scent of lilacs from her hair distracted him and it took a moment for him to read the name. “He works for an oil company. Your brother wouldn’t allow his equipment access through Carlisle property.”
“That hardly seems like an incitement to vandalism. Or kidnapping.”
Though Burke agreed, he knew better than to overlook any motive, no matter how slight. Some people could work themselves into a homicidal frenzy over a stubbed toe.
She read another name. “Nate Miller. That’s no surprise. He’s hated us forever, blames us for his father’s failure on the Circle M.”
“There are a couple of other ranchers on the list who don’t like the competition from Carlisle Ranch.”
“It’s business,” she said. “Why make it personal?”
“Your success hurts their bottom line. People tend to take bankruptcy personally.”
“But we’re always fair. Always.” She tapped the name with her finger. “Dutch Crenshaw runs the meatpacking plant in Delta. We’ve given him millions of dollars in business over the years.”
Burke considered Crenshaw’s motive to be one of the best. “But you’re thinking about building your own slaughterhouse.”
“I gave him a chance,” she said. “I told him that we wanted to use state-of-the-art humane technology, but he refused to modify his plant.”
“So you’re going to put him out of business.”
She frowned. “Okay, maybe you’ve got a point.”
His focus on the list was interrupted by a loud crash, followed by the sound of gunfire. The shots came from the front of the house.
Chapter Five
Burke’s risk assessment had been dead wrong. They were under attack. He caught hold of Carolyn’s upper arm and turned her toward him. “Go upstairs. Don’t turn on any lights and—”
“The hell I will.” She wrenched free. “Those were gunshots. Somebody’s firing at my house—the house that’s been in my family for three generations, the house my grandpa built. Don’t ask me to hide behind the lace curtains in my bedroom.”
Stubborn woman. “I go first. Stay behind me.”
“Of course. I’m not going to put myself or anyone else in danger.”
He grabbed his handgun from the shoulder holster slung across the back of a chair, aware of seconds ticking away. Whoever fired that shot would be making his escape. Moving quickly through the house, Burke turned off lights as he went. Carolyn followed in his footsteps.
Her brother staggered into the moonlit hallway, rubbing his eyes. “Carolyn? What’s going on?”
“Stay with him,” Burke ordered as he flipped the latch on the front door. “I’ll be right back.”
Leaving Carolyn behind—thank God—he slipped outside onto the veranda. Aware that he might be the next target for a man with a rifle and a nightscope, Burke stayed low. He dodged around the rocking chair and porch swing. At the end of the veranda, he jumped over the railing and ducked into the shadows.
Wind rustled the bare branches of a cottonwood. Nothing else appeared to be moving.
“Over here, Burke.”
Burke followed the sound of the voice and saw a security guard crouched behind a truck that was parked on the wide gravel space beyond a hitching rail. Burke hustled toward him. “Where’s the shooter?”
“Didn’t see him. I was behind the house when I heard the shots.”
His heavy jaw was thrust forward. His name, Burke remembered, was Neville. He’d been in the Secret Service for five years before joining Longbridge Security. “What about a vehicle?”
Neville shook his head. “I didn’t hear a car.”
Cautiously, they peered around the truck. The driveway leading to the house was a long gravel lane. The yard was about an acre of winter-brown grass, separated from the road by a whitewashed fence. On the other side of the road, the land turned rugged with lots of trees and rocks—plenty of hiding places for a sniper.
“He could be dug in behind those rocks,” Burke said.
He nodded. “A decent rifle would be accurate from four, maybe even five hundred yards away.”
After that first burst of gunfire, no other shots had been fired. Likely, the shooter had already hightailed it out of there. “Do you think he’s gone?”
“I don’t want to test that theory by taking a bullet,” Neville said.
“Let’s find him,” Burke said. “You go right. I’ll go left. We’ll meet at the fence by the road.”
As Burke moved across the yard, he scanned the cold, moonlit landscape. There was virtually no cover. Burke longed for the city streets, crowded with parked cars and doorways to duck into. This sniper was probably an expert hunter. Not like the city punks who held their guns sideways, more concerned with looking cool than taking careful aim.
When he reached the fence and no other shots had been fired, he was fairly sure that their sniper was gone. He heard the door to the house open. A mob spilled onto the veranda. Carolyn and her brother were both carrying rifles. The other three FBI agents accompanied them.
Lucas and two other cowboys—also armed—charged toward the veranda from the two-story bunkhouse.
“There are way too many guns on this ranch,” Burke said. This was the land of the Second Amendment where the right to bear arms would not be infringed upon. He turned and looked across the road. From where he stood, he spotted four good positions for a sniper to hide, if he’d even bothered to take cover. With Neville behind the house and no one else keeping watch, the sniper could have stopped in the road, dropped to one knee, taken aim and fired. But why? What did he hope to gain by rousing the household?
“Sorry I missed him,” Neville said.
“Not your fault. One man can’t patrol an area this size.”
As he and Neville walked up the drive toward the house, Burke shivered in the December cold. He wasn’t wearing a jacket or hat, and hadn’t bothered to put on gloves. Responding to the threat had been his sole focus.
The gunfire bothered him because it didn’t make sense. As a rule, kidnappers kept close tabs on their hostages.
But two men had abducted Nicole. One could be with her while the other came here. Why? By now the kidnappers had to know that the FBI had been called in. Why take the risk of coming close?
He stopped behind the black rental van he and his men had driven from the Delta airfield. The back window was shot out, and there was a neat bullet hole in the rear license plate. None of the other vehicles showed signs of damage. The FBI van had been the target.
Carolyn stepped up beside him. Her rifle rested on
