Wanted

“You make it a habit to propose to strangers?”

“Not generally. But I’ll make an exception in your case.”

Lyla shook her head. “Men like you don’t even ask out women like me.”

Wyatt frowned. “Men like me and women like you?”

“Hot guys who know they’re hot,” she clarified. “Don’t you dare say you don’t know you’re hot. And I’m the opposite of hot.”

“Oh, you’re hot, all right.”

And he so wished he hadn’t blurted that out. He knew how to keep things close to the vest, and he darn sure shouldn’t be saying something like that to Lyla. Especially since it was the truth.

Wanted

Delores Fossen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Imagine a family tree that includes Texas cowboys, Choctaw and Cherokee Indians, a Louisiana pirate and a Scottish rebel who battled side by side with William Wallace. With ancestors like that, it’s easy to understand why USA TODAY bestselling author and former air force captain DELORES FOSSEN feels as if she were genetically predisposed to writing romances. Along the way to fulfilling her DNA destiny, Delores married an air force top gun who just happens to be of Viking descent. With all those romantic bases covered, she doesn’t have to look too far for inspiration.

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Excerpt

Chapter One

Marshal Wyatt McCabe adjusted his binoculars and studied the woman. Lyla Pearson. She was leading a roan mare into the barn just behind her small ranch house, and from what he could tell, she appeared to be talking to the horse. Maybe even singing to it.

She sure didn’t look like someone on the verge of committing a felony.

Not yet anyway.

One thing was for certain—he’d never met her. If he had, Wyatt was pretty sure he would have remembered her even though there was nothing much about her that stood out.

Five foot seven or eight. Average build. Brown hair that she’d gathered into a ponytail.

She was wearing no-frills jeans and a weathered buckskin coat—practically a uniform for someone working with horses. Something he knew a little about, since he worked his own family’s ranch.

Wyatt checked his watch. A little past seven in the morning, which meant Ms. Pearson would soon change her cowgirl uniform for her job as assistant director of the San Antonio Crime Scene Unit. He had every intention of following her there, too. In fact, he didn’t intend to let her out of his sight until he figured out what the heck was going on.

He would get answers.

And those answers extended to the baby she was carrying.

There was no baby bump that he could see. Probably too early in the pregnancy for it, but Wyatt wasn’t a baby expert. However, from everything he’d read about her, Lyla had wanted a baby for years even though she was single and not in a relationship.

What Wyatt needed to know was why she’d wanted this particular baby.

She disappeared into the barn, probably to stable the mare, and when she came out, she stopped and looked around as if she sensed someone was watching her. Wyatt ducked lower behind the pile of boulders, though he figured he was hidden well enough. He’d had a lot of experience doing surveillance duty in rural settings during his six and a half years as a marshal.

The sharp January wind slapped at her, and it was cold enough that when her breath mixed with the chilly air, it created a split-second foggy haze around her face.

Still, she didn’t move.

She continued to glance around.

Even though she wasn’t a cop, she had cop’s eyes. Maybe a cop’s instincts, too, which Wyatt hoped didn’t kick in. He needed to figure out what she was up to before she even realized he was on her trail.

Finally, she moved, walking toward her house, and Wyatt was so caught up in watching her that he nearly missed the movement on the back side of the barn. It was just a blur of motion. Maybe a horse. But with everything else going on, that seemed too much to hope.

Wyatt volleyed glances between her and the barn, and he saw it again. This time, he got more than a blurry glimpse. No horse. It was a man, and he was lurking behind the barn. Wyatt watched, wondering if Lyla knew about her visitor. Maybe he was even her partner in crime.

But the man didn’t call out to her.

And she didn’t seem to notice him.

Hell.

This was not a complication he needed right now.

If the guy wasn’t her partner, then Wyatt needed to know why he was there. Because he figured someone skulking around a barn didn’t have the best of intentions. Unless he was a lawman, that is.

Wyatt took a harder look. The guy was dressed in camouflage clothing. There was no sign of a lawman’s badge, so Wyatt drew his Colt from his shoulder holster and eased onto the top of the boulders. Wyatt started hurrying toward Lyla. Anything he did right now was risky, but the risk went up a significant notch when he saw the man dart from the barn to the back of her house.

The guy was armed.

Lyla didn’t appear to be.

And worse, she was smack-dab out in the open. If this wasn’t her partner, then why was he there, and did that gun mean he was going to try to kill her? Maybe this was someone opposed to what Lyla had already set into motion, and if the man killed her, Wyatt would never know the full truth.

Plus, there were other reasons to keep her alive, and the biggest reason of all was that baby she was carrying.

“Get down!” Wyatt shouted to her.

She whirled around as Wyatt had expected her to do. And froze again. The gunman darn sure didn’t freeze. He darted out from the barn and took aim.

At Wyatt.

Wyatt dropped to the icy ground. “I’m Marshal Wyatt McCabe,” he shouted.

The guy ducked back behind the barn, but Wyatt didn’t see or hear anything to indicate he was on the run. Too bad, because if there was a gunfight, then Lyla could be caught in the cross fire. Definitely not something he wanted.

Even worse, Wyatt couldn’t call for backup. He’d checked his phone shortly after he’d parked his truck on the hidden curve of the road—not far away at all—and the whole area was a dead zone. No reception whatsoever.

“Get down!” Wyatt called out to her again.

Thankfully, this time she got moving and did as he’d ordered. Lyla landed on the dead winter grass, yards from her front porch and the safety of her house. There was nothing she could use to hide behind or for protection, and that meant Wyatt had to get to her, fast.

He levered himself up but kept as low as he could. He also kept his Colt aimed and ready. And he started running. He braced himself to dive back to the ground if necessary, but when the gunman peered out from the barn, he didn’t fire.

“Drop the gun!” Wyatt ordered.

He was close enough to Lyla now that he heard her make a sound of surprise mixed with a whole lot of fear. Her reaction made Wyatt think she hadn’t known that an armed man was less than thirty feet away from her.

An armed man who clearly wasn’t listening to a thing Wyatt was telling him to do.

The guy didn’t drop his gun. He stayed put, just tossing out the occasional glances. Once Wyatt had Lyla safely inside, he was going to do something about this nonlistening moron. That didn’t mean killing him. No. That was the last thing Wyatt wanted, because he wanted answers from him, too.

“Don’t move,” Wyatt reminded Lyla when she lifted her head. She dropped back down but looked at him as if trying to figure out who he was.

Or rather, pretending to do that.

Since her pretense and the reaction to the gunman could all be a ruse, Wyatt kept his attention on both her and the gunman. He made his way across the narrow dirt road that stopped directly in front of her house. Each step was a victory because there were no shots being fired at them. He really wanted to keep it that way.

Wyatt hurried the last few yards to her, and he moved directly in front of her, making sure he was between her and the gunman.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice shaking as hard as the rest of her.

“I was hoping you could tell me.” He took aim at the barn and stood. “Is your front door locked?”

“No.”

Good. Though he’d figured she hadn’t bothered to lock it. Not usually much crime out in the rural part of the county. Of course, usually wasn’t the norm right now.

“Stay behind me,” Wyatt instructed. “We’re going inside.”

Where he hoped she wouldn’t try to kill him. But then, he figured her plan didn’t include murdering him.

Nope.

She or someone else had put too much in motion to outright kill him.

Well, unless the plan had changed and someone was trying to cut their losses and make sure there were no loose ends with equally loose lips. If that was the case, then both Lyla and he could be targeted to die.

She didn’t argue about going inside with him, and Lyla slid her hands over her stomach and practically pressed herself against his back as they inched across the yard. Wyatt could feel the tight muscles in her arms. Could feel her warm breath hit against his neck.

And he could feel her fear.

He shifted his position a little as they went up the steps. He had to keep Lyla shielded, but he also had to make sure the gunman didn’t try to go in through the back of her house.

That led him to his next problem.

If someone was trying to nix a plan that was already in motion—like this one—there might be another attacker waiting inside. Or maybe this was all part of Lyla’s plan—get him inside so she could move on to the next step.

Whatever the heck that was.

Despite the don’t be stupid warning echoing through his head, Wyatt opened the door and stepped inside, keeping her next to him. His attention and gun slashed from one side of the living room to the other.

Nothing.

Well, nothing that he could immediately see anyway. It wasn’t a large room, but there was a dark red sofa and two chairs. Not easy hiding places, but he checked anyway. Then he checked for what could pose the most immediate danger.

Lyla Pearson herself.

“Are you armed?” he asked, but didn’t wait for her to answer. Wyatt shoved his hand inside her coat and gave her a quick pat down.

She gasped and tried to push him away, but Wyatt held his ground. “I don’t carry a gun,” she insisted.

“Maybe not, but you have one registered to you.”

Her eyes widened. “How’d you know that?”

Wyatt just tapped the marshal’s badge clipped to his belt.

Lyla still looked confused by all of this. Heck, maybe she was. After all, if she’d truly set up the gunman pretense, she would’ve had to have known that Wyatt would be there at that exact moment. He’d kept this visit secret. Not even his five foster brothers knew, and they were all marshals, too. He hadn’t wanted to tell them anything until he’d figured out what was going on.

The figuring out started now.

“Back door locked?” he asked. He pulled her inside, keeping her against the jamb.

“I’m not sure.”

“Stay put,” Wyatt snarled, and he hurried into the kitchen. If anyone was hiding, they would have to be in the fridge, because the pantry door was wide-open and he could see inside. He turned the dead bolt on the door to lock it.

She didn’t ask why he’d done that, but he could feel her fear go up a notch. Or maybe she was faking that, too. At any rate, she was breathing through her mouth, and the pulse on her throat was skittering a mile a minute.

Wyatt went back to her, waited. Listened. But he didn’t hear anyone inside, or out, for that matter. So, he grabbed the cordless landline phone and handed it to her. “Call 9-1-1 and request backup.”

Her hand brushed against his when she took the phone, and for just a split second, their eyes met. Hers were brown, just as her file had said, but what wasn’t in her file was they were deep and warm.

Oh, man.

He didn’t need to be thinking of her eyes. Or anything else, for that matter. She could be one of the most conniving criminals he’d ever met.

Or maybe an innocent pawn.

Until Wyatt knew which, her eyes and the rest of her were off-limits.

While she made the call, Wyatt got her all the way inside and kicked the door shut. He locked it. But he didn’t move. He stayed put, waiting to make sure they were indeed alone. Waiting, too, to see if she’d make some kind of move.

She didn’t. Lyla called 9-1-1 just as he’d asked.

The window on the east side of the room was both a blessing and a curse. It allowed Wyatt a decent view of the back side of the barn. The last place he’d spotted the guy with the gun. But that window was also a danger, since the gunman could see them and shoot right through the glass.

“A deputy’s on the way,” Lyla relayed once she’d finished the call.

Good. But the nearest town, Bulverde, was a good thirty minutes away, and he was on his own until then.

“Who’s out there?” she asked.

“You don’t know?”

Her breath rattled in her throat. “I have no idea.” She shook her head and caught onto the door, maybe because she didn’t look too steady on her feet. “He can’t shoot me. I’m pregnant and he could hurt the baby.”

If this was an act, she was damn convincing.

Wyatt glanced around, looking for the safest way to approach this—for both him and her. “Get down on the floor in front of the sofa.”

It wasn’t a perfect location. Not by a long shot. But it would get her out of direct line of fire of that window, and with her on the floor, she wouldn’t be able to attack him.

She moved to do just that but then stopped and stared at him. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t have to lie about this. “You’re going to tell me that after I take care of the guy by the barn.”

Her stare tightened into a glare, and with that glare aimed at him, she eased down onto the floor.

That freed him up to hurry to the hall entry, where he spotted three doors. Probably two bedrooms and a bath. All the doors were open, but unlike with the pantry, he didn’t have a clear look inside any of them.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “How did you know there’d be a gunman at my house?”

Tricky questions, both of them. If she didn’t truly know the answers, then they were both in some Texas-sized trouble.

“I’m involved in an investigation, and you might have something to do with it,” he settled for saying.

“I don’t understand. What investigation?”

Wyatt knew he couldn’t dodge her questions for long, but he really had to make sure another gunman wasn’t inside the house. “Don’t get up,” he warned her, and he hurried into the hall for a quick check of the bedrooms and bath.

“What investigation?” Lyla repeated.

Even though he’d stepped into her bedroom, Wyatt had no trouble hearing her. “Jonah Webb’s murder.”

She mumbled something he didn’t catch, but Wyatt ignored her, had a look under the bed and in the closet. Everything was neat and in its place. Definitely no smoking-gun evidence that he could use to arrest her on the spot.

When he was satisfied they were alone and there was nothing immediate for him to find, he hurried back to the living room and met Lyla’s glare. It was worse than the other one she’d aimed at him.

“Jonah Webb,” she repeated. “He was the man from the orphanage who was murdered years ago.”

Sixteen and a half, to be exact.

She studied his face. Then his badge. “You’re one of the marshals who were raised at the orphanage.” Again, he couldn’t be sure if her surprised tone was fake or not.

“Rocky Creek Children’s Facility,” he supplied.

He tried not to go back to those bitter memories. Failed. Always failed. But bad memories weren’t going to stop him from doing his job. Wyatt went back to the center of the living room so he could keep watch to see what the bozo with the gun was going to do.

“Webb’s body was found, what, about six months ago?” she asked.

“Eight. The Rangers are still investigating it.” He paused, to try to figure out if this was old news to her, but he couldn’t tell. “Webb’s wife, Sarah, confessed to the murder, but she had an accomplice. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to say who her accomplice was, because she’s in a coma.”

And Sarah had been that way since she’d tried to kill his brother Dallas and Dallas’s wife, Joelle. Dallas had had to shoot the woman, and she’d been in a coma ever since.

“Your foster father is a suspect,” Lyla whispered. “I remember reading that in one of the reports.”

Yeah. Kirby Granger was indeed that. And worse, he might have actually done it, though Wyatt never intended to admit that aloud.

Not to her.

Not to anyone.

Especially if it turned out that Lyla Pearson was living proof that Kirby was not just innocent but that someone else was willing to do pretty much anything to cover their own guilt.

“You’re a suspect, too,” Lyla added. Her breathing kicked up a notch, and she got to a crouching position. Maybe because she was just now realizing she could be in danger—from him. Heck, she might even be thinking of running.

Wyatt nodded, watching both her and the window.

She blinked, and he saw the doubt in her eyes. Lyla shifted her position again. Oh, yeah. Definitely planning to run.

“I’m not sure what’s going on,” he said. “But I suspect you know a lot more than you’re saying.”

The remark had no sooner left his mouth when Lyla leaped to her feet and started toward the hall. Probably to get the .38 that was somewhere in her bedroom. Wyatt hadn’t seen the gun, but he figured it must be in the house.

Wyatt latched on to her, trying to stay gentle, but it was hard to do when she brought up her knee to ram into his groin. He had no choice but to drag her to the sofa and pin her body with his.

It didn’t put him in the best of positions. He could no longer see the window or the gunman, but it stopped her from getting away.

Lyla frantically shook her head and tried to punch him. “Why are you doing this?”

He dodged her fist, barely. “Why are you doing this?” And Wyatt dropped his gaze to her stomach.

“I don’t understand.” The words rushed out with her breath.

Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t. But Wyatt decided to test a theory or two. “I think you got pregnant so you could manipulate this investigation.”

She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “My baby has nothing to do with Jonah Webb’s murder.”

“You sure about that?” he countered.

“Positive,” Lyla mumbled, but there it was. The doubt that slid through those intense brown eyes. “Why would it? Why would my baby have anything to do with this?”

Wyatt took a deep breath. Had to. “Because that baby is mine.”

Chapter Two

Lyla figured either Marshal Wyatt McCabe was insane, or someone had told him some huge lies. Either way, she had to get away from him.

She put her hands against his chest and gave him a hard shove. She might as well have been shoving a brick wall, because he didn’t budge. He wasn’t exactly what she would call muscle-bound, but he was solid.

“Please.” Lyla tried to reason with him. “Let me go. Neither me nor my baby has anything to do with you or the murder investigation.”

The marshal made a yeah right sound, but he did move off her. Not far, though. He levered himself up but continued to loom over her. Continued to volley glances out the window, too. Did that mean the man with the gun wasn’t working with Marshal McCabe?

Lyla wasn’t sure.

She wasn’t sure of anything any longer except that she wanted to get away from both men. Her keys were already in her car, which was parked in the garage. If she could get to it, she might be able to escape.

Might.

But she couldn’t risk getting shot. Of course, these men might have something much worse in mind than just hurting her. They might want to kill her.

But why?

She shook her head. Marshal McCabe obviously wasn’t the only one with questions.

“Who’s the gunman?” she asked him again. Maybe now that the facade of the helpful lawman was gone, she’d get some straight answers, because the ones she’d gotten from him so far hadn’t made a lick of sense.

McCabe lifted his shoulder. “I don’t know. Your bodyguard maybe?”

“I don’t need a bodyguard.” But she rethought that. “At least, I didn’t until twenty minutes ago. Clearly, I need one now to protect me from you.”

He studied her as if trying to decide if that was a lie or not. It wasn’t. In fact, everything she’d told the lawman had been the truth, but he obviously didn’t believe her.

Lyla tried to remember everything she knew about Marshal McCabe, but other than the sketchy details about the Webb murder investigation, she drew a blank.

“We’ve met before?” she asked, though she was certain they hadn’t. McCabe was the sort of man a woman tended to remember. Tall, good-looking. Dark brown hair and gunmetal-blue eyes.

Yes, definitely the sort to be remembered.

“No,” he answered. “But you know me.”

“I don’t,” she insisted.

That baby is mine, he’d said, but he had to be wrong about that.

Well, maybe.

“I used in vitro fertilization to get pregnant,” she explained, though judging from the flat look he gave her, he already knew.

“Yeah. At the Hanover Fertility Clinic in San Antonio,” he supplied. “You had the procedure done two and half months ago, on your thirty-first birthday, and it worked on the first try. You got the news two weeks later that you were going to be a mom.”

A chill went through her. It was downright creepy that this stranger knew such private things about her, but it chilled her even more to know he might have told the truth about the baby being his.

“The clinic assured me that the donor I used would be anonymous,” Lyla explained. “In fact, I insisted on it, because I intend to raise this baby myself.”

“Yeah,” the marshal repeated. “Old baggage. I know about that, too.”

Lyla snapped back her shoulders, ready to blast him for invading her life and privacy this way. It wasn’t any of his business about her failed relationships.

She had to get her teeth unclenched so she could speak. “I want you to get out of here now. The deputy’s already on the way, and if you don’t leave, I’ll have him arrest you. I don’t care if you’re a marshal or not.”

“Oh, I’m a marshal, all right, and I believe you manipulated that in vitro procedure so you could force me to cooperate.”

Lyla tried to throw her hands in the air, but McCabe pinned them to the sofa. “And how could I possibly have manipulated it?”

He glared at her. “By switching mine and my late wife’s embryo with the one you should have received.”

Oh, yes. He was crazy.

“I didn’t switch anything. There was a slim-to-none chance that I’d get pregnant the old-fashioned way, because my body rarely produces eggs, even with fertility treatments. So, I used the donation the clinic gave me.” She paused just long enough to gather her breath. “And what possible proof do you have that it was yours?”

“All the proof I need.” But McCabe paused, mumbled some really bad profanity. “Four months ago I hired a surrogate to have a baby, using the embryo that my late wife and I’d stored at a clinic. Not Hanover,” he quickly added. “Another one in San Antonio. But then the surrogate changed her mind and decided not to go through with the pregnancy.”

Lyla mentally went through all that. “And you think I somehow got yours and your wife’s embryo instead of the anonymous one I requested.”

“I know you did,” he fired back. “Last month, the clinic called me and said the embryo was missing. They said maybe it’d been stolen or accidentally donated, and I followed a very hard-to-follow paper trail that eventually led to you.”

Oh, mercy. Maybe it was true, then, but Lyla wasn’t just going to take this man’s word for it. “I want to see this paper trail.”

Marshal McCabe tipped his head toward the barn. “After I hear what your gun-toting friend has to say.”

“He’s not my friend!” she practically shouted. “And so what if the clinic accidentally gave me your embryo? It doesn’t matter. I don’t want you in my life, and I don’t want you part of my baby’s life.”

Except there was the possibility about this being his late wife’s embryo. No. Did that mean he’d have some kind of legal claim?

That couldn’t happen.

“The switch wasn’t an accident,” he insisted. But then he shook his head. “At least I don’t think it was. I think there’s something bad going on here and that you’re a key player in this wrongdoing.”

Lyla couldn’t argue with the something bad theory. He was there, right in her face. But she’d done nothing wrong and had taken no shortcuts in getting pregnant with this baby.

“I don’t know where you got your information about me, but there’s no reason whatsoever that I’d want to have your baby.” And she didn’t bother to say it nicely, either. “I want you arrested and out of here. That’ll happen as soon as the deputy arrives.”

Soon couldn’t be soon enough, though. Lyla prayed that whoever the sheriff had sent out was speeding to her ranch right now.

“If I explain to the deputy what I’ve learned, maybe he’ll arrest you,” McCabe threatened right back. “Because one way or another, you will tell me what’s going on.”

“I have no idea,” Lyla insisted, but she was talking to the air, because the marshal’s attention was fastened to the barn now. He practically jumped to his feet and snapped in that direction.

Alarmed at the concern that she saw in his eyes, Lyla jumped up, as well, and followed his gaze. There wasn’t one man but two out there now. Both wearing camouflage fatigues. Both armed.

Oh, God.

Now she had three armed men on her ranch.

“Either your second bodyguard just showed up, or you’ve done something to piss off someone other than me,” McCabe growled.

Even though she didn’t trust the marshal, that didn’t mean Lyla could ignore what he’d just said. Maybe she had riled someone. After all, she was the second in charge of a huge crime-scene-unit lab, and processed all kinds of evidence.

“You think those men are here to hurt me?” she asked, peering out at them.

“Hard to say.”

She was tired of the vague answers. “Then guess,” Lyla demanded. She pinned her attention to the gunmen, too. If they moved one inch, she’d have to move as well. She prayed they didn’t start shooting into the house.

McCabe shook his head. “Maybe there’s someone who doesn’t want you involved in this.”

Well, she certainly fell into that category. Lyla didn’t want to be involved even if she had no idea what this was. Still, that was something she would have to work out later. After she had some way to protect herself.

Lyla moved, ready to race toward her bedroom to get the .38 she had in the back of her nightstand drawer.

“I don’t think so,” McCabe snarled.

He hooked his left arm around her waist, dragged her to him and anchored her against his body. She’d only known him a matter of minutes, and it was the third time he’d put his hands on her. Lyla wanted to do something about that.

Actually, she wanted to punch him and run.

But she couldn’t risk hurting the baby. No. As angry and scared as she was, her best bet was to wait for the deputy and maybe try to reason with this man, who claimed to be the father of her child.

A father who might be a criminal.

Lyla tried to think back through their entire conversation. Not easy to do, with her heart and mind racing and with McCabe plastered against her. It was hard to think or breathe with him so close. Still, she forced herself to do just that, and she went back to the part of their conversation before he’d dropped the embryo bombshell.

“Why did you think I had anything to do with the Webb murder investigation?” she asked. Lyla also kept watch on the two gunmen.

“You don’t...yet,” McCabe said.

Despite the clear danger outside, that caused her attention to snap to the marshal. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’ll be put in charge of compiling the final investigation, the one that’ll determine who’s responsible for Jonah Webb’s murder.”

Lyla was shaking her head before he even finished. “Not possible. The Texas Rangers have their own crime lab, one of the best in the country.”

“And soon the governor will say there’s a conflict of interest, that the head of the Ranger lab once worked on a case with one of their prime suspects, Kirby Granger.”

“Your foster father,” she mumbled. “It’s true?”

McCabe nodded. “True that they worked together. Not true about the conflict of interest.”

That probably wouldn’t matter. Appearance was everything in this sort of investigation. The sixteen-and-a-half-year-old murder had drawn national attention, and the governor and the Rangers would want to make sure the right people were held responsible for the crime.