Cowboy's Texas Rescue. Beth Cornelison

      Was this his first sign she was losing touch with reality, disoriented, hallucinating? Not good.

      She gave a small laugh. “Y-yeah. I take people’s b-blood.”

      “To drink?” He’d heard of weirder things.

      A scoff. “No! For s-surgeries and s-stuff. I’m a phlebotomist at the b-blood center.”

      A grin of relief tugged Jake’s lips. “Gotcha. For a minute there, I thought you were losing it.”

      She chuckled weakly, then sighed. “Y-you smell good.”

      “Uh…thanks.” He thought he smelled like airports and twenty hours on a stuffy plane, but…whatever. Keep her talking.

      He asked her basic, easy questions, general get-to-know-you fare. Was she dating anyone?

      Where did she go to college? What were her hobbies?

      No. Local community college. Reading and quilting. Barrel racing.

      Barrel racing? Jake quirked an eyebrow. Interesting.

      Did she like sports?

      Football and some baseball. Rodeo.

      Between the blowing, blinding snow and the extra weight on his back, Jake made slow progress down the highway. He tried to keep his mind on the mundane conversation and not on the bitter temperatures and frigid wind. He’d endured worse conditions in the line of duty, so he could handle a snowstorm with no shirt or coat. No matter how cold he was, Chelsea had to be colder. He admired the fact that she wasn’t complaining, that she kept a sense of humor even though she had to be miserable. Having her body pressed against his back provided him a little added warmth, and he hoped his body heat was helping her against the freezing temperatures.

      He cast a narrowed glance around him to figure out how far they’d come. Visibility had quickly diminished once the storm descended.

      “How long have you worked at the blood center?”

      “Three years. No, almost f-four.” She sounded drowsy, her speech beginning to slur.

      “Chelsea, stay with me. Talk to me. How much farther is it to the Nobles’? Am I going the right way?”

      Her finger wiggled. “Down that d-driveway.”

      Jake squinted through the blowing snow and spotted two reflectors poking through the snow, marking the end of a driveway. Target sighted. Jake ducked his head against the wind and picked up his pace.

      As he plowed through the storm, he thought briefly of his father, lying in the hospital in Amarillo, fighting for his life. Jake’s heart sank. Given the weather, Chelsea’s condition and his stolen truck, he doubted he’d make it in time to tell his father goodbye. As much as he hated missing his last chance to see his father, his job with the black ops team had taught him plenty about sacrificing for the greater good, about priorities. And his first priority now was saving Chelsea, getting her to safe shelter and warming her up.

      His second priority was finding Brady. He wasn’t sure when the escaped convict had landed on his radar, but sometime between stopping to help a stranded motorist and finding a woman locked in a car trunk, he’d made Brady his business, his priority. According to the radio, Edward Brady had already killed two policemen. The guy was dangerous, desperate.

      But Jake had made a vow years ago when evil men like Brady had taken his mother’s life. He would not turn his back and let evil win again. Jake was determined to put an end to the convict’s reign of terror, no matter what it took. Because stopping dangerous men was what he did, and Brady had made it personal when he crossed Jake.

      “Wait here.” Jake set Chelsea down behind an old truck parked in the neighbor’s front yard. “I’m going to scout things out, make sure Brady isn’t inside ready to ambush us. If there’s trouble, stay hidden. Got it?”

      Chelsea gave a jerky nod and slid to the snowy ground, huddled in a shivering ball. She needed heat—and fast—but Jake wasn’t about to go charging into a situation blind. Not while there was an escaped convict in the area. He might not see his stolen truck or any tracks in the snow on the property, but that didn’t mean Brady wasn’t around.

      Crouching low, Jake hurried across the lawn to the front window, where he peered inside. Despite the increasing gloom and encroaching evening darkness, no lights were on in the house, making it harder to see the home’s interior. The possibility existed that the homeowner was not there, though the truck parked out front suggested otherwise.

      Moving to the next window, Jake peeked inside again, still finding nothing to suggest Henry Noble was home. When he rounded the corner to the back of the house, he discovered a dog pen with a small doghouse in a back corner of the yard. He didn’t see a dog in the pen, but there were paw prints in the snow inside the caged area. Because there were no footprints leading to the dog pen, Jake decided the dog must be huddled inside his doghouse. Another indicator no one was home at the Noble residence. Why would anyone with good sense leave their pet out in such horrible weather?

      An uneasy feeling stirred in Jake’s gut. Where was Henry Noble? Had the bad weather stranded him in town? The roads and visibility were bad, but not impassable at this point.

      He continued around the outside of the home, checking through windows, scanning the yard for clues of occupancy. As he crept through the backyard, the dog, a medium-sized black-and-white heeler or Australian cattle dog, saw him and charged out of his doghouse barking and pacing inside his pen. Jake waited and watched from behind a woodpile to see if the dog’s barking brought anyone to the back door, if even to look out at the yard for the source of the dog’s agitation.

      Nothing. No one.

      Not even from the horse stable, one hundred or so yards behind the house. The wind had blown the main door to the stable open, and it banged noisily on the stable wall with each gust of frigid wind. If Henry Noble owned horses, the stable should have been shuttered and secured to protect the animals from the storm. Most ranchers were far more concerned with their animals’ welfare. That Henry Noble seemed not to be didn’t sit well with Jake.

      Frowning his puzzlement, Jake completed a full circuit of the house, then approached the front door cautiously and knocked. Pressing an ear to the door, he listening for sounds of someone moving around inside but heard nothing except the dog out back and the howl of the wind in the eaves. Turning the knob, he tested the door and found it unlocked. His pulse kicked uneasily. Where the hell was Noble and why hadn’t he locked his home when he left?

      “Hello?” he called into the dark house as he crept into the foyer, wishing he had his gun for self-defense. He made a quick sweep of each room, knowing he needed to get Chelsea inside…like an hour ago.

      Empty. No Noble, but more important, no Brady.

      He hurried back outside to the old truck where Chelsea huddled, shaking with near-convulsive tremors.

      “Okay, sweetheart, let’s get you inside.” He scooped her in his arms, and she looped a limp arm around his neck. He carried her across the yard and into the house, where he laid her on the living room couch.

      She turned her head slowly, teeth chattering, and frowned as she studied the dark room. “Wh-where’s M-Mr. Noble?”

      “That,” Jake said, taking a throw from a nearby recliner and wrapping it around her, “is a good question. Short answer—not here. Any ideas where he could be?”

      Chelsea furrowed her brow and clutched the decorative blanket around her. “N-no.” She sank back in the cushions of the sofa and closed her eyes. “H-he’s retired. M-Mom said that s-since his wife died last s-summer, he never g-goes anywhere. H-he’s like a hermit.”

      “He lives alone?” Jake found another blanket, one of the recent marketing gimmicks, that had sleeves, piled in the seat of the recliner and pulled it around his shoulders like a robe. Moving to the sofa, he pulled Chelsea onto his lap and included her in the circle of the sleeved