Legally Binding. Ann Voss Peterson

down on Main Street called Hit ’Em Again. I shot some pool, downed a few beers and found myself at home with a hangover to wake the dead.”

      “What time did you leave the bar?”

      “That’s the problem. I don’t remember.”

      “You don’t remember the time?”

      He grimaced. “I don’t remember leaving.”

      She tried to keep her surprise from showing on her face. Bart Rawlins didn’t strike her as a heavy drinker. In the high-pressure world of law in which her family lived, heavy drinkers abounded. But all the heavy drinkers she’d known in her twenty-six years had an air of despair about them that was lacking in Bart. “How many beers did you drink?”

      “Three. Four, tops.”

      She looked him up and down, trying to ignore the tightening sensation low in her stomach at the sight of his long, lean legs and broad muscled shoulders. With his size, three or four beers shouldn’t lead to a blackout. But then, people often underestimated their alcohol consumption. “Are you sure you didn’t have more?”

      “To tell the truth, the whole night is kind of fuzzy. But I usually only drink three or four. Maybe I did have more.”

      “How did you get home?”

      He shook his head, obviously at a loss for an answer.

      “You didn’t drive, did you?”

      “I didn’t have my truck. I hitched a ride to the tavern with my ranch foreman. Maybe I left with him. I don’t remember.”

      “I’ll talk to him. And a talk with the bartender might shed some light on exactly how much you drank.” Lindsey jotted notes on her legal pad. “Of course there’s always the possibility that you were drugged.”

      His eyebrows shot up. “Drugged?”

      “Rohypnol or something similar. The date-rape drug.”

      “Date-rape drug?”

      “It’s an illegal tranquilizer that causes blackouts.”

      “I’ve heard of it in the news. But who would give me something like that?”

      “Someone who wanted to make sure you took the fall for your uncle’s murder.”

      He nodded, a frown claiming his brow. “Then what about the blood? Where did that come from?”

      She clamped her bottom lip between her teeth. “What blood?”

      “When I woke up, I had blood all over my hands and clothes. At first I thought I must have gotten in a brawl. But I don’t have any scrapes or bruises.”

      “Did the deputies take samples of the blood?”

      “Sure did. A load of pictures, too.”

      The start of a headache pulsed behind her eyes. If the prosecution tied the blood on Bart’s hands and clothes to his uncle by DNA tests, Bart was as good as convicted. Only O.J. had beaten evidence like that. And he hadn’t been tried in Texas.

      “There’s another thing.”

      She almost flinched. “What?”

      “My knife. A Buck Model One-Ten. It’s missing. And from the look on Hurley Zeller’s face when he arrested me, he knows where it is.”

      “At the murder scene.”

      “That’s my guess.” His voice was heavy, as if his charm and good humor had finally given way under the weight of the evidence against him. Or maybe he’d just read her face.

      She forced a confident smile. “We’ll find the answers. Don’t worry.”

      He nodded, but judging from the pallor under his tan, he wasn’t buying her strained optimism.

      “The first thing we have to do is get you out of here. Do you have money or property to put up for bail? It’ll be pretty high.”

      He waved a hand. “I can come up with the money.”

      She nodded, grateful for a development that was positive, even if it was merely a matter of available cash. “I’ll push for a bail hearing. Then we need to get you to a doctor as soon as possible to test for drugs. If we can prove you were drugged, at least we’ll have something to fight with.”

      “I didn’t kill him, Ms. Wellington.”

      The naked honesty aching in his voice brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them back. “You don’t have to tell me that, Bart.”

      “I want to. No matter what differences I or my father had with my uncle, I didn’t kill him. I wouldn’t kill anyone.”

      “Your father?”

      Bart’s eyes narrowed. “My daddy is sick. Even if he wasn’t, he’d never kill his own brother any more than I would kill my uncle.”

      “Of course.” Lindsey nodded. “We just have to prove it. And we will.”

      “Am I looking at the death penalty?”

      “No. They’ll charge you with first-degree murder. Only capital murder carries the death penalty in Texas, and for this case to be classified as capital murder, there would have to be other factors involved.”

      “Other factors?”

      “Like the victim was a police officer. Or the murder was intentionally committed in the course of another felony. Or more than one person was killed as part of the same scheme or course of conduct. The most severe sentence you can get for a first-degree murder charge is life in prison.”

      “That sounds the same as death to me.” Elbows on the table, he tented his fingers in front of his mouth and blew a stream of air through them. “Give it to me straight. My chances don’t look good, do they?”

      If she had more experience, maybe she would have been ready for the question. She’d have a prepared spiel that was both comforting and realistic. As it was, she didn’t have a clue what to say.

      “That bad, huh?”

      “No. Not that bad. We’ll get to the truth, Bart. I promise.”

      He dropped his arms to his sides and looked deeply into her eyes. “Thank you, Ms. Wellington.”

      “You can call me Lindsey.”

      “Thank you, Lindsey.”

      A shiver crept up her spine at the sound of his Texas drawl caressing her name. But this time the shiver wasn’t only the result of physical attraction, it was one of fear. Because this time, losing didn’t mean embarrassing herself in moot court or lowering her grade point average.

      This time losing could cost a man his freedom.

      Chapter Two

      Bart grimaced as the needle sank into the tender spot at the inside of his elbow. Once the needle was in place, Doc Swenson attached the vacuum tube, filling the vial with deep red blood. His blood. Blood that, if he was lucky, might still be spiked with Rohypnol or some other drug. “Damn.”

      Lindsey Wellington leaned her sweet body close. The scent of roses tickled his nose. Her shiny chestnut hair draped over one shoulder and brushed his arm despite the clips securing it back from her face. “Does it hurt?”

      “What, the possibility of being a victim of the date-rape drug? Damn straight it hurts. It hurts my sense of manhood.”

      A smile teased the corners of her soft-looking lips. “I doubt your sense of manhood is that fragile.”

      “Maybe not when you’re around. You’re ladylike enough to make even a gelding feel like a stud.”

      That pretty pink color stained her cheeks again. God, she was a beautiful woman, delicate as a China doll with her