Colton's Secret Service

No husband, huh? “Killed him, did you?” he asked sarcastically.

He saw the woman’s eyes flash like green lightning. Obviously, he’d struck a nerve. Had she really killed her husband?

“I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I want you to turn around and get the hell off my property or I’m going to call the sheriff,” she warned.

Nick held his ground even as he eyed the little devil the woman was vainly trying to keep behind her. He was more leery of the kid than the woman. The little girl looked as if she would bite.

“Call away,” he told the woman, unfazed. He saw that his answer annoyed her and he felt as if he’d scored a point for his side. “It’ll save me the trouble of looking up his number.”

“Right.” She drew the word out, indicating that she didn’t come close to believing him. Inclining her head slightly toward her daughter, she nonetheless kept her eyes trained on him. “Emmie, get my cell phone out of the truck.” Her eyes hardened as she turned her full attention back to him. “We don’t like people who trespass around here.”

Okay, he’d had just about enough of this grade B western clone.

“Look, I already told you that I’m a Secret Service agent—” Nick got no farther.

Georgie snorted contemptuously at what she perceived to be a whopper. Anyone could get a badge off the Internet and fake an ID these days. “And I’m Annie Oakley.”

“Well, Ms. Oakley,” Nick retorted sarcastically, “right now, you’re interfering with a federal matter.”

When it came to sarcasm, she could hold her own with the best of them. Growing up with no father and her lineage in question, the butt of more than one joke, she’d learned quickly to use the tools she had to deflect the hurtful words.

“And just what matter would that be?” she asked.

Although he rarely justified himself, he decided to give this woman the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she wasn’t playing dumb, maybe the more-than-mildly attractive hellcat really was dumb.

So he spelled it out for her. “Obstruction of justice, harboring a criminal—”

She stopped him cold. “What criminal?” Georgie demanded angrily.

This man was really getting under her skin. God, but she wished she had her shotgun with her instead of this hunk of metal. Wielding a tire iron didn’t make her feel very safe.

“Georgie Grady,” he answered. He had his doubts that she was innocent of the man’s activities. Not if she lived here as she claimed. Even so, Nick decided to cover his bases and give reasoning a try. “Look, your boyfriend or whoever Georgie Grady is to you is in a lot of trouble and if you try to hide him, it’ll only go hard on you as well.” Needing some kind of leverage, he hit her where he assumed it would hurt the most. “Do you want Social Services to take away your daughter?” He nodded at the returning child holding on to the cell phone she’d been sent to get. “I can make that happen.”

“Can you, now?” He was bluffing, Georgie thought. The man didn’t know his ass from his elbow, he’d just proven it. “Somehow, that doesn’t fill me full of fear,” she informed him coldly.

“Mama?”

There was fear in Emmie’s voice. Georgie’s protective mother instincts immediately stood at attention. She slipped one arm around her daughter’s small shoulders to give her a quick, comforting squeeze.

“But someone upsetting my daughter does fill me full of anger and I promise you, mister, when I’m angry, it’s not a pretty sight.” Her eyes became glinting, green slits as she narrowed them. “You’d do well to avoid it if you can.”

What the hell was he doing, standing in the middle of nowhere, going one-on-one with some misguided red-headed harpy? He’d had enough of this. “Just tell me where I can find this Georgie Grady and I’ll forget this whole incident.”

Emmie tugged on the bottom of her mother’s shirt to get her attention. “Is he simple, Mama?” she asked in what amounted to a stage whisper.

Georgie stifled a laugh. “It would appear so, honey.”

He was not here to entertain them, nor did he appreciate being the butt of someone’s joke, especially when he wasn’t in on it. “Look, call the damn sheriff so we can get this over with.”

To his surprise, she took a step toward him, lifting her chin exactly the way he’d seen her daughter do. “I will thank you not to use profanity in front of my daughter.”

Of all the hypocritical—“But you just cursed,” he pointed out.

Georgie allowed a careless shrug to roll off her shoulders. “That’s different.”

Of course it was. “God, but I hate small towns.”

“And using the Lord’s name in vain’s pretty much frowned on around here as well,” Georgie told him, not bothering to hide her disdain.

Well, it was obvious that no matter what she said, she wasn’t calling the sheriff and he wanted this thing brought to a conclusion. “Fine, tell me the sheriff’s number.” He began to reach into his suit jacket pocket. “I’ll call him and we can get this over with.”

Alarmed that he might be reaching for a concealed weapon, Georgie raised the tire iron threateningly. “Put your hands up!” she ordered.

Abandoning his cell phone, Nick did as she said. “I can’t dial and put my hands up,” he protested. He was miles beyond annoyed now.

The woman seemed to relax, lowering the tire iron again. She raised her eyes to his and he could have sworn he saw a smirk. Her next words did nothing to dispel that impression.

“Don’t do your research very well, do you, Mr. Secret Service agent?”

No matter how he focused, he hadn’t a clue what she was driving at and he was very tired of these mind games. She was undoubtedly stalling for time. If he didn’t know better, he would have said she was trying to give her boyfriend time to escape—except that he already knew the man wasn’t in the ranch house.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

She debated stringing him along for a bit, then decided that more than wanting to get to him, she wanted him gone. There was only one way that was going to happen. “Well, for one thing, Mr. phony Secret Service agent—” she’d seen more convincing IDs in Howard Beasley’s Toy Emporium “—I’m Georgie Grady.”

“No, you’re not.” If ever he’d seen someone who didn’t look like a “Georgie” it was this woman in the tight, faded jeans and the checkered work shirt that seemed to be sticking to every inch of her upper torso like a second skin, thanks to the humidity.

Georgie shook her head. Talk about a blockhead. Too bad he was so damn annoying, because, all things considered, he was kind of cute—as long as he lost the black suit and stopped using so much of that styling goop on his hair.

“Then the people who put that name on the trophy I just won at the last rodeo competition are going to feel pretty stupid,” she told him.

Nick had to consciously keep his jaw from dropping. He eyed her incredulously. This was just outlandish enough to be true. “You’re Georgie Grady.”

“I’m Georgie Grady. I guess you’ve got a hearing problem as well as lacking any manners,” she surmised. She looked down at her daughter. “Gotta feel sorry for a man like that, Emmie. He doesn’t know any better.”

He was hot, he was tired and his head was splitting. He was in no mood to be talked about as if he wasn’t standing right there. Especially by his quarry if this woman really was Georgie Grady.

“Look,” he said waspishly, “this is all very entertaining, but I don’t have time for an episode of TheWaltons—”

The woman watched him blankly. It was obvious that the title of the popular classic TV show meant nothing to her. “Must’ve been before my time,” she commented. She nodded over his shoulder. “The road’s that way. I suggest you take it.”

She still had him holding his hands up. “Can I put my hands down?”

She pretended to think his question over. “Only after you start walking.”

“Fair enough.”

As if complying, Nick turned away from her, took two steps, dropped his hands and then turned around again. This time, instead of his ID, he had his service revolver in his hand.