by Mari Manning
“After the striptease?”
Shocked, she whipped her head around.
He grinned at her. “You didn’t do anything.”
Wow. The overbearing, angry bull of a ranch manager was gone. In his place was a hot guy with a smile and a sense of humor. She was beginning to see what Frankie had seen. Maybe Brittany and Angie, too.
Her stomach did a somersault. “I feel like I chugged a bottle of whiskey last night.”
He sobered. “I’ll bet. Sorry.”
Sorry? She was back to being wary of him. “Did you do something to me?”
He rubbed his beard stubble in his familiar way. “Let’s get you fixed up, then we can talk. I’ve got ibuprofen in the bathroom.” His chair scratched savagely against the floor; she squeezed her eyes shut against the pain in her head. When she opened them, he was gone.
Maguire’s bedroom was as untamed as the man himself. A dozen empty hangers dangled in the closet. Shirts, shoes, socks, underwear, jeans littered the floor. A worn belt lay over a chair. His Stetson hung from the bedpost. Under character flaws, slob joined bad temper.
On the bedside table, a thin wallet and a set of keys sprawled on a paperback. Kirby jiggled the book out from under his things. It was a well-thumbed copy of The Rancher’s Handbook. A man with a dream?
The edge of a creased snapshot poked from the pages, and she opened the book. A young girl, nine or ten by Kirby’s guess and already a beauty, mugged for the camera. She sat on the steps of a rainbow-colored trailer, dark hair lifted by the wind, toes dusted with dirt, an oversize shirt baring one thin shoulder to bright sunlight.
Her eyes, serious and direct, matched Maguire’s. Sister or daughter? Mother? Cousin? Aunt? Whatever branch of the Maguire family tree she sat on, her relationship to Seth Maguire was blood.
“What’re you doing?” Alarm sharpened Maguire’s voice.
Kirby shut the book and set it on the table. “Who’s the little girl?”
“No one.”
In other words, none of your business.
His mouth relaxed into an easy smile, too easy to be genuine. “Here, take this. You’ll feel better.” He held out two tablets and a glass of water.
The water was cold and quenched the fire in her throat. She emptied the glass in a few gulps and fell against the pillows. Jeez. What was wrong with her feet? They throbbed like a son of a bitch.
“My feet—”
“You scraped them up pretty bad. You’ll be limping for a few days.”
Frustration knotted the back of her neck. Pain pounded her head. She swung out of the bed. “What was I doing? How did I get here?” She swayed. Maguire’s hands closed over her shoulders, steadying her.
“Not so fast. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I want to know what happened to me. Now.”
He sat down on the bed beside her. The mattress sank. “You have some questions for me, and I have some questions for you. Let’s trade.”
That sounded dangerous.
“Me first.” His mouth hardened. “Who are you?”
That sounded even more dangerous. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I-I’m Frankie.”
“You’re lying,” he said.
“You’re hallucinating.”
He leaned in close and looked straight at her. “Your eyes turned brown.”
Kirby blinked. Shoot. No green contacts. “It’s just the light.”
He growled at her. “Bullshit. I want the truth.”
“Why should I tell you anything?”
An eyebrow rose. “Because I’m the only friend you got around here.”
He was as crazy as Miss Bea. “Friend? Let’s look at the evidence. You come on to me in the barn, chase me all over El Royo, drug me, and then you tell me you’re my friend.”
“I didn’t drug you, but I knew about it.”
“It was Miss Bea, wasn’t it?” His eyes refused to meet hers. As close to a yes as she was going to get. “Why would she drug me?”
“Tell me who you are and why you’re pretending to be Frankie.”
She studied his face. He allowed it, watching impassively, probably savoring the advantage he held. She’d been outed. That much was clear. She’d have to trust him or leave without finding Charleen or helping Frankie.
“I’d like your promise of confidentiality.”
Amusement fired the depths of his eyes. “Well, now. That depends on what you tell me.”
He could keep her for as long as it took her to spit out the truth. Unless she wanted to limp across the yard bare-ass naked except for her T-shirt and panties. No doubt to the amusement of the women in the house and probably Manny as well. From the look on Maguire’s face, it was clear she had no hope of persuading him she was Frankie. He’d figured it out, and unless he was willing to look the other way, she was finished here.
“I’m Kirby. Kirby Swallow. Frankie’s half sister.”
His eyes widened. “Where’s Frankie?”
“She’s in Tulsa, staying at my house.”
“Go on.”
“She showed up last week. Scared to death. She said Charleen disappeared, and she begged me to trade places and find out what happened to her momma.”
“Well, here’s what happened. Charleen disappears at least once a month. A horny man comes and picks her up, and they drive away. A few days or weeks later, she comes back.” He grimaced. “Usually worse for wear. None of this is news to Frankie.”
“How long has Charleen been gone?”
“Week, week and a half. I don’t keep count. You don’t really believe she was kidnapped, do you?” He sounded incredulous…and mad. “You and Frankie lie so much you’re beginning to believe your bullshit. Go back to Tulsa. And feel free to keep Frankie just as long as you like.”
“Look, I know this is upsetting—”
“Upsetting?” He stood, prowled the bedroom, kicked viciously at the piles of clothes. “You sneak in here pretending to be someone else, lie to all of us, and you think it’s upsetting?” He was roaring now. “Is your whole family so self-centered and clueless, or is it just you and Frankie?”
That did it. Kirby catapulted herself off the bed. Her head began to buzz. Her feet throbbed. She didn’t care. “Maybe my family is self-centered, and maybe we are clueless, but we don’t drug people and we don’t chase them into town and we certainly don’t shoot at them.” She let her gaze burn into his so he’d know how furious she was. “And we don’t treat people as if they were dirt like everyone on this godforsaken ranch!”
He went toe to toe with her. If he thought he was going to intimidate her with his size, he could think again. She met his gaze and held it.
He blinked first. “Why you? Why didn’t Frankie call the police if she thought her momma met with foul play?”
“She did. They didn’t believe her.”
His eyes raked her body. “What could you possibly do…besides put yourself in harm’s way?”
“I’m a police officer. In Tulsa.”
His frown turned to amazement. “Frankie’s sister is a cop?” His jaw gaped and his eyes blinked, and she could see him trying to digest this new turn in events.
She jumped in while he was too shocked to fight. “Why is Miss Bea drugging Frankie?”
He turned away from her, pacing the small room. “I can’t believe this. How do I know you’re not lying?”
“I have a badge and an ID in my room that says I’m telling the truth. Answer my question.”
He stopped, eyeing her as he decided if he believed her. Then he nodded. “Since you’re not Frankie, and you’ve been asking a lot of questions, I’m going to go on like you’re telling the truth about the cop business. At least for now.”
“Well, thanks,” she said drily. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t out her the minute he ran into Miss Bea.
“But I want to see that ID.”
“The drugs in Frankie’s food. Why?” If she about to get kicked off the ranc
h, at least she wanted to go with as much information as she could dig up.
He shrugged. “I know you might find this hard to believe, but your sister is a handful.”
“So Miss Bea slips roofies in her salad. That’s a fantastic story.”
“Believe it or not. It’s all the same to me.”
“Why would you go along with it? You could go to jail, you know. Both of you, and Mr. Shaw, too, if he knew and did nothing to stop it.”
“Look, I didn’t like the idea at first. But your sister—” He stopped and eyed Kirby. “She gets into a lot of trouble. This way, her days were shorter, and there was less time for, uh, monkey business.”
“So the bread and jelly I ate last night was laced with sleeping pills?”
“Miss Bea freaked when she saw you yesterday morning. She must have figured you were building up a tolerance.”
“I could have died. You know that.”
He dropped his eyes. “I said I’m sorry.”
“That’s not going to go very far with a judge.”
His head shot up. Dark blue eyes studied her face. “Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Are you and Frankie close?”
“She grew up in Houston with my daddy and Charleen. I grew up in Tulsa.”
“With?”
“Grandy. Uh, my granddaddy. He died last year.”
“So you weren’t friends?”
“She’s the only family I have.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, I would not say we’re friends. She used to come and stay with us in the summer, but after my daddy died—that happened eight years ago—we never saw her again. Except for Grandy’s funeral. We had a little falling-out after that.”
“Why?”
Because Frankie was furious about being left out of Grandy’s will. But that was none of Maguire’s business. “We’re from different worlds. She grew up rich with everything my daddy could give her. He made a lot of money on the rodeo circuit. I was raised by Grandy. He worked at a riding stable outside Tulsa.”
“You grew up poor.”
“I prefer blue collar. We were happy, just not rolling in dough.”
“At least you had your granddaddy. Seems like he was trying.” Pain flickered across his face. A cell phone rang in the other room. He swung away, and Kirby limped after him. He picked up the phone and read the number on the screen. “It’s Miss Bea. She’s probably discovered you’re missing.”
“Don’t tell her about me.”
“Why not?”
“I need more time.”
The ringing stopped. “For what?”
“Come on, Maguire. Something’s going on. I don’t believe Charleen is off on a fling.”
“Yeah?”
“Her makeup is still in her room. Does that sound like Charleen? Ever known her to go off without her stuff?”
“Can’t say I know.”
“Someone shot at us, or more likely at Frankie. How do you know Charleen wasn’t kidnapped and whoever has her is after my sister?”
He considered her, head tilted, mouth drawn into a tight line. He raised an eyebrow at her. Then he pressed redial.
Kirby held her breath.
“It’s me,” he muttered, then put the call on speaker.
Miss Bea’s voice tore into the room. “What have you done? Where is she?”
“She’s here.”
“Explain yourself, Mr. Maguire.” Though it seemed like she’d already made up her mind.
“I found her in the barnyard last night. She was sleepwalking. You gave her too much of that medication.” He paused for just a second. “We can discuss this later. You’re lucky she didn’t hurt herself—I assume that wasn’t your intention.”
“Are you sending her back?”
“Right now.”
Kirby shook her head frantically and pointed to her bare legs.
“She’ll need her jeans. Manny is already here.”
She jerked her head at her feet.
“And shoes.”
No way was she getting her feet into ballet flats, much less Frankie’s more exotic footwear. Kirby mouthed, “Boots,” at him.
“Something flat and comfortable. Boots or runners. She tore up her feet.”
“She may have to borrow a pair of mine,” Miss Bea snapped. “Stupid girl doesn’t own any decent shoes. Someone might ask her to do something if she did.”
Seth glanced at Kirby and shrugged. “Don’t send Brittany. Come yourself. We don’t need the whole town gossiping,” he said before hanging up.
“Thanks,” Kirby said.
“I didn’t do it for you.”
Of course he’d say that. He was not the surrendering type. But neither was she. “Yeah? Then why did you?”
He set the phone down. His gaze raked her body, and the corner of his mouth twitched up. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m trying to get to the bottom of things.” The words exhaled through her.
He was close to her again. The distance between them could be counted in motes of dust or the thickness of a dragonfly’s wing. His voice turned to a rasp. “That so?”
The scents of coffee and man swirled in her head. She couldn’t breathe. “Uh-huh.”
“Me, too.” He cupped the sides of her jaw and tilted her face up. His hands were warm and firm and molded to her bones like a second skin. Curiosity and impatience glistened in his eyes. “Always wanted to kiss a lady cop.”
She shoved his hands away. “What about Frankie?”
He met her eyes straight on. “Never touched her.”
“Why? You seem like a man who takes whatever comes his way.”
“I have standards,” he said softly.
His voice touched her deep inside. Her heart fluttered like the wings of a caged bird. If she’d been dressed, she might have run. “I don’t believe you, Maguire.”
His mouth tightened with displeasure. He might have rejected Frankie, but apparently he was not a man who took it well. “I stay away from the ballbusters. Maybe you’re one, too.”
“Maybe I am. Seems like you should be keeping your distance if you’re interested in holding onto the family jewels.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I’m not worried, Officer…what did you say your name was? Kirby? Officer Kirby.”
“It’s Officer Swallow.”
“Right. Frankie and Officer Swallow. Identical troublemakers.” He reached out a hand and drew his finger along her jaw. “Almost.”
Her body warmed again. His puffy lower lip was close enough to touch. What would it feel like to press her finger against it? Soft? Rough like the man himself? She blinked away her dangerous thoughts and twisted away from him. The room, a combination of sitting room, dining room, and kitchen, was shabby and as unkempt as the bedroom. The scents of burned coffee and soap hung in the air. What a sad place to live.
What kind of man was Seth Maguire? What made him tick? He was not a happy man. That much was apparent from his frequent bursts of anger. But so what? Lots of people weren’t happy. Hell, she wasn’t happy.
His anger must cover other hurts, although she couldn’t say what. Loneliness? No. That was her problem. She couldn’t be going off, hanging that particular rap on everyone she met.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. From a million miles away, the she-hawk’s annoyed footsteps ground into the gravel drive. “I swear I never touched Frankie,” he said. She hadn’t heard his steps, but he’d closed in on her again.
She stared at a wide stain on the carpet so she wouldn’t have to look at him. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it does.”
Was he inviting her up to his room tonight to warm his fricking bed? “I can’t believe this! This ranch is in crisis, and you’re propositioning the cop who’s trying to bring down the bad guys?”
“We both have to sleep. Why not sleep together?”
“You really expect me to jump into bed with you becaus
e it’s convenient, Maguire?”
With a raspy sigh, he turned her to face him. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, he said. “First of all, my name is Seth.”
He waited for her to repeat his name, but when she tightened her lips stubbornly, he went on.
“I’m not a cold-blooded jerk. I’m attracted to you, and you’re attracted to me. What’s wrong with enjoying those feelings together?”
“No.”
“Your choice, of course. If you change your mind…” He shrugged. “Well, you know where to find me.”
“I won’t.” The scent of his skin drifted past her nose. She backed away until she banged into the door.
An eyebrow rose. “If you’re going to be Frankie, we’ll have to spend time together. Are you sure you still want to play this game?”
“I’ll manage. Just worry about yourself.”
He nodded. “Go back to the house. Rest a little. After lunch, I want to head out to the orchard. We’re starting the apricot harvest tomorrow. You can ride along with me if you’re feeling up to it.”
“Lunch?” She was not eating any more of Miss Bea’s food.
“Come back around noon. I smuggled a mess of turkey and ham past the vegan police. I’ll fix you up a Texas-style sandwich.”
“What’s a Texas-style sandwich?”
He lowered his lashes. “Lots of meat.”
Chapter Nine
Push, pull, push, pull.
Manny worked his hoe across a fallow vegetable bed. Sweat rolled down his forehead and into his eyes. His glasses fogged up. That was okay. He didn’t need to see. He was standing on dirt, and it needed hoeing.
Push, pull, push, pull. In two, maybe three years, he’d have his degree in ranch management. Mr. Shaw had promised him a promotion. Assistant ranch manager. Then someone else would do the hoeing and the weeding and the sweeping and the horse feeding and the picking and the gazillion other jobs it fell on him to do.
Of course, that’s if Mr. Shaw were still alive. Ever since slutty Miss Frances and her slutty momma showed up, Mr. Shaw seemed like he was slowing down. The boss thought they’d both be out of a job if Mr. Shaw died. Manny’s gaze slid to the thick shoe on his left foot. The boss would make out okay. But he wouldn’t. Who’d hire a cripple ranch hand?
“Hi.”
