The Protectors. Beverly Barton

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      The Protectors

      Defending His Own

      Beverly Barton

      Guarding Jeannie

      Beverly Barton

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      MILLS & BOON

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Defending His Own

      About the Author

      A born romantic, BEVERLY BARTON fell in love with The Beauty and the Beast epic at an early age, when her grandfather bought her an illustrated copy of the famous fairy tale. Even before she learned to read and write, Beverly’s vivid imagination created magical words and fabulous characters inside her mind.

      After her marriage to the “love of her life” and the births of her two children, Beverly continued to be a voracious reader and a devoted moviegoer, but she put her writing aspirations on hold until her children were teenagers. In her mid-thirties she returned to her former passion – writing – as a hobby, but, before forty, she decided that she wanted to make writing a full-time career.

      Beverly believes she has had it all, just not all at the same time. She devoted herself to her husband and children and considers herself one of the many selfless “supermums” who put their family’s needs first. At every age of their lives, from infancy to adulthood, Beverly’s children have been a true joy to her.

      Having a fantastic family and fabulous friends, as well as making a living doing the one thing she has loved doing since childhood, Beverly considers herself truly blessed.

      To several very special ladies whose friendships have

      meant so much to me over the past few years.

      Thank y’all for your support and encouragement:

      Jean Tune, JoAnn Courtney, Helen Everett

      and Marsha Hunt.

      Prologue

      She must have taken the wrong turn off Cotton Lane. There was nothing out here but a bunch of cotton fields and an endless stretch of dirt road, apparently leading nowhere except in and out of the fields.

      Deborah Vaughn slowed her dark blue Cadillac to a stop, shifted the gears into Park and picked up the piece of paper on which she’d written the directions. Despite the protection of her sunglasses, Deborah squinted against the sun’s blinding glare. Holding up her hand to shield her eyes, she glanced down at the map and instructions she’d brought along to help her find the new development property her real estate firm had just purchased. Damn! She had turned off too soon.

      Glancing around, she didn’t see anywhere to make a turn, and she certainly had no intention of backing her car all the way to Cotton Lane. She’d just have to go a little farther and find some place to turn around.

      Shifting the gears into Drive, she drove on. Within a few minutes she spotted what appeared to be the burned-out remains of an old shack. A wide, weed-infested path, marred with deep ruts, ran straight from the dirt road to where a shiny black Ford pickup had parked in knee-high grass behind the still-standing brick chimney.

      Loud, pulse-pounding country music blared from the truck’s radio.

      Deborah assumed the truck belonged to the farmer who had planted the acres of cotton. She drove her Cadillac onto the path, intending to back up and head out the way she had come. The sun’s glare blocked her vision, allowing her only partial vision of the open truck door. A man jumped out of the driver’s side, and yelled a warning. She glanced toward the back of the truck where two men stood, one holding a gun to the other’s head.

      Sunshine reflected off the metal on the gun in the killer’s hand. The gun fired. The wail of a steel guitar blasted from inside the truck. Deborah screamed. Blood splattered from the dead man’s head. The killer turned abruptly and stared at the Cadillac, at the woman inside, then released his hold on the body. His victim slumped to the ground.

      Deborah recognized the killer from his picture in the paper. She couldn’t remember his name, but she knew he was somehow connected to that outlaw gang headed by Buck Stansell.

      The man who’d leaped out of the truck pointed toward Deborah’s car.

      Dear God, she had to get away! Shifting the car into reverse, she backed out of the bumpy path and then headed the Cadillac toward Cotton Lane. She heard the truck’s engine roar to life. Glancing back she saw the killer aim his gun out the window.

      The Caddy sped down the dirt road, the black truck in hot pursuit. While the driver veered the truck off the side of the dirt road, partially into the open field, the killer aimed his gun toward Deborah. The truck closed in on the car, the truck’s hood parallel to the Cadillac’s left rear bumper. The killer fired; the bullet shattered the outside mirror. Deborah cried out, but didn’t slow her escape, didn’t take her eyes off the road ahead of her.

      A cloud of dust flew up behind the Cadillac, providing a thin veil of protection between her and the men determined to overtake her. The truck picked up speed just as Deborah saw Cotton Lane ahead of her. Another bullet ripped through the driver’s door.

      They intended to kill her. She had no doubt in her mind. She’d seen the killer’s face, the man who had murdered another in cold blood. She could identify him. And he knew it.

      The minute she turned the Caddy onto Cotton Lane, she sped away from the truck. She had to escape. Had to find help. But who? Where? The police!

      She didn’t dare slow down enough to use her cellular phone. She had to make it to the police station before her pursuers caught her.

      Where the hell was the police station in Leighton? Think, dammit, Deborah! Think!

      She crossed Highway 72, paying little attention to whether or not traffic was coming from the other direction. The sleepy little town of Leighton, Alabama lay straight ahead. The truck breathed down her neck like a black dragon, the killer’s gun spitting deadly lead fire.

      A bullet sailed through the back glass, embedding itself in the dashboard. Deborah ran the Caddy straight through the town’s one red light. The black truck slowed, but continued following her.

      Deborah brought her car to a screeching halt at the side of the police station, a small metal building on the right side of the narrow street. Glancing behind her, she saw the black truck creep by. Lying down in the front seat, she eased open the door, crawled out and made a mad dash to safety.

      A young officer jumped up from behind a metal desk when Deborah ran inside the station. “What the hell’s going on, lady? You look like the devil’s chasing you.”

      “He is.” Deborah panted, wiping the perspiration from her face with the palm of her hand. She grabbed the approaching officer’s shoulders. “I just witnessed a murder.”

      “You what?” The young officer’s face paled. “Come on in and sit down.”

      “I