Trail of Lies

Your presence puts me in danger. “I’m fine. I just want to get back to a normal life with my Kaitlyn.” Her daughter had to be her total focus.

“Juanita is missing.”

The very thought scared her even more than she already was. That could be her, her daughter or her uncle. If she said anything.

The drill of his gaze bore through her. For a few seconds she wanted to tell him everything. But the intruder’s threat replayed through her mind and the words stuck in her throat.

She needed to get out of here. How did she think she could have a conversation with the Texas Ranger and leave unscathed?

TEXAS RANGER JUSTICE:

Keeping the Lone Star State safe

Trail of Lies—Margaret Daley, April 2011

feels she has been blessed. She has been married more than thirty years to her husband, Mike, whom she met in college. He is a terrific support and her best friend. They have one son, Shaun. Margaret has been writing for many years and loves to tell a story. When she was a little girl, she would play with her dolls and make up stories about their lives. Now she writes these stories down. She especially enjoys weaving stories about families and how faith in God can sustain a person when things get tough. When she isn’t writing, she is fortunate to be a teacher for students with special needs. Margaret has taught for more than twenty years and loves working with her students. She has also been a Special Olympics coach and has participated in many sports with her students.

Casting all your care upon Him;

for He careth for you.

—1 Peter 5:7

To Terri Reed, Lenora Worth, Valerie Hansen

Lynette Eason and Shirlee McCoy— it was great working with you all.

To all the Texas Rangers in the present day and the past.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

LETTER TO READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Melora Hudson punched in her alarm code to turn the security system off, then tossed her keys on the kitchen counter. All she wanted to do was sink into a chair and drink a cup of hot tea after her exhausting week. But as she moved toward the kettle on the stove, a sound—something hitting the tiled floor—came from the living room and froze her in mid-stride. Tension whipped through her. Until her cat shot through the doorway and launched himself into her arms.

“Okay, Patches, what have you gotten into this time?”

His cry—like a baby’s—protested her scolding.

Melora cuddled the fifteen-pound white cat against her chest and started for the living room. Just what she needed—another broken lamp or, like the last time, a crystal vase. As she approached the entrance, she mentally prepared for the devastation, realizing she could never get rid of the animal because her daughter loved Patches. And so did she.

A few steps into the room, Melora stopped, scanning the large expanse for any sign of what had made the crashing noise.

The desk chair was overturned at the far end. Strange. How had Patches done that? She placed the large cat on the tiled floor and headed across the room. Nothing he did should surprise her anymore. She began to pick up the chair while Patches weaved in and out of her legs, but stopped. Her nape prickled; unease streaked down her spine. The quiet of the house, usually a balm, was now ominous. She glanced toward the study.

She wasn’t alone.

That thought bolted her to the floor for a few precious seconds before she whirled and ran toward the back porch off the great room. Halfway to the exit, she noticed the lock wasn’t turned right.

The door was unlocked. Alarm squeezed her chest.

She peered sideways and spied a wiry, medium-sized man wearing a black ski mask barreling toward her. Pushing herself faster, she reached for the knob. Two feet away.

He tackled her. The impact of the cool tiles knocked the breath from her, pain radiating through her. His body trapped her beneath him. All the fear from that break-in two years ago came to the foreground.

She twisted and bucked, trying to shove him off her. She drew in a gulp of air. Finally, her protest ripped from her throat and ricocheted off the tall ceilings, filling the room with her terror.

He slapped her across the face. “Shut up.”

Texas Ranger Daniel Boone Riley turned his white Ford 150 truck down the road that led to the Hudson’s house in Lone Star Estates where many wealthy San Antonians lived. He should know. His family mansion wasn’t but a mile from here.

He’d seen Melora Hudson, the widow, at her husband’s funeral a couple of days before. A picture of a five-foot, six-inch, willowy woman materialized in his mind. While she’d stood at the gravesite, her red hair with golden highlights had caught the sun’s rays, accentuating the long curls about her beautiful face—a solemn face, appropriate for a funeral. Until he’d locked gazes with her for a few seconds and something akin to fear had flashed into her sea-green eyes. She’d immediately looked away, but he’d seen the apprehension.