Roughstock (A Gail McCarthy Mystery) (28 page)

He wasn't planning on pursuing me. The ball was in my court. Just what I should do with it I didn't know. The obvious choice was to trot on down and tell Jeri Ward all about it, but I was determined to take care of Gunner first. So I walked him until the sweat was dry and he was cool, then blanketed him and put him in the trailer, and took him home.

Back at Lonny's I checked him over carefully once more; he truly seemed to be all right, just tired. I gave him and Plumber a flake of oat hay and leaned on the fence, watching them eat.

I ought to do something, I thought. I've discovered who the murderer is; it's time to turn him in.

Instead, I leaned on the fence and watched the horses. Four hours later, when Lonny came home, I was sitting in his living room in front of the fire I'd built, sipping chianti, more than half drunk.

Blue lay at my feet; I'd gone home to get him, thinking I'd call Jeri Ward from there. But my hand wouldn't reach for the phone, and when I'd climbed back into the truck I'd driven, as if on automatic pilot, back to Lonny's.

No amount of mental scolding seemed to break through my strange lassitude. I couldn't even fathom what I was feeling. Disbelief, pure and simple, washed over me like a wave and tumbled my emotions here and there whenever I thought of Bronc. How could he, I repeated over and over to myself, not knowing if I meant how could he kill Jack or how could he kill me.

Would he have killed me? I couldn't believe it. The very thought made the brilliant winter day look surreal, filled with ominous shadows and portents. When Lonny walked through his front door around four o'clock I was on my third glass of wine, telling myself, not for the first time, that it would fortify me for the call to Jeri.

Two hours after that, I lay next to Lonny in bed, in a strangely relaxed limbo. I'd told him my story; Lonny had been as shocked as I expected. Surprisingly, the situation seemed to breed in both of us a need for physical contact, and our comforting hugs soon escalated into full-blown lust. But even now, with lust behind us, for the moment, anyway, neither of us knew what to do about Bronc.

Lonny, the most conservative human being imaginable, had a hard time with the notion of turning Bronc in. And an even harder time contemplating the fact that he'd killed Jack. We simply clung to each other, wanting the reassurance of contact.

At long last I rolled my body away from Lonny's and said, "I'll go down to the sheriff's office tomorrow morning. That's good enough, don't you think?"

Pulling me back close to him, he murmured into my hair. "Whatever you think. And, yes, I think that's all right."

For a second I pressed myself as close as I could, feeling immeasurably grateful to have Lonny. Or to be had by him. Despite the day's turmoil my body felt soft and at long last my mind was relatively quiet. The contentment of good sex seemed to have tranquilized me.

"Even my toes feel good," I told him.

"Mmmm," he murmured sleepily. "Give me a few minutes and we'll try it again."

"More like an hour."

"So lie quiet and wait."

"And shut up?"

"That, too."

I did.

TWENTY-EIGHT

I
never did have to turn Bronc in. The morning papers were full of the story. Bronc had written a note, confessing to Jack's murder, and left town taking his truck and trailer and Willy. Arriving at the ranch late that afternoon for another questioning session, Jeri Ward and Claude Holmquist had discovered the note and Bronc's escape.

Bronc never mentioned me. As far as I know, to this day Jeri Ward thinks I kept my word and stayed out of the investigation.

The Hollister Ranch remains in limbo. Having discovered the terms of Jack's will, the state is anxious to hold on to it, but Art Hoskins continues to press his claim and the whole thing is up to the courts to decide. Travis still lives there and takes care of it, for the time being. I hope things will fall Bronc's way and the ranch will become a park, but I wouldn't kill somebody to make it happen.

Bronc has, so far, simply disappeared off the face of the earth. The truck and trailer were recovered at a dealer's in the Central Valley, but there were no leads after that. Bronc had friends all over the state; I have to believe some team roper helped him out.

I sometimes wonder if I should have called the police immediately that day, made sure Bronc was arrested and paid the price for the life he took. Jack's life. I'm never convinced I made the right choice.

I wonder, too, if Bronc really would have killed me. If he'd held on to the rope. If Gunner hadn't outrun Willy. I'll never know, but I'll always believe not.

Bronc stays on my mind; I wonder if he rode to some lonely spot and killed Willy, then shot himself. It was something he might do. But sometimes I imagine him cowboying on a ranch in Nevada, riding Willy in the high desert, true to the end to his odd version of a Western code. I like to think of him finding a home at last, one far removed from the threats of developers.

It's a pretty idea.