Lone Star Rancher (8 page)

His perusal was thoughtful. “You haven't been away from the ranch since the funeral. There's a great barbecue place just south of San Antonio. It should be safe to go there. I don't think anyone will recognize you.”

“They don't keep up with the latest fashions?” she asked as if deeply shocked.

“Not the ones in New York. Now, Texas style, that's a different story. You're dressed just right for that.”

Like him, she wore jeans and a chambray shirt, the cuffs rolled up. However, she wore sandals rather than boots. Her toenails were painted a rosy pink like her fingernails, which she'd manicured the previous day.

She ran upstairs for her purse, said goodbye to the housekeeper, then joined him in the pickup. The wind was whipping up dust devils, but the rain hadn't yet arrived.

“Maybe the storm will miss us,” she said, eyeing the clouds as their pickup sped west on the state road.

“Not a chance. We'll eat, then head back. I think we're in for a rainy night.”

“Did Miles go back out on the range?” She thought of wind and flash floods, both dangerous things that could overturn an RV.

“He's in Austin, taking care of some paperwork with Steven. He'll be back tomorrow.”

A chill settled on her neck. She and Clyde would have the house to themselves tonight. That made her nervous. Sort of, she added as a thrill rushed through her. Or maybe it made her excited.

“So you won't have long to miss him,” he finished.

“He's nice. Fun, too. But I won't miss him,” she said with complete honesty.

“Huh,” he said, a note of disbelief in the word.

“When I moved out on my own in New York, I learned not to depend on anyone else for my entertainment. That's especially true when I go out of the country for a fashion show. Hotel rooms all look the same after a while.”

“Violet said you go to Paris and Milan each year. Don't you have lots of social engagements then?”

She laughed. “Hardly. We work long hours. When we're not working, we get as much rest as we can so we're fresh for the next day. The month leading up to fashion week, plus that week, is the most hectic time in the life of a model. I sleep for another week when it's over.”

“So you don't have time to date the cosmopolitan types who hang out at the shows?”

“No. Most of us don't want to, either.”

They arrived at a restaurant and pulled into the potholed parking lot. It looked like a honky-tonk.

When Clyde took her arm before they went inside the
wooden doors that looked as if they belonged on a barn, she instinctively moved closer. His warmth seeped into her left side. He chose a booth with red seats and red plastic covers on the table. The window panes had been painted blue so no one could see in or out.

“Quaint,” she murmured, then grinned at him. “It is nice to be out on the town, so to speak.”

A cowboy, complete with jeans, boots and a ten-gallon hat, dropped coins into a jukebox. Country music filled the very dim interior. Jessica relaxed. No one would recognize her here, not unless they used a flashlight.

She smothered a laugh.

Clyde smiled at her as the gum-popping waitress brought over menus and tall glasses of water.

“Somep'm-ta-drink?” she asked, running the words into one.

“Iced tea,” he said.

Jessica seconded the choice. After the young woman left, she sank back in the comfortable booth and sighed. “Ah, it's good to be home.”

“You have missed it,” he said, sounding surprised.

“Yes.”

Their eyes met. A slow, moody love song wafted from the speaker mounted in the ceiling. The cowboy who'd selected the music led his girl onto the hardwood floor, and they did the Texas two-step with expertise.

“My father taught me and my sister the two-step when I was ten and she was six. I remember being amazed when he and my mother danced. They were really good.”

“It's surprising what old people know, isn't it?” her companion teased.

The waitress returned. Jessica ordered the rib platter when Clyde did. It came with cornbread, fries, baked beans and roadhouse slaw, made with corn kernels and hot pep
pers. She wondered if she could eat half the meal when the large platters of food arrived. She ate everything.

“My lips are burning,” she said. “And my throat and tongue. I'm not used to jalapeno peppers anymore.”

“Lots of things are different in your world, I imagine,” he said in a musing tone.

“New York used to be your world,” she reminded him.

“I opted out. My dad was disappointed that Steven, Miles and I decided to make our home in the Wild West.”

“Your mother wasn't surprised.”

“She said we belonged here.” He smiled, then took a drink of iced tea.

Outside the storm hit with a sudden downpour that drummed on the metal roof of the building like a band of marching men. The temperature inside the rustic restaurant seemed to drop several degrees.

Jessica recalled that she'd blown in on a storm on the second of the month. It was now the nineteenth. Just then another realization came to her—and she nearly dropped her glass.

“Ready?” Clyde asked, seeming to see the restlessness that had seized her.

She hid any sudden nervousness and replied, “Yes.” When she was alone later, she'd deal with her new problem.

He paid the bill and had her wait at the door while he pulled the vehicle close. She leaped inside as quickly as possible and slammed the door behind her, but even that didn't keep her dry.

“It's really coming down,” she said, shaking off the rain.

He handed her a neatly folded white handkerchief. She wiped the moisture from her face and gave it back, her fingers trembling just a tiny bit.

The trip to the ranch house was accomplished in near silence, other than a comment or two about the wind, which
whipped across the road in gusts that shook the pickup. Clyde kept a firm grasp on the steering wheel.

Jessica was relieved that the rain let up just as they arrived at the ranch. The sky had turned charcoal-gray so that it seemed deep twilight as they raced for the house.

Clyde opened the door and let her go in first. As soon as they were safely inside, the rain hit again with ban-sheelike force while the wind howled around the eaves.

“This is the type of storm that breeds tornadoes,” he murmured, standing by the window and studying the clouds.

“I remember. That was what killed my grandparents when I was twelve. My father had wanted them to move to town and live with us, but my granddad wouldn't hear of it. They had a storm cellar, but they didn't get to it in time. The storm came during the night.”

“I'm sorry,” he said in his quiet baritone. “One of my grandfathers had a heart attack while we were visiting. It was a shock. I was a teenager and I'd never thought about them dying.”

She nodded in understanding. They stood there for a minute, then she excused herself and went to her room. There, she removed the PDA from her purse and checked the calendar. After a minute of staring at it, she hit the off button and put it away.

As a model, there were certain things she carefully kept track of. Her monthly cycle was one of them. She was three days late.

Staring out the window at the wind lashing the trees along the creek, she could only murmur, “Dear heavens.”

She didn't know if that was a prayer or a plea.

T
hat evening, Clyde sat in the newly furnished office, but his mind wasn't on business. Jessica was in the family room, the television tuned to a local station as she watched the six o'clock news. He found himself listening for the slightest sound from her.

Grimacing at his own foolishness, he glanced out the window at the dark sky. He could tell what the weather was going to be without checking with a meteorologist, he thought, his spirits as gloomy as the climate.

The storm lashed the house intermittently, as if pausing every few minutes to catch its breath. It was the type of weather front that settled in close to the coast and stayed there for two or three or four days. Good thing there was a break in the roundup chores.

Hearing footsteps, he swung his gaze toward the open door. Jessica appeared in the kitchen. She glanced in his direction, then seemed disconcerted to find him observing.

“Uh, I'm going to have a cup of tea,” she said, hesitated, then added, “You want one?”

He knew he should say no, but he nodded.

Cursing, he had to concede he had the willpower of an ant scenting a honey jar when it came to resisting her. However, he would
not
be a mindless slave to the attraction between them, powerful as it was. A man controlled his passions.

“Ready,” she called out.

At some point during the past hour, she'd changed into the blue gown and lacy blue robe. He wondered if the gown had matching lace on it. Yeah, they were probably a set…probably given to her by some rich guy…probably after seeing her model it in one of those underwear shows—

He broke the train of thought with a low groan, forced himself out of the chair and went into the kitchen.

Her hair was clipped behind her ears with two silver clasps and flowed down her back in a cascade of shimmering honey-colored silk. He balled his hands to keep from touching it.

“I didn't put anything in your tea,” she said, pouring nonfat milk into her cup. “Do you use milk?”

“No, sugar and lemon.”

She returned the milk to the fridge and went back to the evening news. He trailed after her, liking the way the lacy robe and silky gown floated around her slender feet, barely clearing the floor. She wore the soft ballet slippers she preferred in the house.

When she settled onto the sofa with her feet tucked under her, she appeared surprised to see him. He took the chair and propped his sock-clad feet on the ottoman.

In a fancy mirror his mother had found at a yard sale and placed on the wall above the TV set, he could see their reflections in the cozy room. If not for the tension that
hummed through him, the scene would have looked perfectly sedate and peaceful.

The lights of a vehicle on the driveway flashed into the room and were gone.

Clyde set his cup on the side table and went to see who had arrived. Expecting Miles, he was surprised to see his other triplet.

“Yo, Steven,” he greeted his sibling, opening the back door, then closing it against the wind and rain when Steven was inside. “Man, you picked a good night to be out. What brings you down this way?”

“Business in San Antonio,” Steven answered, shaking water off his hat into the sink, then hanging both hat and jacket on hooks by the door. “I thought I'd drop by while I was close and go over the contract with the new produce company.” He glanced toward the foyer. “Miles said your house guest is still in residence?”

“Yes. Violet's friend, Jessica Miller,” Clyde said firmly, feeling it necessary to make the connection clear.

“I remember her from the funeral. Her dad ran the hardware store in Red Rock, didn't he?”

“Yeah.” Clyde was aware of Steven's eyes on him as he led the way into the new office.

“Very nice,” his brother remarked after checking over the room. “Miles said Jessica was the one who finally got you to move everything into here.”

“She found some furniture in the shed.”

He followed Steven's gaze to the rocking chair, the magazine rack, now filled with ranching periodicals, and the black painted table that had joined the other two pieces yesterday.

A floor lamp, which she'd had him rewire, cast a soft light into the room each time he flicked on the wall switch. Its yellowed shade had been stained with tea, giving it an interesting textured appearance. An old basket, found in the
loft of the barn, held sprays of dried grass she'd picked beside the road.

“She calls it shabby Texas chic,” he explained.

Steven gave him a long, slow once-over, then grinned like an idiot.

“What?” Clyde asked irritably.

“Nothing. Not a thing, bro.” He removed a sheaf of papers from an envelope and laid them on the desk, the surface of which was clear for once.

Together, they went over the contract for all the eggs the ranch could supply to the distributor. “The cash flow will be good next year,” Clyde murmured, checking the figures against the old contract.

“Yeah, and here's the best part. The chefs are clamoring for free-range chickens to make stock for soups, so this will consolidate the market.”

After an hour of planning and estimating next year's income and outgo, Clyde added his signature to the contract, then asked how Steven's new enterprises were going.

“Fine.” His brother strode toward the door. “I'll say hello to Jessica. Amy gave me a message for her.”

Annoyed without knowing why, Clyde followed Steven into the family room. Jessica hit the mute button on the TV and gave his brother her most charming smile. “It's good to see you again.”

“How's it going?” Steven asked, settling on the sofa. “Are you getting plenty of rest and relaxation here?”

“Yes,” she said. “This is a wonderful place. You should think about opening a bed and breakfast for harried families to visit.”

“We have all we can handle at present,” Steven told her. “I think you met my fiancée, Amy, didn't you?”

“Yes, at the funeral.”

“Our house is finished and we'll be moving in as soon
as the furniture's delivered. We're planning a quiet wedding with just family because one of Amy's clients—”

“He's the governor,” Clyde interrupted. “Amy helps plan his events.”

“Yes, I remember,” Jessica said. “Congratulations on your coming marriage,” she said to Steven.

“Thanks. Anyway, we don't want a lot of publicity about the wedding, but Amy told me to tell you she would love it if you would come. Violet has promised she'll be back from her cruise in time.”

“Well, uh, that's very nice of you,” Jessica began, her eyes cutting to Clyde in uncertainty, “but I don't think I'll be here. I plan on leaving at the end of the month.”

“Perfect,” Steven said. “The wedding is scheduled for Friday, the last day of the month. We needed to fit it in with the governor's schedule, which isn't easy to do.”

“I'll see that she gets there,” Clyde said to his brother. He ignored her severe frown. “With Governor Meyers present, no one will notice one more beautiful woman,” he assured her quietly.

She rolled her eyes.

Steven turned to him. “We're not having a fancy reception after the wedding. Just something small at our ranch. We're already involved with a really big event at our place to honor Ryan.”

Clyde nodded. “You've mentioned that.”

“That's how Amy and I met,” Steven explained to Jessica. “If we have the big shindig, the governor will be giving Ryan an award for his charitable deeds, so Amy has to be in on the planning.”

“If?” Clyde asked, picking up on the questioning note in his brother's statement.

Steven stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles, a troubled expression on his face. “Well, there's the
question of who murdered Christopher Jamison and who had the most to lose or gain by it.”

“And that's Ryan Fortune, who might not have wanted known the truth of his father's illegitimate birth and subsequent adoption by the Fortune family.”

“Assuming Christopher threatened to expose the news,” Steven added in disgust. “As if that would bother Ryan.”

Clyde nodded. “I agree. Ryan would have more to lose by murdering someone than he would have to gain by suppressing the facts. Kingston is dead. His past doesn't affect Ryan's life or family in any way that I can see.”

“It's really sad for someone in his prime to be killed,” Jessica said in a musing tone. “From all accounts, Christopher was a really nice person.”

“Probably ran into some nut at the lake.” Clyde scowled at the thought.

“But why was he at the lake?” Steven questioned. “Or was he killed someplace else and brought to the lake close to the Double Crown Ranch so Ryan would be implicated?”

“With any luck the police will get to the bottom of it soon,” Jessica said.

They were silent for a moment.

“So is the party on hold?” Clyde continued after considering the strange case and coming to no conclusions.

“Not exactly.” Steven gave a humorless snort. “It would be rather awkward, though, if the guest of honor is arrested for murder during the proceedings.”

Clyde paced the floor. “The cops wouldn't do that, not with the governor in attendance.”

“One can only hope,” his brother commented.

Steven rubbed a hand over his face and stood, telling them he still had the drive back to Austin and would keep in contact on the final time for the ceremony. Clyde real
ized Steven was tired and worried. Their lives had surely taken some unexpected turns of late, he thought.

After he saw Steven out, he returned to the family room. Picking up the cup, he took a sip of the cool tea and made a face.

“Heat it up in the microwave,” Jessica suggested. “That's what I did.”

He did so, then rummaged in the cabinet until he found a package of cookies. He brought the box into the family room. The television was off. Jessica was staring out the window at the rain-washed night, her eyes dark and pensive.

“Did talk of the murder bother you?” he asked.

“Some.”

“Are you still worried about the stalker?”

She shook her head. “I think Violet was right—once I was out of sight, I was out of Roy's mind. He has nothing to gain by stalking me and everything to lose, such as the career he's so proud of. He's ambitious. I'm sure he has visions of being governor of New York one day.”

Clyde grimaced. Politics weren't his thing.

“I'm sorry I've imposed on your hospitality,” she continued. “I think I'll go visit my parents in Austin.”

“No.”

Her eyes flicked to him in surprise.

He realized he needed to come up with some explanation for his quick reaction, other than a gut feeling that she shouldn't leave, that it would be a mistake for reasons he couldn't quite articulate.

“We should stick with the plan,” he told her. “Violet said you had another month of vacation. After the wedding, which will be in Austin, you can go home with your folks and visit with them. That will give the politician plenty of time to get over his obsession.”

Her eyes brightened. “So you do believe me about that?”

“Oh, yes,” he said wryly. He could certainly identify with the poor slob who'd fallen for her like the proverbial ton of bricks.

 

The next morning, Jessica checked her PDA again. Nope, no mistake. Like the thump of a bass drum in her head, she felt the hard pound of her blood, a slow dirge that signaled the worry that had grabbed her yesterday when she'd realized how late in the month it was.

A child!

She closed her eyes and slumped into the bedroom chair as if all her stuffing had fallen out in an instant.

What if there was a baby? And what if the stalker found her? Would it make him furious that she was expecting another man's offspring? If the baby was already born, would he hurt it as well as her?

Perhaps she was overreacting again. She'd watched too many of those true-crime reenactments on television. Maybe not all stalkers killed the object of their obsession.

She replaced the PDA in her purse, then went downstairs. The phone rang before she reached the back door, and she waited for the machine to answer.

After the recorded message, in Steven's voice, inviting the caller to leave his name and phone number, there was total silence on the line.

The hair rose on the back of her neck. She pulled in a deep breath with an effort. Oh, no, not again!

But then she heard the click of the disconnect and the answering machine turned itself off. The hush in the kitchen beat at her ears like a tom-tom. She checked the caller ID feature, but no number was recorded.

A wrong number. That's all. It was a wrong number.

She repeated this as she went outside. The humidity clamped down on her skin like a damp wool blanket, add
ing physical discomfort to the uneasy mixture of emotion inside her. She would not let a simple wrong number upset her.

Skirting the pool, she crossed the patio and headed toward the creek. A brisk walk would take care of the tension caused by an overactive imagination.

The grass was dry, she found, but the ground was spongy with moisture. The sky was still overcast and threatening more rain. For the moment, the wind had died down.

Hearing Smoky in the front yard, she ambled around the house and found Clyde squatting beside a flower bed. The dog retrieved the stick that had been thrown and brought it to her instead of Clyde, laying it at her feet.

She threw it and smiled as Smoky darted away then got distracted by a bumblebee and tried to snag it in midair by leaping as high as he could.

Glancing at her host, who was intent on pulling weeds, she wondered why she and Smoky were attracted to the very things that could hurt them—

She broke the thought. No one could hurt her, not if she kept her distance, and she'd gotten proficient at that.