Son of a Gun

by Joanna Wayne

  “I’ll hate to see you go,” Carolina said, “but I know your aunt must be eager to see you.”

  “She is, but I assured her that you were the most gracious hosts a wounded traveler could hope for. Oh, and she said that my uncle will check on the car and have it towed, if necessary.”

  “Sounds as if you have everything under control,” Damien said. He pushed back from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I still need to feed and water the horses.”

  Her heart sank at the careless goodbye.

  But it was for the best. No more zings of attraction to send her on a shaky emotional high. No more illusions.

  No more Damien.

  The phone rang as he carried his empty plate to the sink.

  Carolina looked up from feeding Belle. “Can you get that, Damien?”

  “Sure thing.” He picked up the cordless extension, glanced at the caller ID and then left the room before answering.

  Emma glanced at her watch. It was twenty minutes before nine.

  * * *

  “THIS IS KELLY’S CHAUFFEUR Service. I’m supposed to pick up Emma Smith at Bent Pine Ranch this morning at nine o’clock, but there’s a major pileup out here on Interstate 35. Nothing’s moving. I mean nothing. It’s been one fender bender after another all morning.”

  So there was no uncle driving out to pick Emma up. Another lie. But why? Was Emma afraid or just a psychopathic liar?

  “I’ll see that she gets the message,” Damien said.

  “I’m really supposed to talk directly to the passenger in a situation like this.”

  “She’s not available right now. Why don’t you call back closer to nine?”

  “I suppose I can do that. Tell her I’ll be there whenever I can, but I suspect it will be closer to ten than nine. It might even be later.”

  “I’m sure she’ll understand.” And Damien planned to understand a lot more himself before this was over. He started back to the kitchen. There would be a confrontation. Whether or not it was private would be up to Emma.

  The doorbell rang. What now?

  He strode back through the den and into the foyer. When he opened the door, Sheriff Garcia stared back at him, a grim turn to his ruddy mouth.

  The sheriff worried the brim of his worn Stetson. “Morning, Damien.”

  “Good morning, Sheriff. You look like a man who could use a cup of hot coffee and one of Mother’s pancakes.”

  “I could use them, but there’s no time for that this morning.”

  “Guess the weather is playing havoc with the traffic.”

  “Nope. It’s the idiots who don’t know how to drive in this weather that cause the problems. But that’s not why I’m here.”

  “So what’s up?”

  “The Dobson boys were out on their four-wheelers this morning.” His tone was grim.

  “Was there an accident?”

  “No, but while they were out, they spotted a truck hooked up to a trailer. The tops were covered in snow like they had been there all night.”

  “Was anybody around?”

  “No one was in the cab,” the sheriff continued, “but the back door of the trailer was open. Naturally, they jumped in to look around, especially since no one uses that old logging road but them.”

  “The old logging road that borders my property?”

  “That’s the one. In fact, they found the truck near where the road skirts Beaver Creek.”

  Damien’s attention piqued. “Are you sure they said truck and not an SUV?”

  “It was a truck, all right—with a body inside the back lying in a pool of blood.”

  Damien’s stomach clenched. This was too close to where he’d found Emma. There was no way it could not be related. “Have you been to the site?”

  “Just left there. Man had a knife right through his chest.”

  “Murder?”

  “Looks that way. There was blood leading away from the truck and into the woods. Whoever did him in must have gotten cut in the scuffle.”

  Damien’s mind rocked with sickening possibilities. He’d been suspicious of the ditched-car story, but murder had never crossed his mind. “I don’t suppose you spotted any other vehicles in the area.”

  “Not even a tire track. I don’t think that road’s been used in at least a year, unless it was by some druggies looking for a quiet place to get high.”

  And this might be drug related, as well. But Emma had not been on drugs last night when he’d found her.

  “I hated to interrupt you knowing this weather would be keeping you busy,” Garcia said, “but I thought I oughtta let you and your family know since it happened so close to your house. I figured you’d want to keep your eyes and ears open for trouble.”

  “I appreciate that,” Damien said, though the warning had come a little late.

  The sheriff looked past him and over his right shoulder. “I didn’t realize you had company. Hope I didn’t scare her with murder talk.”

  Damien turned and spotted Emma standing several feet away. He didn’t know how much she’d heard, but from the ghostly pallor of her face, he’d say she’d heard enough.

  “If you spot anyone in the area who looks suspicious, give me a call,” the sheriff said.

  “Count on it.” But first Damien would get a few answers of his own.

  He closed the door and turned toward Emma. She didn’t move or blink an eye. It was as if she were in shock, but he didn’t trust her appearance any more than he trusted her words. Not now.

  “We need to talk, Emma. This time in my room, where we won’t be disturbed. And no more lies. The party’s over.”

  Chapter Five

  Julio was dead and the weapon that had killed him was no doubt the same one that had inflicted the wound on her arm.

  Emma’s legs felt weak and rubbery, but somehow she managed to move them enough to be led by Damien. Even her breath seemed to be suspended until he pushed her into a room and closed the door behind them.

  Finally anger broke through the shock. “I didn’t kill Julio. I couldn’t have. The knife was never in my hand.”

  “But that is your blood in the truck?”

  “Yes. It’s my blood, because the low-down, degenerate creep attacked me with his knife.”

  “Why did you lie about how you were injured?”

  “Because I didn’t want you or anyone else to know I’d ever been in that stinking truck. And don’t take that condescending tone with me, Damien Lambert. You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

  She took a deep breath and fought off the budding hysteria and the hot tears burning in the corners of her eyes.

  “If I sounded condescending, I’m sorry. But a man’s been murdered, and to this point you’ve been feeding me nothing but lies.”

  “I didn’t kill Julio, and that’s the truth. I never intended to drag you into my problems. That’s the truth, too. So pretend you never saw me. A car is picking me up any minute. Just let Belle and me get in it and ride away and I promise I’ll never set foot on your ranch or in your life again.”

  He shook his head. “Not going to happen that way.”

  “It will be easier on both of us.”

  “I don’t aid and abet murder suspects, Emma. And I don’t believe in running from problems or hiding behind lies. Level with me and I might be able to help. Keep playing games, and I call Sheriff Garcia. Believe me, you’ll like talking to me better than you will him.”

  “Trust me, Damien. You’d run, too, if you were in my shoes.”

  “You haven’t given me one reason to trust you. And I’m not in your shoes. I’m in these boots that have tramped through more disgusting predicaments than you can count. I can handle whatever trouble you’ve got yourself into, as long as you’re as innocent as you claim.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  “Try me. What happened between you and this Julio guy who was murdered last night?”

  She threw up her hands in frustration. She’d like nothing better t
han to spill her guts and get this all out in the open, but if she did she might as well stick a knife in her own chest. Still, Julio was dead and she was a suspect. She couldn’t just walk away from that.

  “Julio tried to rape me,” she said, determined to keep this as simple as possible. “I tried to fight him off and got injured in the process. But I swear I never had my hands on that knife. I didn’t kill him.”

  Unless… Her heart slammed against her chest as her mind circled a horrifying possibility.

  Unless he’d fallen on his knife when she’d kicked his legs out from under him. That would explain why he hadn’t come after her or shot her in the back.

  “I didn’t stab him,” she repeated, but the conviction had gone out of her voice.

  “Keep going.”

  “I kicked him and he went down. I took off running. I guess it’s possible he fell on his knife, but my efforts were pure self-defense. There’s no way I could have overpowered him. He’s twice my size and I had Belle.”

  Damien’s eyes bore into hers. “Did he rape you?” His voice had grown so husky, it didn’t sound like him.

  “No, but only because I got away.” While he lay there bleeding to death. She felt sick to her stomach, and her nerves were so shaky she had to grab on to a bedpost for support.

  Damien’s fingers raked his thick, dark hair back from his forehead. “Is Julio Belle’s father?”

  “No. Thank God, no.”

  “So who was he?”

  “He was the truck driver and the man in charge.”

  “In charge of what?”

  This was where things were going to get sticky. She was innocent of murder, but crossing the border illegally was a crime even if she was an American citizen. The sheriff could arrest her and hold her for that.

  He wouldn’t, of course, if he knew the full story. But then the information about her kidnapping would go viral and Caudillo would make sure her freedom and her life came to an untimely end. But she had to give Damien an explanation that he’d buy.

  “The truck carried illegal aliens across the border,” she admitted.

  “Human trafficking.” Disgust colored Damien’s voice. “Were there others on the truck when he tried to rape you?”

  “No. He’d let them out, some just this side of the border, some near the highway so that they could find their way to Dallas. He’d forced me to stay while he drove the truck to that deserted spot where I finally escaped.”

  “So what were you doing on the truck? You look and sound American to me.”

  “I am, and we should really just leave it at that.”

  “Nice try. Now, why were you on the truck?”

  “I was…” She tried to come up with a reasonable explanation, but none came to mind.

  “Did you work for the man who was murdered?”

  “Absolutely not,” she protested. “If you think I’m capable of being involved in an operation that treats people like cattle, then talking to you is a total waste of time.”

  “So why were you on the truck?”

  “I swear I didn’t kill Julio and I was a passenger on that truck for personal reasons. Can’t we just let it go at that? If I tell you more, I’ll just be dragging you into my problems.”

  “Damn it, Emma. I’m not worried about Julio. I’m worried about you and Belle, and if I was trying to avoid trouble, I’d have just turned you over to the sheriff. And you sure as hell don’t have to protect me. I’m a big boy. I can handle myself.”

  He was big, muscular, strong and determined. And decent. That was the problem. Once she told him the truth, he wouldn’t walk away.

  He’d think he could save her from Caudillo, but he’d only put her, himself and possibly his wonderful family in jeopardy. “I can’t draw you into this, Damien.”

  He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Then you leave me no choice but to call Sheriff Garcia so that he can arrest you.”

  The look in his eyes convinced her he wasn’t bluffing. And if the sheriff put her under official arrest, how long would it take for Caudillo to realize that the Emma Smith accused of killing a human trafficker was really Emma Muran?

  She dropped to the edge of the bed. “I should warn you that this is a very ugly, complex and convoluted story. And you have to promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you won’t get me killed so that you can be a hero.”

  “Being a hero is the furthest thing from my mind. And I’ve never thrown a woman to the wolves. I don’t plan to start now.”

  She stared into space as the events of the past ten months replayed in her mind.

  “You can start anytime,” Damien said.

  “I’m just trying to decide where to begin.”

  “You could start with taking off that ridiculous wig.”

  She ran her fingers through the wiry hair that touched her shoulder before trailing down her back. “You knew?”

  “I did when you came into the kitchen last night with it hanging lopsided from your head.”

  Yet still he’d stayed up and offered to help her. Hopefully, he’d still feel that way after he knew the truth. She jerked the cheap, tacky wig from her head and tossed it onto the bed.

  “You’re a blonde?” he said.

  “Yeah. Forget everything you’ve ever heard about them having more fun.”

  * * *

  DAMIEN WAS TEMPTED TO GO over and sit beside Emma, but right now she was getting to him on so many levels he didn’t trust himself to keep a clear head if he was that near her.

  Emma pushed a lock of chin-length bobbed hair behind her right ear. “It started as a planned two-week island-hopping adventure to the Caribbean with my friend and coworker Dorothy Paul.”

  “When was this?” Damien asked, trying to keep events clear in his mind.

  “Last March. We’d been planning the trip for months, but two weeks before we were scheduled to go, Dorothy’s car started giving her trouble. She decided to put the money she’d saved for vacation on a new car.”

  “So you went alone?”

  “I did. That was mistake number one.”

  “I take it there were complications,” he said, trying to get her to keep talking.

  “Major complications, but not until five days into the trip. Up until then, I was having the time of my life, sipping tropical drinks in paradise and soaking up the sun on gorgeous strips of surf-washed sand.”

  And no doubt driving men wild with her blond hair and her great body in a tiny bikini. Better he didn’t let his mind go there. “What happened to spoil the trip?”

  “A private boat we’d charted ahead of time picked me up and took me to Misterioso Island, one of the few gems still mostly unspoiled by tourists.”

  “Where exactly is Misterioso?”

  “It’s part of the southern island chain in the Lesser Antilles, not far from Aruba and less than thirty miles from Venezuela. I fell in love with the island the second I stepped off the vessel. The hotel was a like a movie set, with wide verandas and flowers everywhere. And the sea was a shade of blue that was positively mystical.”

  “Sounds like heaven.”

  “Yes, but unfortunately, Misterioso turned out to be the entrance to hell.”

  Her shoulders slumped and a haunted look glazed her eyes. Unless she was Oscar quality at faking emotions, she was telling the truth now, and reliving the events was taking its toll.

  “If you’d like, I can get you some coffee, tea, water—or something a lot stronger.”

  “No. Just let me get through this before I crater and dissolve into tears or fury. I’ve had my share of both.”

  “Feel free to let it all hang out. This house has seen plenty of both over the years.”

  “Not like this. The first night on the island, I spotted this fabulous yacht anchored offshore. When I asked about it, the hotel staff eagerly filled me in on the details. The yacht’s owner was a handsome and extremely wealthy entrepreneur who made infrequent stops
at their island. But when he did, he created a stir.”

  “Big spender?”

  “Always. He paid for everything in cash and left huge tips, sometimes as much as a hundred dollars for a drink, or what amounted to a hundred dollars had it been in American currency. That was a fortune to the lucky staff who received the generous tips. They fought to see who could do the most for him.”

  “Was he American?”

  “No. European, a cosmopolitan mix of nationalities, I think.”

  “Did he speak English?”

  “Fluently. And also Spanish, Portuguese, French, German, Italian and perhaps others. That’s basically all I know of his background since he never shared personal information about himself. He thrived on combining the ostentatious with the clandestine. And on maintaining complete control of every aspect of his environment, including people.”

  “You still haven’t mentioned his name.”

  “Because I hate even saying it out loud. And because telling you opens the door even wider for you to get involved in my problems and with this monster.”

  “I’m not going to do anything foolish.” That was the best he could promise.

  “Caudillo.”

  She spat it out as if it would burn if it lingered on her lips.

  “A warlord,” he said, acknowledging the word’s meaning.

  “Right, and it was an apt moniker for him, though I can think of a few others that would fit even better.”

  “Was that a first name or a last name?”

  “It was the only name he ever used whenever I was around. I seriously doubt it was legitimate.”

  “So how did you hook up with him?”

  “He had dinner on the island that first night. He invited me to his table, said it was bad luck to eat alone in paradise. Corny, I know, but I was in a fantasy-vacation frame of mind. At any rate, for the rest of the evening, he centered all his attention on me.”

  Damien pictured the two of them in the island paradise and couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy.

  “We spent the next two days together,” Emma continued, “walking on the beach, swimming in the surf, dining on seafood delicacies and sipping expensive wines that he supplied from his onboard selections. It was the perfect island experience. A bit surreal. Temporary. And seemingly harmless.”