Page 47 of Christmas Ransom

“Let us know when you have the money,” Wes said, crouching down next to him. “Your girlfriend told us that we’d already have our money if you had taken care of things. I suggest you do what has to be done, Jud. You have twenty-four hours. Otherwise, we’ll take care of her and come back for you.”

“Don’t kill her,” he managed as Wes climbed into the SUV, started the engine and roared away.

Jud couldn’t believe this was happening. Only Jesse knew where the money was. His mind raced. Why hadn’t she given them the payment? What the hell was going on? Had she lost her mind?

He watched Wes drive away with Jesse—and his only way to pay the debt before the twenty-four hours were up.

Wes thought that this was about getting the money from his dying grandmother. But Jud had gotten the message loud and clear. Jesse wouldn’t pay off Leon—not until Jud took care of Carla Richmond. No matter what he did, the woman wasn’t giving up. If he’d had any doubt about her mental state, he no longer did. Cora Brooks was right. There was definitely something wrong with Jesse Watney, a flaw that he had foolishly overlooked—and now deeply regretted.

His back against the wall, he had twenty-four hours. Otherwise, he could kiss the bank money goodbye. He’d risked his life for it. Not that he didn’t realize that even if he did what she wanted, Jesse might still double-cross him.

But he told himself that over his dead body would Jesse get away with all that money as he decided to end this.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Agent Grover got the call from Butte on his way back to Lonesome.

“Samantha Elliot has regained consciousness,” the doctor told him. “She is determined to speak with you. She had me call the number on the card you left for her.”

The phone was handed over. He listened as she told him that she’d done some work for a man named Judson Bruckner. “He’s the one who attacked me.”

Just to clarify, Grover asked, “What did the tattoo look like?”

She described the one that Carla Richmond had said she’d seen during the robbery.JheartJ. He recalled the drawing she’d done of it.

“You’re sure he’s the man?”

The tattoo artist cursed at him. “I never forget a face—or a tattoo. It just took me a minute to recall his last name. If he had waited, I would have handed over his paperwork. Stupid fool. When you catch him, I’d be happy to identify him in a lineup and testify against him.”

The woman had no idea how lucky she’d been, since if true, Judson Bruckner had already killed three men. He thanked her and quickly did a background check on the suspect. Judson was currently renting a house in Lonesome and temporarily employed by a delivery company for the holidays. He drove an old red pickup. Grover scribbled down the plate number. His rap sheet showed that he’d had a few run-ins with the law, but nothing close to armed robbery and murder.

As he disconnected, he started to call the sheriff’s department in Lonesome, but hesitated. He was on his way back from Washington State. He could be in Lonesome in a few hours. He wanted to make this bust himself because he had one very important question for Judson. Who inside the bank had helped him? Because someone had, and he knew that for a fact. He couldn’t chance that the local law enforcement would screw up the collar, so he just kept driving, anxious to finally get to the truth.

CARLACOULDN’TIMAGINEhow the two of them could live together in her small one-bedroom house. It felt too intimate, Carla thought as she agilely glided across the floor on the crutches past Davy. She stopped to look back at him. “See? I’m fine.”

He nodded. “You’re better than fine.” His gaze was hot and sexy and full of promise.

She felt a rush of desire. How long before the two of them were making love in her double bed as snow fell outside? She shook off the image. It would be fine for a while, but eventually he would resent her for keeping him here. It didn’t matter that none of this was her fault—or his either. They’d been thrown together because of an armed bank robbery and a killer who had his own reasons for wanting her dead, apparently.

But how was she going to get Davy to leave if the killer wasn’t caught? Because she couldn’t keep him. He wasn’t hers. Too much of his heart was still taken by the rodeo. If anyone could understand that, it was her. Look how hard she’d worked to succeed, giving up everything but work to prove herself.

Carla leaned on her crutches and opened the refrigerator, surprised to find it stocked. She looked back at Davy, who was lounging against the doorjamb, watching her. “You did this,” she said, feeling even guiltier. This man had dropped everything to make sure she was safe, and now this?

“Actually, Lori helped. She thought we might be hungry since we never made it out to their house for dinner.”

“And she apparently worried that we might be thirsty,” Carla said, pulling out a cold bottle of wine as she balanced on one crutch.

Davy grinned. “Looks like she thought of everything.”

Suddenly she wasn’t hungry, even though the food stocked in the refrigerator looked delicious. There was only one thing she wanted. She started to close the refrigerator door.

The back door exploded, flying open with the shriek of splintering wood and breaking metal. The first shot was deafening in the small kitchen. Behind her, she heard the bullet hit the wall, burying itself in the Sheetrock. An instant later, the second shot hit the china cabinet in the corner, glass shattering before the bullet made a thwack sound as it burrowed into the wood at the back of the display case.

Carla dropped the bottle of wine in her hand. It hit the tile floor and shattered like a gunshot, sending glass and wine flying. She started to move back, but was shoved into the open refrigerator as Davy dove for the back door. A bullet lodged itself in the refrigerator door she was holding open.

She fell back, dropping one of her crutches as she tried not to come down on her casted leg. She clutched at the refrigerator shelves and screamed, “No!” at Davy. But her cry was drowned out by the fourth shot in the seconds since the back door had been smashed open.

Those terrifying few moments though were nothing compared to the silence that followed. Carla could feel the aching cold of the night coming through the open back door. But over the thumping of her pulse, she heard nothing.

---