by Janet Dailey
“Maybe. But as far as I know, there’s nothing out there.” Lauren shook her head. “I know it would make more sense for me to leave. But I’ve been running away from my problems for too long. I need to stop and face them, and Blanco Springs is as good a place as any.”
“So it’s not just about Sky.”
“Right now it can’t be.” Lauren slid a pizza slice onto her plate. “As for the work, I’m pretty much finished at the Tylers’ and the bookkeeping I do for the ranch syndicate is only part time. Living at the ranch, it’s been enough. But to get by on my own, I’ll need more clients, or a full-time job somewhere.”
Tori sipped her Coke. “I might have a few connections. I’ll ask around. But about the rentals—there’s an apartment complex on the edge of town. I’m pretty sure it’s full, but I know the manager. I can ask her if anybody’s given notice.”
“Thanks. I’ll cross my fingers.”
“There’s another possibility. I’m settling Hoyt Axelrod’s estate for his children. I could ask them if they’d be interested in renting the house until it sells—maybe with an option for you to buy it.”
Lauren shuddered. “Sky suggested that, too. I just don’t know . . .”
“I understand,” Tori said. “But keep an open mind. You never knew Hoyt. He was a decent man, upheld the law, raised a good family. His wife was a lovely person. But after she died, something went dark in him. I’m not usually one to spread gossip, but I think Stella Rawlins, the woman who owns the Blue Coyote, had a lot to do with it. What happened to him in the end was a tragedy.”
“Beau told me the story. He murdered three people and almost killed Sky.”
“Yes, he did.” Tori’s expression was sad but wise. “But the home is a nice little place, well kept, probably cheaper and certainly more private than the apartments would be. I have the key anytime you’d like to look at it.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. But—”
“No pressure.” Tori smiled. “Just think about it.”
Lauren thought about it all the way back to the ranch. In some ways the Axelrod house would be perfect for her needs. But the idea that a murderer had lived inside those walls would haunt every hour she spent there. She could get rid of the furniture, repaint the walls, replace the fixtures and floor coverings. But even then there was no way she would feel at ease. For now she would trust to luck and hope one of the apartments, or some other place, would open up.
When she reached the house, her father was waiting on the porch, a glass of bourbon in his hand. Fighting the temptation to turn the car around and drive away, she pulled into the shade and switched off the engine. Her father rose as she mounted the front steps.
“I tried to call you, but evidently you’d turned off your phone. If you were with that half-breed Fletcher—”
“I was having lunch with Tori Tyler,” Lauren said, holding back her temper. “I asked her to help me find a place to live in town.”
“Live in town? Hell, you live here!” he snapped. “This is your home! Why should you pay good money for some rat hole in Blanco? And since when do you know Tori?”
Lauren willed herself not to lash out at him. He’d been hard to live with when she’d first arrived. Now his behavior was becoming erratic. While he tracked her every move, or tried to, he guarded his own secrets almost obsessively. She’d begun to worry about his mental state. She might have pushed him to see a doctor, but with the primary and the general election coming up, she knew it wasn’t going to happen. She owed the man nothing, Lauren reminded herself. But he was her father and, in spite of everything, she couldn’t help worrying about him.
“I need to be on my own, Dad,” she said. “Someone at the Tylers’ suggested I call Tori. I met her for the first time today. She’s a nice woman—seems to know more than a little about you.”
He took a swig from his bourbon glass. “What Tori knows about me is none of your damn business. And you’re not fooling me, girl. The only reason you want to be on your own is so you can screw that bastard Fletcher.”
Lauren gasped. She’d tried to remain calm, but his last accusation had sunk home—maybe because it was at least partly true. She drew herself up. “Maybe I should be the one asking questions. You’re coming home at all hours, sometimes staying out all night. When you walk in, the smell of that awful perfume leaves a trail behind you all the way down the hall. Your car reeks of it. Who’s the woman, Dad? Is she married? Is that why you won’t tell me?”
His hand came up. For an instant Lauren thought he was going to strike her. But then he lowered his arm, turned away, and with a muttered curse stalked into the house.
Lauren’s legs were quivering. She sank onto the top step, fists clenched on her knees. With the primary election coming up next month, Garn Prescott had become a walking pressure cooker—and just now he’d nearly exploded.
Since they’d never had a real father–daughter relationship, she didn’t know him as well as she might have. Even so, she could tell something was terribly wrong, and it wasn’t just politics. He was behaving as if he’d bargained his soul and the buyer was about to demand payment.
Call me if you need anything, Lauren. I’ll be here for you.
Lauren fumbled for the cell phone in her purse, then pushed it aside. How many times had she recalled Sky’s parting words? How many times had she reached for that phone, then stopped herself before she could punch in his number? Tori had reassured her that Sky meant what he’d said. But that didn’t mean she could go running to him every time she needed a shoulder to cry on. She had to prove that she was strong enough to handle things on her own—not only to Sky but to herself.
“What do you mean, it’s gone, Nicky?” Stella faced her brother across the bar, a cold knot tightening in her stomach. Her survival had always depended on making sure nothing fell through the cracks. Now, three days after the discovery of a murdered body on the Tyler ranch, something had. The Glock she’d given Nick for protection in the bar was missing—the Glock that was legally registered to her.
Nick cringed under his half sister’s withering gaze. Older by seven years, Stella had always protected him. She alone understood that beneath the skin of the tough-looking biker was a scared, vulnerable man, too slow-witted to survive a lawless world on his own.
He was the one person she truly cared about.
“What did you do with it?” she demanded.
“N-nothing, I swear to God,” he stammered. “I haven’t touched that gun since I loaded it and put it in the drawer.”
“When was the last time you saw it?”
“A while ago.” He shrugged, eyes lowered. “Don’t really remember.”
“Nicky—” Her eyes narrowed. “I know when you’re hiding something. Tell me the truth. When did you first notice the gun was missing?”
“A few days ago. I thought I must’ve moved it and forgot, and that I’d find it somewhere. I knew you’d be mad if I told you.”
Stella exhaled, feeling the knot tighten in the pit of her stomach. “Did you notice anybody looking at it? Anybody opening the drawer?”
“Nobody.” He picked up a glass and began polishing it with a towel.
Unable to contain her anxiety, Stella turned away and walked back down the hall toward her office. Abner Sweeney, her eyes and ears in town, had mentioned that his deputy had found a Glock not far from where a body had turned up on the Tylers’ ranch. It didn’t make sense that the pistol could be the one missing from the bar. But if it was, the serial number could be linked to her, and the prints on the gun could be linked to Nick.
Opening her desk, she took out a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. Hands shaking, she lit the cigarette and inhaled the bitter, calming smoke. Abner had also told her the dead man was a cousin of Sky Fletcher’s—Lute’s brother, most likely—and that he’d been growing weed on Sky’s land. None of that had anything to do with her or with Nicky, but if the murder weapon could be traced to the bar, who was going to believe it?
/> Sinking into the chair, she leaned back, blew a smoke ring, and watched it dissolve against the low ceiling. This was no time to panic, she told herself. She hoped it wouldn’t be too late for some damage control.
At this stage, Acting Sheriff Sweeney was little more than a friend. Solidly married, he wasn’t a candidate for seduction. But in exchange for Stella’s loaning him interest-free money for his new SUV, he’d delivered a gift-wrapped box of chocolates to the attendant at the county jail. Sweeney had no clue what had been hidden under the chocolates, let alone that it had any connection to Hoyt Axelrod’s death. But over the past few weeks Stella had made sure he owed her some small favors. Maybe it was time to call them in.
Blowing one last smoke ring, she snubbed her cigarette in the ashtray and punched in Sweeney’s number on her phone.
“What can I do for you, Stella?” His voice was cordial enough, but she sensed a note of discomfort in the question. Maybe he wasn’t alone.
“I’d like to report a theft,” she said. “A pistol—a Glock—was stolen from the Blue Coyote a few days ago. I only just now discovered it was missing, but there’s a chance it may have been used in a crime.”
There was a pause. “Are you talking about that murder on the Tyler place? That Glock?”
“We can’t be sure, of course—except that the gun’s definitely been stolen.” Stella felt like a fool. The crazy thing was, everything she was telling him was God’s truth. “If there’s any way you could—”
“I’m sorry, it’s out of my hands,” he said. “The gun’s been sent to the lab. We can’t even be sure it was the murder weapon till we get the autopsy and the ballistics report. But I wouldn’t worry. Even if the Glock turns out to be yours, the real criminal’s prints should be on it.”
Not unless the real criminal was too stupid to wear gloves or wipe the gun, Stella thought. “You’ll keep me posted, won’t you—as a friend?” she asked.
“I’ll do what I can.” Abner sounded like a robot. There must be someone with him, maybe a deputy or even that dumpy wife of his who popped out babies like a brood mare. Could she count on Abner to cover for her, or was it, as he’d said, out of his hands?
Swearing, Stella slammed the phone onto the desk. Why now? Just when everything was going so well? She had Garn Prescott under her thumb—especially now that he knew his campaign ads had been paid for with dirty money, and a single anonymous tip to the press could ruin him. Once the organization in Dallas saw proof that she could deliver a U.S. congressman, they’d be begging her to join them. She’d be on her way to having the wealth and power she’d always wanted.
But now she had this mess to deal with. If the gun proved to be hers, and the real murderer wasn’t caught, the evidence could cast enough suspicion to bring her down.
The ironic thing was, for once, she and Nick were as innocent as newborn lambs.
Listening in the upstairs hallway, Marie had heard enough to get the gist of both of Stella’s conversations. After the crash of the phone, she lurked in the shadows hoping to hear more through the thin planks under her bare feet. But there was nothing except the sound of the toilet flushing in the restroom. After a few minutes she crept back to her room, crawled into her bed, and pretended to sleep. Any time now, Stella was bound to show up and question her about the gun. She would need to appear completely clueless.
The tiny room was stifling in the late-morning heat. Marie willed herself to lie still and keep her eyes closed. Beneath the ragged cotton blanket, her body was drenched in sweat. Her heart was pounding.
So far everything she’d planned was falling into place. Stella was running scared. If the cops arrested her or Nick for Coy’s murder, the bitch would be at her mercy.
She should be happy, Marie told herself. But all she could feel was a stomach-curdling tension that crept into her throat, making her want to gag.
On the way back from shooting Coy, she’d pulled the Harley off the road and thrown up in the grass. She’d always hated Coy, the way he’d tortured the animals she loved and the way he used to spy on her through that hole he’d made in the bathroom wall. He’d never touched her physically, but she could just imagine what was going through his mind. She’d told herself that killing him would be a pleasure. But she’d been wrong about that. Whatever happened, the memory of murdering her own brother would never go away.
After meeting Sky in the parking lot that night, she’d known she had to act. Wearing her motorcycle gloves, she’d taken the Glock out of the drawer and had ridden her Harley out to Coy’s camp. It had been easy enough convincing her brother that he had to get rid of the two guns—the lever-action rifle she’d used to shoot the old man and the twenty-gauge shotgun they’d taken off his ATV.
Lute had told her about the bog, and Marie had made sure she knew the way. Telling Coy it was the perfect place to ditch the two guns, she’d taken him there on the back of the motorcycle. She remembered the sweaty heat of his body behind her, the familiar, unwashed stench of him. And she remembered the trust in his eyes when she’d told him to take the guns, walk out to the deepest part of the bog, and shove them under the water with a big rock to anchor them down.
Coy had followed her instructions without a moment’s hesitation. Marie had waited on the dry edge until Coy reached the middle of the bog. Then she’d drawn the Glock and pumped three shots into his back.
On the way back to her bike, she’d tossed the pistol in the cattails.
A sharp rap on the door jerked Marie’s thoughts back to the present. “You in there, girl?” The voice was Stella’s. No surprise there.
“Yeah. . . . Just a minute.” Marie mumbled the words and made sure Stella could hear the creak of rusty springs as she rolled out of bed. Her fingers fumbled with the chain lock on the door.
“Wha . . . ?” she muttered, squinting at Stella through the narrow opening.
Stella shoved her way in. She was dressed for work in her usual silk shirt and tight denim skirt, but her feet were clad in rubber flip-flops, the toes adorned with corn plasters. Her high-heeled, red cowgirl boots wouldn’t go on until the bar was about to open.
“Sit down before you fall down, girl,” she snapped. “Look at you! Have you been drinking? You know that isn’t allowed here unless you pay!”
Marie sank onto the edge of the bed. “Just tired, that’s all. I worked late, and it’s hard to get to sleep in this heat. If I could have a fan—”
“You want a fan, buy your own.” Stella loomed over her, hands on her hips. “That’s not why I’m here. There’s a gun missing from the drawer under the cash register. If you know anything about it, you’d better fess up now.”
“Gun?” Marie looked blank. “What kind of gun? Was I supposed to know it was there?”
Stella gave a huff of impatience. “Did you see anybody near that drawer? Anybody opening it or taking anything out?”
“No. Nigel’s always right there. How could anybody even get close?”
“What about when the bar’s closed? Have you heard any noises downstairs? If you’ve let anybody inside, so help me—”
“No!” Marie was all wide, innocent eyes. “I’d never do that. But I’m a pretty sound sleeper once I go under. Somebody could’ve broken in, I guess. Maybe they were looking for money and found the gun.”
Stella scowled, deepening the creases in her heavy makeup. “A fine lot of help you are! Let me know if you see or hear anything. Meanwhile, as long as you’re up, you might as well get dressed and make yourself useful. The floor could use a good scrubbing before we open, and you can wash the windows, too. I’m not paying you good money to sleep.”
“Bitch!” Marie muttered as Stella sashayed back down the hall toward the stairs. For two cents she’d tell the woman where she could shove this crappy job. But the stakes had become too high for that. And Marie was too close to getting what she wanted. She would have to be patient a little longer.
So far she’d been lucky. If the gun led the cops to Stella or N
ick, and if either of them was arrested, the door would be open to make her move. But luck wouldn’t be enough. She would need to be tough and smart. Play her cards right, and she could have it all. Make one mistake, and she could end up as dead as her two brothers.
Four days after Coy Fletcher’s body was found in the bog, Will sold off two hundred head of Rimrock cattle. The buyer was a feed lot owner out of Lubbock, the price so low that it made Will heartsick. But at least the money would help feed the rest of the herd for a few extra weeks—maybe until the drought broke, if it ever did.
Was he just throwing good money after bad?
Will asked himself that question as he stood on the porch the morning after the sale, sipping his coffee and watching the cruel sun rise over the plains to the east. The summer’s heat had sucked every last drop of moisture out of the soil. The grass had long since crumbled to yellow dust. Even hardy, deep-rooted trees like the cedars were turning brown and dropping their foliage at a passing touch.
The morning breeze stirred the vanes of the old windmill that pumped water from a deep underground well. At least there was wind. But how long would the water last with nothing going down to replenish it? How long could they hold out here if the place became a dust bowl like the one that had sent families trekking out of Oklahoma in the 1930s?
A hundred yards beyond the house he could hear the thrum of the backhoe and see the firebreak Beau had put the cowhands to clearing. The men had been working in shifts through the night, from dusk until chore time, after which the morning sun became too hot to stand. After three nights of backbreaking toil, the eight-foot strip of bare earth made an outward arc on both sides of the drive, giving some protection to the house and other dwellings. The work wouldn’t be finished until it fronted the eastern approach to the barns and sheds. On the west, they would depend on the escarpment to keep them safe. Up on the caprock the fire danger was even greater. But God willing, no fire would be able to jump the rocky, bare escarpment in either direction.
