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“You’re afraid of me, Wyatt Ledger …

“Afraid you might fall hard for me and that I might interfere with your burning desire to settle a score for your mother no matter who it hurts.”

“You’re reading this all wrong, Kelly. I’m just following the lawman’s code. A cop never gets personally involved with a woman he’s protecting. It makes him lose his edge. Fear has nothing to do with this.”

“Prove it.”

She stepped right in front of him, so close he could feel her breath on his bare chest. “Kiss me right now and prove you’re not afraid.” She took his hand and pressed it to her breast.

He lost it then and he kissed her hard, ravaging her lips, exploding in a rush of desire he couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to.

About the Author

JOANNA WAYNE was born and raised in Shreveport, Louisiana, and received her undergraduate and graduate degrees from LSU-Shreveport. She moved to New Orleans in 1984, and it was there that she attended her first writing class and joined her first professional writing organization. Her debut novel, Deep in the Bayou, was published in 1994.

Now, dozens of published books later, Joanna has made a name for herself as being on the cutting edge of romantic suspense in both series and single-title novels. She has been on the Waldenbooks bestseller list for romance and has won many industry awards. She is also a popular speaker at writing organizations and local community functions and has taught creative writing at the University of New Orleans Metropolitan College.

Joanna currently resides in a small community forty miles north of Houston, Texas, with her husband. Though she still has many family and emotional ties to Louisiana, she loves living in the Lone Star State. You may write Joanna at PO Box 852, Montgomery, Texas 77356, USA.

Cowboy
Conspiracy
Joanna Wayne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Prologue

It was a country club neighborhood. Sprawling brick houses. Manicured lawns. A guard at the gate. The kind of community where people should be resting safely in their beds at 2:00 a.m. on a Sunday.

But in the Whiting home, one resident would never wake up to the smell of morning coffee—the latest Atlanta homicide to drop onto Wyatt Ledger’s overflowing plate.

Home murders were the worst, he lamented as he pulled up and stopped behind the two squad cars already parked in the driveway of a columned, two-story brick structure. A lone, bare tree stretched its creaking limbs toward the covered entry. Welcome to paradise gone brutal.

Not that murder was any more horrid or final here than in the backstreets and alleyways where so many of the city’s gang and drug-related killings went down. But a home was a person’s refuge, the haven from the outside world. Blood seemed so repulsively out of place splattered over pristine surfaces where violence had never struck before.

And home murders hit way too close to the nightmarish memories Wyatt could never lay to rest.

He turned at the squeal of brakes as a blue sedan joined the scene. A second later his partner rushed up the walk behind him, catching up just as he reached the door.

“Be nice if murders occurred during waking hours,” Alyssa said as she twisted her skirt until it hung straight over her narrow hips. Even slightly disheveled, she looked good. In any other setting, no one would guess she was as tough and smart as any homicide detective in the city.

“Didn’t you have a hot date tonight?” Wyatt asked, but his focus had already moved from Alyssa to the house’s surroundings. Lots of trees and shrubs to offer cover for a perp. An alarm-system warning was planted in the front garden. He’d have to check and see if it had gone off.

“Kyle and I went out with friends and didn’t get home until after midnight,” Alyssa said. “I was sorely tempted to ignore the phone.”

“You’d be yelling if you weren’t invited to the party.”

“Wrong. I hate crime scenes. I love arresting murdering bastards, so I forego sleep.”

“I figure we may lose a lot of sleep over this one.”

“Why?” Alyssa asked. “What do you know about the crime?”

“Probably the same as you know. Cops were summoned by a 911 call. Found a woman fatally shot. House belongs to Derrick and Kathleen Whiting.”

Wyatt opened the unlocked door and stepped inside a high-ceilinged foyer. A multifaceted crystal chandelier dripped light over a marble floor and an antique cherry credenza. Cold air blasted from the air-conditioning unit, though it was already October and in the high sixties outside.

Low voices drifted down the hallway. Wyatt’s gut tightened as he strode toward the conversation. He’d been in Homicide six years. This part of the routine never got easier.

He saw the blood first, streams of it flowing away from a body partially hidden by two uniformed officers. Wyatt knew both of the policemen—Carter and Bower. They’d worked night shifts for as long as he’d been with the Atlanta P.D.

“It’s ugly,” Carter said, stepping back for Wyatt and Alyssa to move in for a closer look. He added a few expletives to make his point.

The victim was lying facedown on the living room floor, wearing a pair of black pajamas. Her feet were bare. She’d been shot in the back of the head at close range. Two bullet entry points were clearly visible.

The wounds were enough to make most men puke. It worried Wyatt a little that he’d become so desensitized to the gore that he didn’t pitch his dinner onto the sea of off-white carpet.

“The back door had been jimmied open,” Carter said. “The TV is unplugged and pulled out from the wall. Looks as if the victim may have come downstairs and interrupted a burglary in progress.”

“Or someone meant it to look that way,” Wyatt said. “Did you check the rest of the house for other victims?”

“Yep. All clear. No one else is home. There are men’s clothes in the closet in the master bedroom, but only one side of the bed appears to have been slept in. There’s another bedroom. Looks as if it belongs to a teenage boy. Slew of baseball trophies on some cluttered shelves and a poster of the Atlanta Falcon cheerleaders on the wall. Dirty clothes piled on the floor. Bed hasn’t been slept in.”

A boy who’d come home soon to find his mother had been brutally murdered.

A surge of unwanted memories bombarded Wyatt. Events replayed in his mind in slow motion. Staring at his mother’s brutally slain body, the pain inside him so intense he’d had to fight to breathe. The panic. The fear. The smell of burning peas. To this day he couldn’t stomach the sight or smell of peas.

“Who called the police?” Alyssa asked.

“A neighbor. He said he heard what sounded like gunshots from the Whiting home, but that the alarm system hadn’t gone off. When we got here we found the back door wide open, so we came in that way and then unlocked the front door for you guys.”

“Have you talked to the neighbor?” Wyatt asked.

“We figured Homicide would want to be the first to do that,” Bower said.

The front door banged shut. Either the wind had caught it or someone had joined them. Wyatt’s hand instinctively flew to the butt of his weapon.

“Mother.”

The voice coming from the foyer was youthful, male and shaky with panic.

Wyatt and Alyssa rushed to the hallway.

“What’s wrong?” the boy asked. “Where’s my mother?”

The boy looked to be twelve or thirteen, the same age Wyatt had been when his world had exploded. A man in a blue flannel robe stood beside him, his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Has something happened?”

Alyssa flashed her badge. “Alyssa Lancaster, Atlanta P.D. Are you Derrick Whiting?”

“No. My name’s Culver. Andy Culver. I live across the street and a few doors down. Josh, here, was spending the night with my son Eric. He woke up and saw the squad cars in front of his house. Was there an accident?”

“There’s a problem,” Alyssa admitted. “Josh, do you know where your dad is?”

“He’s out of town on business.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Wyatt asked.

“No.”

“Any other relatives who live nearby? Grandparents or maybe an aunt?”

“My grandparents live in Peachtree City. Why? What happened to my mother?” His voice had turned husky, as if he were fighting back tears.

“Why don’t we step out on the porch while I explain the situation,” Alyssa said.

Explain? As if they were talking about the boy’s math homework instead of the end of life as he’d known it. Thankfully, Alyssa was better at talking to the family of a victim than Wyatt was, especially when they were kids.

Wyatt could handle the cold, hard facts of the crime, but he needed the sharp edges of personal boundaries to keep distracting emotions in check.

“Where’s my mother?” Josh’s voice had become almost a wail.

“I’m sorry, Josh.” Alyssa stepped toward him.

Josh broke loose from the cluster and made a run for the living area where his mother’s lifeless body lay drenched in blood. Wyatt grabbed for him as he scurried past, but Josh went in for the slide as if he were stealing home. By the time Wyatt reached him, the boy was standing over the body, his face a ghostly white.

Josh trembled, but he wasn’t crying yet. That would come later. Now he was in a state of semishock, consumed by the nightmare and ghastly images his mind wouldn’t let him accept.

“Mom’s dead, isn’t she?” His voice broke.

Alyssa slipped an arm around his shoulders as Wyatt took a position that hid the worst of the scene from the boy’s line of vision. But nothing either of them could say or do could protect Josh from the horror or the agony that would follow. No one knew that better than Wyatt.

The best Wyatt could do was to apprehend the killer and see that justice was served for Josh’s mother. That was a hell of a lot more than anyone had done for Helene Ledger.

Chapter One

Three months later

“The chief wants to see you in his office.”

Wyatt looked up at the young clerk who had just stuck her head inside his cubicle. “Did he say why?”

“No, just that he wants to see you.”

Wyatt shoved the letter he’d been sweating over into a folder and pushed his squeaky swivel chair back from a desk piled high with case files. He picked up the folder for the Whiting case. He hadn’t even finished his written report yet, but he was sure last night’s developments would be the topic of the chief’s discussion.

He wouldn’t be thrilled that Derrick Whiting would not be standing trial for the murder of his wife. But neither would he be walking the streets a free man, with insurance money in the bank and the sexy mistress in his bed.

Whiting had shot himself last night when Wyatt and Alyssa had shown up at his door, arrest warrant in hand. Fortunately, Josh was not there to witness the event. He’d moved in with his grandparents over a month ago.

Alyssa caught up with Wyatt just before he reached the chief’s door. “So you were summoned, too.”

“Yeah.”

“Think Dixon’s pissed that we couldn’t stop the sick bastard from killing himself?” she asked.

“I’m sure he’d have preferred to have the guy stand trial, but it is what it is.”

The door was open. Martin Dixon waved them both inside. He stood and moved away from his desk to welcome them. He wasn’t exactly smiling. He never did. But his eyes and stance said it all. He was glad this was over.

“Hell of a job! Both of you. I wish we could have brought Whiting in to stand trial, but I can see why he took care of his own death sentence. And if he hadn’t, the evidence you’ve collected would have guaranteed a conviction. No juror in his right mind would have let him off.”

“It’s the jurors not in their right minds I always worry about,” Alyssa said. “But thanks for the kudos.”

“The mayor called this morning,” the chief continued. “Said to tell both of you how grateful he is for the way you handled the investigation. He wanted to congratulate you himself, but he’s getting ready for a joint press conference he’s giving with me in about an hour.”

Wyatt grimaced. “You’re not going to thank us by making us spoon-feed the details to the media sharks, are you?”

“No. The mayor and I will make statements. Louis will handle the questions about the case, but I need both of you to brief him.”

“That, I can handle,” Wyatt said.

Louis was in charge of APD public relations and he had a way of feeding the media just enough to keep them happy without releasing any gratuitous details.

“Anyway, good work,” the chief said again.

“Thanks,” Wyatt said. “Just doing my job, and I’m certain the guy who ate the bullet was guilty as sin.”

Wyatt and Alyssa had eaten and slept that case for three months. The murder had been carefully planned, and almost perfectly executed to make it look like a startled burglar had committed the crime. But Derrick had made a couple of fatal errors. Most murderers did.

Thankfully, Derrick Whiting was Josh’s stepfather of just over two years and not his biological father. Josh admitted they’d never been close, though Derrick had painted a picture of perfect family harmony to his coworkers.

At least now Josh wouldn’t have to live with the knowledge that his real father had killed his mother in cold blood. He wouldn’t be forced to endure the cruel taunts of schoolmates for being a murderer’s kid or have to wonder if the evil that possessed his father was buried deep in his own DNA.

“You’re both up for a promotion,” the chief said. “I’ve decided to skip a few bureaucracy hurdles and move that along.”

“Now you’re talking,” Alyssa said.

The announcement caught Wyatt totally off guard. Great for Alyssa, but so much for the letter of resignation he’d been laboring over for the past hour.

“Is this a problem for you, Wyatt?” Dixon said, obviously picking up on Wyatt’s discomfort.

“Not exactly a problem, but …” Might as well blurt this out. The decision was made. “I appreciate the promotion offer, but I’m turning in my resignation.”

The chief looked stunned. Wyatt refrained from making eye contact with Alyssa. He’d planned to tell her first. That was partner protocol, but news of the promotion took this out of his hands.

“When did you decide this?” Dixon asked.

“A couple of weeks ago, but I’ve been thinking about it for quite a while. I planned to see the Derrick Whiting case through before I talked to anyone about it.”

“You should have come to me sooner. Whatever the problem is, I’m sure we can work it out.”

“My leaving has nothing to do with department or the work,” Wyatt added quickly. “Hell, this place is home. But I need a change. I’ve been with the APD ever since I dropped out of college and signed on as a rookie cop.”

“What kind of change? If it’s a move out of Homicide, we can—”

“I’m moving back to Texas,” Wyatt said, hopefully ending the discussion.

Dixon looked skeptical. “To go into ranching with your family?”

“I doubt I’ll live on the ranch,” Wyatt explained, “but I’ve got unsettled business in Mustang Run and it’s time I take care of it.”

“Does this have to do with your mother’s murder?”

“That’s a big part of it,” Wyatt admitted.

“Are you sure you’ve thought this through?”

“I’m sure,” Wyatt assured him. He’d thought of not much else for most of his life. It was the reason he’d become a cop. He’d put it off as long as he could.

The chief shook his head, his expression making it clear he thought the move was a big mistake. “You said once that your brothers are all convinced of your father’s innocence. I doubt they’ll appreciate you stirring up trouble. And he’s served seventeen years of a sentence.That’s more than a lot of convicted perps serve when there isn’t the slightest doubt that they’re guilty.”

“I’m not going after my father. I’m going after the man who killed my mother. If my father is innocent, I’ll prove that beyond a doubt. If he’s guilty, then I’ll just have to deal with that. My brothers are grown men. They’ll have to do the same.”

“I hate to say it, but I can see where you’re coming from, Wyatt. And I don’t doubt for a second that you’ll find the answers you’re looking for.”

“I hope that confidence is justified.”

“Keep me posted. And as long as I’m heading up the force, there’s always a place for you if you decide to come back.”

“I appreciate that.”

“When do you plan to leave?”

“My caseload is as caught up as it will ever be, so I’d like to clear out as soon as you replace me.”

Dixon nodded. “The department will miss you.”

“I’ll miss being here.”

Talk went back to the Whiting case, but the celebratory tone of the meeting had shifted. Wyatt, usually the first to make a wisecrack to alleviate the tension, could think of nothing to say. He loved his job, but he had to do this.

And he could use a change of scenery. His apartment walls were starting to close in around him. He needed a taste of wide-open spaces, hilly pastures and the quiet fishing spots Dylan, Sean and now Dakota were always talking about.

That didn’t make going back to Mustang Run and Willow Creek Ranch any easier.

As soon as they stepped into the hallway, Alyssa poked him in the ribs. “When exactly did you plan to hit me in the head with this?”

“At the last possible moment, so I wouldn’t have to listen to you whine and lecture,” he teased. “And don’t poke me with those bony fingers.”

She poked him again. “You’ll go crazy in the Podunk town of Horse Run.”

“Mustang Run. And I don’t plan to be there forever.”

“No, just long enough to cause trouble,” Alyssa quipped.

“And I’m talented at stirring the pot, so that shouldn’t take too long.”

“Your dad’s already spent seventeen years in prison before being released on a technicality. He’s reunited with four of his five sons, even Tyler who’s still on active duty in Afghanistan. He’s a beloved grandfather. Have you ever considered just leaving well enough alone?”

“I’m not planning to go down there and string him up from the nearest tree. Troy claims he’s looking for Mother’s killer. I aim to help him.”

“Oh, right, the good son. You can’t even call him Dad.”

Wyatt stopped walking and made eye contact. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t feel the same if your mother had been murdered?”

“Okay, point made. But I’ll miss you, partner. Worse, I’m selfish. Now I have to adjust to someone new. I’ll probably get one who sweats profusely or passes gas in the car, or heaven forbid, treats me like a woman.”

“He won’t make that mistake but once.”

She smiled as if that were the ultimate compliment. “Do me a favor while you’re out there with those rattlesnakes and cow patties, Wyatt.”

“Send you a snakeskin?”

“Don’t even think about it. But if on the off chance you find a woman who can put up with you, don’t push her away like she’s been living with a family of skunks, the way you did everyone I tried to fix you up with.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You know what’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t like skunks.”

“You’re afraid of falling. As soon you think you might like some woman, you make up excuses for why it won’t work. She’s too smart. She’s not smart enough. She has cats. She has kids. She doesn’t like cats or kids.”

“You should get better friends to fix me up with.”

“You may as well admit it. You’re afraid of relationships.”

“Shows how smart I am. Do you know the divorce rate among cops?”

“One day you’ll meet a woman who’ll knock you for such a loop you won’t be able to walk away. I hear Texas is full of women like that.”

“Could be.” But a woman was the last thing he needed now. Texas and reuniting with Troy Ledger would be challenge enough. And now that the decision was made, he needed to move on. With luck, he’d be on the road by the middle of January.

He traveled light. That was just one of the advantages of never putting down any deep roots or acquiring things like mortgages or a wife.

He had no intention of changing that.

“IT’S THE FUEL PUMP, Mrs. Burger. It’s going to have to be replaced.”

Kelly groaned. She had another four hours to drive and it was already after three. Plus, the weather forecast for tonight was a line of severe thunderstorms preceding a cold front moving in from the northwest.

The mechanic yanked a red rag from his back pocket and rubbed at a spot of grease on his arm that defied his removal efforts. “I can get to it first thing in the morning. And I’ll be glad to give you a ride now to the nearest motel.”

“I really need to get back on the road today. I’ll pay extra if you can fix it this afternoon.”

“I’m not sure how quickly I can get the part. I might be able to just run over to Mac’s Garage and pick it up or I might have to have one shipped in.”

Just her luck to have her car break down in a small town. “Can’t you have someone drive to the nearest town with a Honda dealer and pick one up? I’ll pay his overtime and buy his gas.”

Jaci tugged on Kelly’s skirt. “Can we go now, Momma?”

“Not yet, Jaci.” She struggled to keep the frustration from her voice. She couldn’t expect a five-year-old to understand why they were just standing around waiting instead of off on the adventure she’d been promised. Jaci had been such a trooper over the last twelve months when their lives had been in serious upheaval.

“Let me see what I can do,” the young mechanic said.

He returned to the small waiting area ten minutes later, this time smiling.

“I found a fuel pump that I can have here in under an hour. If we don’t run into problems, you can be on your way just after dark.”

“Super.” They’d arrive in Mustang Run too late to accomplish anything tonight, but at least she’d be at the new house when the moving van arrived in the morning. Not actually a new house—just new to her. Actually it was older than her grandmother who’d willed it to her. But it would offer Kelly a new start after her year from hell.

Not that she had a clue what shape the house would be in. It had stood empty for over a year now and the man who’d been managing the property was visiting his son in California.

All he’d told her over the phone was that the house would need an ample application of soap and elbow grease and paint. She’d decided to move in and fix it up one room at a time as she found the time and the money.

She had some savings but not enough for major repairs. Her husband’s medical bills had taken most of it before he died three years ago. And last year, she hadn’t earned a dime.

“I’m hungry, Momma,” Jaci said, though Kelly suspected she was more bored than anything else.

“There’s a McDonalds’s out on the highway,” the mechanic offered. “I can give you a lift over there if you’d like and pick you up when your car’s ready. It’s got a nice play area.”

Jaci jumped around excitedly. “McDonald’s. Please, Momma. Please.”

Hours at a McDonald’s surrounded by squealing kids and the odor of fries—or sitting here rereading for the twentieth time the two storybooks Jaci had brought with her in the car.

That was a no-brainer.

“That would be terrific,” Kelly agreed. Jaci could play off some of her energy, have the chicken nuggets she loved and then she’d likely sleep all the way to the Hill Country. They’d be back on track and hopefully to Mustang Run before the predicted thunderstorms set in.

Surely nothing else could go wrong today.