Colorado Abduction

“I’m impressed that you found out that much tonight.”

“I get things done, Burke.”

She wasn’t bragging, just stating a fact. He had no doubt that Carolyn wouldn’t hesitate to wake up the entire Colorado banking community to get what she wanted.

“If you can’t get the money, explain it to the kidnapper. Ask for more time.”

“And if he refuses?”

“He won’t.”

She turned away from him and wandered around the table, checking out the equipment. When she came to the screen with the map and the red dots, she pointed. “What’s this?”

“A map.”

“I can tell it’s a map,” she said with some exasperation. “And not a very good one. If you want more detailed maps of the area, we’ve got plenty. Dylan uses them to keep track of the different fields, pastures and grazing rotation.”

He hauled himself out of the comfortable chair and went to stand beside her. The top of her head came up to his chin. In her boots, she was close to six feet. A tall woman. He liked that.

He pointed to the red markings. “These dots represent incidents of sabotage.”

She counted. “Seven incidents. Since my brother hasn’t seen fit to keep me informed, can you tell me about them?”

Burke had plenty of details. During the interrogations, he’d listened to dozens of complaints from ticked-off cowboys. “Like you said before, it was just petty mischief until the barn burned down.”

Her soft pink lips frowned. “I still don’t understand why. We’re good neighbors. We provide employment to the people in this area. Why would anybody do this to us?”

“You want motives?” He flipped open the notepad where Silverman had recorded their notes. “There are over twenty names listed. People who bear grudges against the Carlisles.”

She leaned over the table. Her manicured fingernail—a feminine contrast to her ranch clothes—skimmed down the list. “I don’t even know half these people. How did you come up with this list?”

“Your employees told us about them. By the way, all the ranch hands were quick to say that they like their jobs and your brother is a good, fair-minded boss.”

She pointed to a name on the list. “Who’s this?”

When he bent down to see where she was pointing, her ponytail brushed against his cheek. The scent of lilacs from her hair distracted him and it took a moment for him to read the name. “He works for an oil company. Your brother wouldn’t allow his equipment access through Carlisle property.”

“That hardly seems like an incitement to vandalism. Or kidnapping.”

Though Burke agreed, he knew better than to overlook any motive, no matter how slight. Some people could work themselves into a homicidal frenzy over a stubbed toe.

She read another name. “Nate Miller. That’s no surprise. He’s hated us forever, blames us for his father’s failure on the Circle M.”

“There are a couple of other ranchers on the list who don’t like the competition from Carlisle Ranch.”

“It’s business,” she said. “Why make it personal?”

“Your success hurts their bottom line. People tend to take bankruptcy personally.”

“But we’re always fair. Always.” She tapped the name with her finger. “Dutch Crenshaw runs the meatpacking plant in Delta. We’ve given him millions of dollars in business over the years.”

Burke considered Crenshaw’s motive to be one of the best. “But you’re thinking about building your own slaughterhouse.”

“I gave him a chance,” she said. “I told him that we wanted to use state-of-the-art humane technology, but he refused to modify his plant.”

“So you’re going to put him out of business.”

She frowned. “Okay, maybe you’ve got a point.”

His focus on the list was interrupted by a loud crash, followed by the sound of gunfire. The shots came from the front of the house.

Chapter Five

Burke’s risk assessment had been dead wrong. They were under attack. He caught hold of Carolyn’s upper arm and turned her toward him. “Go upstairs. Don’t turn on any lights and—”

“The hell I will.” She wrenched free. “Those were gunshots. Somebody’s firing at my house—the house that’s been in my family for three generations, the house my grandpa built. Don’t ask me to hide behind the lace curtains in my bedroom.”

Stubborn woman. “I go first. Stay behind me.”

“Of course. I’m not going to put myself or anyone else in danger.”

He grabbed his handgun from the shoulder holster slung across the back of a chair, aware of seconds ticking away. Whoever fired that shot would be making his escape. Moving quickly through the house, Burke turned off lights as he went. Carolyn followed in his footsteps.

Her brother staggered into the moonlit hallway, rubbing his eyes. “Carolyn? What’s going on?”

“Stay with him,” Burke ordered as he flipped the latch on the front door. “I’ll be right back.”

Leaving Carolyn behind—thank God—he slipped outside onto the veranda. Aware that he might be the next target for a man with a rifle and a nightscope, Burke stayed low. He dodged around the rocking chair and porch swing. At the end of the veranda, he jumped over the railing and ducked into the shadows.

Wind rustled the bare branches of a cottonwood. Nothing else appeared to be moving.

“Over here, Burke.”

Burke followed the sound of the voice and saw a security guard crouched behind a truck that was parked on the wide gravel space beyond a hitching rail. Burke hustled toward him. “Where’s the shooter?”

“Didn’t see him. I was behind the house when I heard the shots.”

His heavy jaw was thrust forward. His name, Burke remembered, was Neville. He’d been in the Secret Service for five years before joining Longbridge Security. “What about a vehicle?”

Neville shook his head. “I didn’t hear a car.”

Cautiously, they peered around the truck. The driveway leading to the house was a long gravel lane. The yard was about an acre of winter-brown grass, separated from the road by a whitewashed fence. On the other side of the road, the land turned rugged with lots of trees and rocks—plenty of hiding places for a sniper.

“He could be dug in behind those rocks,” Burke said.

He nodded. “A decent rifle would be accurate from four, maybe even five hundred yards away.”

After that first burst of gunfire, no other shots had been fired. Likely, the shooter had already hightailed it out of there. “Do you think he’s gone?”