by Nancy Bush
“I have respect for Ira’s business sense.”
“Since when?”
“Go see your father.” She gathered up the account books, slid away from the table, then stalked out of the room and down the back hallway, slamming the door behind her.
Hunter went in search of the Major, who was leaning back in a recliner all the way, a blanket over his legs. His pallor was gray and he looked like he’d aged a year since the last time Hunter had seen him in town with Georgina. Hunter hadn’t really believed that he might be gone by Christmas, but now the doctor’s warning seemed prophetic. The cancer that had dogged him for years had finally gotten the upper hand.
“Hunter,” the Major said, dredging up a smile with an effort.
“Hey, Dad.” He tried to keep the worry out of his voice.
“I told Georgina to call you. Glad she finally did.”
Hunter started to disabuse his father. His mother hadn’t called him, but the Major was already on another track. “Remember what we talked about before? Your mother can’t handle a thousand acres and God knows how many sheep by herself. She’s gonna need your help.”
“I’ll do what I can, but Mom’s pretty tough.”
His voice lowered to a whisper and Hunter had to lean in to catch what he was saying. “I want you to take over. Georgina won’t … be fair. I’ve got a will made out. You need to check with Berkley Price. You know him?”
Berkley Price was an attorney in town, but he wasn’t the family lawyer. Or, at least Hunter hadn’t thought he was. “I know who he is.”
“You go talk to him, okay?”
“Dad—”
“Your mother has her own ideas, but they’re not mine, you understand? You have to watch out for her.”
Hunter’s gaze shot toward the door. He felt uneasy. Did the Major know about Georgina’s business dealings with Ira? Feeling a bit like a Judas, he asked, “You know Mom’s been meeting with Century Petroleum?”
His eyes pinned Hunter’s. “What’s she plotting now?”
Plotting … Was that what she was doing? “Some oil deal that also involves Ira Dillinger.”
“No …” He sank back into his chair, spent. “She won’t have anything to do with him anymore.”
Hunter could practically feel his father’s energy slipping away, so he didn’t press the issue. He was between a rock and a hard place, between his mother and father, and it was nowhere he wanted to be. His mind went back to the meeting with Sam and Chief Raintree. Featherstone had thanked Raintree and Hunter for their work, but had let it be known that the sheriff’s department would be handling the arson investigations from here on out. Though Hunter understood, he wasn’t ready to walk away from the Dillinger fire just yet.
Is that because of Delilah?
Maybe, he thought.
Grady Chisum rubbed his chin, his gold tooth glinting in the dim light thrown from the BUDWEISER beer sign over his head. “I didn’t see him much. I wasn’t looking. I talked to Amber, but the guy at the end of the bar didn’t say anything. Had a couple Buds, I think. Paid cash. I’ve been trying to remember everybody that night, but it was pretty damn busy. He had a black hat on. So, this is the guy?”
Ricki wasn’t ready to give out that much. “We think she got picked up by someone at the bar,” was all she would allow. “Can you remember anything else about him?”
Grady screwed up his face in the struggle to recall. After a few minutes, he said, “Didn’t have a beard. Strong jaw, I guess. Couldn’t see his eyes. The hat was always dipped.”
“Could you see any hair?”
“Just the hat.”
Disappointed, Ricki thanked him, then interviewed the waitresses who’d been at the bar that night as both Carol and Jane came in for their shifts while she was there. She called Shelly, Bart’s wife, on the phone, as she wasn’t working tonight, but she couldn’t offer up much more either.
It was frustrating, but they were going to have to find the guy some other way, Ricki realized. With a sigh, she called it a day and headed back to the lodge to clean up and collapse for a while.
“You want to go to the Prairie Dog Saloon with me?” Nell asked Delilah as they watched Brook play Twister with Justin, Rourke and Haley.
About the last thing Delilah wanted to do was go out to a bar, but then she didn’t want to hang around the house much longer either.
She’d gone over the list of guests with Pilar and helped place phone calls. After that, she’d spent some time with Brook, glad that Ricki’s daughter had seemed to bounce back fairly quickly and was now even playing with the younger kids, keeping them entertained.
But all the while her mind had been circling back to the fire and then to Hunter and what Abby had said about him and then back to the fire, and so on. It had been hard to concentrate on anything else. Then, when she’d gone up to her room for a few minutes, she’d heard raised voices from down the hall and realized Jen and Tyler were in a huge fight.
As if reading her thoughts, Nell said, “I asked Jen and Tyler to join me, but neither of them is in the mood, apparently.”
“Did they say why?” Delilah asked casually.
“I just don’t think they want to go.”
She looked so disappointed that Delilah shook off her own doubts and said, “Sure, I’ll join you.”
“Good.” Nell brightened immediately.
“I’ll even be the designated driver. I’ve got the keys to the Jeep.”
They left half an hour later. Delilah had changed into a pair of skinny jeans and tucked them into her boots, had pulled on a long, burgundy sweater with a cowl neck, which came down to her thighs, and had topped it off with her suede jacket. She looked half cowgirl and half Hollywood, and when Nell, who was in jeans and a red blouse and a sheepskin jacket, saw her, she said, “You do clothes well.”
“Thanks.”
Nell chattered away as Delilah drove them down the snow-crusted roads and along Prairie Creek’s main street to the Prairie Dog. The place wasn’t as large as Big Bart’s, but it was closer and more intimate. When Nell and Delilah entered, an overhead silver bell jingled to announce their arrival. The floor was wood and the bar was scarred oak. Red, green and silver tinsel festooned the overhead lights, hanging in deep loops. There was a Christmas tree in one corner with a picture of Zipper, the prairie dog mascot, hanging from its front bough.
Nell and Delilah squeezed into a small table in the corner, which the other patrons had stolen the chairs from. They were finally able to barter back a couple of chairs from the group of loud guys who were in a game of darts and only using about half the seats around their own table. Shrugging out of her jacket, Delilah looked around and realized there was a man staring at her from across the room. Her pulse jumped for a moment at the intensity of his gaze.
She was taken aback when he came over to her table. “You’re a Dillinger, aren’t ya?” he said.
“Who’s asking?” she responded.
“Whit Crowley.” He extended a hand. “I’m with Prairie Creek Fire and Rescue. Shame about the fire out at your place last night.”
“Yeah.” Delilah shook his hand. He must work with Hunter.
“You’re in town for the big wedding.” His gaze slid over Nell.
“The wedding and the holidays,” Delilah said, glancing around the room. She hoped he would just go away, but no such luck.
“You should have your tank checked. It’s propane, right?” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a card. “I got a company does this work all the time.”
“It’s actually my father’s property,” Delilah said, reluctantly accepting the card.
“Well, I won’t interrupt you any longer.” He gave them a smile and headed toward the door.
“Thank God,” Nell said, watching him leave.
“I know, right. Where’re our drinks?” Delilah scooted from her chair. “Stay here. I’ll go get ’em.”
He stood outside the saloon, in the shadows. He’d watched them en
ter the bar, feeling the hunger gnaw at him like a living thing. He’d planned on the youngest one. She was there. Nell. It was always easier to cut the weakest one from the herd, the youngest one as a rule. But the other one … Delilah … He could imagine her naked. Her white, smooth skin. Her long legs. The thatch of hair at the juncture of her thighs … would it be red or blond?
His mind imagined rubbing his hands down her breasts and along the curve of her hips and he groaned with desire. He wanted to slide himself over her and jam inside her, screw her till she screamed.
Then he would slip the edge of his knife under her skin and carve a sweet section off.
Man, he was going to have to jack off right here. Right outside the Prairie Dog. Working his hand inside his jeans he grabbed himself, but then he heard an approaching engine, so he dipped his Stetson to hide his face and turned around to the back of the building to hide and wait.
Because it was almost Christmas, Nell had a green vodka martini and Delilah had a red one. Then Nell had a red one and Delilah decided to skip a round since she had the keys. Maybe she should have another and just call up Ricki or Colt to pick them up. But no … with everything she needed to do, the last thing she could afford was a hangover.
But she was having a much better time than she’d thought she would. It was almost Christmas and it was time to try and be jolly, regardless of all the troubles affecting them.
“As soon as this wedding’s over, we need to decorate for Christmas,” Nell said.
“You got that right.”
The jukebox was blasting country western music and the guys around the dart game were getting louder and louder. Delilah cupped her ear to hear Nell, and after about another hour had passed, she glanced at the clock and decided it was time to give it up. They rose from their chairs and then Delilah decided to take a trip to the bathroom.
Nell said, “Hand me the keys.”
“Are you kidding?”
“I just want to get in the car. I’m not driving,” Nell said, shrugging into her coat with some difficulty.
Delilah reluctantly handed her the keys. “I’ll only be a minute.”
Nell lifted one arm to say she’d heard as she headed for the front door.
Delilah was in and out of the bathroom in record time, feeling anxious. Not that she didn’t believe Nell, she just didn’t want anything unexpected to happen.
She stepped outside into a cold, clear night where bright pinpoint stars looked down from coal-black heavens. She saw Nell in the car, buckling her seat belt, but that didn’t dispel the feeling of discomfort that enveloped her. For a moment she stood frozen, thinking of the killer/firebug loose around Prairie Creek. Even in Hollywood she’d never felt this freezing fear that seemed to fill her insides. In fact—
A shadow materialized from the gloom around the building. A man’s shadow. He came toward her fast and she backed up and screamed for all she was worth.
“Delilah!” It was Hunter’s voice, reaching out to her as he quickly grabbed her arm, shooting hard looks in all directions. Nell was scrabbling with the door handle and Delilah’s heart was thundering in her ears.
“Oh … God … damn …” She could scarcely breathe. “What the hell are you doing? You scared me!”
“Jesus,” Hunter said, drawing her close, his own heart pounding inside his chest.
Nell finally got outside, half stumbling toward them as the door to the Prairie Dog burst open, the men who’d been around the dartboard boiling out like angry bees. One of them charged up to Hunter, but Delilah shook her head.
“No, no, no. It’s okay,” she declared, holding up a hand.
“What the hell’s going on?” one of the men demanded.
“I scared her,” Hunter said.
“Yeah?” another growled, moving closer to Hunter as if readying for an attack.
“It’s nothing. It’s nothing.” Delilah’s pulse was jumping with fear. “I made a mistake. All these terrible things have been happening and I just thought … I didn’t mean to …”
“That’s all right, honey,” the one glaring at Hunter said as he relaxed. “It’s been pretty damn scary all right.”
“That you, Kincaid?” The first man took a step nearer and squinted at Hunter.
“’Fraid so,” Hunter said.
“Well, sheettt,” he muttered, waving a dismissive hand at them.
A few moments later the men were all heading back inside and Delilah was left alone with Hunter and Nell.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized.
Nell said, “You about made me pee my pants!”
Delilah gave out a laugh as Nell reopened the car door and dropped inside, slamming it shut behind her. “You scared the liver out of me,” Delilah said to Hunter. “What are you doing here?”
“I was looking for somebody.”
“Who?”
“Heard one of the guys from fire and rescue was here talking to Dillingers, probably trying to scam ’em.”
“Whit Crowley?”
“That’s the one.” Hunter was tense. “What did he want?”
“He asked me if we had a propane tank.”
Hunter swore so pungently beneath his breath that it took Delilah by surprise. “Why?”
“What did you tell him?” Hunter asked grimly.
“That the property’s Dad’s. What do you think? I don’t own the Rocking D. He wants to talk about it, he should take it up with Ira.”
That seemed to appease him. “Okay.”
“What the hell, Hunter.” She was growing annoyed with him. “What is this?”
“Just a little war I’ve got going,” he muttered, turning toward the door. “Crowley still inside?”
“No, he left.”
That stopped him. He’d been moving toward the door, but now he turned back to Delilah, looking across the dimly lit parking lot at her. The music had been turned up again and throbbed outside, feeling like a second heartbeat that resonated throughout her body.
“Sorry to scare you,” he said, then headed back toward his gray truck.
Delilah watched his lanky body and long, cowboy stride for a moment, the image imprinted on her brain as she circled to the driver’s side of the Jeep.
“God. Damn. It.”
The killer ground his teeth inside the cab of his pickup, seething with fury. What the fuck was going on between Kincaid and Delilah Dillinger? His hands curled into fists, then he opened them wide. He wanted to slide them around Hunter Kincaid’s neck. Everything had been in place. The youngest Dillinger had got herself shitfaced, so she would be no problem, and that left slim and hot Delilah within his sights. For a brief moment he’d thought he could have them both. It was within his grasp. When Delilah had stepped outside, sniffing the air like a cautious deer, he nearly lost sight of the need for discretion and was poised to tackle her right there. Knock her out. Throw her in his truck and drive to the new secluded place he’d taken as his own. He’d damn near done it, though it was crazy and dangerous. Anyone could have come out of the Dog. But he was that ready for her. He could see himself cutting off her clothes and skimming her skin with his knife, then sliding inside her, rhythmically thrusting, watching the terror on her face slowly change to ecstasy. Her eyes would close and she would start to moan and thrash, feeling him pumping into her. Her fingernails would rake down his back and her hands would desperately clasp him to her while she begged him, cried for him, wanted him. He could feel her legs wrapping around him as he buried his shaft deep into her core.
And then he would use the knife …
He’d been hard as granite, his mind full of images. “C’mon, baby, c’mon, baby,” he’d whispered, stroking himself even as his rage smoldered inside.
And then goddamn Hunter Kincaid. What the fuck did he think he was doing?
His erection dwindled and he slammed his palm against the steering wheel. Maybe he was going to have to kill him, too. Wouldn’t be the same as the Dillinger females, but there might be some ple
asure to it.
Hunter Kincaid … well, fuck yeah.
Practice makes perfect.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Delilah awoke on the couch in the family room in the middle of the night. She’d given up her bed to Ricki, who had argued with her, but Delilah wasn’t listening. Ricki might want to go to Sam’s, and that was fine with Delilah, but she found herself too keyed up and tense and full of thoughts of Hunter to toss and turn in the bed next to Brook’s. Ricki didn’t realize that it was as much an excuse for Delilah to be with her own thoughts as it was a graciousness on her part.
She was annoyed at herself at waking up, especially since she’d just fallen asleep. Too many thoughts were rattling around in her head. Nameless fears that were rooted in the fires and terrible deaths and maybe even an uncertainty about her future and definitely about Hunter.
What rumor had Abby meant? she asked herself for the millionth time. What rumor? And who had set the fire at the foreman’s cottage? Someone intent on hurting the Dillingers? Some firebug drifter, like the one who’d cruised through Prairie Creek that summer long ago, the one convicted of burning up the old homestead though he’d never admitted to the crime? Were they really dealing with two different arsonists? Hunter seemed to think so, but what did that mean? Was one of them the man Ricki had said she and Sam were zeroing in on, the man who’d been at the Buffalo Lounge the same time as Amber Barstow was kidnapped?
Then, who was the other one?
What rumor had Abby meant?
She woke up again suddenly, her eyes flying open, unaware she’d even fallen asleep. Gray fingers of light were sneaking in around the lowered blinds. She’d slept in her clothes and now she climbed a bit stiffly off the couch. She’d brought her bag downstairs last night and now she grabbed up some clean clothes and tiptoed back upstairs to the bathroom.
She was just letting herself inside when she heard the key turn in the front door. Someone was letting themselves in.
Carefully, she tiptoed to the top of the stairs, her skin rising with gooseflesh. Her sister’s red hair glowed in the flash of sunlight that followed her in as Ricki stealthily tiptoed inside and placed her hand on the newel post, turning for the stairs.
