by Mari Manning
Kirby stowed away her questions about the sleeping pills. When this was all over, she and Frankie could talk honestly about everything that happened. Talk and maybe laugh at little, too.
“Mr. Shaw got himself all ruffled up because you said you wanted to sell the ranch.”
“Look around you, Kirby. The place is falling apart. At least if he was running cattle, it might at least pay for itself. What else can I—we—do?”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m saying it could be a motive.”
Frankie gasped. “You’re brilliant! Maybe Cousin Eenie told the she-hawk to get rid of Momma and me because we want to sell the land. I bet that’s it.”
She talked like the mystery had been solved. “Your momma’s still missing.”
“I know, I know. That’s the most important thing. Finding Momma. You’ll keep looking, won’t you?”
“Of course, Frankie.”
Chapter Eleven
Seth tested the rope on the last stack of crates and scowled at Frankie’s bedroom window.
Come on, Kirby. Wake up.
He had to get up to the orchard or Miss Bea would hand him his ass. But he’d promised to wait for Kirby.
He felt too relieved…happy…aroused to worry about Miss Bea. Frankie had a hot sister. A hot sister who was also a cop. He’d like to see her in uniform, gun hanging on her hip, badge flashing, all business. Preferably in his bedroom.
His body had known right away she wasn’t Frankie. He’d tangled with a few ballbusters in his army days. He could spot one in a smoky bar at fifty feet or across a barnyard at a hundred. That was Frankie all over. A ballbuster. He knew to watch his back with her.
Kirby emerged from the woods next to the house. Golden, smiling, kissable. He intended to find out if she was. Tonight, if at all possible. She waved, and he waved back.
His eyes drifted to the sway of Kirby’s hips. It would sure be nice to have a woman in his bed, especially when the woman got his engine going like this one did.
He called out to her. “Ready for that sandwich?”
“I’m starved.” Her smile widened, and his heart did a little flip.
“Let’s go,” he said.
When she reached him, he inhaled the scent of pine clinging to her hair and skin, but he didn’t touch her. This woman would require a slow and steady hand. A little patience, a little charm. But she was doable.
In the coach house, he made her sit at the table while he played short-order cook.
“Ham, turkey, or both?”
“You really don’t have to do this. I can make my own.”
“You’re my guest. Besides, you had a rough night.”
“Turkey. Thanks.”
He piled thin slices of turkey on bread, feeling her gaze as she took his measure.
She sighed. “This is nice.”
He shot his lady-killer grin at her. A dark brow rose. Too much, too fast? He wiped the smile off his face, bent his head, sawed at a tomato. “What were you doing in the woods?”
“Talking to Mr. Shaw.”
“Yeah?”
“About the shooting. There has to be a reason. You said there was a problem between Frankie and Mr. Shaw, and I wanted to find out if it’s mixed up with the shooting.”
“You think Shaw is the shooter?”
“Seems unlikely, but he might have seen something. Miss Bea is the only one with any motive.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“She’s protective of Mr. Shaw, and she hates Frankie.”
“What about the beef between Shaw and Frankie? Any clues?” he asked.
“Mr. Shaw is dead set against selling the ranch. Charleen and Frankie are determined to put it on the market as soon as he’s gone,” she said.
Seth bent his head so she wouldn’t see his frustration. Shaw Valley had so much potential…for a man with money. Still, he’d hoped when Shaw passed away the heirs would restore it to its true purpose. That wasn’t Frankie or her momma. They’d want the money, and probably in a few years it would be gone, spent on clothes and cars and baubles. “Mustard or mayo?” he asked.
“Mayo, please.”
He pulled the jar from the fridge. “So what did Shaw tell you?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Well, no clues about what’s going on. The downside to pretending to be Frankie is that everyone assumes I know things I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should go away and come back as yourself.”
“Hardly seems like a foolproof plan to loosen tongues, does it?” She shot him a withering look.
“You’re the cop.” He brought the sandwiches to table and ripped open a bag of chips. “Not fancy, but it beats what they’re eating at the house.”
“This looks great.” She lifted her sandwich and took a hearty bite. Her teeth were white and even, her tongue pink.
He concentrated on shaking chips out of the bag. “Someone has to be lying.”
“Or at least hiding information. Unless there’s another suspect we haven’t thought of. But who?”
He picked up his sandwich. “Not many suspects around. Besides Shaw and Miss Bea, Brittany and Manny are the only regulars. If you don’t count Frankie and Charleen. And me.”
Her eyes flicked up to him, then back to her sandwich. Coolness sputtered in their depths. She had counted him among the suspects. Maybe she still did.
“How about someone from town?” she asked.
“There’s Zack, and maybe a few of the other guys she, uh, hangs with. But can’t think why any of them would want to shoot her.”
“What happened with Zack?”
“He and Frankie had a few drinks, went on a joyride, drove her Mercedes into a ditch. They ended up here and staggered up to Frankie’s room, partied, got kicked out in the morning.”
“Where’s the motive to kidnap Frankie’s momma?” Kirby asked.
“He was fired from his job. Around these parts, that’s a motive,” he said.
“It’s an extreme response, don’t you think? Besides, he could hardly blame Frankie for his mistakes.” She chewed her sandwich thoughtfully. “That leaves us with Miss Bea and Mr. Shaw.”
“What about me?”
She laughed. It was a pleasant sound, high and bubbly. “Well, Mr. Maguire—”
“Seth.”
“Well, Seth, since you asked, you’re still in the running for Charleen’s disappearance. I saw how you reacted when I mentioned selling the ranch. But it seems a long shot, since you were with me when the gun was fired. Can’t have a better alibi than that.”
“Guess not.”
“I’d like to go up to the quarry. Maybe there’s something you missed.”
She wasn’t going to find anything. “Another time. We need to be out at the orchard this afternoon. The pickers will be here tomorrow.”
Her face fell.
He sighed. “I’ve got to drive the trailer out. If you want to ride Old Tom, you can follow me. Bring Darby, too. We’ll ride up to the ridge later.”
“Thanks.” Popping the last bite of her sandwich in her mouth, Kirby stood. “Let me help you clean up.”
“Nah. Leave it. I’ll get it later.” Worry lines streaked across her forehead. “You like burgers?” he asked.
Her face brightened. “I love them.”
“I’m cooking for two tonight. If you’re interested.”
“Thanks.”
She clattered down the stairs in Miss Bea’s heavy shoes, and he hustled close behind, unable to tear himself away from her.
Unloading crates under an unforgiving sun proved to be hard work. Kirby’s body was an oven, her skin its burners. Frankie’s silk shirt—probably ruined—dripped with perspiration. Seth’s presence made the heat and the work a little easier to bear. But just a little.
Seth’s cell buzzed, and he pulled out his phone. “Goddamn Miss Bea,” he muttered, wiping his sweaty forehead with his shirtsleeve
. But he sighed. “I better take this.” He strolled off.
Manny sidled up to Kirby. “Brittany gave me your message about meeting at the Limestone. I guess I could.”
“Perfect. The Limestone it is.” It was neutral, nonthreatening, public, and close to the police station. Frankie’s missing-person report might have yielded some results by now. She could kill two birds without crossing the street.
“I have to be here in the morning. The harvesters are coming. Maybe next week after things slow down a bit.”
“It’s really important, Manny. I can meet you as early as you want. Five, five thirty, six. Whatever’s good for you.”
From the other side of the bunkhouse, Seth’s voice vibrated. “How the hell was I supposed to know she followed Shaw into the woods? I’m not his bodyguard.” Miss Bea was still angry about this morning.
Manny grimaced. “I gotta be here by seven.”
“Six, then.”
“I guess it would be okay.” Seth emerged between two bunkhouses. Manny picked up a crate. “I better get back to work. Don’t want to get fired.”
The rim of the sun dipped behind the ridge. The shadows on the narrow lane between orchard and ranch deepened.
Kirby closed her eyes, her body swaying to Old Tom’s gait, Darby’s muffled clop, and Seth’s soft, masculine breath. After a bumpy start, the day was ending smoothly. Lunch with Seth had papered over the embarrassment of waking up in his bed. But she’d seen a thoughtful, generous side to him. Thoughtful and generous with a great smile, an amazing body and a brain—
Stop thinking about him! Focus on finding Charleen. No more panting after the hot ranch manager.
Charleen. Miss Bea had to be the shooter and therefore Charleen’s kidnapper. Who else had opportunity and motive? But why hand Frankie all that cash then try to shoot her? Why get huffy when Seth confronted her about the gun? Was Mr. Shaw behind the troubles on the ranch? Had he ordered Miss Bea to spook Charleen and Frankie? If they gave up their rights to Shaw Valley, he could give Miss Bea the land to preserve, couldn’t he?
Too much traffic in your head, Kirby-nee. The answer can’t find its way.
Grandy was right. She stopped thinking and let the hot summer wind blow her thoughts away.
“Don’t hear the name Kirby much.” Seth’s deep voice tumbled between them.
She opened her eyes. From beneath the brim of his hat, his deep blue eyes watched her. No. Assessed her. Hamburgers for dinner, and no points for guessing what—or who—was dessert.
“My daddy grew up just outside Kirby, Oklahoma. That’s where I grew up. I guess he was homesick when he named me.”
“Middle name?”
She smiled. “Adelaide. Very old-fashioned, I know. It was my great-grandmother’s name. Grandy, my—our—granddaddy had a picture of her from back in the thirties. She was a tiny thing with light hair. Wore Levi’s, which was frowned upon in those days. But she was a rebel.”
“Because of the pants.”
“In part. Convention didn’t bother her. She roped and branded, herded cattle. Whatever the cowboys were doing. Grandy said she ran away with my great-granddaddy when she was eighteen. He was Cherokee.”
Seth tilted his head. “You’re Native American?”
“I’m third generation, so an eighth, but yes. Frankie, too.”
He steered Darby close to Old Tom. His leg brushed against hers, igniting a small blaze that shot up her thigh. He shot her a knowing smile. “Did Adelaide ever regret her wild youth?”
Her gaze skittered away from him. She composed herself. “I don’t know. Maybe. She and my great-granddaddy had a little homestead near Kirby. They ran cattle on it. But they lost everything in the Depression. Great-granddaddy started working for the rodeo after that. He took care of the horses. Adelaide stayed in Kirby and raised Grandy. When Grandy was sixteen, Adelaide died, and Grandy went to work at the rodeo, too. That’s how my daddy got started.”
“Your daddy was in the rodeo?”
“My mom, too. She was a barrel racer. He was a bulldogger.”
His eyebrows rose. “Riding steers is dangerous work.”
“Sure is. Got my daddy’s neck broke.”
“I’m sorry.”
Familiar pain, cold and sharp and unwelcome, awoke in her. Joe Swallow’s death. Stupid and useless.
“That’s why I became a cop. He lost his life doing something worthless. At least if I die, it will be helping people.” She jerked Old Tom’s rein and pulled away from Seth. “Can we let them run?”
He blinked. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Of course not.”
“You could have told me to mind my own business.”
She’d wanted to tell him about Grandy and Daddy, but now she wanted to forget. “Sad thoughts, that’s all. And Old Tom’s literally champing at the bit. I want to let him stretch.”
“Wait until we reach the crest. It will be easier on Darby if it’s downhill.”
An itchy sort of silence settled over them. Kirby cleared her throat. “How about you? Seth’s not a name I hear much. Especially in Texas.”
A flash of pain crossed his face. “Crazy parents.”
“Yeah? Any brothers or sisters?”
He fiddled with his reins. “Ready to stretch out the horses?”
Was the girl in the photo his sister? “Don’t want to talk about it, huh?”
“Let’s go.”
She dug her knees into Old Tom’s side. Tall grass faded into a gold blur, and dust spun under the gelding’s hooves. She leaned into him, loving his strength and speed, his supple body, his spirit. She reached the crest ahead of Seth. Below them, Shaw Valley spread out in waves of green and pale purple.
A ray of light rocketed across the valley. It came from the ridge.
“Come on, boy. Let’s get ’em.”
Bending low over Old Tom, she coaxed him into a full gallop. The legs beneath her picked up speed, pounding the dirt in double time.
“Dammit, Kirby, stop!”
No way. She charged out of the field and up the ridge. Her hands tightened on the reins. She’d need to have Old Tom under control if they got shot at again. But nothing stirred in the woods above them. She crashed through the light brush and into the trees.
A narrow path rode along the ridge, disappeared behind a thin screen of loblolly pines, reappeared between leggy underbrush. Between narrow, limbless spaces, dull black water, opaque as molasses winked. A pale stone outcropping curled like an angry wave over the pool. The old limestone quarry.
She urged Old Tom forward, her eager, him balky. At the outcropping, he dug in his hooves as if he could read the crude signs posted at the edge of the road, Danger—Keep Out and Private Property.
Kirby slid off Old Tom and tied the reins to a sapling sprouting from the rock. Head down, shoulders hunched, she sprinted from tree to tree. A tall shadow flitted nearby. Risssh. A hawthorn quivered and rustled. Someone—something?—was pushing past it.
Thu-rump, thu-rump. The ground trembled beneath Darby’s hooves. Seth was close behind her.
Dropping to the forest floor, Kirby slithered through the brush on her elbows. A catclaw thorn tore her neck. A jagged rock cut her knee. Worse, a large, slimy beetle scurried over her arm. Swallowing a gasp, she crawled on, avoiding another mean-looking catclaw but getting her face wacked by the branch of a viburnum.
She broke through to the quarry and her reward.
Beneath the outcropping on an apron of buffalo grass, the remains of a campfire charred the ground. A crumpled sleeping bag and a mound of empty beer cans rested beside it.
The stench of an unwashed human body, eye watering and rank, stung her nose. A muddy boot planted itself at her elbow. Hands squeezed her arms in a steel-like hold, jerking her to her feet.
“It’s about time, Frankie.” Her captor was around five-seven, narrow shouldered, dark haired. A bushy beard sprang from his cheeks and chin, grime stiffened his jeans and work shirt. Dark eyes glittered
with outrage.
She jerked her arms. “Let go of me.”
“Fuck you, bitch.” His face was close to hers. Breath like rotten garbage smothered her.
Her stomach lurched. Swallowing her nausea, she met his gaze straight on and took a wild stab at his ID. “How long have you been up here, Zack?”
“Since yesterday.”
She’d found Frankie’s cowpoke. A squeeze of satisfaction went through her. “So you were here yesterday morning?”
“Yesterday?”
“Yesterday morning. Were you here yesterday morning?” she asked again.
His hand tightened on her arm. “Why? Were you looking for me?”
“Just answer the question. Were you up here yesterday morning?”
“No.”
“Where were you?”
Pain filled his eyes. “Around.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Do I have to draw you a picture? Sleeping in the woods. Fishing the creeks. Selling empty cans so I can eat.”
“And drink.”
“So what, Frankie. What else do I have to look forward to?”
“So you weren’t here yesterday.”
Seth’s voice boomed through the woods. “Kirby? Where are you?”
Zack tilted his head. “What did he call you?”
“A nickname.”
“Answer me, Kirby,” Seth called again.
At first she’d liked the idea of having an ally on the ranch, but Seth was turning into a liability. “Over here,” she said, and she prayed he wouldn’t holler her damn name all over the woods.
Pounding feet and the smashing of brush echoed through the trees. Then Seth appeared.
“Get your hands off her.” Seth charged at Zack, fists swinging. He caught Zack under his pointy chin, flinging him against Kirby. She landed under him, face-to-face, chest to chest, legs tangled.
Up close, his hair glistened with grease, and bits of dirt were stuck in the roots. When she got back to Frankie’s room, she was going to take the hottest shower she could bear. She shoved him away.
Huffing and puffing, hands curled at his side, Seth geared up for round two. His face was flushed, his mouth hard, a scowl wrinkled his forehead. A punch first, ask questions later sort of guy.
