. I guarantee that we will not rest until this attacker is caught and arrested.”

His gaze dropped to the bottom of the screen as the press conference was interrupted. He didn’t really notice the cowboy or the commotion of wonky camera angles and muffled sounds as the reporters scrambled to pursue them. He was reading the words scrolling across the bottom of the screen—Dr. Kate Kilpatrick, KCPD police psychologist and task force liaison officer.

A shrink. He could just bet that woman wanted to get inside his head. Change him. Fix him.

A familiar resentment boiled inside him. “We will find this man?” he mocked. “You wish. You’ve got nothing on me, woman.” She thought she could threaten him, intimidate him into making a mistake. This one looked right at him and challenged him. Yet she looked all sympathetic, like she thought she could help him. Like he needed help. “I didn’t do those things. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Dr. Kate Kilpatrick was all blond hair and sharp tongue and classic beauty. She looked so much like her. She sounded like her. That entitled, smarter-than-him attitude was just like her.

Despite everything he’d done, despite the promises he’d made, she’d talked to him as though he wasn’t good enough, as if he was some kind of broken thing that needed to be fixed.

The rage spilled over into his veins. She was trying to humiliate him. publicly. Again.

A nagging voice of reason piped up in his head. It isn’t her. You know she’s a different woman.

No. Women like that were all the same.

He could feel the irritation crawling beneath his skin. They took. They demanded. They emasculated. If they ever deigned to notice him, that is. A woman like that—so confident, so beautiful—she’d look right through him. You don’t know that, the voice argued. Don’t let her get to you. She’ll make trouble for you if you let her get to you.

“She won’t get to me.” He read the name scrolling across the bottom of the screen again. Kate Kilpatrick. She’d mocked him. Right there on television, for all the world to see.

He rolled his neck, scratching at the itch beneath his skin until he realized there was blood beneath his fingernails. Feeling the sticky stain on his fingertips more than the pain in his forearm, he dashed into the bathroom to check the mark in the mirror—to assure himself that he had put the mark there. There was no DNA that the brunette from the flower shop had taken from him.

He’d never make a mistake like that.

Breathing away the momentary panic, assuring himself that no woman had dared to get the better of him, he turned on the water in the sink and let it run hot before he picked up the soap and plunged his hands beneath the spray. After he’d washed his hands, using a brush to get rid of any trace of blood or skin beneath his nails, he opened the medicine cabinet. He pulled out rubbing alcohol, medicated ointment and plastic bandages to doctor the scratch he’d made, reveling in the sharp bite of pain that cleared his thoughts.

You were too smart. Too careful. The voice praised him, stroking his ego and fueling his pride. You didn’t make any mistakes.