Legally Binding. Ann Voss Peterson

his lawyer. Amazing.

      With the possible exception of Paul Lambert and Don Church, he’d grown up with a healthy belief that lawyers were bloodsuckers at best, sharks at worst. But Lindsey Wellington had destroyed every preconceived notion in his head the moment he laid eyes on her.

      It was a damn shame he hadn’t met her last week, last month. Before he had a murder charge hanging over his head. Maybe he wouldn’t have been at Hit ’Em Again last night. Maybe he would have been too busy trying to win her to be hanging out at the local watering hole. It was a twist of fate too cruel to be believed that he’d finally found a woman who set a spur in his side when he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

      Doc Swenson pulled the filled vial from the needle in his arm, capped it and attached an empty one in its place. More blood flowed.

      “Are you planning to drain me dry, Doc?”

      The crusty old coot peered at him over little reading glasses. “Word has it you’re the one draining people dry, Bart. The whole town is talking about what you did to your uncle Jeb.”

      He should have known. He’d been arrested just this morning, but waiting for a bail hearing had taken much of the day. He shouldn’t be surprised that the news of his arrest for murdering Jeb had already swept through town. Gossip traveled fast in Mustang Valley. Especially gossip over something as juicy as family feuds and murder. Of course Doc would have learned about Jeb’s murder even without the gossip. Jeb’s body was probably waiting in the autopsy room this very minute for Mustang Valley’s only doctor and coroner to poke and prod. “I didn’t kill Jeb, Doc.”

      Doc waved a hand, as if he hadn’t believed it from the beginning. But the sharpness in his old blue eyes suggested different. He nodded at Bart’s arm. “What do you want this blood for, anyway?”

      “We want to have it tested for any kind of drug that might have altered Bart’s consciousness. We also need a urinalysis done for Rohypnol or any similar tranquilizer,” Lindsey explained.

      Doc capped the second vial, pulled out the needle and snapped off the rubber tourniquet wrapping Bart’s biceps. Rummaging through stacks of supplies on the adjacent counter, he grabbed a plastic specimen cup. He held it out to Bart. “Fill this.”

      Bart looked down at the cup and shifted his boots on the floor. Discussing bodily functions had never bothered him before. He was a cowboy born and bred, used to dealing with anything cattle or horses could come up with. But somehow with Lindsey looking on, his bodily functions took on an entirely different meaning. And focus. He forced himself to take the cup from Doc’s hand.

      “So you think he got drugged up the night of Jeb’s murder?” Doc smiled stiffly at Lindsey, the old buzzard’s best shot at charm.

      Lindsey ignored the doc’s question. “When can you have the results?”

      Doc’s smile faded. “We don’t have a lab here. Got to send the sample out.”

      Lindsey nodded and fished a card from her briefcase. She scrawled something on the back and handed it to the doc. “Here’s the lab I’d like it sent to. And on the back, I’ve written my home address. Have them send the results there and to my office. I want to make sure I see them as soon as they come in.”

      Doc took the card. “Could take a few days, could take a few months, depending on how busy the lab is. Then there’s always the chance the drug won’t show up at all.”

      “What do you mean? If it’s in his system, it should show up, right?”

      Doc scowled down at Bart. “Boy, what time did you take those drugs last night?”

      “I didn’t take drugs, Doc.”

      “Well, what the hell is this good-looking lady asking me about then?”

      “Someone might have put something in my beer last night when I wasn’t paying attention. A drug to make me black out.”

      “More likely you just got a little too friendly with a whiskey bottle.”

      Bart expelled a frustrated breath.

      “What were you saying about the drugs not showing up in Bart’s system?” Lindsey asked.

      The old man turned his attention back to Lindsey. “If too much time has passed since Bart took those drugs, they won’t show up on the screens.”

      Lindsey worried her bottom lip between straight white teeth. “I thought it took twenty-four hours for the drug to clear.”

      “That’s right. But Bart’s a big boy, so it might take a lot less.”

      A weight descended on Bart’s chest. The clock on the wall of Doc’s little examination room read six o’clock. Twenty-one hours had already passed since his last memory of the saloon. If Doc was right about his size making the time shorter, they were cutting it close. Damn close.

      He glanced at Lindsey and closed his fingers tighter around the plastic cup. “I’ll be right back.”

      She nodded. Judging from the worry creases digging into that pretty forehead, she’d noticed the time as well. If the substance was no longer in his system, he couldn’t prove he was drugged. And if he couldn’t prove his amnesia was real, he wouldn’t have much of a defense, no matter how pretty and smart his lawyer was.

      BART HELD THE DOOR of the Hit ’Em Again Saloon for Lindsey and followed her inside. The place was nearly empty except for a couple of regulars at the pool table, the cowboys and working men who filled the place nightly still hard at work this early in the evening. On the jukebox, Dale Watson belted out a real country song, the music echoing off the empty postage-stamp dance floor.

      They crossed to the oak bar and bellied up. The smell of stale cigarette smoke warred with the bleach-like smell of bar sanitizer, but it was the soft scent of roses that held Bart’s attention. He leaned closer to Lindsey and took a deep breath.

      “You don’t usually drink beer this early, Bart. Need a little hair of the dog that bit you?” Wade Lansing pushed through the swinging door leading back to the kitchen and took his usual spot behind the bar. Despite his flip statement, Bart could see the worry lining his friend’s face. Worry focused on him.

      Bart glanced at Lindsey. “Lindsey, this is Wade Lansing, the owner of this fine establishment.”

      “You mean beer joint,” Wade said.

      “Beer joint with the best food west of the Mississippi,” Bart threw in.

      Wade grinned. “Nice to see you again, Lindsey.” Wade cleared a couple of highball glasses from the bar, the gold band on his finger shining in the bar’s dim light.

      “I thought you and Kelly were supposed to be on your honeymoon by now,” Bart said.

      “I’m training a kid to take over this place while I’m gone. Don’t want to come back to find the till empty and the building burned to the ground.”

      Lindsey nodded. “Kelly said the two of you are planning to go to Hawaii. Sounds wonderful.”

      “We could go anywhere as far as I’m concerned. As long as Kelly is with me, I’m happy. I’m glad to hear you’re representing Bart here, Lindsey. It’ll keep me from worrying.” He zeroed in on Bart. The grin turning his lips faded. “The whole town is talking about you.”

      “I didn’t kill Jeb, Wade.”

      “I know that. But Hurley Zeller doesn’t share my opinion. He was in here as soon as I opened, asking questions.”

      “Damn.” Bart grimaced. Hurley sure had a leg up on them. Bart still didn’t have a clue what had happened. He hoped Wade could give them some answers.

      Lindsey set her briefcase on the bar, opened it and pulled out a pad of paper and pen. “We’d appreciate anything you can tell us about last night, Wade.”

      “Like what you told Hurley,” Bart