by Sheryl Lynn
She fetched a pen and a pad of paper, then sat at the table, ready to write. “If Tuff murdered this man, will I have to testify in court?”
“I won’t pull a Pollyanna on you, honey. It won’t be easy. You’ll have to look your brother in the face and swear you saw him with Mullow. But that’s only if a murder did happen and I get enough evidence to prove it.”
“What if Mullow is alive?”
“Then we have to prove he and Tuff committed a crime.” His smile turned patient and condescending. “Something worse than disturbing your beauty sleep, that is.”
How about a duffel bag that contained heaven knew what? she wondered. She kept her thoughts to herself. If Mickey refused to get excited about a possible murder, he’d be positively catatonic concerning the duffel bag.
She concentrated on writing out her statement. She’d replayed in her head that horrible night so many times it took her only forty-five minutes to fill five pages. Proud of herself, certain once he saw it in black and white he’d have no choice except to open an investigation, she handed the pages to Mickey. He requested she sign, number and date each page. Only as she signed the last page did it occur to her what Joe) was going to think. He idolized his older brother. If this snowballed into an investigation, and her testimony sent Tuff to prison…
“What’s the matter, honey?”
“Nothing.” She scribbled her signature on the paper and shoved her statement across the table. She supposed Joey hating her forever was a small price to pay for his safety.
“I know you’re thinking I’m a dumb redneck who doesn’t know squat about solving crimes,” he said as he carefully folded the papers into thirds and tucked them into his breast pocket.
“I don’t,” she protested.
“There are limits to what I can do. Resources, manpower. Family squabbles are always tricky. Things have a way of getting twisted around. My job is to wear a cool head and keep matters untwisted. Even out here in the sticks, folks have rights. Despite my feelings for you, I have to respect Tuff’s rights. I play by the rules. Do you understand?”
“I suppose.”
He patted the pages and they crackled. “If I thought for a minute you were in any kind of danger, I’d do something.”
She debated telling him about the threatening telephone call. In light of his current lecture and her not mentioning the incident when it happened, it would only make her sound foolish.
“I understand, Mickey.”
He stood, smiling down at her. “So are we square again? Friends?”
“Sure.”
“Prove you still like me. How about dinner tomorrow night?”
She seriously considered saying yes. Mickey was a nice-looking, hardworking, decent man. She’d known him practically all her life. She knew his history and his family and where he went to church.
Irritation at Reb running hot and cold tickled the devil in her. She’d love to see his face if she dressed up in her fanciest clothes and announced she had a date. That would show him he couldn’t get away with kissing her, then pretending nothing had happened.
Except she couldn’t make herself stoop to dating one man in order to spite another.
“Thanks for asking, but I can’t.” She headed for the door, hoping he took the hint.
He put a hand below the back of her neck. She stiffened.
“Saturday night, honey,” he said. “I’ll show you the best time of your life. Promise.” He flexed his fingers, kneading the gone-tight muscle between her shoulder blades.
She stepped aside, reaching for the door. He caught her wrist, turning her about to face him. His gray eyes appeared thoughtful, and his lips parted, becoming soft. Just as he lowered his mouth to hers, she jerked her head aside. His lips grazed her chin.
“Don’t,” she said.
“You can’t stay hidden away forever.” He touched her cheek with a large knuckle, stroking her skin. “You need a man. It’s not natural for a beautiful woman to stay tucked away. So you wear something pretty.” He touched her earlobe with his fingertips. “I’ll pick you up at seven sharp.”
She pulled away and, when he started to follow her, she thrust out a hand, keeping him at bay. “No. I’m sorry, Mickey, but I can’t. I’m not ready to date.” She hurried to the sink, putting the table and chairs between them. “We’re friends, Mickey. I want to keep it that way.”
His narrowed eyes and the way he kept fiddling with his hat brim made her nervous. “All I’m asking for is a chance, honey. Ever since you’ve come back to the valley, seems like all I can think about is you. You’re a beautiful woman.”
“I’m flattered, but the timing is wrong.” She tried not to look at her statement poking out of his pocket, feeling afraid that he might ignore it if she hurt his feelings.
“Are you seeing someone?” Anger tinged his speech. “Found yourself another rich man with one foot in your bed and the other in the grave?”
Her vision blurred and her back ached from tension, but she kept her voice calm. “Daniel Farraday was a good man, hardworking and kind. He wasn’t rich, either. Both of us worked eighty, ninety hours a week in our restaurant. I know what folks say about me around here, but they’re lies. And you of all people know they’re lies.”
He lowered his face and shuffled toward the door.
“You want to know the truth about me, Mickey Thigpen? I’m not looking for a rich husband. I don’t need one and I don’t want one. If I start seeing a man, it’ll be because I care about him. So don’t you dare come in here acting like I should be grateful because you want to date me.”
“I’m sorry, hon—Emily.” His neck blazed crimson. “I can’t seem to get off on the right foot with you.”
Despite his posture, she heard the false note in the apology. He wasn’t sorry for hurting her feelings; he was sorry she’d called him on it. She wasn’t sorry a bit when he crept out of the house and drove away.
Drained, she sat at the table and rested her head on her folded arms. A soft knock on the door made her lift her head. Reb stood on the porch. She gestured for him to come inside.
“Is everything okay?” he asked. He hung his hat on the peg where Mickey had hung his.
She invited him to sit and then told him what Mickey had told her. “I wish I’d been more certain about the picture. I still don’t know if Mickey will do anything for me.” She grimaced, imagining the sheriff tearing her statement into teeny-tiny shreds and washing his hands of her completely.
Reb scratched his chin. He tapped his fingers on the tabletop. His eyelids remained at half-mast, revealing nothing of what he felt.
She sensed all was not well. “What’s the matter?”
“Did you tell him about the man who threatened you on the telephone?”
“No. Maybe I should have.”
Reb waited.
“It wasn’t the right time,” she said lamely.
“How do you know the sheriff is on the up-andup?”
She laughed. The offended narrowing of Reb’s eyes made her laugh harder. “Mickey Thigpen is always on the up-and-up! Good heavens, he’s been sheriff for something like fifteen years. He’s a fourth-generation rancher here in the valley. What could he possibly gain from lying to me?”
Reb lifted a shoulder. “Maybe he wants to find the duffel bag for himself.”
“He never mentioned it. He’s not convinced Tuff was here that night, much less with another man. What are you getting at?” She leaned closer to him and stared until he met her gaze. “Is there some reason you don’t trust the sheriff?”
“I don’t know the man.”
“And you don’t want to know him, either. Or is it you don’t want him knowing you? Are you in trouble with the law?”
“No.”
“This is the second time you hid out when he showed up.”
“I’m not hiding. I get tired of the hassles, that’s all.” His tone turned mocking. “What’s your name, boy, where you from, got any insurance on that
Jeep?” Reb sighed. “It gets old.”
Caught in the spell of his bright blue eyes, she murmured, “Oh.”
“But the way he ignored your complaint seems strange. If I were sheriff, I’d take you seriously. You’re talking about a possible murder, and he’s doing nothing.”
“Tuff has constitutional rights, including the right to not be hassled.” The wry curve of his lips told her the point struck home. “I don’t have any choice except to see things from Mickey’s point of view. It’s my word against Tuff’s. The sad fact is, around here my word doesn’t mean much.”
“If there’s evidence of a crime on this property we’ll find it.”
His steadfast support made her feel better. “Maybe there is no body,” Emily said. “I know I saw blood, I’d stake the ranch on it. But Tuff could have fallen. The other man could have been waiting in the car while Tuff washed up.”
“The duffel bag.”
“If the other man is alive, then as soon as he found out Tuff was locked up, he’d have come back and grabbed it. He was probably the one who called me.”
“Are you willing to take the chance and drop it?”
As much as she’d love an excuse to drop the matter and not have to worry about murders—actually finding a body would probably give her nightmares for life—or bags full of contraband, she knew what she’d seen.
“I didn’t think so,” Reb said, and rose to his feet.
She didn’t want him to go away. He didn’t look eager to bolt out the door, either. Ornery impulse gripped her. Giving her head a flippant toss, she said, “I think the real reason Mickey came out here was to ask me out on a date.”
Reb made a noncommittal noise.
“Maybe I should go. Can’t hurt, and I hear he’s a great dancer.” She gave Reb her most innocent look.
His eyes narrowed and his brow lowered, not much but enough to tell her she struck a nerve. She examined a small scratch on the back of her hand. “Not that I get that many offers. Guess I shouldn’t be too choosy.”
The rumbling of Joey’s truck engine saved her from herself. She smiled, earning a questioning look from Reb. This love-starved widow lady won’t be throwing herself at you tonight, cowboy, she told him with her eyes.
Churning gravel and skidding tires made her wince. She began shaping in her mind lectures about driving responsibly with safety foremost. The truck door slammed.
Reb said, “See you tomorrow, ma’am.”
Joey’s boots thudded on the porch, and he nearly ripped the screened door off its hinges.
“Joey!” Emily snapped. “Just what in blazes do you—?”
The look on his face knocked the impending lectures out of her head. He’d lost color from beneath his suntan, turning his face yellow except for mottled blotches of feverish redness. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen as if he’d been crying.
“Joey? Honey, what is it?”
He tore off his hat and flung it at the peg rack. It hit the wall with a thud and fell. That he didn’t so much as glance to check for damage to his treasured hat heightened Emily’s alarm.
Emily caught his arm. “Joey,” she whispered. “What happened?”
“Tuff.” He dragged in a long, snuffling breath. “The fool broke out of jail.”
Emily shot Reb a startled, disbelieving look.
“He escaped. He jumped Tim Patterson, took his gun and escaped.” Joey wobbled, groping for a chair. “They’re calling him armed and dangerous, Emmy. They’ll shoot him on sight.”
Chapter Eight
Emily moved woodenly through the routine of milking the cow. She hunched inside a heavy coat, and the backs of her hands were reddening with the cold. Steam roiled from the surface of the frothy milk, carrying its rich scent to mingle with the grassy smell of the cow’s hide. Blossom twitched her tail and stamped her right hind hoof, but Emily paid little heed to the cow’s irritability. Worrying about Tuff and the implications of his escape occupied her.
Last night around seven o’clock, Joey had gone to the jail. The doors had been locked, and no one answered his knocks or calls. He had figured the deputy on duty had gone to supper. He’d returned in an hour, but still no one answered; by that time some of the townsfolk had gathered, wondering why no one was in the sheriff’s office, no lights were on and no one answered the telephone. Unable to raise the sheriff, they’d finally found the other deputy. When he opened the office, he’d found Deputy Tim Patterson lying on the floor. Tuff had disappeared, along with the deputy’s service revolver.
The all-points bulletin called Tuff armed and dangerous. Emily easily imagined doors locked throughout the valley and nervous drivers eyeballing the roadsides. No one could possibly be more nervous than she.
Where she rested her forehead against the juncture of Blossom’s flank, Emily felt a twitch. The cow’s hoof struck the nearly full bucket of milk, and Emily lost her balance on the one-legged milk stool. She fell backward into the straw.
Reb’s soft chuckle sounded. “A roll in the hay, ma’am? You do it different in Colorado.”
Emily lifted her baleful gaze to Reb. He rested his forearms on the stall wall and grinned at her, his eyes gleaming with amusement. Roll in the hay, indeed, she thought, but failed to muster indignation. Instead, her thoughts drifted to imagining Reb on his back, next to her on the straw, and he was bare chested, wanton, reaching for her, holding her.
Blossom grumbled and returned to her feed bucket, and Emily levered upright to a sitting position. Her breath emerged in wispy puffs, and she shivered. It had clouded up and turned cold overnight.
“Don’t you have chores to do, Reb?”
“Finished. Where’s Joey? I haven’t seen him this morning.”
Her heart fluttered uneasily. “You haven’t?” Tuff’s escape and the subsequent manhunt had Joey in a royal state. Reb stepped around the stall wall and extended a hand. She took it and he pulled her upright.
“His horse is gone,” Reb said.
She realized Copper wasn’t hanging around, either. Usually the dog vied with the feral barn cats for a chance to drink fresh milk. Copper must have followed Joey.
“I better check on him. Do you know how to milk a cow? She might have enough left for coffee.”
Reb nodded. “I can take care of her. You don’t think Joey is off doing something stupid, do you?”
“He probably headed over to Claude’s place.” She turned her worried gaze to the barn doorway. Frost glittered on blades of grass. Thanks a lot, Reb, she thought, for now she imagined her younger brother searching for her older—armed and dangerousbrother. Even worse, Joey resembled Tuff. Both had dark hair, worn collar length. It would be conceivable for some overzealous rancher sighting Joey through a rifle scope to congratulate himself for doing a good deed by bagging Tuff.
“He doesn’t want Tuff killed. Oh, God, Reb, I don’t want him killed, either. But I’m afraid Tuff’ll come back here, too.”
“Not in a million years,” he said firmly. He lowered a hard gaze on the shotgun Emily had propped against the stall wall. “He can’t be that stupid.”
Apparently Mickey Thigpen hoped Tuff would come back to the ranch. He’d returned to the house late last night. He’d installed a caller-ID device and a tape recorder on the telephone in case Tuff called. He had refused to answer her questions; the only thing he said was to keep the doors locked tight and to call immediately if she saw any sign of Tuff. She prayed Tuff wouldn’t come home. She doubted if she had the nerve to shoot her own brother.
She sighed, wishing the fear would leave her. She’d barely slept last night. In every squeak, rustle and creak, she’d heard Tuff sneaking up the stairs, gun in hand, to shoot her. “They’ll never catch Tuff,” she finally said to Reb. “Not if he stays in the mountains.
I better find Joey. Somebody might mistake him for Tuff.”
As she passed, Reb caught her arm. She stopped in her tracks. “Can you,” he said slowly, now grim faced, “think of any reason Tuff would c
ome home?”
Her anxiety worsened, knotting up her insides, making it hard to breathe. “He doesn’t need to. He can survive in the mountains. He knows every trail, every watering hole. Besides, he must realize I’d turn him in as soon as I spotted him.” She shrugged away from Reb. “I hope Joey went to Claude’s. I want to check and make sure.”
“I’ll saddle the horses. We’ll stick together.”
By the time she finished her chores, Reb had Strawberry and Jack saddled and ready to go. Lithe as a dancer, Reb mounted in one fluid up-and-over motion. Emily handed him the shotgun. He checked the bore and the load, and shook his head.
“When’s the last time you cleaned this?”
“It’s clean. I don’t think it’s been fired in years.”
He made a disgruntled sound as he gathered the reins in his left hand. Emily gave the roan mare a hard look. Please don’t embarrass me, she entreated silently, and climbed onto the saddle. Except for a huffy snort, Strawberry stood quietly until Emily was firmly seated.
Reb turned Jack east and urged him into a canter toward a pine-covered ridge. Emily gave Strawberry her head to follow. Ahead of her, Reb rode with the relaxed, slightly forward posture of a man who could anticipate his mount’s every move.
When they reached the trees, Emily heard a bark. The distinctive wavering quality of the dog’s voice told her it was Copper. She reined the mare to a stop.
“Copper? Here, boy!” She whistled, listened, then whistled again.
A flash of red-gold on a nearby rock formation preceded the dog bursting into the open. Pointed ears laid flat, his mouth wide open in a doggy grin, he pranced circles around Strawberry.
She smiled at Reb. “Claude’s dog doesn’t like visitors, so Copper never comes this way on his own. He must have followed Joey.”
“Let’s make sure,” Reb said. He touched his heels to Jack’s side, and the gelding obediently stepped out.
“Wait! Reb, wait.” She held the reins tightly, preventing the mare from following Jack. Strawberry shook her head and stamped a hoof. When Reb stopped and turned to face her, Emily said, “Joey must be visiting Claude. I should leave him alone.” She wished Joey trusted her enough to come to her when he needed comforting.
