“The marshal – Ryder – what’s he investigating?”
“Murder, for one thing.”
“And before the murder?”
“I’m surprised you let those questions go unanswered as long as you did,” Cade admitted.
“Might be a little of that patience you thought I’d never learn,” she said lightly, even a little teasingly.
And, there, on the open city street, Cade did what he’d never really done, what she had longed for him to do all those years ago. He gathered her into his arms and he kissed her, long and hard and deep. And she really, truly wished he had not, for there went the friendship hypothesis. Beyond that, her response had been too swift, too intense, too obvious. At least to her.
Cade’s release was as slow and reluctant as his embrace had been swift and urgent. He rested his forehead on hers and said, “It appears you gained what I lost. I meant to wait on that, to go slow and not scare you away.”
Malone thought of all the things she could say in that moment, and all that left her lips was, “I’m not afraid.” But she was also wiser than she’d once been, wise enough to know she needed time and space. “I’m also not forgetting the question I asked. What is Ryder investigating?”
When Cade told her, she was almost sorry she’d asked.
“Drug smuggling? One of us?” As large as their organization was, most of them were family of sorts. The idea that someone she knew, someone she saw rodeo after rodeo and talked with as easily as she talked with Cade now, might be involved in something so vile was alien to her. As was the thought of a federal agent in their midst, posing as part of the staff and spying on them.
“Drugs or guns. Ryder’s been rather cryptic with his information. Regardless, I gather he’s trailing a drug ring that has ties to a gun ring with connection to some king pin who’s managed to evade the law for a while.”
“And he thinks that’s why Roland Walker was murdered?”
“I suspect it’s a possibility in his mind, at least.”
“Is it a possibility in yours?”
“I wish I could say no, but, yeah, a possibility … maybe even a probability. Ryder was already looking our way and he’s suspicious enough to plant one of his team in my staff. Maybe it was coincidental that Walker happened to get his neck broke at the same time. I’m just not much into coincidences.”
Chapter Thirteen
Hmph. Staying behind to listen to the Detective Hendrix question Luke Roberts once more proved a complete waste of my time. The detective learned nothing of consequence, if anything at all. Therefore, neither did I. Not that I think Luke had anything to do with Roland Walker’s broken neck, but there are times humans know more than they realize and a question or two can bring it to the forefront. My role model Sherlock, as skillfully portrayed by the highly esteemed Cumberbatch, was adept at that method of discovery. A word or phrase here, a tangible clue there. Weave it together and – voila! – a mystery is solved. I’ve become adept at the same methods but am too often hampered by my inability to pose questions to the humans who are central, whether knowingly or unknowingly, to the mystery.
I had suspected I’d gain nothing from this interrogation. Nevertheless, it did behoove me not to miss an opportunity where I might. The work of a detective, even one so skilled as I, can be tedious but the rewards in enduring that tedium are great.
Much of detective work involves intuition and mine tells me that Tyge’s encounter with those thugs is somehow linked to young Walker’s death. It is, of course, possible that there’s more than one set of bad guys on the scene and that the two are unrelated but my mind does not lean in that direction. I believe there’s a link and, if it exists, I will find it.
For now, I’ve been too far and too long from my charges.
* * *
Malone moved her bucket of brushes and combs and sprays to the next stall. Everyone got at least a half hour of grooming every day. Joss made it easier than it had ever been for her to give them that time and attention. The girl seemed tireless, constantly making rounds to clean and refill water buckets and scoop droppings from shavings to keep their stalls as clean as possible. Malone had told her, only half-joking, that she was going to have to find a gym to stay in shape if Joss kept doing the hardest work. Joss had just smiled and shook her head and kept going.
Trouble joined her halfway through the grooming, moving languidly from stall to stall with her as she worked. With each relocation, he chose to sit upright in the open stall door, either careful to stay out from under sharp hooves or careful to sit where he could watch the hallway and the approach of any human. Malone wouldn’t have bet against either probability.
As she ran a brush over a sleek red rump, she said a soft prayer for that horse as she did for each of them as she worked. Scoop was her partner for tonight’s performance. He was a quiet gelding, neither flashy nor fiery so he rarely drew much attention outside of the arena, but inside, oh my, could that boy run and turn with a smoothness that deceived all but the timer. Malone wished again that he belonged to her, but then she wished all of them did. Scoop’s real human partner was in her first pregnancy and had called Malone as soon as she’d seen the evidence on the pregnancy strip. The amount she offered Malone to take him for a year had been generous and Malone had been honored by her trust in asking.
“We’re going to surprise some people tonight, for sure. There’s more to you than they’ve seen and the ground couldn’t be more your style. All I have to do is stay out of your way.” That was the hard part of riding so many different horses. Some needed a little help, some needed a lot, and some – like Scoop – needed her to sit as quietly as possible and ‘do no harm’ as it were. His one quirk was the last two or three strides of his run. If she wasn’t careful to gather him up firmly at the right moment, he would express his exuberance at what he’d just done with a quick series of bucks before prancing from the arena. His owner had warned her and, so far, Malone had been careful to avoid any unwanted pitching.
As she worked, Malone listened to the announcer call names and times for the steer wrestling. There was a speaker in every barn and warm-up pen so that contestants could gauge the various times they needed for each stage of their preparations as well as to keep up with the successes of their friends and family. So many of the contestants were kin, father-son, brothers, mother-daughter, sisters. And some not related by blood felt more like family than those who were. Malone had fought with them and for them, knew them, loved them, despaired of them, but – yeah – so many of them were the family she didn’t have.
Finishing her work, she decided to head back to the trailer to rub some oil into the saddle and tack she would use tomorrow. She’d done the same with Scoop’s tack the day before. Only two of the horses could wear the same saddle and none of them wore the same breast collar or bridle or pad.
Halfway there, she was hailed from one of the practice pens and changed directions to talk with a long-time friend and competitor. Janie had started down the rodeo path a year or two before Malone. Side-lined by a hip replacement, she was there for her daughter who was every bit the rider her mother had been. These days Janie’s primary role was to mentor and cheer on her daughter while keeping her two-year-old grandson out of the path of horses’ hooves.
As Janie’s daughter rode from the practice pen, giving Malone a friendly wave, a pair of ropers moved into the pen, a team who’d been making a name for themselves the past year, moving up fast in the rankings. Janie scooped up her grandson and said her farewells, hurrying after her daughter. Malone stood a moment, admiring the fluid twists and turns of the horses in an unusual but effective warm-up pattern.
“Malone.” She turned at the familiar, gravelly voice and smiled at Asa Morrissette. He removed his hat in that polite way he had of always acknowledging the presence of a lady. It was old-fashioned and maybe even archaic, but she preferred that to having tobacco spit at her feet.
“Hi, Asa. How’s it going?” She could see the sh
adows in his eyes and knew the death of one of his hands had hit him hard.
“Could be better,” he admitted.
“I’m sorry about Roland.” Regardless of her opinion of Roland Walker as a man, he’d been Asa’s employee.
“Yeah.” He sighed. “A hell of a thing.” He stood in silence for a moment, watching the ropers in the practice pen then pushed back from the fence. “I don’t suppose you’d accept a dinner invitation.”
It wasn’t the first time Asa had asked her for a date. “That answer is still no and the invitation is still regarded as a compliment.”
“I’ll keep trying, you know.”
“I don’t know why.”
He gave a grunt of laughter.
She tilted her head to look at him. Asa was a good eight inches taller, with thick silver hair worn a bit longer than fashionable, a mustache the same shade also longer than fashionable. Any sane woman would consider him a catch. She was just sane enough to appreciate the fact, but she’d never found herself interested in him that way and wasn’t going to give him any hope that would change. And not for once had she ever believed he wanted it to.
The sad truth was, after the failure of life with Tyge, she’d never found herself interested in any man that way, not with Cade always somewhere in the recesses of her mind to compare to. And she was surprised that she was admitting as much even to herself.
“Asa.” She spoke his name on a sigh. “All these pretty ladies giving you the eye everywhere you go. All you have to do is look around you.”
“I don’t want to look around.” Blue eyes held a hint of sadness though he kept the slight curve of a smile on his lips.
Malone didn’t kid herself that the sadness was on her account. Asa had never fallen out of love with his wife though she’d left him years ago. The death of their young daughter in the truck and trailer wreck that had put Asa in the hospital for several long months had devastated the woman. Asa had buried his grief in the stock-contracting business which kept him close to rodeo although he could no longer compete. His wife blamed the sport of rodeo, the long hard hours of hauling for both her daughter’s death and Asa’s distance and had given up hoping he would walk away. When he wouldn’t, she did.
A part of Malone had always believed Asa kept asking her out because he knew she would keep saying no. Another woman might make the mistake of saying yes. She suspected Asa would have nothing to give her.
Trouble grumbled, pulling her attention away from Asa momentarily.
“Malone, I’ve always wondered …”
At his hesitation, she looked back at him and waited.
“If it hadn’t been me, if I hadn’t been the one ...” Asa’s voice trailed away.
“To tell me about Tyge?” About the money he’d borrowed from Asa and others and couldn’t pay. About the other women. She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think it would make any difference in my feelings now if it’d been someone else.”
“But you can’t say for sure.”
“I don’t feel any differently about you than I did before you told me, if that’s what you’re asking. We were and always will be friends.”
“But you think about it sometimes when we’re talking.”
She sighed. “Yeah, sometimes I do.” But she’d never had a harsh thought toward Asa for being honest with her.
It had been a hard, hard moment for her. She’d been living in denial; she knew that now. Tyge had never been someone she should have depended upon and someone she’d been learning not to. There’d been too many times he’d stayed gone a day longer than planned, too many times he’d hit ignore on a phone call and not said why. She hadn’t asked. She wouldn’t be one of those women. If there wasn’t trust, there was no reason for them to be together. No wedding bands, no certificate, no children.
For those reasons, and others, she’d trusted. For too long. Stupidly. And too many people she’d once thought friends had let her. She’d begun to wonder. And then Asa had asked to talk to her, had brought her a cold, hard truth.
“Asa, I’ll always be grateful you were friend enough to tell me what I needed to hear.”
The smile he gave her was relieved but rueful. He placed his hat back on his head. “I’ll be watching your run tonight, Malone. Good luck.” He gave her a wink as he turned away. “And I will ask again.”
She chuckled, feeling as if they’d passed some kind of relationship crisis. Asa was a decent man who deserved better than life had dealt him. She’d be sorry to lose his friendship over anything, much less over something she could neither change nor prevent. The ‘more than friendship’ he professed to want was not something she had to give him. Nor was she certain he really wanted it.
* * *
Well, hmmm. It appears the gentleman would like to give Mr. Silver Eyes some competition in the romance department. Could I speak, I’d advise the latter to step up his game.
But the crudity of human speech isn’t a talent I can profess, nor – I can truthfully say – is it one I covet even though it would make some of my discoveries much easier to reveal to those I’m here to help. Not that there’s been much in the way of discoveries on this case. Well, I suppose a dead body is something and there was the spur, which I’m convinced is tied to the deed. Even so, it has been remarkably hard to get to the heart of the matter. The wankers who pummeled Tyge are underlings. Of that, I’m certain. There’s a mastermind behind whatever dodgy doings have entangled that miscreant cowboy. And I’m not certain about the nature of those misdeeds though the smuggling of drugs remains high on the list of possibilities.
Nor can I find anything to tie that ‘lost and found’ spur to any person of interest. Certainly, I’ve seen no cowboy walking around with one spur, nor cowgirl. And, yes, I must at least admit to a cowgirl as a possibility. I’ve seen some with sufficient bulk and muscle to twist a man’s neck with lethal force. The female isn’t always the gentler of the species as previous of my cases have proven.
I’ve lowered myself to crawl through what seems a multitude of cattle trailers that are in need of a good cleansing, hopeful that I’ll sniff some aroma that is out of bounds with the locale. Although I’m no canine, thank the good Heavens above, I feel certain I could detect the more common drugs I’ve encountered. If marijuana or heroin or the nauseous smelling crystal meth has been aboard any of the conveyances I’ve traversed, I would have detected them.
There remain several I haven’t investigated and it’s difficult to keep up with what I have and have not inspected. The silly humans move them from one point to another on the grounds for reasons I cannot fathom.
Nor can I content myself with scrutiny of bovine transportation. It must be allowed that one of the fancier equine trailers in such abundance here could be used for the same purpose and with possibly greater success. How many inspection points would wave on a lovely young woman who is rodeo-bound? Lovely young women can also be guilty of great evil. I saved Ms. Gorgeous from just such a one during my sojourn at Summer Valley Ranch.
No, indeed, I’ve much to do and few clues to guide me. I will ensure all is well with Ms. Rodeo and her foundling and let them know my need for decent sustenance. Then I shall renew my search.
As I turn to go, I hear sounds of an approach behind me, then voices, at which I move politely to one side of the wide corridor.
“What do you mean you’re going to walk? Are you crazy?”
“Maybe, or maybe I’m coming to my senses.”
Uh-oh, two arguing humans, and young males – once again – are headed my way, hopefully nothing more than a bit of entertainment in the offing. Well, yes, I’ll confess to enjoying a bit of fisticuffs as long as I’m an observer and not a participant.
I’ll take a small leap and move to the sidelines to let them pass by. I can defend myself better than most hand-to-hand … er paw-to-paw … when I need but there’s no reason to draw attention to myself without that need. That is a detective’s first rule of thumb. And I’ve already made
a name for myself as a combatant coming to the Tyge’s aid as I did. But there was no help for that. A cat must do what a cat must do.
And there they are, of an age and a size and a swaggering look about them that brands them – at least to my discerning eyes – as among the rough stock competitors. They all have that same shoulders back, loose-hipped walk.
One strides a bit ahead, his cowboy hat shading his face, as if in a bit of a hurry. “I’m getting out, Dawson. If you’re smart, you will, too. This shit will get you killed.”
The other grabs his shoulder and spins him around and I expect a blow to land.
“Damn it, Quinn, bailin’ will get you killed faster. These bastards take care of business. Look what happened to Roland.”
The two stand face-to-face and I grasp that they are not at odds with each other despite the quarrelsome sound of their voices, which hold less anger than fear. “That wasn’t about him getting out, that was about him getting greedy. I ain’t greedy and I didn’t want in to start with.”
“Yeah, but you took the pay-out and spent it. Kept your mouth shut just like I did.”
“And wish to God I never had,” the one called Quinn turns and starts walking again. “I’m going to finish the week ‘cause my luck with the broncs is holding, then I’m disappearing back home for a year or two.”
“You think you can hide in them Louisiana swamps?”
“Damn right. I’ll be with the snakes and the gators until I’m forgotten.”
“You’re kidding yourself!” Quinn doesn’t turn around at the rising level of the voice behind him. “That bastard ain’t ever going to forget your name or your face or the fact that you know too much.”
The second cowboy waits in vain for a response then throws a costly-looking hat to the ground and kicks it. I sigh at the wastefulness of the young and almost miss his last rejoinder, spoken with a soft, rueful anger. “And he knows we’re kin, you jackass.”
Turning for Trouble Page 12
