Cowboy's Texas Rescue

He leered at her via the rearview mirror. “Not anymore.”

Her mouth dried remembering his warning that he’d already killed two cops today. No doubt the gun he wielded had been stolen from one of the cops.

“Wh-who are you? What do you want from me?”

“For now, all I want is a ride out of town, maybe a place to hole up for a little while, until I can plan my next move.”

She noticed he didn’t give her his name. Not that she really expected him to.

“Then you don’t h-have any place in mind you’re heading? No one on the outside is helping you?”

“You’re helping me now, aren’t ya?” Another leer.

Chelsea swallowed hard. Dear God, she was aiding and abetting a criminal. But under duress. They wouldn’t convict her for helping a prisoner escape under duress, would they? Her heart stutter-stepped. Lord, she hoped not.

As she approached the turn for the highway to her parents’ house, she considered driving straight. The road to her parents’ ranch was long and nearly deserted. She had a much greater chance of finding help if she stayed on this road. She accelerated as they neared the turnoff, then cringed when her mother’s GPS reminded her to turn left.

“Turn, damn it!” he yelled as they reached the intersection.

Gulping oxygen, she cut the wheel hard, and Ethyl’s tires squealed as they whipped a sharp turn at the last second.

The man shot her a dark look and jabbed harder with the gun. “You weren’t gonna turn, were ya?” He smacked the back of her head with the butt of his gun, and pain ricocheted through her head.

Narrowing a lethal glare on her, he growled, “I warned you not to pull anything! Drive me to your house, or I will shoot you and drive myself! Got it, girlie?”

Chelsea drew a shuddering breath and nodded. Just do as he says, and you might stay alive, the voice of fear and caution whispered to her.

Tears filled her eyes as a sense of futility and helplessness rushed over her the farther she got from town. She didn’t want to die. But she didn’t want to go down without at least attempting to save herself either.

As her initial shock and panic settled into an even level of terror, Chelsea mentally raced through her options. Could she crash the car into something and make a run for it?

She glanced around the isolated stretch of ranchland and saw nothing but miles of flat, empty earth. No trees, no roadside buildings, not even a highway sign substantial enough to make Ethyl undrivable. And if she did crash her mother’s Caddy out here, where would she run? her captor would shoot her before she took three steps.

Despair wrenched her chest, and she blinked back the tears that gathered in her eyes. Could she somehow get the gun away from him? He didn’t look all that well muscled, but he was taller and was most likely stronger than she was.

She cut her eyes to her purse, where her cell phone was nestled in a front pocket. If she could distract him, could she dial 9-1-1 before he stopped her?

She met his gaze in the mirror again, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion before darting to her purse.

“Don’t even think about it, girlie.” He grabbed her purse and dragged it into the backseat with him. “You got a gun in here or something?”

“N-no.”

He started rifling through her purse, and Chelsea’s skin crawled, seeing him touch her personal things. She squeezed the steering wheel, searching for another plan of escape when Ethyl’s engine coughed.

The man’s head came up. “What was that?”

“I don’t—”

The motor sputtered again, and a sinking realization settled over her, as dark as the clouds rolling in from the west.

Ethyl choked again as the man leaned over the front seat to scan the dashboard lights and gauges. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Nothing. But we—”

The engine sputtered loudly and cut off. Icy dread shimmied through Chelsea.

Her captor ground the muzzle into her nape and grated, “Don’t screw around with me, sister. I’ll blow your damn head off!”

Chelsea whimpered fearfully and cleared her throat as she coasted to the side of the road and stopped the car. “It’s not me! I swear. W-we’re out of gas!”

“A winter storm warning has been issued for the Texas panhandle and parts of New Mexico and Oklahoma, with accumulations of two feet or more of snow and ice possible tonight along with high winds and temperatures dropping into the mid-twenties,” the radio announcer droned from the speakers of Jake Connelly’s F-150.

“No kidding.” Jake leaned forward to peer through his windshield at the line of dark clouds gathered on the horizon. The readout on his truck’s thermometer said the temperature outside had dropped ten degrees just in the past thirty minutes. The cold front was closing in fast. He checked his truck’s clock and mentally calculated his arrival time at his dad’s house near Amarillo. He might just make it before the storm hit, if he hurried.

“In other news, an inmate escaped this afternoon from a Texas work detail, killing two police officers in the process.”

Jake turned the radio volume down and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he sent another considering glance to the clouds and hedged. Maybe he should go straight to the hospital and ride out the storm there. Michelle had said time was of the essence.

“Authorities are still searching for Edward Brady, convicted six years ago for armed robbery and two counts of second-degree murder. The public is warned that Brady is armed with a handgun belonging to one of the fallen officers and should be considered extremely dangerous. Brady is described as having—”

Jake snapped off the radio. Even the suggestion that he might not get home in time to see his dad made Jake’s chest tighten. Regret and concern sat heavily on his lungs. His dad had been so proud of him for being chosen for the elite black ops team, but the demands of the job kept him away from his family for months at a time. He’d missed last Christmas and hadn’t made time to visit his father in more than a year. When Jake had apologized to his dad during their two-days-late Christmas call, his father had dismissed Jake’s absence, saying, “The work you’re doing is important. You’re making a difference. I understand.”

But Jake had heard an undertone of disappointment in his dad’s voice in that call that knifed his heart now.

Time is of the essence.

Jake nudged the gas pedal, bumping up his speed. He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t make it home before his dad died.

Chelsea cringed as the escaped inmate cursed a blue streak, railing in her face. Spittle flew from his mouth as he blasted her with invectives and blamed her for their predicament.

“That’s why I’d stopped at the gas station where you hijacked me,” she said, frustration and defensive anger battling her fear.

The man’s dark eyes narrowed, and he ran a hand over his thinning brown hair. “Are you saying this is my fault?”

Chelsea bit the inside of her cheek. Don’t get him angry. Or rather angrier. Her stomach flip-flopped.

“M-maybe someone will stop and help us,” she offered, trying to infuse her tone with a note of optimism that would calm her captor. But a glance down the isolated road told her everyone with sense was already hunkered down at home, bracing for the storm.

The inmate’s eyebrows beetled, and he shifted restlessly on the seat. “No. No, we can’t have that. Can’t risk someone calling the cops.” He looked down at the orange coveralls he wore, as if realizing his attire screamed his status as an escaped felon. Raising a speculative glance to Chelsea, he waved the gun at her. “Give me your clothes.”

She blinked. “What?”

Her captor started peeling off his prison garb, revealing a second weapon he’d tucked in his underwear. Another gun, although this one had a funny shape and was painted with yellow stripes on the wide muzzle. Maybe a stun gun?

He caught her curious stare and grated, “Strip! Now! I want your clothes.”

“But it’s freezing!”