Loaded

by Joanna Wayne

  "Is that your work?" Shelly asked, when Angelique returned carrying a silver tray laden with thinly sliced sweet breads and pastries.

  "Yes. Do you like it?"

  "It's intriguing," she said. "I love the way the shadows and shadings give it that fantasized feel. Forgive my layman's terms for describing what's probably a very sophisticated artistic method."

  "No need to apologize. Vocabulary is unimportant. The artist's purpose is to portray an image that can touch the soul."

  "Beautifully put."

  "I'd love to paint you," Angelique said. "Your face is a fascinating blend of strength and vulnerability, and your body is lissome and sensual."

  Shelly's face burned at the thought of nude modeling, not to mention the fact that she'd never thought of her body as lissome or sensual. When she looked up and realized Matt had returned and also heard the comment, the blush burned even deeper into her cheeks.

  "Thanks," Shelly said, "but I'm uncomfortable enough having my photograph taken with my clothes on."

  "If you change your mind, you know where to find me. Now, I guess we should get started on the sketch. Emile, you sit on the sofa next to me and try to picture the man just as he looked when he walked into your store."

  "I can try."

  "It will be easier than you think. Just close your eyes and relive the moment in your mind. When the image is intact, open your eyes and start describing him. I'll interrupt with questions as you talk and you should speak up when my sketch veers from the way you see him."

  "I only saw the man for a few minutes."

  "But you probably noticed more than you think you did. The mind captures images we're not aware of seeing." Angelique picked up the sketch pad and pencil she'd left lying on the coffee table. She settled on the far end of the Queen Anne sofa. Emile sat next to her. Shelly took her coffee to the loveseat opposite them, afraid after she did that Matt would likely take that as an invitation to join her there. He grabbed one of the pastries and a napkin, then did just that.

  This time, Shelly managed to keep his nearness from overriding her professional judgment. The possibility that she might recognize the man Angelique was about to sketch had her on edge for very good reasons. If it turned out to be someone she knew, it would mean she was the target of a planned hit. In that case, not only would she be in danger of being ambushed and shot at again, but it would mean her cover was indisputably blown.

  Emile began to describe the man, speaking slowly and awkwardly at first, but he gained momentum quickly as the sketch started to take shape.

  "His chin was square."

  "Like this?" Angelique said, making the adjustment.

  "Yeah, that's more like it, and his brows were thicker with some hairs shooting out all whichaway, like a porcupine's."

  Angelique changed the drawing until Emile was satisfied with the brows and the hair. "What about the mouth?"

  "He had big lips, blotchy, you know, like he'd had cold sores recently."

  Angelique went through the same process with the mouth, changing the lines until Emile nodded.

  "That's starting to look like him," he said.

  "Tell me about his eyes."

  "Oh, boy. A man never looks at another man's eyes."

  "Let's give it a try anyway."

  "Kind of mean-looking."

  "Check this shape," she said. Her perfectly manicured fingers seemed to move effortlessly across the pad.

  Emile frowned. "Try making them narrower, and with the lids down, like they weren't open all the way."

  She made the adjustments. The sketch was definitely not of the man Shelly had noticed staring at her at Cutter's Bar last night. It was even possible that the sketch didn't resemble the man in the black Ford at all. That had happened more than once with the sketch agents they'd used at the agency and they had access to people trained in transferring verbal descriptions to the blank page.

  Angelique kept at the task, making minute modifications until Emile finally broke into a broad grin.

  "I don't know how you did it from my rambling, but that's him to a T. You're amazing."

  "I just drew what you said." Angelique tore the sketch from the pad and handed the drawing to Matt. "I hope this helps."

  He scooted closer to Shelly and held it so that she could study it with him. His arm brushed hers and awareness zinged through her, in spite of the gravity of the situation. This whole attraction bit was starting to become extremely annoying. She forced her total concentration on the sketch.

  "I've never see him around Colts Run Cross," Matt said.

  "Just like I told you yesterday," Emile said, appearing far more relaxed, now that he was off the hook. "I don't think he's from around here."

  "What's the verdict, Shelly?" Matt laid a hand on her arm. "Do you know him?"

  She shook her head. "I've never seen him before."

  "You're sure?" Suspicion haunted his voice and his eyes.

  "I'm sure."

  "Then I guess we'll just turn this sketch over to Sheriff Guerra and let him get it out to law-enforcement personnel across the state. The quicker this guy is arrested, the less likely he'll attack someone else, randomly or otherwise."

  Angelique walked them to the door, stopping after she opened it to straighten Mart's shirt collar, though it wasn't crooked. Her delicate hand lingered on his chest, a seductive gesture that didn't go unnoticed by Shelly, but seemed to fly right past Matt. His only interest appeared to be in getting the sketch into the sheriff's hands.

  Or maybe it was to just deliver her back to the motel and get on with his life. Either way, they made a quick exit. The drive back to Colts Run Cross was an hour and a half of awkward silence, except for occasional bursts of conversation between Matt and Emile.

  Her entree into the Collingsworth household might be about to run into a dead end.

  * * *

  Matt paced the hospital waiting room, while the young doctor on Saturday call examined the wound and then had the nursing staff change the bandage.

  Matt's cell phone rang. He grabbed it, hoping it was the sheriff telling him the sketch had produced an identification. Probably way too soon for that now, though. They'd dropped off the sketch less than a half hour ago and picked up Shelly's gun while they were there. She'd handled the weapon like a pro, not like a woman who'd just bought a gun for a long road trip.

  The caller ID said Langston. "I thought you were replacing me," Matt said. "Why aren't you saddling horses for the visiting inner-city brood?"

  "As usual, Mom has twice the volunteers she needs so I slipped away to take care of some business. Are you still with Shelly Lane?"

  "Yeah. Angelique completed the sketch, but Shelly says the likeness doesn't resemble anyone she knows."

  "That would fit with the news from Clay Markham? So far our physical therapist checks out perfectly. And Aidan talked with a fellow detective who works for the Atlanta Police Department."

  "Always nice to have friends in high places."

  "And sometimes in low places. Aidan has both. He says Shelly has never reported any safety concerns to the police, nor is there a record of her having ever made a 911 call. From all indications, she's a model citizen with no reported stalkers or danger in her background."

  "Are you saying I should just bring her to the ranch as Mom's wanted all along?"

  "I don't see any real problem with it, but you're with Shelly. You decide."

  Making the call should be a simple task. Shelly insisted that no one had reason to kill her. The cops and private investigators had no evidence that she was in any kind of trouble or mixed up in any way with killers.

  But Matt had always had a sixth sense with cattle. He knew from looking in a cow's eyes when her pregnancy was going sour. He knew if a calf or foal was unhealthy, almost before it's feet touched the ground. Shelly wasn't livestock, but all his instincts yelled that she was in danger.

  Not that he knew a damn thing about women, except that the status quo usually flew o
ut the window when a woman like Shelly stepped onto the scene. And he liked his status quo. He was still dealing with that fact, when Shelly and the doctor joined him in the waiting room.

  "You'll have your hands full with this one, Mr. Collingsworth."

  "Are there complications?"

  "Not with the injury, but Shelly does not follow doctor's orders. She skipped out without being released last night and today she's telling me how to do my job."

  It was clear he was joking, probably flirting with Shelly. Maybe he'd be willing to take her home with him? Then Mart's life could get back to normal.

  "You look as if you took a blow yourself?" the doctor said, stepping closer for a better look at the cut on Matt's forehead.

  "It's nothing a little time and a smear of antibiotic cream won't take care of. What's the verdict with Shelly's wound?" Matt asked, almost hoping the doctor wanted her back in the hospital. That would eliminate his having to make any decision on what to do with her tonight. But from the size of the much smaller bandage on her arm now, he'd guess that wasn't going to happen.

  "I prescribed an ointment to be used twice a day, in the morning and at night before changing the bandage. Keeping the wound clean is very important, so she should keep it bandaged until Tuesday. I should see her in seven days. We'll remove the stitches then."

  "I could probably remove the stitches myself," Shelly said, "since I don't have a car at my disposal."

  The doctor looked to Matt. "It would be better if she had that done in the office. That way we can make certain the wound is healing appropriately."

  "I'll see that she comes in," Matt said. It didn't hit him until after he'd blurted out the words that they sounded as if he and Shelly were a couple and he would still be taking care of her a week from now.

  That, coupled with the plan taking form in his mind, rattled him to the point that he almost dropped the keys when he went to unlock his truck. The plan wasn't to his liking, but he didn't see much else he could do, unless he wanted to spend another sleepless night in the motel.

  "You really don't need to babysit me any longer, Matt," she said, as if reading his confusing thoughts. "Just drop me off at the motel. I'll be fine. And if a drunk biker comes calling in the middle of the night, I have my gun that the sheriff returned."

  "The gun you admitted you don't know how to use."

  "What's to know? You just aim and pull the trigger. I've seen it done in a thousand movies."

  He backed out of the parking lot and turned right, toward the motel. He couldn't believe he was about to say what was bucking around in his mind and fighting its way to his tongue.

  "We'll stop off at the motel and pick up your things."

  Shelly's brows arched and the golden flecks in her eyes sparkled like fire. His insides felt vaguely the way they had when he'd been kicked in the gut by a snorting bull, all shaky and queasy. But he had to do what he had to do.

  "I think it best you stay with me tonight," he said.

  "You mean stay at the ranch?"

  "Yes, but at my house." His small, rustic, cozy cabin that he was used to living in alone. "Just until tomorrow," he said, before she got the wrong idea, like the one that was messing with his libido right now.

  "Is this your mother's idea or yours?"

  "Mine."

  "Because you still don't trust me to live with your family?"

  He couldn't deny the truth of that, but admitting it would only make things worse. "Because the investigation isn't finished."

  The sparks in her eyes seemed to be shooting at him now. "Then I'll wait until it is."

  She had a lot of nerve being angry with him after he'd spent the past twenty-four hours trying to make sure she was safe. He had a good mind to dump her at that motel and go home to his nice, comfortable bed alone.

  Nice thought, but he could no more walk away and leave her unprotected than he could have decided to stop breathing. He wouldn't even try to understand why he'd let her get to him this way. She just had.

  The problem was that those nagging doubts of suspicion wouldn't die. And he wasn't willing to move her into the big house until he felt certain she wasn't into anything that would bring trouble or danger to his family.

  "It's your call, but we'd both be more comfortable than at the motel. You'd have a modern bathroom and an air conditioner that doesn't buck and whistle all night. And we could join the family for brunch in the morning," he said, hoping that would sway her. "You can meet Jeremiah."

  Shelly cocked her head and shot Matt a dubious look. "Does this house of yours have two bedrooms?"

  "Actually it has three. And if you're worried that I plan to take advantage of you, forget it. When I take a woman to bed, it's because she wants to be there."

  She stretched her feet in front of her and pushed against the back of the seat, the movement accentuating her perky breasts.

  "Okay, Matt Collingsworth, on those grounds, I accept your invitation to stay with you tonight."

  He swallowed hard, glad he'd won the argument, but worried at the same time. He'd keep his word, but he had a feeling this might well be a night for a cold shower.

  Chapter Seven

  Shelly had seen pictures of the ranch, had even driven by it when she'd first arrived in Texas, but that hadn't quite prepared her for this. A lump formed in her throat as the reality and significance of the moment hit home.

  She was about to be on-site, undercover and officially on a case that, if successful, might save thousands of innocent lives. Who knew what reprehensible and deadly acts might be committed using money funneled to terrorists through Collingsworth Oil? All for the purpose of making even more money for a family who were already worth billions.

  Her sense of responsibility swelled as Matt punched in a code and the gates swung open. But she couldn't let Matt discern those feelings. She had to stay firmly planted in her role of a Georgia girl who knew nothing much about the Col-lingsworths or the ranch.

  "Nice gate, but I always pictured cowboys climbing down from a battered pickup and unlatching a rusty latch."

  "Sorry to disappoint you. But if it's any consolation, the automated gate opener is new, part of the added security after a year of dealing with lunatics."

  Her interest piqued. She knew something of the problems his new sisters-in-law had experienced, but it would be nice to hear Matt's version of them. "Then you've had other trouble?"

  "Long stories for winter nights by the fire. But all the endings were happy."

  "After the way everyone reacted to the attack on me," she continued, "I would have thought there was no crime in this part of Texas."

  "Crime is everywhere these days, but we don't get the kind of drug and gang-related crimes they get in big cities or along the border. Unfortunately, the Collingsworth brothers do have a knack for getting linked with women in jeopardy."

  "Do tell. More of the cowboy code at work?"

  "You could say that. Our neighbor Billy Mack calls it the Lenora Do-gooder Curse. Mom's constantly quoting from the Bible parable about how to whom much is given, much is required. Guess she has that so drilled into our brains that, when we see someone who needs help, we feel compelled to rush to the rescue."

  "That explains her having the inner-city kids out for a day of ranch life? Does she do that often?"

  "Every other Saturday during the summer months. We all pitch in, wranglers included, but she has lots of volunteers from neighboring ranches as well."

  "How many kids are we talking about?"

  "No more than twelve at a time, all between the ages of eleven and fourteen. Mom insists that each kid have their own adult mentor for the day. Mostly that's for safety reasons, but also because she says that, for some of them, it's the only time they have an adult's full attention—unless they're with a cop or a judge."

  "Cops and judges. So you're talking about kids with serious problems?"

  "Sometimes."

  "How does she decide which kids to include?"

&nbs
p; "Her friend Carolyn Kenny does it for her. She's a juvenile court judge in Houston."

  Shelly knew the Collingsworth family were major financial backers of several charitable organizations, but this was more than just a donation. They brought these kids into their world and gave them individual attention. Billionaires out riding horses with delinquents. It wasn't what she'd expected to find.

  Shelly tried to reconcile what she'd seen firsthand of the Collingsworths, especially Matt, with what the CIA believed to be true about them. It refused to gel.

  That didn't change her reason for being here or her motive for worming her way into their lives. "Your mother sounds amazing. You have a lot to live up to."

  "Tell me about it. I respect what Mom does, but I'm not that good with people myself. Give me horses and cows any day. If they turn on you, it's because you gave them a reason."

  They continued down a smooth blacktop road surrounded by acres and acres of a pastoral countryside that epitomized tranquility and the American West. She wasn't sure exactly what she'd expected the ranch to be like, but so far, it seemed the setting for a romance novel. Green and open and inviting.

  "Those are longhorns in the pasture to your left," Matt said, slowing for her to get a better look.

  A half dozen cattle were clustered near the fence and Shelly turned to peer out the window for her first up-close view of the huge animals with their vicious-looking horns. One looked up as if knowing it were on display; it seemed proud to show off its armor.

  "How long are those horns?"

  "For a steer they can measure up to a hundred and twenty inches tip to tip. Cows and bulls have shorter horns, but a seventy to eighty inch tip range isn't uncommon. The ones you're looking at now are cows."

  "Is your herd primarily Texas longhorns?"

  "No. They make up only about a fourth of our herd at the present time, but I keep adding more. Hook 'em horns."

  "Should I know what that means?"

  He slapped the butt of his hand against his temple as if she'd offended him. "Longhorns are the University of Texas mascot. Hook 'em horns is the school battle cry."