by Sharon Sala
“I admit I’m not the shy, retiring type,” Cat said. “So what?”
Wilson laid his hand on her belly, then rubbed it gently.
“So I say this baby is going to be real lucky. That’s what I say.”
She sighed, then turned in Wilson’s embrace and put her arms around his neck, then whispered in his ear, “Don’t you think it’s time you carried me across the threshold?”
Wilson’s breath caught; then he tightened his arms around her and stood, taking her with him into the house.
Once inside, he put her back on her feet, then proceeded to kiss her senseless.
“Sweet lord…there’s no bed in this place,” he muttered.
Cat cupped her hands on his cheeks, then ran a finger around the single gold hoop in his ear.
“Since when does a pirate need a bed in which to ravish?”
When she began to undo her pants, his eyes glittered.
She watched a muscle jerk at the side of his jaw and knew this man was never going to give her a moment of regret.
When he knelt at her feet and pulled her pants down around her ankles, then off, she began to shake.
She wanted him.
Now.
“Wilson…”
He shed his shirt, then his belt, and got as far as unbuttoning his jeans before she put her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.
After that, it was all a blur.
The wall was at Cat’s back, while the last rays of the setting sun were in her eyes. She felt the waning heat on her face, then a blast of heat within her belly as Wilson took her hard and fast.
She hung on all the way to the end of the ride, but when he suddenly hit the brakes and came to a shuddering stop—still inside her—she groaned. Both of them were shaking.
Cat was past the edge of reason—all the way gone with love for this man. Her fingers curled, her nails digging into his shoulders as she struggled to hold on.
“Wilson…Wilson…”
His eyes glittered, his nostrils flaring as he struggled to breathe. One last thrust was all he had left. He closed his eyes and gave it up.
Cat screamed as the climax rocked her, shot through and through by the heat of his spilling seed.
Luis and Conchita Montoya had become parents overnight. Today marked the second day of their new life. The only name the authorities had come up with for the orphaned child was the one the pimp knew her by, which was Boo. While that was a sweet baby name, it wouldn’t get her far in the real world. So they named her Amalita, after Luis’s mother, Amalia, who Conchita credited with helping to save their marriage.
Amalita took to Conchita and Luis as if she’d known them all her life. Luis suspected that the little girl had been exposed to far too many people in her brief life, and was used to new faces coming and going.
She’d only said the word “Mama” once since they’d arrived back in Chihuahua, and Luis had been holding her at the time. He’d just calmly turned around and put her into Conchita’s arms and said, “This is your mama now. Give Mama a kiss.”
The little girl had complied.
The crisis that might have been had passed without incident.
Now Luis was standing in their extra bedroom, which had been turned into a nursery overnight, watching his wife rock Amalita to sleep.
When Conchita looked up and saw him watching, she smiled. Luis swallowed past the lump in his throat. He’d never seen her this happy and felt shame that he’d been unaware of how empty her life had been.
“Is everything all right?” he asked softly.
Conchita nodded, then went back to the business of mothering, so Luis left her to it.
Tomorrow, he was flying back to Nuevo Laredo to retrieve his car and finish what he’d started. This time, when he left, he doubted he would be missed.
He’d called the Dallas Police Department earlier and made an appointment to meet with Detective Bradley, the man who’d closed the case on Mark Presley. After that, there would be one more interview—this time with a bounty hunter named Cat Dupree. Where things went from there would be anybody’s guess.
Cat’s morning had taken a turn for the worse when she woke up nauseated. She’d made it to the bathroom in time to throw up and was now sitting in bed, sipping a cup of hot tea and nibbling on a piece of dry toast, hoping it would settle her stomach. Wilson had gone into the kitchen to eat breakfast with his parents, so when Cat heard him running down the hall, she quickly set her food aside.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, as he entered the bedroom and quickly turned on the TV.
“Listen to this,” he said, and then sat down on the side of the bed with her.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Just watch,” he urged, and upped the volume as the morning newscast came back from commercial.
“As we said before the break, the body found yesterday in a local motel has been identified as that of Jimmy Dale Franks, of Dallas, Texas. An arrest warrant had been issued for Franks last week, after he was identified as the man who robbed Lowry’s Gas and Guzzle in Dallas, killing the clerk and stealing her car, which was later found abandoned here in Austin.
“According to authorities, Franks’ death was the result of a brutal beating. If anyone has any information regarding this crime, they are asked to call Crime Stoppers. The number is at the bottom of the screen.”
Cat leaned back with a sigh.
“I can’t believe it. After everything he did, it’s over. Just like that.”
Wilson hugged her. “It’s about time things started falling our way. Now we can concentrate on the important things in life, like bathtubs and babies.”
Cat grinned. “Bathtubs?”
“Yeah, they’re supposed to deliver them this afternoon.”
“Oh. For our house.”
“That has a nice ring to it,” Wilson said, and then gave her a quick kiss before he slid off the bed. “I’m going to leave you alone. Maybe you can get a little more sleep.”
“I’m not sleepy. Just sick to my stomach,” Cat said.
“Don’t rock the boat, then. Take your time, okay?”
Cat nodded. “Tell your mom that I’ll help her snap beans as soon as I can get dressed.”
“Okay, but don’t stress about it. There are enough beans in that garden to feed an army. Before it’s over, we’ll all be snapping beans.”
“I know this is old hat to you, but it’s pretty exciting to me,” Cat said. “I need to learn how to do this so I can—”
“Good lord, no,” Wilson said. “Mom does this because she likes to. Unless you happen to fall in love with growing stuff, we’ll be buying our food at the supermarket.”
Cat laughed. “I have to admit, that’s something of a relief. I’m not sure how green my thumb is.”
Wilson shook his head. “You don’t need a green thumb, just the patience to live with me. I come with a lot of baggage.”
Cat’s smile died. “Revenge is baggage. I’m the one who still has things to learn.”
Wilson watched her face run the gamut of expressions and knew she was remembering her showdown with Tutuola. She’d still never talked about it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it.
“You’re doing just fine, baby,” he said softly, and gave her a quick kiss before tucking her back into bed.
She made it up in time to help peel potatoes for the noon meal and felt fine the rest of the day. Just knowing that Jimmy Franks was no longer a threat had changed the tone of their lives.
The next morning began with a promise of rain, which meant Wilson wouldn’t be tearing off the old roof on the home place as planned. And since it was Saturday, that meant the contractor and his crew were off, too.
That just left Dorothy and her beans.
Green beans—the first produce of the season—were coming to fruition in Dorothy’s garden. Every time someone sat down, she put a big bowl of beans in their lap to be snapped. This morning she was hauling empty canning jars from
the storm cellar to wash and sterilize before filling them with a new crop of green beans.
And every time she started back to the cellar, she paused at the old doghouse to play with the kittens, who were just beginning to venture out to play on their own.
Carter had suggested they move the cat and her babies back to the barn before she started bringing them all onto the back porch, but Dorothy had said no. She told Carter that the momma cat had a reason for moving them to begin with, so they needed to butt out of her business.
Since his suggestions were being met with resistance and he was sick and tired of snapping beans, Carter volunteered to drive over to the home place to make sure the contractors had shut all the windows before they’d left last night. After all their hard work, they didn’t want their remodeling to get rained on.
Cat knew the windows were fine—she and Wilson had checked them all themselves—but if his dad wanted a little while on his own, she wasn’t going to argue.
So she sat on the back porch with a lapful of beans, watching as Carter drove out of the yard.
Wilson was in Austin, picking up feed.
It was business as usual.
Life was finally calm and orderly.
For the first time in more years than she could remember, her troubles were finally behind her.
Luis Montoya’s flight from Chihuahua to Nuevo Laredo was rough. He got out of the small commuter plane with his legs shaking and his stomach still in knots. Once or twice he’d feared that they were actually going to crash, though the little plane had only been bouncing in and out of air pockets. Even so, he was glad to be on the ground.
He reclaimed his luggage and headed for airport parking, where he’d left his car. Within the hour, he was on his way to the border.
He had a mental list of questions that needed answering from either the Dallas PD or the American bounty hunters—or both. And before he left, he would have his answer as to why Cat Dupree made a second trip into Mexico.
Last night Jimmy Franks had been forced to make a decision about his transvestite look. Either he found a new way to disguise himself or he had to get out of Austin altogether. While he was heading through the back streets on his way to find a new ride, he’d come close to getting beat all to hell by a pair of good old boys who’d taken offense at his lipstick, his eyeshadow and his pink silk blouse.
So he’d taken himself to another secondhand shop this morning and come out with two sacks full of gear. He caught a cab and, a short while later, checked into another no-tell motel on the other side of town. Within the hour, the makeup was off his face and he was in the process of cutting his hair. But the scissors he was using were dull, and every time he grabbed up a hank of hair to cut, it pulled like hell and made his eyes water. He’d managed to cut himself once, but it had to be done. His new look called for bald. When he’d finally finished hours later, he dressed in his new garb and gave himself one last look. He was ready to move.
Bald head.
Fake black leather jacket and pants—which, now that he had them on, were making him itch.
Old army boots that were run down at the heels.
Fake swastika tattoo on the back of his neck, and an oversize chain with one end hooked to his belt buckle and the other to the wallet in his back pocket.
Skinhead.
Who would have thought?
Houston would have a fit if he saw him dressed like this.
Then Jimmy shoved his chest forward and lifted his chin, glaring himself down in the mirror.
Damn it, he needed to remember that Houston’s opinion of him didn’t matter anymore.
His older brother should never have abandoned him like he had. It was all Wilson McKay’s fault. If he’d died like he was supposed to the first time, they would both have been long gone. Houston had tried to talk him out of finishing the job, but Jimmy didn’t like being told what to do. Now he’d gone too far to turn back.
With one last look at his new persona, he tossed the room key on the bed and strode off down the street. All he needed now was a ride.
Medical examiner Marge Asher was in the middle of an autopsy on a white male, approximate age thirty-three years old. Even though the victim’s cause of death looked to be a savage beating, in a homicide, an autopsy was standard procedure.
The blood and tissue samples had been sent to the lab. Identification through facial reconstruction or dental records was, in this case, impossible. The man’s face was basically a gelatinous mass, and his extremities looked like they’d been put through a meat grinder, which meant no fingerprints were going to be available, either.
But she had an ace in the hole. A few minutes earlier, she’d pulled a serial number off the dead man’s hip replacement. The ID on the artificial joint was specific to one person only. She made note of the number, including it in her report, and soon after she was done, so she closed him up, posted her findings and sent them through the proper channels, then moved on to the next body waiting for her attention.
Her report wound up on Detective Andy Parker’s desk, but he’d caught two new homicide cases and was in hot pursuit of a man who’d killed his wife of thirty-two years, and disappeared with three million dollars of company money and his best friend’s wife.
Parker came in late the next morning and was nursing a cup of coffee as he went through the papers on his desk. When he got to the coroner’s report on the body tentatively identified as Jimmy Franks, he expected it to be a confirmation. But when he began to read, he realized their murder case had taken an unexpected twist. Yes, someone had been murdered in Jimmy Dale Franks’s motel room, but it wasn’t Jimmy Dale Franks.
“Crap,” he said, and headed for his lieutenant’s office with the paperwork in his hands. He knocked once, then went in without waiting for permission. “We’ve got ourselves a hitch in the Franks murder.”
Lieutenant Jakowski, a twenty-seven-year veteran of the force, had dealt with plenty of hitches in his career, so his response was less than concerned.
“Yeah, like what?” he asked.
Parker laid the report in front of Jakowski.
“We’ve still got a killer on the loose—probably Franks. The vic from the motel was not Jimmy Franks. According to the doctor who put an artificial hip in him five years ago, he was James Martin of Waxahatchee, Texas.”
“I thought we had fingerprints.”
“We did…do. I’m thinking Franks is a lot smarter than we’ve given him credit for. He took that room, left his prints all over the place, then killed himself off, which took the heat off the search. He’s still a loose cannon. Do we notify the press? Should we let that bail bondsman know?”
“What bail bondsman?”
“A few months ago Franks tried to kill a bail bondsman named Wilson McKay in Dallas. He got away and has been on the run ever since. He robbed a Dallas convenience store last week. Killed the clerk and stole her car, the one—”
“Oh yeah…that was found abandoned on the Austin bypass.”
“Right. And since Wilson is at his family home outside Austin, still recovering from the gunshots, there’s a possibility Franks is stalking him.”
“I know who you’re talking about now. Isn’t he the guy that went into the stock pond after his fiancée? The woman who got caught in the tornado?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“Crap,” Jakowski muttered. “We got ourselves a local hero who’s under the belief that his shooter is dead. Hell yes, let him know. Don’t notify the press, though. If you do, it will just alert Franks that we’re on to him again.”
“Yes, sir,” Parker said, and started to leave.
“Wait!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Double-check the findings before you make that call. We’ve already fucked up once. I don’t want it happening again.”
“Are you telling me to doubt Marge Asher’s report?”
“I’m just telling you to make sure of your facts before you call McKay.”
/> “Fine, but I’m not calling Marge. If you want her to recheck anything, you call her. I don’t have the balls to stand up to that woman.”
Jakowski sighed. “I’m not sure I do, either.”
“Well it’s your call.”
Jakowski frowned. “Just check what you can on your own. You don’t have to go through the M.E.’s office to verify stuff, damn it. Do I have to tell you everything?”
“No, sir. I’m on it.”
“Good. Let me know when you’ve finished. I’ll make the call to McKay myself.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“Yeah. It’s why I make the big bucks, right?”
Parker laughed. They both knew that people who went into law enforcement sure didn’t do it for the money.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Shut the door on your way out,” Jakowski added.
Parker made sure not to slam it; then he was off to check what he could before the story got changed.
Fourteen
Jimmy Franks was strutting like a bad boy. He had bad-boy clothes. Bad-boy attitude. Badass gun in his jacket. But he still needed a car, and now he had the perfect plan to get one.
For the better part of the morning he’d been watching the north side of a mall parking lot, noticing that most of the employees parked at the back edge, either at the request of the bosses, who probably wanted the closer parking spaces left for paying customers, or because they didn’t want their own vehicles exposed to constant dings by parking too close to someone else. All he had to do was wait until someone drove up alone. If the car looked presentable, it was his.
By the time he’d decided on how he would do it, he didn’t have long to wait.
About thirty minutes later a young woman wheeled off the access road into the parking lot in her small gray Honda and headed right toward where he was standing. He stepped farther behind the shrubs bordering the lot and waited for her to park.
When she got out of the car and went to the rear of the vehicle to pop the trunk, he made his move.
