The cowboy leaned slightly to the side and smiled, not so wide as before. "Babies? I'll apologize to Justin, but I don't think yours can hear me just yet, Jayne."
"You can't know that for sure."
He gave up easily, humoring the pregnant woman. "Sorry."
After a moment he ran one hand over his face. Hiding? Probably. Considering taking her on? Definitely. Everyone waited for him to make a decision. Finally, Clint jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and laid his eyes on Mary.
"My ranch. Be there Monday morning, bright and early and ready to work. We'll have two weeks and a couple of days to get you ready."
"I'm sure I won't need that much time…"
"Take it or leave it, Special Agent Paris."
Two weeks plus. She didn't have that kind of time to waste. She needed to learn what she could from Sinclair and then do more investigation on the men who worked for the rodeo before she joined them. Oliver Brisco, the owner of the rodeo, was her number one suspect, but it would be foolish to dismiss the other men until she had more concrete evidence. But Clint Sinclair didn't look as if there was ay room for negotiation, and Mary was desperate.
"I'll be there," she said.
Clint nodded, but he looked every bit as skeptical as Mary felt.
Shea offered coffee and dessert, and while Mary was tempted to decline and get out of there while she could, she decided to accept and keep an eye on the rodeo clown for a while longer. They hadn't exactly hit it off. In fact, Clint Sinclair got on her last nerve. Still, Mary was a firm believer that it made sense to know one's enemies as well or better than one knew their friends. It was too early to know if the clown would be either.
If he'd been with the rodeo four years instead of three, Clint Sinclair himself would be one of her suspects. He had an airtight alibi for that first summer, though. According to her research, he'd been riding bulls at the time and had been laid up in the hospital for several weeks. When the second murder had taken place, he'd been out of commission.
There were a handful of men with the Brisco Rodeo who had been with the tour all four summers. Her money was on Brisco, but every one of those men was a suspect. One of them had killed Elaine.
And she was going to make that man pay.
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
Mary had driven by the Sinclair ranch last night after she'd checked into a room in Scottsboro, Alabama, the closest town that actually had a hotel. She was a city girl at heart, at home under bright lights and in the shadows of tall buildings. Her sleekly furnished apartment was located right outside Washington, D.C. The home where she'd grown up, where her father still lived, was in the Chicago area. This place … it was way too much like Mayberry for her tastes.
Down the road from the Sinclair ranch she'd passed a small grouping of buildings. A post office, a barber shop, a café. There had even been a business that looked suspiciously like a general store. Did those even exist anymore? It wasn't a town, not really. It was much too small to be called anything more than a pit stop. But there had been a freshly painted sign there. Welcome to Tandy's Corner.
By morning's light, the house she studied looked different. Last night there had been too may deep shadows. Lit only by the light of the moon, the Sinclair house had been a long, distant building with many warm lights burning in the windows.
This morning, as she drove up the winding drive from the highway, she could see details she had missed the night before. The single-story redbrick structure was huge, sprawling and majestic but not at all cold, the way some big houses were. The barn and a large fenced-in area sat well behind the house, and to the left, parked before a separate two-car garage, sat a white pickup truck that had seen better days. Thick groves of old trees lined the property, and the backdrop to this picturesque scene was the foothills of the Appalachian mountains, blue-gray in the distance.
Clint Sinclair sat on the front porch—in a rocking chair, of all things—sipping at a large cup of coffee and rocking in a slow, easy rhythm. A big yellow dog slept on the porch at his side. It was like a picture out of a magazine; the picturesque background, the house, the dog. The man. Clint rose to his feet as Mary pulled up close to the porch and brought her sedan to a lurching stop. The dog awoke and stood, too, tail wagging.
"Special Agent Mary Paris," Sinclair said as she stepped from the car. "Good morning."
"Sinclair," she said simply.
"How about some breakfast before we get started." He looked her up and down, as if judging her attire for suitability. She wore lightweight, loose-fitting pats, sturdy running shoes and a baggy white T-shirt. He wore well-worn jeans, a blue-and-green-checkered shirt and cowboy boots.
Oh, God. The truth hit Mary smack-dab between the eyes. Before this was all over with, she was going to have to buy herself a pair of cowboy boots.
"I don't eat breakfast," she said as she contemplated the possibilities. Pointy-toed snakeskin boots? No way. Red chip-kickers with fringe that swayed when she walked? Not her style. She was suddenly struck with the thought that her hair was not nearly big enough for this assignment.
"You really should eat something before we get started," Sinclair said. "Katie makes great biscuits, and if you want some eggs, she can whip up just about any style right quick."
"Katie?"
"My housekeeper."
Mary tried to push down her suspicions. Of course Sinclair had a housekeeper. She couldn't see him cooking and cleaning for himself. Men like him never did. "She gets an early start. What time does she arrive?"
"She lives here."
Mary walked toward the porch. As usual, her original impressions had been correct. "I'll just bet she does," she muttered. Guys like Clint Sinclair didn't live alone. There was always a bevy of adoring women hanging around practically begging to do whatever he wanted. Women like that made her embarrassed for her gender.
Sinclair smiled. "Come on in and meet her. Since you'll be around for a couple of weeks, you should get acquainted. I'm sure you two will get along just fine."
Mary bit back the urge to demand that they get to work. The sooner she got started, the sooner this nightmare would be over. Besides, she had no desire to get acquainted with Clint Sinclair's housekeeper.
The dog, who was bigger than she'd realized from her position in the car, came up to take a good, long sniff.
"Down, boy," she said beneath her breath.
"Don't mind Mutt," Sinclair said with a smile. "His bark is worse than his bite."
"Mutt? Your dog's name is Mutt?"
"It's what he answers to." Sinclair held the front door open for her, and she stepped inside. Mutt followed. As she'd suspected it would be, this was a man's house, decorated in leather and dark wood and plain off-white walls. Katie hadn't managed to add that woman's touch, at least not here in the front of the house. An overall masculine feel suited Clint, and yet felt comfortable.
The large den to Mary's left was rugged, with a fat leather sofa and two matching chairs, a long coffee table and a lighted case that housed a number of trophies and gigantic silver belt buckles. To her right was a doorway that opened onto what looked like a home office. Again, leather and daft wood dominated. There were no flowers, no decorative pictures on the white walls, though as they walked down the hallway toward the kitchen at the back of the house, they passed a number of framed family photographs. Shea and Nick. Justin, with his parents and then alone. Snapshots obviously taken at some long-ago Christmas, when there were no spouses or little ones to be included in the photo.
The kitchen was where she saw a woman's touch. The curtains were lacy and parted to let the sunshine in, there were hastily arranged wildflowers in a vase on the table, and instead of dark walnut the cabinets and table were made of a warm oak. The walls were painted yellow. She suspected Clint Sinclair was not a yellow person.
A woman stood at the sink, her back to them as she washed dishes. She had long dark hair pulled up in a ponytail and humm
ed a semicheerful tune as she worked. Her hips twitched in time to the off-key rendition.
"Katie darlin'," Sinclair said with a smile. "This is Shea's friend Mary."
Katie darlin' turned around slowly, a wide smile blooming on her attractive face. She was scrubbed and natural, with no makeup at all, a button nose and eyes that positively twinkled. And she appeared to be about six-months pregnant.
There were obviously things Shea didn't know about her brother.
"Let me fix you something to eat," Katie insisted, drying her hands on a towel.
"I don't eat breakfast," Mary said.
That pert nose wrinkled. "Well, that's too bad." If anything, Katie's Southern accent was more pronounced than Clint's. "Are you sure I can't fix you something?"
"Positive."
"Eggs? Biscuits? Maybe some pancakes. I make really great pancakes. From scratch!"
"No," Mary said again, more forcefully this time.
Katie nodded, her smile fading. She was obviously disappointed. Mary realized she was about to begin the longest two weeks of her life.
The back door opened, and a grinning man who'd obviously already been hard at work walked in. His jeans were well worn, his cotton shirt and light brown hair were touched with sweat. He didn't look to be much older than Clint, and he walked with a pronounced limp.
He headed straight for Katie. "I told you to go back to bed and lie down," he said.
"I will," she promised, her face lighting up as she watched the man approach. "As soon as I finish these dishes."
"Why are you washing by hand when there's a perfectly good dishwasher right here?"
"I just have a few dishes to get out of the way," Katie argued sweetly. "There's not enough to fill the dishwasher, and I don't want to let dirty plates and a greasy frying pan sit here all morning."
The sweating man shook his head, then he leaned down to give Katie a quick kiss.
Mary felt a small twinge of disappointment. Here she was all ready to discover that one of Shea's supposedly perfect brothers had a flaw—and a pregnant live-in housekeeper was a big flaw—and then Katie turns out to be someone else's darlin'.
"Mary, this is my ranch foreman, Wes. Katie's his better half."
"Pleased to meet you," Wes said, stepping forward with a wide smile and an outstretched had. "You must be Shea's friend who wants to have a go at the rodeo."
"Yes," Mary said simply.
When she'd found out that Clint's foreman had also once been on the rodeo circuit, she'd insisted that Wes not know the real purpose of her visit. All she needed was for the wrong person to find out what she was up to, that she was a federal agent, and the gig would be over. Finished.
And if that happened she might never have another chance to find Elaine's killer.
* * *
Special Agent Mary Paris had a bug up her butt about something. About everything, Clint imagined.
Shortly after her arrival he'd changed into suitable running shoes, shorts and a T-shirt, and now he and his clown wanna-be ran side by side down the trail that wound just inside the perimeter of his property. Mutt ran with him, as usual. Every now and then they passed through welcome shade, but most of the run was made in bright sunlight.
Special Agent Mary stayed right beside him, matching him stride for stride. She'd kept up really well at first, but she was beginning to lag. She didn't much like lagging, he could tell. Apparently she was one of those women who thought she ought to be able to do anything and everything as well as any man.
Her baggy clothes were covered with sweat, she was red in the face and had her hair pulled back and up in one of those short ponytails that looked like a little straw broom sticking out of the back of her head. She shouldn't be sexy as hell.
But she was.
Clint slowed down, coming to a stop in the shade of an ancient oak tree. "Time for a break," he said, reaching for the water bottle that hung from the loose belt he wore.
"I'm fine," Mary said breathlessly. "Really."
"I'm sure you are. It's just time for a break."
She didn't argue with him, but reached for her own water bottle and took a long swig.
Clint dropped down and gave Mutt a drink from his water bottle, patting the dog's head as he lapped up the cool liquid. When Mutt had had all he wanted, the dog found a grassy spot and plopped down to rest.
This was such a mistake, Clint thought as he watched Mary regain her breath and her composure. It was wrong in so many ways, for so many reasons.
"I have an idea," he said.
"What kind of idea?" Mary asked suspiciously.
"I can get you into the rodeo without making you go through all this."
"I'm fine," she argued. "It's just that the humidity here is higher than I'm accustomed to."
"Don't you even want to hear my idea?"
She sighed. No, she obviously did not want to hear his idea. There was annoyance in the way she looked at him, in the way she stood. "Fine," she said unenthusiastically. "Let's hear it."
It was a good idea, much better and much safer than her cockeyed plan. "The first stop on the tour is a four-day show, Thursday through Sunday. We're starting in Birmingham this year. During the first show we always present a Rodeo Queen, and she travels with—"
"No," Mary said insistently. "I will not wear big hair and a cowboy hat and fringe and parade around with a fake smile on my face while I give the crowd my royal wave." She demonstrated, fingers together, palm cupped as she gently rocked the hand.
Clint nodded his head. "You'd rather wear orange hair, greasepaint, a funny hat and a painted-on smile."
She might have blushed. It was hard to tell, since she was already red in the face. "Yes."
"All right. This is your party, darlin'." She didn't like being called darlin'. It rankled her, for some reason, made her lips thin and her blue eyes go flinty. "I mean, it's your party, Special Agent Paris."
She pursed her lips, for a moment. "Maybe you should just call me Mary."
"Pretty name."
Mary hooked her water bottle to her own belt and started to run, almost as if she were escaping. She didn't much like chitchat.
Clint took off after her, and Mutt leapt off the ground to follow.
"What's next?" Mary asked when Clint pulled up alongside her.
"When we're finished with the run, we'll get you settled in."
She glanced at him. "What?"
"We'll get your things out of the car and take a little break, have some lunch and then this afternoon we'll work on a few basic maneuvers."
"My things?"
"You know, suitcases, bags of makeup, trunks full of shoes…"
She stared straight ahead. "My bags are at the hotel in Scottsboro, where I'll be staying."
Clint grinned. "For better than two weeks? Goodness, darlin', you don't have to make that trip every morning and every night. I have a couple of guest rooms right here in the house."
Mary turned her head and laid her eyes on his face; a lesser man would have flinched, he was certain.
"No, thank you," she said coolly. "I prefer to stay in a hotel."
"Fine by me," he muttered. He wasn't disappointed. Not really. He didn't care what made a woman like Mary Paris tick. Man, she was definitely … different.
"You know," he said as they made a turn and ran into blessed shade once again, "you really should consider the Rodeo Queen idea. It would be much easier, big hair and all."
"Won't work," she said simply.
"Why not?"
Mary stared straight ahead as she continued to run at a steady pace. For a while, he thought she wasn't going to answer. Finally, she did.
"All I plan to do is gather information. Talk to people, try to connect the dots and put faces to names and eliminate suspects." She glanced at him suspiciously, perhaps wondering how much she should share. Mary Paris didn't look like a woman who gave her trust easily.
He saw the unspoken but in her eyes, in the tense set of her mouth.
"I knew you wanted to make yourself bait!" he snapped, angry that any woman would consider anything so dangerous. Danger was a part of Mary Paris's job, but in his world women were gentle creatures who were meant to be protected. Sheltered. Mary and his world clashed, big time.
"I certainly wouldn't do anything so foolish." She turned her eyes front again. She'd settled into an easy, steady pace and looked as if she could run all day, high humidity or no high humidity. "Not on my own."
"But," Clint prodded.
Mary's eyes remained set on the horizon. "The women who were killed by this guy, they were all…" She paused, as if she were carefully considering her next word. "Quiet," she finally said. "Six out of eight of them weren't missed for days, which is one of the reasons no one ever linked the cases together or to the Brisco Rodeo."
"You did."
"I had an advantage."
"What's that?"
She shook her head gently. "Before I started looking into the case, what you had was six different jurisdictions all going at the cases from a different perspective. The killings were not identical, just similar in an eerie kind of way. If anyone bothered to look." She shook her head slightly. "In the two instances where there was more than one murder in a jurisdiction, the investigators for each victim were different! People retire, they go into other departments … and when a murder sits for a while and the victim doesn't have someone pushing at the police to find her killer…" She paused and took a few steady breaths.
"They get shoved aside," Clint said.
"Yeah," Mary said in a lower voice. "While I don't plan to bait the killer at this time, it might become an option later on. With the proper backup, of course," she added. "A Rodeo Queen would be missed right away, I imagine."
"So will a rodeo clown," Clint assured her.
"I need to blend in. Disappear. I need to be invisible, Sinclair."
He knew she had her reasons for doing things this way. That didn't mean he had to like it. "Why not just be in the crowd every day?"
"Three or four shows per town, six cities. You don't think that might raise a few questions?"
CLINT'S WILD RIDE Page 2
