In Hot Water Read online

  In Hot Water

  A Triple-D Ranch Romantic Suspense

  A Blackthorne, Inc. Spinoff

  Terry Odell

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2016 by Terry Odell

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  In Hot Water

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  A Note From the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Sign up for Terry Odell's Mailing List

  Further Reading: In Deep Trouble

  Also By Terry Odell

  In Hot Water

  For Mom and Dad. Love you always and forever.

  Chapter 1

  IF IT WEREN’T FOR THE whole funeral thing, today would have scored an eight in Sabrina Barton’s journal entry. Maybe a nine. She forced one more smile, accepted one more hand clasp, one more token embrace, and whispered one more thank you to the next someone who offered condolences.

  When the flow of mourners stopped at last, Sabrina gazed over the crowded room. Men in uniforms. She assumed they had served with her brother John in his Ranger days. The ones in dark suits she guessed were the security people he’d worked with before he died. Sabrina had vague recollections of people reciting names, their connections to John, but frankly, everything was a blur.

  She and John had fallen out of touch after he'd joined the Rangers, not that they’d ever been the sort for weekly phone calls or even emails. And although she didn’t condone his career choice—killing people didn’t sit well with her—estranged wasn’t the word for their relationship. Indifferent was more like it. Besides, she’d been twelve when he’d enlisted. When he’d quit, he’d settled in San Francisco. She’d moved from their home in Iowa to Albuquerque for college and had settled there.

  John had used the army as his way of saving lives. Sabrina had chosen an entirely different approach. She'd started a cooking school, a place where she gave the less fortunate a set of skills they could use to get off the streets, make their own contributions to society. And even knowing Renae, her partner, was covering Sabrina's classes, Sabrina couldn't wait to get back to her normal life.

  How much longer did she have to stay? She was John’s sole living relative, and not even blood at that. They shared a last name, but not much else. Yes, she cared about him, but she hadn’t been part of his life in a long time. They’d both been orphaned, both adopted out of the foster care system, and their foster parents had died years ago.

  Why'd you have to die, too, John?

  She'd always assumed he'd have died a noble death in the army. When he left that life for what she considered a smarter, safer choice, she'd been relieved. But to die in a hit and run accident? That was so wrong.

  A chill snaked down her spine.

  You’re the only one left.

  With the room closing in around her, Sabrina claimed her coat and went out to retrieve her rental car.

  As she wound her way through the hilly San Francisco streets to her motel, she battled her conscience.

  You shouldn’t have left.

  Why stay? You don’t know those people.

  You could have listened to the stories. Found out what John’s life had been like.

  You have your work. You need to get home.

  In her motel room, she worked her cell phone, searching for a flight. After putting herself on a standby list for one leaving in three hours, she finished packing and checked out of the motel.

  At the airport, she gave a silent thank you to the travel gods who had bestowed a seat upon her. On board, she found her row and shrugged out of her coat. As she did, something crinkled in the pocket. An envelope, folded in half, with her name printed in neat, block letters. Her childhood nickname. The one her brother used.

  How could this be? Fighting tears, hands trembling, she opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of folded, yellowed paper.

  JUNE 7, 2002

  Breenie~~

  We’re supposed to write these letters before a mission. Just in case we don’t come back. Here goes: If I ever made you feel bad when we were kids, I’m sorry. Before you came, Mom and Pop had fostered a bunch of other kids, and none of them stayed, so I didn’t think much of it when they brought you home. Besides, I was ten, and you were four. And you were the first girl. When they said they were going to adopt you, the way they had me, I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I didn’t want to play your girlie games, and none of my friends wanted a tagalong kid, especially one who constantly peppered us with questions. I’m guilty of following their lead, and I never meant to hurt your feelings.

  That’s it, Bree. Sarge is calling, and that means I’ll be jumping out an airplane soon.

  Oh. One more thing. If you ever get in a jam, go find Derek Cooper. He’ll take care of you.

  Your annoying big brother,

  John

  Sabrina replaced the paper in the envelope, then exchanged the note for a travel packet of tissues. Tissues she hadn’t needed at the funeral. But she’d be damned if she was going to break down now. She sniffed, daubed at the few tears she hadn’t been able to control, then tilted her seat and closed her eyes. Who was Derek Cooper? Had he been at the funeral? And who'd put the letter in her coat?

  Hungry, tired, and still confused about John’s note, Sabrina tapped her foot as the elevator made its way to the third floor. Eager to be in her own space, key at the ready, she hurried down the hall and unlocked her door.

  “Damn it, Merry,” she muttered under her breath. “How hard is it to leave the mail on the table?” Sabrina abandoned her luggage, draped her coat over it, and stooped to gather the envelopes scattered over the tiled entryway. “Get my mail, water my two lousy houseplants. That’s all I asked.”

  It wasn’t until she’d gone to hang her coat in the entryway closet that a sense of foreboding—that there was more wrong here than mishandled mail—twisted through her belly. Merry, her best friend and good neighbor, wouldn’t have left a mess. Sabrina tiptoed farther into the apartment, clutching her brass letter opener.

  What good will this do?

  She set it down, went for her purse and punched 911 into her cell phone, her finger poised over the Send button. Barely breathing, she listened for any signs of an intruder, but all she heard was the blood pounding in her ears.

  She crept along the short hallway toward the kitchen. Rounding the corner, she froze. Sabrina had left in a hurry when she’d heard about her brother, but her apartment had been clean. Her finger jammed the button.

  Phone to her ear, she relayed the information to the dispatcher as she snatched her key ring and hurried next door to Merry’s apartment. When Merry didn’t answer Sabrina’s knock, she let herself in.

  It’s not like there was someone in the apartment. It’s so you don’t destroy evidence.

  At least that’s what she kept telling herself as she paced Merry’s living room, waiting for the cops.

  Five days later

  Sabrina’s hands gripped the steering wheel as if it were the only thing keeping her from falling off a fifty-foot cliff. Heavy rain pelted the car, sounding like water in a pan of hot grease. The highway lines disappeared beneath the pounding rain. Red taillights in the distance were her beacon, her lifeline. Now, if whoever was driving that car would slow down a little, she’d feel more in control.

  Control. Ha! As if she’d felt in control even for a minute since her brother had died. If she’d felt in control, why would she have left Albuquerque and be driving through Colorado?

  Because a letter written over a decade ago said find Derek Cooper. And he was in Colorado.

  “It’s a common MO,” the cop had said when he’d come to take her report about the break-in at her apartment. “They
scour the obituary columns and funeral notices, then pounce while the family is at the funeral.”

  “But the obituary notice would have been in San Francisco papers,” Sabrina had said.

  “Did you read it?” the cop asked. “They’ll often mention surviving family members. Might have said where you lived.”

  Sabrina hadn’t bought it. Not completely. Unless these funeral vultures had a network. Which, the cop had said, wasn’t far-fetched. “These folks do their homework.”

  “But they didn’t take anything valuable,” she’d protested. “Not that I have a lot, but you’d think they’d have taken my jewelry. Easy enough to carry. From what I could tell, they just ransacked the place.”

  “Maybe they were interrupted,” the cop had said. “Or they wanted to make a mess, put a little scare into you.”

  Which they had. She’d found a message on her cell phone, one from the San Francisco police saying her brother’s apartment had been broken into as well. The Albuquerque cop had used that to prove his point.

  Sabrina still had her doubts. During the two days she’d been in San Francisco before John’s funeral, she’d gone through her brother’s things, keeping a photo album with family pictures of them as kids. That and his journals, something their foster parents had insisted they keep. For her, the habit had stuck, but from the looks of things, John had quit when he’d joined the Rangers and no longer had Mom nagging him to write something ... anything ... every night before bedtime.

  The rest of his possessions she’d arranged to have donated to charity, and when the people had come to pick them up, they’d found the furniture slit, everything tossed into heaps.

  “Somebody wanted something,” Sabrina had insisted to the cop.

  “Or was making a point,” the cop had responded.

  Since she had no inkling what her brother did in his security work, she had no leads to offer. In the end, the San Francisco cops said the same thing. Funeral vultures, mad because there was nothing of value, taking their frustrations out on the furniture and dishes.

  Then the emails had started. At first, she figured they were spam, or trolls, and the delete key took care of them. But as the vitriol level rose, so did her apprehension. The last straw, two days ago, came when Merry asked to borrow Sabrina’s car since hers was in the shop. Sabrina had turned over her keys and a few hours later, Merry had shown up at her door in tears.

  “I am so sorry, Sabrina. I parked at the mall, and when I came out—” Merry burst into another bout of sobs.

  “What happened?” Sabrina asked.

  “Someone—vandals—they slashed the tires, broke the windows, shredded the interior. I don’t know why. None of the other cars were touched.”

  Sabrina’s heart jumped to her throat. “It’s okay, Merry. I’m insured. Did you call the cops?”

  “First thing. They took a report, and towed your car to—I don’t know where.” She fished in her purse, handed Sabrina a card. “They said you could call them and get the necessary information.”

  Fear and resentment clamped like a vise in Sabrina's chest. Why had her car been singled out? It wasn't new, wasn't even an in-demand model. She had to go somewhere. Regroup. The cops had been no help when John's and her apartments were vandalized. Why would they help her now? She'd work something out with Renae until she figured out what was going on.

  “Can we trade cars?” Sabrina asked Merry. “I’ll give you the insurance money, and you can buy yourself a new one.”

  “But mine’s not worth anything near what yours is,” Merry had said. “It’s the family clunker. Dad figured I couldn’t mess it up more than it already was when he gave it to me.”

  “Not a problem for me. Call it an even trade. I'll work it out with the insurance company.”

  A flashing right blinker on Sabrina’s beacon car brought her to the present. The car slowed, then exited the highway. Damn. She peered into the distance, looking for another leader. Nothing. Most everyone was too smart to be on the road at one in the morning in the middle of a deluge. Headlights brightened her rearview. Sabrina slowed, hoping the driver would pass and she could follow.

  The driver moved left. Sabrina slowed further. A crunch. She spun. Her mind whirled.

  Don’t brake. Go with the skid.

  As if she had a choice. When her car stopped, the jerk who’d hit her was gone. She wondered if he’d even realized he’d clipped her fender.

  Once her heart rate slowed to something approaching normal, once she could draw a breath, she tried to assess the damage. With luck, a dinged fender. At worst, enough damage so she’d need a tow.

  It couldn’t have been deliberate, she rationalized. Nobody should know she’d swapped cars with Merry. Even if someone had, she doubted they could’ve read her plates in this rain. She hadn’t noticed anyone following her. And, if by some freak of fate, someone had tried to run her off the road, why not finish the job?

  Headlights approached from the other direction, half-blinding her in their glare.

  Oh, God, what if they’re coming to do just that?

  Chapter 2

  DEREK COOPER JERKED awake at the shrill ring of his landline. Immediately alert, he took in the time—almost two in the effing morning—and rushed to the kitchen to the old rotary wall phone. Reception beat any cordless or cell he’d ever had out here. No caller ID, but his number was unlisted, so anyone calling should have a damn good reason to do so. Especially at almost two in the effing morning. More so, since he’d gotten to bed less than two hours ago after dealing with a barn full of horses spooked by the storm.

  “Cooper,” he barked into the mouthpiece. “Make it good.”

  “Sorry to bother you. We got a stranded motorist out on the highway. You’re the closest Posse member.”

  His sister’s voice punched all the wrong buttons. “Why don’t you try Triple A? They get paid to tow idiots who go out in weather like this. And what about the State Patrol? Isn’t that in their domain?”

  “See, apparently there are enough other idiots out there who’ve managed to get themselves stuck, so all our normal responders are otherwise occupied, and they’re out the other direction. The car’s ten miles from your place. You know I wouldn’t bother you unless—”

  “Cut the crap. You and I both know you would bother me. It’s one of your favorite pastimes. That, and your penchant for finding strays—both animal and human. You still owe me for taking Lemuel in last week.”

  “That was personal. He needed to get his head straightened. And, thanks, by the way.”

  “Fine. And since I’m awake now, where is this dipshit driver?” Derek nuked leftover coffee and poured it into a travel mug as his sister, who happened to be a dispatcher for the Sheriff’s Department, gave him the location.

  “You have plates? Registration? Any hint as to who I’m going to be meeting? It could be a wanted felon.”

  “Negative. The person who reported the vehicle said it was a car, not a pickup or SUV. The caller was going the other direction, couldn’t see much because of the rain. Sorry there’s not more.”

  “Crap, Sis. For all anyone knows, the driver pulled over to make a damn phone call and is long gone by now.”

  “Doubtful. The caller reported the vehicle was half off the road, and facing the wrong direction. Appeared to be stuck.”

  “You’re going to owe me come calving season,” Derek said. “Big time.” Without waiting for a protest, he hung up.

  Who was the bigger fool, he wondered as he got dressed. The idiot who couldn’t wait out a storm—okay, so it had come in fast and furious—or him, for going out there, too? This wasn’t the first time he’d second-guessed his decision to take over the ranch after Mom’s stroke. Let his folks retire after all their years of hard, physical labor. Wouldn’t be the last.

  But a working cattle ranch meant there were always vehicles to repair, and he had the tools. And, as a member—no thanks to his sister’s nagging—of the Civilian Posse for the Sheriff’s Department, this wouldn’t be the first time he’d been called out to offer aid. Charlie, his little-bit-of-lots-of-everything dog, raised a sleepy head from his bed.

  “Go back to sleep, boy. No point in both of us going out tonight.”

  Huddled into his slicker, Derek slogged across the yard to the old barn for his battered Ford pickup, and did a quick check to make sure he had the gear he might need. Although at this point, he planned to convince whoever was in the car to accept a ride to the motel in town. Let whoever it was deal with the car tomorrow when the storm passed, and the towing companies were freed up. His sister hadn’t given him any details other than he was looking for a sedan on the northbound shoulder.