Wyoming Cowboy Justice Page 9

  Still she inched forward, forcing herself to breathe evenly, to focus on her mission. Keep Hank safe. Keep Grady safe. Then, find out what was going on.

  There was a quick shout, and then the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

  Grady’s hand clamped on her shoulder, but Laurel jerked out of his grasp and ran toward the shot.

  * * *

  WAS SHE CRAZY? Grady understood Laurel was a cop and all, but what woman went running toward a gunshot?

  Then again, what unarmed, civilian man ran after a woman running after a gunshot? Apparently him. So maybe he had to question his own sanity.

  When he caught up with her, she was crouching over a body. The flashlight was on a bloody spot on the guy’s shirt.

  Hank.

  “Hank, can you hear me? Can you focus?”

  Hank just groaned as Laurel pulled her cop radio to her mouth, relaying the need for an ambulance ASAP, while her flashlight moved back and forth across the ground, clearly looking for clues as to where the shooter had gone.

  She shoved the radio into its slot on her utility belt as she stood, then tossed Grady the flashlight and her phone. “Call 911 and have them walk you through keeping pressure on the wound.”

  “What are you going to do?” he demanded, and maybe he should have cared more about the fact Hank was moaning on the ground below him with a gunshot wound, but he was a little more concerned about Laurel ending up this way.

  “I’m going to find the man who did this.” He opened his mouth to tell her something to the effect of over his dead body when sirens sounded in the distance.

  “It won’t be the ambulance, but it will be the cops. Call 911. Look after Hank. Let the police handle this.”

  And she meant her, which was against every impulse inside of him. Unfortunately, so was leaving a man bleeding profusely from a gunshot.

  Laurel had taken off, already murmuring into the radio that she needed the park secured. She’d left him the flashlight and it was all he could do not to grab it and rush after her. But Hank moaned, clearly trying to say something and unable to do so.

  Grady cursed and used Laurel’s phone to dial 911. How she had service out here he’d never begin to know, but as the 911 dispatcher answered, he explained his emergency and was given instructions on how to deal with the wound.

  Hank groaned and thrashed as Grady applied pressure to the wad of fabric that had once been Hank’s jacket. He placed the flashlight on the ground, beam pointed toward the wound, so he’d have both hands to work with.

  “Didn’t get it,” Hank rasped, squinting at Grady as if he didn’t see him. But he was talking, so he saw something.

  “Didn’t get what?”

  Hank’s hand thrashed around, his breathing becoming more labored even as Grady pressed on the wound. The ambulance needed to hurry.

  “Pocket,” Hank rasped, pointing to his left side.

  Keeping the pressure as even as he could manage while also reaching across Hank’s body, Grady grimaced and shoved his hand into the other man’s pocket.

  And pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

  “He didn’t get it,” Hank managed, his breathing getting shallower, his movements less erratic.

  Grady frowned, trying to uncrumple the paper with one hand and read it in the beam of the flashlight. It was handwritten notes on a piece of graph paper. A list of dates, and next to each one a note. Most of it was nonsense to Grady. Names he didn’t know, words he’d never seen before. But there was one line, dated two weeks ago, that was written in all caps.

  CLEANUP WILL NOT MEET EPA STANDARDS.

  Which meant nothing to Grady, and he doubted it would make sense to Laurel, either. But he figured out that whatever Hank, Jason and the man going around shooting people were involved in, it was centered at the mine.

  It also meant whatever was going down at the mine was a big enough deal to kill, or try to kill, two men over. Blatantly. Without too much worry about being caught or repercussions if someone did put it all together.

  And Laurel was out there in the dark.

  If he hadn’t been thinking about Laurel, about how many men she had out there with her now that the sirens had stopped and clearly the other cops were searching as well, he might have missed it.

  A slight shuffle of leaves, the unmistakable sound of someone stepping on a twig or a branch or something. Then the eerie silence that followed.

  Grady didn’t move. No doubt if it were Laurel or any of the officers, they would announce themselves. Especially knowing they had a shooting victim.

  It could be an animal, but animals typically didn’t pause after they’d made a loud noise.

  Grady didn’t make any sudden movements. Whoever was out there had too good a vantage point, and hadn’t shot yet. Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t, but it certainly meant he was considering not shooting him, too.

  So, slowly, almost imperceptibly, Grady began to turn his head to look over his shoulder.

  “Don’t move,” a faraway-sounding voice rasped.

  “All right,” Grady replied, keeping his head exactly where it was, inflicting his tone with as much ease as he could manage.

  “Who are you?” the man growled in an undistinguishable voice that didn’t stay still. Grady couldn’t tell if the man was pacing or just moving around.

  “You think I’m going to tell a strange man in the woods who I am?” Laurel wouldn’t approve of this particular method of dealing with a man and, presumably, a gun, but Grady had known his fair share of desperate men. He could handle this one.

  He hoped.

  The ambulance had to get here soon, and if it didn’t, the officers would have to circle back. So, maybe at worst he ended up with a bullet to the gut like Hank and lived to tell the tale.

  Worst-case scenario is probably bullet to the head, genius.

  Grady pushed that thought away and focused on the task at hand. “Just trying to help a guy out here. I don’t want any trouble.”

  The man made some scoffing sound and Grady tried to focus on his surroundings. Was there anything he could use as a weapon? Did Hank have anything on him that could be grabbed and used as a weapon before the guy shot him?

  He just needed the thug to come closer so Grady could knock him down. He had no doubts he could win in a fair fight, no matter how big the guy was, but this man had a gun, and Grady had nothing.

  “Step away from Hank.”

  Grady looked down at Hank’s form illuminated by the flashlight beam. He’d gone still, but his breathing continued, labored as it was. Grady wasn’t sure the man could survive if he lost any more blood.

  And you’re not going to survive with a bullet to the brain.

  But he’d never been very good at backing down to bullies. “Why don’t you just let my friend here—”

  “What’s in your hand?” the man demanded, and he’d either forgotten to use his raspy voice or just didn’t care.

  Grady looked at the paper. The last thing he wanted to do was give the evidence up, but if he could remember the date, and the exact verbiage of the all caps message, plus some of the names...

  Suddenly the paper was torn from his grasp, which gave Grady the chance he needed. He immediately kicked out, making contact with the man’s shin. The man howled in pain, but unfortunately he didn’t go down.

  Which meant Grady had to take the pressure off Hank’s wound. It would be precious time and probably precious amounts of blood, but they were both going to end up dead if Grady didn’t fight.

  So in a stealth move, Grady got his feet underneath him in a crouching position. As the attacker raised his arm, moonlight glinting off the gun in his hand, Grady lunged.

  He rammed into the attacker, which sent them both sprawling, and Grady hoped the clattering sound mixed with crunching leaves was the gun falling out of his atta
cker’s grasp.

  Suddenly, over the sound of their grunts, Grady heard sirens, loud and clear. He looked up to see the flashing red, which was stupid, because it gave his attacker just enough time to land a blow that had his world going black.

  Chapter Ten

  Laurel swore and then swore again. She’d scoured the back of the park as much as she could manage with no artificial light, but there was no sign of the shooter. The only men she’d run into were the two officers she’d called in for backup.

  “He could be anywhere. We just don’t have the manpower for this kind of search,” Deputy Clarion said disgustedly.

  He was right, but that didn’t ease Laurel’s irritation or anger. Having someone else shot while you were investigating a murder wasn’t exactly the thing stellar detective careers were made of. Especially when she had no suspects, no clues. Only forest and darkness and questions.

  This was all her fault. She did everything in her power to push away the crushing sense of failure, but it rooted deep. She’d missed clues and hadn’t thought things through, and another man was hurt because of her and could very well end up dying.

  “We need to head back and make sure he hasn’t doubled back,” Laurel ordered, a little sharper than necessary, but she felt sharp and pissed.

  She’d left Grady behind unarmed, and it was more than possible a man with a gun had outsmarted them, circled back, and was going to do his best to finish off the job of killing Hank. Because they were dealing with someone who was desperate enough to murder one man, and attempt to murder another. She didn’t think he’d stop to consider the moral implications of murdering Grady as well.

  She swore and increased her pace. “Keep your eyes peeled, but our focus right now is getting back to the victim,” Laurel called over her shoulder, breaking into a jog. “If our suspect gets away, we’re just going to have to chalk it up to a loss, but if our victim is finished off, or a civilian is, that’s on us.”

  Her, really. She’d been the idiot to let Grady strong-arm her into bringing him here, and then she’d been the fool who’d left him to fend off anything that came his way with a dying man and no weapon. She’d left him defenseless.

  The idea of Grady being defenseless was almost laughable. Grady was big and strong and inherently capable of handling himself, but he wasn’t Superman. He couldn’t fight off a bullet.

  She heard the two other deputies huffing behind her so she walked faster. Through the trees and dangerous open areas, back to the campsites where she’d left Hank and Grady. Moonlight lit her way, and as she got closer, the flashing lights of the ambulance helped lead her exactly where she needed to be.

  The fact the ambulance was there eased some of the worry clogging her chest. It had made it to the correct location, which meant Hank had a chance and Grady hadn’t been hurt. Surely they’d gotten to Hank and Grady before anything had happened.

  The suspect had probably made a run for it without a second thought to look back. He probably figured Hank was as good as dead and had gotten what he was after.

  And yet somehow Laurel didn’t feel any better. She got close enough to see Hank’s body strapped to a stretcher and being lifted into the ambulance, but no Grady.

  She swallowed down the panic. He was around here somewhere. Had to be. “Where’s the other man?” she demanded of the paramedic as he closed the doors.

  “What other man?”

  “There was a man here guarding Hank, the victim.”

  The paramedic raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t see anyone, and I’ve got to transport this man. He’s lost far too much blood and is unresponsive.”

  “Wait. There was another man. There was another—”

  “I have to go, Deputy, if you want this man to—”

  They both stopped arguing when a loud groan came from somewhere nearby, along with the rustling of leaves.

  Laurel immediately moved toward the sound and she was gratified the paramedic didn’t take off.

  “Grady?”

  The response was a string of truly filthy curses.

  “Give me your light,” Laurel demanded of the paramedic. He handed her a flashlight and she flicked it on, moving the beam of light up toward the groaning and cursing.

  “Grady.” He was sprawled out in a shallow gully. As she moved closer, he rolled onto his side, clearly tried to sit up and failed. “Don’t move,” she ordered, scurrying down the little swell of earth and kneeling at his side. “Oh, my God. Are you shot?”

  “I don’t know,” he grumbled. “Am I?”

  “Grady.” She tried to run her fingers over his chest, but the paramedic was pushing her out of the way.

  “Where does it hurt, sir?”

  “Probably the bleeding wound in my head,” Grady snapped back, and though he had some fire to his responses, even in the weird illumination provided by the ambulance lights and flashlights, Laurel knew he looked pale.

  “Simon, we have to go,” the other paramedic yelled from the ambulance. “This guy isn’t going to hold on much longer.”

  “Got another one, Pete. Blunt force trauma to the head. Lost consciousness. Bring out the other stretcher.”

  Pete swore, but moved quickly and efficiently.

  “I don’t need a stretcher.” Grady pushed at the paramedic, and nothing made Laurel’s blood run colder than the fact he didn’t even budge the paramedic. Big, strong Grady Carson’s push was ineffective at best.

  She swallowed at the fear trying to lump itself in her throat. “Let them put you on the stretcher, Carson.” She turned to the other officers she’d almost forgotten about. “You two, canvas the area. Anything you can find, you bag up. Got it?”

  “Piece of paper,” Grady mumbled as the two paramedics worked to move him.

  “What?”

  “Hank had a piece of paper. Something important. It’s all a little fuzzy.” He lifted a hand, but dropped it.

  “A piece of paper. Okay, I’ll look for one.”

  “What did that guy hit me with? I knocked his gun away.”

  He’d knocked the shooter’s gun away, dear God. The paramedics started hefting him to the ambulance, and Laurel had to order herself to focus. Not on Grady, not on how badly he might be hurt, but on figuring out who did this.

  “We’re looking for a gun, something that could have been used as a blunt force trauma weapon and a piece of paper,” she announced to the two deputies searching the area.

  The ambulance revved its way out of the campsite parking space and Laurel had to force herself not to look at it. Grady was in good hands.

  And hurt. Because of you.

  She wasn’t sure she’d ever been so close to crying on the job, but she ruthlessly blinked back the tears. “Anything you even question for a second, bag it. We need a clue.”

  She moved her beam to the gully Grady had been lying in. She didn’t see anything outright, but it was covered in leaves. She reached into the part of her utility belt she kept rubber gloves in and pulled one on.

  She began to sift through the leaves, looking for anything at all that wasn’t natural debris. Anything that could have been used to hit Grady over the head.

  She found the tiniest scrap of paper, white and dry, which meant it couldn’t have been here long. She squinted at the words, but there weren’t enough to make any sense out of it. Still, she placed it in her evidence bag.

  Then her hand ran into something hard. She pulled it out of the pile of leaves and studied it. A shoe. A nice shoe at that. Men’s. Big enough. With a sole hard and sharp enough to do some damage.

  Laurel slipped that into the bag. She probably couldn’t get an identity with a shoe, but it was certainly something.

  “I found a gun,” one of the deputies said a few yards south of her.

  Laurel nodded. A scrap of paper, a shoe and a gun. It wasn’t much.
/>   But it was something.

  * * *

  GRADY HATED HOSPITALS. They were so white and every noise was so mechanical. He’d watched a few too many people die in hospital rooms. He’d been with all of his grandparents, holding hands or murmuring prayers, because his grandparents had raised him right in the shadow of everything else.

  Then there was the time Dad had died. Grady trying to shield Vanessa, being pushed away as monitors went crazy and nurses jumped into action. And somehow feeling sad when all was said and done, even though his father had never been anything more than a mean SOB.

  Grady blew out a breath and glared at the door. They’d stitched him up and talked over his head about concussions and being watched overnight, and he was about ready to lose his usually impenetrable cool.

  They were going to release him soon, or he was going to fight his way out. One way or the other. He just had to figure out whom to call. Noah or Vanessa or Ty. Hell, he should call Clint and demand some payment for what a mess he was in because of the kid.

  But the only person he wanted to call was Laurel, and that was messed up.

  When the door opened, Grady was ready to go after whatever poor soul dared darken his door without discharge papers.

  “Mr. Carson,” a young, timid thing asked, hovering there as though she were afraid of him. “There’s a police officer here who wants to speak with you, and I couldn’t find—”

  “Is it a woman?”

  “Um, well, yes.”

  “Send her in, then.”

  “Oh. Right. Well.”

  “Now,” Grady growled, sending the girl scurrying out the door. A few seconds later, Laurel appeared. She was still wearing what she’d been wearing in his bar earlier, sans wig. She’d tamed her hair back, though, in one of those serviceable braids she tended to favor. And she looked serviceable and a little bit formidable on top of it.

  Hell, he wanted to get her into bed.

  “Why are you torturing that poor candy striper or whatever it is she is?” Laurel asked, and he noted she hovered close to that door opening even as her gaze scanned his bandage.