by Joanna Wayne
But other women ran out on their husbands and their children. That was life. He let go of Heather and walked over to stare out the dingy window. “Dry Creek is no place for you, Heather. Not now.”
“I think it is.”
The old floor creaked at her footsteps, and the flowery smell of her lightened the stale air of the room. Matt didn’t turn away from the window, but he felt her presence behind him.
“I have my reasons for staying, Matt. They wouldn’t make sense to you, but they’re important to me.”
He turned to face her. “The way I see it, your reasons are to dig up the past. You might be sorry. Unearthing old secrets sometimes has a way of burying pleasant memories.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“And risk your life doing it?”
“I’m not afraid of the truth, and I trust you to protect me from the evil. Matt McQuaid, Texas Ranger. If the name and title weren’t impressive enough, I’ve seen you in action.”
Apprehension swept through him. He gripped her shoulders. Holding her at arm’s length, he locked his gaze with hers. “Don’t cast me in your fantasy, Heather. I’m no hero from a Hollywood script. I’m just a Ranger. I do my job. You can count on me for that, but nothing more.”
“Who said I expected—or wanted—anything more?” Eyes flashing, she broke from his grasp and dissolved the tension of the moment in a flurry of activity.
Heather yanked open a dresser drawer and grabbed a handful of lacy scraps of underwear and shoved them into the back right corner of the suitcase.
“I didn’t mean to make you angry, Heather.”
“No? What did you mean to do? You certainly weren’t trying to reassure me that what I wanted and felt was important.”
“I was trying to make life easier on you.”
“That’s not your job, Ranger.”
“You’re right. Call your own shots, if that makes you happy.” He was never known for his patience, and Heather had a way of riling him almost as fast as she could arouse him. Dealing with her was the last thing he needed right now, but he might as well accept the fact that she was almost as hardheaded as he was.
“Just don’t interfere with the investigation,” he snapped.
She ignored him, folding a flimsy cotton nightshirt with a vengeance. She was too damn independent, a trait that could get her killed. He grabbed her hand and tugged her closer, tilting her head up with a thumb under her chin. “And don’t even think about sneaking away from the ranch without me. If you’re staying in Dry Creek, I plan to know where you are every second.”
“Fine. Now if you’ll pack the things you moved, I’ll get the rest of my belongings and we’ll be out of here,” she said, tossing a couple of paperback books into the open suitcase. “I do want to stop in the manager’s bathroom long enough to slip into jeans and a shirt of my own, though. That is if you’ll let me out of your sight long enough to change.”
“I’ll consider it.” Matt walked to the door and opened it, dragging in a deep breath. Getting into a fight with Heather wasn’t going to keep her safe and it wasn’t going to help him come up with answers as to who and what was behind the lunacy that had struck Dry Creek.
He packed the toiletries he’d stashed in the bottom drawer and then lifted the edge of the spread to peek beneath the bed. A white sandal with signs of excessive wear and tear rewarded his efforts. He picked it up and balanced it on his palm. Funny, Heather’s feet looked much more petite than the empty shoe.
“Where did you get that?” Heather asked, walking over to examine the sandal.
“Under your bed, but I don’t see the mate.”
“It’s not mine. Whoever stayed here before must have left it.”
Matt lifted the shoe from his hand, holding the strap between two fingers. “Fresh mud, and the pattern on the sole matches the tracks we found on your floor.”
“Then they must be Ariana’s.”
“Not likely. We found Ariana’s shoes in a pile with her clothes. What size shoe do you wear?”
“A seven.”
Matt held the shoe up and found the size inside. “This is a nine. And Ariana’s feet were approximately the same size as yours. The pumps she’d taken from your closet fit her perfectly.”
“But that would mean another woman was in here, that she walked in after the water was left running outside.” Heather dropped to the edge of the bed, confusion knitting her brow above the blackened eye.
“It looks that way,” Matt agreed.
“But why was she in here? Unless...” She flung up her hands in exasperation. “Do you think a woman might have killed Ariana?”
“Anything’s possible.” Matt went in search of the other white sandal. His quest was almost immediately rewarded. The shoe was lying behind the pine desk, askew, as if someone had kicked it off or thrown it at somebody.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, retrieving the sandal. “I need to talk to Rube and Edna and drop these shoes off for prints. After that we’ll pay a visit to the Galloping R and see if any of John Billinger’s theories are worth investigating.”
While Heather changed, Matt called the sheriff with information about the latest find, then returned a call to his office in San Antonio. His assignment to the case wasn’t official yet, but it would be any day. Homicides that didn’t fit into the traditional household-passion variety were his specialty.
So were those that had gone unsolved for years, cases that had never been closed but had lost the sense of urgency over time. And if his suspicions were correct, this one had roots that went back two decades.
Matt mulled over what he knew. According to Heather, Kathy Warren had disappeared on an autumn night twenty-five years ago, the same year and season when another woman had been beaten and left for dead. Susan. His surrogate mother.
Kathy Warren and Susan Hathaway. Coincidence or connection? Was the tale of two women woven together by some intricate knotting of threads or were they merely isolated stories from the same time period?
His mind toyed and tangled with possibilities. A day ago he’d wanted only peace and quiet—now he yearned for answers with the same passion. He only hoped that finding them didn’t destroy the faith Heather had in the mother she’d never met.
That responsibility lay heavy on his mind when Heather reappeared, clad in a pair of snug jeans, her hair pinned in a loose swirl atop her head. She smiled and his heart plunged to his stomach.
He’d have to watch his step every minute. The attraction between them grew with every touch and look, but he couldn’t fool himself. No matter how attracted he was to her, when this was over, he’d walk away. It was his heritage.
The legacy of Jake McQuaid.
HEATHER TURNED from the truck window and the rush of unchanging scenery. “Tell me about the Galloping R.”
“It’s your typical dude ranch.”
“That doesn’t tell me anything. I’ve never been to a dude ranch before.”
“Neither have I, at least not as a paying guest. The way I understand it, it’s a bunch of tourists paying money to do what regular wranglers expect pay for. Except the truth is, there’s not a lot of work available for regular wranglers anymore.”
“Is that because of technical advances in ranching?”
“Partly. And partly because of a shortage of manpower. The idea of being a cowboy sounds romantic. The reality is different, so as wranglers became harder to find, ranchers turned to other methods, like dogs or helicopters to help in rounding up cattle. They use modern machines to do the work cowboys used to do.”
A pickup truck passed them, heading in the opposite direction. Matt made eye contact with the driver and lifted his fingers, but not his hand, from the wheel. A typical cowboy greeting, friendly, but low-key and noncommittal. Heather was learning a lot about the ways of the modern West.
“Tell me about the reality of cowboy life,” she said, not ready for Matt to return to his own thoughts and shut her out again. Besides, she li
ked the sound of his voice when he wasn’t upset. It was low and slow, yet strong and rhythmic, like a western ballad that haunted the soul.
“A cowboy spends most of his time talking to cattle and eating dust. The pay’s poor, the work’s dirty, and the cattle don’t even say thank-you.”
“So why does anybody do it?”
“They can’t help themselves. The life-style gets in some men’s blood, like a drug. Wide-open spaces, the brightest stars in the universe, a mount who never lets you down, and dealing with men who stand by their word.” A smile eased the taut lines in his face. “And then there’s the quiet.”
“Meaning I talk too much?”
“No, but more than I’m used to.” His gaze left the road for the briefest of seconds and found and captured hers. “Under other circumstances, I’d enjoy having you around.”
Heather’s pulse quickened, and a titillating warmth rushed through her. It wasn’t much of a compliment by normal standards, but coming from Matt McQuaid, the simple words were like a sonnet.
The puzzle was why what he said or felt mattered enough to make her blood heat and her cheeks flush. Danger, she decided. The imminent threat of danger always heightened the senses. Or maybe it was a natural reaction to a man who’d saved her from being seriously injured, or worse.
Whatever the reason, she couldn’t deny the overpowering attraction she felt every time he was near. And, she decided suddenly, she wasn’t going to shortchange herself. Every aspect of what was supposed to be a vacation/fact-finding mission had turned sour except for running into Matt McQuaid.
So if being near him aroused her sleeping sensuality, so be it. After all, if the killer who appeared to be stalking her had his way, it might be the last time her sensuality or anything else about her was aroused.
With that chilling thought, the warmth evaporated. They both sat quietly until Matt turned in at a metal sign that heralded the Galloping R, a picture of a bowlegged cowboy toting a pair of six-shooters.
“I’ll get the gate,” she offered. She pushed open the door and jumped to the ground as soon as the truck came to a full stop. As the gate swung open, an uneasiness swept through her. In minutes, she might be standing face to face with the men who’d attacked her last night, maybe even with the man who’d just put a bullet through the heart of a young woman named Ariana.
She climbed back into the truck and listened with unaccustomed meekness to Matt’s instructions about leaving the talking to him as they drove the dusty road to the main building of the Galloping R.
BEN WRIGHT’S OFFICE resembled the set of a forties Western. The walls were rough pine planks, the floor Mexican tile, the ceilings beamed. Only the myriad of photographs hinted that this was a ranch devoted to pleasing tourists instead of raising cattle.
The Kodak moments that lined the wall were all framed glossies of paying guests participating in the Galloping R’s offerings. Cookouts by a creek. Laughing children riding horses single file along a well-worn path. A half-dozen smiling wranglers line dancing with a group of gray-haired women in matching shirts.
Matt paced the floor. Heather squirmed in her chair. They had been left to wait while the young woman on duty went to find Ben Wright, and the jiffy she’d promised to be back in had already stretched to five minutes.
They both turned as the door opened.
“I’m sorry, Matt.” The receptionist smiled and touched him on the shoulder as she passed.
Heather was sure she had never seen more obvious flirting. The woman’s efforts were wasted. Ranger Matt plainly had nothing but business on his mind.
“Does that mean you didn’t find Ben?” he asked, scooting to the front of his chair.
“I found him, but he wasn’t in the tack room like I thought. I paged him and he called back from the cookout area on the Roy Rogers Trail.” She wiggled onto the back edge of the desk and crossed her long legs, swinging them seductively beneath a short denim skirt.
Smiling, she turned briefly to Heather. “All our trails are named after famous cowboys. The Gene Autry Trail...”
“So how do we get to the cookout area?” Matt interrupted, clearly not willing to waste time on promotional small talk.
“It’s difficult by car,” she said, her winsome gaze returning to Matt, “but it’s only a short ride by horse. Ben suggested you get a couple of mounts from the stable and ride up. He said he’d meet you here if you preferred, but he thought you’d enjoy seeing what he’d done to the area. Besides it’s a lovely day for a ride.”
Matt stood and motioned for Heather to do the same. “We’ll ride up,” he said, his boots clacking against the tile as he headed for the door.
Heather stopped cold. “I don’t ride.”
Both of them stared at her as if she’d just professed she didn’t salute the American flag. “I live in the city. We drive our cars or take the rail system.”
“Well, there are no train tracks on the Roy Rogers Trail.” The receptionist laughed at her own joke and winked at Matt. “I could ride up with you, Matt, and Heather could stay here and answer the phone. I’d love the chance to get out of the office for a while.”
Matt grabbed his hat from the chair by the door and slid it onto his head. “This is as good a time as any for Heather to learn. I’ll have them get her a gentle mount.”
Heather followed him out the door. She had misgivings about climbing atop a horse, but at least she, and not the flirty receptionist, would be the one riding off with Matt. After what Billinger said this morning and what she’d seen in the motel room, she had no desire to be left alone at the Galloping R.
A few minutes later, after a close-up look at the animal he’d chosen, she changed her mind. “Can’t you find me a smaller horse?”
“I could, but the wrangler on duty said Rosy’s the most gentle mare in the stable. They save her for first-time riders and children. Talk to her softly as you approach her and don’t be afraid. Horses always sense fear.”
“Then I doubt she’ll be fooled by my talking softly.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. These horses walk this trail every day, and they’ve never lost a rider yet. Well, hardly ever.” Matt tightened the cinch on the saddle and placed his hand on the horse’s head, whispering in the animal’s ear that they were taking her for a ride. She neighed in appreciation.
Heather stepped closer. “Rosy acts as if she understood what you said.”
“She understands the tone. I could have been quoting the day’s cattle prices and she’d have reacted the same way as long as I’d kept my tone nice and easy.”
“Okay, Rosy. I’m not afraid.” Heather ran her hand down the length of Rosy’s long neck. “That’s not my heart you hear. It’s friendly drums in the distance. You and I are going to follow the paths Trigger trod, and Trigger never threw Roy Rogers.”
“You’ll be all right, Heather. We’ll take it slow, walk until you’re ready to go a little faster.”
Heather recognized Matt’s tone. It was the same soothing one he’d used on Rosy, but it was working. She took a deep breath. After all she’d been through in the last two days, she’d surely survive a ride on a horse.
“I’ll help you into the saddle and then show you how to use the reins. Controlling them will let you communicate with Rosy on the trail, let her know what you want her to do.”
Matt’s mouth was at Heather’s ear, his breath warm on her neck. Emotion rose inside her, unsettling, dancing along her nerve endings. “I think we better get started,” she managed, her voice weak and lacking conviction.
“Heather.”
Her name was a whisper, husky with tamped-down desire. She turned to face Matt, knowing what would follow.
Chapter Six
Matt’s mouth claimed Heather’s, and he reeled with the sensation. Even as the kiss deepened, he knew it was all wrong, yet he couldn’t stop. Heather was in his arms, her breath mingling with his, challenging every aspect of his control.
Finally, it was Heat
her who pulled away. “I think we’d better go,” she whispered, but the strain in her voice gave her away.
She’d been as consumed as he had by the kiss. The thought pleased him and then turned bitter. What the devil was he thinking of? Heather had been through enough the last two days without the lawman who was honor-bound to protect her taking advantage of her. A lawman who had nothing more to offer than a meaningless kiss and an investigation that might tear the heart right out of her.
“I’m sorry, Heather.”
She looked him in the eye. “Sorry because you didn’t like the kiss...or because you did?”
The challenge was plain. He let it ride. They both knew the answer. Bending down, he wove his hands together to form a step. “Put your right foot here,” he instructed, eager to be moving.
He understood action, the same way he understood handling an investigation. Right now, he was itching to get back to both and to forget the desire that had rung his bells a few seconds ago.
Heather threw her arm around his shoulder and planted a foot into his hand. She swung her leg over the horse’s flank and scooted into place on the saddle.
“Slip your feet into the stirrups. I may need to adjust the length.”
“It’s a long way to the ground,” she said. Her voice fell in an uneven-rhythm.
“You’re doing fine. Just don’t look down.” He adjusted the stirrups and placed the reins in her hand. Their fingers brushed, and once again he knew he was in big trouble. He’d forget how to breathe before he forgot how it felt to kiss her, and long before he reached the stage where he didn’t want to do it again.
Resolutely controlling his emotions, he demonstrated the use of the reins. In no time she had the simple skill down pat. He mounted the horse he’d picked out for himself and led the way out of the corral and down a winding path that led to Crockett Creek, which turned out to be a creek in name only. It was a trickle at best. He talked of the scenery, as they eased into Heather’s first nervous moments of the ride.
The sun was at their back, the wind in their faces. It would have been Matt’s idea of a perfect day if it weren’t for the fact that a killer was on the loose, and the beautiful woman riding behind him had likely been the intended victim.
