Lover Beware

friend of his mother’s—had sent, and which contained the one piece of information he’d been waiting on, he’d handed the SAS his resignation. He’d been in years longer than he’d ever wanted to be. He was a civilian now, and a horse and cattle breeder had no use for a sniper’s weapon.
    The sound of vehicles coming up his drive registered. Two police cruisers were partially visible through the thick border of overgrown shrubs that edged the drive as they pulled to a halt on the gravel just metres away.
    A car door slammed as the bulky, sweating figure of Sergeant Tucker climbed out of the first car. Tucker was in his late fifties, balding and solidly built. He had run the small police station the entire time Michael had lived here and was as local as anyone could get, having been born in Tayler’s Creek. Tucker was followed by three other uniforms, one of whom Michael recognized as the only other local cop, a young rookie called Zane Parker.
    The rusted hinges of his white picket gate creaked as Tucker pushed it wide.
    Zane followed behind, pushing the trailing branch of a climbing rose away from his face. “Shit, he’s armed.”
    Michael heard the unmistakable sound of rounds being chambered in automatics, then the two unfamiliar cops appeared.
    Michael eyed the four cops fanning out around him, and cursed beneath his breath. Tucker and Parker weren’t armed, but the other two were. He remained completely still, the Ruger held loosely in one hand. “It’s not loaded.”
    “Put the weapon down. Now.” Tucker’s voice was hollow, as if he was having trouble breathing, but Michael wasn’t about to argue; he knew the drill, and respected it. The rules of engagement that he’d played to for the past thirteen years had been greyer and more savage than those ever confronted by civilian policing, but they shared rules in common. Number one was that anyone with a gun, loaded or not, was a threat.
    Slowly, he went down on his haunches and laid the Ruger on the ground. Damned if he’d drop it and damage any part of it. The weapon was a Rolls Royce model, and worth upwards of five thousand dollars on the collectors’ circuit. The fact that the gun had seen active service in the SAS would make it worth even more, and right now every cent he could squeeze out of these weapons would count. He needed all the money he could put together to get his farm operational.
    Parker eased forward, crabbing sideways as if Michael were a wild animal, before darting in to snatch up the gun.
    Tucker swore. “That’s evidence , Parker.”
    Parker dropped the gun, and Michael winced. Seconds later Parker pulled on thin latex gloves, picked up the gun, and retreated in the direction of the cruisers.
    Parker’s fumbling aside, the two officers keeping him pinned with their guns were colder, more controlled. Michael didn’t recognize either of them, which meant they were probably backup from Winslow, the closest city to Tayler’s Creek.
    The two city cops were rock steady, and there was nothing sloppy about the way they maintained their weapons in the ready-to-fire position, so that if they needed to pull the trigger, a fractional movement of the finger was all that was required. To keep up that level of battle readiness required intense concentration and hours of weapons training, because after only a few seconds it was easy to let your focus slip, and the gun waver.
    Michael eyed Tucker coldly, already knowing what Tucker must be hauling him in for, but asking anyway. “What am I wanted for?”
    Tucker’s face was red and sheened with sweat. A pulse pumped at the side of his jaw. “Murder. And rape.”

Chapter 2
    JANE LET OUT a breath, bent down, and eyeballed Jess. “You’re supposed to be a guard dog.”
    Jess panted happily and dropped on her back, signaling it was time for a rub.
    “Oh, great. And before that, you were supposed to be a sheepdog.”
    Obligingly, Jane rubbed Jess’s belly, then threw the stick until Jess lost interest and flopped down beneath a shady tree.
    On the way back to the barn, Jane checked the level of the water troughs. It had been so dry lately that she’d had to pump water from the bore just behind the barn every day just to keep the sheep in water. She hesitated as her hand settled on the latch of the pump shed door, apprehension pooling in the pit of her stomach at the prospect of walking into the small, dark building. Irritably, she shook off the jumpy, spooked feeling, gripped