Classified Cowboy

Hardin sent him a questioning look.

“Maybe he knows whose bones are buried in there.” Wyatt spoke without taking his eyes off Nina. The scrap of shimmery red material rode up her back, leaving a good eight inches or so of bare midriff between its hem and her jeans.

“You’re suggesting Shane killed Marcie James? No way. He was torn up about Marcie’s disappearance.”

Wyatt swallowed, trying to concentrate on Hardin’s words. “I want to question him as soon as possible,” he said gruffly.

Nina reached a fraction of an inch farther, and Wyatt got a view of the underside of her breasts. He winced. In about three seconds, she was going to fall face-first into the muddy crime scene—not to mention expose her breasts—if somebody didn’t rescue her.

At that very instant, she almost lost her grip on the branch.

“No problem,” Hardin answered. “You can talk to him later this morning at my office. Say ten o’clock?”

“Make it nine. I’ll be there,” Wyatt tossed over his shoulder as he stalked quickly over to the shallow hole.

He bent and scooped Nina up with one arm, grunting quietly. She was more solid than she looked. And her breasts were soft and firm against his forearm.

“Ack!” she squawked as he plopped her down a couple of feet away, on solid ground. “What? You!”

She got her feet under her and stood. When she swiped at a lock of hair that had fallen over her brow, she left a trail of mud. “I almost had it.”

“What you almost had was a face full of mud. You could have ruined my crime scene. As an anthropologist, I’d think you’d know that falling into the middle of a find would contaminate it.”

“I wasn’t falling.”

“The hell you weren’t. What were you after?”

“I’ll show you.” She lifted her chin and walked imperiously over to the edge of the shallow hole.

Wyatt tried not to smile as he followed her. She had no idea that she looked like a tomboy, with mud streaking her face and wisps of hair flying everywhere.

“Damn it,” she muttered and turned back toward him.

No. He corrected himself. With the curve of her breasts and the delicate bones and muscles of her shoulders and collarbone showing, not to mention the outline of her nipples under the red camisole, a tomboy was the last thing she looked like.

“What is it?”

“I don’t see it now.” She patted her pockets. “I need my flashlight. It’s in my hoodie.”

Wyatt clenched his teeth in frustration as he bent down and retrieved her hooded sweatshirt.

“Here. You need to put it on, anyhow.” He couldn’t stop his eyes from flickering downward, to the top of her breasts.

“What? Why?” She looked down, made a small distressed sound, thrust her arms into the massive sleeves and wrapped the sweatshirt around her.

With an effort, he turned his attention away from her to study the general area where she’d been reaching.

She pulled out her flashlight and turned it on.

“What were you trying to reach?” he asked again, hearing the frustration in his voice.

She aimed the beam. “Something bright.”

“Bright?”

“Like metal. I think it might be a piece of jewelry.” “Or a gum wrapper.”

She shrugged, still searching with her flashlight. “Oh. There!” She held the light beam steady.

“That clod of dirt?” Wyatt squinted at the unsightly clump of mud and something fuzzy and tangled. “It looks like it came out of a sewer pipe.”

“Can you get it? I want it intact.”

“Let me have that stick.” He put his weight on the branch, bending it slightly to test it. Then he leaned on it.

“Use this.” She handed him a small tool.

“What’s this?”

“A trowel.”

He sent a glare sideways toward her. “Keep the flashlight on the clump of dirt.”

Bracing himself, he reached. Her prize was farther away than it looked. She’d have definitely ended up facedown in the mud.