Cowboy's Texas Rescue

Jake gritted his back teeth and swallowed his retort. If the surly jerk didn’t want his help…screw him.

He’d turned to leave when the pounding he’d assumed was the bass from the speakers sounded from the rear of the Caddy. From the trunk. He stopped and listened, turned back toward the driver.

Was that scream part of the music or…

His senses ramping into high alert, Jake edged toward the rear of the vehicle, reaching behind him for his pistol. The guy could be a drug smuggler. A human-smuggling coyote. Or about a half-dozen other options that sprang to mind. Jake divided his gaze between the man and the interior of the car as he did a fast check for weapons, for hiding passengers, for contraband as he crept backward to check the trunk. “Buddy, why don’t you step out of the car and—”

Jake’s adrenaline spiked.

An orange jumpsuit had been stuffed halfway under the backseat.

The escaped prisoner lunged from the car, whipping a gun out from under the pink pullover.

Instantly Jake raised his own weapon and squeezed off a shot. Spinning, he dived behind the protective cover of the Caddy’s rear bumper. The inmate—Edward Brady, the radio had called him—returned fire. Brady’s rounds deflated a back tire and pinged off the heavy steel fender.

Hearing the scuffle of feet, Jake peered around the back of the Cadillac. Brady was running toward Jake’s truck.

“Oh, hell no, you’re not takin’ my truck,” he growled. Jake leveled his pistol, aiming for the guy’s leg rather than a kill shot. He’d leave the cretin alive for the local authorities to deal with. He fired once, and the inmate fell to the ground, clutching his left leg. Staying behind the protection of the Caddy, Jake crept to the passenger door, reached inside to turn off the blaring music, then eased forward to the front fender. “Toss your gun toward me now, or I’ll shoot your other leg!”

Brady returned a scathing epithet and fired twice toward the Caddy.

Jake scowled his irritation but kept his focus on subduing Brady. He narrowed his eyes on the weapon Brady had. It looked like a .40 Smith & Wesson M&P. Pretty typical police sidearm. Sixteen rounds in a standard magazine. Call it eighteen rounds, in case he was wrong about the model of pistol, and it was a 9 mm instead. Jake made a few calculations—two shots to kill the police officers in his getaway, four shots fired at him just now. Brady could have as many as a dozen rounds left. Brady needed to surrender the gun or spend those remaining rounds.

“Toss me the gun!” Jake repeated.

Brady answered with two more shots toward the Cadillac. Jake fired near Brady once to encourage returned shots. The escaped inmate didn’t disappoint. Five more shots.

By lifting his hat into Brady’s view, Jake drew three more rounds. Jake monitored the injured convict from behind the Cadillac, waiting for more shots.

Instead the gunman struggled to his feet and headed toward Jake’s truck again.

Muttering a curse under his breath, Jake darted after Brady, overtaking him easily and knocking him to the pavement. With a punch to the jaw, Jake disoriented Brady enough to wrest the police sidearm from the escapee, which he quickly stashed at the small of his back. Then twisting the man’s arms up behind his back, Jake dragged Brady to his feet and shoved him back toward the Caddy. “Had to do it the hard way, didn’t you?”

Brady glared at him and bit out another curse that would make a sailor blush.

In the glove compartment, Jake found a roll of duct tape—probably the same one the owner of the car had used liberally on the vinyl seats—and he helped himself to a strip for Brady’s filthy mouth. Next Jake bound the inmate’s ankles and wrists, leaving Brady’s arms in front of him so that he could self-administer pressure to his bleeding leg. After dumping the inmate on the backseat, Jake ripped a larger hole in the jeans around the man’s gunshot wound and gave the injury a cursory inspection. The gash was deep but was still a flesh wound. No broken bones or major blood vessels damaged. The thug would live to be a burden to society.

Jake yanked off the man’s sock and pressed it against the wound. “Hold still while I tape that up to stanch the bleeding.”

Brady glared at him the entire time as he pulled the duct tape around the man’s leg, creating a makeshift bandage. Nothing fancy, but good enough to stop the bleeding until the authorities arrived. “Keep pressure on that to slow the bleeding.”

With his prisoner subdued, Jake took the Cadillac’s keys from the ignition and moved toward the trunk to investigate the thumping noises he’s heard earlier. Leveling his weapon with one hand, he keyed open the trunk and cautiously raised the lid.

Chapter 2

Tremors racked Chelsea, a combination of the cold, her fear and the surging adrenaline in her veins. She curled in a tight ball, trying to stay warm and keep her panic at bay. She’d never been claustrophobic, but being locked in the Cadillac’s trunk was making her rethink that position.

Fumbling blindly, she’d tried to open the trunk from the inside to no avail, and her attempts to punch out a taillight and flag a passing car had been equally futile. Ethyl was a tank, and no amount of awkward kicking or beating on the walls of the trunk had made any difference.

And then she’d heard a car approach. Slow. Stop. But as soon as she’d cried for help, her captor had cranked the radio loud enough that the car shook.

The exchange of gunfire had been terrifying and deafening. Whoever had stopped to offer his help had been armed—not such a big surprise. This was Texas after all. But not knowing who’d won the battle, if the escaped convict had killed again, had her strung tight. Tears stung her eyes knowing help was so close…and still so far.

A rattle came from the trunk lock, and she tensed. Oh, please, God, let it be someone to rescue her and not that maniac killer!

The lid lifted, and daylight poured into the pitch-dark of the trunk. she shuddered as a stiff icy wind swept into the well of the trunk, blasting her bare skin.

“Ah, hell,” a deep voice muttered.

Her pulse scampered, and she squinted to make out the face of the man standing over her.

The gun in his hand registered first, then his size—tall, broad-shouldered, and his fleece-lined ranch coat made him appear impressively muscle-bound. Plenty big enough to overpower her if he was working with the convict.

A black cowboy hat and backlighting from the sky obscured his face in shadow, adding to her apprehension.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, stashing the gun out of sight and undoing the buttons of his coat.

“N-no.” When he reached for her, she shrank back warily. Her dishabille caused nervous skitters to dance along her nerves, left her feeling vulnerable. Awkward. Cold as hell.

And where was the convict? She cast an anxious glance around them, down the side of the car, searching. Was he dead? Waiting to pounce when she climbed out of the trunk?

She jolted when her rescuer grasped her elbow.

“Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you.” The cowboy leaned farther into the trunk. “Let me help you out of there, and you can have my coat.”

His coat… She almost whimpered in gratitude, anticipating the warmth. Heat from his fingers burrowed to her core as he steadied her and helped her rise to her knees. When she caught her first good glimpse of his square jaw and stubble-dusted cheeks, her stomach swooped. Oh, Texas! He was a freaking Adonis. Greek god–gorgeous with golden blond hair, cowboy boots and ranch-honed muscles. He lifted her out of the trunk, and when he set her down and her knees buckled with muscle cramps, cold and fatigue, she knew she couldn’t dismiss old-fashioned swooning for at least some of her legs’ weakness. He draped the coat around her shoulders, and the sexy combined scents of pine, leather and man surrounded her. She had to be dreaming… .

Relief surged through her. Rescue!

“You can sit in my truck and get warm while I deal with Brady and call the cops.” He stepped past her and reached up to close the trunk lid. Keeping a kind blue-eyed gaze on her, he slammed the trunk lid closed.

She nodded her understanding. “Th-thank you.”

A movement in the backseat of the car drew her attention. the convict glared at her through the shattered rear window, and a chill raced through her. As she held the inmate’s malevolent leer, he raised his tape-bound hands. Clutching the stun gun.

He aimed.

Terror shot through her, and she screamed, “Look out!”

Too late.

She heard the hiss and crackle of the electric current. She watched helplessly as the cowboy stiffened, his face contorting in pain. His body jerked and writhed as the convict continued to feed a disabling electric current through the twin probes piercing her rescuer’s neck.

“Stop! You’ll kill him!” Tears of horror, fear and sympathy puddled in her eyes. She rushed toward the cowboy, desperate to do something to help. But…if she touched him, would she receive the debilitating shock, too?

Overwhelmed by the current coursing through him, the cowboy’s legs crumpled. As he slumped to the ground, his head hit the back fender, then thumped hard on the pavement.

Chelsea gasped and staggered toward the cowboy’s prone form. He lay eerily still.