by Janet Dailey
Sky had ridden across the land in the past, admiring its grassy, wooded hills and spring-fed creek, never dreaming it could be his. But since the reading of the will he had yet to revisit the place. He was still coming to terms with the gift Bull Tyler had left him.
Except for Jasper, no one else, not even Will and Beau, knew about the land. At first Sky had questioned whether he deserved it. Now he found himself wondering if he even wanted it. He could sell it for a good price, return the money to the ranch, and be free of any obligation to the father who’d been too ashamed to claim him as his own. He had his pride, after all.
But the decision would have to wait. This morning he’d agreed to ride out with Beau to look at the place where Jasper had been shot. It was time they got moving.
He was walking out to get the horses when Will hailed him from the front porch. “Sky! Get in here! You’ve got to see what’s on the news!”
Spurred by the urgency in his voice, Sky sprinted across the yard to the house. Will was already headed back inside. “Hurry,” he said. “The TV’s on in the den.”
The commercial break was just ending when Sky walked in.
Beau, still rumpled and unshaven, was perched on the edge of the couch, drinking coffee and staring at the television screen. Will, freshly showered and dressed, handed Sky a steaming cup.
“Back to our breaking news story.” The Amarillo newscaster was a fiftyish man with a bad toupee. “Former Blanco County Sheriff Hoyt Axelrod, awaiting trial for murder, assault, and conspiracy, was found dead inside his cell this morning. The cause of death has yet to be determined, but there appeared to be no sign of foul play. For more, let’s go to Mindi Thacker outside the Blanco County Jail.”
The curvy blonde looked as if she’d done her hair and makeup in the news chopper, which sat on the landing pad behind her. Her porcelain smile seemed out of place in the grim dawn light. “The story’s still unfolding here, Bill. A guard, making a routine check of the prisoners early this morning, found Axelrod lying on the floor of his cell. Paramedics were called, but the former sheriff was unresponsive. He was declared dead at 4:43 a.m. Preliminary assumption, pending the medical examiner’s report, is that death was due to natural causes.”
“Natural causes!” Beau slammed his cup on the table, sloshing his coffee. “That’s a joke! Somebody got to the bastard before he could make a plea deal and talk.”
“In his cell? That would take some doing,” Will said.
“That doesn’t mean it couldn’t be done. A man Axelrod’s size and age is a likely candidate for high blood pressure or diabetes. A switch in his meds would do the trick, or something in his food, even some kind of injection if they could incapacitate him first. Not that much to it—just a matter of enough money changing hands.”
Sky’s gaze met Beau’s across the room. Nobody in the ranch family would grieve over Axelrod’s death—least of all Beau, who’d nearly gone to prison when the sheriff tried to frame him for killing Slade Haskell, Natalie’s abusive husband.
“You know this isn’t over,” Beau said. “Hoyt Axelrod died for the same reason Slade died, the same reason Lute and that poor little waitress died. He knew too much, and he would’ve spilled his guts to save himself from the death penalty. That’s why he had to be silenced.”
“But it was Axelrod who killed the others.” Will seemed to be playing devil’s advocate.
“This is bigger than Axelrod,” Beau said. “Whoever’s pulling the strings is still out there.”
Stella Rawlins turned away from the big-screen TV above the bar and lit a Marlboro to celebrate. Hoyt Axelrod was dead and couldn’t implicate her. She could breathe easy again.
“You gonna tell me how you pulled that off?” Her husky half brother Nick was perched on a bar stool, sipping coffee and munching a stale doughnut. The morning sun, slanting through half-closed plastic shutters, gleamed on the black Maori-style tattoos that ringed his shaved head.
Stella blew a lazy smoke ring. “The less you know, the better, Nicky. For you as well as for me.”
“Gotcha.” Nick carried his cup behind the bar to rinse it.
Nick, who went by Nigel these days, had been a runner for the Rumanian mob in New Jersey. After snitching on them in a plea deal, he’d been forced into hiding. Stella had taken him in two years ago when she’d bought the Blue Coyote Bar in Blanco Springs. He’d proved his worth as her bartender and bouncer. But she knew better than to trust him—or anybody else—with her secrets.
She’d done pretty well for herself here in Blanco. The town was off the beaten track but with easy access to the Mexican border. Trading Texas guns for Mexican drugs had made her a tidy profit. But if she’d learned one thing, it was to keep her hands clean and leave the dirty work to others. So far it had worked. As far as the law was concerned, her record was spotless.
Her business depended on connections and the exchange of favors. Money, sex, and fear were valuable tools, and Stella knew how to use them all. But there’d been some collateral damage along the way—Jess Warner, the waitress who’d stumbled on one secret too many; Slade Haskell, who’d become a useless, wife-beating drunk; Lute Fletcher, the half-breed boy who’d gotten too greedy for his own good; and now Hoyt Axelrod, the sheriff whose one big mistake had been getting himself arrested.
Hoyt had been a wheezing walrus in bed. But his skills with a long-range rifle had come in handy. He wouldn’t be an easy man to replace.
Turning back to stub out her cigarette, Stella caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Without makeup she looked old and tired. Her flame-colored hair needed a fresh dye job, and the crow’s feet were deepening at the corners of her eyes. She was forty-six years old. How much longer could she work this racket and get away with it? She needed something more. She needed security.
A Dallas crime family was looking to expand its reach. They’d sent out feelers about her Mexican ties—a tentative invitation for her to join them. Stella had always prided herself on flying solo, but having an organization to back her wouldn’t be all bad. They’d demand a cut, of course, but in return she’d get protection and, if needed, access to a reliable hit man.
But she couldn’t go begging to them, or give them the keys to an operation they could easily take over. She needed something to offer them—some sphere of influence uniquely hers, to keep power in her own corner.
The early-morning newscast had ended. Stella was about to switch off the TV when a paid political ad came on the screen. The ad was a low-budget job, just some talking head running for reelection to Congress. The candidate, a silver-haired man, wasn’t bad looking, but he could have used better lighting and a decent makeup artist. And why would he be plugging for votes at an hour when so few voters would be watching? Maybe his campaign was short on funds. Prime time had to be expensive.
Nick was watching her from behind the bar. “I’ve seen that look,” he said. “Why are you smiling?”
“Because I just got one helluva good idea.”
“What kind of idea?” he asked.
Laughing, Stella poured herself a fresh cup of coffee. “As I said, little brother, the less you know, the better.”
Sky and Beau had taken the ranch pickup to check the place where Jasper had been shot. At this early hour, a whisper of coolness lingered on the morning air. They rode with the pickup windows rolled down, the air blasting their faces, drinking in the freshness before the rising sun could burn it away. Beau was at the wheel, Sky scouting the parched landscape for anything that looked out of place.
“We don’t even know for sure if we’re dealing with smugglers,” Sky said.
“True,” Beau said. “But somebody’s been leaving tracks and cigarette butts out here. Something’s going on—I’d say either drug running or illegal immigrants. Whatever it was, Jasper must’ve gotten too close.”
“So why didn’t they make sure he was dead?” Sky argued. “I’m with Will. I’d bet on a bunch of fool kids who got scared and ran when they
saw what they’d done.”
“Maybe we’ll find some answers this morning.” Beau steered the pickup around a jutting rock. A collared lizard skittered clear of the wheels. In the near distance, swallows skimmed and darted above the muddy seep where Jasper had been found. They scattered as the truck drew closer.
“Tell me something.” Beau’s voice had taken on a mischievous note. “How did that little earring really manage to fall out of Lauren’s ear and roll behind the computer?”
Sky glanced away to hide a flush of heat. “None of your damned business,” he said.
Beau guffawed as he pulled the truck to a stop. “Have it your way. Your secret’s safe with me. But if the congressman gets wind of it, you’d better have a place to run.”
“I wouldn’t back down from Garn Prescott—not even if I wanted his daughter, which I don’t.”
“Then you’ve got more pride than sense.”
“Leave it alone, Beau.” Sky opened the door and swung out of the truck. He hadn’t been here since the night before last, when they’d found Jasper. He was curious to inspect the spot by daylight. And he was anxious to escape Beau’s ribbing.
“I see plenty of tracks.” Beau studied the ground. “But most of them look like yours and mine.”
“We had to free Jasper. And then I had to come back and load the ATV. If I’d been thinking about clues, I’d have been more careful.” Sky crouched to look closer. “The paramedics left tracks, too. See, here and here? They were wearing sneakers. But unless the shotgun fell off the ATV, somebody had to get close enough to steal it. Here’s where the roll bar landed. They would’ve had to reach—”
He broke off as he found the track. A dozen paces short of the seep, it was almost obscured by the others. It was the shallow imprint of a cowboy boot, the toe long and pointed, the sole and heel worn around the edges, maybe a narrow size 8. Not a big man; maybe even a boy. Or . . .
A sense of unease crept over Sky. He didn’t like what he was seeing. And he didn’t like where his thoughts were leading him.
“Let’s see what else we can find,” he said, rising. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Here.” Beau had started a wider circle of the spring. He’d dropped to a crouch and was gazing at the ground, where the crushed stub of a marijuana joint, hand-wrapped in brown paper, lay in the dust.
“We’d better collect this.” Beau had worked for the DEA between his army stint and his return to the Rimrock. This was his area of expertise. He whipped out his cell phone and snapped a photo. “If they were smoking weed, they could’ve been dealing it, too.”
“I saw a sandwich bag in the truck.” Sky found what he was looking for and returned. After turning the plastic bag inside out, Beau used it to scoop up the joint.
“With luck it’ll have some traceable DNA on it,” he said.
“You’re not going to turn it over to Abner Sweeney, are you?” Sky asked.
“Sweeney wouldn’t know DNA from his own rear end.” Beau rose, slipping the bagged evidence into the pocket of his shirt. “I’ll hang on to this until we learn more. It’ll come in handy for matching if a suspect turns up.”
Sky bit back what he’d been about to say. It was too soon to borrow trouble, too soon to make assumptions. He’d need to do more investigating on his own before he voiced his suspicions. But in the end he knew where his loyalties lay. Somebody had trespassed on ranch property and shot an irreplaceable old man—and somebody, whoever it might be, would have to pay.
“Maybe I can find the casing from the shot,” he said. “If we don’t collect it now, it’s liable to end up in some pack rat’s midden.”
“Good luck with that,” Beau said. “It could be anywhere within a couple of hundred yards, and we need to get back before long.”
“Give me fifteen minutes.”
“How about a bet? If you don’t find the casing, you’ll tell me about your encounter with the delicious Miss Prescott.”
“And if I do find it? Forget the bet. There’s nothing I want.” Sky started with the place where Jasper’s ATV had wrecked and backtracked from there. Before shooting into the seep, the tire tracks zigzagged erratically in the dust, bouncing against rocks and flying over hollows. Twenty yards back, the tracks changed to form a controlled line. This, then, would most likely be where Jasper had been when the bullet struck him.
Sky studied the spot, calculating where the shot would have come from. The bullet had struck Jasper from the front, which would eliminate most of the area behind him and to the sides. Since Jasper claimed he hadn’t seen anyone, the shooter had probably hidden behind something—all guesswork, but if it led him to the casing, he would know he’d been right.
By now the sun was coming up, its rim a blinding streak above the plains. Jasper had gone out early. Had he been facing into the sun when he was shot? Shading his eyes, Sky scanned to the horizon. A big clump of mesquite stood within easy shooting distance. Sprinting toward it, he circled and came in from behind.
This had to be the place. There were plenty of tracks—the smaller, worn cowboy boots he’d noticed earlier and a larger pair that looked more like a motorcycle boot. There were motorcycle tracks as well. Sky studied the tread pattern, setting it in his mind. He thought about calling Beau over, but Beau was impatient to leave. He would look around for the casing and call it good.
Just behind the mesquite clump, he could see a cluster of tracks, as if someone had crouched there. Most of these tracks were made by the smaller boots. But the larger tracks were here, too. Had the shot been fired from this spot? Following Beau’s example, Sky used his cell phone to snap a picture.
At the base of a rock, the sunlight glinted on a bit of brass. It was the casing from the bullet. Sky photographed it in place, then picked it up with his clean handkerchief. Maybe he should have made that bet with Beau after all.
Only as he was turning to go did he notice another object, lying in the dust. As soon as he saw it, Sky realized what it was.
Without remembering to take a picture, he picked it up. His stomach clenched. It was a folded two-blade pocket knife—small, cheap, and old. The handle was covered in plastic made to look like mother of pearl. Sky turned the knife over, knowing what he would see. Two initials, darkened from years of handling, were scratched into the plastic.
S.F.
They were Sky’s own initials. He’d carved them himself, with the point of a nail, as a boy of ten.
CHAPTER 4
“May I join you, Lauren?” Congressman Garn Prescott pulled out a chair and sat down at the dining room table. Lauren smeared a dab of strawberry jam on her wheat toast. She’d hoped to finish her breakfast and escape before he came downstairs. So far this wasn’t her lucky day.
The Mexican cook who came in part time brought him a fresh carafe of coffee and a plate of bacon, fried eggs, and grits. This morning the congressman was dressed in a baby blue shirt with a bolo tie. His striking silver hair was carefully over-combed to hide the thinning spot on top. He was only fifty-two, but up close he looked older. Too much Texas sun had splotched his fair skin. Too much social drinking and greasy food had left him with an old man’s belly on his lanky frame.
“I understand you spent yesterday afternoon working for the Tylers,” he said. “I was hoping maybe you and Beau—”
“Beau’s engaged—and he’s in love with his fiancée.”
“Well, you’re spending a lot of time over there.”
“So? The Tylers pay me decently and the experience will look good on my résumé. Besides, Bernice makes the best coffee in the whole blessed state of Texas.” Lauren glanced away to hide the blaze in her cheeks. If her father knew what she’d been up to yesterday with Sky, he’d have her on the next plane back to Maryland.
If she’d dropped her panties for a man with money and influence, the congressman might have secretly approved. But Sky Fletcher had no fortune, no pedigree, and no political clout. The fact that he was part Comanche and worked with his hands f
or somebody else would be a total strikeout in her father’s book.
Could that be one reason she found Sky such a compelling challenge?
Yesterday, after he’d left her steaming, she’d vowed never to go near Sky again. But she’d been angry and hurt. Now that she’d had time to lick her wounds, damned if she wasn’t intrigued. She found herself wanting to know more about the fabled horse whisperer of the Rimrock, and wondering whether any woman alive could corral him.
“Why should you bother with a career, anyway?” her father was saying. “You’re pretty enough to snag a rich husband and be set for life. And right now I could use your help with my campaign. A lovely young thing like you could get me more attention from the press, as well as opening doors and wallets. Take that fund-raising barbecue I’m staging tomorrow night in Lubbock—the one where the former Secretary of Agriculture will be speaking. You could make an impression on some important people. I hear the governor’s stepson will be there. He’s good-looking and newly single.”
Lauren stifled a groan. “Please don’t start on this again, Dad. I’ve earned a college degree, and I want a career. I came here to get some work experience so I can apply for a real job. Between keeping the books for this ranch and what I’m doing for Beau Tyler, I don’t have time to get involved in your campaign. And husband hunting isn’t even in the picture. I’m still getting over Mike.”
“How long does that take? It’s been a year, dammit! It’s high time you were moving on, getting married. You need a man to satisfy your needs and keep you respectable. Otherwise you’ll end up like your mother—”
“Stop it!” Lauren rose, quivering. “Whatever my mother did, you probably drove her to it. And if you say one more word against her, I’ll go upstairs, pack my bags, and be on the next plane east.”
He sagged in his chair, shaking his head. “Oh, hell, never mind. I still maintain I’m right, but it’s not worth spoiling the day. Sit down. Finish your breakfast, and we’ll say no more about it.”
