The Texan (2 page)

Owen grabbed Luke by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his pants, and to the strains of “Achy Breaky Heart,” frog-marched the kid past his sister, yanked open the door, and threw him out into the street.

“Go home and cool off,” he said.

The kid’s sister shoved her way past him and hurried to her brother’s side. The asphalt parking lot was full of potholes, and the kid must have tripped on one, because he’d fallen forward onto his hands and knees.

“Luke, are you all right?” she cried.

The boy shoved his sister away as he rose to his feet. “Leave me alone.”

Owen wondered if Bayleigh Creed was smart enough to know that her brother was more upset that she’d witnessed what had happened than he was about landing on the ground. From what Owen could see in the glow of blue neon light that spelled out “Armadillo Bar” in cursive across the whitewashed adobe wall, the kid was fine, and his job was done. He turned to head back inside the darkened bar.

He hadn’t gone two steps before the boy shouted, “Hey, you!” and shoved him in the back.

Owen heard the kid’s sister gasp as he turned to face the battling mosquito that refused to go away. He didn’t want to swat it flat. It took all his self-control to keep his balled fists at his sides. He spread his legs in a wider stance, to give him leverage if it came to a fight.

“What is it you want, kid?”

“I want you Blackthorne bastards to pay for what you did to my dad.”

There was nothing Owen could say to that. “You’d better take your brother home,” he said to the kid’s sister. “And tuck him into bed.”

“Why, you—”

The kid charged, and Owen hit him once in the stomach, doubling him over.

Bayleigh Creed whirled on him like an avenging fury, her thick auburn hair swinging across her shoulders as she turned, her blue eyes blazing. She got into his space pretty quick, and he fought the urge to back up as she poked him in the chest with a pointed finger and said, “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

He saw the sprinkle of childish freckles across her nose and almost laughed. He managed to cough instead.
His own size?
He looked pointedly down at her, then looked her up and down. Slowly. Thoroughly. Until he saw the dark flush rising on her cheeks.

She barely reached his shoulder. Both of his hands would have fit around her waist. She curved in all the right places, even if there wasn’t as much up top as he normally liked. Although, honestly, more than a handful was wasted.

“The kid came here looking for trouble,” Owen said at last. “He found it.” Even as he spoke, Owen realized explanations were futile.

He was a Blackthorne; she was a Creed. Their families had been feuding for generations. It didn’t matter what he said. She was going to side with family.

“You shouldn’t have provoked him,” she said, her chest heaving in a way that drew his attention. “He’s had a hard time dealing with Dad’s death.”

“I’ll say,” Owen muttered.

She glared at him, and he noticed her eyes weren’t blue anymore, they were kind of violet. He wondered if they turned dark like that every time she got mad.

“He’s just a kid,” she said. “If you Blackthornes would leave him alone—”

“I can fight my own battles,” her brother said as he straightened. He glowered at Owen. “I’ll find enough proof this time to make sure that another one of you Blackthornes doesn’t get away with murder.”

Owen’s eyes narrowed. “Are you accusing Clay of having something to do with the death of that Texas Ranger in the Big Bend?”

“It’s all part of the same thing, isn’t it?” Luke said. “That hijacked army truck was left just outside the borders of the Big Bend. Then that Texas Ranger goes into the Big Bend hunting for those mines. Supposedly, he’s the best tracker in Texas, and he always finds what he’s looking for.

“Suddenly,
pow
! He gets shot between the eyes. I figure whoever stole those mines killed that Ranger to keep him from talking. And your brother stole those mines.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Owen said.

The kid smirked. “I’m going to make sure that brother of yours ends up on death row. See if I don’t!”

“Luke,” the kid’s sister said. “Maybe you shouldn’t be making accusations—”

“Stop treating me like I’m some stupid kid,” the boy interrupted. “I know what I’m talking about.”

“Why don’t you come home with me and—”

“And what?” the kid snarled. “Swallow my medicine like a good boy? I’m gonna choke to death if I have to swallow any more—” The kid made a growling sound in his throat.

But Owen had no trouble filling in the missing word.
Pride
. It all came down to that, he realized. The Creeds had nearly lost Three Oaks when Jesse Creed died, and the family had been forced to come up with millions of dollars to pay estate taxes on the ranch. Even now, the
Creeds fought every day to make ends meet. To add insult to injury, the rich and powerful Blackthornes were responsible for this latest trial for the proud but struggling Creeds.

“Go home, kid, and sleep off whatever it is you’ve got in your system. You’re delusional,” Owen said.

“The hell I am!” the kid flared.

A few cowhands had collected around them, patrons of the bar who’d arrived but couldn’t get through the front door because of the altercation between Owen and Luke.

“Get going or get arrested,” Owen said flatly.

“I’m going,” Luke said, his throat working and his eyes glazed with angry tears. “But tell your brother he isn’t going to get away with it. I won’t stop till I can prove he’s guilty.”

He watched Bayleigh Creed’s wide, frightened eyes as her brother jumped onto his Harley, kicked it to life, and roared down Main Street so recklessly he nearly ended up a smear on the pavement.

“Luke,” she cried. “Stop!”

But it was too late. The kid was gone.

He noticed she was trembling. “Maybe you’d better come inside and sit down,” he said.

“You can go straight to hell.” She turned and marched past him. She’d taken about three steps when she stopped, pivoted, and marched right back past him in the opposite direction, her back ramrod straight. A moment later she reached her pickup, yanked the battered door open, and stepped inside.

She was a spitfire, all right. His eyes crinkled at the corners and his mouth cocked up on one side in an almost-grin as he remembered her challenge.
Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?
“I don’t think you’d qualify, Mizz
Creed,” he murmured, as he stared at the disappearing tail-lights on her truck. He shook his head and laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Clay asked.

Owen turned to find his twin at his side. “How’s your nose?”

“It hurts,” Clay said. “At least the bleeding’s stopped. Did you figure out what that kid’s problem is?”

“He’s a little loco, I guess,” Owen said. “He thinks you’re behind the theft of those VX mines.”

“That’s crazy, all right,” Clay agreed with a disbelieving shake of his head. “Still want to have a beer?”

Owen sighed as he remembered why he’d come to the bar in the first place. To seek solace from his brother for the death of his friend Texas Ranger Hank Richardson—the man who’d been shot between the eyes by whoever had stolen those VX mines. “Yeah,” Owen said. “A beer sounds like a good idea.”

Owen felt Clay’s comforting arm around his shoulder as they headed back inside. They collected a couple of beers at the bar and grabbed a booth that had just emptied, where they could have a little more privacy.

They didn’t say anything for a while, just listened to the nasal performance of a favorite Clint Black tune on the jukebox.

When the song ended, Clay took a long swig of beer, set his bottle down on one of the silver dollars that was laminated into the tabletop, and said, “I can’t make it to Hank’s funeral tomorrow, Owe.”

Owen felt his throat tighten with emotion. He kept his eyes lowered, so Clay wouldn’t see how devastated he was by his brother’s news. He wasn’t sure he could handle the funeral on his own. He wanted his brother beside him in case he needed a strong shoulder to lean on.

“I don’t think I’ll be missed,” Clay said. “Every police officer in Texas is liable to show up here in Bitter Creek tomorrow to pay their respects to Hank.”

None of them is my brother
, Owen thought.
I can’t turn to one of them, if I start to fall apart
. “Isn’t there any way you can rearrange your plans?”

“’Fraid not. I’ve got some business in Midland tomorrow with Paul Ridgeway.”

Owen took a sip of beer while he contemplated Clay’s revelation. Paul Ridgeway was the FBI’s special-agent-in-charge of coordinating all the law enforcement agencies investigating the theft of the VX mines. He had also
almost
been Clay’s father-in-law.

Clay had been engaged to Paul’s only child Cindy until she’d been murdered a year ago, two weeks before their wedding. Paul had tracked down his daughter’s murderer, who’d turned out to be a vagrant, and shot him when he resisted arrest. But he’d had a difficult time dealing with his daughter’s death, and Clay had spent a lot of time with him over the past year, keeping him company on hunting trips and attending football games. Offering comfort.

The same comfort Owen needed now. The same comfort Owen had offered his brother at Cindy’s funeral. He’d been there when Clay fell to pieces the morning Cindy was buried. He’d hoped to have Clay’s support when he buried his best friend tomorrow.

Then he remembered Luke Creed’s accusations. Owen knew Clay hadn’t stolen the mines. That was absurd. But maybe Clay knew something about their theft. After all, it was soldiers in Clay’s National Guard unit, a heavy mechanized engineer battalion that specialized in laying mines during combat, who’d discovered the mislabeled crates of nerve gas mines.

“Does your business with Paul have anything to do with those missing VX mines?” Owen asked pointedly.

“My business with Paul is absolutely personal,” Clay said with a grin that acknowledged the contradiction in terms.

“Which means you’re not going to tell me.”

“Nope.”

“You’re a secretive sonofabitch,” Owen said.

“Yep. At least to the secretive part.”

Owen dutifully laughed. “I wish you could be there,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Owe. I can’t.”

Owen concentrated on tearing the label off his beer. His nose stung, and his throat ached. The grief he felt was terrible. But he wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t.

It had been so long since he’d cried, he wasn’t sure he could. And he had an awful, frightening feeling that if he let even one drop fall, he might not be able to stop the humiliating flow of tears. It had happened once before.

When he was nine, he’d gone hunting with his father and shot his first white-tailed buck. He hadn’t killed the deer, and it was thrashing in the underbrush and shrieking in agony—something he hadn’t known a deer could do.

His father had refused to kill the buck for him, saying it was up to him to end the animal’s suffering. Tears had spurted from his eyes as he held the knife to the deer’s throat, unable to cause the pain that would end its pain forever. He’d seen the disappointment in his father’s eyes.

Worse was yet to come. His father had agreed to kill the buck for him the moment he stopped crying. Owen had tried to stanch his tears, but every time the deer shrieked, his throat clenched and more tears fell. Until at last he’d found himself on his knees with the knife in his hand slitting the deer’s throat himself to end its torment.

Once the deer was dead, his tears had stopped abruptly. Nothing that had happened to him since—no joy or pain or sorrow—had wrung a tear from him. But he’d never lost someone so close to him before, and Hank Richardson’s death was turning out to be a lot harder to handle than he’d expected.

Owen was glad his beer was gone, because it was impossible to swallow past the knot of anguish in his throat. It felt as though a steel band were tightening around his chest. Hank would have given him one of those fierce, rough hugs that men share when emotions are running high, and no one’s about to admit they’re hurting so bad inside they can’t breathe.

But Hank wasn’t here. And it did hurt to breathe.

He felt Clay’s hand tighten around his forearm. “It’ll be okay, Owe. Not right away. It takes a while. I know.”

Owen swallowed painfully. He felt his eyes watering and bit his lip hard to keep the tears at bay.

“How’s Julia holding up?” Clay asked.

He raised tortured eyes to meet his brother’s gaze and said in a raspy voice, “How do you think?” It was easier to handle the pain if he turned it into anger. Easier to rage than to cry. “She’s eight months pregnant, for God’s sake! I told Hank he should let someone else go into the Big Bend after those stolen munitions, especially with Julia so close to her time, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

“Texas Rangers are notorious for that sort of glorious sacrifice,” Clay said quietly. “I mean, heading off into the wilderness alone to hunt down the bad guys. It’s too bad Hank got ambushed. Is there any evidence from the scene you can use to help you find his killer?”

“We found a note in Hank’s handwriting in the lining of
his hat that said, ‘Find the perfect lady, and you’ll find the thief.’”

Clay frowned. “Does anyone know what that means?”

“Not a clue,” Owen said. “But I intend to find out.”

“On your own?”

“Rangers work alone,” Owen said. “It’s the nature of the beast.”

“Under the circumstances, I’d think you’d want some backup,” Clay said.

“Are you suggesting I should bring along a posse?”

Clay smiled. “The thought had crossed my mind. What makes you think you’ll have any better luck finding those stolen munitions than Hank had?”

“Hank must have gotten close, or they wouldn’t have killed him. I’ll start where we found his body and work the trail from there.”

“Will you have any trouble getting assigned to the case? I mean, the Big Bend is a long way from your normal hunting grounds,” Clay said.

“I’ve already arranged it with my boss, and he worked it out with the FBI.”

Clay took another swallow of beer. “Will you be okay tomorrow?”