Harmful Intent: A Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels/Dawson Hughes Novel by Nike N. Chillemi
Authors: Nike N. Chillemi
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were huddled behind a pile of boulders, both well-armed. Thank God.
I knew although the cruiser had four-wheel drive, due to its low suspension, it still might have difficulty making it up the trail. So I took my Dodge Ram. I pulled behind Hoot's Jeep, threw the door open and got out, crouching behind it while drawing my Smith and Wesson. On the passenger side, Deputy Wyatt Thunder, the youngest member of the sheriff's department, slid out, took cover behind his door, and pulled back the bolt action on a Ruger Hawkeye Tactical Rifle.
Hoot called out, "We think the shooter's gone."
I stood and turned toward my deputy. "Thunder, get on the horn and ask the sheriff to get a chopper in the air. It's probably too late, but we might get lucky."
"You, bet." The kid grabbed for the speaker on my truck's radio system.
"Are you all right?" I advanced toward Ronnie.
"I suppose you're here to tell me I told you so?" Her cheeks flared a bright pink that had nothing to do with the fierce sun overhead.
"No, I wasn't gonna say that, but since you said it for me, perhaps you should listen to yourself." I had to shove my hands into my pockets... afraid I'd either strangle her or wrap her in my arms and clinch her to me.
The four of us walked up the trail, bullets in our chambers. At the top of the ridge, we found boot tracks. Could've belonged to a medium sized to tall woman or a small to medium sized man. I wondered what size boot Reece Morgan wore, whipped out my cell, and dialed for CSI to come check the prints out.
As Thunder walked the perimeter, he stroked the Ruger's stock. "No shell casin's left behind. Took 'em all."
I turned and kicked a stone over the edge of the ridge and it plummeted into a deep abyss. What would it take to keep this woman out of trouble?
I pivoted back. "Shooter's no dummy."
Chapter Fourteen
Arroyo
Day Nine, Noon
Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI
Breakfast had been unusually busy and now I had a pocket full of tips. I thought maybe spending money was one way to get over the jitters from just having been used for target practice the previous afternoon. Good thing it didn't happen too often… I'd be broke.
Oglethorpe's Western Wear's aisles held excitement for me in the same way a Toys 'R' Us would for a child. I found myself drifting from display to display, enthralled.
I needed another pair of jeans, but on this shopping excursion, the dancers' clogs fascinated me. I picked up a leather silver-toned, oxford-type shoe with steel taps on the toes and the heels. Mr. Oglethorpe happened to mention Arroyo had an award winning dance team, and he kept shoes for them in several styles and colors.
The Grange Hall, where Hoot intended to take Bertha on their next date, would have skilled cloggers and Morris dancers tapping and twirling on the floor, not to mention line dancing. The thought of her pure happiness warmed my heart. There was indeed such a thing as true love. I wondered if she'd wear yellow again. That seemed to be their color.
I made my way down an aisle and threw several pair of denims over my arm, then headed for the dressing room. Once I'd pulled the curtain closed, I climbed in and out of Levis, Wranglers, and several brands until a pair of black stretch jeans by an outfit called Rock 'n Roll Cowgirl won out. Slimming and comfortable. Couldn't beat that combo. I'd been in fitting rooms where women were reduced to tears trying on jeans.
Mr. Oglethorpe smiled as I approached the register. "How're you enjoyin' that straw cowboy hat you got last week?"
Recalling how I'd slapped Henry's rump with it, sending the mule to alert Hoot of my dilemma on the trail, I grinned. "It's come in real handy."
He nodded and rang up the purchase, I carried the bag outside into the noonday heat. Oppressive was the word. I wasn't out there more than a few minutes when I wiped my brow.
My cell phone rang.
"Ronnie, it's Jack. I've run down this Stanley Fishburn."
"Jack, you're the best. Who is
I knew although the cruiser had four-wheel drive, due to its low suspension, it still might have difficulty making it up the trail. So I took my Dodge Ram. I pulled behind Hoot's Jeep, threw the door open and got out, crouching behind it while drawing my Smith and Wesson. On the passenger side, Deputy Wyatt Thunder, the youngest member of the sheriff's department, slid out, took cover behind his door, and pulled back the bolt action on a Ruger Hawkeye Tactical Rifle.
Hoot called out, "We think the shooter's gone."
I stood and turned toward my deputy. "Thunder, get on the horn and ask the sheriff to get a chopper in the air. It's probably too late, but we might get lucky."
"You, bet." The kid grabbed for the speaker on my truck's radio system.
"Are you all right?" I advanced toward Ronnie.
"I suppose you're here to tell me I told you so?" Her cheeks flared a bright pink that had nothing to do with the fierce sun overhead.
"No, I wasn't gonna say that, but since you said it for me, perhaps you should listen to yourself." I had to shove my hands into my pockets... afraid I'd either strangle her or wrap her in my arms and clinch her to me.
The four of us walked up the trail, bullets in our chambers. At the top of the ridge, we found boot tracks. Could've belonged to a medium sized to tall woman or a small to medium sized man. I wondered what size boot Reece Morgan wore, whipped out my cell, and dialed for CSI to come check the prints out.
As Thunder walked the perimeter, he stroked the Ruger's stock. "No shell casin's left behind. Took 'em all."
I turned and kicked a stone over the edge of the ridge and it plummeted into a deep abyss. What would it take to keep this woman out of trouble?
I pivoted back. "Shooter's no dummy."
Chapter Fourteen
Arroyo
Day Nine, Noon
Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI
Breakfast had been unusually busy and now I had a pocket full of tips. I thought maybe spending money was one way to get over the jitters from just having been used for target practice the previous afternoon. Good thing it didn't happen too often… I'd be broke.
Oglethorpe's Western Wear's aisles held excitement for me in the same way a Toys 'R' Us would for a child. I found myself drifting from display to display, enthralled.
I needed another pair of jeans, but on this shopping excursion, the dancers' clogs fascinated me. I picked up a leather silver-toned, oxford-type shoe with steel taps on the toes and the heels. Mr. Oglethorpe happened to mention Arroyo had an award winning dance team, and he kept shoes for them in several styles and colors.
The Grange Hall, where Hoot intended to take Bertha on their next date, would have skilled cloggers and Morris dancers tapping and twirling on the floor, not to mention line dancing. The thought of her pure happiness warmed my heart. There was indeed such a thing as true love. I wondered if she'd wear yellow again. That seemed to be their color.
I made my way down an aisle and threw several pair of denims over my arm, then headed for the dressing room. Once I'd pulled the curtain closed, I climbed in and out of Levis, Wranglers, and several brands until a pair of black stretch jeans by an outfit called Rock 'n Roll Cowgirl won out. Slimming and comfortable. Couldn't beat that combo. I'd been in fitting rooms where women were reduced to tears trying on jeans.
Mr. Oglethorpe smiled as I approached the register. "How're you enjoyin' that straw cowboy hat you got last week?"
Recalling how I'd slapped Henry's rump with it, sending the mule to alert Hoot of my dilemma on the trail, I grinned. "It's come in real handy."
He nodded and rang up the purchase, I carried the bag outside into the noonday heat. Oppressive was the word. I wasn't out there more than a few minutes when I wiped my brow.
My cell phone rang.
"Ronnie, it's Jack. I've run down this Stanley Fishburn."
"Jack, you're the best. Who is
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