Chapter 3

Where Melanie was concerned, Wyatt had screwed up so many times, in so many ways, he supposed she would consider creepy stalker just another entry on his rap sheet, between arrogant prick and manipulative bastard.

It was five twenty-nine in the morning, and he’d been sitting at Gene’s All-Night Diner for almost four hours. In that time, he had discovered its only redeeming feature was location—immediately across the street from Melanie’s apartment complex. The bar next door had kicked him out at closing time, consigning him to this fluorescent-lighted, vinyl-coated hell that reeked of the ghosts of greasy burgers long past. And the coffee… He picked up his cup, grimaced, and set it aside. From the smell of it, the percolator had last been cleaned during the first Bush administration. The pie was even worse.

But the alternative was to go pound on Michael Miller’s hotel room door. And then pound on his head.

Wyatt fished a soggy lump of apple out of the sea of brown-flecked slime and mashed it with his fork, imagining it was Michael’s face. That lying son of a bitch had touched Melanie. Been with her in ways that Wyatt wasn’t allowed. Hurt her without a second thought.

And Wyatt couldn’t even offer her his shoulder to cry on. His knuckles went white around the fork as he fought the urge to jump out of the grimy booth. How could he just sit here when she needed… He shook his head with a quiet laugh. Not a hug. Right now, she’d smack anyone who tried to offer her sympathy.

Maybe Violet wasn’t crazy for sending Wyatt to play punching bag. He’d had a lot of practice. But didn’t she realize that seeing Melanie in pain, being close to her and forced to know that some other bastard had been so much closer, would slice his guts into ribbons?

No. Of course she didn’t. He’d made damn sure no one—including Melanie—knew how hard he struggled to keep his precious distance. Except those times when he couldn’t resist getting close, then picked a fight with her in the time-honored tradition of juvenile pigtail-pullers everywhere.

And every Thanksgiving and Easter he’d held his breath, bracing himself for the inevitable day when she brought a man. The man.

But that day hadn’t come. Wyatt continued to live off the crumbs she tossed across the table, along with those barbed smiles that had grown razor-sharp since he’d made the colossal error in judgment that had contributed to her brother’s downward spiral. He didn’t blame her for blaming him. It was better than blaming Joe or, worse, Violet.

And it saved Wyatt from having to work at alienating her.

He mutilated another piece of apple, then pushed the plate away in disgust and checked the time on his phone. Five thirty-seven. If Melanie was going to commit an act of retribution, surely she would have done it by now. And he still had no idea what he could do to stop her.

“You know she won’t listen to me,” he’d warned Violet. “Why don’t you go sit on her?”

Then Violet had grinned, cocking her eyebrows. “Friends don’t let friends’ wives get arrested. And if worst comes to worst, you won’t have to borrow money for her bail.”

Yet another perk of being a trust fund brat, along with perfect teeth and generations of ruthlessly wielded rich, white privilege. And since he was already here, he might as well give Melanie until sunup before calling this stakeout a bust.

He grabbed his tablet and tapped to replay one of a series of rodeo videos to distract himself. On-screen, a bull rider nodded his head. The gate swung open, and the bull made an immediate, devastating left, ripping the cowboy’s hand out of the rope and slamming him into the front of the adjacent chute where he fell—knocked half senseless with no escape route. As the bull whipped around to finish him off, a man stepped into the gap and swatted the Brahma on the head. The bull took a nasty swipe at him. The bullfighter grabbed the top rail of the chute and jumped, so the stubby horn caught him under the hip and tossed him up and over the gate, out of reach.

Meanwhile, the other two bullfighters had closed in—one on either side. The taller yelled and slapped at the bull’s head, distracting it while the second bullfighter grabbed the cowboy and helped him scramble to safety.

Perfect position, perfect execution. Wyatt hit Pause, freezing the scene.

“That’s insane,” someone said from over his shoulder. He glanced back to see the waitress, a carafe of steaming poison in one hand. She gestured at the video. “Tryin’ to ride one of those things is crazy enough, but what kind of idiot would want to be a bullfighter?”

“Me.” He held up the tablet to give her a closer look, adding helpfully, “I’m the one in yellow.”

Her jaw dropped, and hot color flared into her cheeks. “Well, I-I didn’t mean… You don’t look…”

What? Crazy? Or like a cowboy? He was neither, though members of his family would beg to differ on the first point. He had stumbled into this career by accident, from a world so far away it might as well be Mars. Unlike everyone he worked with, he’d learned to ride English style, in custom-fitted knee-high boots that cost more than this waitress would take home in a month. Now his uniform consisted of a soccer-style jersey and shorts, baseball cleats, and body armor. A cowboy hat was mandatory, but he took it off the first chance he got. Even after close to fifteen years on the circuit, wearing western gear made him feel like a city boy playing dress-up.

Sort of like tonight, in his black, long-sleeved T-shirt, dark-blue jeans, and a black cap to cover his short blond hair. All he needed was a camera with a phallic-sized telephoto lens, and his creepy stalker costume would be complete.

He could argue that Violet had twisted his arm—but that would only spread the blame.

A flash of yellow caught his eye as a taxi pulled to a stop across the street. In a blink, Melanie was across the sidewalk and into the back seat, a swift-moving shadow also in dark jeans, a black hoodie, and a baseball cap, with a backpack slung over her shoulder. Hell. That didn’t look good. Wyatt fumbled for his wallet, tossed a twenty onto the table, and charged out past the startled waitress, but by the time he got to his rental car, the cab had disappeared around the corner. He made an educated guess as to her destination and was rewarded when he saw the taxi several blocks ahead on the four-lane avenue, aimed toward Michael’s hotel.

He could follow. Or he could attempt to cut her off. He chose the latter, passing on the left in the generic sedan he’d rented for the occasion, and parked under the hotel’s portico just ahead of the taxi. Then he waited, braced to do whatever was necessary…and hoping she didn’t do any permanent bodily damage.

The yellow cab sailed past the front entrance and around to the side lot. Crap! She was going in the back. He should have known she’d have a key card to Michael’s room. Wyatt bailed out of his car and started for the front entrance, intending to meet her at the rear door, but instead of heading for the hotel, she hopped out of the taxi at the far end of the lot and paused for an instant to reach under the rear bumper of a Ford pickup. Before he could change directions, she’d climbed in and fired up the engine. Wyatt ducked behind a bush as she roared past and onto the street.

The pickup had Colorado plates.

Oh hell. Her version of Don’t get mad, get even was going to involve $60,000 worth of prime American steel. What was in that backpack? Too small for a Louisville Slugger, but there was plenty of room for a can of lighter fluid. Or dynamite.

His crappy rental didn’t even have enough oomph to lay rubber when he jumped in and hit the gas. He spotted her immediately, driving well within speed limit, but he had to hang back several blocks, thanks to the deserted streets. They headed for an industrial section on the edge of Amarillo and…Westwind Feeds? He swore as she jumped out, unlocked the single bar that barricaded the entrance to the parking lot, and swung it aside, her movements as swift and precise as a covert operative on a well-planned mission. Before Wyatt got within a block, she was inside—and he was locked out. The street that fronted the property was marked No Parking. If he left his car there to go after her, it would draw the attention of any passing cop.

He swore again, then made a left to circle around the block opposite Westwind, killing his headlights as he pulled into an alley between two warehouses. He left the car halfway down and made like a ninja, creeping through the shadows until he had a clear view of where Melanie had pulled the Ford into a slot marked Executive Parking, next to one of the Westwind company pickups. Wyatt paused, then gagged when he made the mistake of inhaling. He pulled his T-shirt up over his nose to filter out some of the dirty-diaper and rotting-fish stench of the nearby Dumpster. If tonight was any indication, it was just as well he’d crossed undercover cop and spy off the list when he’d decided against Yale Divinity and gone in search of a less holier-than-thou career.

Across the road, Melanie was crouched beside the pickup, scrawling blocky neon-green letters all the way down the side of the Ford with a can of spray paint.

She finished, stepped back to admire her work for a second, then grabbed her open backpack and circled around to duck out of sight between the vehicles and go to work on the Westwind pickup. Well, hell. Once again he’d failed miserably, because once again he had badly underestimated her.

A hard lesson Michael Miller was about to learn. You didn’t mess with Melanie and stroll away whistling.

Wyatt flattened his reluctant smile and contemplated the situation. The damage was already well in progress. The best he could do now was to get her out of here as quickly and quietly as possible. He looked both ways and, seeing no sign of life in either direction, sprinted across the street. The hissing of the spray can stopped. He eased up and peeked over the tailgate of Michael’s pickup as she pulled a long security cable from the backpack. Heavy duty, impervious to bolt cutters. Damn. She had thought of everything. She threaded an end through the front wheel of each pickup and wrapped it twice around the Executive Parking sign, anchoring both vehicles in place.

As she snapped a padlock through the looped ends, Wyatt said, “Your P is running.”

She yelped, snatched the nearest paint can, and spun around. Only Wyatt’s superior reflexes kept him from getting a blast of orange square in the face. He counted to ten, then cautiously peered over the tailgate again.

She snarled up at him. “Violet sent you?”

“No sense getting you all pissed off at someone else.” He tapped the Ford, then cocked his head toward the Westwind pickup. “ADULTERER goes without saying, but PIMP?”

“My boss knew Michael was married. He met the wife.” Her face twisted, a combination of fury and disgust. “Then he saw Michael giving me the eye and threw me in with the deal like I was one of his truck-stop hookers.”

So she’d been deceived, exploited, and undermined in one fell swoop. Wyatt squelched the urge to kick a dent into the side of the Ford, opting to survey the parking lot instead. “How were you planning to get out of here?”

She waved a hand at her running shoes. “It’s not that far back to my place.”

And at this time in the morning she would be just another jogger, getting in a few miles before work. Actually, her timing was brilliant all around. In the middle of the night her presence would be suspicious, but if a passerby did see her in the lot at this time of the morning, they’d assume someone was getting an early start on the day—unless they spotted her artwork.

Headlights flickered in Wyatt’s peripheral vision. He lunged forward, throwing his arms around her and turning so he bore the brunt of slamming into the pavement between the pickups.

“What the hell?” She jabbed an elbow into his side, putting some serious intent behind it.

He grunted and tightened his hold, rolling both of them underneath the Ford and losing some skin from his forearm in the process. She squirmed, but she was pinned by his weight, and he’d taken advantage of her surprise to angle his hips between her knees so she couldn’t inflict any serious pain. “Cop!” he hissed.

She froze.