Witness Read online

  Praise for the books of New York Times bestselling author

  BEVERLY BARTON

  “Beverly Barton writes with searing emotional intensity that tugs at every heartstring.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard

  “Smart, sexy and scary as hell. Beverly Barton just keeps getting better and better.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lisa Jackson on The Fifth Victim

  “With its sultry Southern setting and well-drawn characters, this richly textured tale ranks among the best the genre has to offer.”

  —Publishers Weekly on What She Doesn’t Know

  “Hang on for another emotion-packed thriller.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Worth Dying For

  “A riveting page-turner!”

  —The Best Reviews on On Her Guard

  Also available from

  BEVERLY BARTON

  and HQN Books!

  Dying for You

  A Time to Die

  Dangerous Deception

  Worth Dying For

  BEVERLY BARTON

  Witness

  CONTENTS

  DEFENDING HIS OWN

  PROLOGUE

  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

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  GUARDING JEANNIE

  PROLOGUE

  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

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  DEFENDING HIS OWN

  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 a partial view 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 don’t want to sit down,” Deborah screamed. “They’re out there. Two of them. The killer and the man who was driving the truck. They followed me all the way into town. They shot at me. They were trying to kill me!”

  “Good God!” He shoved Deborah aside, drew his 9 mm handgun and rushed outside.

  The female officer who’d been listening to the conversation rushed over to Deborah and followed her when she headed for the door. Looking up and down the street, Deborah didn’t see the truck. She leaned against the doorpost.

  “Are you all right?” the
woman officer asked.

  “I will be.”

  The male officer let out a long, low whistle when he saw Deborah’s Cadillac. “Good thing they didn’t get a lucky shot or you’d be dead, ma’am.”

  “They’re gone, aren’t they?” Deborah asked, realizing they wouldn’t have hung around, making it easy for the police to arrest them.

  “Yes, ma’am, looks that way.” He walked toward her, shaking his head. “Just where did this murder take place?”

  “Out past some cotton fields, somewhere off Cotton Lane.”

  “Don’t suppose you recognized either man in the truck or the man you say they murdered?”

  “I only recognized one of them,” Deborah said. “The killer. He’s one of Buck Stansell’s gang. I remember seeing his picture in the paper when he went to trial a few months ago on drug-related charges.”

  “Lon Sparks?” the officer asked. “You saw Lon Sparks kill a man?”

  “Yes, if that’s his name…I saw him kill a man. Shot him in the head. Blood everywhere. All over the dead man. All over the killer.” Deborah trembled, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

  “Damn, ma’am, I sure wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. Lon Sparks is a mean bastard, if you’ll pardon me saying so.” The officer returned his gun to his holster.

  “Shut up, Jerry Don, can’t you see she’s already scared out of her wits.” Putting an arm around Deborah’s shoulder, the female officer led her back inside the station. “We’d better get hold of the chief and then call the sheriff. If the killing took place out past Cotton Lane, then it’s a county matter.”

  “Everything will be all right,” Jerry Don said. “You’re safe here with us, Miss…er… Miss…?”

  “Deborah Vaughn.”

  “Come on over and sit down, Miss Vaughn, and tell me exactly what happened,” The female officer said.

  “May I use your phone first?” Deborah picked up the telephone on the officer’s desk. “I’m expected at home for dinner and my mother will worry if I’m late.”

  Her hands trembled as she dialed the number. “Mother, I’m afraid I’ll be running a little late. You and Allen go ahead and have dinner without me. No. No, everything’s all right. I just ran into a little car trouble out here in Leighton. Nothing I can’t handle.”

  Nothing she couldn’t handle. That’s right, Deborah. You’re tough, aren’t you? You can handle anything that’s thrown your way. You don’t need anyone to take care of you. You’ve been taking care of everyone else for so long, you wouldn’t know how it felt to admit you needed someone.

  Well, it looked like the time had come. If the police wanted her to live long enough to testify against a cold-blooded killer, someone was going to have to protect her from Buck Stansell’s outlaws.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HE HAD SWORN he’d never come back to Sheffield, Alabama. But never say never. Ashe McLaughlin had discovered that anyone so absolutely certain often wound up eating his own words. And in his case, the taste was mighty bitter.

  He had been gone eleven years, and little had changed. Except him. He had changed. He was older. Smarter. Harder.

  He chuckled to himself. Harder? Hell, folks in northwest Alabama had considered him a real bad boy, one of those McLaughlins from Leighton, his daddy nothing but a white trash outlaw. But Ashe hadn’t been as tough as everyone thought. He had hated the legacy of poverty and ignorance his family had given him. He’d wanted more. He’d fought long and hard to better himself. But Wallace Vaughn had destroyed Ashe’s dreams of being accepted in Colbert County.

  Eleven years ago he’d been told to leave town or else—or else he would have done jail time.

  Now, here he was returning to a town that hadn’t wanted his kind. He couldn’t help wondering if anyone other than his grandmother would welcome him home. He supposed Carol Allen Vaughn would be glad to see him. After all, she’d been the one who’d asked him to take this job. He was probably a fool for agreeing to act as Deborah’s bodyguard.

  Deborah Vaughn. No amount of time or distance had been able to erase her from Ashe’s memory.

  He parked his rental car in the circular drive in front of the old Allen home, a brick Greek Revival cottage on Montgomery Avenue. His grandmother had once been the housekeeper here for the Vaughn family.

  Walking up to the front door, he hesitated before ringing the bell. He’d never been allowed to enter the house through the front door but had always gone around to the back and entered through the kitchen. He remembered sitting at the kitchen table doing his homework, sharing milk and cookies with Deborah, and sometimes her older cousin Whitney. That had been a lifetime ago.

  He rang the doorbell. What the hell was he doing here? Why had he allowed Carol Vaughn’s dare to goad him into returning to a town he hated? Deborah needs you, she’d said. Are you afraid to see her again? she had taunted him.

  He was not afraid to see Deborah Vaughn again. After ten years as a Green Beret, Ashe McLaughlin was afraid of nothing, least of all the girl who had betrayed him.

  A plump, middle-aged woman opened the door and greeted him with a smile. “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m Ashe McLaughlin. Mrs. Vaughn is expecting me.”

  “Yes, please come inside. I’ll tell Miss Carol you’re here.”

  Ashe stepped into the gracious entrance hall large enough to accommodate a grand piano as well as a large mahogany and gilt table with an enormous bouquet of fresh flowers in the center. A sweeping staircase wound upward on the left side of the room.

  “If you’ll wait here, please.” The housekeeper scurried down the hall toward the back of the house.

  He’d been summoned home. Like a knight in the Queen’s service. Ashe grinned. Better a knight than a stable boy, he supposed. Why hadn’t he just said no? I’m sorry, Mrs. Vaughn, but whatever trouble Deborah has gotten herself into, you’ll have to find someone else to rescue her.

  God knows he had tried to refuse, but once he’d heard that Deborah’s life was in real danger, he had wavered in his resistance. And Carol Vaughn had taken advantage of the weakness she sensed in him.

  “Ashe, so good of you to come, dear boy.” The voice still held that note of authority, that hint of superiority, that tone of Southern gentility.

  He turned to face her, the woman he had always thought of as the personification of a real lady. He barely recognized the woman who stood before him. Thin, almost gaunt, her beautiful face etched with faint age lines, her complexion sickly pale. Her short blond hair was streaked with gray. She had once been full-figured, voluptuous and lovely beyond words.

  She couldn’t be much more than fifty, but she looked older.

  Caught off-guard by her appearance, by the drastic change the years had wrought, Ashe stared at Carol Vaughn. Quickly recovering his composure, he took several tentative steps forward and held out his hand.

  She clasped his big, strong hand in her small, fragile one and squeezed. “Thank you for coming. You can’t imagine how desperately we need your help.”

  Ashe assisted Carol down the hallway and into the living room. The four-columned entry permitted an unobstructed view of the room from the foyer. The hardwood floors glistened like polished metal in the sunlight. A blend of antiques and expensive reproductions bespoke of wealth and good taste.

  “The sofa, please, Ashe.” She patted his hand. “Sit beside me and we’ll discuss what must be done.”

  He guided her to the sofa, seated her and perched his big body on the edge, not feeling comfortable in her presence. “Does Deborah know you sent for me?”

  “I haven’t told her,” Carol said. “She’s a stubborn one, that girl of mine. She’s always had a mind of her own. But she’s been a dutiful daughter.”

  “What if she doesn’t agree to my being here?” He had known Deborah when she was seventeen, a plump, pretty girl who’d had a major crush on him. What would she look like now? And how did she feel about him after all these years?

  “Mazie, please bring us some
coffee,” Carol instructed the housekeeper who stood at the end of the hallway. “And a few of those little cakes from the bakery. The cinnamon ones.”

  “Refreshments aren’t necessary, Mrs. Vaughn. Really.” Ashe felt ill at ease being entertained, as if his visit were a social call. “I’m here on business. Remember?”

  “Mazie, go ahead and bring the coffee and the cakes, too.” Carol turned her attention to Ashe. “Times change, but good manners don’t. Of course my mother would be appalled that I had welcomed a gentleman, unrelated to me and not a minister, into my home when I am quite alone.”

  “Coffee will be fine, Mrs. Vaughn.”

  “You used to call me Miss Carol. I much prefer that to the other. Your calling me Mrs. Vaughn makes us sound like strangers. And despite your long absence from Sheffield, we are hardly strangers, are we, Ashe?”

  “No, ma’am, we’re not strangers.”

  “Mazie has prepared you a room upstairs. I want you with Deborah at all times.” Carol blushed ever so lightly. “Or at least close by.”

  “Has she received any more threats since we spoke two days ago?”

  “Mercy, yes. Every day, there’s a new letter and another phone call, but Charlie Blaylock says there’s nothing more he can do. And I asked him why the sheriff was incapable of protecting innocent citizens.”

  “Has a trial date been set for Lon Sparks?” Ashe asked.

  “Not yet. It should be soon. But not soon enough for me. I can’t bear the thought of Deborah being in danger.”

  “She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Ashe knew what that was like. And he knew as well as anyone in these parts just how dangerous Buck Stansell and his band of outlaws could be. For three generations, the Stansell bunch, along with several other families, had cornered the market on illegal activities. Everything from prostitution to bootlegging, when the county had been dry. And nowadays weapons and drugs dominated their money-making activities.