by Mari Manning
“Hurry, he’s this way.”
She turned in the macaw’s direction. Dazzling sunlight filled an archway at the corner of the parlor. She aimed herself at the first open door she’d found on this floor. It turned out to be the kitchen. As she stepped over the threshold, she nearly banged into Maguire. He peered at her from beneath the brim of his Stetson. “Hey, Frankie. What’re you up to?”
She stuffed the envelope into the back of her jeans. “I’m looking for coffee.”
Her gaze swept the unpromising kitchen. Doorless cabinets jammed with mason jars of flour, sugar, rice, pasta, grain. Cracked linoleum counters piled with mixing bowls, chipped earthenware plates, jelly jar glasses, bowls. A sagging farm table, an ancient ceiling fan, black-and-white linoleum floor scrubbed to gray, an avocado fridge from the sixties and its cousin—the oven from the fifties.
No Mr. Coffee. Not even a percolator or a teakettle.
Kirby brightened. A reasonable excuse to drive into town. She’d regroup, get a decent meal, check the police station.
“I guess I’ll go into El Royo. Where did you put my keys?”
“Coffee?” He tilted his head and examined her.
“I’d like my car keys, please.” She thrust out her hand.
A tight smile pushed at his mouth. “No need to waste gas. I have a fresh pot going in the coach house.”
“I’d rather go into El Royo.”
Lines appeared at the corners of his eyes. A shadow crossed his face. Fatigue? “Please, Frankie. Just this once. Can we do it my way without a fight?”
“I’m not fighting. I’m asking for the keys to my car.”
“You just got back to the ranch. Come on.” He tilted his head and squeezed a tight, almost charming smile to his lips. “I make a mean cup of coffee. You’ll see.”
The man was as transparent as glass. Still, he had the keys to the Mercedes, and she didn’t. Not yet. She surrendered. Temporarily. “Okay. We’ll do it your way.”
“You won’t be sorry,” he said, waving her outside.
She already was. But she pressed her lips together and followed him.
“So you’re up early,” he said.
It was a statement spoken too casually. The kind that demanded an answer. She hesitated, suddenly cautious and on alert. Maguire was cooler and smarter than Miss Bea. That made him more dangerous. And he’d already noticed cracks in her Frankie act. She glanced at him. He was studying her closely. Her throat thickened.
Be Frankie.
“So are you,” she said, pushing a smile to her lips.
“I just mean you usually sleep in. Never seen you up at this hour.”
“I’m trying something new.”
His steps slowed. He studied her suspiciously. “Really? And what would that be, exactly?”
He was being a condescending ass, and it irritated the hell out of Kirby. He was probably the type who screwed a girl then thought he could treat her as yesterday’s trash. Her eyes met his and stared him down. “Exactly?”
“Yeah, exactly.” Challenge sharpened his words and tightened his mouth.
“Well, let’s see here. It would be—exactly—that I’m getting up early. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Something else is going on. Answer my question.” He sounded frustrated, although why it mattered what time she woke up Kirby couldn’t quite see. But it did, and that was interesting.
“Why the third degree over a cup of coffee?” she asked.
She let her gaze roam across the horizon. The top of the ridge sharp as it hit the sky, the rolling plain soft as it disappeared over the edge of the world. So much open space. So much room for everyone. Or there should be.
He stopped. “We took Shaw to the hospital last week. Right after you disappeared. He can’t handle any more stress.”
“I’m twenty-three and quite capable of looking after myself. Surely you aren’t implying my absence caused my cousin’s illness?” Which was exactly what he seemed to be implying. Was he going to blame Frankie for the lack of rain, too?
He came closer, pushing his face close to hers. Black stubble covered his cheeks and chin. Beneath his eyes, dark circles of sleeplessness bruised the skin. He smelled of spicy soap and anger.
She couldn’t breathe. Whether from outrage or fear, she didn’t know.
He gripped her shoulders, his hands hot as branding irons. “Dammit, Frankie, look at me.”
Her eyes locked onto his. The blue depths flickered. Heat rocketed through her body. She jerked away from him. “Don’t touch me.”
“Sorry.” He raised his hands but didn’t move. “Look, I don’t know what the problem is between you and Shaw. Miss Bea won’t say. But they can make your life pretty damn difficult if you don’t ease up on them.”
So Mr. Shaw had a beef with Frankie.
“Well?” Maguire was waiting for an answer.
She lifted a brow, met his gaze straight on and tried to ignore the fluttering of her heart. “I could really use that cup of coffee.” It was all she could manage.
His mouth tightened. “Right. Let’s go.”
When they reached the coach house, Maguire said, “Wait right here. I’ll run up and get your coffee.” He looked nervous. As if he had Charleen tied up in the closet.
“I can come with you.”
“My place is a mess.”
“I don’t mind.”
One eyebrow rose. “Thought you said you cooled down. Wait right here. I mean it.” He jogged through the garage and up a flight of stairs.
Kirby studied his retreating back and wondered what he’d meant.
A young guy, toting a bright blue feed bucket in each hand, emerged from the barn. He was a tall, thin rail, half boy, half man. Knobby wrists and sunbaked arms sprouted from the cuffs of his denim shirt and a skinny neck with a prominent Adam’s apple popped between his open collar. Beneath his brown Stetson, glasses thicker than the bottoms of Coke bottles rode on a short nose.
Kirby’s eyes dropped to his shoes, one ordinary and one with a sole thick as a dictionary. A thin layer of Texas dust coated the toes and the laces had been broken and knotted in several places.
The ranch hand. Manny Rivera.
She followed him to the paddock, where two bays waited patiently for breakfast. She reached for a bucket. “Can I grab one for you?” It wasn’t a Frankie thing to do, but she had a few questions for him, which she preferred to ask while Maguire was fetching coffee.
“I can do it myself.” He sounded as nervous as Maguire.
“I’m sure you can. I just like helping.”
“You’ll get your fancy duds all dirty.”
“I don’t mind. Honest.” She held out her hand.
He jerked his chin toward the coach house where Maguire had disappeared. “The boss said you weren’t supposed to be over here.”
“Why did he say that?”
“Don’t know.” He blushed like he did know.
“Well, then.”
He took a deep breath and slowly, reluctantly offered her a feed bucket. “Do you know how?”
“Sure do. My granddaddy took care of horses all his life. I used to help him.” She cringed. Kirby Swallow, raised by her granddaddy, had worked in stables since she was knee-high. Not Frankie Swallow, city girl extraordinaire. Fortunately, Manny wouldn’t know that. “And my daddy used to ride in the rodeo,” she added. At least Frankie could claim that truth.
“That’s awesome. I always wanted to ride the bucking broncos. Those guys are so cool, but, well—” He glanced down at his feet.
Kirby felt a stab of sympathy. “It’s pretty dangerous work. Killed my daddy.”
“Seriously?”
“Broke his neck.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Didn’t mean to stir anything up.”
“It’s okay.”
She’d barely known her father. He sent her away to live with Grandy when she was three. Charleen had just birthed Frankie and didn’t want a toddler unde
rfoot. At least that’s what Grandy said.
Kirby hefted her bucket. “Those horses of yours sure look hungry. We better feed them before they start chewing the fence.”
Manny’s lips curved upward. “Sure thing. You take Old Tom.”
Since it seemed unlikely the mare was called Old Tom, she headed straight for the gelding. The horse nearly took her hand off going for the bucket.
“He’s an eating machine when it comes to oats,” Manny said.
The gelding appeared to be a few years old. “I’ve always wondered how Old Tom got his name.” She felt confident Frankie wouldn’t have asked. She hooked her feed bucket to the fence beside Old Tom and rubbed the velvety space between his ears.
“Mr. Shaw named him after the first Old Tom.”
“So there are two Old Toms?”
“Not according to Mr. Shaw. He believes in reincarnation. He told me life is a path. You reach the end, and your spirit flies away forever. That’s the best. If you die before you reach the end, your spirit comes back to earth. That’s what happened with Old Tom. Darby, too.” He patted the mare’s nose. “She was a runaway. Mr. Shaw tried to help her, but she died. That’s why Mr. Shaw kept them when he sold the rest of the horses. ’Cause they’re friends.”
“Are Bobby and the macaw former colleagues of his, too?”
“I guess so. Miss Bea would know.”
Not that Kirby intended to ask. She thought about the old man, pale and slightly bent, the force of his personality that prevented her from pushing open the door and how he’d closed ranks on Charleen and Frankie. What would he return as?
“How about you?” she asked.
Manny shrugged. “Reverend Brenner says when you die you go to heaven or hell, and animals are just animals.” His eyes dropped to his feet. The longing in his young face made her ache. “But if Mr. Shaw is right, I’d like to come back as me. But different.”
Despite the rocky start to the morning, Kirby was actually enjoying herself. It was nice to find at least one person on this godforsaken ranch who acted civil. “Maybe we all do,” she said gently. “But you have to forge on with what God gave you.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“So who was the first Old Tom?”
“He was Mr. Shaw’s friend.”
“Did he visit Mr. Shaw a lot?”
“He was our director of universal gifts.”
She tried to keep a straight face. “What?”
The young man pointed in the direction of the vegetable patch. “He took care of the garden. Wouldn’t let any store-bought fertilizer and stuff near his babies. That’s what he called the vegetables. He was loco. The boss thought so, too. He said the people in California, uh, c-c-corrupted Old Tom and Mr. Shaw. Not sure what he meant.”
She had a fairly good idea of exactly what Maguire meant. “California is its own kind of place. They do things different from the folks in Texas. Perhaps Mr. Maguire prefers things Texas-style.”
“Makes sense. Cattle ranching is inhumane. That’s what Mr. Shaw said. Riled up a lot of folks. But Mr. Shaw didn’t care. He sold off the herd because he didn’t want blood on his hands. He didn’t believe in guns, either. The boss had to hide his Colt so he could keep his job.”
So Maguire had a weapon. She raised her gaze to the coach house. She’d bet her badge it was somewhere in his apartment.
Manny stared out at the ranch, but he wasn’t seeing with his eyes. “In California they like plants and animals a lot. More than some people. But Mr. Shaw and Old Tom liked people, too. Even the ones who weren’t perfect.”
Kirby patted the gelding’s nose again. “So how did this Old Tom get named after Mr. Shaw’s friend?”
“Right after Old Tom died, Mr. Shaw was over at the next ranch, and he saw Old Tom, except he had a different name. Mr. Shaw said looking into that horse’s eyes was like looking into his friend’s. So he talked Dr. Ernesto—that’s who owns the ranch over yonder—into selling Old Tom. Crazy, huh?”
Sunlight bounced off the distant ridge and flashed across the barnyard. “Did you see that light up yonder?”
Manny followed her gaze. “I saw it this morning.”
“Does someone live up there?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Nope. There’s an old quarry up that way. Mr. Shaw’s daddy dug it. It’s filled with water now. The kids in town go up there to drink and stuff. ’Course, it can be dangerous. They found a dead guy last fall. He fell in the water and drowned. Must’ve called out, but no one heard him.”
“That’s awful. Have you ever heard anything suspicious?”
“From the ridge?” His expression registered alarm. “That’s two miles off! Can’t tell much from that far away.”
“Not just the ridge. Just around.”
He shook his head. “Not really.”
“What about seen? Do the local kids use the path to get to the quarry?”
He shook his head. “There’s a road behind. I’ve only been up there a few times, but I think they mostly drive.”
“That makes sense.” Kirby’s hopes began to sink. The boy was telling the truth—no eye shifting or twitching. No stuttering. He’d spent every day out here for the past two weeks and seen nothing. She tried one more question. “I’m worried about my momma. I wondered if you saw anything, uh, out of place last week.”
“Not really,” he said again.
Kirby had been so intent on Manny, she nearly jumped out of her skin when Miss Bea began to screech. “Mr. Maguire!” Her voice shook windows and nearly shattered eardrums.
Kirby spun around.
Miss Bea stood in the barnyard. Her bony talons gripped her hips. Her narrow mouth gaped in horror. Her eyes smoldered like bits of coal.
Frozen between Miss Bea and Kirby, holding a mug of steaming coffee, was Maguire. He was gaping at Kirby as if he’d just watched her commit murder.
Chapter Four
The coffee trickled into the carafe, drip by drip by drip by drip by…
“Come on, dammit. Hurry.”
By the time the drips turned to a drizzle, Seth was jumping out of his skin. He strode to the window. His eyes searched the driveway.
Frankie had vanished.
“Crap!” He shouted the word at Mr. Coffee. The stream quickened, but he couldn’t wait. He grabbed the carafe. Hot liquid gushed from the basket, over the counter and across the floor. He splashed coffee into a dirty mug beside the sink and raced down the stairs.
A lump of fear lodged in his throat when he saw Frankie with Manny. He gulped in some dusty air. Play it cool.
Too late. Behind him, Miss Bea screeched. “Mr. Maguire!” His nerves—what was left of them—seemed to shred.
Hot coffee sloshed over his hand. Frankie swung around. Her eyes were wide, startled, and it hit him again that something was off. Why would Frankie be surprised that Miss Bea was having a meltdown? Frankie—bold, brash Frankie—had been told to leave Manny alone. By Shaw himself, no less.
Miss Bea’s tight voice whistled through his ears. “Mr. Maguire. A word. Now.”
He wanted to tell Miss Bea to calm down. He wanted to tell Frankie to take life seriously. Hell, what he really wanted was to jump in his Jeep and get the hell out of Shaw Valley. But gigs were few and far between up here, and if he was going to buy his own spread, he needed steady work.
He turned and faced Miss Bea. “Everything is under control.”
Her mouth puckered. She marched across the gravel and got up in his grill. “You left her with Manny. Mr. Shaw will not be happy about this.”
She was always very free with pronouncements of what would make Shaw happy. Just once, Seth wanted to hear from Shaw himself. In fact, he’d pay a day’s wages for the pleasure. “I can handle Frankie.” He narrowed his eyes into Miss Bea’s, daring her to argue.
A gray, unkempt eyebrow rose. “Miss Frances is not to be left alone. You know that.”
“Exactly. So let me get back to my job.”
A deris
ive snort blew from her thin nostrils. “Just make sure you do. I’ve got to run down to Austin. I’ll be back after lunch.”
She stomped away, arms folded, the top half of her body craning forward, her big bottom dragging behind. When she reached the Escalade, she hoisted herself in, ass first. That woman had ballast. Balls, too, the way she put herself in charge of everything. But when it came to Frankie, Miss Bea was right. She had to be watched.
He strode across the barnyard and thrust the coffee at Frankie. “Here.”
“Thanks.” With one hand, she slid her fingers through the handle of the mug. She looked up at him, and that same soft light was in her eyes. The one he’d noticed yesterday when she’d asked about her momma. “Did you burn your hand?” she asked.
Desire scraped at his body, and he experienced an insane desire to touch her. Instead, he shook his head. “I’m fine.”
She sipped her coffee and studied him. The deep concern in her eyes shook him more than Frankie’s crazy stunts. He tore his eyes away and zeroed in on Manny. “You having trouble keeping up with the chores?” He could feel Frankie’s interest as if it were alive and breathing on its own. By now Frankie should be complaining of boredom.
“No, boss. I just…I mean, she just asked if she could help. I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to say.” Manny’s face reddened.
Since when did Frankie start offering to help around the ranch?
“This is all my fault,” Frankie said. “I didn’t mean to interfere.” But she looked more curious than contrite.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second and tried to get his bearings. Had he landed in a parallel universe where Frankie was nice? “Miss Frances isn’t used to working with horses. She might get bitten. Please remember that in the future,” he said to Manny.
Manny shrugged. “She said she worked at a stable.”
He hated Frankie’s lies. He spun on her. “You told me you grew up in downtown Houston. In a fancy condo, wasn’t it?” More like rubbed it in his face.
He expected a gotcha laugh or a snotty comeback, but instead he got nervousness.
