Lucky Devil

by Patricia Rosemoor

  Night had fallen, an inky darkness spreading beyond the windows. She could no longer see out except for the lighted driveway, but anyone outside could see in.

  Doing normal things—pouring a soda, fluffing a pillow on the couch before making herself comfortable, browsing through a magazine—was more difficult than she might have imagined. With each minute that passed, the temptation to stare at the windows and search for a reflection or some small movement grew stronger.

  “Come on, Lester,” she muttered under her breath. “Cooperate for once. Let us take you in. Don’t make anyone hurt you.”

  She shouldn’t be worried about the former maintenance man. He’d tracked her down, after all, obviously to get revenge. He was willing to hurt her, if not worse. Right? But Lester wasn’t playing with a full deck, she reminded herself, and not so long ago his intentions toward her were good. He’d tried to protect her. He’d stopped her from making the biggest mistake of her life.

  She owed him this.

  The seconds ticked away. JoJo kept up the pretense of reading when her mind was everywhere but on the magazine. Finally, when she thought she could stand waiting no longer, the clock above the fireplace indicated more than an hour had passed. It was time.

  Keeping her movements casual, she rose and stretched, first her shoulders, then the small of her back, finally her legs. Time to take a little walk. She made a trip to the counter, where she retrieved the bag of apple slices and stuffed it in a vest pocket.

  Anticipation washed over her as she casually approached the front entrance. He could be on the other side. Lester. Her hand hovered over the knob. Once she opened the door, he could shove her back in, and before anyone could come to her rescue, he could do unspeakable things to her.

  He could kill her.

  And yet, she had no sense of Lester’s presence.

  JoJo was counting on there being no surprise attack, on Lester’s waiting out there at some distance, on his following her wherever she would lead him. She was counting on his wanting a verbal confrontation with her before he did anything else. Face-to-face. He’d done as much for Mia Scudella.

  And Mia Scudella had died at his hands, she reminded herself.

  She wouldn’t let her guard down for a moment.

  Her fingers curled around the knob and turned it. The door swung open. A gust of wind chilled her, and she thought to fetch a sweater.

  A delaying tactic.

  Recognizing the instinct, she instead grabbed the lantern Lucky had brought her and stepped out into the night.

  Every nerve humming, she switched on the power, the glowing gold light turning her into a moving target as she sauntered toward the outbuildings and the horse pasture. The idea of the plan was to draw Lester out into the open, where Lucky and the men could get to him. She’d barely gotten a quarter of the way to the pasture when she felt it—the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing up.

  Instinct warned her of a malevolent presence.

  Her breath thickened. Her pulse raced. She wanted to run like hell.

  Somehow, she kept walking. Slowly. Steadily. As if she hadn’t a care in the world. Lester was out there in the dark somewhere.

  Watching her.

  As were another half-dozen sets of eyes, she reminded herself. She was going to be all right.

  JoJo kept moving, kept facing forward, but her gaze strayed from side to side. In vain, of course. She couldn’t even discern where Lucky and his men lay in wait. Her mouth went dry, and her heartbeat thundered through her ears against the whinny of a horse, followed by a snort from the nearby enclosure, telling her that Bushwhacker was not yet asleep.

  A single light softly illuminated the area in front of the small pasture where the riding horses grazed. Her goal. When she got to the split-rail fence, she turned off the lantern and set it on the ground. Then she pursed her lips and whistled sharply several times, her radar attuned to the area behind and to her sides.

  “Spitfire!” she called, pulling the bag of apple pieces from her pocket. “Here, girl.”

  Snorts and the clop-clop of hoofed feet told her more than one horse was wandering her way. No sound made by a human alerted her.

  “Spitfire, look what I have for you,” she crooned, sticking her hand through the split rails.

  The little mare sped up, eager for the treat. Her soft lips culled the apple from JoJo’s palm. She dipped into the plastic bag as Silverado pushed his head toward her to investigate. Then another horse crowded the first two.

  If she weren’t so on edge, JoJo thought, she would be enjoying the animals’ attention. As it was, she had to restrain herself from dumping the contents of the bag and heading back to the ranch house as fast as her legs would carry her. Getting more and more tense as she waited for Lester to make his move, she forced herself to divvy up the apple pieces, one at a time. But the bag emptied and he still hadn’t shown.

  What to do?

  She stalled, heart in her throat, fussing over the horses for as long as she could interest them. But when they fathomed she had no more treats, fickle creatures that they were, the animals wandered off in search of sweet grass, literally leaving JoJo holding the bag.

  Damn you, Lester, make your move! she thought.

  Nothing.

  Stuffing the plastic in her vest pocket, she picked up the lantern and played with it for a moment, as if it weren’t working properly.

  Still no movement. No sound.

  Not knowing what else to do, JoJo switched on the light and set off. Disappointment washed through her. She’d been so certain he was out there, so certain this plan would work. He’d forced her hand. She’d have to call the authorities. She couldn’t go on like this.

  The moment she let her guard down, a noise to her left made her miss a step. Stumbling, she dropped the lantern and whirled around crazily. In the middle of the outbuilding yard, JoJo came face-to-face with the man she now feared. The man she had once liked. The man she still felt sorry for. Golden light from the lantern on the ground washed up and over him, making him look damn spooky.

  “Lester,” she said far more calmly than she was feeling. Her heart seemed both to be dashing itself against her ribs and climbing into her throat.

  “JoJo, I knew I’d find you.” Lester punched at his glasses and, eyes wide behind the thick lenses, peered around. “It’s not safe here. We have to go.”

  JoJo forced herself to stare straight at him rather than look around for Lucky and the others and chance warning him. “Why do you want to hurt me, Lester?”

  “C’mon, JoJo.” Before she could back away, he grabbed her arm, his grip steely. “We have to go,” he repeated, this time with a sense of urgency that transferred itself to her.

  Still, she fought him, but the more JoJo struggled, the more determined Lester seemed to drag her off into the dark. She dug her heels and her weight into the earth, but that only slowed him down some.

  Where the hell was Lucky?

  “Let her go, Lester!” came a male shout, but the voice wasn’t the one she expected to hear.

  “No, you’ll hurt her.”

  “You’re the one hurting her,” Adair said agreeably.

  JoJo got a glimpse of the gun in his hand—he was aiming it straight at them.

  A shot rang out and Adair whipped around, blindly pointing in the right direction and pulling the trigger. A loud click echoed across the yard. JoJo gasped— he’d never realized she’d emptied his clip. Despite the weapon in his hand, he was unarmed. A repeat shot from the dark and Adair jerked back, the gun flying from his hand.

  A frantic Lester was dragging a still-struggling JoJo from the center of the yard inches at a time.

  “Go! Get her out of here!” Adair shouted at Lester, even as another bullet drove into him.

  He seemed to explode forward before toppling, face to the ground.

  Suddenly armed men were appearing from every direction. Lucky was the first to get to her and her would-be captor. Lester was sobbing and
jerking at JoJo’s arm ineffectually. She was so stunned by what had happened to Adair Keating that she stood frozen, staring at his body. She’d been right about the supposed stuntman, after all.

  “Let her go now, Lester,” Lucky said calmly. “You remember me, right?” He took off his hat so the other man could see his face more clearly in the dim yard light.

  “Mr. D’s…brother…Lucky,” Lester said between sobs.

  “You trust me, don’t you, Lester?”

  “I don’t know,” he keened, rocking on his heels. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you. Or JoJo. You don’t want to see JoJo hurt, either, right?”

  “No. Don’t hurt JoJo.”

  “Then let her go.” Lucky reached out and got a firm grip on the man even as Lester released her arm.

  “She’s okay now,” Lester said, talking more to himself than to them. “JoJo’s okay.”

  “This guy ain’t.” Eli was bending over Adair, turning him over and feeling for a pulse. “He’s still alive. Somebody call for an ambulance.”

  As JoJo forced her feet to move, one after the other, until she was standing over Adair, Lucky dispatched a wrangler named Bubba to make the call, adding that he should get someone from the sheriff’s office over to the ranch, as well. Then he assigned two other men to guard Lester.

  “Don’t turn your back on him,” he warned them. “He’s slippery when he wants to be.”

  JoJo heard it all as if from a distance. She’d been correct about Adair. If she hadn’t lifted the bullets, he might have shot someone. Like her.

  But why?

  She glanced over at Lester, whose thin arms were wrapped around his bony frame. He was shuddering, and his lips were moving as if he were mumbling to himself. She doubted he could answer any straight questions at the moment.

  Like why he would stalk her…then say he didn’t want her hurt.

  JoJo shook her head. Lester was confused. Suggestible. That was no surprise. They might never get the truth out of him. Or out of Adair, if he didn’t survive. Eli had stripped off his shirt and was pressing it to Adair’s chest wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

  Suddenly JoJo realized she was shaking and her stomach was turning over. She ran for the bushes and was thankful the men gave her some privacy while she was sick.

  “When the sheriff’s men get here,” she heard Lucky say, “they’ll want a complete report. So who shot Adair?”

  One of the men guarding Lester spoke up. “Not me.”

  “I never fired my rifle,” claimed the other.

  “Me, neither,” Vincent added.

  “Don’t look at me,” Eli groused as he shifted his weight over Adair’s chest wound. “You know how I feel about guns. Wouldn’t touch one if it up and bit me.”

  “Must have been Bubba, then,” Lucky said.

  But when Bubba returned a few minutes later, having made both phone calls as instructed, he denied having used his weapon, as well.

  “The man’s lying there bleeding to death!” Lucky shouted. “Someone damn well shot him!”

  Her stomach emptied, JoJo drew closer to him and caught his gaze. They stared at each other, the question stretching between them—if none of the men guarding her had shot Adair, then who had?

  Chapter Twelve

  The identity of the man who’d shot Adair was still plaguing JoJo early the next morning. If one of the men had lied, her best guess would be Vincent. Unfortunately, no one had checked all the guns to make certain the men were telling the truth. She was wondering what Lucky’s take on the situation was when he drove up to the ranch house a little past dawn. JoJo wondered if he’d been out all night, or if he’d bunked over at the Wrangler’s Roost for some reason.

  Though she was still too upset to be hungry, she was setting the table for breakfast when she heard his key in the door. Everyone would have to eat, including her.

  Quietly entering the house, Lucky seemed surprised. “You’re up early.”

  How personal. What did she expect? That he’d take her in his arms and ask if she was okay? He hadn’t even done that the night before—and after she’d been sick. She wondered how much more sentiment he would have shown if Adair had actually shot her.

  Probably wouldn’t have made a bit of difference, she thought sadly.

  “I didn’t sleep too well,” JoJo told him, her voice stiff. “Nightmares kept waking me all night, so I figured I might as well get up and do something useful.” Her hand filled with flatware, she hung on tight and took a big breath. “Have you had any news?”

  “Adair came through surgery all right. The doctors say he’s stable, but he’s still unconscious.”

  She received the announcement dispassionately. “What about Lester?” When she’d left the sheriff’s office late the night before, he’d still been crying and babbling to himself, unable or unwilling to give any explanations.

  “No change. No matter what anyone asked him about his escape or how he got to Sedona or why he wanted to hurt you, he just kept repeating, ‘JoJo’s safe now,’ or something to that effect.” Lucky shook his head in bafflement. “And we still have no idea of who shot Adair.”

  A fact that bothered her. “Do you think one of the men was lying?”

  “To protect himself? Maybe. I wish the deputy sheriff had thought to check their weapons to see if they’d been fired.”

  “You thought of it.”

  “My asking would’ve been an insult. I’ll be working with these men. I need their trust.”

  Something he didn’t seem too willing to give a person, JoJo thought. “Yeah, that’s more important than finding out who shot a man and why.” She was glad when Lucky shifted and looked discomfited. “I guess we’ll have to wait till Adair comes around to get a clue.” She continued setting the flatware next to the plates.

  Lucky was silent for a moment. Then, his tone hollow, he said, “I don’t think you should wait. I think you should get back to Las Vegas. This morning, if at all possible.”

  She stared at him, at the face that she knew almost as well as she knew her own-—broken nose, scarred chin and forehead, broad mouth pulled into a straight line, pale eyes flat. She’d come to like that face and love the man wearing it, but he obviously had no such feelings for her.

  JoJo swallowed her hurt. “Yeah, maybe I should leave.” Eyes stinging, she threw down the rest of the flatware and rushed past him, determined that he wouldn’t see her cry.

  “JoJo—”

  Pausing, she kept her back to him. “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  JoJo continued into her room and dug out her suitcases. Damn Lucky Donatelli! Couldn’t he even pretend he cared, just a little? Or was he so obsessed with his love-hate relationship with his father that he didn’t have room for other people, other emotions?

  She almost wished that Sally hadn’t called the night before…and yet, if Lucky was so bent on believing she was working for his father despite her telling him differently numerous times, better that she know it now.

  She packed with a vengeance, and only while stuffing a magazine back into the zippered compartment of her large suitcase did she remember the letter from the New York law office that she’d left half-read. She’d promised herself to get back to it for days, and now was as good a time as any. Finding the missive, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the letter from its envelope.

  Dear Miss Weston:

  With regret we must inform you of the passing of Oliver Phipps. On the morning of June 3, he had a massive heart attack and never recovered.

  Mr. Phipps regarded you highly and wanted to ensure a comfortable future for you. To that end, he made a generous provision for you in his will.

  Please contact our office as soon as possible so we can make the necessary arrangements to carry out Oliver’s last wishes.

  Sincerely,

  Kenneth Abrams

  JoJo broke down and cried. Oliver had left her some money, bless his hea
rt. She knew he’d meant to leave his estate to various charities and foundations since he had no immediate family, but he’d included her. He’d always said he meant to take care of her, and he’d done so even though she’d left New York and him.

  At least Oliver had cherished her. Totally unlike Lucky.

  Pushing thoughts of the unfeeling man from her mind, JoJo considered what “generous provision” meant—that she wouldn’t have to worry about growing too old to be a show girl? She could probably start that small business any time she wanted. If she could figure out what she was interested in doing and where she wanted to live, that was.

  JoJo dried her eyes, blew her nose and finished packing. Then she went through her closet and drawers one last time to make certain she hadn’t forgotten anything…and was suddenly reminded of the Soleri bell and the postcards she’d bought at Tlaquepaque. She hadn’t packed them, so where in the heck were they?

  It took a moment to realize she’d left them in Paula’s car. On the chance that the vehicle had been left open, JoJo went to investigate. Flora was in the kitchen area, starting breakfast, but stopped what she was doing the moment she saw JoJo.

  “I heard what happened last night.” The housekeeper sounded concerned. “You are all right?”

  “I’m fine,” JoJo lied. She was alive and unscathed on the outside. But inside was another story. She knew such a thing wasn’t really possible, but her heart felt as if it were ready to break. “I’m preparing to leave, actually. Probably after breakfast.”

  Flora nodded. “Perhaps this is best.”

  Perhaps it was. No point in staying around, mooning over Lucky. The sooner she left, the sooner she could start getting over him. To that end, she continued on her mission to recover her purchases, trying not to worry that getting over Lucky might prove impossible. She hadn’t felt half as devastated when Mac had become Marco and she’d learned he was a murderer!

  As she’d hoped, Paula hadn’t locked the rental car. But when JoJo opened the rear door, the back seat was clear. Her package had slid to the floor. Retrieving the bag, she heard a plastic rattle—the object that had dropped from the CD case when she’d picked it up the day before. An empty audiotape box. She returned it to the leather tote and went back into the house.