Bulletproof Heart

by Sheryl Lynn

  After she finished eating, she fetched a first-aid kit. “The rule is,” she said softly, “don’t let wounds go unattended. No matter how small. You hold fast to it for the cattle and horses, do the same for yourselves.”

  Joey glared at her. “What’s the matter? Scared you might have to use some of your hard-earned money for a doctor?”

  Reb found the interplay between Joey and Emily interesting. The kid had a chip the size of a California redwood on his shoulder, and Emily’s rigid posture failed to hide how often the kid’s remarks hit home. In Emily’s place Reb would have put Joey on the street a long time ago.

  Joey stomped out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. He claimed Emily had deserted the family to marry a wealthy restaurant tycoon, then murdered him for the insurance money. She’d returned to the ranch, pulled a snow job on their grandfather so he’d change his will and then murdered him to inherit the ranch. To hear Joey tell it, Emily was the Wicked Witch of the West.

  She stared for a moment at the door, then sighed wistfully. “I never say the right things to him,” she said, her tone apologetic. “Maybe I should keep my mouth shut.” She flashed a grin. “The way you do.”

  She opened the first-aid kit. She was twenty-six years old, but long, unruly curls and smooth skin dotted by pale freckles made her look younger. As she examined the kit contents, her lowered eyelashes cast alluring shadows over her eyes. Looking at her, it was impossible to imagine her swatting a fly, much less playing black widow.

  Something about Emily Farraday touched a soft spot he hadn’t been aware of. Like her older brother, she had distracting good looks. That, he supposed, made her especially dangerous.

  She poked gently around the edges of the inflammation. Her fingers were cool. “Wash your hand. Use the detergent and scrub as hard as you can stand it.”

  He did as she told him. She joined him at the sink. She dressed the blister with antibiotic and a gauze bandage, taking care not to wrap the wound too tightly. Her slender hands roused fantasies of how they’d feel against his chest and back.

  He wanted to ease the thick strands of hair away from her face and test the softness of her cheek and the fullness of her lip. Fill his nose with sweet woman scent. Vanquish the fey woundedness in her eyes. When hot blood flooded his groin and fired his veins, he jerked his hand out of her grasp.

  She looked up, her eyes wide and startled. “Tender,” he said, and shook his hand as if she’d hurt him. “I won’t forget my gloves again.”

  “I’m sure you won’t. Make sure to tell me if it looks like it’s getting infected.” She replaced supplies in the kit, closed the lid and glanced at the door again. Pain flickered across her features. “If you need antibiotics, you’ll get them.”

  Reb retook his seat at the table. “May I bother you for another glass of lemonade, ma’am?”

  Her lips parted and her forehead tightened. She did not want him in her kitchen, but he pretended not to notice. She waited a beat; he smiled blandly. She refilled his glass.

  He sipped the tart-sweet drink. It was freshly made and pulpy. “Joey says you’re looking for a body in the hills.”

  She stilled with her hand on the faucet handle. Water rushed into the sink. Her eyes became remote. “That’s right.”

  “Whose body?”

  She lifted her shoulders in a quick shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “So why are you looking for it?”

  She shut off the water and began lowering dirty dishes into the suds. “Somebody has to.”

  He tried to get a read on her. She glanced at him, furtive…scared. Hungry, perhaps, for a sympathetic ear, but unwilling to trust him.

  Gaining her trust was his number-one priority. “You make it sound like it’s no big deal.”

  “It is to me, but nobody else cares.” She tackled the dishwashing as if dirt were the enemy and she stood on the front line of defense. “Pardon me, but you need to take your lemonade outside. I’ve got work to do.”

  “Whatever’s going on sounds like a big deal to me. Why doesn’t anybody believe you?”

  “It’s not your problem. Now, I’ve got a lot to do. Go on.”

  Suspiciousness, distrust, loneliness—her vibes washed over him. He focused on the loneliness. “You look like you could use a friend. I’ll listen.”

  Her entire body went rigid. In the window he could see a ghostly reflection of her troubled, perfect face. A funny pain arced across his ribs and centered on his heart. The nagging voice of conscience echoed stridently inside his head. Don’t hurt her, it told him, walk away from this one. Far, far away.

  “Look, Reb, I get my fill of arguments from my brother. Don’t make me waste my time arguing with you. Go on outside.”

  He’d pushed as far as he dared for now. A corpse buried on the Double Bar R could be fact or fiction. Time would prove which one. For now Reb had other things on his mind—including a cache containing crisp bundles of twenties, fifties and hundreds. With three million dollars at stake, it made sense to play Emily Farraday the way rattlesnakes kissed: very carefully.

  EMILY STEPPED onto the back porch. Though the sun had reached the tops of the highest mountain peaks, the heat lingered. Since they were at an altitude of seven thousand feet, the nights were cool and the mornings were bearable, but from around nine o’clock until sunset the thin air wavered with the heat. Two weeks had passed since they’d had rain. The air tasted dry, alkaline.

  Slathering lotion onto her hands, she watched Joey and Reb. Under the shade of a cottonwood, they worked on the engine of Joey’s pickup truck. The truck radio played a wailing tune about lost love.

  Balanced on one foot, one boot waving lazily in the air, Joey stretched far into the engine compartment. Reb sat on the driver’s seat, prepared to start the engine when necessary.

  Around thirty, Reb was young enough to relate to the nineteen-year-old, but old enough to be a role model. A good role model, she thought in bemused gratitude. Since Reb’s arrival, Joey had stopped picking at her, insulting her or starting arguments. He didn’t display warmth or brotherly love, but he was polite.

  Better, Joey didn’t hurry through his evening chores so he could head into town in search of someone to buy beer for him. He stayed home, doing odd jobs around the house. Reb and They had repaired the front-porch roof, rehung a warped door and replaced torn screens on the house. They’d cleaned the barn and repaired the gate on the corral.

  At supper this evening Joey had made a passing comment about Emily buying some paint for the house. The easy nonchalance of his words, lacking belligerence, had stunned her into speechlessness.

  Reb was good for Joey, she thought. Her baby brother needed a friend, someone strong and mannerly and stable to look up to. She’d begun to like and trust Reb, too. He possessed an air of confidence as if yesterday didn’t matter and he could handle whatever might happen tomorrow. He never said much, but she liked his company at mealtimes. His dry sense of humor gave her reasons to smile. His handsome face and gorgeous body gave her something other than problems to think about. She shouldn’t flirt with him, she knew, but she caught herself doing it anyway. She didn’t talk to him about Tuff—or her fears that he’d murdered a man—but she wanted to do that, too. Only the risk of yet one more person calling her crazy kept her from spilling out her heart.

  The stove timer buzzed. She braced herself to meet the heat indoors before she left the relative coolness of the porch, entered the kitchen and pulled a cobbler from the oven. Sweet-cherry-and-cinnamon scent rose in mouth-watering clouds. She went outside again and approached the pickup.

  Joey had taken off his shirt to work. His ribs stood out like ladder rungs, and lean muscle roped across his concave belly. A pale scar from a bull-riding injury arced like a lightning bolt on his shoulder, flashing down across his biceps. He had a big smudge of grease on his cheek. When he was a baby, she’d never guessed he’d someday outgrow her by eight inches and fifty pounds. Nor had she ever guessed such a charm
ing little boy could grow up to contain such a vast amount of prickly, hurt pride.

  “I’ve got cherry cobbler and ice cream if you fellows are interested.”

  “Sure. We’ll be there in a minute,” Joey said. He nodded toward Reb. “Try her now.”

  Reb turned the key, and the engine roared to life. The roar mellowed to a purring idle. Reb gave Joey a thumbs-up. “You’ve got the touch, boy.”

  Joey’s entire face lit with a broad smile. Emily’s heart skipped a beat. He was so beautiful when he smiled.

  “Now, if I can figure out where to get some tires,” Joey said, “she’ll be set.”

  “What’s wrong with the tires?” Emily asked, peering at the front wheel.

  “Nothing, except they’re about a hundred years old and balder than Hannah Peak.”

  When Reb turned off the engine, Emily heard a vehicle approaching the house. She looked down the long driveway. As soon as the white car came into view, she knew who it was. Not in the mood for a visit from the sheriff, she sighed.

  Sheriff Mickey Thigpen pulled his cruiser next to the house and parked. Emily folded her arms over her chest as she approached the driver’s side. Mickey’s busy eyes flicked over her body. Deputy Tim Patterson sat on the passenger side. He propped a clipboard against the dashboard and wrote on it.

  “Hi, Mickey,” she said. “Tim.”

  Tim nodded in reply, his gaze fixed on whatever he wrote. She knew the deputy from high school, and couldn’t recall him ever saying much of anything.

  “Hi, honey,” the sheriff said. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Aren’t you ever coming into town again?”

  “I was there this morning,” she said. “I bought groceries.”

  “You mean I missed you?” He widened his eyes in mock dismay. He got out of the car and leaned an arm on the roof. Pale hairs glinted silver on his forearms. He pointed with his chin at Joey’s pickup. “Your brother isn’t out running the streets, huh?”

  She looked behind her. Reb and Joey had disappeared. “There’s some hope for him.” She wondered if the sheriff had good news concerning Tuff. “So what have you found out?”

  The corners of the sheriff’s mouth tipped in a smug grin. “About you and me, honey? Not much, but I’m hopeful. How about dinner tomorrow night? I’ll treat you to a steak. Then we’ll go dancing.”

  Emily lowered her face. She tapped her fingers against her upper arms. Mickey Thigpen’s wife had divorced him a few years back, and local ladies considered him the most eligible bachelor in the valley. He owned a house on a nice piece of property. He sported a handsome mane of salt-and-pepper hair, and his rangy leanness and deep voice reminded her of the actor Sam Elliott.

  She suspected he enjoyed his most-favored singleguy status and had no intention of ever changing it. She had no intention of becoming another notch on his bedpost.

  “I’m talking about the man Tuff killed. You promised to check missing persons.”

  “And I did. I ran the description through state and federal computers.” Impatience edged his voice. “Nothing turned up.” He didn’t add, And nothing ever will because you made him up, but the patronizing cant of his eyebrows spoke it for him.

  “He killed a man, Mickey. Somebody has to be missing him. Did you talk to Tuff?”

  “Sure. He says you’re crazy.”

  “You know I’m not.”

  He lifted his brown Stetson hat and smoothed back his hair. “There’s been bad blood between you and Tuff all your lives.”

  “I’m not on some kind of vendetta. I know what I saw, what I heard. There’s a body out there.”

  “Now, darn it, don’t go getting all hot and bothered, Emily. What exactly am I supposed to do? You say you saw a man, but you don’t know his name or where he comes from. His description doesn’t match anybody. There’s no gun, no body, no blood.”

  “If you’d gotten here when I called you instead of fiddling around for hours, you’d have seen the blood before rain washed it away.”

  “Tuff is as rowdy as they come, but that doesn’t make him a killer. That’s a hell of an accusation to make against your own brother.”

  She raked her bare toe through the dirt.

  “My patience with you two is wearing thin, honey. Got you on one side calling him a cold-blooded killer, and him on the other saying you’re a thief.”

  “I’m a thief? Me?”

  He showed his palms and grimaced sheepishly. “Have to admit it is peculiar the way things worked out between you and your grandfather.”

  “I cannot believe you, of all people, would say such a thing. I thought we were friends.”

  He flinched, ducking his head. “I said it’s peculiar, that’s all. I don’t mean it in a bad way.”

  Anger crept up her spine and tightened her scalp. She glanced at the deputy, catching him looking at her. He dropped his gaze to the clipboard. Embarrassment tangled with her anger. One of these days people in the valley might stop talking about her, but she doubted it would happen soon.

  “Tuff’s the thief, not me. He stole from Grandpa and Joey.” She pointed at the house. “Do you know what Tuff did while Joey and I were at the funeral? He stole Grandpa’s pocket watch and gold cuff links.”

  Mickey fiddled with his wristwatch. “What proof do you have?”

  An incredulous little laugh huffed from her throat. “What kind of proof do you need?”

  “If you want to discuss criminal investigations, let’s do it over dinner. Saturday?”

  “I’m busy,” she said through her teeth. “I’ve got a body to look for. Since your britches are too big to help with something as piddly as a murder, then I guess I’ll just have to do it all by myself.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he fingered his gun belt.

  He pointed a thick finger at her. “This county gives me just enough money for two deputies. I should have twice that even to run the jail right. I don’t have the manpower to search the mountains for something that might not exist. I don’t have enough evidence to call in the state police. If I asked for an investigator based on what you say, they’d laugh right in my face. You find me some proof. Blood, or something belonging to the victim.”

  “I see, you’d rather let Tuff get away with murder than risk being laughed at. You wait and see, Mickey Thigpen. I will find proof. Only I’m not calling you. I’m calling every newspaper and television reporter in the state of Colorado.”

  He jerked down the front brim of his hat. “You do that, honey, you just go right on ahead and do that. I’ll be glad to eat crow.” He slid behind the wheel of his cruiser and pulled the door shut.

  The deputy leaned over and spoke softly to the sheriff.

  Mickey snorted. “Yeah, yeah. By the way, Tuff got himself sixty days on the drunk-and-disorderly. Thought you might want to know.”

  “Only sixty—?”

  The sheriff gunned the engine and roared backward away from the house. He wheeled in a tight circle, turning to face the road, and drove away in a cloud of dust.

  “Jerk,” she muttered, and trudged to the back porch. “Bet if I went to bed with you, you’d be more than happy to help me find evidence of murder on my property. Stupid, pigheaded, chauvinistic—”

  In the shadows next to the door, Reb sat on the porch. Seeing him cut her off in midgrumble.

  He was too darn quiet, she decided. He was taller than Joey, at least six foot three, and probably weighed two hundred pounds, but he moved as quietly as a cat on the prowl. He’d spooked her too many times, and she was tired of it. Right at the moment she was sick to death of all things male.

  She raked hair off her face. “What are you doing here?”

  “Cherry cobbler.” He grinned, showing white teeth and a glint of mischief in his jewel-bright eyes.

  His smile stripped some of the fight out of her. She didn’t know what kind of cowboy he was, but he sure had a gift for making a woman feel pretty.

  “What did the sheriff want?”

  She loo
ked from him to the corner of the porch. A chuckle rose. “Don’t even try pretending you don’t know. You can hear every word from here. You were eavesdropping.”

  His eyelids lowered in silent acknowledgment. “Innocent bystander, ma’am, I assure you.”

  She rested her back against the house, and the siding was relatively cool through the thin fabric of her T-shirt. She watched chickens wandering toward the henhouse. The lone rooster, a tall white Rock with a rose comb and evil, reptilian eyes, paced in front of the narrow door like an anxious father waiting for his daughters to come home from a dance.

  “You think your older brother killed a man,” Reb said.

  “I don’t think it, I know it.”

  Sixty days…in sixty days the cattle would be sold, the last summer hay would be harvested and stored, and the pickling and canning would be finished for the year. In sixty days Tuff would get out of jail, come back to the ranch and break her neck to shut her mouth.

  “You’re scared of him.”

  Reb’s simple statement touched her. He sounded as if he sympathized. As if he understood. As if he cared. Weariness hit her like a rock dropping onto her shoulders. The vast landscape surrounding her with towering peaks and forbidding rocks and dark, shaded forests was too empty, too alone. Missing Daniel and the bustling restaurant and constant stream of people who loved and cared about her struck her square in the throat.

  She pushed away from the house and caught a porch post in a loose hand. She sank to the top step and stretched out her legs. “Yes, I’m scared.”

  “Because you witnessed a murder. That’s the body you’re looking for.”

  She nodded absently. “I’m surprised Joey hasn’t told you all about it.” She turned her head just enough to see him. “Whenever I see you two, you’re talking.”

  “He’s a bit…lost.”

  “You don’t have to sugarcoat it, Reb. I know how Joey feels about me. Trouble is, he doesn’t know how Tuff feels about him. Joey doesn’t believe Tuff is capable of murder. Or he doesn’t want to believe it. Tuff talks a good line, and Joey always falls for it, hook, line and sinker.”