by Sharon Sala
Her voice taunted, the words teased, and King felt himself losing the fragile grip he had on reality as their sibling-like relationship was thrown back in his face.
“I’m not your damn brother,” he growled, and pulled her up against the aching fullness of his body. “And, what I want to give you, Jesse, has nothing to do with advice.”
“Dear God,” Jesse whispered, and felt her legs beginning to give way at the picture his words drew in her mind.
Jesse knew the power between them was growing, and she knew that if she didn’t stop this, he’d take her here and now, on the dusty floor of the loft, and never forgive her for letting it happen.
“King,” she whispered, allowing his hands to venture farther and farther upward beneath the worn softness of her shirt, to the warmth and fullness of the soft, bare skin on her breasts.
“What?” he muttered, barely able to focus and answer her. The sensation of holding Jesse in such an intimate way was driving everything but need farther and farther away.
“I asked you first,” she said, and felt his attention catch at the strangeness of her words.
“Asked me what?” he repeated, lost at the turn of conversation.
“Where were you the last three years of my life? Why didn’t you come to St. Louis, King? Duncan came…why didn’t you?”
Her voice broke, and the sadness of her words overwhelmed him. It was only after he found himself standing alone in the pale beam of moonlight by the window, watching from above as Jesse slowly made her way back to the ranch house alone, that her last words soaked into his consciousness. And when they did, it was too late. Too late to call her back. Too late to stop the jealousy and rage that sent him to his knees.
* * *
A light gray, nondescript sedan pulled into the narrow tree-lined driveway, and then stopped suddenly as a young boy darted across the driveway on a bicycle.
The man behind the wheel of the car and the boy on the bicycle looked at each other in stunned silence, each thanking their own luck for the near miss. Then the man rolled the car window down and frowned as a fly darted in through the opening.
“Damn!” he muttered, knowing he’d ride with that fly the rest of the day. “Hey, kid!” he called. “You better be more careful. You could get hurt pulling a stunt like that.” He took the wide-brimmed Stetson off his head and wiped at the sweaty place along his forehead where it fit too snugly. He needed a haircut. Then his hat wouldn’t fit so tight.
The boy watched wide-eyed, and then remembered where he’d been going in all his excitement.
“Thanks, mister,” he yelled. “I’ll be careful.” He pointed up the driveway in an excited tone of voice. “You going up there with the other cops?” he asked, deciding that this man was a sheriff because of his cowboy hat.
“What cops?” the man asked suddenly, looking around with extreme interest.
“The ones up at the drunk’s place. They been there since daylight. But Petey, who lives in the house by me, says no one was inside when the cops busted down the door. I’m going to see. I want to be a cop when I grow up.” He puffed out his skinny little chest with importance.
“Say, kid,” the cowboy called, but got nowhere since the boy began riding off on his bicycle, yelling over his shoulder as he pedaled away.
“I got to go. And I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
Curses filled the car as the man slammed the hat back on his head and shut himself in with the fly. He backed carefully out of the drive and quickly drove away.
“At least he was gone,” he muttered, and wondered what to do next. He knew he had to find Lynch before the police. Wiley Lynch would sell his mother for a drink. There was no way he’d keep his mouth shut about the LeBeau episode. He headed back to his motel to make some phone calls.
“This was the right place,” one of the officers said to Captain Shockey. “We couldn’t be more than six hours behind him.” They were judging the time of Lynch’s departure by the state of food scraps left on the kitchen table.
Shockey nodded his head, while his sharp little eyes scanned the place for something…anything…to confirm his growing suspicion that Lynch had not acted alone. He was a meticulous investigator, thorough in details that were not always popular with his staff, but invariably paid off in uncovering vital clues to his cases. Right now he had the men going through every piece of clothing, every piece of garbage inside and outside the house. Lynch had obviously not paid his city bills for several weeks and services, including garbage pickup, had been disconnected. There was quite an accumulation of the stuff, and it was hot as blazes in the house. It stunk to high heaven.
The search had been in progress for nearly an hour when one of the officers outside the back door shouted. There was something…a tone of voice Shockey recognized, and his adrenaline began to flow. He’d known this would pay off. Lynch was obviously not a smart criminal. He’d already made two serious mistakes. He was bound to make others. The second mistake he’d made was getting caught on videotape after passing a hot check. The first was ever breaking into Jesse LeBeau’s house.
“Captain,” the officer said, barely suppressing the excitement in his voice as he carefully opened an old, stained duffle bag and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from inside the torn lining. He held the paper with something that looked like long tweezers to keep from damaging the evidence, and carefully handed it to Shockey.
“Look at what I found inside this bag. I wouldn’t have even seen it, but I thought the stains on the bag might possibly be blood stains. I checked closer, and this was caught in the lining.”
“I knew it,” Shockey muttered, as he turned the paper for a better look. The carefully clipped letters from newspaper print spelled certain guilt for Wiley Lynch. “I knew there was more to this than a random break-in! This is a ransom note! He was trying to kidnap her. If she hadn’t resisted…if she hadn’t fought…” Then his train of thought sharpened and he focused again. “Good work!” he said. “Get this to the lab immediately, along with that bag. Now I know he must have had an accomplice. This note was constructed with precision and neatness. There’s not a crooked cut on one of the pasted letters. Lynch couldn’t cut his own throat right. Someone else put this together. Let’s find out who.”
Shockey hurried toward the front of the house, intent on getting back to headquarters. He had to notify McCandless about this new twist. The LeBeau woman could still be in danger. The kidnappers might try again.
A small boy on a bicycle was riding in and out among the parked police cars, obviously lost in a game of make-believe, imitating the sound of a siren, pedaling furiously in a fantasy chase.
“Hey, kid,” Shockey called. “You better get on home. This is not a safe place for you to play.”
“I’m gonna be a cop when I grow up,” he announced, as Shockey started to get in his car.
“That’s right?” Shockey asked, and looked again at the serious expression on the skinny little kid who was watching his every move.
“Yeah!” he cried. “You got a badge? Can I see it?”
“Yeah, sure, kid,” Shockey agreed, and pulled the folded piece of well-worn leather from his pocket. It wasn’t often he ran across a kid who liked cops. Usually it was just the opposite. He couldn’t resist doing a little public relations work.
“Boy!” the kid whispered, as he ran a dirty little finger over the shiny metal shield with Shockey’s identification number on it. “I told the sheriff down the driveway I was going to be a cop, but he didn’t have no badge. Not like this he didn’t.”
“What sheriff, son? Why did you think he was a sheriff?” Something made Shockey pursue this odd little kid’s rambling story further.
“Well, he was coming up here before he nearly ran me over…” He looked up cautiously, suddenly afraid that it would come out that he hadn’t looked before he darted through the thick undergrowth. But nothing was said to correct him, and so he continued his story, tracing every curve and ridge
in the silver badge as he talked. “And, I knew he was a sheriff cause he had a big hat like the ones on television.”
Shockey’s eyes narrowed. Nothing odd in that, he cautioned himself. “Go on,” he urged the kid.
“Well, I told him you guys was already up here, and I guess he decided to leave, cause he rolled his car window up and drove away. That’s all.”
“What did he look like?” Shockey persisted. Something told him if he’d arrived thirty minutes later this morning, they might all have been saved further investigation.
“I don’t know. Just a cowboy. I got to go now,” he said, and reluctantly handed back the badge.
Shockey watched the kid leave, pedaling furiously as he darted between two of the parked black and whites. Cowboy? What would Wiley Lynch be doing hanging out with a cowboy?
He set the thought aside for the time being and hurried to his car. He had to make that phone call to Tulsa.
CHAPTER 7
“Where’s Maggie?” Jesse asked breathlessly as she dashed through the kitchen door into the house.
King looked up and tried not to glare at Jesse’s exuberance. Her hair was windblown, the black and white polka-dot tank top she was wearing was half in and half out of the tightest pair of blue jeans he’d ever seen anybody wear and breathe in at the same time. And, to make matters worse, she was barefoot.
“Where are your shoes?” he shouted, and then took a deep breath along with a calming gulp of lukewarm coffee.
He’d been dawdling over breakfast for half an hour, waiting for Jesse to appear, and then she came through the door like a Texas twister. It was obvious she’d been up and about far longer than he had.
“My shoes are on the porch,” she answered calmly. “They’re dirty. I didn’t want to track up the floor. Where’s Maggie?” she repeated, refusing to let King’s bad mood spoil the most perfect morning she’d had in years.
“In her room,” King answered reluctantly, and felt his gut kick at the backside view of Jesse in those jeans, as she dashed through the kitchen toward Maggie’s private rooms.
Jesse knocked once and then let herself in as she called out, “It’s me.”
“Come in, sweetheart,” Maggie answered, as she came from the bathroom where she’d obviously been putting the finishing touches on hair and make-up. Her short, ample figure was corseted and bound with determination. Her long, gray braid was set higher on her head than usual, and her little round face was lightly decorated with blush and lipstick. She looked like an aging cherub. She also looked adorable.
Today was Friday. It was double coupon day at her favorite supermarket and she had a grocery list a mile long.
“Would you mind picking up my birth control pills?” Jesse asked, as she pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of her shirt. She’d been using them for years to correct a very painful and irregular period. “I called my doctor in St. Louis yesterday. He said he’d call in a prescription at this pharmacy.” She handed the paper to Maggie.
“You still have to take these?” Maggie asked, and looked sharply at the expression on Jesse’s face. She’d always known about Jesse’s problem. She’d hoped time would correct it. Obviously it had not.
“Yep,” Jesse grinned, leaned over and kissed Maggie’s frown. “But don’t worry. They haven’t made a scarlet woman of me yet.”
Jesse laughed at the horrified expression on Maggie’s face, and then suddenly they were both chuckling loudly.
King heard the laughter and felt an awful tinge of jealousy. He couldn’t make Jesse laugh. He hadn’t even been able to make her smile since they’d come home. If anything, he’d only made matters worse. He was tired, miserable, and worried, and knew he couldn’t take many more nights like last night. He hadn’t slept a wink, knowing Jesse was across the hall. He’d thought all night long of Jesse and her statement that Duncan had come to visit her in St. Louis. He just couldn’t get past the thoughts that jeered at his conscience during the long hours until dawn. Why did he care who went to see Jesse? He had made no effort to be one of the visitors. He had simply let time and Jesse slip through his fingers. He heard the women coming from Maggie’s room, and yanked a piece of newspaper up in front of him.
Maggie rummaged through her purse, checking for all the necessary lists and coupons, then waved a casual goodbye in Jesse’s direction before hurrying out the door. It was obvious Maggie was going to make a day of her trip to Tulsa.
Silence filled the kitchen, and Jesse debated with herself about trying to talk to an obviously disgruntled man. She wisely decided to keep her own counsel, and started back outside to retrieve her boots and get on with her plans for the day when something odd about King’s newspaper caught her eye. Without saying a word, she walked over to King, gently peeking over the wall of newsprint he’d erected between them. Ignoring the furious glare he shot her way, she carefully took the paper, turned it over until it was right side up, handed it back, and watched with glee as a dark red flush crept up past the neck of his brown, plaid work-shirt.
“Do you mind if I ride Tariq?” she asked.
King slammed the useless paper down on the kitchen table and stood with a jerk. He leaned over until they were practically nose to nose and growled.
“Looks to me like you already did.”
Jesse shrugged self-consciously, knowing Tariq was King’s favorite, and the one he usually chose to ride when out on the range. He was a large, white, spirited Arabian with an easy gait and Jesse preferred him to several of the smaller, more highly strung horses.
“Do you care?” she persisted, and tried to forget how angry King could get if pushed too far.
“Obviously what I think matters damn little to you. Jesse Rose. Do what you want…you always do.” Then before she disappeared completely, he couldn’t stop himself from grabbing her hands and turning the palms up for a careful inspection.
They looked healed. He knew they were getting stronger and stronger each day, by the amount of use she gave them, but his Arabian stallion was a big, high-spirited mount. He wasn’t sure her grip was strong enough to handle him. He sighed, reluctantly dropped her hands, and looked up, unable to decipher the odd, almost expectant expression on her face.
“Be careful,” he warned, and was saved from making a complete fool of himself by the phone’s ring.
Jesse bolted out the door, grabbing her boots on the run.
By the time King hung up the phone and hurried toward the corrals, Jesse was long gone toward the big, shady pond more than half a mile away.
“Turner,” King shouted, as he neared the corrals, new fear mixing with the old at what he’d just learned.
The phone call had been from St. Louis. King still had trouble assimilating Shockey’s news. Kidnap Jesse? What in the world would someone hope to gain? She wasn’t that wealthy. Almost everything she’d inherited was invested in a way that would take months, even years, to liquidate. She didn’t have half a million dollars. And she had no family. Who would a kidnapper think was going to pay the ransom?
Then King stopped. He turned slowly as a terrible possibility entered his mind. He looked around at the land with new vision—McCandless land that went for miles and miles, the more than comfortable ranch house, the millions of dollars invested in the Arabians, the cattle, oil interests—and he knew who the kidnappers had targeted. It was King that would have come up with the money, and easily enough at that. The kidnappers had to know he would give everything he owned if it meant Jesse’s well-being.
King shuddered, wiped a shaky hand across his eyes, and swallowed hard, pushing back the nausea that boiled inside him. Jesse was to have been the victim, but it was King’s ransom they were after.
“Turner!” he called again, and breathed a sigh of relief as the older man came hobbling through the doorway of the hay barn. Turner waved at King, indicating his whereabouts.
“In here,” he called, and waited as King came running.
“Jesse,” he asked quickly. “Where?”
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“Didn’t say,” Turner replied, and then frowned at the worried expression on his boss’s face. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “She’ll be okay. That horse loves her…always did. He ain’t gonna hurt Jesse.”
“The police,” King muttered, pointing toward the house.
He was back in McCandless shorthand, but Wil Turner was more than used to it. This was the second generation of McCandless he’d worked for.
“What about the police?” he asked, and led the way back inside, out of the hot sun and wind.
“Just called. Wasn’t attempted murder. Jesse stopped a kidnap attempt. They also didn’t get the sonofabitch. He’s still out there.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Turner muttered. “This does put a different light on things, don’t it, boy? Well, now. I’m sure she can go for a horse ride here on the ranch and come to no outside harm.”
King started to argue, but Turner’s slow drawl and common sense were beginning to calm the fear and rage boiling inside.
“King,” Turner continued. “Jesse went that direction.” He pointed toward the hills, away from the roads and ranch house. “And the only way to get to Jesse there is to come through here. That is unless they come by helicopter, and it don’t sound to me like them kidnappers is that smart. Just look what one little girl did to their plans. What do you say?” He waited for King’s reply, and then added with a rueful pat on King’s back, “I’ll send one of the boys after her right now, if you think best. I know what she means to you…to all of us. But I also know how bad this has been on her. First time I seen her really smile since she’s been here was this morning when she got on that horse.”
King paced between Turner and the barn door several times before jamming his hands in his pockets in frustration.
“Let her ride,” he finally agreed. “But if she’s not back by noon, we’re going after her.”
“You got it, boss,” Turner agreed, and wisely went back to work.
* * *
The sun was bright, almost white in the faded blue sky. Not one puny cloud dared to show face in the building heat. The dry, brown grass broke and scattered like dust as King’s big stallion ran at an easy gallop. His nostrils flared, and his ears twitched at the sounds coming from his rider. He didn’t know what laughter was, but he responded to Jesse’s joy and pleasure. He tossed his head and nickered at a herd of Black Angus cattle trying to graze on the brittle pasture land.
