by Sheryl Lynn
A light kiss, more of a caress of lips against lips. Touching her reminded him how much he loved the smell of a woman, how much he missed a woman’s softness. His skin tightened, itching all over in sudden hunger. He clenched his hands, forcing them to remain at his sides. He didn’t close his eyes, neither did she, and he saw flecks of gold within the green.
She touched his hand with hers, tentatively, as if in question. A light stroke caused his fingers to relax. He curled his fingers around hers, holding her loosely while reveling in the contact.
“If this is what you want, it’s okay,” she whispered.
He wanted it so bad he ached. His entire body felt electrified, light and heavy at the same time. He wanted her. Right here, right now.
He dropped her hand and stepped back. “This isn’t smart.” His voice sounded as if he had gargled with sand.
“These things usually aren’t very smart. So what? I owe you.”
Appalled at her thinking that he demanded sex in exchange for protection, he sidled around her toward the door. “I don’t take those kinds of debts.” He winced at how rough he’d sounded, as if he were angry or annoyed. Her soft smile made him feel foolish. His ears burned. “It’s—it’s not because—you’re beautiful, Madeline.” He made his escape.
The hallway squeezed him, the stairs too steep. He felt huge and clumsy and oafish.
In the kitchen he stopped, unable to remember why he was there.
He’d been an idiot to kiss her, to smell the tantalizing sweetness of her skin and hair, to discover those full lips were as soft and sensual as they looked. Where before the attraction was abstract, now it burned.
Cartons, he remembered. He needed cartons from the barn. He fetched several, found a roll of packing tape and set it at the top of the stairs. He called her before taking the stairs down two and three at a time. Now was a fine time to change the oil in his truck.
By the time the dirty oil had drained into a pan, he could think rationally. He didn’t take advantage of vulnerable women. Her cooking more than made up for her room and board. The only thing they owed each other was respect.
He was wrestling the dirty oil filter off the engine when he heard an approaching car. About time Pete arrived. It was too much to ask that the FBI would find the stolen money in a luggage locker or in Cora Shay’s house, but he could hope. Wiping his hands on a rag, he stepped out of the garage and squinted down the long driveway.
A fancy red Jeep trailed a rooster-tail of dust. Carson muttered a few choice words and went out to meet his neighbor.
Chapter Nine
Madeline stood before the open closet doors. Stupid, stupid, stupid! She railed at herself. She could not believe an offer of sex for help had come out of her mouth. Now he thought she was an idiot—or a prostitute.
She needed to assure him she didn’t trade sex for favors. To assure him…what?
That the way he looked at her, making her all hot and cold and tingly, didn’t irritate her or make her feel like meat on a hook. That she fantasized about how it would feel to be naked in his arms. That his voice struck her right at the base of the throat.
Kissing him had felt so right.
She got scared and blew it.
Stupid.
She examined blouses, skirts, dresses and jackets. Jill Cody favored lightweight silks and cotton-linen blends in soft, creamy pastels and vibrant jewel tones. The clothes smelled dusty with a faint perfume of rose sachet. She laid clothes on the bed.
Before the fire, Madeline had owned one really good dress—a black, silk jersey number that had cost a ridiculous amount of money but never went out of style and was virtually indestructible. She had worn it to more gallery openings and art shows than she could recall.
She modeled a ruffled cocktail dress against her chest. Of shimmery black silk, it had spaghetti straps and a layered skirt.
She frowned at her reflection. Men had started chasing her when she began wearing a bra. Before long, she had stopped feeling flattered and started realizing she was vulnerable and asking for use and abuse. Nowadays, when men showed interest, her first reaction was annoyance. The hell of it was, she loved sex. She loved being touched and fondled and kissed all over. She loved male bodies for their size and tough skin and hairy legs and muscles. Sometimes she wished she was callous enough for pointless, promiscuous sex.
She lowered the dress, letting it dangle from her hand. Her heart was hard because every single day, life reminded her how easily it could be broken.
Carson Cody was a rarity—a man with standards. Obviously she didn’t measure up.
She tossed the ruffled dress on the bed.
Trying not to think about kissing Carson was like trying to ignore a smoking volcano rumbling beneath her feet. Especially since pawing through his dead wife’s belongings reminded her too vividly of how she ended up in his house in the first place. Reluctantly, hoping nothing would slap Carson’s face with memories, she selected some nondescript jeans and T-shirts.
Carson let her know the cartons were in the hallway. She went to the doorway in time to hear him thundering down the stairs. Cartons and a roll of tape awaited her. She called his name. The screen door slapped against the frame.
It took three large cartons to hold Jill’s shoes, belts and purses. It would take that many to contain the clothes from the closet, and she hadn’t even opened the bureau drawers. She folded each item before placing it neatly in a box. A car drove up to the house. It was Tony Rule. Better him than a lynch mob, but not by much.
Tony followed Carson to the porch. She opened the window a few inches.
“—FBI looking for her?” Tony asked.
“No.” Carson sounded irritated. “The FBI knows where she is. I don’t know where the press is getting information.”
“Is she all right? All this stuff about her dad must be freaking her out. Does she know you killed him?”
“She’s fine.”
“Does she know where the money is? Hey, if you need help looking for it, I’m more than happy to volunteer. I even have a metal detector. Top of the line.”
Carson laughed.
Footsteps on the porch. The front door opening. Carson called up the stairs, “Madeline? Are you up for company?”
She was busy, indisposed, washing her hair. Tony was one of the guys who recognized in her the needy, lonely girl who longed for someone to love her. In Tony’s eyes, she was prey. She could handle him, however, and dismiss his flirtation. She didn’t want to face Carson.
“Madeline?”
“Yo, Maddy!” Tony called.
Someone needed to put that tomcat in his place. “Coming.”
“Hello,” she said to Tony, avoiding even a glimpse of Carson. Every instinct warned her not to look. She would melt or swoon or otherwise thoroughly humiliate herself.
Tony ran a bold eye over her body. “You’re looking good.”
“Would you gentlemen care for some iced tea?” She walked past them to the kitchen.
“Ice queen,” Tony said sotto voce.
Go to hell, she thought. She noticed the Dumb Stuff box was sealed with tape. She had opened the cabinet for glasses when, from the corner of her eye, she saw Tony pick up the phoenix vessel.
“Don’t touch that!”
He almost dropped it, but caught it before it struck the table.
She gave him a hard look. “I’m very protective of my work.”
Tony set down the vessel with exaggerated care and backed away, showing his palms and smiling. “What is it?”
“Art,” Carson answered. “Madeline is a famous artist.”
She shot him a frown. He smiled in return. He actually winked. When she gave Carson his tea, he folded his fingers over hers and lingered.
“So, Maddy,” Tony said. “How does it feel to be a wanted woman? Think the FBI is offering a reward for your capture?”
Carson gave him a look askance. “Not funny, man.”
“Ah, come on, if you can’t laug
h at a situation, it’ll break you. Seriously, how are you doing? Are you over the fire scare? Feeling all right?”
“Fine.” She sliced a lemon and put it and a bowl of sugar on the table. “I don’t know anything about the hijacking.” She risked a peek at Carson. He lounged on a chair, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He didn’t act as if the crack about her owing him sex offended him. He looked more interested than before. “I’m not sure my father stole the money.”
“Why is that?”
She waited for Carson to put a halt to the discussion. His smile was sort of goofy.
“He stole cars, burglarized businesses, scammed people. He committed property crimes. He was only violent when he was drinking.” Except for the murders at Crossruff Creek. “Usually.”
“What about you, big guy? Think he did it?”
Carson took a long, slow drink of tea. He licked his lips. “Not my job to speculate.”
Tony laughed and slapped his thigh. “What’s the point of having a cop for a best friend if we can’t even talk about the fun stuff?”
Insensitive jerk. He acted like this was a game. A movie where all the dead guys would pick themselves up, dust themselves off and get ready to shoot the next scene. People were dead. Lives were ruined. All Tony cared about was the entertainment value.
“I have work to do. Nice seeing you again, Tony.”
“Hey, Maddy, there’s a reason I came by. I have to run down to Phoenix. Business emergency. I hate making that long, lonely drive all by myself. I thought, since you probably have a bad case of cabin fever, you might like to accompany me.”
Carson startled like a horse smelling smoke. His boot heel thumped the floor.
“I’ll throw in dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant. I promise to have you home at a decent hour. Unless, of course, you’d care to stay overnight in the city?”
She waited for Carson to say something about her being in protective custody. His eyes blazed and his knuckles whitened, but he kept his mouth shut. She searched for some graceful way to refuse.
The reflex to act nice like a good girl disgusted her.
“No, thanks,” she said.
“It’ll be fun,” he said, wheedling, turning on the charm.
“I doubt it. I don’t want to go. Goodbye, Tony.” She went back upstairs.
CARSON PRESSED the iced tea glass against his cheek. It was beastly hot for April. The temperature was in the high nineties and not a whisper of moisture to be found. Listening to Madeline moving around upstairs, he smiled beatifically at Tony.
The boy looked as if he’d been drop-kicked and never saw the mule that did it.
“What kind of emergency takes you to Phoenix?”
“Technical stuff.” Tony stared at the doorway, eyes narrowed. “That is one cold chick.”
“Sour grapes, man. Face it, not every woman in the world is falling at your feet.”
“Oh, she likes me all right. She’s playing hard to get.” His good humor returned and he hoisted his glass in salute. “Here’s to the ladies worth fighting for.” He drank deeply then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m confused. She’s Indian, isn’t she? That picture of Shay in the paper makes him look white.”
“Her mother is Apache. Shay’s as Irish as they come. His parents emigrated from Ireland before he was born. Pat and Lois were good ranchers. Couldn’t ask for better people.”
“So what happened to the son?”
“His parents were killed in a car crash when Shay was twelve years old. He had no relatives in this country and the only thing his Irish family cared about was the money. He turned outlaw after that.”
“Madeline is no outlaw.”
Carson had wearied of Tony’s interest in Madeline. “I have to finish my truck. Guess you need to get on the road.”
“I can take a hint.” Tony rose. “I am serious about having a metal detector. Top of the line. I’ve got that pair of ATVs collecting cobwebs, too. I’m more than happy to help you search for the loot.”
“We don’t know that it’s buried on the ranch.”
“That’s what the paper implied.”
“They got some facts wrong.”
“So where do you think it is?”
“No idea,” Carson said honestly. He couldn’t stay mad at Tony. He was like an overeager hound-dog pup. No matter how often he was chastised, he rebounded, eager for more. The man didn’t have a hard feeling in him. Any woman who finally managed to hog-tie Tony would have her hands full. “You can help, if you would.”
“Anything for you.”
“I put up signs to keep folks out. If you spot any activity over there, could you give me a holler? It might take a few hours sitting in a cell for some people to realize I mean business.”
“I can do that.” He turned for the back door then stopped and snapped his fingers. “I just thought of something. I’ve got thousands of dollars in computer equipment over at my house. I’m connected to every database and search engine in existence. You are more than welcome to use whatever you need. I won’t even bill the usage fees.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
“I mean it. I can get hold of banking records, phone logs, credit card purchases. You name it, I can dig it up.”
“Is that legal?”
Tony widened his eyes in a too-innocent look. “I swear, when I stumble across something I shouldn’t, I shut my eyes.”
“Get out of my house, you clown.”
After Tony left, Carson considered climbing the stairs. If he did he would kiss her again. He wavered, frustrated with his inability to figure out what to do about Madeline.
At least he didn’t have to worry about her and Tony Rule. Good enough for now.
Sergeant Pete Morales showed up an hour later. Carson asked Madeline to join them in the kitchen. She signed the authorization to exhume her father’s body. She acted shy around Pete and wouldn’t look him in the face. He wanted to tell her Pete was one of the good guys.
Carson explained about the letters and personal effects Madeline had received from her father, and the favor Shay wanted her to do for Deke Fry. He showed Pete the key and the passage in a letter telling Madeline about the bus station locker.
“Do you need to give the whole box to the FBI?” Madeline asked. “I know they need the letters, but he gave me the other stuff when I was a kid.”
“Be a shame if they missed anything,” Pete said. “Sometimes all it takes is a bit of trace evidence to break a case. They’ll be careful. You’ll get your things back.”
“Every little bit counts,” Carson said.
“It’s junk anyway,” she said. A lie she wished she could believe.
Pete held up the locker key. “I talked to the FBI agent and know what he told me? Hold on to your hats. According to the manifest, that load of money weighed almost two tons.”
Madeline laughed and immediately covered her mouth. “Sorry, but…two tons? What was it, all in nickels?”
Carson found it hard to get his mind around it, too.
Pete shrugged. “I believe it. I did some moonlighting in a casino. A money sack with a couple thousand bucks in it is heavy.” He tossed the key and caught it in an overhand swipe. “Doubt it’s stuffed into a locker.”
“Let’s hope it points to the money.”
“Two tons of money,” Madeline said, as if she were trying to envision what that meant. “No way my father could have dug a hole big enough to hide it all. It’s crazy. Those hills are solid rock.”
A SOLUTION DIDN’T OCCUR to Carson until the following day at the police station. It was getting close to lunchtime and he worried too much about Madeline to be able to concentrate on putting together the work schedule. His big worry was the press. Reporters and news vans swarmed over Ruff like magpies picking over roadkill. He’d been chasing news crews out of the station all morning.
He called Mutual Security and Assurance in Las Vegas, punched in the extension for Ivan Bann
erman and reached voice mail. “This is Chief Cody, Mr. Bannerman. I need to speak to you. Call me at the station, I’ll have them transfer the call to wherever I am.”
He glowered at the big map on the wall and remembered the mine. Way back when Pat Shay had bought the ranch for a song because the mine went bust. The Crossruff Mine, named for the card game the miners loved to play, was a local legend. Kids still spooked each other with sordid stories about murder and lost fortunes in gold. Pat Shay dynamited the mine entrance to keep out kids and cattle.
As kids, he and Maurice Harrigan had gone prospecting. They found the mine entrance. Maurice had wriggled his head and shoulders inside, but smelled snakes and refused to go farther.
Carson told Wanda, “I’m out for lunch. I may be a while. Errands to run.”
“What about them?” She pointed to the bank of windows facing Main Street where reporters wandered in search of a story.
“Same as before,” he said loudly enough for every person in the station to hear. “This office has no comment.”
He managed to duck out the back of the station and make it to the cruiser before reporters spotted him. The easy way would be to search for the mine’s location in public records. The clerk recorder was Dee Harrigan, sister-in-law to Maurice Harrigan, and the only way to get old maps was through her.
He found it once. He’d find it again.
“WHAT IF WE FIND IT?” Madeline asked Carson. An old mine made perfect sense.
“We’ll contact the FBI. Find a pair of boots. I’ll grab some water bottles and a shovel.”
She didn’t speak on the drive down the mesa. She pushed strands of hair off her face and wished she had asked for a hat. Heat shimmers distorted the air. Carson parked near the charred ruins of the house and van. Yellow crime-scene tape fluttered from trees. Circles of fluorescent-orange marking paint dotted the gravel. The stink tightened her scalp and chest.
“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” he said.
She pulled back her shoulders. “The sooner the money is recovered, the sooner this whole mess is over with.” She looked him in the eyes. “You know what? We ought to destroy the money. Like an exorcism, a cleansing.”
