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Contents:
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Epilogue
© 1999
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Chapter 1
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"So, what do you think, big brother?" Adam Brand sat at his brother's desk with the chair tipped back and his feet propped up. He tapped his fingers in time with Hank Jr. on the radio. Other than that, he didn't move much at all. Garrett was too busy to complain.
"What do I think?" Garrett glanced up from where he stood, elbow-deep in the ancient file cabinet on the other side of his office. "I think you volunteered to help me out today, and so far all you've done is sit there bouncing career plans off me."
Okay, so Garrett wasn't too busy to complain. Adam grinned and slapped his boots onto the floor, sitting up straight and leaning over the keyboard again. "I've been helping. Just bouncing ideas off you as I go along." He finished entering the information from the file folder in front of him to the new computer on Garrett's desk. Then he closed the folder and added it to the "done" pile. "So what do you think?"
Garrett shrugged, carrying a fresh stack of files to the desk and dropping them down. The front door was open, but the only breeze right now came from the little electric fan in the corner, not from the dusty west Texas air.
"I never saw the appeal of number crunching, myself, Adam. You seem to do well enough with it, though." Garrett parted his lips, then closed them again. He didn't say any more.
"Why do I sense a 'but' dying to jump in here?"
Garrett met Adam's eyes and shrugged, making the shiny silver badge on his shirt move up and down. "I don't know, Adam. Guess I kinda figured you'd get bored with it after a while. You went to the big city to lick your wounds, and that was understandable. But being a banker for the rest of your life? Hell, I never thought I'd see one of us…" He bit his lip, probably sensing he was treading close to dangerous ground.
Adam sat up straighter and tried to hold on to his temper. It wasn't hard. He'd been practicing for a long time. "Lick my wounds, huh? Is that what everybody thinks?"
Garrett lowered his head. "Nobody blames you. Kirsten stood you up at the altar, Adam. Took off and married another man. No one expected you to get over it all at once."
"I'm over it. I've been over it."
"Okay." Garrett nodded and turned away. "You say you're over it, you're over it."
Adam got to his feet. "I am!"
"Hey, whatever you say. I don't want to fight with you," Garrett said, holding up both hands.
It would have been funny if Adam hadn't been so disgusted at his brother's mistaken assumptions. Garrett stood a head taller and outweighed him by fifty pounds. Not that Adam was a small man. Just that his brother was a bear.
"You'll never understand," Adam said.
"Probably not."
And Adam knew he was right. Hell, it ought to be obvious how different he was from his brother—from his entire family—just at a glance. Garrett's jeans were faded blue, worn white in places. His boots were scuffed. His shirt found at the local discount store for $9.99.
Adam's boots gleamed, and he wore jeans only to do chores. The rest of the time he dressed the way he always had: well. Today he wore black trousers with a matching Armani shirt, band collar. They all drove pickups or SUVs. He drove a Jaguar. They all picked on him for his so-called big-city ways. Except for Garrett's wife, Chelsea, who claimed he was trying to compensate for a broken heart and the resulting feelings of inadequacy by buying nice things for himself. He didn't know why the hell Garrett had ever encouraged that woman to go for her degree in psychology. Adam felt defensive; about his life-style, his clothes, his car and his plans for the future. And he wondered briefly why.
"I think I could do well here," he said slowly. "Set up an office, keep the books for some local businesses, offer investment counseling…"
"I'm sure you could. And hell, I'm all for anything that keeps you home." Garrett sent him a warm smile. "It's where you belong, Adam."
Adam nodded. "At least we agree on one thing. I've missed it. New York's great, but it sure as hell isn't Texas."
"Sure as hell isn't," Garrett agreed. He cleared his throat, licked his lips.
"What is it you're deciding not to say?" Adam asked.
Garrett looked sheepish. "I just don't see why the original plan couldn't do just as well." He talked slow, taking his time. Garrett always talked slow, measured every word.
"Original plan?" Adam frowned.
"You, uh … used to talk about a dude ranch. Don't you remember?"
"Oh, that." He tried to sound as if he'd forgotten all about it. That had been their dream. His and Kirsten's. He didn't let himself think about that anymore. "Hell, Garrett, that must've been a hundred years ago." It wasn't. It wasn't so long ago at all. But a lot had happened since then. His dreams had been thrown back in his face one too many times, and Adam had decided dreaming was a foolish thing to do. Practicality was better. Safer.
"Shoot," Garrett muttered as he opened another file. "The rest of this one's in the back room. Along with a few others I'd forgotten about. I'll get 'em."
He slapped another file on the desk and headed out of the office.
Poor Garrett. He'd thought the new computer system the town had purchased for the sheriff's department would be a blessing. A work saver. Instead, it was turning into the world's biggest headache. Fine time for his deputy-slash-brother-in-law to be out of town. Still, it made Adam smile to think of his baby sister Jessi doing Walt Disney World with her husband and little girl. He hoped they'd bring back plenty of pictures.
The phone rang, and Adam automatically snatched it up. "Sheriff's office." Silence.
"Hello? Can I—"
"Adam?"
Her voice was so soft he barely recognized it at first. But it wasn't as if he could forget the sound of his name on Kirsten's lips, even when she only breathed it, the way she'd done just now.
Especially when she only breathed it the way she'd done just now.
A heavy, hot fist plowed right into his belly. For a second he couldn't draw air. Then he managed to inhale, and uttered a single word.
"Kirsten," he said. Great. A croak. His throat was drier than a tumbleweed. He reminded himself that he hated this woman. Hated her in a way he'd never hated anyone before. And he liked hating her. It felt good to hate her. He needed to hate her. "What do you want?" There, that was better. Much better.
She was silent for a long moment. Then, "I … need to speak to Garrett."
"He's busy."
"It's not a social call, Adam. Please put your brother on the phone."
Adam blinked, because there was something in her voice. Something that hadn't been there in all the times he'd spoken to her since he'd been back here. All those times, there had been only ice. Cold and smooth and gleamingly perfect, without so much as a single chip in its frigid surface.
There was a chip now. And he cursed himself for wondering why.
"I'm helping Garrett out today," he said slowly, telling himself that his curiosity was natural and meant nothing at all. "Tell me what you want, and I'll pass it along."
"Fine," she whispered. "Fine. You want to know so bad, Adam, I'll tell you. My husband is lying here on the floor with a small bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. If Garrett's not too busy, maybe he'd like to come on out here and—"
Adam swore, and she stopped talking. She couldn't be serious. But she was; it was clear in her voice. He'd always known her better than anyone. That hadn't changed. He cupped the receiver. "Garrett, get in here." Then he spoke to Kirsten again. "You okay?"
"I'm standing here with his blood on my hands, Adam.
How the hell am I supposed to answer that?"
"Is anyone else in the house?"
A brief pause. A shaky sigh that seemed to catch in her throat. "I … don't think so. Tell Garrett to hurry, Adam. He could come back…"
Garrett came in from the back room, glanced once at Adam and instantly frowned. Adam looked back, but his words were for Kirsten, the woman he hated. And there was a big lump of fear in his throat; fear that maybe she was none too safe right now, and that maybe by the time he could get out there, she would be lying on the floor beside the bastard she'd married.
"We'll be there in two minutes, Kirsten. Stay where you are, and don't touch anything, okay?"
She might have nodded. He never knew. The connection died with a click that was way too final and unannounced for Adam's peace of mind.
She'd heard an odd sound. Just once. A muted "pop." Nothing more. She'd been lying outside by the pool, soaking up the sun in her designer suit, wearing her Ray Bans. But the odd sound had sent such a strange, creepy feeling up her spine that she'd been unable to ignore it. And the silence that followed seemed heavy. It had been quiet before. But this was different. The birds had gone still. Even the bugs had stopped buzzing. And the hum of the pool's all but silent filter pump seemed suddenly ominous.
She got up, pulled on her white terry wrap and padded barefoot through the glass doors and into the sprawling, cold house. But it was empty. Her voice only echoed from the walls as she called out, and a coldness shivered up her spine.
She moved through the house, bare feet curling reflexively against the cold Italian marble after the warmth of the sunbaked tiles around the pool. She saw no one and finally ventured into the study when she saw the light on in there.
She rarely went into Joseph's study. She rarely went anywhere she was likely to run into him. She detested the man. It was no secret—between the two of them, at least. He knew it, and hated her in return. He'd ruined her life, forced her into a loveless marriage, made her miserable. In return, she focused her energy on making him just as miserable. Eventually he would have all he could stand of her. He would let her go. Until then, she would play the role he'd designed for her. She would be the rich bitch who had dumped a fine man and run off with an old geezer just to get her hands on his fortune. She would let the entire town go on hating her guts. And she would keep her emotions turned off for good.
"Joseph?" she called, stepping into the study. The smells here were familiar … and yet there was something different. Musty old books and hardwood, cigar smoke lingering in the air. But what was that pungence? Sulphur and heat … and something else…
Then she saw him, and her feet froze in place as she felt her body heat drain away, leaving her cold and immobile. He lay on his back on the floor. He wore forest green silk pajamas and a matching robe, the sash still tied around his ample middle. His favorite velour slippers, one half off his foot. A large pool of blood was spreading slowly over the floor beneath the back of his head. A neat dark hole the size of her little finger stood like a Hindu's jewel in the center of his forehead.
A jolt like an electric shock went through her. Her spine went so rigid she thought it might snap, and a scream leapt to her lips, but she bit it back. Swallowing the fear, the shock, she forced herself to move closer. With one foot she nudged his head, turning it slightly to see where all the blood was coming from, then turning away in disgust. There wasn't a hell of a lot left of the back of her husband's skull. She shouldn't have looked. She really shouldn't have looked.
Nausea rose. She pushed it down. Tremors set in. She fought them into submission. Dead? Was the bastard truly dead?
"Joseph?" She forced herself to look at him again, to look closely.
No answer. She nudged him again with her toe, grimacing as she realized she was standing barefoot in the spreading crimson puddle. Nothing. Finally, she bent down and pressed her fingers to his limp wrist in search of a pulse. But there was none. And he wasn't breathing.
A small black revolver lay on the floor beside him. The blood pool spread slowly to embrace it.
Kirsten felt no emotion. She hadn't let herself feel any powerful emotions since the day she'd married this dead man on the floor. That day had been the beginning of a prison sentence for her. And if she could have felt anything at all right now, it would have been relief. But she'd grown too wary, too cautious, too controlled, to allow herself to feel even that.
She turned to the desk, picked up the phone and placed her call to the sheriff's office. Garrett Brand might still dislike her for what she'd done to his brother two years ago, but he was an honest man who took his job very seriously. And he wasn't far away.
A small tremor of fear shivered up her spine when the idea first occurred to her that Joseph wouldn't have done this to himself. That someone else must have done it. That they might still be around. But she stamped the fear out. She was above fear. She didn't feel anything she didn't want to feel.
Then Adam's voice came across the line instead of Garrett's. Adam. Again something rocked her composure. Again she fought it and won.
Unlike his brother, Adam didn't dislike her. He actively hated her. And she didn't blame him. It occurred to her that maybe now she would finally be free to tell him the truth. To clear her conscience once and for all. He would hate her all the more, but that didn't really matter. He had a right to know. She had a right to unburden herself. The secret had been kept for far too long. She'd destroyed Adam Brand's life in more ways than he even realized.
But first things first. She told him Joseph had been murdered. Then she hung up the phone.
There was a sound behind her.
She went motionless as her back felt suddenly naked and under scrutiny. Calm. She had to be calm. It could be Phillip, Joseph's driver and all-around right-hand man. It could be Sally, the housekeeper. It could be anyone.
It could be the killer.
She turned slowly, saw the masked figure standing in the open doorway, fought the panic that made her entire body begin to tremble. He was dressed in black and seemed like some dark phantom, and for the first time she realized that her life was in danger.
He took a step toward her, one hand reaching out, mouth opening as if he were about to say something. Without missing a beat, she dropped to her knees in the red slickness and clawed the slippery gun into her hands. She lifted it. "Don't come any closer." Her hands were shaking so hard that she would never hit him if she fired a hundred times. But he wouldn't know that.
He kept coming, faster than before. Squeezing her eyes tight, Kirsten pulled the trigger. The weapon exploded in her hands, bucking backward with the recoil. When she opened her eyes, the killer was gone.
A siren wailed outside, grew louder, then stopped. She stood where she was, gripping the gun, watching the door, chanting a mental mantra. Control. Control. Control.
Adam came in first. He stood in the open double doors, looking as if he'd just stepped off the cover of some special Texas issue of GQ. While she stood in a white bikini and matching terry wrap and a whole lot of blood, with a murder weapon in one hand. She always did know how to accessorize, she thought a little crazily.
Adam just stood there, looking from Kirsten to Joseph's body, to the gun in her hand. She read his face. She'd always been good at reading his face. His beautiful face. And that was when she realized what she'd done.
He held up a hand. "Put the gun down, Kirsten."
She looked at it. Cold and black and evil, wobbling heavily in her bloody hand. She lowered the barrel slowly, then let the weapon fall to the floor. Adam came forward then. He gripped her shoulders, looking her over with an urgency she didn't understand. Until she glanced down and saw all the blood. Smears and streaks of a dead man's blood on her hands, her arms, her bare feet, her legs. It painted bright patterns on her Versace bikini and once-immaculate white wrap.
"Where are you hurt? Where are you hurt?" he kept asking.
"It's not me," she managed. "It's Joseph's blood. He's
dead." Control. She had to get control. She was going to be a quivering mess soon if she didn't get hold of herself.
Garrett was in the house. She saw him pass by the doors in his big hat, weapon drawn, apparently going from room to room. Searching for the killer, she guessed. He wouldn't find him.
"I told you not to touch anything," Adam was saying. Holding her arm, he drew her around the big desk she'd always hated, and the blood made her feet sticky against the floor tiles. Adam pressed her into a creaking chair that held the scent of Joseph's illegal Cuban cigars. "Damn, Kirsten, why did you pick up the gun?"
Adam didn't smell like cigars. He smelled like fresh Texas sunshine and new leather. The band of the Stetson he wore, maybe, or his belt, or maybe his boots. She liked a man who smelled like leather. Texas men, real ones, usually did. She lifted her head, met his eyes. Those eyes. She'd seen so much in them once. But that was over. More over than he could even guess. And there was nothing in his eyes for her now except speculation and questions.
"The killer came back," she said, and she thought her voice sounded calm. In control. "He … came at me, and I just … reacted."
Adam's face remained expressionless. "Did you fire at him?"
She nodded. Adam swore.
Garrett came in then, pausing to shake his head at the sight of Joseph, then reaching to check for a pulse just as Kirsten had done.
"He's dead," she told him unnecessarily.
Garrett looked at her, worry in his eyes. "There's no sign of anyone else in the house. Are you all right, Kirsten?"
She nodded. Then jerked a little as more sirens sounded outside. Cars skidded, and men came charging into the house. Several of them flooded the study, and Kirsten tugged her wrap more tightly around her and sat still, not cringing, not cowering, and forcibly not clinging to Adam Brand. She hadn't expected Garrett to notify the Texas Rangers right away. She'd thought he would handle this himself.
"Kirsten Cowan?" one of them asked.
THE BADDEST BRIDE IN TEXAS Page 1
