by Mari Manning
“I—I meant on my summer vacations. My granddaddy worked at a stable, and I would help him. Sorry.” She raised her mug and gulped at the coffee. “Great coffee. You saved my life. Honest.”
Sorry? Honest? Either Frankie Swallow was giving an Oscar-worthy performance as the girl next door or… Or what? He studied her. Same hair, same eyes, same nose, same voice. But something was off. He pushed a Frankie hot button. “The horses need exercise. Care to ride with me?” He raised an eyebrow. “I mean, since you have all that stable experience.”
Frankie tilted her head and studied him. “What are you up to, Seth?”
“Just asking a civil question. It’s a nice day for a ride.” He struggled to keep his face neutral. Behind him, Manny shuffled, and it occurred to Seth that Manny’s face might be giving away the subterfuge. Seth twisted his head toward the boy, who looked confused. “Right, Manny?”
The boy’s confusion turned to fear. He backed away from Seth. “I—I don’t know, boss.”
Frankie’s expression sobered. She looked from Manny to Seth. Her eyes narrowed. “I think I’ll take a walk up to the ridge.”
Seth felt his neutral expression slip away. Frankie didn’t walk. “Suit yourself. Of course, it’s a nice ride to the ridge. Beats walking in this heat.”
“Does it?” When he didn’t respond, she added, “Besides, I don’t have boots.”
He pushed his face into a jovial expression, an effort that made his face ache. “No problem. You can borrow Miss Bea’s boots. Come on. I thought you liked riding with me.”
Manny let out a soft breath. It was a lie. Frankie hated the horses, and she refused to ride. As for wearing Miss Bea’s boots, no points for guessing how snotty little Frankie would feel about doing that. So if this was the same Frankie who’d taken off a few days ago, he was about to get a shit storm of indignation. OMG! I would never touch anything of hers.
Instead he got a rueful grin. “Miss Bea might mind. She doesn’t like me much.”
Hot damn.
His hand shook as he patted Manny’s shoulder. “Can you get those old boots out of Miss Bea’s tack box? And saddle the horses.” He’d do it himself, but he was not leaving Frankie’s side. At least not until he figured out what she was up to.
When the horses were saddled, Seth eyed Frankie. “Feeling up to riding Old Tom? He’s a little headstrong this morning. Might be too much for you.” He was flying close to the sun on this, but Frankie was up to something.
Frankie patted Old Tom’s withers. “What do you say?” The bay snorted and pawed the dirt. Then, sliding a boot into the stirrup, she mounted him in one graceful move, her slender leg flying over Old Tom’s back and her trim bottom slipping into the saddle before Seth’s disbelieving eyes.
Amazing. Apparently Manny thought so, too. Behind his thick glasses, he was round eyed and startled.
Seth swung onto Darby. “You want to head to the ridge?”
Frankie eyed him. “If you don’t have an objection.”
“None at all.”
He guided Darcy into the wide path of grass and clover between the lavender fields. Frankie fell into step beside him, and a deeply irrational sense of well-being washed over him. Miss Bea had skinned him alive twice in one morning. A new record. A new low.
So why the hell was he feeling so mellow?
The scent of lavender floated in the warm air. The grayish-purple wands dipped and rolled like waves. Frankie took a deep, noisy sniff. “Hmm. Smells good.”
“Sure.”
“Must have been hard for you when my cousin sold the cattle and took up farming.”
He glanced at her, expecting to see mocking, catlike eyes, but instead he was met with curiosity. Or was it interest? “I guess. Not exactly what I expected when I came here.”
“What did you expect?”
He shrugged. What did she think he’d expected? “A working ranch. A herd of steers from here to the horizon. Beefsteak for dinner. Whiskey for dessert.”
She burst out laughing, and he almost laughed, too.
A comfortable silence settled over them, and he slipped back a pace so he could study the new Frankie. Her cat eyes didn’t seem so damned spooky this morning. His gaze lingered on strong cheekbones, golden skin, the gentle puff of pink lips. A breeze lifted. Long, black hair unfurled, gleaming like jet.
This girl couldn’t be Frankie. It wasn’t just the horse business. It was the way she acted, asking questions all the time and looking startled when Miss Bea went off on her. Sure, she knew a lot about the house and him and the workings of the ranch. And sometimes she’d tilt her head just like Frankie and do Frankie’s Beyoncé strut, but not all the time.
So if she looked like Frankie and talked like Frankie and knew about Frankie’s life, but wasn’t Frankie, who the hell was she? Besides Frankie’s doppelgänger. He should be alarmed, wary even. But instead he felt as if he’d finally turned a corner.
They reached the last row of lavender. Ahead was the narrow trail up the ridge.
Doppel-Frankie stirred. “Manny said someone drowned up there.” She was studying him again.
“A year ago last spring.”
“How did you find him?”
He tried to recall when it had happened. Whether Frankie and Charleen had descended on the ranch by then. He couldn’t recall. “The kid’s family came to the house. Claimed their son had gone hiking on the ridge and didn’t come back. Mr. Shaw sent me up to take a look around. He’d floated to the surface by then, so that was that.”
“Did you call the police?”
He’d have fallen off his horse with surprise if he hadn’t already decided this girl was not Frankie. Frankie wouldn’t have asked him if he called the police. She’d want to know what the body looked like or, more likely, if it was naked. “Miss Bea called the cops.”
She nodded and turned away, and he let his gaze roam over her. Why had she come? What did she want? Had she done something to Frankie? He’d never been a big trust-your-gut sort of guy, but he didn’t think Frankie was in danger. Actually, as he considered this whole switcheroo scenario, the more it struck him as something Frankie might dream up. The question was why.
Old Tom snorted and bucked. Doppel-Frankie pulled him back. “He wants to run.”
Whoever she was, he didn’t need any girls with broken necks to deal with. “Let’s switch.”
“I can manage.” She leaned forward, loosened Old Tom’s reins, clicked her tongue. “I’ll meet you at the quarry.”
Old Tom took off, his hooves spinning into a gallop. Seth half expected doppel-Frankie to fly from the horse, but she didn’t. She and Old Tom were like a single creature. Their muscles, bones, sinews flexing in perfect harmony. Long, graceful necks straining forward. Hair and tail trailing like billowing flames from a wildfire.
Interest and desire stirred inside him. He urged Darby into a gallop. She acquiesced reluctantly, working her way up to a canter and only breaking into a gallop after he dug his boots into her.
Doppel-Frankie and Old Tom were barely fifty yards from the trees at the top of the ridge.
Crack! Whistle. A gunshot exploded on the ridge.
Old Tom reared up. Frankie grabbed at his neck, pressing her weight down on his head. The horse’s forelegs returned to earth, and Frankie jerked the reins back and forced him to turn. She’d gotten him under control like a pro.
Crack!
This bullet whistled past Seth.
“Frankie,” he shouted. “Get away from there.” But Old Tom reared up again. Seth urged Darby forward. “Come on, girl.” The mare didn’t resist, although “gallop” would be too strong a word for her gait.
Frankie was nearly out of her saddle when he reached her, pressing her small body against Old Tom’s neck, her knees into his withers, her boots into his side.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No. He’s spooked.” She turned her head, and he was surprised to see her eyes flash with anger. “What kind of jerk shoots
at a horse? Old Tom could’ve broken a leg.”
“I don’t know.”
Seth studied the ridge. He wasn’t armed, and he’d be a perfect target if he charged up there. Of course, retreat presented even more exposure. Not that he had any intention of turning tail. “Stay here.”
“Are you going up?” She looked horrified.
He nodded at Old Tom. “Just keep him under control. Okay?”
“Be careful.” That was a very un-Frankie-like thing to say, and she seemed to realize it. “I, uh, I’m not dragging your lifeless body home.”
Yeah, right. He urged Darby forward, zigzagging up the ridge, varying his gait, keeping his head low until he reached the top.
Deep in the woods, a car minus its muffler rattled to life. He jumped off Darby, pushed aside tree branches, skirted rocks, following the path as it widened into a rutted, unpaved road. A layer of fine dust floated above it. Vroom, vroom, vroom. The low rumble of the car grew faint. He ran through the dust for a half mile or so, but it was gone.
“Shit.” Just his luck. Frankie turns friendly, and a stranger shows up with a gun and a grudge.
He turned back, kicking at the brush for bullet casings. His boot hit a rifle flung beneath a clump of catclaw. The sharp, sweet smell of gunpowder clung to its thorns and puny leaves. He knew that gun as well as he knew his own Colt. Two fifty-seven Roberts, lightweight, polished silver barrel, carved walnut stock. He stooped and traced the initials floating inside the swirls: BV. Bea Vine. Cracking it open, he checked the chamber. Two bullets missing.
He didn’t like Miss Bea. She was a harridan. A screeching, clawed, judgmental harridan. Maybe worse. But he didn’t see her shooting at a horse. Or a person. Not because she wasn’t mean enough, but because she’d never do anything that might separate her from her beloved Shaw. Like committing a crime that could land her in jail.
He glanced around the silent woods. So who had shot at him and Frankie? How did they get Miss Bea’s rifle? There were no bullets on the ranch unless you counted the ones in his gun. He ticked off the suspects in his head. It couldn’t be Manny or doppel-Frankie or him. That left Miss Bea and Shaw. Or someone who had not yet revealed himself…
He snapped the rifle shut and tucked it under his arm. Until he figured out what was going on, he’d hold onto Miss Bea’s rifle.
By the time he emerged from the trees, Frankie had calmed Old Tom and secured Darby’s reins.
“Is that the gun?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Not sure.”
“Did you see anything?”
“No. They were gone by the time I got up there.”
“But you found the weapon.” The real Frankie would have known Miss Bea’s rifle.
He mounted Darby. “Let me handle this.”
“But don’t you think the police—”
He clucked his tongue, urging his mare forward and cutting off doppel-Frankie’s questions, which he had no intention of answering until he figured out what she was hiding.
Chapter Five
Lifting a chair in Frankie’s parlor, Kirby set it against the door. Then she pulled out her cell and called Frankie.
“Hi, Kirby. How’s it going?”
“I’m making progress. But I have some questions. Are you okay to talk?”
“Just lounging around the house. Tell me everything.”
Start at the beginning. “I had a look around the west wing this morning.”
“Bet you got busted. Cousin Eenie must have a buzzer or something. I’ve never gotten past the second door. Was he pissed?”
“Of course. But I thought I heard a woman’s voice. Do you think your momma could be locked up over there?”
“I don’t know. What if she is?”
“I think we should call the police. Let them take it from here.”
“I think you should wait, Kirby. What if it’s not Momma? Or what if they’ve moved her? You could blow everything.”
“I hate to take a chance on her life if it’s her. Besides, who else could it be?”
“One of Miss Bea’s old ladies. They visit sometimes. Or Cousin Eenie had a friend visit once. He stayed overnight in the west wing.”
Kirby didn’t like either of those explanations. The voice had sounded weak and upset. But Frankie had a point. If she got the police involved and they found nothing, she’d blow her cover and perhaps lose any chance of recovering Charleen. “Okay. What about your cousin Eenie? Maguire said something about you two having a disagreement.”
“A disagreement?”
“That’s what he said.”
Frankie’s voice went up a few registers. “Sometimes I despise him!”
“Who? Your cousin Eenie?”
“No! Maguire. He’s such an ass. And a liar. I’d tell him off I was there.”
“It’s okay. Forget about him.” Kirby thought about the overwrought man who’d burned his hand bringing her coffee then risked his own neck to chase after the shooter. He didn’t seem like a man given to pettiness. But she’d barely known him twenty-four hours.
“I can’t. Not after everything.” She let the sentence hang in the air.
Kirby’s eyes settled on the four stacks of hundred-dollar bills on Frankie’s bed. Four thousand bucks. “I have a few more questions.”
Frankie yawned. “Not now, Kirby. Call me tonight.”
“Wait. What about the money—”
“Money? What money?”
“Miss Bea gave me a stack of cash that she said was my allowance.”
“That freaking bitch! Put it in the closet. In the suitcase.”
“Is that really your allowance?”
Frankie growled. “I don’t need that woman giving me an allowance. She’s a servant, Kirby. A charity case with nowhere to go, so she turned to Cousin Eenie. I’m family.”
“Well, of course you are,” Kirby said soothingly. Frankie had a temper and a long memory. Best not to get her stirred up. She thought about Mr. Cargill and how Miss Bea had used him almost as a cudgel. It might be best to let Frankie cool down before bringing up his name.
After soothing Frankie’s ruffled feathers for a few more minutes, she said good-bye and ended the call with relief.
Kirby hit another number. The phone was answered on the first ring. “Kirby?”
“Hi, Scott.” Scott Gilbert was not just a Tulsa police sergeant, he was her boss and her friend. He’d lost his wife the same month she lost Grandy. Mutual grief had closed the chasm between their ranks and their ages. But as the months went on, Scott’s friendship had turned to love. If only Kirby felt the same way. She kept putting him off when he wanted to talk about his feelings and the possibility of a relationship, because of the grief he still carried with him. She knew how he hurt. How could she add to it?
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“So far.”
“So what’s the ranch like?”
Besides getting shot at and threatened? Events best kept quiet if she didn’t want an overprotective Scott racing down to Shaw Valley. “The ranch is…big. Spacious. They have horses.”
“I would hope so. Can’t think how they’d run a ranch without ’em.”
“I meant I had a chance to ride. First time since Grandy died.”
“Glad to hear you’re enjoying yourself.” Longing filled his words. “Are you getting along with your sister?” There’d been tension at Grandy’s funeral when Frankie discovered she wasn’t in the will.
“So far no fights…with Frankie.”
“I still don’t understand why you suddenly got it in your head to go down there.”
“I told you. Frankie needs me.” The truth. As far as it went. At thirty-eight, Scott’s paternal instincts were in overdrive. If she had told him she was trading places with Frankie to investigate a missing-person case, she’d still be in Tulsa, arguing.
“She doesn’t deserve a sister like you. Didn’t she swipe your granddaddy’s ring after the funeral last spring?”
“I e
xplained that to you. She was upset because he didn’t leave her anything.”
“Because you took care of him for five years when he was sick.”
“I loved Grandy, not his ring. Besides, I got the house. Frankie should have something of his, too.”
“The house is a run-down shack. The ring was worth more.”
“I grew up in that so-called shack.”
His tone changed abruptly, his voice softened. “I didn’t mean to get you going. I’m just anxious. This trip came up so suddenly—”
“Everything is fine.” Her stomach turned sour. She hated lying. Especially to a man who’d been so attentive when she’d needed him the most.
“If you left because of me, you just need to say so. I’ll understand.”
“Of course not.” Wrong answer.
“So why not give us a try?”
Maybe she would. Next February, she’d be twenty-seven. After all these years, she was beginning to think true love didn’t exist. At least not for her. You cannot change the stars, Kirby-nee. Grandy’s voice whispered Cherokee wisdom inside her head. But Grandy was gone, and she was alone.
“I promise to think on it.”
“I understand.” But he didn’t sound like he did.
She hung up and heaved a sigh of relief. A short-lived sigh of relief. She better find Charleen fast. Before another crisis reared up. Although after being crept up on this morning by Miss Bea and scolded by Mr. Shaw, not to mention shot at by Lord knows who, what else could happen?
Job one—find Charleen’s room and look around.
Job two—tackle Maguire for the car keys. She needed a decent meal and a talk with the El Royo cops.
Kirby slipped from her suite, the four grand and tiny Taser tucked into one of Frankie’s designer purses. The corridor was silent and dim. At the far end, thin strands of afternoon sunlight pierced a small window and shot off the leaves of a giant fern. Rows of closed doors guarded the stillness like blind sentries, solid and unwavering, stoic, unblinking. The one guarding Charleen’s room was across the hall. Frankie claimed it was unlocked, and Kirby prayed for one thing to go right today. She jiggled the knob.
It gave.
A small but sweet victory.
