She sprang to her bare feet and started toward the ranch—backward, as Mason was doing.
“Why did he try to kill you?” he asked her without taking his attention off the fence.
Abbie didn’t jump to deny it, but she didn’t volunteer anything either. She was definitely hesitating, and Mason didn’t like that.
“Why?” he pressed.
“I’m in the Federal Witness Protection Program,” she finally said.
Of all the things Mason had expected to hear, that wasn’t on his list. But his list now included a whole barnyard of questions.
“Who’s the gunman?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Mason couldn’t help it. He cursed again. “And you thought it was okay to bring this kind of danger to the ranch without warning anyone? Someone other than you could have been killed tonight.”
He knew that sounded gruff. Insensitive even. But no one had ever accused him of putting sensitivity first. Still, he felt…something. Something he cursed, too. Because Mason hated the fear in Abbie’s voice. Hated even more the vulnerability he saw in her eyes.
Oh, man.
This was a damsel-in-distress reaction. He could face down a cold-blooded killer and not flinch. But a woman in pain was something he had a hard time stomaching. Especially this woman.
He blamed that on the flimsy gown. And cursed again.
“I need details,” he demanded. “Why are you in witness protection, and why would someone want you dead?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but before she could say anything, Mason heard Grayson call out to them. “Are you two okay?”
Mason was, but Abbie looked ready to keel over. “We’re not hurt,” he shouted to his brother. Because the gunman was probably long gone, Mason turned in Grayson’s direction so he could get to him faster. “The guy shot at Abbie.”
“Abbie?” Grayson questioned. Like the other half dozen or so ranch hands with him, he was armed.
“She’s the new cutting-horse trainer I hired,” Mason explained. “And she’s in witness protection.”
The news seemed to surprise Grayson as much as it had him.
“I don’t know who tried to kill me,” Abbie volunteered.
Her voice wasn’t just shaky, it was all breath and nerves. She let out a small yelp when she stumbled. Probably landed on a rock, because there were plenty enough to step on. That did it. Mason put his gun in the back waist of his jeans and scooped her up. He didn’t forget that it was the second time tonight he’d had her in his arms—and neither circumstance had been very good.
Too bad she felt good.
She smelled good, too, even though he could pick up traces of the smoke. Her scent, the feel of her, stirred things he had no intentions of feeling, so he told those feelings to back off. Way off. He wasn’t going there with Abbie.
Then he looked down at her. Saw the shiny tears in her eyes. Heard the slight hitch in her breath when she tried to choke back those tears.
“I’ve been in witness protection for twenty-one years,” she whispered.
Mason did the math. If he remembered correctly, Abbie was thirty-two. That meant she’d entered the program at age eleven. A kid.
“And nothing like this has ever happened to you?” Grayson asked, sounding a little too much like a hard-nosed cop for Mason’s liking.
That was a big red flag, because Mason remembered that it was a question he should have asked. No. He should have demanded. He forced himself to remember that he was a deputy sheriff and that Abbie had put them all in danger.
Still, he felt that twinge of something he rarely felt. Or rarely acknowledged anyway.
Sympathy.
He’d rather feel actual pain.
“Years ago, someone tried to kill me,” Abbie answered. And she paused for a long time. “Not long after my mom and I entered witness protection, someone fired shots at me.” Another pause. “They killed my mother.”
Oh, hell.
Nothing could have stopped that slam of sympathy. Nothing.
Mason and his brother exchanged glances, and Mason knew there’d be more questions. Had to be. Grayson would need to investigate the fire and shooting. One of them would also need to contact the U.S. Marshals who ran witness protection and let them know that Abbie’s identity had been compromised.
Still, twenty-one years was a long time to go without a compromise. And Mason considered something else. Why had it happened now, only three days after Abbie had arrived at the Ryland ranch?
A coincidence?
His gut was telling him no.
Mason kept that to himself and trudged the last leg of the distance to the ranch. He headed straight for his office, and this time he didn’t intend to let Abbie run away.
The first thing Mason did was place her on the sofa again, and despite all the sympathy he was feeling, he gave her a warning glance to stay put. Grayson followed him inside, no doubt ready to question Abbie, but Mason didn’t plan to start until he’d located a few things. First, he got Abbie a blanket and then he found her some socks.
“Who killed your mother?” Grayson started. “And why?”
Abbie put on the socks, mumbled a thanks and pulled the blanket around her.
Her sigh was long and weary. “My mother and I went into witness protection after she testified against her boss, Vernon Ferguson, a corrupt San Antonio cop.” Her voice was as shaky as the rest of her. “Ferguson got off on a technicality, and shortly afterward he sent a hired gun named Hank Tinsley after us. Tinsley turned up dead a few days later.”
Mason figured there were plenty of details to go along with that sterile explanation. The stuff of nightmares. Something he knew a little about because his grandfather Chet had been shot and left to die. Mason had been seventeen, and even though nearly twenty-one years had passed, the wound still felt fresh and raw.
Always would.
Not just for him but for all his brothers.
That wound had deepened to something incapable of being healed when his father had left just weeks later. And then his mother had committed suicide.
Oh, yeah. He could sympathize with Abbie.
But sympathy wasn’t going to keep her safe.
“You think this Vernon Ferguson came after you tonight?” Mason asked. He stood over her, side by side with Grayson.
Abbie shook her head. “Maybe.”
