Texas Tall

by Janet Dailey

  “Are you? Are you really?” she asked.

  “Hell no. I’m scared to death.”

  “So am I.”

  Will forced a chuckle. “Glad we got that out of the way. I might be scared, but I know you’ll give this trial everything you’ve got.”

  “And if that isn’t enough?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, sweetheart, like we always have.”

  The endearment had slipped out, unbidden. On the other end of the call, there was silence—then, at last, a muffled whisper. “Oh, Will . . .”

  “Don’t go anywhere,” he said, knowing that if there was one chance in a million for them, he had to take it now. Long strides carried him down the steps to where his pickup was parked. A moment later, the truck was rocketing down the road toward town.

  * * *

  Tori’s porch light was off when Will pulled into her driveway. The windows were dark except for the faint glow of a lamp in the living room. Pulse racing, he walked up to her front porch and, instead of ringing the bell, gave a light rap on the front door. If she’d gone to sleep, he wouldn’t wake her. But if she was inside, waiting . . .

  His heart dropped as she opened the door. She was dressed in her baggy blue sweats, no shoes, her ponytail askew, her eyes set in weary shadows. The bridge of her nose was marked with a red spot where her glasses had rested. To Will, she had never looked more desirable.

  Without a word she clasped his arm and drew him inside. He crushed her close, one hand reaching back to shut the door and lock it behind him. Their kisses were hungry, frantic. She moaned as his mouth devoured her, ravishing her lips, her tongue, her face, her throat. Lord, how he needed her—this stubborn, tender, maddeningly sexy woman who set him on fire every time he looked at her.

  Her fingers tore at his shirtfront, buttons popping to the floor as she yanked it open. Will’s hand found the hem of her sweatshirt and slid upward against her warm skin. She flinched slightly. “You’re cold,” she whispered.

  “Warm me.” The words rasped from a deep well of need. His seasoned fingers unhooked her bra, freeing one satin breast to fall against his work-roughened palm. Heaven in my hand. He stroked her, thumbed her taut nipple. Little whimpers rose in her throat. She arched against him, her body begging for what they both wanted so desperately.

  His erection was rock hard, the jutting pressure threatening to push through his worn jeans. Tori’s hand tugged at his belt buckle, her fingers eager but awkward—too slow for what he needed now.

  With a half-muttered growl, he swept her toward the stairs of the split-level house. Fumbling in their frantic haste, they left a trail of clothes along the upstairs hallway—his boots, jeans, and boxers; her sweats, bra, and lovely lace panties—all in a tangle. Naked, they tumbled into the bed, and then he was there, where he’d yearned to be—deep inside her, his swollen sex thrusting into that slick, honey-sweet warmth.

  Her long legs wrapped his hips. Her hands clasped his shoulders as he lost himself in the silken feel of her, in the womanly smell and taste of her, and in the sound of her little love cries as he brought her to her climax, once, then again, until he shuddered and burst in a release that shook him like an earthquake.

  Spent, he lingered above her, bracing on his arms. She lay with her hair fanned on the pillow, her lips swollen from his kisses. “Can you stay?” she whispered.

  “For a little while. But not for long. I’ll need to be getting back to the ranch.”

  “Come here.” She pulled him down to her, stretching onto her side so they could lie in each other’s arms. Will checked the urge to thank her and to tell her how much he loved her. This was no time for words, or for making promises he might not be able to keep. For now, all he could do was hold her close and be grateful. Whatever tomorrow might bring, at least this night would be his to remember.

  * * *

  Too restless to sleep, Drew Middleton drove slowly up Main Street and turned the corner toward Tori’s house. He’d planned on staying clear of Will Tyler’s trial, leaving Tori to do her job. But then, out of the blue, the county prosecutor had called him as a witness. Drew had tried to excuse himself, arguing that the only thing he’d witnessed was Tori’s end of the conversation with Will. But Clay Drummond had insisted that was enough. Drew would bet a week’s salary that Stella Rawlins had had a hand in this. He should never have opened up to the woman.

  Tori had asked him not to phone her until the trial was over. Even after Clay Drummond’s call, Drew had tried to keep his distance. But tonight he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Was she all right? Should he let her know that he’d be testifying for the prosecution?

  At least it wouldn’t hurt to drive past her house and see if she was awake. It was late, but she might still be up prepping for the trial. If the lights were on, he could phone her. She might even invite him in.

  As he neared her house, he could see that the place was dark. Then he noticed something else—Will Tyler’s pickup, parked in the driveway.

  Drew’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as he resisted the urge to stop and do something he might regret. It was after midnight. If Will was here at this hour, it could only mean one thing. Marching up to the door and confronting him, or Tori, would only be an exercise in humiliation.

  Tires spat gravel as Drew gunned the engine and roared away. What a fool he’d been, letting Tori string him along while, all this time, she’d still been in love with her ex-husband.

  He remembered their dates, their kisses, and the way she’d always seemed to be holding something back. Had she cared for him at all, or was she just hedging her bets in case Will went to prison?

  Either way, he was through playing along with Tori’s games—and after tomorrow’s trial she would know it.

  * * *

  Will eased himself out of Tori’s bed and stood looking down at her. She lay in a pool of moonlight, the rumpled sheet framing one perfect breast. Her eyes were closed in sleep, the lips he had kissed softly parted. He checked the impulse to lean down and kiss her one last time. She needed her rest, and it was time he was leaving. When she woke and found him gone, Tori would understand.

  The luminous digits on her bedside clock said 3:35. Time to go. If he left now, he’d make it back to the ranch before the cowhands started their day. He would help with the chores and finish in time to grab a bite of breakfast, shower, shave, put on a suit, and catch a ride into town with Beau. No need for him to drive his own truck—especially since, if things went badly, he might not be coming home again.

  Following the trail of his boots and clothes, he dressed in the dark hallway, put on his coat, and went outside into the frigid dawn.

  The town lay deep in slumber as he drove down Main Street to the highway. Even the cheap neon sign above the Blue Coyote had been turned off. Since Stella would be at the trial, the place would probably be closed for the coming day.

  The ranch house was dark as Will pulled up to the porch, shut down the engine, and switched off the headlights. The bunkhouse, too, was quiet, with no sign of anyone stirring. Good. The boys would snicker if they caught their boss sneaking back from a hot night in town. Going to bed was out of the question. Even if it wasn’t too late, he wouldn’t be able to sleep. But at least he could make a show of coming out of his bedroom, dressed and ready for chores.

  He had mounted the porch, when a voice from the shadows startled him. “I was wonderin’ when you were gonna show up, Will Tyler.” Jasper was sitting in his customary chair, wrapped in his old sheepskin coat. The dog lay at his feet.

  “Reckon I don’t have to ask you where you been.”

  Will was grateful the darkness hid the flush on his face. “What are you doing out here at this hour? It’s cold.”

  “Couldn’t sleep. Restless, I guess, just like you. I don’t plan to be at your trial. Got an old man’s plumbing and it keeps me goin’ too much to sit long. But I’ll be rootin’ for ya. Sky promised he’d pass on everything he hears from Lau
ren.”

  “Thanks. I need all the rootin’ I can get.” Will took the empty chair next to Jasper’s. Who knew when he’d have another chance to talk with the old man who’d been like a second father to him over the years? If he went to prison, Jasper might not even be here when he got out.

  “Your dad would be right proud of you, defendin’ your little girl like you did,” Jasper said.

  “I’d do it again—but I hope I never have to.” Will rocked back far enough to put his boots on the porch rail. “You said Bull shot a couple of rustlers. Did he ever kill anybody else?”

  Jasper scratched the dog’s head while he pondered the question. “Nobody that didn’t need killin’. And he never got arrested for it. Things are different nowadays. The law makes it harder for a man to stand up for his family.”

  “What do you think Bull would say to me if he was here right now?”

  “He’d say, ‘Give ’em hell, son. Do the family proud!’ Since he’s not here, I’ll say it for him. Give ’em hell, Will!”

  Behind them the front door opened. Erin, barefoot and wrapped in an afghan, pattered out onto the porch. “I heard voices,” she said. “Is everything okay?”

  “It’s fine, honey,” Will said. “We were just talking. It’s early. You might as well go back to bed and get some more sleep.”

  “I don’t think I can sleep. I haven’t slept all night. I’m scared, Daddy. What if I say something wrong at the trial today?”

  “Come here.” Swinging his feet off the rail, Will indicated his lap. Erin eased herself across his knees and nestled her head against his chest. It had been a long time since Will had held her like this. Her legs dangled almost to the floor of the porch. She was going to be tall like her mother.

  “Don’t worry about saying anything wrong,” he said. “Just tell the truth, like you did with Abner.”

  “But what if they try to trick me?”

  “Your mother will be there. She won’t let that happen. Mr. Drummond will be asking questions first. You know him. He used to work with your mother, and they’re still friends. He’s a nice man.”

  Will wondered about that last part. Clay Drummond could be a pit bull in court, but he didn’t want Erin to go in afraid of him. Tori would be there to object if Drummond went too far, but if he could find a way to trip up a hostile witness’s testimony, he would do it—even to a child.

  Erin had fallen silent. She lay with her ear against Will’s heart, as if memorizing the sound of it. Across the yard the light was on in the bunkhouse kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee drifted on the breeze. The men would be stirring, dressing, grabbing a quick cup before heading out to their chores. In the east the stars had faded, leaving a streak of pewter dawn above the horizon. Reluctantly Will eased Erin off his lap and stood.

  His day of reckoning was here.

  CHAPTER 18

  The jury selection started at 9:00 a.m. and took less than an hour. Tori knew most of the citizens who’d been called. She looked for family men and women who would understand Will’s need to protect his daughter. Clay tended to choose people who were new in town and might not know Will, or those who’d patronized the Blue Coyote and might be more sympathetic to Stella’s loss.

  There were some calls for elimination from both sides, but nothing serious enough to hinder the process from going forward. By 10:00 a.m., the jury of seven men and five women had been impaneled and sworn, and the trial—the People of Texas versus Williston Tyler—was ready to begin.

  * * *

  Wearing the gray business suit he’d always hated, and a blue silk tie that felt like a noose around his neck, Will took his seat next to Tori at the table for the defense. Today his ex-wife was all business in the black tailored suit and ivory blouse she favored for trial wear. There was no sign of the pliant, needy woman who’d lain naked in his arms last night. She was sharp, edgy, and primed for battle, a warrior queen in black stilettos.

  The gallery was filling with spectators. Turning in his seat, Will flashed a thumbs-up sign to Erin in the back row. Dressed in soft blue, the color of truth, with a demure white cardigan that matched the bow in her tawny hair, she sat next to Lauren, who’d promised to take her outside if the proceedings became too intense.

  Beau had taken a seat in the row behind the railing, close enough to whisper to Will or Tori if the need arose. The local press was there, as well as a flock of curious townspeople who had nothing better to do than watch what they probably viewed as a live soap opera. They’re like vultures gathering for a feast, Will thought. To hell with them all.

  Heads swiveled, almost in unison, as Stella entered the courtroom. She was all in black, her vermilion hair drawn back into a bun, her makeup subdued. She was dressed to play the part of the grieving sister, and Will had no doubt she would give an Oscar-worthy performance.

  Every eye was on her, and she was making the most of it. Her dress and makeup might be subdued, but her walk was the familiar Stella strut—hips swaying, butt thrusting, putting on a show from the rear. A murmur went through the spectators as she walked down the center aisle to her seat at the rail behind the prosecutor.

  “All rise!” The bailiff—a husky former trooper with a commanding voice—announced the arrival of the judge. Sid Henderson was nearing retirement after more than twenty-five years on the bench. A blocky, humorless man, with a jowly face and a thatch of white hair, he could be counted on to run an efficient court with little tolerance for drama. When it came to handing down sentences, no judge in the county was harder on convicted wrongdoers. Will could only hope that issue wouldn’t have to be faced today.

  After everyone was seated and the judge had spoken a few words, Clay Drummond stepped before the jury box and waded into his opening statement like a heavyweight boxer lumbering into the ring. The man was good. Damn good. His claim that Will’s reckless shot had killed a harmless man who’d already surrendered his gun was so compelling that Will might have bought it himself, if he hadn’t been the one on trial.

  But Will, who’d known the prosecutor for years, noticed something else about Clay. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot. His voice was hoarse, his stance slightly wide-legged, as if he had to brace himself to stay erect. There was an air of desperation about the man. The more Will watched him, the more convinced he became that something wasn’t right.

  When her turn came, Tori was in top form. Will’s actions, she argued, had been those of any responsible parent with a child to protect. He’d fired believing the victim to be a dangerous fugitive who wouldn’t hesitate to overpower him and take his daughter hostage, or worse. The question before the jury was whether the defendant had acted in a reasonable manner. If so, they would be duty-bound to find him innocent.

  When she took her seat again, Will had to stop himself from giving her a touch of encouragement. Right now, he mustn’t think of himself as her ex-husband, her friend, or her lover. He was her client; and the best thing he could do was leave her alone to do her job.

  “The people call Sheriff Abner Sweeney.”

  Clay began his case as expected. Abner appeared nervous as he took the oath and described what he had found when he’d arrived at the alleged crime scene. At that point Clay introduced the bagged knife, a small switchblade, as evidence and asked Abner to confirm it was the one that had been found in the victim’s hand.

  “Sheriff, were any fingerprints found on the knife?”

  Abner looked down at his lap. “No. The knife appeared to have been wiped clean.”

  Will’s pulse slammed. Nick Tomescu had been wearing gloves. But, surely, he would have left prints on the knife earlier. What was going on here?

  “Sheriff,” Clay continued, “why do you suppose the knife had no prints on it? Could Mr. Tyler have taken the knife, wiped it clean, and put it in the victim’s hand after shooting him?”

  “Objection!” Tori said. “Calls for conjecture.”

  “Sustained,” the judge rumbled. “
Please confine your questions to the facts, Mr. Drummond.”

  “Very well, Your Honor.” Clay took a sip from the water bottle on the table. “Sheriff, did you find any evidence that the alleged crime scene might have been tampered with?”

  “Yes.” Abner was sweating. “A contaminated blanket had been laid over the body, and a key eyewitness, Mr. Tyler’s daughter, had been removed from the scene before she could be questioned.”

  Will swore silently. So that was their game. If they could convince the jury he had something to hide, the implication of guilt was bound to follow.

  “Sheriff, what did the defendant tell you when you asked to speak to his daughter?”

  “He said she hadn’t seen anything, and her mother had taken her home.”

  “Was it true that the girl hadn’t seen anything?”

  “No, that was a lie. I found out later that she’d witnessed the whole thing.” Abner wiped his forehead with a crumpled handkerchief. “Mr. Tyler said I could speak to her in the morning, with her mother present.”

  “I take it that meant after the girl had gotten her story straight.”

  “Objection!” Tori was on her feet.

  “Sustained.” The judge scowled at Tori. “Sit down, Ms. Tyler. You’ll get your turn.”

  There were more questions about the alleged crime scene and the evidence. Then it was Tori’s turn to cross-examine.

  “Sheriff, who made the nine-one-one call that summoned you to the scene?”

  “The defendant.”

  “He has a name,” Tori said. “Please use it. How did Mr. Tyler behave toward you when you arrived? Was he cooperative?”

  “He was fine.”

  “When you arrived, did he appear to know the identity of the man who was shot?”

  “By then, he knew it wasn’t the robber. But when we pulled the helmet off the body and saw those tattoos, Will—Mr. Tyler—seemed knocked for a loop, just like I was.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. No more questions for now.” As Abner stepped down, Tori took her seat and waited for Clay to call his next witness.