The Texas Ranger (16 page)

Her eyes searched his face. He seemed paler than normal, and his eyes were glittery with fury and impotence. “Marc,” she whispered, drifting in and out now from blood loss, “why didn't you say goodbye?”

He was still looking for the ambulance. At last, there was the faint sound of sirens approaching. “What?” he murmured, fixated on his task as he knelt beside her, the suspect already forgotten in the terror of the moment.

“Not a note or a phone call. You just…walked away…and never even looked back. I wanted…to die.” She grimaced and groaned, trying to twist
away from his hands. “Don't!” she choked. “It hurts!”

“Better hurt than dead,” he said through his teeth.

“Think so? I wonder.” She bit her lip to keep from crying out.

Marc muttered curses at the slowness of the paramedics, finally yelling at them with language he was going to regret later. She smiled softly at the memory of his temper from days past. She closed her eyes, oblivious to the sounds of activity around her, and gave in to the pain.

 

She was vaguely aware of the hospital, but she was pleasantly numb from whatever they had pouring into her from an IV bag. Brannon was still right beside her as she was moved into a cubicle. A doctor entered and examined the wound and pronounced it nonlethal. She was given a local anesthetic and antibiotics were added to the drip. The doctor went to work on her with a surgical needle and sutures. The whole time, Brannon stood beside her and held her other hand tight in his.

“You got him, didn't you?” she asked drowsily.

“I got him. He was brought in with you,” he said. “They'll be transferring him up to a secure area when he's had his bullet removed. He fared worse than you, believe me.”

“You always were a good shot,” she sighed.
“And nobody could beat you at a quick-draw. Don't you still hold a record of some sort for that?”

“You were lucky,” he replied, ignoring the praise and the question. “You're still going to learn plenty about bullet wounds before this is over.”

“She is, indeed,” the young doctor replied while he worked on her. “She's going to be sore and sick for a couple of days, and on antibiotics for the next ten days. Is there someone who can stay with her tonight?”

“No,” she said.

“Yes,” Brannon said at the same time.

The physician made a sound in the back of his throat. “We can admit you,” he offered.

“No chance,” she told him. “It's just a scratch.”

“You won't think so when the painkiller wears off,” the doctor murmured. “I'll give you a prescription for one and another for the antibiotics before you leave.” He glanced at Brannon. “We'll have to fill out a report on this.”

“She's with the state attorney general's office,” he replied. “A trained investigator, and she can't use a gun. Something she should have thought of when she went around the house to try to help me flush out a suspect.” He grimaced. “Don't ever do anything like that again, Josie,” he added gently.

“I won't, Brannon,” she said. “But I'm tough. Besides, think of the boost this will give my memoirs!”

“It was my fault for putting you in danger in the first place,” he continued doggedly. “That being the case, I'll take care of you until you're back on your feet.” He held up a hand when she protested. “You'd do exactly the same if it were me.”

She sighed. “Point taken.”

 

After Josette was sewn up, and waiting for the physician to write out her prescriptions, Brannon went down the hall to the surgical wing where his prisoner was being tended.

Brannon recognized the young Bexar County sheriff's deputy who patrolled the south end of the county that bordered on Wilson County. He was waiting outside the swinging doors. He glanced at Brannon, grinned and extended his hand.

“Nice work, Brannon,” he told the Texas Ranger. “We've been after this little weasel for months. We convicted him for aggravated assault when he was trying to shake down a liquor store owner. He got caught drinking and driving and went underground before we could arrest him.”

“He shot my partner,” Brannon said angrily. “She wasn't even armed.”

“That wouldn't stop York,” he replied. “He's the poor man's cleaner locally—he'll do anything for money, including murder. He's suspected of being one of Jake Marsh's hired guns. In fact, San Antonio
PD would finger him for Jennings's murder, if he could be connected with the case any way at all.”

“Give us time,” Brannon said. He hesitated. “There was a photo of him in the file I accessed on my computer. He sure looked familiar.”

“You were at Jennings's funeral yesterday, weren't you?” the deputy asked.

“Yes.”

“Remember the minister?” he mused.

Brannon took a sharp breath. “Damn! And I thought the minister was just new and nervous. What the hell was he doing there?”

“At a guess, getting a good look at someone he's been hired to shoot” came the reply. “God knows who.”

Brannon shoved his hands into the pockets of his khaki slacks. He was thinking. If the little man was a hired killer, and he was at the funeral, the murderer had already picked his next target. If he and Josette hadn't played a hunch and decided to pay York a visit this morning, he might have succeeded. But, if the deputy was right, who was the target? And why?

 

He was still no closer to answers when he helped Josette into the SUV and drove back to his apartment.

She was too groggy and sick to want to talk. He carried her up the steps into the apartment building,
into the elevator despite curious glances from other passengers, and got out on his floor.

On the way to his apartment, he met one of the security people. “Hey, Bill, how about taking my key and unlocking the door for me?”

“Sure thing,” the other man replied, with a curious look at Brannon's burden.

“We just came from the hospital,” Brannon began.

“Hell of a place to pick up women, Brannon,” the other man mused. “But if that's the only way you can get one…”

“Put a sock in it,” Brannon said with a chuckle. “She's been shot. I can't leave her alone and she has no family.”

“Shot?” The other man unlocked the door, opened it and handed Brannon back his keys. That was when he noticed the white bandage on Josette's arm, where that sleeve of her jacket was off. “Shouldn't she be in the hospital?”

“S'only a flesh wound,” she murmured, with her cheek tight against the hard beat of Brannon's heart under his shirt. The Ranger badge was uncomfortable, but it seemed to be everywhere she moved her face, cold and hard. “He didn't mean to…” she added in a slur.

“Now, you're
shooting
women?” the security man asked with wide eyes.

“I didn't shoot her, you idiot! A suspect got her.
But I got him,” he added with a gleam of triumph. “And he's in surgery right now.”

“Sorry, kid,” Bill told Josette, who was watching him with eyes barely open. “Maybe when you're better, they'll give you five minutes alone with him.”

“Don't I wish,” she murmured. “And two stun guns, one for each hand…I'm so sleepy, Brannon.”

“Okay. I'll have you inside in a jiffy. Thanks, Bill.”

“Anytime.” Bill opened the door and put the keys in the hand that was supporting Josette's rib cage. He smiled at Josette and then lifted amused eyes back to Brannon's. “But the next one you get from the hospital's mine. Some luck, Brannon. I
never
find giveaways like her!” He walked off before Brannon could think of a snappy comeback.

 

Brannon carried Josette into the spare bedroom and laid her gently on the brown-and-beige geometric pattern of the coverlet while he took off her shoes and skirt. They were followed by her jacket and the ruined blouse under it, leaving her in a full slip, bra and panties. He tried not to pay too much attention to her very nice figure while he was doing what was necessary.

He lifted her long enough to uncover the sheets before he put her back down on them and pulled the
covers over her, noting the faint smell of roses that clung to her creamy skin.

He propped his hands beside her head on the pillow and studied her. Her long blond hair was half in, half out of a bun, hanging in strands all around her oval face. He took her glasses from their perch on her nose and laid them on the bedside table. He smoothed back her hair and then, impulsively, pulled out all the hairpins that kept it in place. The wealth of golden hair came cascading down into his hands.

“It will tangle while I'm asleep,” she murmured.

“Let it. You have the most beautiful hair I've ever seen.” His hands speared through it, arranging it around her face on the pillow. He smiled gently. “Tired?”

“Very.” She drew a long breath. “Sorry to be so much trouble.”

“You aren't. I'll have to go back to work, but I'll be here about five-thirty. Just sleep. You need to get better before we go any deeper into this investigation.”

“Okay.” She searched his eyes slowly. “It wasn't your fault.”

His face set in harsh lines. “I should have known you'd try to play hero.”

“Don't blame yourself.”

“You're the one who got shot. It should have been me.”

She managed a smile. “You're only jealous. It's bullet envy.”

“There's a genuine delusion!”

“I'll be fine,” she added drowsily.

“Of course you will. But for a couple of days, you need to rest that arm and let your body get over the shock. You lost a lot of blood.” He bent down impulsively and brushed his hard mouth over her soft one. “Get some sleep, honey. I'll see you this afternoon. Want me to put you something to drink by the bed?”

Had he called her “honey?” Surely not. “Could you? Something cold?”

“Orange juice?” he asked, remembering how much she liked it while they were dating.

Her eyes lit up. “Yes, please.”

He went to get it. By the time he came back and set it on the bedside table, she was sound asleep.

He stood watching her for a long time with a strange expression. He'd never brought a woman home with him before. He couldn't explain what impulse had led him to make himself responsible for Josette. But she did look so right there, in that bed, asleep. She needed nurturing, taking care of. It touched him to realize that he was needed, on a very personal basis. Since his mother's death and his sister's marriage, he hadn't had anyone to take care of. He missed that. He liked being needed. Not, he added silently, that he was going to tell Josette that!

 

She didn't wake up for several hours. She was aware of pain in her arm, a fullness and throbbing that were decidedly unpleasant. She sat up with an effort and looked on the bedside table. Brannon had left her a carafe of orange juice and two bottles of pills, one for pain and the other a powerful antibiotic. She took both and swallowed them with the cold, delicious juice. It felt good going down. She put the glass next to her forehead and drank in the cooling contact. She must have a fever, she decided, and wondered if Brannon had anything she could take for that.

She made her way into the master bathroom and looked in the medicine cabinet for an analgesic. Finding it, she shook two tablets into her hand and went back to the bedroom.

She laid down for a few more minutes, but she was far too restless to sleep. She got up and looked around for something to put on. She'd have to get Brannon to go by her hotel and get her clothes, or she wouldn't have anything to wear. She thought about some of Brannon's colleagues walking into the room and finding her in her slip. That wouldn't do his reputation much good.

In the end, she drew out a worn old pair of clean denim jeans, Brannon's of course, and a tan-and-white checked long-sleeved shirt with a pocket missing. She left her hair loose because she couldn't find her hairpins, using Brannon's combs to try to get
some order out of the tangles. Then she went to the kitchen, her arm still in its sling, and began to look for food.

Evidently he could cook, because he had a nicely stocked refrigerator. She made biscuits from scratch and put them in the oven to bake. While they were cooking, she put a small chicken on to cook in the oven with them, and busied herself preparing beans and potatoes on the burners.

 

The biscuits came out perfect. The chicken took longer. By exactly five-thirty, she had everything ready on the stove and two places set at the kitchen table.

Brannon walked in carrying a bucket of chicken. He stopped at the kitchen doorway, his eyes on the table. He took a whiff. Something smelled delicious.

“Is that chicken?” he asked, indicating a casserole. “It smells fabulous!”

“I cook it with rosemary,” she told him shyly. “Sorry the chicken is redundant.”