Texas True (23 page)

 

Lute felt the hunger gnawing at his gut. The snacks he'd bought on the road were long gone, and the jackrabbit he'd snared, skinned, and roasted yesterday hadn't had enough meat on it to satisfy a cat. It wasn't that he didn't have money. Except for the seven hundred dollars he'd paid for the sputtering Vespa motor scooter in Eagle Pass, plus a few bills for meals, gas, and a cheap pistol he'd bought off the street, most of his cash from the Mexicans was intact. But he was going to need it later. And here in this abandoned line shack, deep in the escarpment on the western boundary of the Tylers' ranch, there was nothing to buy.

No way was he going back to Stella. He knew exactly what she would do. She'd greet him with open arms, tell him all was forgiven; then soon after that, when he was somewhere alone, he would die. The way Slade had died. The way Jess had died. He would die because he knew too much and could no longer be trusted.

Not that Stella would pull the trigger. She was too smart for that. Someone else did her killing, someone with a dead aim and complete loyalty. Given a chance to bet, Lute's money was on the bartender.

Maybe he'd made a mistake, coming back here to Blanco Springs and the ranch. It would've been safer to hit the road, put Texas and all he knew behind him. But the money he had wouldn't last for long. And he had plans—big plans and big dreams.

Everything hinged on his getting the palomino foal to Don Ignacio in Mexico. With the money the rancher had offered him, Lute could live a comfortable life south of the border, get a cozy house in an out-of-the-way town, maybe find a pretty senorita for company. With his dark coloring he could pass for Mexican, and he knew enough Spanish to get by.

But getting the foal to the ranch would be complicated. First, he'd need a truck. His own pickup would do, but he'd left it in the Haskell Trucking lot. If it was still there, he'd have to find a way to get it, or steal another one. And he would need a two-horse trailer for the mare and foal. Then he remembered that the Tylers had several trailers lined up behind the machine shed. All he needed to do was hitch a trailer to the truck, load the mare and foal, and drive away.

Now he needed to figure out a way to get the truck and trailer to the border. If he remembered right, one time, while helping Sky round up some strays, they had crossed a dirt road. It was little more than a double-rut trail through the mesquite. At the time, Sky had mentioned that it was part of a network of old wagon roads that crossed the south boundary of the ranch and cut east across the rolling plains, skirting towns and eventually joining up with the highway to Eagle Pass. Taking that route, Lute knew he could cover a lot of distance without being spotted.

His best bet would be to reach the highway before daylight and mix with the border traffic. Once he crossed the bridge, getting the horses into Mexico shouldn't be a problem. If the Mexican guards gave him any trouble, a few large bills should be enough to grease their palms. He'd be home free.

Around 11:30, Lute rode the Vespa into town. It was Saturday night, and the Blue Coyote was busy. Country music punctuated by raucous laughter drifted out the open windows. All to the good, Lute reasoned as he drove past. Anybody wandering the streets at this hour would likely be too drunk to pay him much attention.

Reaching the far end of Main Street, he parked the Vespa in an alley and walked the rest of the way to Haskell Trucking.

The lot was surrounded by a chain-link fence, but, as usual, the gate had been left unlocked. Slipping through the shadows, Lute had no trouble finding his pickup. He'd been required to leave the keys in the office, in case the vehicle needed to be moved. But the previous owner had left a spare set of keys in one of those little magnetic boxes on the frame under the driver's side. Even in the dark it was easy enough to find.

The starter took some coaxing, but when the engine caught on the third try, Lute began to breathe again. The gas gauge read half a tank. He'd need more to get to the border, but he'd worry about that later.

Getting the trailer and the horses would be his biggest challenge. He knew Beau Tyler had updated the ranch's security system. There could be alarms, even cameras. And if that mare decided to make a fuss, she could wake the whole ranch, or at least set off the dog. He needed to create a distraction—something spectacular.

Pulling out of the gate, he closed it behind him and headed around the block to pick up the Vespa. There was no turning back now. In the morning, when Stella learned his truck was missing, all hell would break loose. If he wasn't long gone by then, Lute knew he was as good as dead.

 

It was almost one in the morning, but Natalie couldn't sleep. She'd come home late, exhausted after an emergency procedure on an injured gelding. Calmed by a warm shower and a relaxing cup of chamomile tea, she'd expected to drift off as soon as she closed her eyes. But after an hour of trying, she was wide awake, the pillow smashed out of shape and the covers tangled around her legs.

Tori had called on Friday to warn her about the sheriff 's ploy with Beau. At first Natalie hadn't been surprised. Hoyt Axelrod would do anything to get his face in the media, and bringing a murderer to justice would cast him as a champion of law and order.

“How can I help him, Tori? There has to be something I can do.”

“Just keep a low profile,” Tori had advised her. “Don't do anything that will draw attention to yourself. And if Clay Drummond offers you immunity to testify against Beau, for heaven's sake, take it. If Beau knows he doesn't have to protect you, he'll be free to fight this.”

“But what can I say against Beau? I know he's innocent.”

“You can tell the truth. Nothing that's true can hurt him. Remember, if it comes to that, I'll be cross-examining you for the defense. Meanwhile, don't talk to anybody about this, especially Beau or the sheriff. And if the prosecutor calls you, I want to be there for any offer he makes. Call me if you have any questions.”

Trying to sleep was just frustrating her. Natalie rolled out of bed and reached for her robe. The house could use tidying and she had a week's worth of laundry to do. Maybe burning up some nervous energy would leave her relaxed enough to sleep.

The sight of her purse on the dresser reminded Natalie that her phone battery was low. She would get the wash started, then put the phone on the charger for the night.

After dumping the contents of the dirty-clothes hamper into a basket, she carried the load down to the laundry room at the far end of the hall. As she set the basket on the utility table, her foot stubbed something under the table.

Glancing down, she saw a cardboard box—the box of Slade's dirty clothes and bedding from Haskell Trucking. Until that moment, she had forgotten about it.

Natalie pulled the box into the open. The sour male odor of his body lingered in the sheets and garments, triggering emotions she never wanted to feel again.

Why had she kept these things? She should have tossed them in a Dumpster on her way home. So why not do that now? Just take the clothes outside and stuff them in the trash for tomorrow's pickup.

She was headed for the door with the box when a sudden thought struck her. What if she was holding evidence, maybe even a clue to Slade's murder?

Donning latex gloves to avoid contaminating any potential evidence, she dumped the contents onto the table. First she shook out the sheets and pillowcase—nothing there. The underwear and socks, apart from their smell, held no secrets. But the khaki trousers, jeans, and work shirts had pockets, as did the lightweight baseball jacket.

The shirts and pants yielded six Burger Shack receipts, two candy bar wrappers, $2.74 in loose change, a pen, a movie ticket stub, and a wad of chewing gum. Nothing to make a difference, but finding these small, meaningless items was like opening a grave and letting a flood of memories escape—the good times and bad, the things they'd built together. All gone now.

She picked up the tan fleece-lined canvas jacket with the Haskell Trucking logo on the front. The weather had been warm for weeks, so he wouldn't have worn it recently, probably not since their separation. She imagined it hanging on a hook in his office, forgotten till the next cold season.

Opening it up, she felt a crackle in the zippered inside pocket. Her exploring fingers found a folded slip of paper. It was a bank deposit receipt.

Puzzled, she studied it. The bank wasn't the one where she and Slade had their joint personal account, nor was it the one used by Haskell Trucking. But the Lubbock address beneath the header jogged her memory. She'd driven past the bank once, a small branch office, sharing a building with a real estate company, in an out-of-the-way part of town. Had Slade made the deposit for someone else, or was this account one he'd kept secret from her, as he'd kept other aspects of his life?

She was still puzzled when she noticed the computer-printed figures on the receipt. She gasped. The deposit amount shown was $26,550. The balance in the account was given as $821,633.11. Almost a million dollars.

Natalie's knees went slack. She leaned against the table for support. That kind of cash had to be connected to something illegal.

Her first impulse was to phone Tori. But it was almost 2:00 in the morning. Tori would be asleep and even if she wasn't, there'd be nothing she could do at this hour.

If Slade had been involved in something dirty, there was a good chance that this receipt could prove someone other than Beau had killed him and framed Beau for it.

She wanted this nightmare over—for Beau and for herself. The fastest way to end it would be to find the sheriff, show him there had to be other suspects, and insist that he check them out. If he ignored her, she would go to the local TV station, tell them what she knew, and blast his political dreams to kingdom come.

Today was Sunday, the sheriff's day off. Fortunately she knew where he lived. As soon as the sun rose a respectable distance above the horizon, she vowed to be on his doorstep with a copy of the receipt in hand.

She would make him listen.

A
n explosive sound yanked Beau out of a deep sleep. His eyes shot open. Through the bedroom window, the sky cast a hellish glow on the walls. The smell of smoke seared his nostrils. Was he back in Iraq or was this one of his nightmares?

Neither, he realized as he shook himself fully awake. This was all too real.

“Fire!” He rolled out of bed and charged down the hallway to Will's room. “Fire!”

Already awake, Will flung open his door. He was still in his shorts, his hair standing on end, but his manner was calm. “It's the machine shed,” he said. “I've called nine-one-one, but it'll take the fire department a while to get here. We'll need everybody to keep the blaze from spreading. Ring the bunkhouse. I'll meet you downstairs.”

Beau raced back to his room to throw on his clothes. Swearing as he yanked on his boots, he remembered that the machine shed was where spare gas cans were stored. If the flames had gotten to the gasoline, the shed and its contents were already beyond saving.

Fully dressed, he ran down the staircase, where he met Bernice and Erin on the landing. Erin's eyes were huge with fear.

Beau said, “The fire isn't near the house. Both of you stay inside and you'll be fine.”

“But what about Tesoro?” Erin was close to tears. “The mares and foals are in the barn. Will they be all right?”

“The barn's not in danger.”
At least not yet
, Beau added silently. “He'll be fine,” he assured her. “You stay here with Bernice.”

Leaving them, Beau sprinted outside. Smoke raked his nose and throat. He could hear the wild metallic clang of the cook's triangle ringing the alarm. Cowboys were stumbling out of the bunkhouse, some of them still pulling on their clothes.

The machine shed was a hundred yards north of the house. The stored gasoline had turned the steel-roofed building into a roaring inferno that poured black smoke and shot balls of flame whenever the fire reached new fuel. There was no way to save the structure or the valuable equipment inside. All the men could do was try to keep the blaze contained. Under Will's supervision, the vehicles were being moved away from the nearby garage, in case it caught fire. The hay shed, too, was within reach of flying sparks.

Beau spotted Sky connecting the end of a long hose to an outside faucet. The narrow stream of water wouldn't be enough to do much good against the fire, but at least it could be used to wet down everything around it.

Jasper had arrived with gunnysacks piled on the back of his ATV. Beau pulled the sacks to the ground and, as the water came on, began drenching them with the hose. Knowing the drill, the cowhands grabbed the wet sacks and beat the flames around the edge of the blaze to stop them from spreading along the ground. When the sacks were gone, Beau turned the hose on the fire.

“Might as well just have everybody piss on it,” Jasper said from behind him.

“I know.” Beau gave the old man a tired grin. “All we can do is try to corral it here.”

“I'd bet my life some bastard lit it,” Jasper said. “Dog started barking about twenty minutes ago. I went outside but couldn't see anybody. Figured it was a coyote or something. Reckon I was wrong.”

“I'd bet with you,” Beau agreed. “All they had to do was light a match, toss it in there, and run like hell. What I'd like to know is why.”

By the time the tanker truck arrived from town, there was nothing left of the shed except blackened sections of corrugated roof and charred, misshapen lumps of equipment. Most of the hands had gone back to the bunkhouse to wash up and rest. Beau, Will, Sky, and Jasper stood together watching the volunteer firemen douse the glowing ruins until every last spark was out. It was almost morning. The night was fading to pale gray above the eastern plain.

Will spat on the smoking ground. His eyes were bloodshot, his face and clothes blackened. “At least the damned place was insured,” he said.

“And nothing else caught fire,” Beau added, aware that he looked as bad as his brother. “When I catch the SOB who started this, there won't be anything left of him to turn over to the law.”

“Well, no sense going back to bed,” Will said. “Come on, let's get some coffee and start the day.”

They were nearing the house when Bernice burst onto the porch and raced toward them, her flannel robe flapping around her legs. “Erin's gone!” she gasped, out of breath. “She told me she was going back to bed, but she's nowhere in the house.”

“Take it easy, Bernice,” Beau said. “As worried as she was about her foal, she probably went to the barn. The rest of you go on ahead. I'll get her.”

Beau loped across the yard to the barn.

Inside, the barn was still dark. The mares were snorting and stamping in their stalls, probably upset by the smell of smoke. Deciding not to turn on the light and startle them further, Beau made his way toward the stall where Lupita and her foal spent the night. Partway there, his boot touched something soft and solid. He glanced down. His heart slammed.

Erin lay facedown in the straw, her white nightgown barely visible in the darkness. When Beau dropped to his knees and touched her hair, his hand came away wet with blood.

 

The truck's fuel gauge was dropping fast. Lute cursed as he negotiated the bumpy, rutted road. Was he using more gas than usual because of the trailer, or did he have a leak somewhere? Why the hell hadn't he thought to grab a can of gas out of that shed before he lit the fire?

The fire had been the perfect diversion. With all hands fighting the blaze, hooking up the horse trailer without being seen had been easy. But as he led the mare and foal out of the stall and started for the rear door, the Tyler girl had walked in.

Lute hadn't wanted to hurt the kid. He'd expected her to scream and run away. Instead, she'd grabbed a pitchfork and come at him. Somehow he had managed to pull the pistol out of his belt and club her along the side of the head. Leaving her where she fell, he had loaded the mare and colt, closed up the trailer, and gotten the hell out of Dodge.

The dark was fading into morning. He had hoped to be on the highway by now, but between the rough, winding road and the heavy trailer, he had been lucky to make thirty-five miles an hour. Worse, this godforsaken cow path showed no sign of hooking up with anything.

But maybe his luck was about to change. As light from the rising sun fingered across the land, he made out the shape of something in the distance, right near the sloping hill. It looked like it could be an old barn with a silo next to it. And close by . . . yes, that had to be a house. Gunning the engine, Lute headed for it. His luck was holding. Everything was going to be all right.

 

Beau breathed a prayer of thanks when Erin moaned and opened her blue eyes.

The first word out of her mouth was
“Tesoro!”

“Don't try to talk, sweetheart.” Will's voice betrayed his emotion. “You've been unconscious. We need to get you to the hospital.”

“No!” She struggled to sit up as her father held her back. “Tesoro and Lupita—they've been stolen! We've got to get them back!”

“She's right.” Sky had appeared in the doorway. “The mare and foal are gone. I found tire tracks outside the barn, and one of our trailers is missing.”

“It was Lute!” Erin fought against Will's restraining grip. “I saw him before he hit me. He was leading them to the trailer. I tried to stop him, but—” She fell back on the pillow with a groan, a hand reaching up to the bandage Bernice had applied to the cut on her head.

Will turned toward Sky and Beau. “Well, I guess we know who started the fire,” he said, “and I guess we know why.”

Beau was already moving toward the doorway where Sky waited. “We'll find him.”

“Go,” Will said. “I'll call Tori, then take Erin to the hospital, in case we're dealing with a concussion.”

“Lute's probably headed for Mexico,” Sky said as the two men strode toward the front hall. “I'm guessing he found a buyer for the horses there. We'd better call the highway patrol and have them keep a lookout for him.”

“Good idea, but I have a better one.” Beau motioned Sky into the ranch office. “While you were away buying horses, I put tracking devices on our vehicles, including the trailers. The computer should be able to tell us where he is.”

“Pull it up,” Sky said. “While you're doing that, I'll bring a truck around front with some feed and water. Knowing Lute, those horses won't have much, if any.”

“Grab a couple of loaded guns, too. You know where we keep them.” Beau turned on the computer and opened the tracking application he'd installed weeks ago. By the time Sky returned with a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver and a 30-06 Winchester hunting rifle, the program had located the stolen trailer.

“Lute took the wagon road.” Beau pointed to the map on the screen. “See, he's headed for the old Winslow farm.”

Sky nodded. “I've been out that way. The place has been deserted for as long as I can remember.”

“The family left years ago after their house burned,” Beau said. “Nobody's lived there since. But look, the trailer doesn't appear to be moving past it. Lute must have stopped.”

“My goodness, so that's how it works!” Bernice peered over Beau's shoulder. “I can see right where he is!”

“I'll leave this app running for Will and Jasper,” Beau said. “Let's go. The trailer will slow Lute down. With luck we can catch him before he gets to the highway.”

Bernice followed the two men out onto the porch and watched them climb into the pickup. “I'll phone the sheriff!” she called as they sped away.

 

Natalie drove along the quiet Sunday morning streets of Blanco Springs. A block away was the sheriff 's brick bungalow, where he'd lived his bachelor's existence since his wife had passed away six years ago. Nearing it, Natalie slowed the Land Cruiser and stopped close to the curb of the vacant lot next to the sheriff 's house.

His personal Jeep, minus any official insignia, sat in the carport. She scanned the house for some sign of life, but the shades were down. Natalie hesitated, debating whether to wait until she saw some stir of activity inside, but she didn't have the patience for it.

She glanced at the shotgun Beau had insisted she keep with her at all times. She climbed out of the vehicle, leaving the shotgun where it lay on the floorboard of the passenger seat, and automatically locked the doors behind her.

As she approached the house, Natalie listened for the sound of a television or radio, anything that might indicate the sheriff was up and about, but all she could hear was the squabbling of magpies in a blue spruce near the carport.

The side door opening to the carport was closer than the front door, and Natalie instinctively chose the shortest route. The sudden jangle of a telephone came from somewhere close by. She paused, trying to discern whether it came from within the house or someplace else.

When it rang a second time, Natalie felt sure it came from inside. She followed the sound to the back corner of the house. The same moment that she spotted an open window, someone picked up the phone, cutting the sound off in mid-ring.

“Hello?” The sheriff 's voice was gruff, as if he'd just been awakened. “Yes, Bernice, what is it?”

Natalie froze. She knew of only one Bernice. She inched around the corner.

There was a moment of silence as Axelrod listened to the voice on the phone. “I hear you,” he said. “Thanks for letting me know, Bernice. I'll get right out there.” The bedsprings creaked as he swung his ample weight to the floor.

“Who was that, sugar?” The rich, husky female voice was unmistakable. Natalie swallowed a gasp.
Stella! Stella in bed with the sheriff!

“Tyler's cook,” the sheriff replied. “Seems Lute's turned up. He stole a trailer and a couple of horses from the Tylers, and they've followed a tracking signal to the old Winslow place. I have to get out there before they get their hands on him.”

“You know what you have to do.” Stella's voice had taken on a cold edge.

“Yes, I know. Whatever I have to. Hand me my belt.” There were sounds of dressing, a toilet flushing. Natalie hid behind some bushes, knowing she had to get out of there but unsure of when or which way to go. She was shifting to relieve the strain on her cramped legs when she heard the door to the carport opening. Holding her breath, she moved far enough for a glimpse around the corner of the house.

Axelrod had stepped into the carport and was unlocking the Jeep. He was dressed in a camouflage shirt and wearing his pistol belt. In one hand he carried a military assault rifle.

Natalie's heart dropped. It was a Barrett .50 BM, like the one Slade had owned.

The Jeep pulled out of the driveway and headed up the street. Praying Stella wouldn't see her, Natalie bellied her way around the back of the house and exited on the far side. Ducking around a hedge, she raced back to the white Toyota parked next door. Her purse, with her phone in it, was tucked under the front seat. She needed to call Beau, to warn him that Axelrod was carrying a sniper rifle and likely bent on murder.

But whose murder? The answer came on the heels of the question. Killing Beau wouldn't be in the sheriff 's best interest. He was counting on Beau's conviction to win him a congressional seat. But killing Lute would silence the one person who could shed light on Slade's murder and more . . . possibly much more.

Axelrod was going to kill Lute—as he'd likely killed Slade, perhaps as he'd even killed Jess Warner. And if there was a way to blame Lute's murder on Beau as well, he would find it.

Snatching up her purse, she found her cell phone and tried to dial Beau's number. But the phone was dead in her hand. In her excitement at finding the deposit receipt last night, she'd forgotten to recharge the battery.