“Yeah.” With his hand on his back, Jesse stood up and laid his hammer aside. “What do you want to know?”
He looked around at the construction and piles of boards lying on the concrete floor. “Have you noticed anything odd going on with Kyle?”
Jesse laughed, a nails-rolling-around-in-a-coffee-can sound. “There’s always been something odd about that boy. I think his mama and daddy should’ve stopped while they were ahead before having him.”
“Did Kyle give Marlin and Jeannie a hard time?”
Again that laugh, as Jesse grabbed a two-by-four off a pile. “Did he ever. Marlin McPherson is a good man, but he spent the last ten years getting the boy out of trouble. Old Sheriff Madison should’ve put him in juvey hall years ago.” Jesse looked at him and shook his head. “Leon Ferguson wouldn’t give him a job because he didn’t trust him, in fact.”
“That’s a glowing recommendation.” He thought for a moment. “Jesse, keep your eyes and ears open, will ya? I didn’t want to hire him, but the boss did.”
Jesse tipped the bill of his ball cap. “You got it.”
* * * *
Tracy settled across from Charli in a booth at Ella’s Diner later that day. “Oh, that’s just terrible.” Charli had told her all about the poisoning as they walked to the restaurant. “Dylan hasn’t talked to me. What I’ve heard mostly came from Zack and the infamous Colton Grapevine.”
Charli reached for a menu. “The sheriff’s been a wonderful neighbor, but I wish Dylan would just ask Leon for help. I know he’d be more than willing. I haven’t brought it up because I know how he feels about your uncle.”
She also hadn’t brought it up because Dylan was avoiding her.
Tracy fussed with the napkin-wrapped silverware. Her face pinched in a frown. “Are you seeing him now?”
“Who?”
“Leon.” Tracy set the paper napkin and silverware down. “I’ve heard about the date.”
She leaned back into the red vinyl seat. “Wow, does anything stay private in this town?”
Tracy snorted and shook her head. “Nope. The telephones were ringing off the hook Friday after Leon flew you to Dallas. You’ve become the envy of a lot of women who’ve been trying to lasso my uncle for years.”
“They can have him, because I’m not dating him.”
A young waitress stopped by their table. Charli recognized her immediately from the drug deal in the grocery store parking lot.
Tracy voiced her surprise. “Annie, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in school?”
The girl stopped short of rolling her eyes. “Mom pulled me out and decided to home school me. What do you want?”
Tracy ordered a burger and fries without looking at the menu. Charli ordered a chicken salad sandwich and fresh fruit. The girl walked away.
“Who’s her mother?”
“Ella Larson, the owner of this place and co-owner of the blasted Longhorn Saloon.” Tracy made a tsking sound and pushed her long hair from the side of her face. “Annie’s a troublemaker with a capital T. She was arrested on drug charges a month ago. A shame. She’s a smart girl.” Tracy shook her head and played with her silverware again. “Her mother and father divorced abruptly a couple of years ago, and afterward, her daddy completely ignored her. I heard through the Grapevine he found out he’s sterile and probably had been since a horse kicked him when he was a kid.”
Charli looked back at Tracy, her meaning dawning. “She doesn’t know?” Tracy shrugged, and she turned her attention back to the teenager behind the counter. “How old is she?”
Tracy thought for a moment. “Fifteen or sixteen, I’m not sure.”
Annie brought their lemonades, and Charli studied the girl. Her hair was bleached white with the short, spiky tips dyed bright pink, but her roots were dark. Enough black makeup for at least five people surrounded her deep brown eyes. She had a stud in her nose, a hoop in her bottom lip, plus numerous other piercings. Her baggy black pants and t-shirt screamed bad attitude.
She felt Annie’s anger and resentment sizzling under the surface like some primitive volcano, and remembered the anger all too well. If something wasn’t done to help defuse it, her intervention of calling the cops that day would have been for nothing.
“So, what’s going on with you and Dylan, then?”
Sipping her lemonade, she stalled as long as she could. “Nothing’s going on.”
Tracy puckered her brow again, but didn’t say more on the matter of either man.
Their meals came, and they ate in silence for a few moments until a woman stopped at their table on her way through the restaurant. “Hello, Tracy.”
Tracy narrowed her eyes at the petite brunette carrying an infant carrier by her side. “Brenda. I guess Zack can’t keep all the riffraff out of town.”
Brenda? As in Dylan’s ex? Charli studied the woman closer. Brenda wouldn’t ever be a supermodel, but she was prettier than she had imagined. Her dark hair was styled into an attractive pixie cut, her eyes dark and intelligent.
Brenda laughed humorlessly. “Oh, Tracy, you always did have a sick sense of humor. You know what they say... Those in glass houses shouldn’t cast stones. When’s your next class reunion? You, Zack Cartwright and Jake Parker all in the same room–I’d buy tickets for that show.” Brenda turned to her, holding out a hand to her. “Hi, I’m Brenda Dailey. I don’t think we’ve met.”
They shook hands. “Charli Monroe.”
“Oh, the owner of the old Blackwell place. My mother told me my ex-husband works for you.”
“If your ex-husband is Dylan Quinn, then, yes, he’s my manager.” She glanced down at the bundle in the carrier. “Is this your baby?”
Brenda’s fake smile turned soft, and she pulled the blanket away from the infant’s sleeping, chubby face. “Yes, this is Nicholas, Junior. He’s almost eight months old and growing like a weed.”
“What do you want, Brenda?” Tracy sounded as if she chipped the words from the coldest ice cube she could find.
The woman shrugged. “I just saw the two of you and thought I’d do the neighborly thing and say hi. I’m supposed to meet Mama for lunch.” Brenda turned to her again–fake smile bright enough to short-out a power plant.
Anger ripped through Charli. How could anyone hurt someone as badly as Brenda had Dylan? Though he didn’t talk about the reasons for his divorce, she had heard enough to know. Brenda’s baby had been conceived while he’d been, not only still married to her, but in Afghanistan fighting for his country.
Brenda shifted the carrier from one hand to another. A big diamond on her finger glittered in the sunlight coming through the window. “I’m a bit surprised Dylan is still working for you, Miss Monroe.”
Besides the jealousy burning a hole in her stomach, she didn’t like this woman with a mile-long vicious streak. How could Dylan have loved someone so self-absorbed? How could he still love her? “Why are you surprised? He’s an excellent manager.”
“I’ve heard about his buying poisoned hay. He was probably drunk.”
“I haven’t lost anything because of Dylan.”
“Now that surprises me.” Brenda waved at an older woman–probably her mother–as she entered the diner. “Dylan cares only for himself.”
She speared the woman with a glare. “You’re wrong.”
“Excuse me.”
Charli placed her napkin beside her mostly empty plate and slid out of the booth. Brenda stiffened when Charli went toe-to-toe with her, and towered over her by a good four inches. “A man doesn’t fight for his country voluntarily and struggle with the type of guilt Dylan does because he doesn’t care. If you ask me, he cares too damned much about a lot of things.”
After picking up the check from the edge of the table, she looked at Tracy, who regarded her with something akin to stunned admiration as she stood. “Are you ready? I better get back.”
“Yeah.” Tracy adjusted the strap of her big canvas purse. “The clientele of this place just hit
an all-time low.”
They left, leaving Dylan’s ex staring after them with her mouth hanging open.
* * * *
Dylan stopped the tractor and lifted a bottle of water to his lips. Damn, he didn’t mind grunt work, but he hadn’t expected to be the one mowing hay when he signed on as Charli’s manager. He needed to do something besides sitting around waiting for her animals to die or her to fire him.
He also had to clear his head. Something about the whole poisoning had been eating at him since he’d found those poor critters lying in the field. The more he thought about it all, the more he suspected something more malicious than bad hay.
His gut told him not to trust Kyle McPherson.
However, his gut had been wrong before.
Four good soldiers were dead and five more wounded because he’d trusted his instincts.
He put the water bottle away and shifted the tractor into gear as he looked over the neat rows of mowed grass, and snorted a chuckle. How fickle were the wishes of a farmer? After several terrible drought years, the recent storms were more than welcome. But now, he hoped the weatherman was right and the rain held off for a few days until he got the hay baled and stowed in the barn.
On the way back to the equipment shed, he looked out over the pasture bordering Oak Springs Ranch on the right. Two old derricks sat rusting away in the center of the field. On the other side of the fencerow, another loomed in what had been a jointly run oilfield for fifty years. Most of the modern Ferguson and Blackwell wealth had come from that field.
The Fergusons had invested wisely. The Blackwells hadn’t. Bad blood between the clans resulted, which only escalated when the drilling abruptly stopped forty-two years ago. The rumor from the time claimed Jock Blackwell put a stop to the drilling when Dylan’s grandfather, Jason Ferguson, married his second wife, Maddie. Jason had insisted the drilling stopped because the oil ran out.
Dylan looked back to the rutted path leading to the barn when a slight movement in the brush around one of the capped oil wells caught his attention. He swung his gaze over to the old oilrig just in time to glimpse a telltale flash of sunlight reflecting off a rifle barrel.
Instinct kicked in. He ducked down just as the whirl of a bullet passed through the cab of the tractor, displacing the air where his head should have been.
He stopped the tractor as another bullet whizzed by, scrunching his eyes closed against visions of fire, flying dirt and shredded metal. Of men’s screams of pain as they were blown to bits. He gasped at his own pain–some imagined, some real–in his bad hip. Forcing his eyes open, he focused on the instrument panel of the tractor to stay grounded in the present and not back on the mountain road outside Kandahar.
He crouched as low as he could get in the cab between the seat and the controls, reached under the seat and pulled out the .357 he’d stashed there that morning. Having lived in Texas long enough, he knew to pack heat when riding the range. In the past, it would have been for situations such as he found himself in now, but mostly, he carried the gun to kill rattlesnakes and scare off an occasional coyote.
He removed his hat and peeked over the edge of the door. Despite not seeing anything, he aimed the pistol and fired in the spot he’d first seen the flash. If nothing else, whoever was out there would know he was armed and had sharpshooter aim.
The low rumble of the tractor engine became deafening in those moments of waiting. After a few minutes, he determined the shooter had slunk back to whatever hole he’d crawled out of.
Dylan eased the tractor into gear and moved forward several yards before sitting in the seat and heading in as fast as the Monroe Special 1025 could move.
* * * *
After Dylan parked the tractor and mower in the equipment shed, he headed for the house.
Sure enough, a black Porsche parked in the drive. Upon hearing Charli’s laugh, he headed toward it. She and Leon stood in the yard by one of the flowerbeds. A pile of weeds and lopped-off overgrowth lay next to it. She held her gloves in one hand, which rested on her hip in a relaxed manor. She motioned with the other, laughing at something Leon must have said. Who would’ve thought the bastard could be so funny?
Hidden in the shadow of the house, he stared at Charli. A big straw hat cast her face in shadow, but he could hear her just fine.
“Thanks again for stopping by, Leon. Honestly, we’re fine. Dr. Evans believes my animals are on the mend.”
Leon took her free hand. “Let me know if you need anything, anything at all.”
Her bright smile hit him as hard as a kick in the balls. “I will, I promise.”
With the tenacity of a pit bull, he headed in to break up the happy couple. “Charli, you need to go inside now.”
Her brow puckered, and she pulled her hand from Leon’s. “What on Earth for?”
He peered at Leon before answering. “Someone just took a couple of pot shots at me out by the old derricks.”
“What?” Her face lost color. “Someone shot at you?”
“Yeah.” He glanced at Leon, who was dressed casually in jeans, a Western shirt and that white Stetson–like some spaghetti Western good guy. “None of your cowhands would be poaching, would they?”
Leon slipped his arm around her waist. She didn’t move away. “I highly doubt it. Are you sure they aimed for you?”
“If I hadn’t seen the sun reflect off the barrel, someone would be planning a funeral right about now.”
Charli looked a little woozy. She stepped out of Leon’s embrace, hugged herself and moved closer to Dylan. “We have to call the sheriff.”
He fought the urge to wrap his arms around her by clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. “I already did. But I really would like if you went inside.”
She nodded and looked at Leon.
He rested his hand on her shoulder and she leaned into it. “You should go in and stay in until Sheriff Cartwright gets to the bottom of this. I’m sure it’s just a hunter poaching on either your land or mine, but one can never be too cautious. I’ll stay if you want.”
“No, I’ll be okay.”
“All right.” The sight of Leon placing a kiss on her forehead about sent Dylan into the stratosphere. Leon drawled, “Call me.”
She smiled and nodded. “I will.”
After they went inside the kitchen and she brewed a pot of coffee, he paced while waiting for Zack. He couldn’t take the silence. “What’s going on between you and Ferguson?”
She poured two mugs of coffee. “He’s one of my few friends.”
“He looked damned friendly out there a few moments ago.” He hated coming off as a jealous idiot, but damn it, she could be pregnant with his baby. Besides, being shot at was enough to make anyone prickly as a cactus.
“Maybe we were. What’s it to you?” She jutted her chin. “You already think I’ve slept with him, so maybe I should. He’s more than a little interested in me.”
“Yeah, he is. When are you going to see through his lies?”
“Leon is not lying to me. He’s nice to me, which I could say your idea of nice needs reevaluating.”
The front doorbell sounded before he could respond, and she stomped down the hall to answer it. Zack Cartwright and his lieutenant, Dawn Madison, entered the foyer.
Zack pulled out a notebook from his pocket. “Tell me what happened.”
* * * *
“That bastard would’ve killed me!” Kyle McPherson paced the teak flooring of his boss’s office later that evening.
The SOB leaned back in his chair and stared out the window behind his desk. “You should have had better aim.”
“If you want Quinn dead, you fuckin’ do it. Sombitch is as crazy as a three-legged armadillo. He couldn’t’ve seen me, but if I hadn’t moved, I would be the one dead.”
The boss snorted and stood. “Now, that would have been a damned shame.”
Kyle jumped when the boss grabbed him by the front of his shirt, shook him for good measure, and gritted out betwe
en clamped teeth, “You will do exactly what I order you to do.”
“Why don’t I just finish off the calves? Or those mares? A little more jimson or some other weed will do it. Hell, I could even set it up to look like Quinn’s doing the poisonin’.”
“Why not? Because you’re being watched, you fool.” He let go of his shirt with a shove and stepped away. “Get the hell out of here. I’ll be in touch. You still owe me.”
He beat his hat on his thigh before plopping it on his head and leaving.
Chapter 11
Charli entered the diner and made her way to a booth. The place was empty. She’d timed her visit just after the breakfast rush and before the lunch crowd’s arrival. A moment later, a blonde woman, who appeared to be in her early forties, approached her table. “Hi, honey, what can I getcha?”
She returned her smile. “Sweet tea, please.”
“Comin’ right up.”
When the woman returned with the beverage, Charli asked, “Would it be possible to speak with Ella Larson for a few moments?”
The women shrugged and folded her arms over her red apron. “Sure. That’s me. What can I do for ya?”
“Can you have a seat?”
“Sure.” She slid into the booth across from her. “I’m not busy at the moment.”
Charli swallowed hard and mentally plunged. “I’d like to talk to you about your daughter, Annie.”
Her eyes widened. Annie had obviously learned how to apply makeup from her mother. “What about Annie? Are you from the Department of Family and Protective Services? I swear if that son-of-a-bitch is trying–”
“No,” she broke in, “I’m not from DFPS. My name is Charli Monroe. I’m the new owner of Blackwell Ranch.”
Ella narrowed her brown eyes at her. “What do you know about Annie?”
She took a much-needed deep breath and gulped a sip of tea to settle her nerves. It didn’t work, but she trudged on. In spite of everything going on in her own messed up life over the past week, she couldn’t stop thinking about Annie since seeing her again on Monday. “I know she’s recently been arrested for drugs.”
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