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.