Classified Cowboy

Classified Cowboy
Mallory Kane

Classified Cowboy

Mallory Kane

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents

Cover (#u4a83626e-6690-53c5-bcba-bea6b9405b06)

Title Page (#u5c96036f-cc92-55de-9e12-36ab75279076)

About the Author (#ulink_dd224674-65a8-5b59-8a9c-234cf431ce69)

Dedication (#u24a80e95-c33b-558c-9186-1bb1738adffe)

Chapter One (#ulink_409163d4-114a-5101-bf0f-59d898ff2c7b)

Chapter Two (#ulink_b1b9c64b-a5dd-5979-99e9-2e24a8e7d2cc)

Chapter Three (#ulink_98acfa26-ead4-5095-8de4-9f145ba85ca0)

Chapter Four (#ulink_322b31ad-a202-5ce9-a7f5-55d7d7800ce4)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#ulink_7e0d2c30-586f-5ef9-988b-74dcafcd7794)

MALLORY KANE credits her love of books to her mother, a librarian, who taught her that books are a precious resource and should be treated with loving respect. Her father and grandfather were steeped in the Southern tradition of oral history and could hold an audience spellbound for hours with their storytelling skills. Mallory aspires to be as good a storyteller as her father.

Mallory lives in Mississippi with her computer-genius husband, their two fascinating cats and, at current count, seven computers. She loves to hear from readers. You can write her at mallory@mallorykane.com or via Harlequin Books.

For my Daddy, who loves reading my books.

Chapter One (#ulink_325af054-fdf9-5a07-b3d7-f491e769b56a)

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Texas Ranger Lieutenant Wyatt Colter slammed the door of his Jeep Liberty and crossed the limestone road in three long, crunching strides.

It had taken him longer than he’d intended to get here. Jonah Becker’s spread was huge—as big as Comanche Creek, Texas, was small. Becker had twelve thousand acres. The entire city limits of Comanche Creek would fit in the southeast corner of the spread.

Right now, though, Wyatt was much more concerned with the northwest corner, where human bones had been unearthed by the road crew, which Becker had fought so hard to keep off his land.

This small piece of real estate was Wyatt’s crime scene, and the owners of the two mud-spattered SUVs had breached it. Where in hell was the deputy assigned to guard the scene?

Just as he drew in breath to yell again, the growl of a generator cut through the damp night air. A large spotlight snapped on with an almost audible whoosh. He headed toward it.

“Ben, hit your light!” a kid yelled. His long-billed baseball cap sat askew on his head, and his pants looked as if they were going to fall off any second.

A second light came on. Now that there were two lights, Wyatt could see more people. He had to get this under control now, or his crime scene would be totally contaminated.

“Hey!” Wyatt grabbed the kid’s arm.

“Ow, dude. Watch the shirt.”

“Where’s the deputy sheriff?”

“I don’t know.” The kid shrugged and peered up at Wyatt from under his cap. “What’s the nine-one-one?”

“The nine-one-one is you’re stomping on my crime scene. Who the hell authorized you to be here?”

“My boss the hell did, dude.”

Wyatt tightened his fist in the boy’s shirt. “I’m not dude. I’m Lieutenant Wyatt Colter, Texas Ranger. Now, who authorized you to be here?”

The kid’s eyes bugged out. “I, uh, I’m an anthropology major. This is part of my Forensics 4383 course. If we’re lucky, we’ll see signs of murder on the bones.”

Wyatt’s anger skyrocketed. He twisted his fist in the kid’s shirt, showing him he didn’t appreciate his comment.

“Those are human beings,” he growled. “Show some respect.”