It was an open door that Cassidy wanted to walk through with Slate. She turned back to her list of suspects.
The other people in the bank had been Clyde Barlow and his secretary, Karlie Mason. Neither of them had anything to gain from Slate’s imprisonment.
Except that Clyde had been able to take over the Three Sisters property and put it on the market. He’d made money on selling the ranch. A lot of money.
There was also Cole. He and Slate had been keen competitors. The rivalry had been friendly, but never less than serious. At the time of the bank robbery—which had been a week before the major rodeo—Slate had been the favorite in the bronc riding division for the big purse. Cole was second.
When Slate had been locked in jail and out of the picture, Cole had won. The prize money had allowed him to buy the bigger portion of Three Sisters Ranch. If Slate hadn’t been in jail, it was almost certain that he would have won.
More troubling was Cole’s recent declaration of interest. Cassidy realized that over the past two years, Cole had begun to show up more and more frequently in her life. It had been gradual—casual invitations to community events, an offer of help, a chance meeting in town that extended into lunch or dinner.
But five years before he hadn’t shown any desire for her. She’d been pregnant with another man’s child, and not exactly prime romantic material.
She continued down the list, to the man she now suspected as the prime culprit. Rusty Jones. He hadn’t been at the bank—as far as she’d been able to tell. But that, in a way, made him seem even more guilty.
Rusty had been with Slate when the gun had been thrown into the pond. And yet he’d never raised a doubt as to the authenticity of the weapon during the trial. They had been childhood friends, and Rusty had never once doubted Slate’s guilt.
What Rusty had gained from Slate’s conviction was a tremendous amount of publicity, which he’d used as a political base. He was an ambitious man, and his name in print as the prosecutor putting dangerous criminals behind bars was worth a lot of money.
Cassidy watched the moon rippling on the water. Betrayal was a bitter pill to swallow, no matter who it came from. Five years. It was a long time to lose—a heavy price to pay for a pack of lies. It was five years she and Lindsey had lost, too. Five long years without Slate.
A coyote howled in the distance, and though the night was warm, Cassidy felt a chill. The coyote was known as the trickster. He was a powerful symbol to many of the Indian tribes that had once roamed freely throughout Texas, an apt symbol for her thoughts.
Which one of their friends was a trickster? Cassidy almost didn’t want to know who it was. She wished she could turn back the clock to that hot summer day when Slate had told her that he was going to the bank for a loan.
Slate had not wanted her to go with him. It went against his pride to ask for money, even a loan. He had not wanted her to witness him begging.
If she had gone with him, the frame could never have happened. But she had been so busy preparing for their wedding. She’d been decorating the porch of Three Sisters Ranch with Slate’s mother, getting everything ready for the ceremony planned for Sunday. She and Mary had been so happy, so excited.
It was a memory she seldom allowed herself because of the pain that came with it. She missed Mary Walker, almost as much as if she’d been her own mom. Cassidy’s parents had died in a car accident when she was ten, and she’d moved to Houston to live with her aunt. But her heart had always remained in Comfort, with the horses. When she’d come back, Mary Walker had hired her to help on the Three Sisters ranch. And she’d fallen in love with Mary’s son…
The coyote howled again, an unending cry that held longing and sadness. Cassidy stood up and walked to the edge of the water. It was time for Slate to surface. He’d been down too long. Surely he’d pop up any moment, a triumphant smile on his face and the gun in his hand.
Cassidy was staring at the water when she heard a horse whinny. The import of the sound didn’t register at first. Living on a horse ranch, she was used to the varying sounds of equine language as they communicated with one another. The whinny was not panicked or afraid. It was simply one horse calling to another.
But then she realized that Cole didn’t run horses on this portion of Blue Vista during the hot months. This was the land he used as winter rangeland for his herd. She focused all of her energy on listening.
The whinny came again, and it wasn’t far away. It sounded as if it came from the west.
Someone was out there, watching the pond. In a panic, Cassidy realized there could be more than one person hiding in the darkness.
Her grip on the gun tightened, and she went back to the cottonwood where she had cover. To the naked eye, she might not be visible. But there were so many nightscopes available now, she knew that it was very likely she was being observed through one. How long had they been watching? Did they know Slate was in the water?
Her heart raced as the adrenaline pumped through her. What would they do? She couldn’t even begin to guess. One thing for certain, Slate had to get out of the pond before they rode down on top of them.
She hesitated. If she went into the water to warn Slate, the watcher could be at the pond, waiting for both of them when they surfaced. At least now she had a gun.
Her eyes strained as she tried to penetrate the darkness, but she could see nothing. The watcher was well hidden.
The water slapped gently against the bank, and in the moonlight, Slate’s head surfaced.
Cassidy held her breath. She watched as Slate pulled the mask from his face. The moonlight made him a perfect target in the water. She started to call out to him but held back, afraid that to do so would only put him in more danger.
When the rifle shot rang out in the night, she cried out. Slate made a noise, then slowly sank beneath the water.
Cassidy wasn’t absolutely certain where the shot had come from, and she didn’t have time for hesitation. She aimed to the west, to the small rise they’d come down only half an hour before, and opened fire with the automatic. She fired until the clip was empty. Her lungs were squeezed tight with fear for Slate and fury at her inability to protect him.
In the still night there was no sound, only the echo of her shots.
The surface of the lake was empty. Slate had slipped beneath the water.
Cassidy dropped the gun to the ground and kicked off her boots. There was no time to think of a plan, no time to wonder what was right or wrong, smart or dumb. She dove into the lake and swam with all of her strength to the place she’d last seen Slate. As she plunged beneath the surface, she caught a glimmer of the light he’d been holding. She couldn’t be certain if he’d dropped it or if it was still attached to his wrist, but the light was all she had to aim for.
Hampered by lack of a mask, she swam toward the bottom. Just when she thought her lungs would burst, she saw him. He seemed to be suspended in the water, the flashlight bobbing from his wrist.
She could make out little else. She kicked with all of her might and caught him. Locking an arm around his chest, she pulled him with her to the surface.
She knew when she broke through the water into the air that she, too, would be a perfect target. She could only hope that the shooter hadn’t anticipated that Slate would have help—wouldn’t know that there were only two of them. She could only pray that her volley of returned fire had frightened them off. In the darkness, there was no way to tell how many people might be on either side.
Slate’s body was dead weight, and she made for the shore near the cottonwood tree, the place where she’d left the gun. She didn’t allow herself to think that Slate might be dead.
As she made the bank, she heard him groan, and it was one of the sweetest sounds she’d ever heard.
Tugging him up in the grass as far as she could, she reached down and unhooked the flashlight from his wrist. Knowing that the light made them both an easy target, she swept it over his head and torso. She saw the bullet wo
und instantly. It was a small, neat hole in his right shoulder. Blood trickled from it.
“I’m not dead,” he said, so softly she had to lean down to hear.
Cassidy thought she would cry with relief.
“IT’S BETTER IF THEY think I’m dead,” Slate whispered to her. “If you’ve ever considered acting, give it a try now.”
To his surprise, Cassidy rocked back on her heels and gave a cry of pain that sounded liked a wounded animal. Against the pain of his shoulder, he found a grin of delight. She was better than anything he’d hoped for. She was one helluva woman—to trust in him to the point that she was willing to make herself a target. Without asking a single question.
“Drag me up to the tree,” he whispered.
He wasn’t badly injured. The gunshot had shocked him, but he’d deliberately allowed himself to sink in the pond. If the shooter thought he was still alive, chances were he’d come down to the pond to kill him, and that meant that Cassidy would also die. He’d faked his own death in the hopes that the shooter would think he’d accomplished his goal and leave—without hurting Cassidy.
“Can’t you give me a little help?” Cassidy panted as she hauled his inert body up the shallow bank.
“Keep dragging,” he instructed.
“I hope I’m not playing to an empty theater,” she answered, hauling on his uninjured arm.
“This is enough,” Slate said when he was out of the water. “A little more theatrics might be a good idea.”
Cassidy knelt beside him and began to cry.
“You’re good. You’re very good,” he whispered. “Now go back to the bank and get the gun,” he added.
The words had an instant effect. Cassidy leaned over him. “You found it?”
“I did,” he answered, “but don’t act happy. Remember, I’m supposed to be dead.”
“The next time you frighten me almost to death by sinking to the bottom of a pond, you’re going to wish you were dead.” Cassidy stumbled to the pond and collapsed at the edge of the water and sobbed more.
She was back in several moments, kneeling once more beside him. “I’ve got it.” Her voice was tense with excitement.
“Good. Go get the truck and drive back here.” Slate knew they had to get away as fast as possible. He hadn’t worked out much more of a plan than that.
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
Slate knew that she would be hard to convince, but he also knew he had to succeed. “You have to. And take the gun.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Do it, Cassidy. They think I’m dead. They won’t bother me at all. You’re the one in danger now. You have to listen to me.”
Although the gunshot wound wasn’t fatal, it was beginning to hurt, and Slate found that his energy to argue was limited. “Please,” he whispered.
“The last time I did what you asked, you ended up in prison,” Cassidy said. “You asked me not to go to the bank with you, remember?”
Clear as a bell, Slate saw an image of Cassidy in a sleeveless red gingham blouse. She wore jeans and boots, and her hair was pulled back with a red ribbon.
“I’ll go with you,” she offered, putting her hand on his arm.
“No,” he said. “I’d rather do this alone.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, and her hand drifted up to touch his cheek. “It’s okay, Slate. You’ll get the loan and you’ll win on Mr. Twist.”
He smiled at the memory, at the certainty in her face and voice. “You know, I do remember,” he answered. “I remember perfectly.” He eased his hand over so that he could touch her leg. “The past is coming back to me in tiny vignettes. I remember talking to you before I went to the bank.”
“I should have insisted and gone with you.”
He tightened his grip on her leg. “We can argue that later. Just go get the truck. Like you’re coming back for a dead body. They won’t bother me, so take the gun. I promise, if they do come down here, they’ll have a big surprise,” he reassured her. “In a way, it would finally be a relief to see my enemy face-to-face, instead of having him hide behind shrubs and ambushing me. Now, go. When you get back, we’ll decide how we’re going to hold my funeral.”
CASSIDY CALCULATED the distance to the truck and figured that if she could jog the entire way, she’d make it in little more than ten minutes. Then it would take only a few more minutes to drive back to get Slate. A total of fifteen.
Fifteen minutes for Slate to be a sitting duck.
She didn’t like the numbers at all.
But as she found her boots and slipped them on over her wet jeans, she knew that he was right. She had to leave him There was no other way. They couldn’t wait for daylight—and one of Cole’s hands to ride up on them.
She knelt down and placed a hand on Slate’s chest. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“There’s no other choice.”
She could tell that he was in pain, but he did his best to hide it. She stood up slowly. “I’ll be back,” she promised.
Before she could lose her nerve, she started away from Slate and the pond at a fast jog.
The ground was mostly grass, but there were places where loose rock and shale slipped under her boots. She held the automatic in her right hand, and she tried to listen for the sound of anyone following her. Mostly what she heard was her own ragged breath. Her wet jeans clung to her legs, slowing her to what seemed a crawl.
Still, she struggled on, topping the incline where she’d thought the shooter was hiding. As far as she could tell, the area was empty.
She continued on, forcing her body to move as fast as it could. When she saw the cedars, a darker black on the horizon, she felt as if she’d won a prize. She was on Double O property now, and she felt a small bit safer. She jerked open the truck door and climbed in. The keys were as she’d left them, and she said a small prayer of thankfulness.
The truck roared to life, and Cassidy decided against headlights as she started back to the pond. Images of something terrible happening to Slate kept rising in her mind, and she fought them back, concentrating instead on the rough terrain and her driving.
When at last she topped the rise and saw the lake below her, she took a breath. She couldn’t see Slate, but she didn’t see anyone else, either.
She drove around the pond, parking under the cottonwood.
“Exactly how are you going to load a dead body?” Slate asked.
Cassidy wanted to laugh with relief. “I’ve heard stories of women who lifted cars from their children. It’s called adrenaline rush, and I think I qualify.”
She slid out and went over to him. “I won’t complain if the body gives me a little help,” she said.
“I think whoever was up there is gone.”
“If we’re lucky.” She hadn’t seen anyone, but that didn’t mean squat.
“We make our own luck,” Slate said, using his legs and good arm to help her half haul, half drag him to the truck. “Put me in the back,” he said.
“That won’t be good for your shoulder.”
“A dead man doesn’t feel pain,” he insisted.
Cassidy lowered the tailgate and then got him in. “What now?” she asked.
“I could stand a drink and the services of a doctor. One you can trust to keep his mouth shut.”
Cassidy knew just the man. “Doc Jameson won’t be hard to find,” she said. “But I don’t think I should take you to the hospital.” She had an inspiration. “We’ll go back to the Double O. I can sneak you into my room, and then we’ll tell everyone that Lindsey is sick. Doc sometimes makes a house call for small children.”
“He sounds like a wonderful man.”
Slate’s voice was growing slurred, and Cassidy felt the panic threaten to return. “Hang on, Slate,” she said. She picked up the pistol he’d recovered from the lake. It was rusty, but even in the darkness of the night she could feel the intricate pattern carved into the grip. There was no doubt that this was Slate’s father’s gun. The we
apon locked in her safe was a replica.
She put the old gun in Slate’s hand and waited for him to tighten his hold on it. “We’ll be back at the Double O in no time,” she said, then she closed the tailgate and hurried to the driver’s seat.
Chapter Twelve
Doc Jameson patted the tape into place and nodded to Cassidy as he turned a long, hard look into Slate’s eyes. “Stay in bed. You’re a mighty lucky man. That bullet was millimeters from causing you grave injury.”
“I’m fine, and thanks, Doc,” Slate said.
Cassidy finally released the breath it seemed she’d been holding for days. Although she’d driven as carefully as she could, the rough ride home in the back of the pickup had taken a toll on Slate. “I’ll keep him in bed,” she reassured the doctor. She went up and gave the older man a hug. “Thank you for coming out here. And thanks again for keeping this quiet.”
Slate started to sit up, but Cassidy gently pushed him back in the bed. “Doctor’s orders,” she warned.
“You’re a little too spry for a man who wants to be dead,” the doctor said, snapping his black leather bag shut. “You’d better listen to Cassidy. Whoever shot at you very nearly succeeded in killing you. If you’re going to try to pull off a charade involving your death, you’d better behave or it won’t be a sham.”
Cassidy saw the troubled frown on the doctor’s face. By calling on him and trusting him with their secret, they’d pulled him into the web she and Slate were building.
“I’m sorry we had to trick you into coming here,” Cassidy said. She didn’t like putting her friends in a position of being used. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
Doc shook his head. “It’s no problem. But I’m worried about you, Cassidy. The bottom line is that someone tried to kill Slate. This should be reported to the authorities. A crime was committed, and I have to say I’m not comfortable with the risks the two of you are taking.”
Remember Me, Cowboy Page 16
