Cowboy Fever. Joanna Wayne

accident,” Dakota said.

      He lifted a bottle of water to his mouth. His chest protested the movement with such vengeance that he grimaced.

      Naturally, Jim noticed.

      “You need to be x-rayed.”

      “I needed to stay on that bull eight seconds.”

      “You don’t always have to play the tough guy, Dakota.”

      “Who’s playing? But if it makes you happy, I’ll stop by the emergency room, old man, and get checked out.”

      “Watch who you’re calling ‘old man’ or I’ll toss you over my shoulder and haul your sorry ass to the hospital.”

      “How about you just collect my bull rope and glove for me?”

      “Can do, and then I’m driving you to the hospital.”

      “Just what I need, a chauffeur in rodeo-clown makeup.”

      What Dakota wanted was a couple of painkillers, a six-pack and a soft bed, but he knew that Jim was right. He should get the injury checked out. If it was something serious, the faster he got it tended to, the better off he’d be.

      The nearest hospital was only a ten-minute drive. He’d passed it on his way to the arena tonight. He could easily drive himself. He started unbuttoning his shirt. He had a clean one in his truck and he didn’t want the hospital deciding they had to rip this one off of him.

      He almost doubled over from a stab of pain as he shrugged out of the shirt. His chest felt like someone had just whacked it with a two-by-four.

      “Get in,” Jim said.

      This time Dakota didn’t argue.

       Chapter Three

      “We still need to talk, Dr. Mancini.”

      Drats. The detective was still here. She adjusted the strap on her handbag. The nagging headache that had begun at her first sight of the dying gunshot victim intensified sharply.

      “Do we have to talk tonight? I was just leaving.”

      He nodded. “It’s important.”

      What wasn’t? “There’s a small conference room at the end of the hall,” she said. “But can we make this short? It’s been crazy around here tonight, and I’m exhausted.”

      A tinge of guilt settled in her chest. She had no right to complain about exhaustion when, unlike two of the night’s patients, she was alive.

      Detective Cortez followed her to the conference room, which was little more than a large supply cabinet with chairs and a small round table instead of shelves. She perched on the edge of one of the chairs.

      Cortez scratched the back of his head and dandruff snowed onto the collar of his dark cotton sport shirt. “We have some complications.”

      “Don’t tell me they’ve postponed the Bateman trial?”

      “No, but Judge Carter was relieved of the case.”

      “Why?”

      “His wife’s been diagnosed with cancer and he’s taking an emergency leave from the bench.”

      “Won’t they just appoint a new judge?”

      “They have,” Cortez said. “It’s Judge Nelson.”

      “Mary Lester Nelson?”

      “That’s the one,” Cortez said.

      “You don’t sound too happy about the change.”

      “Judge Nelson has a reputation for being soft on rotten sons of bitches like Hank Bateman. Pardon my French.”

      “Surely she won’t let a child killer off with a slap on the wrist.”

      “No, she’ll throw in a little community service.” Sarcasm punctuated his voice. “She already decided his rights were being denied and set bail this afternoon. I’m sure Bateman is out walking the streets by now.”

      “Doesn’t she know what happened three months ago when Judge Carter decided that the prosecution was requesting unreasonable extensions and he decided bail was in order?”

      “I’m sure the prosecution made certain she knew Bateman made a run for the border.”

      “Not just made a run for it, he was crossing it when Border Patrol made the arrest and sent him back to jail,” she said. “And still Judge Nelson released a child killer on bail. The more I learn about the justice system, the more unjust I think it is.”

      “At this point, Bateman is just an alleged child killer. His attorney is insisting he’s innocent.”

      “But we know he isn’t. He admitted that he’d been with his girlfriend’s baby all evening the night the infant died.”

      “Yeah. Nice guy. Babysitting for the woman who’s out turning tricks to buy him crack cocaine.”

      “I don’t give a—” She threw up her hands. “This isn’t about the mother. It’s about getting justice for a helpless infant. And our evidence is indisputable.”

      “Until a defense attorney starts whittling away at it.”

      “There is nothing to whittle.” Her irritation was building so fast, she couldn’t contain it. “There was excessive retinal hemorrhaging, and bruising on the baby’s arms and stomach that was not consistent with a fall. That infant died from NAT.”

      “Calm down,” Cortez said. “You don’t have to convince me the cause of death was nonaccidental trauma delivered by a heartless bastard. I don’t doubt the autopsy findings. But jurors aren’t always swayed by printed reports. They react to emotion. That’s why I’m counting on your testimony.”

      “And nothing will stop me from appearing at that trial.”

      “Good.”

      “So what is this visit really about?”

      “Now that Bateman’s out of jail there’s a good chance he’ll try to contact you himself.”

      “To try to frighten me into refusing to testify?”

      Cortez nodded.

      “It won’t work, Detective, no more than his threatening notes have or last month’s visit from his thug friend who showed up in the E.R. pretending to be ill.”

      “The trial is only nine days away. Bateman will be getting desperate. He may up the ante.”

      The tone of the detective’s voice alarmed her. “Surely you don’t think I’m in any kind of danger.”

      “I just think you should be careful. If you so much as see him hanging around or get a phone call from him, I want to know about it. There’s a chance I could take that information to the judge and get the bail decision reversed. Having Bateman behind bars is our only assurance that he won’t skip the country and hide out in some remote area of Mexico.”

      So it wasn’t her that the detective was worried about. But she was as interested in seeing Hank Bateman behind bars as he was—permanently locked away, where he could never harm another helpless infant.

      But she had other concerns, as well. “I have a seven-month-old daughter. I can’t have her in danger.”

      “She won’t be. Neither will you. I’ll see to that.” Cortez pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and dropped it onto the table in front of her. “Keep this with you. Call me on my cell if Bateman tries to make any type of contact with you.”

      She picked up the card and quickly committed the number to memory. Fortunately, that came easy for her. It was what got her through med school when she was too crushed by her mother’s death to cram for finals.