Always Time To Die sk-1

by Elizabeth Lowell

  The phone kept ringing. He reached for it and sent a stack of photographs sliding.

  "Damnation," he said roughly, catching the photos and putting the receiver to his ear at the same time.

  "Is that any way to greet your brother?" Gus Salvador asked.

  "What time is it?"

  "The sun's up."

  "So am I. So what?" He looked at his watch and saw that it was almost eleven. He'd slept more than he thought. "Is everything okay?"

  "If by everything you mean my wife, children, and parents, yes."

  "Then why did you wake me up?"

  "Thought you'd like to know the latest on the Quintrell family."

  Dan sat up, not noticing the cold air of the room on his skin. "What." It was a demand, not a question.

  "Winifred has walking pneumonia. Sylvia is going to be moved to a facility in Santa Fe. The Quintrell ranch is for sale."

  Dan shook his head like he'd been slapped. "You sure?"

  "As sure as I can be without talking to the governor, and I'll be doing that at two o'clock. He agreed to an interview before he flies back to Santa Fe this afternoon."

  "How's Winifred doing?"

  "All I've heard is that she's on antibiotics, fluids, oxygen, and bed rest, but she still gets up and checks on Sylvia every few hours."

  "When does the ranch go on the block?"

  "The governor is having papers prepared in town right now. That's how I heard."

  "Anything else?"

  "I'll let you know."

  "What about Mom?" Dan said. "Are you going to tell her or wait for the town gossips to spring it on her?"

  There was a long pause.

  "Gus," Dan said, sighing. Then, "I'll take care of it."

  "Thanks. I don't want to be on her shit list for mentioning the forbidden name."

  "But you don't mind being on mine?" Dan retorted.

  "What are brothers for? Besides, you know you love the kids and they love you. You won't stay mad at me long."

  "Blackmail."

  "Yeah, ain't it grand?" Laughing, Gus disconnected.

  Dan replaced the receiver and looked at the doorway. Carly was standing there wearing his favorite old sweatshirt, the faded black one with the sleeves ripped off. If she was wearing anything else, it didn't show.

  "What happened?" Carly asked. "I can't believe I slept this late."

  You have really amazing legs, Dan wanted to say. And toes just made for nibbling. Knees and thighs, too. And…

  "Dan?"

  He shook himself out of his sexual fantasy. The problem with getting a sex drive back was keeping it under control. Not since his raging-hormone teen years had he been this quick off the mark.

  And this hard.

  "That was Gus." Dan pulled a blanket over his lap and hoped it concealed everything it should. "Winifred's got pneumonia, Sylvia will be transferred to Santa Fe, and the governor is selling the ranch."

  Carly let out air with a whoosh. "When did all this happen?"

  "Probably this morning. That's when I heard a helicopter heading toward the ranch."

  "But…" She spread her hands, feeling sad for no reason except the end of someone else's family tradition. "The ranch has been in the Castillo-Quintrell families for centuries?

  "The governor is a city man. He doesn't have any emotional connection to the ranch."

  "He was raised there," she protested.

  Dan shook his head. "When he was seven, he was shipped out to the first in a long string of military schools, the kind that never close for holidays. If he spent two weeks total on the ranch from that day to the present, I'd be surprised. It was his older brother, A.J. IV, who was being groomed for the succession. He was the one who spent time with his father and the people of New Mexico."

  "What happened to make Josh the favored son?"

  " Vietnam. His older brother died."

  Carly rubbed her chilly arms. "The things Winifred didn't think worth mentioning about the Quintrell family are boggling."

  "You just said why. Quintrell, not Castillo."

  "Oh, that's bull. These days they're pretty much the same family."

  "Not to her. Winifred tells her own story in her own way."

  "Well, I haven't had much time with her. She might have been planning to tell me more about her sister's family. Still…" Carly shook her head. "To think of all that struggle, all that wealth, all those lives and deaths, all the history; and it all comes down to a useless piece of protein like A. J. Quintrell V"

  Dan lifted his eyebrow. "I've never met him."

  "Be grateful."

  "What do you have against him?"

  "He thinks women are one endless roll of toilet paper created solely to wipe his butt."

  "Sounds like his granddaddy."

  "Why is it that the worst breed true and the best die young?"

  "You figure that out and you'll be the next TV guru."

  The wind blew hard, as it had on and off all night. The adobe part of the house didn't tremble with the weight of the shifting wind, but the broken window let in a lot of cold air. Carly rubbed her arms again.

  "Is it okay if I start a fire in the hearth?" she asked.

  "The woodpile is outside."

  "Is that a yes or a no?"

  "The temperature dropped again. It's freezing out there. I'll get the wood while you put water on to boil for coffee."

  Her eyes gleamed and she sighed. "Coffee. What are you waiting for?"

  "You to leave so I can get dressed. Or," he said, reaching for the blankets covering his lap, "you can stick around and we'll warm up the old-fashioned way."

  "Bundling?" she asked, all but fanning her eyelashes.

  The blankets started rising.

  Carly turned her back and ran for the kitchen, grinning every step of the way. It was fun to tease Dan, to watch the grim lines of his face shift into a smile. She didn't know what he'd done before he came back to Taos, but she knew it hadn't been easy.

  And he was way too comfortable with a gun.

  By the time she put together coffee, heated tortillas, and scrambled eggs, the fire was snapping and dancing over chunks of frozen pinon. The heat was on, too, but its surly electric fire didn't make a dent in the cold, wind-driven air rushing through from the living room. She shivered, handed Dan his coffee and breakfast, and went to stand beside the fire.

  "Tell me again why you rented this place," she muttered.

  "The cottonwood tree." Then, "I thought you loved history."

  "I hate getting up to a cold floor."

  "That's okay. You made up for whining by cooking breakfast along with the coffee."

  "I didn't whine."

  "You shrieked."

  She waved her hand. "Different thing entirely."

  "Then you whimpered until your feet went numb."

  "Your point is?"

  He smiled at her. "Damned if I know."

  She gave him an eye-roll and smiled into her coffee. Even with icy feet, it was fun to wake up with Dan nearby. The fact that she'd spent a lot of restless time last night wishing nearby had been a lot closer was her problem. She'd been sending out I-don't-think-I'm-ready signals, and he'd respected them. The fact that he didn't push, shove, crowd, demand, nag, or sulk told her more than a night of wild jungle sex with him could have.

  And the thought of that kind of sex with Dan stopped her breath.

  "When are you leaving?" he asked.

  "Leaving? You want me to go to a motel?"

  "No, I want you to go home, where it's safe."

  "The deputy and I had this conversation last night. That's when I pointed out his office wasn't exactly sweating over my safety so why should I?"

  Dan looked at her stubborn expression and knew he wasn't going to have any better luck than the deputy.

  "Besides," Carly added, "when you think about it, it's been all show and no go."

  "Sound and fury signifying nothing?"

  "Exactly. No harm, no foul." She forced
a casual shrug. "Anyway, running was never my best sport."

  "What could I say to make you change your mind?"

  She thought about it. "Nothing. But if you want to get away from the fallout zone, I completely understand. I'll pay for replacing the window and-"

  "Are you trying to make me mad?" Dan cut in.

  She looked at his face, swallowed too much hot coffee, and winced. "No. I'm trying not to back you in a corner. This is my problem, not yours."

  "Bullshit."

  "Well, that's an adult argument."

  "Were we arguing?"

  "Dan, you don't have to do this. You don't know me and-"

  "You are trying to piss me off." He leaned over, pulled her close, kissed her cross-eyed, and lifted his head. "It won't work, Carolina May. I know everything I need to about you, except how good we'll be together in bed. Sooner or later, I'll know that, too." He smiled at her, his mother's smile, the one that could light up winter.

  "You're sure?" she asked.

  "Very."

  "Not about the sex. The rest of it."

  "Yes."

  She blew out a long breath. "Okay. But if you get hurt because of me, I'm going to wring your neck."

  "Sounds kinky."

  "You're such a guy." Carly pushed back from the table and looked away before she grabbed him and did interesting things to his body. "I'm going to work on the stereographs."

  Dan's expression said he'd rather she worked on him. "I printed out the list of things you wanted from the archives," he said, pouring himself more coffee.

  "Thanks. Leave them by my purse and-"

  "No," he cut in easily, "we'll do it together, after I call my mother. But I thought we described the stereographs last night, or was I hallucinating from lack of sleep?"

  "We did everything but try to date by the type of card itself. Shape, color, that sort of thing. If that agrees with the costume and the guesses someone wrote on the back of the stereographs, then we can be reasonably certain we have the correct date."

  Dan glanced at his watch. His mother should be home now, unless she had extra tutoring. "You want to shower first, second, or conservatively?"

  "Conservatively?"

  "Together." His green eyes gleamed at her.

  "Doesn't sound conservative to me."

  "When it comes to saving water, it is."

  "Go take a liberal shower."

  He laughed and walked to the bedroom. She listened to the intimate, intriguing sounds of Dan showering and told herself she was doing the right thing staying dry. She wasn't sure she believed it, but she was certain that sex with him wouldn't be casual.

  That was what was holding her back.

  She didn't know if she was ready for something that could break her heart.

  With a sigh Carly pulled on white cotton gloves and reached for the stack of stereographs on Dan's bedside table. Although photo albums had been available since the 1880s, apparently no one in the Quintrell family had caught on to the idea until the 1910s. After that there were several albums. Sometime in the 1940s, someone in the family had made one or several attempts to identify the people in the ancestral collection.

  At the back of her mind she heard the shower turn off, then the low murmur of Dan's voice talking to someone.

  She dragged her attention back to the stereographs. Nothing had improved. Whoever had been trying to do the family history had relied as much on guesswork as fact, leaving a tangle for Carly to sort out along with the cramped yet flowing handwriting of the mysterious wannabe historian.

  "You're frowning."

  Startled, she looked up. Dan was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, freshly shaved, shirtless, barefoot. The fact that he was decently covered by old jeans didn't keep her pulse from skipping, then jumping into double time. While she stared, he pulled on a T-shirt that was as faded as the jeans. As the last of the tempting male landscape vanished, she swallowed hard and tried to ignore the humming in her blood, in her body.

  "Bad family historians are worse than none," she said huskily.

  He looked at the stack of card photos in her hands. "Our elusive spider woman, she of the shaky script?"

  "I can live with the handwriting. It's the foolish dates that get to me."

  "Go shower," he said. "It's nice and warm."

  And she was hot.

  Carly set aside the cards and turned a tablet on the small cardboard table so he could see it. "These are rough categories for dating stereographs. Use tissue to hold them while you sort. I won't be long."

  Dan nodded absently. He was already reading the neat printing on the tablet. Forcing himself to concentrate. Telling himself he couldn't hear her strip off his sweatshirt. He'd sunk pretty low when he envied a sweatshirt that was old enough to vote.

  Blindly he yanked up the covers over the mattress where she'd slept. Then he reached for a nearby box of tissues, pulled out one, and picked up the first card.

  If my friends could see me now, they'd bust something laughing. Mint-colored tissues. Is this any way to run a special op?

  He looked at his hands, hard and scarred from training, and the dainty green tissue sticking to the ridge of callus on his right palm.

  And he laughed. Just threw back his head and howled like a lunatic until he could barely breathe. Finally he took a shaky breath, swiped his sleeve over his eyes, and began sorting faded stereographs from a time before humanity split atoms, walked on the moon, and died in the bloody, anonymous mire of special operations.

  "Okay," he said to himself, "the three-inch-by-seven-inch are likely earlier. The four-by-sevens are later."

  Despite being hampered by tissue, he quickly dealt the cards into two piles based on size. He checked the tablet and sorted by the type of corner-rounded or square. Then he sorted within each category for the color of the card the individual image was mounted on.

  By the time Carly tiptoed out of the bedroom wrapped in a big towel and grabbed fresh clothes from her suitcase, Dan had filled the first sheet of tablet paper with notes. When she came out of the bedroom again, she was dressed in slacks and a sweater, and boots that could handle snow. Her hair was a damp riot of coils swept back and up and held in place by a barrette carved from driftwood. She looked at the many small piles of cards.

  "I'll say it again," she said. "You're fast."

  He smiled slightly and resisted temptation. Barely. "The spider lady and your list of what was used at which time don't agree real often. She thinks the stuff is a lot older than it is. Or younger. Have you ever considered using transparent sleeves for all this?"

  "Not until I'm more certain of dates. It's a pain to have to arrange and rearrange a page of sleeves. In any case, I'm waiting for an order of individual sleeves in various sizes."

  "Run out?"

  "Lost in transit. Gotta love airplanes and baggage carousels."

  "MATS isn't any better."

  "Mats?"

  "Military airline," he said absently, placing the last card.

  "So you're in the military?"

  Dan looked up sharply. "What gave you that idea?"

  "MATS."

  "Well, I'm not." Not exactly. But they sure trained me to within an inch of my life. "Civilian all the way."

  She tilted her head, felt a trickle of water run from her hair down her spine, and decided to dig out her hair dryer after all.

  And hit him with it.

  Civilian all the way, my ass.

  "It's true," he said, as though she'd spoken aloud. "Never mustered in and never mustered out. Wrong temperament. Too bookish."

  "Stop reading my mind."

  "Don't need to. Your expression says it all."

  "Bookish?" she asked in disbelief.

  He took the change of subject without a pause. "Yeah. I got distracted before I finished my Ph.D. or you'd be calling me doctor."

  At first she thought he was joking. Then she looked at his careful listing of the different cards, remembered his ability to concentrate and ab
sorb odd facts, and knew that he wasn't teasing her.

  "Doctor, huh? Okay, you surprised me," Carly said. "What did it take to distract you?"

  "I don't remember."

  "I don't believe it."

  "Smart as well as sexy. Damn, I've got it good. What do I do with the cards that are round all the way rather than just at the corners?"

  "Divide them into black, gray, or buckskin."

  He sorted quickly.

  She sat down beside him, booted up her computer, and began recording tentative dates based on the type of stock used to mount various images.

  It wasn't until later, much later, that Carly realized he had steered the conversation away from his past.

  Again.

  Chapter 29

  QUINTRELL RANCH

  WEDNESDAY EVENING

  JEANETTE DYKSTRA'S LIPS MOVED BUT NO SOUND CAME FROM THE TV SCREEN.

  Celebrity images flashed, promoting her next show. The picture cut to an improbably sparkling toilet and a dancing toilet brush that threw glittering stuff everywhere.

  Winifred ignored the TV until all the commercials and station promos were finished. Only then did she pick up the remote control from her bedside table and take off the mute.

  A man in a blue shirt, multicolored tie, and gray-blue suit leaned earnestly toward the camera. His eyes were the same pale color as his shirt. The size of his ears gave him away as a man approaching seventy, but his hair was pure blond and his cheeks didn't sag. His hand had more wrinkles than his entire face. He held the obligatory yellow tablet and blunt pencil in camera view, suggesting that he'd had actually been out doing some old-fashioned reporting a few minutes ago instead of being powdered and primped for the camera.

  "Good evening. In five minutes we will interrupt our normal programming to bring you breaking news from the governor's mansion, where it's rumored that Governor Quintrell will announce his candidacy for president of the United States."

  Winifred's hand clenched around the remote control. Despite the pallor of illness, color burned high on her cheekbones. She'd been busy today, taking swabs of Sylvia's cheek and her own, packing them for mailing, pushing Blaine Snead until he drove the package to town and returned with her mailing receipt. Small things, really, but everything took so much energy now.