Endangered Heiress

She checked her rearview mirror. The sedan was tracking her. And she was running out of field.

* * *

HUDSON DALE WAS on his horse, Bullseye, when he noticed something he hadn’t seen in the year since moving to the outskirts of his hometown of Cattle Barge—action.

A pale blue two-door convertible tore across his neighbor’s land, kicking up all kinds of dust. Not far behind was a bigger sedan, white. Normally, he’d butt out of other people’s business but this looked urgent, like trouble, and was headed his way. Besides, he could admit that his life felt a lot like watching paint dry lately. He was restless.

His experience in law enforcement had his instincts riled up as he watched the scene unfold. The convertible was being chased down and needed an out. As the vehicle passed by, he caught sight of the driver. He couldn’t get a good look at her face, not with all that wheat-colored hair whipping around since her windows were open, but he could see that a female was at the wheel. She was getting bounced around pretty well in her small sedan.

Hudson strained to get a good look at the driver of the vehicle pursuing hers. He immediately pulled his shotgun from his saddlebag when he realized the male figure had a gun. Hudson loaded a shell.

“Come on, boy,” Hudson said to Bullseye. He’d been named for the brown markings surrounding his left eye, making it look like the center of a target.

The convertible driver had nowhere to go and she seemed to realize it as she spun the wheel and hesitated, facing down the other driver.

Hudson whistled one of his loud, call-the-cows-home signals and motioned for her to head toward his gate. He aimed his shotgun, pumped once and fired a shot at the back tire of the white vehicle bearing down on her. Hudson’s chest puffed out a little as he scored a direct hit. He’d been keeping up with target practice, maintaining sharp skills even though he’d never planned to need them again for work.

The convertible driver navigated wide as the other vehicle spun out.

Hudson managed to open the gate while seated on his horse. The pale blue two-door blazed inside the gate and he sealed off the entrance as he hopped off Bullseye, pausing only long enough to tie the horse off. His law-enforcement training had him putting plenty of mass between him and the drivers of both cars in the form of an oak tree.

Red brake lights stared at him from the back of the white sedan. The driver was making a choice.

“Put your hands where I can see them and get out of your vehicle,” he shouted with authority, shotgun at the ready and trained on the white sedan.

The numbers on the buyer’s tags were impossible to make out at this distance. The vehicle sped off. Hudson muttered a curse as he watched a suspect disappear. He angled toward the blue convertible that was still idling in his driveway.

“Hands where I can see them,” he shouted with that same authority to the driver.

She complied.

“Can I move them to open the door so I can come out?” she asked, and there was something about her voice that sent an unwelcome sexual current rippling through him. Damn. It hadn’t been that long since he’d had female company. Not really. Sure, it had been too long since he’d had interesting companionship. Everyone he’d dated since returning to Cattle Barge had left him bored and indifferent. What was so special about her?

“Yes,” he said as he neared the vehicle.

The door to the driver’s side opened and she kept her hands in full view. The woman who stepped out was stunning. Her wheat-colored hair fell around her shoulders in shiny waves. Her body was just as curvy, and, hell...sexy. She had long legs attached to what he could only guess was a sweet round bottom from this angle. Her full breasts rose and fell rapidly, no doubt from adrenaline and fear. She had cornflower blue eyes that were clear and bright. A couple of freckles dotted her nose on otherwise flawless skin. And speaking of skin, her jeans fit like a second layer and were tucked inside red roper boots.

Her hands were in the surrender position and she didn’t bother to close her vehicle’s door. Good moves. He also noticed that there wasn’t a gold band on her ring finger. Didn’t always mean someone wasn’t married, but was a pretty good indicator. He lied to himself when he said the only reason he’d noticed was habit.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, ignoring his other thoughts—thoughts that had no business creeping in while he investigated a possible crime. Speaking of which, this whole scene had angry boyfriend written all over it.

“Thank you for helping me,” she said and her voice shook. She also had an almost imperceptible drawl. She was from Texas. “I have no idea what’s going on. This guy came out of nowhere aiming a gun at me.”

She looked completely rattled. Her eyes—eyes that were almost a perfect match to her convertible—were wild, and she had that desperate look he’d seen one too many times on victims and especially on Misty when...

Hudson refused to go over that again. Not even in his mind.

He could clearly see that this woman’s hands shook. And her eyes had that bewildered quality that victims often had when they didn’t see a crime coming.

Hudson believed her. “Do you have a weapon?”

“No.” She glanced around and his gaze dropped to her jean pockets for confirmation. A serious mistake in his opinion because stray voltage zapped him and a thunderclap of need followed, sizzling through him.

“Where are you headed?” He blew out a sharp breath. Those emotions had no business in this conversation. He’d call the sheriff, turn her over and get back to his day.

“I’m Madelyn Kensington, by the way,” she said, offering a handshake.

He took it, and did his level best not to notice the fact that her skin was as silky as it looked. “Hudson Dale.”

“What branch of law enforcement do you work in?” she asked, dropping her hands to her sides. He didn’t mind the move. There was no way she was carrying a weapon anywhere in those jeans.

Her question caught him off guard. “What makes you think I’m anything more than a rancher?”

She glanced at his legs. “Your posture. The way you hold that shotgun. You walk with your arms out a little, like you’re still wearing a holster, and your aim with that shotgun is pretty dead accurate.”

He put a hand up to stop her. “I’m no such thing. What kind of work do you do that makes you notice the way a man carries himself?”

“Me? I’m a reporter from Houston headed to the Butlers,” she said, and he was close enough to see her erratic heartbeat pound at the base of her neck.

The last thing Hudson needed was someone who knew how to do research nosing around in his business and especially his past. And there’d been plenty of journalists in the area following the death of Maverick Mike.

“Well, right now, Mrs. Kensington—”

“It’s Miss,” she corrected.

He gave a curt nod of acknowledgment even though an inappropriate reaction stirred in his chest.

“Is there any chance that white sedan belongs to your boyfriend?” he asked.

“I don’t have one, but I do have a persistent ex,” she admitted.

Why did relief wash over him when he heard those words? He’d noticed her ring finger a minute ago and tried not to care one way or the other when he didn’t see a gold band.

“The guy who just ran you off the road is getting away.” Hudson fished his cell out of his back pocket, keeping an eye on the reporter. “So, if you don’t mind, I need to make a call to the sheriff’s office and see if we can stop him before someone else gets hurt.”

“Yes, by all means,” she said, taking a step back and leaning a hip against the side of her trunk. She folded her arms and he noticed how the move pushed her breasts against the spring-green cotton shirt she wore. Calmer, her voice was as creamy and smooth as her skin.

Hudson forced his gaze away from the wheat-haired beauty. Getting involved with a woman like her was dangerous. Emotions had no place in an investigation. And he had no intention of repeating past mistakes.

Chapter Three (#u1f4930c9-76d0-5877-b243-c81d3d9dd81d)

Madelyn’s pulse hammered her ribs. Hudson Dale might look like a cowboy in those low-slung jeans, dark navy T-shirt with rolled-up sleeves and white Stetson, but something—call it reporter instincts and keen observation skills—told Madelyn that he was hiding something. Would that something put her in more danger?

The man had that law-enforcement swagger when he walked but hadn’t identified himself as such. He even sounded law enforcement when he’d instructed her to get out of the car with that commanding voice of his—a voice that traveled over her with an inappropriate sensual shiver that ran down her back.

When she’d outright asked, he denied ever working the job. She’d spent enough time around cops when she worked the crime beat early on in her career to recognize the voice of authority they used when they spoke to someone. This guy looked far too young to be retired. The man couldn’t be a day older than thirty-two, which was only two years older than Madelyn.

He was either undercover, or...