Books By Diana Palmer

by Palmer, Diana

  The last two weeks before Christmas were hectic. Crissy was having final exams at school, and juggling study with ranch chores that seemed to be endless. The chaotic disarray of the film people crowding around her made her life difficult, and she grew more and more impatient. Maude kept out of the way, and Judd never came near the ranch unless it was to take Tippy back to town to her hotel. He was polite to Crissy, but the old easy affection between them seemed to be gone forever. It didn't occur to her that Cash was usually somewhere around whenever Judd came to the ranch, and that Judd noticed.

  She and Nick and the part-timers rode fence line, doctored pregnant cows, patched leaky roofs, pitched hay, hauled water, and did the thousand and one other daily chores that kept the ranch up and running. On one free day, she went all the way to Victoria shopping for a particular sort of sterling silver tie tack that Judd had mentioned he'd seen and wanted. It took half the day to locate it, in a small jewelry store. She brought it home triumphantly and wrapped it up. When she and Maude put up their annual Christmas tree in the living room, she tucked it in among the branches where it wouldn't be too obvious. She got Cash a nice new wallet, having noticed how frayed his own was.

  Cash's visits had multiplied since Clark's arrest. Crissy noted that Tippy Moore didn't snipe at him anymore. She was oddly subdued when he was around. She kept out of his way and he ignored her completely.

  "There's fire in that smoke," Maude commented one after­noon just after Cash had driven away.

  "What smoke?" Crissy murmured, her head stuck in her text­book.

  "That model and Cash Grier," she replied. "Right now it's smoldering, while they avoid each other. But put them together and it's explosions all the way."

  "They hate each other," Crissy said, surprised.

  "Maybe. Maybe not." She cocked her head, watching Crissy while she dried plates. "You and Judd both going to Japan?"

  "Not until next year sometime, we haven't even decided on a date. But it's the best news we've had in a while." She turned a page. "Judd and I have already decided that we'll use some of the film money to replace that Salers bull. But some of our heifers had already been bred to him, and to that Hereford bull we lost, too. When we knew how many pregnant heifers we had, Nick called a man he knew who does artificial insemination, and we bought seed from a champion Salers bull. We had the re­maining heifers serviced. So now we've got a champion calf crop to look forward to in the spring. That's what the Japanese are interested in. No additives, no unnecessary antibiotics, grass-fed with only a minor mix of vitamins and supplements—none from animal parts—and pesticide-free."

  "As I recall," Maude grinned, "Judd had to be talked into that organic approach."

  "He knew I'd done my homework when I suggested it. Now he's glad, with this overseas deal cooking."

  Maude smiled at her warmly. "Child, you are a natural-born cattlewoman."

  Crissy grinned at her. "Just like my great-aunt Sarah," she re­minded the older woman, "who ran her own ranch long before it became popular for a woman to do it."

  "Judd's proud of you," she murmured, averting her eyes to the sink. "He doesn't want you to give up school, no matter how hard finances get here."

  "I'll do what I have to," she replied. "Listen, you keep that back door locked when it's just us here," she added. "One of the Clarks is in jail, but the other one isn't."

  "I haven't forgotten."

  "We can't afford to let our guard down for a minute," she added. "I even carry that pistol in the truck, under my seat" She sighed worriedly. "It was a sad day for east Texas when the Clark brothers moved here."

  "Maybe they won't be around too much longer," Maude said.

  Those words turned out to be prophetic. Four days after the cast and crew had gone home for the Christmas holidays, John Clark found himself jobless and with no way to afford a lawyer for his brother.

  Thinking he'd get money the easy way, he put on a stocking mask and walked into the Victoria Commercial Bank and Trust on Christ­mas Eve with a shotgun, just before the bank closed early at noon. It was unfortunate for him that the security guard spotted him in time to call for help, and even more unfortunate that help came in the form of the Texas Ranger assigned to that county, Judd Dunn.

  Clark fired the shotgun at the uniformed men and nicked the security guard, but not before he and Judd Dunn fired their sidearms. Neither shot missed. Clark went down. He didn't get back up.

  Judd drove up in front of the ranch house just about dark. It had been all over the six o'clock news about the attempted rob­bery and its aftermath. There was extensive footage of Clark lying on the floor in the bank lobby, covered with blood.

  Maude had watched it with Christabel, but her sister had called and asked her to come over for the night because she didn't want to be alone on Christmas Eve. Maude felt bad about leaving, under the circumstances, but her sister hadn't been well. Crissy convinced her to go. Then she waited, and hoped that Judd would come to her for comfort.

  Incredibly, he did!

  Christabel went out to the SUV and waited for him to cut off the engine and get out.

  He didn't, for a minute. He stared at her through the dusty side window with eyes that hardly saw her. They were black, dead eyes.

  She opened the door and tugged at the long sleeve of his clean white shirt. "I made coffee and fresh bread and a maca­roni and cheese casserole. There's apple pie for dessert. Come in."

  He cut off the engine and got out of the big vehicle like a sleepwalker. She noticed that his face was unusually pale.

  Impulsively, she linked her small hand into his large one and led him into the house and down the hall to the kitchen. It was unusual for him to allow her to touch him. She got drunk on the freedom. It felt right, that big, lean hand so closely tangled in her fingers.

  "Sit," she said gently, nudging him into a chair at the small table, which was already set.

  "You heard," he murmured, putting his hat in an empty chair.

  She nodded. She put nicely cooked vegetables and fresh rolls on the table in containers, along with the macaroni casserole.

  She put a plate and napkin and utensils at both places, poured coffee in two cups, handed him one, and sat down. "Say grace, Judd," she said softly.

  He did, but with a rasp in his voice. He didn't talk. She didn't expect him to. It was too fresh, too traumatic, for words just yet. She knew that.

  By the time they got to the pie, he was calmer and his big frame less rigid.

  He smiled faintly. "You know how to handle me, don't you?" he asked, glancing at her.

  "I know you," she said simply.

  He drew in a long breath and finished his pie. He sipped his second cup of coffee, watching her across the rim. "No ques­tions?"

  Her eyes met his and she saw the pain and turmoil in them. "It would be cruel," she replied.

  He actually winced. He put down the coffee cup, hard. His mouth made a thin line. He couldn't tell her. He wanted to talk. He needed to talk. But that bristling masculinity that was as much as part of him as his white shirt and silver Ranger badge made it almost impossible. He hated weakness. He couldn't admit to it.

  "You're trained not to let things bother you," she began slowly, meeting his eyes. "You have to be strong, so that other people can lean on you when there's an emergency. You can't break down or show emotion on the job, because you have to do the job. That's why it's so hard when things like this happen. You don't want to admit that it hurts when you have to use that gun you wear, or that you're torn up inside." She searched his eyes, noting the surprise there. "But you're very human, Judd, and you were raised in the church, so that makes it worse for you. I'm not going to probe, or pry, or offer platitudes. Work it out how­ever you need to. But if you want to talk, I'll always listen."

  His chest rose and fell heavily. "You and Grier," he said dully, staring into his empty cup. "He actually phoned me to say I could talk to him if I needed to."

  She studied him with hungry eye
s that she veiled with her lashes. "Cash has done a lot of terrible things over the years," she replied. "He's killed people. He knows how it is."

  His dark eyes searched hers. "Did he tell you about any of them?"

  She shook her head. "He's like you. He doesn't talk about the things that hurt most. But I think he could tell you. I think you could tell him. I know you don't like him, but he's been kind to me."

  "Kind when I wasn't," he returned surprisingly. His eyes nar­rowed on her face. "He's the sort of man who makes other men feel uncomfortable. He's done everything, been everywhere. He's cultured and rich and afraid of nothing on earth."

  She wanted to say, "But he isn't you." She didn't dare. He was involved with a woman who made her feel inferior in every way. She wasn't leading with her heart anymore.

  She got up and poured more coffee for both of them.

  He was watching her, noting the lines of strain in her face, the thinness of her young body, the condition of her faded but clean jeans and shirt and old boots. He grimaced, thinking about that ring on Tippy's finger. He'd also forgotten to bring Christabel's present down with him from Victoria, in the anguish of the day. He'd have to remember to tell her he had it, so that she wouldn't think he'd deliberately not gotten her anything.

  She sat down again. "I'm so tired," she murmured. "I've fin­ished exams, and I think I passed everything, but Nick and I have been making running repairs to fences and checking pregnant heifers all afternoon. If this Japanese deal works out, maybe we can hire one more full-time man, so I can get some rest!" she added facetiously.

  But he didn't smile. "You're too young to have to shoulder this much responsibility," he said.

  Her eyebrows arched. "I'm half owner of this place, and I don't work any harder than you do! In fact, I work less. I'm just a student. You have a demanding job."

  His face tautened. "Too demanding, right now," he said through his teeth.

  "How's the security guard?" she asked to divert him.

  "He's out of danger," he told her. "They're still picking dou­ble-ought birdshot out of him, but he'll make a good recovery. He may lose some use of his arm, though. Hell of a thing, he spotted the guy and called for backup, hoping we could take him without bloodshed. I was out on an investigation, not half a block from the bank. I ran all the way and got to the front door just as Clark was threatening a woman with the shotgun. The guard saw me slip into the front door with my sidearm out, and he went for his. Clark whirled. The guard and I fired simulta­neously, but too late to avoid return fire. The guard was hit." He looked absolutely haunted. "Clark went down like a sack of sand." He frowned heavily. "People look so helpless when they die, Christabel," he said under his breath. "Like big dolls. They lay there with everybody looking at them, invading their privacy, staring at them...and they can't do anything to protect themselves from all those gaping eyes."

  "He tried to kill someone," she reminded him. "Can't you think about what might have happened if you hadn't shown up in time? If John Clark is like his brother, he might not have hes­itated to shoot to kill."

  "That's what I was afraid he was going to do," he confessed. "The woman told us that she'd antagonized him by speaking up when he held the gun on her. He told her, in fact, that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. We wondered if he meant that he'd killed already."

  She nodded. "Maybe he killed poor old Hob Downey, isn't that what you think?"

  "Yes." He toyed with his coffee cup. "The news media jumped on his situation at once. Poor guy, his brother in jail, no money, no job. And the big bad cops shot him when he was only trying to get some money."

  She smiled sadly. "We live in bad times, Judd," she said qui­etly. “The whole world's upside down sometimes."

  "I phoned an attorney—the one the department uses—and had him tell me what to do next. Funny, I've been in the Rangers all this time, and I've never been involved in a fatal shooting."

  "You were lucky."

  He glanced up. "I guess I was. They don't know who fired the fatal shot," he added unexpectedly. "One of us hit low, the other hit high. It will take a ballistics test to determine who fired which shot, but the guard and I both carry .45 caliber weapons. It's Christmas Eve, so the lab is closed. It will be Monday be­fore they can do the examination. Clark's autopsy will have to wait until then, too, I guess. Meanwhile," he sighed, "I have to live with it."

  "You don't aim to kill," she reminded him.

  "I aimed at his hip, to take him down the quickest way," he said tersely. "But there was a river of blood from that area, bright red, arterial blood." He ran a hand through his thick black hair. "If that was my shot, it went inside and hit the femoral ar­tery."

  She wanted to say something comforting, but he was lost in the hell of his own thoughts.

  "The other shot was through the heart," he murmured. "Whichever one was mine doesn't matter so much, I guess. He would have died anyway. There'll be a hearing. I gave them a statement and now I'm on administrative leave."

  "With too much time to brood on it," she said softly. "You'll need to keep busy. Tomorrow we can dig postholes and put up fence."

  His eyebrows arched. "On Christmas Day?"

  "If you'd rather watch endless reruns of that old black and white Christmas movie they keep showing around the clock," she began.

  His black eyes twinkled, for the first time that day. "We could always watch those satellite movies you like so much," he drawled.

  She flushed and grinned. "You stop that. I have to get educa­tion where I can find it."

  "And I've already told you that those movies aren't like real life."

  She cleared her throat. "More coffee?"

  He let it drop. "No, I've had enough. Do we still have any beer?"

  "About six bottles left over from Thanksgiving, all in the fridge. Want one?"

  He nodded. "I'm not a drinker, but I'm making an exception today." He gave her a long, lingering scrutiny. "I'll never have enough to put you in danger. You know that."

  She relaxed. She had more reason than most women to be afraid of men who drank, and he knew. She smiled self-consciously. "Isn't it strange how our childhoods affect us years down the road?"

  He toyed with the handle of his coffee cup. "I remember how much I missed my mother when Dad wouldn't let her come back," he murmured.

  "You loved my mother," she reminded him.

  He smiled. "She was a character," he said. "Yes, I loved her. She had a hard life, but she was almost always smiling." He lifted his eyes to her face. "Like you."

  She shrugged. "Doesn't cost any more to smile than it does to cry," she said with a grin. "And it uses less muscles!"

  He chuckled. "I thought about staying up in Victoria in the apartment overnight. I'm glad I didn't."

  She acknowledged the subtle compliment with a smile. "Very wise," she teased. "My apple pie is better than yours," she added, tongue-in-cheek.

  "Nothing wrong with black crust and hard apples," he chal­lenged.

  "I'll get you that beer," she said, and went to the refrigerator.

  They watched television in the living room next to the tall, brightly lit Christmas tree until late, avoiding the news. Judd sprawled on the sofa in his sock feet and black T-shirt and jeans, and he went through three beers before he stopped. The trau­matic experience of the morning had shaken him badly. It was going to be impossible to live with taking a human life, and he knew it. What he didn't know was how he was going to cope with the conscience that was torturing him.

  "You're brooding again," Christabel said from her comfort­able armchair across from the sofa. "This is a really good movie. You should be paying attention."

  He shifted his head on the pillow under it and stared at her openly, from her pert breasts in the low-cut white sweater she was wearing to the subtle curve of her hips as she sat with her legs drawn up under her. Her blond hair was long, draped over her shoulders and down her back. She looked sexy. Very sexy. Usually he tried not to notice t
hat, but he was just slightly tipsy and his control was slipping.

  That look was disturbing. He had a way of watching her lately that made her body tingle. He was doing it now. Her eyes went over his lean, fit body in the close-fitting jeans and black T-shirt that showed off the breadth of his chest and the muscles in his upper arms. He was devastating physically. He wasn't bad-look­ing, either, with that lean face and broad forehead and straight nose. He had a sensuous mouth, very wide and masculine, and a jutting chin that hinted at the stubbornness that was as much a part of him as the thick, straight black hair that dropped onto his broad forehead when he leaned forward, the thick eyebrows over those deep-set black eyes, the high cheekbones of his tanned face....

  "You're staring," he accused.

  "So are you," she shot back.

  His eyes narrowed slowly. They ran over her body like ca­ressing fingers, almost physically touching her. It was like a moment out of time, with the world very far away, just the two of them in the dimly lit living room with the television blaring away, unnoticed.

  "Suppose I told you," he said intently, "that a divorce doesn't cost much more than an annulment?"

  She colored prettily. She knew what he was saying. He needed oblivion, and she was in a perfect position to provide it. But he'd been keeping company with an international model who prob­ably thought of sex as an appetizer, and she didn't want to have to follow Tippy in his bed. Not that it wasn't tempting. She'd never wanted anything or anyone the way she wanted her hus­band.