Witness Pursuit (Bodyguards #1)

“Tyler?”


With a low growl, he focused on Ben. “How’s Saria doing with Lydia missing?” Ben had said he could take one of the shifts in guarding her, but she was Lydia’s identical twin, and he wasn’t sure he could see Saria and keep his head in the game.

“Lydia’s not missing.” Ben rose and crossed to the window. He leaned his shoulder against the wide sheet of high-rise glass. “She’s somewhere safe and you need to remind yourself of that.”

“I want her back.”

“Yes, and to do that, we have to solve Johnny’s case and find the killer.”

Which he would. They all would. Ben and Brigs were both with him on this.

“Go.” Ben pointed to the door. “You and Brigs have a lot of work to do. Sit with our systems specialist again. I want to know who leaked Lydia’s details to the newspaper reporter. Go over every piece of information in those files. Find the killer.”

It was all the incentive he needed. He was on it.



Staring out the wide kitchen window to the valley below, Lydia scraped the blackened inside of a large pot.

“Throw it away, Jenna.” Ronson came in behind her with a frown. “Okay, how did you burn the pot when all it held was potatoes?”

“I was distracted. My thoughts are rather annoying that way.”

“Saria and Tyler?”

“Yeah.” She set the pot down and reached for her ridiculously loose glasses from the windowsill. Yesterday Ronson had said to get them repaired, which she would since they were part of her disguise. Her hair was a vibrant red, and she went nowhere without her glasses and Stetson. She was a country girl, and had to maintain the image.

“What ya thinking?”

“That I’m gonna go pick us up something to eat and bring it home. I’ll deal with these glasses when I’m there.” She slid them on her nose where they wobbled.

“Good idea, and make sure you grab a heap of those frozen dinners that get nuked in the microwave.” He tugged up the waistband of his jeans. “I’m starting to lose weight. I didn’t think that would happen with a new housekeeper and cook.”

Feeling a touch bad, she squeezed his arm. “At least the homestead is spotless.” She couldn’t go wrong with her cleaning. She’d cleaned until her fingers were red and raw.

“Yep, I’ve surely never seen the place sparkle like this. Drive safe.”

“Will do.” She headed to the mudroom and snatched the truck’s keys and her purse from the hook then high-tailed it out the back door.

Colt sauntered up from the yard, and he raised a hand. “Hey.”

“Hey back at ya. How are the boys today?” She grabbed her glasses as they slid down her nose. Stupid disguise. She could handle the red hair, even though she still got the shock of her life each time she looked in the mirror. No one would recognize her now, not even her sister.

“Tearing around Marianne’s feet, just where they usually are. I’m after Ronson. He inside?” Colt jumped the verandah steps two at a time as he joined her. The station manager was a big man with sun-darkened skin and scraggly blond hair poking out from under his Stetson.

“Yep, inside, and no doubt rummaging through the pantry for food.” She groped for the handrail as she teetered down the steps.

“Thanks. Be careful there. You should get those glasses fixed. You’re going to trip over your own two feet soon.”

“I’ll get on that right now. Catch ya later.”

“Sure thing.”

She reached the truck and tossed her oversized lenses to the passenger seat then started up her avenue to freedom. The dusty red truck rumbled to life, and she jerked on the wheel and drove down the gravel drive.

Turning onto the winding blacktop, she cranked the window open. A nice breeze fluttered the short sleeves of her tan half-button shirt, cooling her skin.

Relaxing into the drive, she let the good thoughts of Saria and Tyler prevail over all else. She would hold onto what she could, as Bronson kept telling her to.

The drive was long, but she made the corner gas station at the beginning of town within the hour. She eased out of the cab, wiped her faded blue jeans then unscrewed the lid on the tank.

“Hey, Red.”

Drake. Only he called her red in honor of her bright locks.

He whistled low and long as he strolled over and leaned against her truck. Behind him, Slade and Tate, dressed in leathers as he was, filled their road-bikes.

Drake was one of Ronson’s eighteen-year-old station hands. Drake acted tough, but she’d soon learnt he was a sweet-talking rascal. Slade and Tate lived with him in the barracks, just along from the feed sheds. “Have you boys got the afternoon off?”

“We surely do. Colt said we could go for a ride, but I’m hurt, Red. You said you’d take a spin with me the next time you left the station.”

“I believe you left first.”