by Toni Leland
Celeste's perfume caressed Frank's senses and he pushed away all thoughts of his ex-wife.
He slipped an arm around her waist and squeezed. “Ready to watch Dawg win?”
Her eyes sparkled as she waved several pink stubs. “I already put all my money on him.”
“My kind of girl!”
He took her elbow and guided her through the crowd toward the entrance to the owner skyboxes. Just touching her soft skin sent his internal temperature soaring. They wouldn't dally long after the race.
When they were seated, he focused on the horses warming up in the paddock. Sleek, nervous Thoroughbreds frothed at the mouth and tossed their heads, while grooms and jockeys kept light control on the energy that would be the controlling factor in a race.
Celeste's tone was animated. “He looks real good, Frankie.”
“Yeah, I have a good feeling about today. We gave him something for that pulled tendon, and he was pretty frisky at the stall a while ago.”
Her eyes widened. “You gave him pain killers? Isn't that a little dangerous?
He chuckled and whispered into her hair. “There are ways, my dear, of getting around the authorities.”
“When are you running that new horse you got?”
“The one Kellie was so pissed about?”
Celeste shook her head. “I can't see why she got mad, since you paid for him.”
“She doesn't approve of racing. Her precious Quarter Horses are too good for that.”
“Well, for crying out loud! Isn't that how they got their name? Quarter Horses-quarter mile? Duh!”
“She thinks Boondoggle would have made a better cutting horse, but I'm here to tell you, his pedigree is pure race, all the way back to Three Bars. The ranch is a goldmine of racing talent, but I'll never get a chance at 'em as long as she has any say.”
He settled back into the seat, wondering if he dared confide his secret to Celeste. She made him feel so secure and confident-surely nothing would change that.
~ ~
Ed rolled down the windows in the car and turned up the fan. The temperatures had been unusually warm for April, especially for an Easterner who kept a winter coat on through the end of May. He gazed out the windshield, thinking about the upcoming weekend festivities. It had been a long time since he'd been part of the 89er Days, his favorite time of year as a kid. Tomorrow, he'd see what kind of nag the department had lined up for him to ride in the parade.
The temperature inside the car equalized, and he opened his record book to make notes on Frank. The blonde woman must be Celeste Harding. A real dish, enough to make any man's head swim, but her coy manner and clingy body language turned Ed off. He preferred strong, intelligent women-outdoorsy, exuberant women. Like Kellie. He stopped writing and frowned. What had she ever seen in Frank? What an unlikely match.
Frank Frazier. Town hoodlum turned jock. His stellar high school football record had attracted the attention of the scouts, and he'd gleefully thumbed his nose at Guthrie and headed off to training camp. Ed snorted and started the car. While dodging gunfire and breathing sand, he'd laughed like hell when he read the news clipping from his dad. Frank had washed out and come skulking back to Guthrie with his tail between his legs. Ed slammed the gearshift into drive. Why the fuck would Kellie marry someone like that?
His own reaction startled him, an emotion still as strong as when he'd first heard the news. Frank was an all-around loser and, right now, he was on the road to proving it big time.
Ed squinted at Tina Brown's address in his record book, then headed south toward the city.
~ ~
Grunting, Travis tried to straighten one leg over the seat back, but the steering wheel hindered the effort. He struggled to sit up, then gazed through the windshield at the small plain house surrounded by brown fields, hazy in the early morning mist. Home. Big fuckin' deal. His neck and back muscles twanged with the attempt to change position, and his head thumped with the aftermath of a six-pack at midnight. He bumped his hand against the door handle and a searing pain ran up his arm.
“Shit! Shit!” He closed his eyes and waited for the agony to subside.
His cell phone rang and, a second later, he snatched it away from his ear and swore. “Jeezus, Tina, calm down! I can't understand a fuckin' word you're saying.”
The girl's voice shrilled with panic. “I've been trying to call you all night! Where were you? That sheriff from Guthrie was at my apartment when I got home from work. He thinks I was casing the Sutton ranch to steal some horses!”
Travis swallowed a chuckle. Oh yeah, right. This broad couldn't organize a feed schedule, let alone a theft.
“They want me to take a lie detector test-what am I gonna do?” She started to cry.
Anger slammed through his gut. He hated goddamned tears.
“Knock it off, Tina. If you're innocent, the test will prove it.”
“What do you mean, if I'm innocent? I've been with you for weeks. You told me I needed an alibi. Will you talk to them?”
A slab of concern moved through his brain. Shit. How could getting laid have fucked me up so bad?
“Yeah, okay. Quit yer fussin'. I got stuff to do, I'll call you later.”
He closed the phone and punched the truck into gear. Tina was history.
On the drive into town, his thoughts returned to his careless comment. She'd continued to press, asking why he thought she needed an alibi. He'd finally convinced her the comment was a throwaway, that she had nothing to worry about if she could prove her whereabouts when questioned. Still, the issue of timing had hung in the air. He'd have to tread carefully around her. Better yet, ditch her. Too bad. I was kinda starting to like her.
Chapter 11
Guthrie hadn't changed much-it still looked like the movie set for a western shoot 'em up. But Travis had to admit the place looked pretty good all duded up for the celebration. He cruised slowly down Second Street, then turned onto Oklahoma. The town hadn't wakened yet, and he allowed himself the luxury of thinking about happier memories on those streets-recollections of a small boy and his hero father. The drugstore windows were dark, but Travis visualized sitting on the red vinyl stool at the soda fountain, spinning 'round and 'round 'til his dad told him to knock it off or go sit in the truck. Damn, those milkshakes were good! He'd have to get him one before he left town. He squinted again at the sign on the window.
“Shit. Drugstore Museum? Who the hell cares about a bunch of dusty old crap?”
As he approached Division, he looked up at the sparkling white dome of the Gray Brothers Building and grinned.
“God damn! Got my butt whipped for that disaster!”
It had been a cinch to jimmy the lock on the stairwell and, from his aerie at the top of the tower, the sky had been so brilliant and blue. The dusty old room had been the perfect place to hide-no screaming fights, no slamming doors, no one bellerin' at him to go to his room.
Anger surged through his head. All he'd wanted was to be left alone. But no, his wimpo father had made a big deal, called the police, reported him missing...
Someone honked behind him and he punched the gas, sending the memories back into the dark.
For as long as he could remember, The Cowboy Café had been a local haunt, and he found some comfort in seeing that it hadn't been gobbled up by the tourist-driven community and turned into some damned side show.
He sat down at the counter and a robust young woman beamed. “Howdy. Beautiful morning, huh?”
He nodded and reached for the newspaper on the seat beside him. “Just coffee. Black.”
“You from around here?”
He looked up and glared. “Nope. Can I have that coffee sometime this morning?”
She huffed indignantly and moved toward the coffeemaker at the end of the counter as he unfolded the paper.
“Tragedy Strikes Rocking S Ranch. World Champion Cutting Horse Docs Dirty Dancing was destroyed yesterday after a battle with infected wounds caused by vandalism. In what can o
nly be described as something from a thriller, someone apparently slipped into the barn about two weeks ago and injected the Quarter Horse stallion and two other horses with an unidentified substance that ate away the flesh and bone of their left front feet. Veterinarian Hyde Browning was reluctant to give details, but did say that the infection itself was not life threatening, but the resulting acute laminitis, also known as founder, had crippled the stallion beyond saving. Docs Dirty Dancing was the foundation stud of one of the most prestigious Quarter Horse breeding operations in the country.
Owner Kellie Sutton was unavailable for comment, but sources say that the other horses have been transported to Kentucky for hyperbaric oxygen therapy-a new frontier in equine medicine.
No suspects have been identified, according to Sheriff Ed Campbell, but Rocking S has offered a $50,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible.”
Travis laid the paper aside. A mug of coffee sat in front of him and he took a swallow, listening to the sounds of other people in the café. He glanced down the row of stools along the counter. A couple of faces were familiar and, for a moment, he wondered if coming into town had been too bold. The café door swung open and a hard-faced man stepped inside. I'll be damned, that's the old guy from the newspaper-he hasn't changed a bit.
The man stepped up to the counter next to Travis and motioned to the waitress. “I need some of those fancy doughnuts and a large pop.” He turned and lowered his voice. “Women in the office all look like hippos-you'd think they'd stay away from this crap.”
Travis grinned. The guy didn't have a clue who he was talking to. “You'd think.”
“You in town for the big doings?”
“Yep. Just got in from Tulsa. Is there a schedule posted somewhere?”
The editor picked up the newspaper, turned to an inside page, and folded it back. “Everything you need to know. This is the 89er special edition. I'm the editor.” His gaze dropped to Travis's bandage. “What'd you do to your hand?”
“Got it caught in a dishwasher. She beat the crap outta me.”
The newsman threw his head back and roared with laughter, then grabbed the paper sack of doughnuts off the counter and tossed down a couple of bills.
“Enjoy your visit.”
“You can count on it.”
~ ~
Frank wheeled the Hummer into a parking spot in front of the Logan County Sheriff's Department. The sexy evening with Celeste had cleared his brain and, on the drive home from Edmond, he'd given more detailed thought to the scene with Rodriguez. The man was a cockroach, but a dangerous one. He held the reins on Frank's fortune and had the capability to destroy Frank's life with a single word. Time to get involved.
Inside the old fashioned building, Frank approached the heavy glass window of the dispatch office.
A deputy looked up. “Oh man, Frank, I saw the paper. How's Kellie holding up?”
“Fine. I need to see Ed Campbell.”
The deputy seemed taken aback for a second. “He's out on a call. Want to leave a message?”
“Will he be back soon?”
The young man shook his head. “I don't think so. He and Jimmy-oh, there they are now.”
The old animosity rose in Frank's chest as he stepped forward to meet Campbell. “I need to talk to you privately.”
“Be with you in a minute.” Campbell reached across the counter for a clipboard and signed in. “Hold my calls.”
Frank followed him down the hall, irritation mushrooming into anger. The asshole was being damned close to rude. He seemed to think the badge gave him a lot of leeway.
The sheriff closed the door, motioned Frank toward a chair, then sat down at the desk. “What's up?”
Frank ignored the gesture to sit down. “I need to be in the loop on this mess. Christ, the ranch is crawling with deputies, the local news is focusing on the situation and disrupting business, and Kellie's a wreck.”
A sharp glint flashed through the steely gaze, the only ripple in Campbell's cool demeanor. “And you're surprised?...I understand your concern about the horses, but our responsibility for keeping anyone in the loop extends only to the owner.”
A vein throbbed in Frank's temple. He was getting damned tired of sucking hind tit. “I am an owner. Now give.”
Campbell pushed three photographs across the desk. “I think you should see these. Kellie's being stalked.”
Frank glanced at the snapshots and a knife drove through his insides. Kellie had gone straight to her old flame-another chance to be with him, maybe even hook up. Were they already screwing?
He snorted. “Her imagination is in overdrive. Those are just old snapshots she doesn't remember.”
Campbell's tone hardened. “Look a little closer, friend-these were taken through a long range lens.”
Frank picked them up and stared at the grainy pictures, seeing them clearly for the first time. Fear replaced derision. The organization was sending a message-not to Kellie, but to him. He laid the photos back on the desk and swallowed, taking a moment to put some confidence in his voice.
“You have a good suspect and you haven't arrested her yet. What's the holdup?”
“We're checking out her alibi.”
“Which is?”
Campbell exhaled in exasperation. “Frank, this is police business.”
Frank shook his head and grinned, softening his tone. “C'mon, Ed-I might be able to help. I get around, I hear things.”
Campbell studied him for a moment. “She claims to have been with some local cowboy every night for the past two weeks. We just have to find him.”
“What's his name?”
“Nice try, Frank, but that's all I can tell you. We're working on this full time. Just let us do our job.”
He stood up and Frank glared at the lawman's tense features. “When was the last time you worked full time on anything? You come waltzing back to town, taking a job that should have gone to a local. It seems to me you have a personal stake in this mess.”
The sheriff's jaw hardened and a muscle in his right cheek twitched once. Frank almost smiled. He'd hit a nerve.
Campbell's tone was terse. “I think it's called loyalty to a friend. What's your excuse?” He took two long strides and opened the office door.
Frank brushed past him, anger surging through his head as he moved quickly down the hall. Campbell's footsteps echoed close behind him.
As they passed the desk, the duty officer spoke.
“Sheriff, Tulsa PD has a line on Travis Mack. And Kellie Sutton called.”
~ ~
Ed watched Frank slam through the front door and descend the stairs to the sidewalk. Something about the urgency in his step said trouble was afoot.
Ed started toward the door, calling over his shoulder. “I'm going out for a bit. My radio will be on if you need me. If the polygrapher calls, get a number and I'll be right back to him.”
He hurried down the steps, catching a glimpse of Frank's vehicle turning toward the railroad tracks. Jumping into the unmarked car, he did a U-turn and cruised to the corner just in time to see Frank pull into the parking lot of the old depot building. Ed removed his hat and eased along the street until he could see the Hummer parked behind the train station. Through the camera, he watched while Frank made a phone call.
Ed's gut reaction was right: though Frank's lie detector test had come back negative, he was up to no good.
~ ~
Frank dialed, then slouched in the front seat and scowled. Even a blind man could see Campbell still has the hots for Kellie. A long slow breath took the edge off the annoyance. Kellie had never really loved him-he knew that. She'd needed a ranch manager, and he'd happened along. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea, and the Sutton fortune hadn't been easy to ignore, either. Still, the rumors around town about her broken engagement had made him uncomfortable, but he'd eventually managed to put it out of his mind and stumble through their pretend marriage.
Who'd have thought the local hero would come home? Frank squinted at the railroad tracks ribboning off into the distance. Question was-who had enough influence to get Campbell that county appointment on such short notice?
A gruff voice came on the phone and Frank straightened up in the seat. “I have to find someone. Can you help?”
“Depends. How much you pay?”
“Two grand for an address.”
“You clear this with the boss?”
“Hey, you want the money or not?”
“Don't want my ass shot off.”
Frank closed his eyes and steadied his voice. “Rodriquez told me to take care of something, and I need some information. I'll take full responsibility.”
“What's the name?”
“Travis Mack. He hangs around with a girl named Tina Brown. She lives at 6 South Hanes there in the city.”
~ ~
Pete Dayton telephoned as Kellie was organizing the staff for another ranch tour.
“Last night at a breeder's banquet, I saw that exhibitor you filed the complaint against, and in the course of conversation, I found out she just returned from four weeks in Europe, so I guess she couldn't be responsible for the attacks on your horses.”
“Yeah, I'd already eliminated her-she'd be a fool to jeopardize her career. But thanks for letting me know what you found out.”
“Any new developments?”
Tears sprang to Kellie's eyes. “Dancer died yesterday,” she squeaked.
