[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Six
Isobel ran her finger under her nose. Three days had passed and the remnants of Ivy Parkinson's barn still smoldered. Barn fires always did. Ivy had probably a couple tons of hay stored in the loft. However, these curls of smoke, which reached toward the powder blue sky resembling the reaper's fleshless fingers, carried something more than the scent of burnt grain. They reeked of death.
Warner's camera's shutter clinked. And again. And again, as he took pictures from all angles of the ashes that had once been Ivy's home.
Sitting on the front fender of her taxi, Isobel shifted as a bead of sweat trickled down her spine. She'd parked the car under the spindly branches of a madrone tree hoping for shade, but the mid-morning sun beat down on the barren clay earth driveway and rose up, creating a searing shroud. They needed rain, bad.
She watched the Yankee pick his way into the wreckage. His Phillies baseball cap sat backwards on his head, its bill out of his way and protecting his neck from the sun's rays. His sunglasses dangled from his golf shirt's unbuttoned neckline. She couldn't help but notice the way his shirt's robin's egg color matched his eyes. The light tone made his tan appear deeper. Warner wasn't the type to be roped to a desk job. Issy could appreciate that. She got cabin fever if locked indoors for a day.
The man was getting hot. From fifty feet, she couldn't see beads of sweat on his brow, but she did see the damp markings under his arms. Still the Yankee dug his heels in and worked. His gaze narrowed against the sun's brilliant rays as he scrutinized the charred ruins.
The scorched and broken roof of the two-story log home had crumpled inward. A tangled mass of trusses lay upon remains of appliances and furniture. The massive river rock fireplace chimney stood tall and blackened, the only element of the home to survive the destruction.
Bile seared Isobel's throat. Rumor had it Ivy had been found just outside the backdoor, approximately where Warner now crouched. She'd barely escaped the flames which engulfed her home, but not unscathed.
Isobel decided right there to take a couple of hours and drive up to Lubbock to visit Ivy.
Her gaze wandered across the barnyard. A lead rope hung from the gate post. Ivy's beloved horses, locked in the barn for the night, hadn't escaped.
The barn, a pile of blackened timbers and smoldering hay bales, entombed the carcasses of Ivy's livestock.
She cringed. This tragedy had to be an accident. How could someone be responsible for this horror?
But the county sheriff thought differently. He'd called in a state fire marshal.
Who would want to harm the dear sixty-five year old woman?
Isobel wiped the tear that surfaced on the edge of her eyelid. With a sip of water from the bottle she held, she washed down the emotions threatening to escape.
Warner let the camera fall against his chest, stood, and brushed his hands across his jeans, leaving trails of black residue along his thighs. He picked his way out of the remains, grabbed a few items from his case and crossed back to the area.
"Did you find something?” She shielded her eyes with her hand.
"Maybe."
He scraped particles into an envelope. Afterwards, he snapped a couple pictures of the vicinity again.
"Do you want some water?"
He declined, shaking his head.
Curious as to what Warner might've found, Isobel slid off the car, tossed the plastic bottle inside on the bench seat and tucked her hands into her back jean pockets. She strolled closer to the site. “I'd heard the barn burned first and the sparks got the house."
"Uh-huh."
Warner shifted and nudged a timber to the side. His expression was one of total concentration.
Isobel studied the region he examined. All she saw was what was left of the back porch stairs. “You don't think so, do you?"
"No. I don't."
"Why not?"
He stepped out of the ashes and met her. Together they circled around the foundation's perimeter. His eyes remained fixed on the ruins. “If your barn was on fire what would you do?"
Isobel drew in a deep breath. The charred scent tickled her nostrils and helped put her in Ivy's place. “I'd have someone call 911 and rush to rescue the livestock."
He stopped and looked down at her. His brow arched. “If you were alone?"
"A barn fire. I guess I'd try to get the livestock out, but the smart thing would be to call 911 and then try to get the livestock out."
"Exactly.” He made a tapping motion in the air with his index finger. “I understand Mrs. Parkinson was in good health."
"She is.” Isobel's heart ached imaging the hell Ivy was going through now. “Well, she was. Very. You'd swear she was in her late forties."
"Then why was she still in the house?"
"Maybe she was asleep and when she woke— No that doesn't make sense. Ivy had at least a dozen head of cattle and two horses. They were locked in the barn. They would've made enough of a ruckus to wake Derrick."
"Her hired hand?"
"Yes. Derrick Stumal. He's worked for Ivy for more than twenty years. He lives in the bunkhouse just over the rise.” She pointed west beyond the barn.
"The sheriff said he'd be here. I'll need to talk to him.” Warner turned the last corner and headed for his equipment.
"Do you want me to get him?"
"No. I'll go with you.” Warner stooped, put the envelope and a few other tools back into his case and snapped it shut.
"You can leave that in the cab."
He shook his head as he rose. “It contains evidence. It stays with me until I can messenger what I've found to the lab in Austin."
"What did you find?"
Warner trapped his lower lip between his teeth. The look he gave her said it all. He wouldn't speculate.
"Ok. I understand. You can't say, yet."
"Exactly."
She took the lead down the gravel road toward the bunkhouse, but Warner quickly jumped in step beside her.
"How many ranch hands does Mrs. Parkinson employ?"
"Just Derrick. The ranch is only a hundred acres."
"Where I come from, a hundred acres is a lot of land."
"Not in Texas. Most working ranches are spread out over five-hundred or more acres. Where are you from anyway?"
"Pennsylvania. I moved to Austin about a year ago. I thought this was a working ranch?"
"Ivy grows blue agave."
Warner chuckled. “Ah what?"
"Agave. Century plants.” Isobel pointed to the hillside dotted with hundreds of blue spiked plants. “They're used to make tequila."
"I thought tequila came from Mexico."
"Not all of it. The agave can be grown in certain regions of Arizona, New Mexico and Texas. After Ivy's husband passed, she decided to grow the agave. Less trouble than cattle, she said. The ranch has been turning a profit every year since she started harvesting the plants."
"How long has that been?"
"Going on three years now. Here's the bunk house."
Nestled under an arch of huge oaks, the sturdily built cabin sat back from the road some twenty feet. Each of the three plank steps leading up to the small porch moaned under their feet. A couple of rockers anchored one side of the outdoor space while a small table and hardback chairs occupied the other. Isobel pictured a couple of cowboys sitting out here after a day's work, chewing a wad of tobacco, playing cards and watching the sunset over the rolling desert.
She knocked on the solid oak door.
They heard no movement inside.
Her eyes met Warner's questioning gaze.
She rapped again, a little harder. “Derrick, it's Isobel Trinidad."
Still no response.
"Did the sheriff tell him you'd be here today?” she asked.
"That's what I got from the conversation."
"Maybe he's taking a shower,” Isobel speculated.
"I don't hear water running."
Warner was r
ight. The bunkhouse was small and built off the ground for easy access to the pipes. If Derrick had water running, they would've heard the pump and the flow of water.
Isobel sided-stepped the Yankee. The window shade was raised and she peered inside the cabin. “I don't see him. I wonder—"
The door latch clicked behind her.
"What are you doing?"
"It's unlocked.” Warner cracked the door. “Mr. Stu—"
He glanced at her, apparently looking for the right pronunciation of Derrick's surname.
"Stumal,” she answered.
"Mr. Stumal, my name is Warner Keyson. I'm a state fire marshal. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
A hawk, swooping close to the barn, screeched in protest at the lingering heat and cut the silence echoing from the cabin. Warner's brow pulled together. “Stay here."
He quietly sat his case down, eased open the door and stepped inside.
Isobel followed.
The sparsely furnished room was unoccupied. The air conditioner stuffed into a side window was turned off. The air smelled dank as if the place had been closed up for a while.
Warner frowned over his shoulder. “You don't listen,” he said in a harsh whisper.
"When I choose."
"Don't touch anything."
The Yankee's warning set her nerves on edge and Isobel shoved her hands into her pockets.
Warily they took opposite directions and circled the twenty by twenty room that served both as a living room and eat-in kitchen.
Isobel rounded the oak table. She peered into an ironstone mug which sat on the butcher block counter. “Whew. This coffee smells like it's been here for days. The milk is curdled, and there's mold floating on the coffee in the pot."
"I wonder where he went.” Warner pulled a kerchief from his back pocket and used it to shift papers lying on an open ledge of the secretary's desk. “He's got a few bills overdue."
"My papa couldn't write a check on time if his life depended on it."
Warner moved about the room. “There's an inch of dust on everything."
"Typical man."
Shooting her a defiant glance, he moved to the coffee table. “The TV remote is covered too."
"Maybe Derrick doesn't watch TV often. I don't."
"Not even Rachael Ray?"
"Rachael who?"
"New York chef. Has her own show."
"I do all right in the kitchen, if that is what you're after."
"You want to prove it?"
A sparkle shimmered in his blue eyes. For some God unknown testosterone-filled whim, Warner loved to goad her. While their gaze held, heat grew beneath her bandana. Under her thin shirt, her nipples tightened.
Isobel didn't especially care that she liked the Yankee's kidding. She didn't want to be attracted to a man who made her teeth grind. “Not to you."
Warner chuckled. “Maybe one day."
She opened a cabinet door, not checking for anything in particular. She needed to do something other than stare at Warner's hard body. “I doubt it,” she said over her shoulder.
"We'll see."
Warner's challenge made her turn. She wasn't ready for the impact of his smile. Her heart skipped. Isobel's skin warmed as his gaze traced over her body. No matter how attracted she was to this man, she wasn't going to get involved. At least on his terms. He wanted dinner. She didn't want to cook. By his look, he'd liked to get down and nasty with her. If she decided she wanted him, she'd say when and how.
"As a tax payer, I'm paying you right now, right?"
"Right. Back to the dust and the work at hand,” he said, surveying the rest of the room. “I don't know any man who doesn't check the weather or news or sports at least once a day for some reason or another."
Isobel checked the refrigerator. “There's not much in here, a few beers, a half dozen apples, couple of eggs, condiments."
Warner crossed the room and scanned the bedroom. “The bed's been slept in. The spread is thrown back as if he jumped out of it in a hurry."
She pushed the refrigerator door shut and moved next to Warner. The mix of his cologne and burnt wood lassoed her senses and caused her pulse to quicken. She immediately stepped back. “He raced out of here when he realized the barn was on fire."
"Maybe."
Warner stared off into thin air as if he watched a scenario playing out in front of them. “What are you thinking?"
"I'm wondering where he slept the last few nights because it doesn't look like he's been here in days."
"Maybe he stayed at the motel because he didn't want to be faced with this disaster before his morning coffee."
Warner followed her to the kitchen area. His nose crinkled as he studied the chipped mug. “What can you tell me about Mr. Stumal?"
"Besides that he loves coffee with his milk?"
"Yeah, besides that."
"He drives Ivy into town sometimes. When I've seen him, he hasn't said much. He's on the shy side. He's a hard worker, from what Ivy has told me. She depends on him a lot."
"By the looks of things, the man left here in a real hurry."
"There was a fire."
"I know.” Warner plucked his cell phone from the holder clipped to his belt and moved about the room.
"What are you doing?"
He stopped in front of her. “No service. I need to call the sheriff. He can contact Chief Raleigh and they can meet us here."
Pictures of Ivy with Derrick skipped through her thoughts. Only once had she witnessed an argument between them and that was just recently. Isobel's gut tightened. “Why? You don't think Derrick had something to do with the fire do you?"
"I only know what I see. This fire was arson. I'm sure of it, and Mr. Stumal seems to have disappeared."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Seven
Warner clicked another picture of the fire's point of origin and then glanced at Isobel who paced by her cab's back bumper. She checked her watch for the second time in a span of five minutes.
The sun hit the site of their third stop, a small tool shed built out on the backside of the Turkson's farm, at a fifty degree angle. It had to be nearly four.
When he'd hired Isobel for the day, she had said she needed to be back in town by four. Waiting for both the sheriff and chief at the Parkinson ranch had delayed them.
Chief Raleigh sided with Issy. They didn't think Derrick had anything to do with the fires. Raleigh said Derrick was at the site of the blaze and had been really upset. Spitting mad. But the county sheriff didn't know Derrick that well and also thought it strange he'd disappeared. They had questions for the man. If Stumal didn't have the right answers, the evidence Warner collected could be used to put the guy behind bars.
"How much time do I have?"
"Take your time. I know this is important."
"I'm almost done."
"No problem."
Warner studied shards of blue glass. He hadn't thought much about them at the Parkinson's place, but what would glass jars be doing in a tool shed?
While adjusting the focus of his camera, out of the corner of his eye, he caught Isobel pulling back the sleeve of her shirt again. He wondered if she had a date with a local cowboy.
The thought of another man holding Isobel close made him hotter under the collar than he already was from the sun.
He knew he shouldn't let it bother him, but after spending hours with the woman, walking in the wake of her sweet scent, witnessing her concern over an old woman and her animals, enjoying bits of banter with her, he knew he wanted to get to know Isobel on a deeper level. He needed time with her to do that.
How?
He couldn't hire her to drive him around again. Doing so had been a lame excuse to begin with. It wouldn't work a second time.
He snapped a couple more pictures and stood. It was Saturday night. If she had plans to go back to the town's hot spot, he might run into her there. This time he'd just ask her to dance, and he had a feeling she w
ouldn't run.
The thought of holding Isobel close stirred Mercy.
"Where are you off to tonight? The saloon again?"
Isobel stopped pacing by the back fender. Her hands dove into the front pockets of her jeans, adding a bulge to her flat stomach. She poked her right toe into the ground behind her left foot in an effort to look relax, which failed. Her taunt expression and stiff posture said otherwise. “No. The rodeo is tonight."
Warner smiled inside. There wasn't a cowboy in Isobel's plans, just work. He stepped from the ashes and packed up his gear. “Ah. What time does the rodeo start?"
"The parade into the arena is at seven."
He opened the cab's back door and placed his kit inside on the floorboard. “Are you and Lizzy racing tonight?"
"Yeah."
He pushed the door close and turned to face her. “I've never been to a rodeo. Maybe I'll come and watch you win."
Her gazed dropped shyly. Blush tinted her tan cheeks. When she looked up at him, the gold flecks in her dark eyes danced.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I'm up against some damn great barrel racers. I sure could use the money though."
"Is that why you decided to drive me around today, because of the fare?” His gaze latched on to hers.
Her pink tongue darted across her full lips. “That and you piqued my interest—with the fires."
He stepped closer to her. “You didn't know what I did until after we started out."
"I, ah—"
"Admit it, Isobel. You like me."
Her chin rose. “I find you amusing."
"And I find you—” He wanted to slide his hand around her waist and pulled her close, but he wouldn't. Taking the lead would make her dig her heels in and resist. He had to play it cool and let her make the first move. Or all the moves. He wouldn't mind lying back and enjoying Isobel.
"You find me what?"
Her hands had moved up to her hips. He noted the rise and fall of her breasts. Warner drew in a breath. Her scent filled his nostrils. Mercy stirred again. It was going to be so hard keeping his hands and Mercy under control, but he would and in the end he'd have her.
Obsessed by Wildfire Page 4
