Out of the Dark

by Justine Davis

  Almost. There was something a little too unnerving about the steady stare of those pale blue feline eyes. Thinking of this pair of blue eyes reminded him yet again of another pair, tinged with green, rimmed with soft, thick lashes.

  And he was back to square one, wrestling with the problem that had driven him to this sleepless night of staring into the darkness.

  “Damn.”

  It came out sharply. It echoed in the empty room, mocking him. Rocky’s head tilted as the cat looked at him steadily, unblinkingly. Cole glared back.

  “What are you staring at? Worst thing you’ve got to worry about is being a hot lunch for some urban coyote.”

  Abruptly, as if expressing his opinion of that statement, the cat turned his back on Cole and plopped down to go easily to sleep.

  “Damn, I hate cats,” Cole muttered. All this one was was a half-welcome distraction from a problem he had no answer to.

  It should be so simple. He didn’t do that kind of work anymore. Period. End of explanation.

  But it wasn’t that simple. Nothing ever was, not when you were talking about debts the size of life and death. So add it up, he told himself. Balance the record, Bannister. Three people dead, because it took you so damned long to catch on. Three ghosts, who will haunt you to the end of your days. Stack it against the debt you owe Hobie Flynn. Against the promise you made him, that someday you’d pay him back.

  The bottom line added up to zero.

  It always did.

  He wasn’t going anywhere. The best way he could repay Hobie was to stay the hell out of his life. And that was that.

  Maybe he should just send someone else, over her and Hobie’s protests, and foot the bill. He hadn’t spent much in the past five years, he could certainly afford it. But who? Kyra was the only one with any experience dealing with horses, and even if the Flynns would let her stay, he certainly wasn’t about to ask her, not when she’d just discovered she was pregnant.

  So, somebody else. You can find someone. Someone who will understand that this job is different, that...that what? That you owe a personal debt, the greatest of personal debts, but you want somebody else to pay it? You want to buy your way out of the biggest obligation a man can have?

  God, he couldn’t deal with this anymore. He’d made the decision. It was over.

  He’d fix a cup of coffee, he thought. Or maybe catch a few winks on the sofa, even though it was six inches too short to accommodate him comfortably—provided he could move the damn cat. But there was no point in going to bed, not now, at—he glanced at his watch—after four in the morning.

  He yawned, then stretched expansively as he considered the risks of physically moving a sleeping cat who was more used to alley fights than civilized reactions to sudden moves.

  The sound of paper crinkling in his shirt pocket stopped him before he made what could have been a fateful decision, and spurred him into making what surely was. He reached in and tugged out Hobie’s letter. And the second piece of paper he’d retrieved from his wastebasket just as the janitor had been about to empty it. He sat staring at them for a very long time.

  * * *

  Tory yawned as she stood before the motel room mirror. She should have gone back home last night instead of waiting until dawn, she thought as she neatly twisted her long mass of hair into a knot at the back of her neck. There was nothing left to accomplish here after her futile meeting with Bannister. She hadn’t slept, anyway. And it would have saved the cost of this small room, an economy she should have taken advantage of after recklessly splurging and buying that new hat for Hobie. She’d been so terrified when he’d gotten sick this winter that she hadn’t been able to resist treating him. It would have been rough, driving both ways in a day, but she should have done it. Never mind that she wouldn’t have pulled in until midnight; at least she would have been home.

  And she would have behind her the unpleasant task of telling uncle Hobie that his trusted friend had let him down.

  Sighing at the thought, she grimaced at her image, then retreated to the bathroom to wipe away a fleck of mascara from beneath her right eye. She rarely bothered with makeup at the ranch, so was unused to it when she did apply it. The horses never cared what she looked like, and her daily work wasn’t conducive to anything except sweat and dirt.

  There was nothing she could do about the dark circles beneath her eyes. She never slept well away from home, and yesterday’s frustration had only added to her restlessness. She frowned at her reflection, then grimaced again and turned away. Her looks were nothing to write home about anyway, not with her snub nose and too-wide mouth, so what did dark circles matter?

  She went back to the bed and folded her shirt—the one dressy shirt she owned, her wardrobe consisting mainly of work clothes and a few leftovers from another life—and tucked it into one side of her saddlebags. The bags, given to her by Hobie in a flush rodeo year long ago, were the closest things she had to any kind of luggage. They served well enough, and she treasured them because they were from Hobie. She put her hairbrush and toothbrush in the other side, then slung the bags over her shoulder and headed for the door. She’d paid for the room in advance, since she had wanted to get an early start back without the bother of checking out.

  She tossed the bags onto the front seat of the white Jeep wagon, then paused for a last stretch before she climbed into the cab for the long ride. She would push as hard as she could; she wanted to get home. She only hoped that when she got there, there wouldn’t be more bad news, another disaster to deal with.

  She had her foot in the Jeep’s cab, ready to clamber in, when she sensed the movement behind her. She whirled, muscles tensing—this was, at least to her, the big city, and awful things happened here.

  In this case, the awful thing was, unexpectedly, Cole Bannister.

  She felt the tension drain out of her as she recognized him. Then, as she looked at his face, she wondered if she hadn’t been a bit premature. He looked like a man who had, as Hobie was wont to say, been rode hard and put away wet. And he looked like he’d gotten no more sleep than she had.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, only hearing the abruptness in her voice after she’d spoken. Something about this man truly unsettled her.

  “I was looking for you.”

  God, his voice was even rougher this early in the morning. Kind of sleepy. Sexy, like a man still in bed among rumpled sheets. With a woman he’d pleasured thoroughly.

  As if she knew what a man would sound like then, she snapped inwardly, furiously embarrassed at the turn her thoughts had taken.

  “Well, you found me,” she said, snapping at him almost as vehemently as she had at herself. Then, embarrassed yet again by her rudeness, she asked hastily, “How did you find me?”

  He shrugged. “That note you tossed in my wastebasket.”

  She blinked, then remembered she’d written the address of the Sanders office on the notepad with the motel’s name and address on it.

  “And they told you what room I was in?” Maybe she didn’t do this often, but she didn’t think that was usual.

  His mouth quirked, softening his usually harsh expression. He nodded at the Jeep. “You weren’t exactly hard to find.”

  She felt color tinge her cheeks—in reaction to her foolishness, she was sure, not at the little frisson that had raced up her spine when he’d almost smiled. The logo of the ranch decorated both doors, proclaiming her presence.

  “Oh.” She tried to smile. “Guess that’s why you’re the detective.”

  His expression again turned chilly. “Was, Ms. Flynn. I’m very...rusty. I’ve been out of the field for a long time.”

  “You don’t have to explain.” She wished he would finish, so she could be on her way. “It’s all right, Mr. Bannister. I understand.”

  She put her foot on the running board again.

  “But Hobie won’t.”

  She looked back at him. She was tired, she wanted to go home and she didn’t have the energy
to lie.

  “No,” she agreed, “he won’t.”

  No, Hobie wouldn’t understand a man who let down a friend, she thought. He never would do it himself. Hobie just wasn’t that way. Besides horses, he’d told her often enough, friends were all you had in this life. Your family was stuck with you. Friends were there because they wanted to be.

  And Bannister was looking at her as if she’d said everything she’d just been thinking. But she was too weary to care about his feelings, if indeed the man had any. From her experience, men who looked as he did rarely had the time—or the need—for such things.

  She pulled herself up onto the cab floor and stood there. For a moment she savored looking down at him instead of craning her neck to look up. But then she realized, by the sudden narrowing of his eyes, that she’d put her breasts at his eye level, and much too close. Flushing, she sat down on the edge of the driver’s seat.

  To her surprise, he averted his gaze, as if he’d sensed her embarrassment. She’d have thought he’d be pleased, knowing the little country girl was flustered. Instead, he seemed to intently study the painted logo on the door as he leaned against it.

  “I owe Hobie my life, you know,” he said softly, unexpectedly.

  “No. No, I didn’t know.”

  He nodded toward the door. “‘The Flying Clown Ranch,’” he read, almost under his breath.

  “Yes.”

  Hobie had laughingly said that he’d named it after the way he’d spent most of his life. He’d been joking, but Tory had thought it more than a fitting tribute to the rodeo clown who had saved the lives of countless rodeo cowboys, at great cost to himself. Apparently one of those cowboys had been Cole Bannister.

  Bannister straightened up. “I’m rusty,” he repeated, “and out of practice.”

  “Mr. Bannister—”

  He kept on, with the determination of a man who was saying something distasteful but had no choice. “It’s only fair to warn you. I’m not what I used to be, what Hobie remembers. I’ve lost...my edge. But I have no choice. I owe Hobie. More than I can repay. If you’re willing to take the chance, I’ll try.”

  “That’s all Hobie ever asks of anyone,” she said softly. Then, as his expression abruptly returned to stony remoteness, she added rather grimly, “And we have no choice, either.”

  Chapter 3

  Rocky yowled in protest as the pickup hit another deep chuckhole.

  “Shut up,” Cole told him unsympathetically. “Coming along was your idea. You and that kid maneuvered this, now live with it. You go crazy on me, and you’re out the door.”

  He still couldn’t quite believe how he’d been manipulated. Bobby Waldon, the twelve-year-old nephew of Cole’s landlady, who was spending the summer with his aunt—and who had named the battle-scarred cat in the first place—had shown up early that morning as Cole had been trying to load up the truck, while Rocky kept climbing into the cab and Cole kept taking him out.

  “Going away?” the boy had asked, eyeing the large duffel, the case for his notebook computer, the small binoculars he usually kept in the glove box and the old, worn straw cowboy hat he’d tossed on the dash.

  Brilliant deduction, Cole nearly said, but managed not to snap at the boy in his aggravation at the annoying cat.

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “Don’t know,” he said shortly as he lifted the cat once more off the seat, set him outside, and replaced him with a cooler full of cold sodas. The air-conditioning in the old truck was questionable, and he hadn’t gotten around to fixing it yet. He’d hung on to the truck for several years because it was the only thing he’d found comfortable for his height, and things were starting to go wrong with it. But it perfectly fit his meager cover as an itinerant ranch hand, hired to help out at the Flying Clown Ranch while Hobie was recuperating.

  “Want me to feed your cat while you’re gone?”

  Cole jerked upright, whapping the back of his head on the truck’s roof. He bit back a curse. “It’s not my cat,” he growled.

  “Sure he is. He picked you, didn’t he?”

  Cole rubbed the back of his head as he gave the boy a warning look. Bobby merely shrugged.

  “Aunt Marge says cats decide who they belong to.”

  “You mean who has the privilege of being the designated feeder,” Cole retorted sourly as Rocky scrambled back into the truck. He took up a position atop the cooler, seemingly pleased with the better view this afforded.

  “Same thing, to a cat, I think.” Bobby grinned as Cole again scooped the cat up and set him on the ground. One corner of Cole’s mouth twitched slightly. A wry chuckle escaped, and Bobby’s grin widened as the cat evaded Cole’s grasp and clambered back into the truck.

  “Damn,” Cole muttered under his breath. “I thought cats didn’t like cars.”

  “Guess you’ll be taking him with you, huh?”

  “No.” Cole picked up the cat, set him down outside and this time shut the truck’s door.

  Bobby’s brow furrowed. “Then you do want me to feed him?”

  Cole had his mouth open to repeat that the cat had gotten along fine before he’d foolishly succumbed to the lure of that can of cat food, and it could no doubt do so again, but as he looked at the boy’s face, he couldn’t quite say the words. Nor did he feel up to explaining how he’d planned to simply drive away, and let the cat worry about himself. Cats were supposed to be good at that, weren’t they?

  Bobby’s expression cleared suddenly. “I think he’s decided he’s going along,” he said, pointing.

  Cole turned to see Rocky sitting once more atop the cooler, an expression that could only be described as smug on his bewhiskered, masked face, the open window in the passenger door explaining his presence.

  “Cats are like that, Aunt Marge says. They choose somebody, and that’s it.”

  And so here he was, Cole thought now, cruising along in the midday heat of an inland California summer day, out of cold drinks, with an air conditioner that didn’t work and a worse-for-wear street feline who’d made the sad mistake of adopting someone who hated cats. And all because he’d been too soft in the head to just leave it, and too embarrassed to ask a twelve-year-old to feed the pesky animal, because it was too close to saying that the cat was his. He’d known from the first that this whole trip was a mistake; so far nothing had happened to change that assessment.

  When he finally pulled up in front of the drive that led onto The Flying Clown Ranch, he stopped for a minute, a little startled. He’d done some checking in the two days before he’d left, in between winding up or reassigning the things on his desk. He had a few contacts left from his rodeo days, and they’d put him in touch with some people who dealt in the stock-, roping- and cutting-horse business. A business that was booming, flush with new money as more and more wealthy and celebrated people took an interest in the sport of cutting. These days, one old-time trainer told him wryly, there were more Hollywood and show business types at cutting futurities than at movie premieres. It was, the grizzled veteran told him disgruntledly, getting to where pretty soon only big syndicates would be able to afford the game, like in horse racing.

  And while the people he’d talked to had universally spoken of the Flying Clown Ranch with respect, and genuine liking for the Flynns—with only a scant mention of a bit of trouble they’d been having—nothing they’d said had prepared him for the spread before him. He’d somehow pictured, perhaps because of Tory’s obvious money concerns, and the fact that she and Hobie were virtually running it alone, a more shoestring kind of place.

  But the Flying Clown, although small, was the picture of prosperity, at least on the outside. He pushed his battered straw hat with the rodeo-creased crown—even more battered from being shoved in the back of a closet for longer than he cared to remember—back on his head as he studied the layout before him.

  Everything looked recently painted, even the long stretch of white board fence that lined the drive, not an easy feat in
the sometimes blistering California sun, which took its toll on paint rather quickly. The barn looked in good repair, as did the long, low house that sat off to one side in the shade of a stand of towering eucalyptus trees that looked out of place among the scattered scrub oaks.

  The Jeep Tory had driven was fairly new, too, he realized, now that he thought about it. And now that he thought about it, it all made sense. You didn’t draw the kind of people who had the money to spend on horseflesh that could run into seven figures with a shabby, run-down operation, and Hobie Flynn was shrewd enough to know that. And the smallness only gave a sense of exclusivity; another thing Hobie was shrewd enough to realize and cash in on.

  One corner of Cole’s mouth lifted in tribute to his old friend. You did it, Hobie. Everything you always said you were going to do, thinking about the future when all the rest of us fools were only thinking about our next entry fee.

  And nowhere was there a sign that disaster loomed. That death had already struck three times.

  Sobered, he put the truck back in gear, fighting off misgivings once again. He knew he could function marginally as an investigator by virtue of the intimidation factor of his size alone; people generally thought twice about crossing him. He would just have to hope, he thought grimly, that for this case, sheer size would be enough.

  He drove slowly up the drive, glancing around. In the distance, on the flat, and on the hills far behind the house, he could see a few head of white-faced cattle. In the paddock next to the barn stood two well-muscled horses, a rangy sorrel and a close-coupled buckskin who looked like he could stop on a penny and give you change.

  As he got closer, he found himself breathing deeper, relishing the rich scent of the air. It was an inimitable smell—a combination of cut alfalfa, sweet feed, fresh air, sun-baked earth and the living, breathing scent of horses. Some fastidious types, or those who preferred the aroma of car exhaust or industrial smoke found it offensive. Cole felt like he was coming home.