by Mari Manning
Her eyes widened and filled with tears. “I don’t. Swear.” When he didn’t budge, she sniffed. “I didn’t mean to say that stuff. Please don’t be mad at me. I really want you to be my friend.”
“Why me? Go hang out with your other friends.”
“I don’t have any. Everyone hates me because I’m fat.”
“You’re not fat. I already told you.”
“Compared to most girls, I am. That’s the thing with Mr. Maguire. He’s a mature man. He doesn’t mind about stuff like that.”
The Mr. Maguire in Brittany’s head didn’t seem anything like the Mr. Maguire Manny knew. This girl was headed for a world of hurt, and he didn’t know if he could save her. Which was probably something a friend should do.
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Now you.”
“I already told you. I don’t have any secrets.”
“So why did Mr. Shaw help you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You have to. I told you two secrets. The one about Mr. Maguire and the one about Miss Charleen. You have to return the favor.”
The favor? It didn’t seem like much of a favor. Especially for a guy like him who kept to himself. So why did he suddenly want a friend, and not just any friend—a crazy, headed-for-trouble one like Brittany?
“I’m from L.A. My mother didn’t want me, so a friend of hers and Mr. Shaw’s raised me. I called him Uncle Bobby, and when he died, Mr. Shaw sent for me. He’d promised Uncle Bobby.”
Brittany tucked her legs under her and shifted to face him. “So were you like a foster kid or something.”
“Pretty much.” He eyed her. Would she hate him if he told her the truth? Better to find out now. “My mother took drugs. That’s how I got the bum foot and everything. Uncle Bobby said he felt responsible because he was there at the beginning so he wanted to do something. He said in those days drugs were supposed to bring peace and love, but everyone got corrupted. Like my mother.”
“That’s sad.”
“I didn’t ask for your sympathy.”
She blinked. “I just meant the part about peace and love. It would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
“I guess.”
Her pocket buzzed. She pulled out a phone. “It’s my momma. I have to go.”
All the fun seeped from his afternoon. He frowned. What was wrong with him? “You can’t tell anyone what I told you.”
“Of course not! You can’t tell mine, either. Especially about Mr. Maguire.”
“I won’t.”
He walked her to the door. She was close to him, and the scent of her girl body drifted past his nose. Her pale hair glinted in the sunlight. He wanted to touch it. It would be soft. They both reached for the door handle at the same time. A bolt of electricity went through him, and he yanked back his hand.
So did Brittany. Her face went all red.
“Sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay.” She leaned into him. “Sometimes friends kiss one another good-bye. My momma’s friends do.”
He stayed still, enjoying her closeness. Her breast brushed his arm, then her lips pressed against his jaw. They were warm and damp and smelled of fake strawberries. He’d never been kissed by a girl before, but he could see why the boss was sort of girl crazy. It felt good. Too good.
He pulled open the door. “You better go.”
Before his body did something scandalous.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kirby’s eyes opened to bedroom ceiling and Seth’s light snores.
Not night, not dawn.
His regular breaths sputtered. His drowsy lips traced her jaw, searching for her mouth. His hands traveled across her skin, finding breasts. He was warm, half asleep, hard.
The bed shifted, his chest brushed her shoulder, his mouth her ear, breathing pleasure into her, rasp upon rasp upon rasp.
His fingers closed around her wrists.
He raised her arms, pinned them against the pillows, suckled her until her hips rose. He suckled her again. This time he used his tongue, light flicks across hard nipples. Lightning and blood, throbbing desire…need, love.
One of Seth’s hands held her two wrists. One seeking hand moved. Lower and lower. Across her shoulder, over her damp breasts. Lower and lower. Finding the place she wanted him to find. She loved him for this, for everything.
His fingers slow, lazy, gentle, played. Explored. Until she couldn’t breathe or talk or see. She tried to pull her arms free, make him go faster, but he held her tight.
The bed shifted again. She spread her legs to receive him. No more prying or begging. The fire in her body needed quenching. The fire in her heart, too. But that was a different matter.
He mounted, teased, refused to give her all of what she wanted: him inside her, him part of her, one body, one need.
Just brief, teasing forays.
A single ray of sun—the first ray of the morning—shot through the window.
He thrust. Mine. Remember it.
She moaned. Her need for him was greater than the handful of mornings that had come before. She wanted to touch him, but he wouldn’t release her arms. Mine.
He held himself over her, thrusting in long, slow strokes until her breath hitched. She pushed at him. Begging with her body. Go faster, finish what you started.
He kissed her until she gentled, continuing the long, slow torture until the first shattering contraction. Then another and another and another.
“Oh.” She hadn’t expected such pleasure.
He released her arms, pressed her into the bed, rode her. Rode her to ecstasy inside pleasure inside desire, rode her to spinning release and Hydra heads of hunger.
Coffee mugs rattled in the kitchen. “Kirby? Are you up?”
She opened an eye. In the doorway, corded muscle, wide shoulders, faded sweatpants, steam rising from a chipped mug.
“Time for you to get back to the house.” Seth set the coffee down and pulled her out of bed.
“How can you be so wide-eyed? We barely slept.”
He grinned. “Guess it’s the company.”
“Humph.” But she knew what he meant. Happiness was its own kind of drug. She bent and picked up her panties and jeans.
“Here.” He held out her shirt. “Found this behind the couch.”
She snatched Frankie’s delicate tee from him.
“You’re blushing again,” he teased.
Her faced burned hotter. She’d surrendered herself to him, denied him nothing. He knew every vulnerable, secret place in her body and her heart. But what did it mean to him? If it meant less than lasting love, if he let her leave the ranch when it was all over, how would she go on?
He walked her down to the garage and pushed up the doors. “Clear skies. We’ll finish harvesting today.”
His hair was a tangle of blue-black waves. His eyes matched the morning sky. His sweatpants hung from narrow hips below a long waist. A tiny love bite marked his chest. Her heart shattered. I love you.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Just happy.”
“Me, too.” He jerked his head at the house. “Better get up there before Miss Bea finds you missing.”
Until Zack’s murder was solved and Bobby’s explained, they were treating Miss Bea as suspect number one. Seth was sure. Kirby thought so, too. The knife had come from Miss Bea’s kitchen.
If only she could look around the west wing with an escort. Behind one of those doors lurked the truth. She felt it in her bones.
Kirby fast-walked up the gravel drive, feeling Seth’s eyes on her—its own small pleasure—slipped into the silent house and past Sarah Slade, who, mercifully, still slept.
She made it to Frankie’s bedroom door without being spotted or, at least, without being called out.
Her cell phone vibrated. Scott. He’d called a dozen times, left a dozen messages, texted, tweeted, tweaked her conscience.
She pressed the phone to her ear. Keep it bright. “Hi!”
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“Where have you been? I’ve been calling you for the last three nights. I was about to send out an APB.”
A nudge of her hip, and Frankie’s door swung open. Funny. She remembered shutting it tight. “I’ve been turning my phone off before dinner.”
“Where have you been?”
“Out.” A lie was a lie if you intended it that way. She was lying.
“When are you coming home? You’ve been there a week. Your life, your job—hell, your house is here in Tulsa. This is where you belong.”
She was no closer to finding Charleen, and then there was Zack’s murder…and Tulsa was a million miles from Seth. She’d rather tear off her arm than leave him.
“Kirby?”
Tomorrow is not here, Kirby-nee. Just today.
She wouldn’t think about Seth. Not now. “I’ll be back soon.”
“When’s soon? You’re scheduled out on patrol this Wednesday.”
“I’ll be there.” Or not.
She kicked off her ballet flats and wandered into the bedroom.
“Holy shit!” The phone slipped from her hand, and her world narrowed to a single kitchen knife sunk to the hilt in Frankie’s mattress.
She jumped when Scott’s voice barked at her. “Kirby? What is it? Are you okay?”
She scooped up the phone. “Someone stabbed the bed with a knife.”
“He could still be in the room.”
Scott was right. She slammed her back against the wall. “Identify yourself.”
No one did.
Her hand groped for the underwear drawer and her Glock. A soft pile of silk tumbled through her fingers. But no Glock.
“Talk to me, Kirby. What’s happening?”
Her mind raced. “My gun. It’s gone.”
There was a long pause then the hollering started. “What the hell is going on down there?”
He’d be down in two moos of a steer if he knew. “Nothing…much. Frankie is sort of a wild child. I, uh, told you that. She got into it with some people here.”
“So they threaten you with a knife and steal your gun?”
“We’re sharing a room.” She checked the closet. Shit. The bag with her service revolver and badge were missing, too. The ground under her feet seemed to fall away.
“I’m coming down there.”
“No!” She pictured Scott confronting a smug Miss Bea and shocked Mr. Shaw. Then there was Seth. Yikes. “The room is clear. I checked.” She had to get into the west wing and find her gun.
“Come on. He could be hiding anywhere in the house.”
Not he. She. It had to be Brittany or Miss Bea. No one else had access.
Brittany. She was a mess of girl, isolated, lonely, confused. Laboring for the she-hawk and waiting for Seth to rescue her. Kirby eyed the knife. It could be Brittany, and if it was, Kirby could subdue her.
But it probably wasn’t. Because whoever killed Zack had done this. It was the same MO. And why would Brittany kill Zack? Seth and Frankie both thought Miss Bea was after Shaw Valley Ranch, and maybe she was. Maybe she had Charleen tied up. Maybe she was trying to paint Frankie as a crazy killer. What else made sense?
She imagined Scott and the local police showing up and discovering she’d lost her badge and weapon. She felt humiliated just thinking about it. “I just need another day or so.”
“For what? To get yourself killed?”
“No. Frankie needs me.” She eyed the knife. “I really need to secure my weapon.”
“What the fuck! You know who took it?”
“I’m pretty sure. Look, I’ll be careful. I’m a trained officer. I can take care of myself in tough situations.”
“In tough situations, as you call them, trained officers have backup.”
“I have backup, sort of.” She swallowed hard. “The ranch manager is ex-military.”
“Really? How long has he been out?”
“Eight, nine years, I think.”
Scott’s voice softened. “You mean the world to me, Kirby. If anything happened to you…I couldn’t live with myself. Not so soon after, well, you know.”
She couldn’t bear to listen. “Scott, we’ll talk when I get back. Honest. But right now—”
“Fine. But don’t go off the grid again. I’m warning you. I’ll be down there fast as a black-and-white with sirens blaring can go. You got it?”
“Got it.” She tipped her head forward and tried to rub the tension out of her neck.
Gooong, gooong. It was the doorbell, clamoring up and down hallways and past thick doors and—no doubt—waking up all the sleeping denizens of the house, animal, vegetable, or human. Gooong, gooong. Gooong, gooong.
Riding on the last wave of tolling bell, Sarah Slade screamed, “She’s here, she’s here.”
“I’ve got to go, Scott.”
“What the hell is happening now?”
“Someone’s at the door. ’Bye.”
Miss Bea beat Kirby to the stairs. Beady eyes pinned her in place. “I’ll get it, Miss Frances. Go back to bed.” She paused and sneered. “Or whatever you were up to last night.”
Kirby’s breath caught. The she-hawk knew. She knew. Knew Frankie’s room was empty last night. Probably knew “Frankie” had slept in the coach house. Probably knew about the gun.
Miss Bea hurried down the stairs, pulled back the bolt, and Officer Jones shoved into the house. Officer Swope was on his heels.
Swope lifted a pair of handcuffs. “Beatrice Vine, you are under arrest for the murder of Zachary Jonas Robbins.”
Miss Bea gasped. “This is preposterous. I would never—”
He turned her around and grabbed a bony wrist. “Easy does it, Miss Vine.” With two hard clicks, Swope cuffed her. “You can tell us your story when we get to the station.”
“What’s going on here?” Mr. Shaw’s thin, old-man voice rattled through the cavernous mansion. “Uncuff Bea this instant.” He limped downstairs. In his pale cotton pajamas, he appeared small and defenseless.
Jones tipped his hat. “Morning, sir. Sorry to barge in like this, but Beatrice Vine is under arrest for suspicion of murder. Her fingerprints were all over the knife that killed Zack Robbins.”
“Ridiculous.” He grasped Miss Bea’s shoulders. “Are you all right?”
Her little eyes were round with fear. “I don’t know why this is happening.”
Enough of Miss Bea’s innocent pleas. Seth was right. All the evidence said guilty.
“You stabbed my mattress with a kitchen knife last night.” Kirby’s voice echoed in the stairwell like the final judgment. “Your reading glasses were found next to Bobby’s body, and your gun was found on the ridge after Mr. Maguire and I were shot at. And what about Charleen? She’s been missing for over two weeks.”
Miss Bea’s gaze swung up to Kirby. “Why are you doing this to me? Stop! Please!” She sank to the floor. Her head hung in defeat.
Mr. Shaw patted her head. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
“It’s not. It will never end,” she sobbed.
Gently, Mr. Shaw pulled Miss Bea to her feet. “Come on, now. Gather yourself.”
Miss Bea sniffed. “I’m sorry.”
“No reason to be sorry. You’ve been falsely accused, and I am going upstairs to call my attorney. Then I’m going to come down to the station and bail you out.”
“Bail hasn’t been set, Mr. Shaw,” Swope said. “That’s up to the judge.”
Swope towered over the frail old man, but it didn’t stop Mr. Shaw from sticking his face into Swope’s. “When I get down to that station, sir, you will have bail set. Do I make myself clear?”
Swope backed up, but Shaw stayed right on him.
“And take those goddamn cuffs off her.”
Swope’s eyes slid past Mr. Shaw to Jones, who shrugged. “Go ahead. She can’t get far if she runs.”
Mr. Shaw’s expression turned dark. “She’s not going anywhere except a quick trip to the station and right back home again.”
“Don’t be too sure about that, Mr. Shaw.” But Swope unlocked the handcuffs before escorting Miss Bea out.
Jones tipped his Stetson as he left. “Sorry to disturb y’all.”
Lights flashing, the cruiser pulled away, carrying the soon-to-be notorious Miss Bea to jail.
Shaw’s eyes met Kirby’s. Their pale blue color reminded her of icicles. “When I return from El Royo and settle Bea, we need to talk. You’ve put Susannah at risk again after I asked you to have a care.”
His unshakable faith in Miss Bea’s innocence stunned her. “Nothing else makes sense, Cousin Eenie. You must see that.”
He climbed the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing, shaking his head. He wore disappointment like a second skin.
Just before he disappeared into his wing, he turned to her. His eyes had softened a little, more ice than icicles. “A reckoning is coming, Frances. Be vigilant.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Seth was stacking crates of the puniest, wormiest apricots in the state of Texas when Kirby walked into the barn. A tissue-thin pink shirt hugged her soft breasts, and those damn jeans…well, all they did was remind him of luscious hips and a perfectly curved bottom.
She’d become a thirst he couldn’t quench, and right then, he could sure go for a long, cool drink.
Her brows were puckered, and she was chewing on a thumbnail.
He winked at her. “You look like a woman with a problem.”
“They arrested Miss Bea.”
“They what?”
“Jones and Swope came and arrested her for Zack’s murder. Her fingerprints were on the knife.”
“Hot damn. It’s about time they caught up with her.”
“You’re sure it’s her?”
“It had to be. No one else had opportunity or motive.” He winked at her. “I’d hand over a week’s pay to know how she got Zack stripped down to his birthday suit.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Zack had a drinking problem. Maybe the stripping and the murder aren’t related.”
“He did like his drink. And he wouldn’t be the first cowpoke to rip off his clothes after a few too many.” His gaze flicked over Kirby. Her hair gleamed like satin. The fresh scent of female skin drifted past his nose. “Too bad you gals aren’t prone to exhibitionism.”
