The Cowgirl in Question

by B. J Daniels

  “Six,” Cash said, and looked relieved. “I heard Brandon is back out at the ranch. You know anything about that?”

  Rourke shook his head.

  “Yeah? You probably don’t know anything about why Burt Kelly is acting oddly, either.”

  “Kelly?” Rourke echoed.

  “I already heard that you were at the VanHorn Ranch this morning. Mason saw your pickup at the office and thought there might be a problem. He said Kelly was unusually subdued after you left.”

  “Really?”

  Cash leaned his elbows on the desk and rubbed his temples with his fingers. “Want to tell me about it?”

  Rourke knew he had to give his brother something. “Forrest owed Kelly money, a grand in gambling debts.”

  Cash sat up and let out a low whistle. “You thinking Kelly might have killed him over it?”

  Rourke shook his head slowly. “But it makes me wonder if Forrest might have had other debts, other creditors who weren’t so understanding. It also makes me wonder where Forrest got the money to start with. Kelly said he’d taken Forrest for ten big ones. Any idea where someone like Forrest Danvers would get that kind of money?”

  Cash shook his head. The Danverses had been dirt poor for as far back as Rourke could remember. They were also uneducated and often in trouble with the law.

  “I hope you’re wrong about Kelly,” Cash said. “I’d love to bust that bastard for murder.”

  Rourke nodded, knowing the feeling.

  “So you didn’t tear up the place? Kick Kelly’s butt?” Cash sounded surprised.

  “Prison taught me a few things,” he said.

  “I hate to think,” Cash said and sighed. “But obviously prison didn’t make you any smarter. Easton was just here. He’s afraid you’re going to get someone killed.”

  Blaze had told Easton about the Saturday-night plan. Dear Blaze.

  “He told me some fool story about you reenacting the night Forrest was murdered. Someone could get killed.”

  “They did the last time. I was hoping you’d play Forrest,” Rourke said.

  “You can kiss my—”

  “Don’t worry.” Rourke wondered why Easton had come whining to the sheriff. “Cassidy and I are going to find the killer before Saturday night.”

  “Cassidy? Dammit, Rourke, you aren’t involving her in this, are you?”

  “She’s already involved, bro. And she’s a big girl, she can make up her own mind about whether or not to keep helping me, all right?” He got to his feet. “By the way, those doughnuts you brought me this morning were wonderful.”

  Cash looked like he had a whole lot more to say but was biting his tongue. Obviously it was painful for him.

  “Who do you think Easton was worried about getting killed?” Rourke asked, thinking of something the private investigator he’d hired had told him.

  “You know Easton’s been seeing Blaze.”

  Rourke smiled. He knew a whole lot about Easton. And Blaze. “Hasn’t everyone been seeing Blaze?” He started for the door. “Even you, I hear.”

  “It wasn’t a date,” Cash called after him. “She asked for a ride home when her car didn’t start.”

  Rourke was laughing as he left. It felt good. “See you at dinner.”

  “WHAT’S WRONG?” Easton said from the doorway. All he’d heard was Blaze utter the words “You sorry bastard!” but he knew that look on her face only too well as she swung around from the window.

  He would normally assume he was that bastard. Except something in her expression told him it wasn’t him this time.

  “Was that Yvonne Ames I saw leaving just now?” he asked. “What did she want?”

  Blaze stared right through him for a moment. She shook her head as if trying to clear it. “She just stopped in to say hi.”

  He raised a brow. He could tell when Blaze was lying, without any effort, anymore.

  “She invited me to lunch, wanted my advice. Man problems.”

  Blaze should have quit while she was ahead. He knew there was no way Yvonne would ask for her advice on anything. Maybe Blaze couldn’t see it, but Yvonne hated her guts. He wondered what Blaze had done to her. Yvonne didn’t seem the malicious type. He’d bet Blaze had taken some man from Yvonne that she was interested in. That was usually the case with the women who hated Blaze.

  He walked over to his desk and put down his briefcase. “I think Yvonne is nice,” he said, knowing it would set Blaze off.

  “You would,” she said under her breath but plenty loud enough for him to hear. “You should date her. If you haven’t already.”

  He turned to look at her, unable not to smile. Blaze was so transparent sometimes. He noticed she’d changed out of that sexy blue dress she’d been wearing earlier. He wondered what that meant. Rourke must not be coming around. Is that what had put Blaze in this mood? Or was it Yvonne’s real reason for stopping by that had set Blaze off? And what real reason had that been?

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “Fine.” She smiled but didn’t put much effort into it.

  “You seem a little on edge. I hope it isn’t Rourke who’s causing it,” he said.

  A flash of anger sparked in her eyes. “Rourke?” She let out a laugh. “Rourke has never caused me any trouble.”

  Uh-huh. Easton nodded, his mood picking right up until he remembered the trouble Rourke was causing him.

  ROURKE DROVE OUT to the Palmer Ranch only to find that Blaze’s stepbrother Gavin had taken the day off. He got the impression that Gavin had left that morning after getting a phone call warning him that Rourke was looking for him. Good old Kelly, no doubt.

  On the way back to town, Rourke took the old road, slowing at the Mello Dee Supper Club and Lounge on the outskirts of town. The place looked just as it had eleven years ago. A roadhouse with a gravel parking lot, faded-paint building and blinking neon sign out front.

  Rourke hoped to hell he and Cassidy found the killer before Saturday night as he pulled into the parking lot. He didn’t want to come back here. There was only one other vehicle in the lot, a new blue pickup, so new it didn’t even have plates yet.

  He sat for a moment, just staring at the place, reliving memories that had haunted him for years. If he had just let Blaze dance with Forrest…or never gone up Wild Horse Gulch. But Cassidy was probably right. It wouldn’t have made any difference once the killer had Rourke’s gun with his fingerprints on it.

  The place even smelled the way he remembered it. The supper club section was closed until five, but the bar was open. He glanced past the pool table. The place was dark. Except for the lit screen of a video poker machine in the corner. The single patron, a gray-haired man, sat on a stool in front of the machine, his back to him. The man didn’t turn as Rourke took a stool at the bar.

  Les Thurman was filling the beer cooler. He’d been behind the bar the night Forrest was murdered. Rourke had heard that he was still bartending even though he owned the place—just as he’d been the night Forrest was killed.

  Les had always been cool, letting underage teens in to play pool or dance to the jukebox if the place wasn’t busy. Which it often wasn’t.

  Les turned and blinked as if not sure he believed his eyes. He closed the cooler. “Rourke,” he said warmly as he came over and shook his hand. “It’s great to see you.”

  It was the most sincere greeting Rourke had had from locals and it warmed his heart more than he wanted to admit.

  “What can I get you to drink?” Les asked. He was pushing sixty, his thick gray hair, his skin worn and wrinkled from years of ranching, before he sold the place to VanHorn and bought the Mello Dee some twelve or thirteen years ago.

  “A beer would be great.” Rourke watched Les pull a cold one out of the cooler, twist off the cap and place the bottle on a napkin in front of him.

  Les leaned toward him, keeping his voice down as he glanced every so often at the man playing video poker. “I’ve thought about that night a million times over
the years,” he said before Rourke could bring up the subject. “I’ve regretted the hell out of not breaking up that fight sooner.”

  Rourke shook his head. “Nothing you did or didn’t do that night had any bearing on what happened.”

  Les didn’t look comforted by that.

  “I’ve come to realize I brought a lot of it on myself.”

  Les didn’t seem to hear him; he appeared lost in reliving the night. “I remember I was trying to close up. There were only a few of you kids hanging around. I started to shut down the jukebox at midnight but Blaze—”

  “Wanted one last dance.”

  Les wagged his head. “I didn’t see the harm in one more dance. She can be damned convincing when she wants to be.”

  Rourke nodded. Didn’t he know it. “She was trying to make me jealous and, me being the fool I was, I let it get to me.”

  Les said nothing, clearly in agreement on all counts.

  The guy at the poker machine got up, his back still to Rourke and the bar. Rourke watched him disappear down the hall to the men’s room.

  “I remember little about the fight, but Cassidy said she thought some of the guys at the bar were goading me on,” he said, turning his attention back to the bar.

  Les raised a brow at Cassidy’s name. “Yep, Easton. Cecil.” He dropped his voice even lower, “Holt VanHorn. They were giving you a hard time, that’s for sure. They even gave Cassidy a hard time when she came in. They were trying to stir up anyone they could that night.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry as hell about what happened.”

  Rourke drank his beer in the silence that fell between them. Everything about the place reminded him of that night eleven years go. He doubted Les had changed a thing. It was as if time had stood still here.

  The sound of the video poker machine in the corner broke the long silence.

  Rourke looked toward the man seemingly intent again on his game. “He must be winning.”

  Les shook his head. “Losing,” he whispered. “Usually plays a lot better. Must be distracted trying to hear what we’re saying.”

  The man turned as if on cue.

  Rourke was stunned to see that it was Mason VanHorn. Mason had changed drastically in the past eleven years, his dark hair now completely white, his face lined. He looked much older than his contemporary, Rourke’s father, Asa.

  Mason didn’t seem all that surprised to see him. Obviously Les had been right about VanHorn trying to hear their discussion.

  “Welcome home,” Mason said, sliding off his stool to walk over to him. “Les, give Rourke another beer. Put it on my tab.”

  “Thanks just the same,” Rourke said, and downed some of his beer, suddenly just wanting to get out of there. He could feel the hotheaded younger Rourke bubbling under his skin, the one who used to make scenes and get into barroom brawls.

  Mason VanHorn pulled up the stool next to him at the bar and motioned to Les to make him another drink. Rourke saw Les’s expression. He didn’t like VanHorn any better than Rourke did. But then Les might have even more reason to hate VanHorn. There’d been talk years ago that VanHorn had cheated Les out of his ranch, forced him to sell.

  “I’ll have to go get another bottle of Scotch,” Les said, making it clear he was put out.

  Mason didn’t seem to notice. “So how is your father?” he asked Rourke, as if he and Asa were old friends instead of lifelong adversaries. “Probably pretty much semi-retired like me, I guess.”

  “He’s fine,” Rourke said, not looking at him.

  “I haven’t seen him in town much,” Mason said, and turned his empty drink glass in his fingers as he waited for Les to come back. “I heard he had a heart attack a while back. I hope he’s feeling all right.”

  Rourke could feel the heat, the anger like a second skin just beneath his. “How is Holt these days?”

  Mason bristled. “Fine.”

  Brandon had told him that Mason and Holt had had a falling-out and Holt had moved into town. Right after Rourke went to prison. “Some kind of bad blood there,” Brandon had said. “No one seems to know what it was about.”

  Les came from the back with a bottle of Scotch and took his time mixing Mason a drink.

  “Holt’s just fine,” Mason repeated and took a swallow of his old drink, all water by now. “I’ll tell him you asked about him.”

  “You do that,” Rourke said, finishing his beer. Les motioned that his beer was on the house as he set Mason’s mixed drink in front of him.

  Rourke nodded his thanks and left a tip as he slid off the stool.

  “It was good seeing you,” Les said.

  “You, too,” Rourke said.

  “Again, I’m sorry the way things turned out,” Les said, sounding like he meant it.

  Rourke tried not to look at Mason VanHorn. He knew he should just walk away before he said or did something he would regret. Mason knew damned well that his foreman fleeced every cowhand in the county when he got the chance. But Rourke knew that was only part of the reason he despised the man. His dislike was inherited—a family grudge that went back to his grandfather’s time but had continued with his own father and Mason.

  Rourke wasn’t even sure what all the VanHorns had done to start the feud between the two families. Whatever it was it ran deep. Probably a battle over land. Wasn’t that usually the case? That or a woman.

  He glanced over at Mason. “On second thought, don’t bother to give Holt my regards. I’ll be looking him up myself.”

  He noted Mason’s uneasy look, then turned and walked out. He was almost to his pickup, when he saw the piece of white folded paper stuck under his windshield wiper.

  A sense of déjà vu made him sick to his stomach. Like a sleepwalker, he moved toward the pickup and plucked the note from under the windshield, unfolding the paper just as he had the night of Forrest’s murder.

  He thought he could feel someone watching him from inside the bar. Mason.

  He stared down at the words scrawled on the note: Leave well enough alone or join Forrest. He balled up the note, turning to look back at the bar. The late-afternoon sun glinted off the windows, making it impossible to see inside. Mason had left the video poker machine supposedly to go to the men’s room. He could have slipped out the back door easy enough and put the note under the wiper.

  Rourke realized he could also have been followed to the bar. He hadn’t been watching for a tail, hadn’t even thought he needed to. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  Rourke got into his truck, tossed the note to the floor and started the engine, shaking inside from anger.

  Did someone really think he could be scared off by a rattlesnake or a stupid note?

  Chapter Ten

  Everyone was already in the family dining room standing around waiting when Rourke walked in just before six.

  He took his old spot across from J.T., and for a moment he felt as if he hadn’t been gone eleven years, as if he’d never been to prison, as if it had all been a bad dream.

  “You want to tell us what this is about?” J.T. asked his father after they were all seated.

  “Can’t a father have his family to dinner without there being some big announcement?” Dusty asked.

  They all ignored her, instead waiting for Asa to tell them what was going on.

  Rourke looked down the table at his father. Asa had been acting strangely, but Rourke figured it had something to do with him getting out of prison. He just hoped to hell that wasn’t what this dinner was about as he watched Martha and several new cook’s assistants serve the food.

  “Come on, what’s going on?” J.T. demanded. “You practically jump out of your skin every time the phone rings.”

  Asa was pushing his food around on his plate and didn’t seem to hear.

  “Dad?” Cash said.

  His father looked up in surprise. “I’m sorry, you want the roast?” he asked, reaching for the large platter.

  “No,” J.T said. “I asked what the hell is bothering you. I
f something’s going on we should know about—”

  The doorbell rang. Asa knocked over his water glass as he stumbled to his feet.

  “Martha’s got it,” J.T. said.

  Rourke, like all the others, was staring at his father. Asa had gone pale and, even from where Rourke sat, he could see that his father was shaking.

  Martha appeared in the doorway. Like Asa, she seemed upset.

  Rourke was on his feet. “Martha, what is it?” He’d barely gotten the words out of his mouth when a woman appeared in the doorway. She was blond, somewhere in her late fifties although she could have passed for much younger. She had the palest, clearest blue eyes he’d ever seen—even paler than his own.

  Although he’d been too young to remember his mother, he knew that’s who she was. Just as he realized in that instant of absolute silence before all hell broke loose that his father had lied about her death.

  “What the hell is going on?” J.T. demanded.

  Asa didn’t seem to hear him. “As usual, Shelby, your timing is horrendous.”

  Her laugh was magnificent and Rourke thought he remembered it, that wonderful joyous tinkle of laughter that seemed to light up the entire house.

  “Oh, Asa, you old goat, you know you love surprises,” she said, looking around the table, her blue eyes seeming hungry as if she couldn’t get enough of each of them.

  Asa was looking at Shelby, a mixture of anger and awe, Rourke thought. He could practically feel the chemistry between them.

  He looked over at his sister. The resemblance was uncanny between Dusty and Shelby and he could see that Dusty hadn’t missed it. He let out a low oath and shook his head. He’d always suspected Dusty was his half sister but now it was clear who her mother had been.

  Everyone was talking at once, just like the old days before the knock-down-drag-out fights began.

  Shelby walked over to Asa, her eyes tearing as she kissed his old weathered cheek. “Something tells me this is going to be some story,” Rourke said under his breath.