Classified Cowboy
Mallory Kane
Table of Contents
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 [email protected] or via Harlequin Books.
For my Daddy, who loves reading my books.
“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.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
Forensics course. He should have guessed. The students were from Texas State. They were here with Dr. George Something, the head of the Forensics Department. He’d been called in by Wyatt’s captain. And without asking, he’d brought a bunch of ghoulish kids with him.
No way was Wyatt going to allow students to stomp all over this scene. He had a very good reason for wanting to make sure nothing—and that meant nothing—went wrong.
This time.
As the head of the Texas Rangers Special Investigations Unit, Wyatt hadn’t been surprised when he was assigned to investigate a suspicious shallow grave containing badly decomposed remains. What had surprised him was that his assignment was in this town.
The last time Wyatt had seen Comanche Creek, it had been through a haze of pain and the stench of failure as he was loaded into an ambulance two years ago.
The idea that he was here now, to possibly identify the body of the woman he’d failed to protect back then, ignited a burning in his chest. He absently rubbed the scar under his right collarbone.
“Where’s your