She nearly laughed but settled for a grin. “Oh, you’re not getting rid of me that easily, cowboy. I’m your ride back to the ranch.”
His jaw firmed in clear displeasure.
Jackie turned to Mr. Kelly. “Is there anything else you require at the moment?”
The bemused expression on the man’s face was comical. “No. Unless Mr. Monroe has some questions for me.”
Wyatt shook his head. “I didn’t kill George.”
“Then there shouldn’t be any problems. I’ll let you both know—” he shifted his gaze to Jackie and then back to Wyatt “—if there are any developments.”
“Good deal,” Jackie said and headed for the door, aware of Wyatt’s scowl. “Come along, cowboy. I’m hungry, and Aunt Penny’s made meat loaf.”
* * *
Wyatt ground his back teeth as the new arrival in his already tangled life sashayed toward the jail door. Who did this lady think she was, anyway? It was one thing for her to go toe-to-toe with Landers—he rather liked that—but he wasn’t used to being ordered around. Especially by a diminutive spitfire with big blue eyes and a pert nose.
The Kirks’ niece. She’d never been out to the ranch before. Made sense if she lived in Boston. Boston! How had she arrived so quickly? He’d been taken into custody this morning. It would take at least eight hours to fly from Boston because there were no direct flights between the cities and another two hours of driving from Laramie, yet she looked as fresh as a daisy on a spring day.
Carl shouldn’t be sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.
After retrieving his personal belongings, Wyatt lengthened his stride to keep up with Jackie as she left the sheriff’s station and headed to the parking lot toward a big black SUV.
“Hold up,” he said, snagging her by the elbow. She tensed beneath his hand. “When did you get in?”
“We flew in around four. Rented this baby and drove over from Laramie.”
“Who’s we?”
“Spencer.” She tugged her elbow free and opened the driver’s side door. “Hey, boy. Miss me?”
Wyatt peered over her shoulder into the vehicle. A white-and-brown bulldog sat on the passenger seat, his tongue hanging out and his brown eyes staring at Jackie with devotion. He let out a single woof.
Wyatt blinked. “You brought your dog?”
She climbed in and started the engine. “I wouldn’t leave him.” She gave him a pointed look.
“I thought snub-nosed dogs weren’t allowed on commercial airlines,” he said.
“Some don’t. We flew over on the Trent plane.”
“Trent? What’s that?”
“Trent Associates. Private protection specialists.” She grinned. “At your service.”
No wonder she didn’t look travel weary and had arrived so quickly. A company plane. Impressive. He wondered what she did for Trent Associates. He tried to remember if Carl had ever said. Probably some sort of admin job, like his mother. Marsha Landers was the administrative assistant to the mayor.
“If you’re coming, you better get in.” With that, Jackie shut the door.
For a moment he stood there in stunned silence. He’d never met anyone like this woman. On the surface she looked sweet and almost fragile with her small stature and delicate features, but he’d glimpsed the hard steel beneath that soft exterior when she stood up to his stepfather, the sheriff.
That earned her points in his book. Just as long as she didn’t get too used to bossing him around.
He opened the passenger door and eyed the dog, who stared back impassively at him. “I’m not riding in back.”
The mutt looked friendly enough, but Wyatt wasn’t taking any chances. He kept his hands far away from the drooling canine’s mouth. That jaw looked pretty strong.
Jackie whistled softly and pointed her finger toward the floor. The dog hopped down between the captain’s seats. Wyatt settled into the passenger seat and barely had his seat belt buckled before she took off, her foot a heavy weight on the accelerator.
“Whoa, there is a speed limit,” he said.
She eased up on the gas. “Sorry. Force of habit. Driving aggressively is part of my job.”
Curious, Wyatt studied her profile. There was just the slightest hint of freckles across her cheeks. She had a nice jawline and a slender neck. Delicate, even. “And what job would that be?”
“I work for Trent Associates. We’re a protection specialist agency.”
“You said that. But what do you do?”
The droll glance she sent his way made him feel as if he’d just said the Grand Tetons were molehills. “Protection.”
He tucked in his chin. “Protection? As in bodyguard?”
“Yep.”
He couldn’t picture this itty-bitty woman protecting anyone. A smile tugged at his lips. “Let me get this straight—you’re a bodyguard?”
She sighed. “I know. Difficult to believe, right?”
“You could say that.”
“I get that a lot. At first.” She slid another speculative glance his way. “What were you thinking I did for a living?”
He eyed her authoritative grasp on the steering wheel and amended his earlier assumption. “I’d have guessed schoolteacher, or principal, even.”
She laughed. “No. But I do like kids.”
A leaden weight settled on Wyatt’s heart, and he turned to watch the Wyoming sky out the passenger window. Images of his daughter floated through his mind. The day she’d taken her first steps, the night she’d split her lip on the coffee table, her delight when she opened her Christmas presents. His heart ached that Gabby would grow up without a mother.
As they reached the outskirts of town, Jackie pointed to the computer display on the dashboard. “You can put your address in the GPS system.”
He shook his head. “That would take you the long way around. We’ll go a more direct route. I’ll tell you when to turn.”
“Suit yourself. So, tell me about George Herman.”
The image of George’s battered face came to mind with a fair dose of horror and regret. Had he said “good job” to George lately?
Wyatt ran a hand over his face. “Not much to tell. My dad hired him as a ranch hand about twenty years ago. He was a hard worker when he wanted to be. Had strong opinions about most things and a penchant for fighting.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Ever with you?”
“We’ve had our share of arguments over the years. He didn’t think I was running the ranch the way I ought to.”
“Any of these arguments turn physical?”
He slanted her a sharp glance. She sounded just like his stepfather in interrogation mode. “Why would you ask that?”
“Prior history always plays a part in a case like this. Establishes a pattern. Motive. You two could have been arguing and it turned physical. His death could have been an accident.” She looked at the road, then casually met his gaze. “Do you drink, Mr. Monroe?”
“No, I don’t drink. And I didn’t kill him.” Why did everyone want to believe he did?
“I didn’t say you did. Just pointing out one theory.”
“I’d