The Troubled Texan

Saints

Chapter One

LIFE WITHOUT PAROLE! the April 12th Los Angeles Tribune headline shrieked up at Maressa Clarkson.

The word failure might as well have been scrolled in neon. Not being able to get the death penalty for a murderer who made Charles Manson look like a schoolyard bully was totally unacceptable, nothing but a sign of weakness, unworthiness. At least that was the way her father would see the verdict.

District Attorney, Judith Mason, had stood alone with her, the only one to understand the emotional hell Maressa had been going through as lead prosecutor in such a high-profile, gut-wrenching case. Maressa suspected the DA figured that, since she was up for reelection and her conviction record had been challenged by her opponent, she didn’t want to get her hands dirty with such a horrific case. She certainly didn’t need the stigma of Alonzo Hunter receiving life in prison hanging over her head when he deserved the death penalty.

Besides her own father and her boss, there were probably thousands of citizens of the state of California disappointed in the verdict, but none more than Maressa herself.

Scoping out her desk, she touched a nutmeg-colored folder labeled People vs. Alonzo F. Hunter lying open beside volumes of Cal Stats—Statutes of California and West’s California Reporter. An opaque water ring from an empty Diet Dr Pepper can on her otherwise organized desk reminded her that she hadn’t eaten a real meal in weeks.

A bonsai plant she had pampered for five years caught her attention. She checked the soil. Still moist. Plucking off a leaf that clung for survival like an umbilical cord, she tossed the dead twig in the wastebasket beside the credenza.

She turned back for a final look and ran her fingers across the brass nameplate: R. Maressa Clarkson, Deputy District Attorney.

The pathetic looking bonsai seemed to plead with her not to be left behind.

Don’t look so sad, little guy. With rare spontaneity, she snatched up the front page of the newspaper and wrapped it around the delicate plant, before securing the pot in a corner of her gym bag.

Sliding on her sunglasses, she headed for the door. Cautiously surveying the outer offices, she checked to make sure nobody was around.

Easing the door closed, she exited through the back and headed for a bank of elevators. Luck was on her side; the doors opened immediately and she stepped into the waiting car.

Adjusting her heavy tote bag slung on her arm, she steadied herself, leaning against the mirrored tiles covering three sides of the elevator walls. The coolness of the glass seeped through her olive-drab blouse hanging off her noodle thin shoulders. She had lost more weight. Barely five-foot-two and a slight one hundred and three pounds, she couldn’t afford to lose another ounce.

A gaunt, tired image teetering on this side of anorexia screamed back at her. She touched the dark circles under her eyes. Lack of sleep and stress, compounded by the trauma of prosecuting such a horrendously complicated case and her concern for her safety, as well as that of her staff, had taken their toll. Her normally emerald-green eyes now looked more like mucky moss against her pasty complexion. Pinching her cheeks to add a tad of color didn’t work. She needed some sun. And rest, lots of it.

The elevator jerked to a stop on the ground floor where she located her new Lexus. She unlocked the doors, and then tossed her car keys on the concrete beneath the automobile. Exiting the parking garage on foot, she walked seven blocks south.

Although the back streets she took were virtually deserted at this time of the morning, she stopped several times to make sure she wasn’t being followed.

Halting near a trash bin, she took a deep breath, opened her gym bag and removed the Prada purse that cost more than a month’s payment on her condo. Tossing the turquoise-and-gray paisley printed handbag in a shallow growth of weeds behind the receptacle, she walked away. She had a small, cheap purse she had purchased inside her gym bag.

Someone would find her billfold, complete with identification, and figure she was another mugging victim. They’d take the piddling amount of cash she had deliberately left inside and discard the handbag. Nothing unusual in a city the size of LA.

Once she crossed back to the main avenue, crowds bustled to work around her like screensavers on speed. Meshing with the smell of designer perfume, tobacco, and leftover lust, she made her way another six blocks west before she flagged down a taxi. She told the driver that she wanted to go to the Los Angeles International Airport, where she paid him and mingled amongst the people before she caught a green-line bus and changed terminals. Weighted down with apprehension, she hailed a second cab.

Maressa removed a note Judith had given her from her pocket, and directed the cabbie to a used car lot in East LA, where she picked up her new identity and an ordinary Chevy Malibu. Not exactly a car she would have chosen, but one serviceable enough for her needs.

Mrs. Michaels, uh, lady . . . Rainey—

Jerking her head up, she responded, What? Yes?

She needed to get accustomed to her new alias since the last time anyone in her family used her first name was when she was baptized as an infant thirty-two years before. Her father hated the name Maressa, but had agreed to allow it to be put on her birth certificate only to appease her mother. The LA County DA insisted that Rainey didn’t sound professional and that using Maressa, along with her first initial, would set her apart from the other thousand-plus deputy DAs.

Rainey Michaels did have a secure ring to it.

Don’t act scared. It’s a dead giveaway that you’re on the run. You paid a lot of money to get lost, so get used to it, chided the slick-talking son-of-slime. The registration and insurance documents are in here. He handed her an envelope. Keep ’em with the car ’cause you can’t afford to get stopped. Gotcha a New York driver’s license . . . everything you wanted, including a burner phone. You okay, Mrs. Michaels?

What? Yes, I’m fine. Thanks. She handed over a manila envelope. All the money is here.

Deal closed, the man slithered back to the hole he called his office.

Slipping behind the wheel, she exited the parking lot . . . off the emotional roller coaster that had taken her for a nasty ride. She needed separation to heal, and plenty of it. Hopefully, given enough time, she could put the daily, sometimes hourly, images of the hideous crimes of Alonzo F. Hunter behind her and begin to live again.

Merging into traffic, she headed toward small-town USA where she could blend in like a single boll of cotton in pale moonlight.

A frightened deputy district attorney didn’t resign . . . she vanished.

And in R. Maressa Clarkson’s, rather Rainey Michaels’s case, she carried way too much baggage with her in the form of horrific memories.

Chapter Two

Alternating blue and red lights flashed from behind, jolting Rainey Michaels’s gypsy mind back to the dusky Texas highway not far off Interstate 40.

Damn it!

A single blast of a siren from a county marked club-cab pickup sliced the air.

Son of a . . . She slammed her hands on the steering wheel, tapped the brakes, and pulled to the soft shoulder of the road. Speeding! I had to be speeding. And her proof of insurance had blown away when she’d opened the glove box way back in Tennessee.

Trouble had found her and she hadn’t been in the Texas Panhandle more than an hour. In this Godforsaken county, she’d be lucky if she didn’t get the book thrown at her.

She had carefully selected Kasota Springs to relocate to because it was far enough away from her hometown of Denton, Texas, for her not to be recognized, while small enough to feel at home. Using her new name, Rainey Michaels, she had already prepaid a six-month lease on a building sight unseen in the Podunk city. She had planned to slip quietly into town and go inconspicuously about her business. But now . . . that might be impossible.

In the rearview mirror, she saw the silhouette of the officer unfold from the patrol car. He carried himself with a confident presence, an air of authority. Most likely there would be no talking her way out of a ticket.

There wasn’t the slightest hesitation in his stride as the tall man approached. No doubt, she had found trouble and he came with a Stetson, a Glock .45 on his hip, and the means to unravel the elaborate ruse she’d constructed.

From the way the deputy pulled the black felt hat low over his eyes and lifted back his jacket to touch his service pistol, he expected instant obedience. A no-nonsense type of person who would enjoy making an example of a commonplace automobile with New York plates speeding through his sleepy Texas county.

Biting on her lower lip, she jerked open the gym bag and retrieved her new driver’s license and auto registration. Maybe he wouldn’t ask for her insurance card. Not likely, but maybe.

Looks tough and cocky, but great body! she thought. Her tongue danced along her upper lip.

Rainey spoke to her only company, the bonsai plant riding in the passenger seat. I might even enjoy being handcuffed to that rascal.

Reality snarled at her. Handcuffed! Arrested! Goodness sakes alive, what are you thinking, girl? she scolded. The last thing Rainey needed was someone delving into her past. Besides, she expected plenty of questions just being the newest addition to the quaint ranching community.

Shadowed by the remnants of a lazy West Texas sunset, the big man trooping her way reminded her of Donovan Cowan, Sr., the tough-as-nails longtime sheriff of Denton County. To teach the teenagers a valuable lesson, if he caught them speeding, they were an automatic overnight guest of the county. Swallowing hard, she tried to dislodge the knot in her throat. The death of the gruff old hound dog, killed in the line of duty, had been plastered all over the Internet for weeks.

As though she stepped on a grave, thoughts of his son, Deuce, chilled her. After nearly three decades of trying to ignore his existence, why would she think about the baddest good boy she had ever known?

Get back to reality, woman!

Frantic, she searched for a scarf. I look like a vagrant with my swollen eyes and ratty hair, she thought to herself.

With a whisk of her hand, she pulled a layer of bangs over her forehead and fluffed her short auburn tresses around her face. Rather, Chestnut Sunshine the box had read. She thought her hair had turned out looking similar to the color of a Christmas ornament. But then dyeing it in a motel room somewhere in Arizona wasn’t exactly an applied science.

Pulling on the headscarf, she slipped on blue-tinted shades, lowered the window, and trained her gaze upward.

Thick forceful thighs, slim hips, and a polished silver-and-gold Texas A&M belt buckle below an obviously taut, planed abdomen were a welcome sight for a traffic stop.

Good evening, ma’am . . . His deep-timbred voice kicked her heart into overdrive. Kinda in a hurry, aren’t you?

Sheer black fright swept through her. That voice! She’d know it anywhere. It had to belong to the studly Denton High quarterback and her old study partner, Deuce Cowan. But why would he be in Kasota Springs?

Taking a deep breath before lowering her voice, Rainey nervously stuck out the documents, crunching them into his washboard hard stomach. Sorry, deputy.

Thank you, ma’am. This won’t take but a minute. He took the cards, pushed her hand away, brushing her fingertips as he did. And, it’s Sheriff Cowan. He tipped his Stetson, turned, and walked back to the pickup.

Sheriff! Not a deputy?

Mother of Joseph! It was worse than she thought. She pulled more bangs over her forehead, and exhaled deeply. Rainey had carefully checked out the town and had been assured that E. L. Kirkwood was the sheriff. And now the position seemed to belong to her old high school classmate Deuce Cowan.

Mercy . . . mercy sakes alive, did she ever have a problem.

Rainey rested her head against the headrest and willed away the tightness between her shoulders. Queasiness flared in her stomach.

Her mind wandered through an array of worse scenarios while she waited for the sheriff to take care of business. The business of checking her out with the Department of Motor Vehicles and Vital Statistics. And realizing she didn’t have any proof of insurance.

It seemed like eons before the officer reappeared. His voice clipped the air, sending a ripple of awareness through her. Mrs. Michaels, open your trunk, please.

Lowering her voice to a whisper, she answered, Certainly.

Dern, if she knew where to find the trunk release and couldn’t afford to open the door . . . she didn’t need any more light shed on her. Lowering her head, she looked beneath the console and found a trunk icon. Breathing a sigh of relief, she pressed the lever.

Clink! Slam!

In less than a minute, Deuce had closed the trunk lid, and rounded the car. I need your proof of insurance.

Her worst fear had just come to fruition. I lost it, sir. She kept her head lowered and her voice lower.

It’s required in Texas. You’ll need to get a replacement and appear before the court. He handed her his ticket book. Since this is Saturday, the earliest you can see the judge will be nine on Monday morning. Sign here, he ordered in an unsympathetic tone. I clocked you doing sixty-eight in a fifty-five, plus I’m citing you for not providing proof of insurance. This isn’t an admission of guilt, only a promise to contact . . .

Rainey accepted the pad and scribbled her new name across the signature line, not listening to the spiel that she knew only too well. Never looking up, she handed the form back.

He tore off the top copy and squatted down next to the car. Passing through?

Clutching the lapel of her blouse in an attempt to cover her flushed chest, she nodded. She didn’t dare look into his face, not even if the heavens threatened to open and scoop her up. And that might be a relief.

Rainey stared straight ahead, afraid of what she might find if she took a glimpse in his direction.

No doubt he wore that lopsided, quirky grin that oozed raw sexuality. A smile that got him whatever he wanted, when he wanted it, without any questions asked . . . from everybody except her. She could bet that a renegade curl had escaped from beneath his hat and hung low over his forehead.

Was that little half-moon shaped scar above his lips still noticeable? She recalled the night a cocky defensive tackle gave the popular quarterback’s face true character by taking advantage of a dislodged helmet to plant a cleat in his nose.

She cut her eyes and caught his image in the side mirror. Dang it, whether she appreciated everything about the man or not, Deuce had charisma and a breathtaking ruggedness that could not be ignored. Of course, being a two-time collegian all-American turned professional football player didn’t hurt either. So, let him mesmerize other women. She had her personal Achilles heel in the form of one Deuce Cowan. Excuse me! Sheriff Deuce Cowan.

Sheriff Cowan returned her documents, leaned within inches of the side of her face, and spoke with an authoritative voice that sent her already racing heart into somersaults. If you want to stay out of trouble—best stay out of my way.

Chapter Three

Well, I’ll be damned! Deuce Cowan watched the white Chevy pull onto the blacktop. Double-dog damned. Rainey musta gotten married.

But what in the hell was she doing passing through his county with a New York driver’s license? He leaned against the black-and-white’s fender, smiled, and thought back to how sweet she used to look when he’d get her all riled up by calling her Brainy Rainey. How those cute dimples deepened and her eyes flashed with annoyance.

If she was headed for Denton, she was off track. And her only company, some type of deformed, puny bush. More importantly, why was she so intent on disguising herself? Even those ridiculous bangs and that metallic red hair did nothing for her flawless complexion. She looked tired and pale. Nothing like the feisty blonde he had shared a lab station with in high school. The girl that made it her mission to see that he kept up his grades, assuring his eligibility to play football, and ultimately get a college scholarship.

She was always there to help him. He was always ready with a barb or something to tease her about. Like the day he tried to get her goat by asking her about her favorite position on a football team. She simply responded: The tight ends, regardless of the position they play.

That was Brainy Rainey. He coined the nickname, but he wasn’t the only person to call her that. Sporting enough steel in her mouth to make an ironworker proud, thick tortoise-shell glasses, and braids, the library-card toting, pint-size gal was the persona of brainy. A nerd, except softer.

He cringed, thinking back to the day he got an in-school suspension because he decked another member of the football team for making fun of her. Deuce chuckled. The ISS wasn’t all that bad except he’d missed ball practice and the coach had made him run the next day as punishment until he threw up. As far as he knew, Rainey never knew he’d stood up for her.

And the thanks Deuce had gotten—although he’d hinted that he needed a date to homecoming their senior year, when he called, he was told by her father never to call again because she didn’t want to talk to him. He didn’t even get the chance to talk to her. Her father spoke for her, but then that’s about what he had expected from the pompous ass of a district judge. And the worst part, she’d never mentioned his call to him.

Yeah, Brainy Rainey had grown up and made lots of changes.

But one thing that she hadn’t changed: those adorable little dimples at the corner of her mouth that deepened when she smiled or was nervous. They were still there, and he hadn’t even seen a promise of a smile.

And that smell . . . just as he remembered. Sensual and heady, like a blooming field of wildflowers.

When he got back to the sheriff’s office, he planned to check up on Miss Maressa Clarkson. Rather, Mrs. Rainey Michaels.

Deuce finished his paperwork before he scouted out The Silver Dollar, one of just two local watering holes, to make sure there weren’t any underaged drinkers. He returned to his patrol car in time to catch a call about an alarm at the old, vacant Rock Island Depot. Probably a dog call, maybe a rambunctious teenager who thought he had found a safe haven for his drinking.

I’m on my way, Deuce responded to his deputy. Hey, Jessup, got a job for you. When Danny comes on duty, ask him to see what he can find on a Mrs. Rainey Michaels. . . . He flipped open his book for her New York address. At . . .

After giving the deputy all the pertinent information, Deuce slipped back the brim of his hat with a thumb and shook his head.

Hell, I thought tonight was going to be quiet, but from the minute I laid eyes on that brainiac, I should have known better.

Deuce slid into the county pickup. Hopefully, trouble wasn’t waiting for him at the abandoned railroad station.

Pulling into the lot in front of the Rock Island Depot, Rainey cut the engine and stared into the darkness at the gigantic beige stucco building sprawled out ahead. Luckily, she had received a letter from her landlord confirming the address. She took the note from her pocket and reread it. There was no mistaking she was at the correct place. One hundred Main Street. The classified ad had read Historic Landmark and the lessor assured her that the building had adequate living quarters and was perfect for her new business venture.

Oh, yeah, an antiquated railway station was every woman’s dream house! Maybe she should have asked more questions, but she had been too thankful to have found a building so quickly. Next time, she’d make sure of what she would be getting instead of leasing sight unseen.

Rainey sighed, suddenly feeling as though she had been traveling over a long, lonesome highway without a soft shoulder to depend on . . . abandoned and lonely like the deserted building.

Wishing she could go home, realization hit her—that was not an option. Her parents were vacationing in Europe, and when she contacted them, her father seemed more angry that she refused his help than concerned for her safety. She feared her father had brushed off her cryptic message about her parents not talking to the news media. After all, he’d spent most of his life in the public eye. How long had it actually been since she had seen her parents? Three,