The Sheriff of Horseshoe, Texas

“Gimme yer hands,” he said again.

“No.” She backed against the door.

Before she could do anything else, he grabbed her hands and whipped the rope around them with lightning speed. With one movement he jerked the rope so tight it cut into her skin. She had to force herself to take deep breaths.

Fear held her paralyzed as Zeke fiddled with some wires beneath the dash. After a second the truck sputtered to life.

Zeke let out a chilling victory laugh and slammed the stick shift into gear. The truck was backed into a parking spot, so when he hit the gas pedal, they shot through the gate and out into the night.

Panic rose in her anew. She had no idea where he planned to take her. The sheriff would come, she kept telling herself.

She’d told herself that earlier, she realized with annoying insight. She’d thought Quinn would come. And he hadn’t.

All her life her father had made sure she never wanted for anything. All she had to do was be his little princess, the light of his life. He took care of all her problems, all her worries. She was loved, pampered, safe and secure.

But now…

For once in her life she was on her own.

WYATT COULDN’T sleep. He didn’t feel right leaving Ms. Ross in the jail. Zeke was as obnoxious as a man could get and he’d likely taunt Ms. Ross all night long. Where was Ms. Ross’s important mother?

He always trusted his gut instincts and something told him he was needed at the jail. Maybe it was his conscience. He slipped into jeans, boots and grabbed a short-sleeve shirt. Checking the jail one more time would give him some peace of mind and then maybe he could sleep.

His mother, Maezel, known to everyone as Mae, was in the living room, watching an old Elvis movie. She was a fanatic about the man—there was Elvis memorabilia all over the house. Wyatt complained about it so much that she now kept most of it in her room. His mother was eccentric, to say the least. His childhood had been colorful and he knew every song Elvis had ever sung. Wyatt refused to talk about his middle name.

“Mom, what are you doing still up?”

She rose to a sitting position. At sixty-eight, his mother was still in good health, though prone to bouts of depression, when she went silent. Those silent spells got him, so he’d turn up the Elvis music and soon she was back to her old self.

Pushing permed, short gray curls from her forehead, she replied, “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I have to go back to the jail.”

With her eyes on the TV, she said, “Jody says you have an uppity city lady locked up.”

“Yeah. I have to check on her.”

“Go. Go.” She waved him away. “I don’t want to miss this scene with Ann-Margret.”

She’d seen the movie a hundred times at least, but that was his mother—living in Elvis Presley’s time zone.

“If Jody wakes up, tell her I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“She never wakes up,” Mae said, her eyes glued to the screen. “Viva Las Vegas.”

He placed his hat on his head with a wry grin and headed for the back door.

His father, John Wyatt Carson, had died ten years ago of lung cancer; he’d smoked two packs a day until a month before his passing. He was set in his ways, but he’d been a loving, caring father—although sometimes, especially when Wyatt was a teenager, a little stricter than Wyatt would have liked, His father had been a highway patrolman and believed in rules and discipline, as Wyatt did now. But somehow Wyatt wasn’t very good at disciplining his own child.

His mother was very little help in that area. Mae Carson was an easygoing person who lived in the moment. Discipline wasn’t high on her list of priorities.

She’d lost a son to meningitis when the boy was just five years old. That was before Wyatt had been born and his father had told him that his mother had never been the same afterward.

For a solid year she’d grieved and no one could reach her, his dad had said, and then one day she started singing “Kentucky Rain” and “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” She’d listened to Elvis’s records over and over, and Wyatt’s father had let her be. She’d found her solace.

Over the years his mother’s eccentricity increased. But these days she was content, and Wyatt was grateful to have her in his life to lean on when things got rough. She looked at the world a little differently, but who was to say what was right and what was wrong?

She was probably the main reason he’d moved back into his childhood home. He needed a little of her kind of insanity in his life, Elvis songs and all. He slid into his car and headed for the jail.

There’d been too much dying in the Carson family. Maybe that was why he was so lenient with Jody. He wanted their days to be happy because life could be snatched away without a moment’s notice. And he wanted every memory to be treasured.

When he walked into his office, he heard a faint moan. A flicker of apprehension shot through him. He ran into the jail and saw Lamar lying on the floor. Zeke was gone and so was Ms. Ross. Damn it all to hell!

Kneeling, he felt for a pulse. When he found it, a sigh of relief escaped him. Lamar moaned again and Wyatt helped him sit up.

“Are you okay?”

Lamar rubbed his throat. “That bastard choked me.”

“Zeke?”

“Yeah.”

With Wyatt’s help, Lamar staggered to his feet. They walked into the office and Lamar flopped into a chair.

“What happened?” Wyatt asked.

“Zeke said he was sick and had a fever. I…I fell for it. He had me around the neck before I knew it. I’m…I’m sorry, Wyatt.”

“Did he take Ms. Ross?”

Lamar went still. “Is she gone?”

“Yes.”

“I heard them talking.” Lamar rubbed his throat.

“About what?”

“I…Oh, Sheriff…” Lamar was shaking and his skin was a grayish color.

“Take a deep breath,” Wyatt coaxed while reaching for his cell to call Judy Deaver, the nurse. Since Horseshoe didn’t have a clinic, they depended on the nurse for minor emergencies.

“Judy, this is Wyatt. I need you at the jail immediately.”

“Be right there.”

“Keep taking deep breaths,” he told Lamar.