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“The way I see it, you’re a gunshot victim. A criminal is still at large. It’s my duty to protect you.”

“This is ridiculous. Do you think I won’t be missed? You can’t just lock me up and think no one will notice.” Margo circled back to the crux of the matter. “Keeping someone against their will is called kidnapping, Detective Archard, and that’s illegal.”

He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. “Right now the best thing for you is plenty of bed rest.”

Margo’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare chain me to this bed like a dog, Ry. You wouldn’t dare!”

“If you don’t think so, then you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

Dear Reader,

Once again, we’ve rounded up six exciting romances to keep you reading all month, starting with the latest installment in Marilyn Pappano’s HEARTBREAK CANYON miniseries. The Sheriff’s Surrender is a reunion romance with lots of suspense, lots of passion—lots of emotion—to keep you turning the pages. Don’t miss it.

And for all of you who’ve gotten hooked on A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY, we’ve got The Way We Wed. Pat Warren does a great job telling this tale of a secret marriage between two SPEAR agents who couldn’t be more different—or more right for each other. Merline Lovelace is back with Twice in a Lifetime, the latest saga in MEN OF THE BAR H. How she keeps coming up with such fabulous books, I’ll never know—but I do know we’re all glad she does. Return to the WIDE OPEN SPACES of Alberta, Canada, with Judith Duncan in If Wishes Were Horses…. This is the kind of book that will have you tied up in emotional knots, so keep the tissues handy. Cheryl Biggs returns with Hart’s Last Stand, a suspenseful romance that will keep you turning the pages at a furious clip. Finally, don’t miss the debut of a fine new voice, Wendy Rosnau. A Younger Woman is one of those irresistible stories, and it’s bound to establish her as a reader favorite right out of the starting gate.

Enjoy them all, then come back next month for more of the best and most exciting romance reading around—only in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

A Younger Woman
Wendy Rosnau

www.millsandboon.co.uk

WENDY ROSNAU

lives on sixty secluded acres in the northwoods of Minnesota with her husband and their two energetic teenagers. A former hairdresser, she now divides her time between operating the bookstore she and her husband opened in 1998, keeping one step ahead of her two crafty kids and writing romance. In her spare time she enjoys reading, painting and drawing, traveling and, most of all, spending time with those two crafty kids and their dad.

A great believer in the power of love and the words never give up, Wendy says that reaching her goal of becoming a published author is a testimony that dreams can and do come true. You can write to her at P.O. Box 441, Brainerd, Minnesota 56401. For a personal reply send SASE.

To my mom and dad for always being there for me—

awesome job on the bookshelves and my table, Dad—

I love you.

To my father-in-law for his humor, and to my mother-in-law for putting on wings and rescuing me so often in my hour of need.

And always, to Jerry, the rock that keeps me grounded, and to Tyler and Jenni for knowing it all and loving me anyway.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 1

Through the lens of her camera Margo zeroed in on the pier and brought into focus her brother, Blu, and the stranger. They were an odd pair, she decided, and wondered who the smart dresser was and what was so important that it required a meeting with the Blu Devil on a lonely pier at night.

They shook hands, ignoring the September rain soaking their clothes. The heavy mist gave the streetlights a distorted, eerie glow, making Margo’s task harder. She was no master photographer, but Blu hadn’t asked for a professional job, just visible proof that the exchange had taken place.

She hadn’t asked what was being exchanged. Frankly, she didn’t want to know. No, this wasn’t about the right or wrong of anything. Her sole purpose for being in Algiers tonight instead of New Orleans behind the piano at the Toucan Lounge had nothing to do with morality and everything to do with sisterly love.

The night air had turned into a sponge, sharpening the odor of rotting fish and river decay. Margo wrinkled up her nose and swiped at her long, black hair. She could hear the constant slapping of the water against the boats tied dockside, feel the tropical air sucking her jeans closer to her slender, boyish hips.

Anxious to get out of the weather, she squinted through the camera lens and focused on Blu pulling something from his back pocket. Deciding this must be it, this was the exchange, she quickly clicked the shutter, then advanced the film. She had just raised the camera to take a second picture when a gunshot exploded out of the darkness. Frozen in motion, Margo watched in horror as the stranger jerked hard to the right, then crumpled at her brother’s feet.

An involuntary scream climbed her throat, and she dropped the camera, vaguely aware that it shattered as it hit the asphalt. Mindless of the impending danger, she bolted from her hiding place and started to run toward the waterfront. As she reached the pier and climbed the steps, the pungent odor of cordite confirmed that she was now very much in the path of the melee. More shots erupted from somewhere behind her, and she nearly jumped out of her skin, crying out at the same time. Sheer panic overwhelmed her, but Margo’s fear for her brother’s safety overrode her fear for herself, and she forced herself to move forward.

As if the gunfire had opened up the sky and made the gods angry, a deluge of rain fed the sudden craziness. For a moment Margo thought the rain would be their salvation, and for one split second it was—she slipped on the wet planking and went down hard. Seconds later, on her knees, a bullet whizzed past her head. She struggled back to her feet, her ears ringing, her knees bruised and throbbing. She searched out the spot where she’d last seen Blu, only to find he was no longer standing but sprawled on his back next to the unmoving stranger.

“No! Please, God, no!”

Margo’s stomach convulsed. Fighting for air, she reached out and gripped the pier railing to keep from going over the side, her legs two disjointed pieces of rubber. She squeezed her eyes shut and began to pray fast and furiously, demanding that God hear her immediate need. When she was finished, over the pounding rain, she heard him. No, it wasn’t God, but the voice was just as powerful, just as wonderful. She imagined the Almighty wouldn’t have approved of her brother’s choice of words, but Blu’s deep voice scalding the air with profanity was sweet music to her ears—so much so that she began to cry.

Through happy tears, Margo watched Blu lift his dark head and lock gazes with her. A second later he was cussing again. “Bon Dieu, Chili! Get the hell off the pier! Are you nuts?”

His pet nickname for her made Margo cry harder—she and Blu had been so close growing up—so close in age and appearance that they had often been thought to be twins, though he was three years older.

A dark stain had spread over his left thigh, and Margo sucked in her breath, afraid of what it meant. She watched Blu roll to his stomach, his lightning-quick movements settling her worst fear—his wound couldn’t be all that serious if he was able to move so effortlessly.

He swore at her again, this time in French, ordering her to dive into the water. Margo ignored the order. Number one, she hated water and had only learned to swim because Blu had dogged her for an entire summer the year she’d turned twelve. Two, her concern for him wouldn’t allow her to abandon him. She wouldn’t want to live if something happened to him.

She shoved away from the railing and started forward. She was almost there, almost able to reach out and touch him. Almost…

Two shots rang out in rapid succession. The first one whistled past Margo’s ear, the one that followed made no noise at all.

She felt the bullet rip its way into her flesh, the force so intense, so staggering, it knocked her to her knees. The sharp pain stole her breath, then her balance. She swayed into the railing, felt the rough wood scrape hard against her cheek. Her knees finally buckled.

She heard Blu roar in protest, then he was beside her, gripping her arm and hauling her over the lifeless stranger. Still roaring in anger, he pushed her facedown into the sodden deck boards and threw himself on top of her.

Again crude language scorched the sultry night air, followed by, “I’ll fry in hell for this if you die, so don’t! You wouldn’t want to send me to hell, would you, Chili? Keep breathing, ma jolie! Keep breathing, you hear?”

When he eased his weight off her to see if she was, in fact, still breathing, Margo muttered, “A few innocent pictures, my butt. What have you gotten us into? Who’s shooting at us, Blu?”

“That’s it, Chili. Get mad at me if it helps.”

His gaze shifted to the waterfront, and Margo followed her brother’s gaze. Two men were climbing onto the pier, both carrying guns. Big guns. The kind seen in the movies. “Blu…”

“How bad are you hit?”

Margo grimaced as his hand passed over her blood-stained arm just below her shoulder. Ignoring her moan, he tore open her shirtsleeve to get a better look at the damage. “The bullet tore you up some, but the good news is you won’t die.” He flashed her one of his rare smiles, then glanced back to the two men who were advancing on them. “We’re out of time. Come on, Chili.”

Margo glanced at her arm covered in blood. Her stomach rolled, and she briefly closed her eyes. “I’m going to be sick, Blu.”

“Not yet you’re not. I’ll hold your head like when we were kids, but later. Right now we’ve gotta go.”

“Go? Go where?” Margo asked, sure she didn’t want to know—Blu never did anything that didn’t involve a certain amount of risk or skill.

“We’re going swimming.”

“Oh, no! No! Not me.”

“Those guys, ma petite,” he motioned to the duo closing in on them, then shoved something into the back pocket of her jeans, “they aren’t headed this way to ask you for a date.”

“What did you put in my pocket?”

“The key to a treasure map. If I don’t show up in a couple of days, give it to Brodie.”

“What are you saying?”

He leaned over and kissed her. “Just think of this as an adventure you can tell your children about some day.”

There wasn’t time to explore his ridiculous reply; he was already pulling her to her feet. Margo locked her knees like a stubborn donkey. “Blu, I don’t like swimming, and you know how much I hate the river at night. I get my directions turned around and—”

“When we hit the water, swim for the Nightwing.”

“You want me to swim all the way to River Bay?” Margo’s eyes were huge, contemplating the half-mile-long swim to where Blu docked the fastest, most-talked-about cruiser on the river.

“Brodie’s on board,” he explained. “He’s already heard the shots, so he’ll know things have gone to hell. Have him take you somewhere where you can hide out for a few days.”

“I can’t go home?”

“No.” He glanced down at her injured arm. “You need medical attention. I’ve got it,” he said suddenly, “how about hiding out at the old man’s place? No one would think to look for you there. Oui, it’s perfect. He’ll be able to take care of your arm, too. And I’ve changed my mind about the key. If I don’t show up in a couple of days, give the key to him. He’ll take it from there.”

“You’re crazy. I’d never go to him for help. Never! Not if I was penniless, or—”

A shot rang out.

Suddenly Margo was lifted half off her feet as Blu dragged her to the end of the pier. Then, they were jumping—jumping into the murky depths of the Mississippi River while gunshots exploded around them.

“If you’re there, God, get your scrawny backside out here.” Ry craned his neck and scanned the dark alley in the French Quarter. In an attempt to escape the late-night rain, homeless bodies were huddled together on both sides of Pirate’s Alley, their damp, unclean clothes giving off a ripe stench.

No one made an attempt to move or speak when Ry called out once more. Disappointed, he turned to leave, deciding that his snitch, Goddard Reese, had bedded down elsewhere for the night. Two steps into his departure a familiar voice brought him up short. “Just ’cause I ain’t got no address don’t mean I sleep denned up like a pack of rats.”

God stepped from an alcove and into the rain. The minute he vacated the sheltered doorway, two ragged bodies leaped to their feet to crowd into the dry space.

Their intent clear, Goddard pulled his precious piece of cardboard from the doorway and tucked it beneath his arm. “Doan like sharin’, neither,” he grumbled, guarding his dry bed like a selfish child would his favorite toy. “You just get back from Algiers?”

Ry motioned to the dry alcove. “That’s a prime spot. Choice accommodations like that usually require an early stakeout. If that’s the case, and you’ve been here half the day waiting for sour weather, how do you know I’ve been across the river?”

Goddard grinned. “If I tell you all my secrets, Superman, you wouldn’t need me anymore. I’ve grown partial to eatin’ regularly.”

Ry assessed Goddard’s emaciated body. The man wasn’t fifty years old, but his hunched shoulders and white hair easily added twenty years to his appearance. His cheeks were paper thin, his storm-cloud-gray eyes too small for his oversize, sunken sockets. It was true he ate at least once a day—thanks to Ry—still, the best snitch in New Orleans didn’t weigh a hundred pounds.

“Talk is, one of yours ain’t gonna get up with the sun tomorrow, Superman. Anybody I know?”

“You tell me. You’re the one with ears in every corner of the city.” Ry ignored the rain and settled his shoulder against the brick building. He was already soaked to the bone, his jeans hugging his lean hips, his shirt outlining his broad shoulders.

He’d spent the past three hours on DuBay Pier investigating the death of a fellow officer along with a crime lab technician, the coroner, plus a pile of uniformed patrolmen who had no reason to be there beyond curiosity. In the end, what he had was a dead cop with a hellish surprise burned into his eyes on a riddled pier; that and blood in three separate locations which suggested multiple victims. Only, there had been only one body: Mickey Burelly, a rookie cop who had come to the NOPD less than a year ago.

“I heard it was the suit they scraped off the pier,” God said. “That yammerin’ fool who liked to hear himself talk.” The older man scratched at his chest, then dug deep into an armpit. “Guess he won’t be worryin’ about what color tie to wear tomorrow. Bet he wishes he’d’ve been movin’ instead jawin’, too.”

How God knew what he knew always amazed Ry. But the point was, Goddard Reese, one of the many homeless in the French Quarter, had connections in places most people didn’t even know existed. And he was right about Mickey Burelly; the kid did have a fetish for expensive suits, and he did like to jaw, as God put it. Maybe that’s why everyone had ignored him when the kid had started crowing in the locker room yesterday about some big case he was about to crack wide open. Talk, as they say, was cheap. Every cop fantasized about the case, the one that would land him a notable raise, along with a front-page spread in the New Orleans Times-Picayune. The officers at the Eighth District were no different.

Goddard pulled up the collar on his ragged jacket and curled into the brick wall to avoid the rain. “If you ask me, that ain’t the suit’s style—holding a meeting in nasty weather. Hard on those expensive duds.”

“Was that what he was doing, meeting a snitch?” Ry’s ears perked up. As far as he knew, Mickey didn’t have any solid connections on the street. Because he liked to talk too much no one trusted him.

“Don’t know. Nobody I know worked for him. He was too stingy. He wore his money. Guess that didn’t leave him any extra to work with.”

Ry was always interested in Goddard’s gut reaction. Like cops, the homeless who survived the gritty streets of New Orleans did so by their wit and intuition. God had lived in and around the Quarter longer than Ry had been a cop. At age thirty-three, Ry was about to celebrate his tenth year with the NOPD—the last two had been spent in homicide. Valuing God’s street experience, he asked, “So what’s your take on it?”

“Could be turncoat.” God peeled his stocking cap off his narrow head and scratched at the thin strands on top. “Plenty of them around. More likely, some gutless wantin’ a piece of somebody else’s action. Fools everywhere these days. They find out, too late, they don’t have big enough balls, and then you go to work scrapin’ ’um off a lonely pier in the middle of the night.”

Goddard spoke the truth. There was always someone willing to risk it all on a get-rich-quick scheme. But Mickey Burelly? Was there a chance he’d become an unwanted liability? Was he a dirty cop or had he been telling the truth yesterday when he’d been boasting about cracking open the case?

“I need a pair of eyes and ears for a few days.” Ry pointed to the sign overhead. “Feel like sealing the deal with a plate of shrimp and a few beers? The Toucan serves all night.”

“Now you’re talkin’, Superman.” God offered Ry a toothless grin, then ducked back into the alley. Sidestepping the homeless vagrants snoring in each another’s faces, he led the way to the Toucan’s back door.

The hardy aroma of bisque and spicy crawfish teased their palates as the two men stepped inside the lounge. While large fans moved the rich scent into the dark corners of the dining room, the dim lighting and exotic decor set the mood for an evening of some of the best food and entertainment in the French Quarter.

As Goddard scanned the booths along the south wall, he asked in a hushed tone, “We gonna meet tomorrow?”

“You already planning your noon meal?” Ry teased.

The older man looked at Ry and grinned. “Tony’s Thursday special is gumbo. All-you-can-eat gumbo. I like gumbo.”

“All right,” Ry agreed. “See what you can come up with between now and then, and I’ll see you around noon.”

Goddard spotted an empty booth half-hidden by a potted palm, and without any further conversation, shuffled his bird-like legs across the red brick floor.

Ry watched his snitch wedge the cardboard bed into the foot space beneath the table, then sit down on the purple-and-green leather seat. Seconds later, he reached for the menu.

The smell of steamed shrimp stirred his own hunger, but instead of finding his usual table, Ry took stock of his surroundings—more specifically, the small stage where Margo duFray sang five nights out of seven. The stage was dark, and that both surprised and disappointed him.

“Hey, mon ami, it’s Wednesday. You got your days mixed up, no?”

The voice calling to him from behind the bar drew Ry’s attention, and he turned to face the Toucan’s owner. “I know what day it is, Tony.”

“Then you’re workin’, oui?”

“That’s right.”

“Nasty night for it.”

“Is the grill still on?” Ry asked.

“Yeah, sure.” The big black man motioned to Ry’s wet shirt. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, you’ve looked better. You oughtta go home and dry out with a bottle of cha-cha. Maybe curl up with somethin’ soft.”

Tony’s suggestion sounded good, at least the drying-out part, but Ry didn’t need or want the distraction of booze or an easy woman. Booze had never been able to do the job it promised where he was concerned, and he had no interest in an easy woman whose name he wouldn’t remember in the morning.

“What’s that partner of yours doing these days?” Tony’s grin fed the mischief in his heavy-lidded chocolate eyes.

“You know damn well what he’s doing,” Ry grumbled. “Not a damn thing.”

“I guess I heard somethin’ about that. Words between him and Chief Blais, somebody said. Suspended for two weeks, right?” Tony’s grin opened up.

Ry shook his head. “You’d think by now Jackson would know to keep his opinions to himself. He’s been suspended three times in the past year.”

“You ain’t turned your back on him, though. The two before you quit the first time Jackson said somethin’ they didn’t like.”

That was understandable. Jackson had a knack for irritating the hell out of people, saying what he damn well pleased any old time he felt like it. But on the other side of that coin was the fact that Jackson was the best damn cop Ry had ever worked with. He was the fastest thinker, the sharpest marksman, and downright ugly mean when it was called for. No, contrary to rumor, Jackson Ward was the man every cop wanted watching his back, whether they knew it or not.

“You hear about the suit? Got himself kilt tonight.”

Ry nodded without answering.

Tony leaned close and whispered. “That’s why you’re here, right? You’re on the case, ain’tcha?”

“Looks like it.” Ry ran a tired hand through his cropped sandy-brown hair, scattering rain drops, then hitched his jeans-clad backside on a barstool. “What’s hot and ready, Tony? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Catfish in ten. Shrimp in five.” Tony nodded toward a booth in the far corner. “Charmaine in two, if’n that look she’s givin’ the back of your head means what I think it do. She could dry you out real fast, mon ami.”

Ry curled his long legs around the metal rungs on the stool and glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, there was Char running her pink tongue around the rim of her wineglass and watching him with those electric-green eyes that promised trouble. In no mood to baby-sit the judge’s daughter, Ry turned back to Tony. “I’ll take the safe bet, give me the shrimp and a cold beer.”

Tony chuckled, his sharp eyes shifting to where Goddard sat clutching the menu. “You payin’ for God?”

“That’s right. Whatever he wants. As much as he wants,” Ry added.

Tony flagged one of his waitresses to wait on Goddard, then turned to his grill and the shrimp Ry had ordered.

In a matter of minutes the familiar scent of gardenias drifted across the bar. Ry turned his head in time to watch Charmaine Stewart hoist her curvy hip onto the high barstool next to him. She looked as good as always, dressed fit to kill, out spending her daddy’s money on trouble and anything else she could find. “I heard there was a shooting in Algiers tonight,” she purred. “Need an ear? I’m a real good listener.”

Ry dug into his pocket looking for a cigarette, then remembered he was out. Swearing, he said, “Why do shrinks and women always assume talking about your problems solves anything?”

“If you’re not interested in talking, we don’t have to. I’m good at other things, too.”

Ry knew what she was good at—causing grief for her daddy. “I came here to eat, Char. That’s all.”

“Ouch. Aren’t we in a nasty mood tonight?” She smiled, not at all daunted. “Come on, Ry, I’m a sure thing, and I know I could improve your mood. Say yes—” she paused, her frosty lips parting “—say yes, then take me home with you.”

She had one of those refined Southern accents, the kind that easily attracted men. And Char had attracted plenty—the primary reason the judge was taking ulcer medication and seeing a shrink twice a week, Ry determined. “Shouldn’t you be home? Your daddy—”

“Thinks you’re wonderful.” She reached out and ran a manicured finger over the back of his hand where it rested on the bar. “For the first time in just ever, Daddy and I agree on something.” She giggled and leaned close. “You’re our favorite detective, Detective Archard.”

What she said about the judge approving of him was true enough. But Ry also knew there was a simple explanation behind that approval—if Char was seeing a big bad cop, the rest of the men making a nuisance of themselves might think twice. Judge Stewart was a shrewd old Creole. Ry didn’t blame him for scheming to keep his wild, scandal-seeking daughter out of the newspaper. Only, he had no intentions of being her baby-sitter or anything else. They had already settled that months ago.

Char ran her finger further up Ry’s arm. “You look like you’ve lost your dog and best friend all in one night. I can be anything you want, Ry. A lap dog suits me fine. You can stroke me or I’ll stroke you. You name the game and I’m willing to play.”

“You’re wrong, as usual, Char. Tonight all I need is a hot meal and a few extra hours of sleep.”

At Ry’s mention of food, Tony came to the rescue with a plate of shrimp and a tall beer. “There you go, mon ami. Seconds are on the house. Jus’ holler.”

Ry shed Char’s warm touch and picked up the fork next to his plate. He stabbed a plump shrimp, shoved it into his mouth and chewed vigorously. Unwilling to be ignored, she inched closer. “Remember the night I slipped through that hole in your hedge and found you asleep in that big hammock on your veranda? Remember how I woke you? The day’s heat was nothing like what we sparked, and nothing has compared since, I’m not ashamed to say.”

“Remembering that night doesn’t do either of us any good,” Ry drawled, reminded that when she’d arrived that night he’d been deep into one of his favorite dreams, a dream so potent and real that he’d almost made love to Charmaine Stewart thinking she was someone else.

She leaned closer and whispered in his ear. “If you’re tired I’ll do all the work. Promise and—” slowly she traced an invisible X across her chest with a hot-pink manicured nail “—cross my heart.”

Ry didn’t doubt Char would be good at her word, she’d had enough practice. His gaze drifted to her full breasts, then lower to the rounded curve of her hips beneath her pink silk T-shirt dress. A man would have to be crazy not to take what she was offering.

He stood, dug two twenties out of his back pocket and laid them on the bar beside his half-eaten food. Out of habit, he glanced toward the stage where the piano sat idle. He still thought it odd Margo wasn’t there. A creature of habit, she was as dependable as she was loyal. The only thing that would make her take a night off was if she was sick.

Ry’s gaze went back to Char. “Want me to call you a cab?”

“I take it that means you’re turning me down again.” She wrinkled her nose. “You’re a stubborn man, Detective Archard. But, lucky for you, so am I.”

It was still raining when Ry left the Toucan and turned his green Blazer toward the Garden District, and his thoughts back to the Burelly case. It went without saying he was committed to finding Mickey’s killer. Even though there wasn’t much to go on at the moment, the crime hadn’t been perfect. Along with Mickey’s body, he’d found evidence that someone else, possibly two other people, had been with Mickey at the time of the shooting. A blood trail leading to the end of the pier suggested that they had attempted to escape by jumping into the river.

Would the Harbor Patrol find their bodies in the next few days? Or had their escape been successful? The odds were slim that, wounded and fighting the river’s current at night, a person could survive. That is, unless their wounds weren’t serious and they were good swimmers who knew the area. Ry had learned that a slim chance was better than none. Until he explored every possibility, he would assume there were witnesses out there who could shed some light on his case.

He punched in the cigarette lighter, again recalling Mickey boasting about getting his picture on the front page of the newspaper. Well, he was going to make the front page, all right. Cursing the waste, then reminded that he was out of cigarettes once the lighter popped, Ry gunned the engine and sped past the Lafayette Cemetery. As he turned onto Chestnut Street, the red brick two-story came into view, and he hit the remote and watched the lacy iron gate open.

The rain had diminished to a fine sheeting mist, Ry noted as he killed the engine and climbed out of his Blazer. As he walked toward the rear entrance of the house, he could smell the night-blooming jasmine that grew tight to the veranda. He walked past a towering oak dripping with Spanish moss and strolled up the concrete steps. The iron railing felt warm to the touch—the day’s incessant heat still evident after midnight.

On the veranda Ry passed by the rope hammock, gave it a push, then opened the back door that he never bothered to lock.

Back in Texas the ranch house had always been left open to friends and neighbors, the coffeepot full and hot, along with a radio playing as a form of welcome. When Ry had moved to New Orleans, he had promised himself that once he’d gotten his own home he would keep the same tradition alive. And though no one ever came around much except for Jackson, he’d kept his promise.

Inside, he switched on the light, then pulled his sodden blue shirt from his jeans and tossed it over a chair at the kitchen table. The tape playing softly in the boom box was a blend of flute and guitar, a Native American arrangement that fit his somber mood as well as his Texas roots. He left it on and turned off the automatic coffeemaker and emptied the two inches in the bottom. Efficiently he prepared tomorrow’s brew, reset the timer, then turned the light off and left the kitchen.

A stairway just before the living room led to the second story. Tired, anxious to get some sleep, Ry climbed the steps, loosening his belt to remove his .38 Special from the compact holster tucked into the small of his back. At the top of the stairs, he turned left once more and stepped into the bathroom, his hand finding the wall switch a second later.