Page 2
C HAPTER T WO
F rom the window of his fourth-floor office, FBI Agent Sam Rafferty watched the setting sun cast shadows over the streets of downtown Abilene. It was time to leave for the day. But he needed to make sure his work was caught up before setting out for the Culhane Ranch in the morning.
The Frank Culhane murder case had become the albatross around his neck. When Madeleine Culhane had confessed to hiring a hitman, Sam had been sure he’d found Frank’s killer. Even after Madeleine revealed that she had a terminal brain tumor, it made sense that she’d dispense with Frank so her children could fight Lila for the ranch.
The discovery that someone else had already killed Frank had rocked Sam’s world. Something else had rocked his world even harder—falling in love with Frank and Madeleine’s free-spirited daughter, Jasmine.
“So you’re leaving tomorrow?” Nick Bellingham stood in the doorway of Sam’s office. Nick, a white-haired man a few months from retirement, had been Sam’s first boss at the Bureau back in Chicago. He had recommended Sam to replace him in the Abilene office, but only if Sam showed that he could perform the job.
“Yup.” Sam turned away from the window. “It’s back to square one for me.”
“At least you know the people you’ll be dealing with.” Nick walked into the room. “Who’s your money on? The widow? Or maybe the horse trainer?”
Sam shrugged. “It could be any of them, including Frank’s lawyer son and the creepy neighbor with the game hunting ranch.”
“You didn’t mention the daughter—Jasmine, is that her name? She had her differences with Frank, too.”
Sam shrugged again, trying to appear nonchalant. He’d broken the rules by sleeping with Jasmine—rules that could cost him his job. Nick didn’t know about that, unless he’d guessed. “She won’t be at the ranch this time,” he said. “She’s in Austin, looking after her sick mother.”
“Well, you can’t rule her out, either.”
“True.” Sam shuffled the papers on his desk, wishing his old friend and mentor would be on his way. “I’ve tried to leave things in good shape here,” he said. “The reports are up-to-date and filed. I’ve no idea how long I’ll be at the ranch, but I’ll keep you posted.”
“I know you will. And I know how badly you want to put this case to bed. I’ll be rooting for you.”
“How’s the Divino investigation going?” Sam changed the subject. Louis Divino, a known racketeer, had moved his operation from Chicago to Texas. Nick had been trying to arrest him for years. But Divino was slippery, with sharp lawyers and hired goons to do his dirty work. It was no secret that he was a friend of Madeleine’s and had helped her arrange the hit on Frank Culhane. But since the hit had never taken place, he was in the clear.
“Dead end,” Nick said. “I was hoping to nail the bastard before my retirement, but it’s looking like that job might fall to you.”
“You’re not retired yet, Nick.”
“We’ll see how it goes. Anyway, you’ll have your hands full dealing with the Culhanes. Go on, now. Get some rest before you hit the road tomorrow.”
“Thanks. At least I’ll be driving a decent car this time.” Sam picked up his briefcase and took the elevator down to the parking garage.
The black Chevy SUV he’d been driving belonged to the Bureau. His own car, an aging Toyota, had been left in Chicago. Sam had flown to Abilene for a job interview and been thrown onto the Culhane case the first day. He’d had no time off to return to Chicago and move his belongings out of the rented apartment where he’d lived since his divorce. Meanwhile, he was camping out in a dreary motel room.
After taking his cell phone out of his pocket, he checked for new messages. The only thing worth reading was a text from Lila Culhane confirming that his quarters in the guest bungalow would be ready for his arrival. He knew she wouldn’t be pleased to welcome him back. But when the Bureau had made the request, she’d known better than to refuse.
The temptation to phone Jasmine at her mother’s condo in Austin was almost eating him alive. He thrust the phone back into his pocket and started the vehicle. At times like this, Sam would have bargained his soul to hear her voice. But while he was back on the Culhane case, their relationship was taboo. For the sake of his job, they’d agreed to stay apart until the investigation was over. Even a phone call could be traced and checked.
The hell of it was, as long as the case remained unsolved, Jasmine couldn’t be ruled out as a suspect. The fact that he loved her couldn’t be allowed to matter. Sam’s instincts, combined with the lack of evidence, told him she was as innocent as she claimed to be.
But what if he was wrong?
* * *
Before leaving the stable, Roper checked the stall gates to make sure every door was locked. A few weeks ago, he might have left the task to one of the grooms. But that was before a hired hand’s negligence had let a wild animal into the stable. The huge hyena had escaped from the nearby game farm. After slipping through an open door, it had killed Million Dollar Baby, the ranch’s prize mare.
Baby’s tragic loss had set off a chain reaction of repercussions. The clash with Lila that morning had been only one of them. Now, with the Run for a Million just weeks away, Roper found himself at a crossroads.
Chet Barr, a leading quarter horse breeder, had offered Roper one of his best horses—a chestnut stallion named Fire Dance. Five years old, bred from a line of champions, the russet-coated horse had won several futurity events and was scoring well in big-time reining competition. Roper had seen him perform at the Cactus Classic and been impressed.
If asked, Barr would probably let him work with the stallion at his ranch near Amarillo. For Roper, there might even be a chance of a future job offer. But that would mean a permanent break with Lila. Was that what he wanted?
Barr was getting impatient for an answer. If Roper didn’t accept the horse soon, it might be offered to someone else. There were other horses available, but Fire Dance had the look of a winner. Whether he had the heart was something Roper wouldn’t know until he rode him in competition.
In the Run for a Million, with sixteen of the world’s best horses and riders competing, anything could happen. But another event, the Shootout, which would take place a day earlier, was just as demanding and every bit as stressful. The Shootout was a qualifier. Out of more than fifty competitors, the five riders with the top scores would secure their place in next year’s Run for a Million. Riders who didn’t make the cut would have one more chance at the Cactus Classic in March, where the remaining eleven would qualify.
Even the riders in this year’s big event would have to compete for a slot next year. Roper had already registered for the Shootout. Again, there was the question of which horse to use. But with so much hanging in the balance, including his job with Lila, he was too tired to make a decision tonight. He would get a good supper in his belly, sleep if he could, and start fresh in the morning. Maybe some answers would come to him.
The moon was rising by the time he crossed the employee lot to his aging Ford pickup and headed out the gate for home. Roper lived with his family on the small ranch they’d bought two years ago, when they moved from Colorado. Rich folks like the Culhanes looked down on them. But Roper’s parents were honest and hardworking, and his younger half-siblings—three boys and a girl—were rodeo stars on the national stage. They’d even been featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated .
Roper had been a winning bronc rider until an injury had forced him to quit and become a trainer. Looking back, he reflected, the horse that broke his hip had done him a favor. He could only hope that Stetson, Rowdy, Chance, and Cheyenne would have the sense to move on before they got injured or washed up.
The four had been out on the circuit most of the week, but as Roper crossed the creek by the bridge, drove through the gate, and saw the motor home and horse trailer, his spirit lightened. He was always happy to have the young ones come home.
The mouthwatering smell of his mother’s pot roast and fresh biscuits wafted through the open door of the simple clapboard house. There was a shabbiness about the place, but the need for corrals and a new stable had come before the vanity project of fixing up the house. Ever practical, his mother had insisted she didn’t need new flooring, cabinets, or siding anytime soon.
The aging cattle dog mix came wagging out to greet Roper as he climbed down from the truck. After petting the dog, he washed his hands at the pump and went inside.
The rest of the family was in the kitchen. The three lanky, suntanned boys—Stetson, Rowdy, and Chance—were seated around the table. Kirby, their father, was in his wheelchair, sipping from the ever-present cup of whiskey-laced coffee that he drank to ease the pain of his back, crushed years ago by a massive bucking bull.
Twenty-year-old Cheyenne was filling the unmatched glasses with ice water. A petite brunette with sensual lips and fiery eyes, she was the media star among the four young rodeo champions. Roper was aware that she’d turned down modeling and movie offers to compete on the circuit with her brothers. How long that would last was anybody’s guess.
Rachel, Roper’s mother, paused to tuck a strand of graying hair behind her ear, then moved the platter of meat and vegetables from the counter to the table and took her seat at the far end. She’d been a beauty once, but years of ranch life, raising a family, and caring for a disabled husband had taken their toll. Now she was the steady rock of the McKenna family, her softness worn away and replaced by steel.
The family joined hands around the table and shared a brief blessing. Then they filled their plates and began eating. Rachel was the kind of cook who could turn the cheapest ingredients into a tasty meal. Even in hard times, they’d never wanted for good food.
Roper would have to move away if he were to leave the nearby Culhane stables and go to work for another ranch. That could prove a problem. His parents needed him when their four younger offspring were on the rodeo circuit. Of course, Kirby and Rachel could always hire some help. Between Roper’s salary and the winnings of the young rodeo stars, they could easily afford it. But Rachel had always resisted. “I always believed folks should do for themselves,” she was fond of saying. “Paying somebody for work you could do with your own hands is plain laziness and a waste of money.”
“So how did the rodeo go, boys?” Kirby’s gravelly voice broke through the low murmur of hungry people eating.
“Fine,” Stetson said. “Rowdy won a buckle in bareback, and Chance was second in tie-down.”
“Only second?” Kirby sipped from the coffee-stained porcelain cup. For a man whose system was steeped in alcohol, he was sharp. “And what about you, Stetson?”
“I took the bull riding with an 88, but I banged my shoulder on the dismount. It’ll be sore for a while.”
“Just rub some of your mother’s liniment on it.” Kirby’s gaze shifted to Cheyenne. “And what about you, girl?”
“Jezebel went down on the third barrel. She’s all right. That’s what matters.”
“And what about you? Were you hurt?”
“I’m fine, Dad.” Cheyenne turned away from him to hide the darkening bruise on her cheek, but Kirby’s sharp eyes missed nothing.
“Blast it, what happened?” Kirby demanded. “I told you not to cut so close to those barrels.”
She shrugged. “I do it to win.”
“Well, you can’t do it forever. And if you don’t stop, you could end up like me. Maybe you need to quit the rodeo and do something sensible, like beauty school.”
“Leave her alone, Kirby,” Rachel said. “Let her enjoy her supper in peace. She’s got better ways to make a living than beauty school. If she took the modeling offer from that fancy magazine—”
“May I please be excused?” Without waiting for a reply, Cheyenne pushed back her chair, stood, and stalked out of the kitchen. Roper glimpsed tears as she rushed passed him.
As the screen door slammed, the boys exchanged glances. “She’s been off her game all weekend,” Chance said. “Maybe it’s, you know, her time of the month.”
“That’s enough, Chance,” Rachel snapped. “That’s none of your business and not fit for the table. Not another word.”
“Sorry, Mom.” Chance speared another slice of pot roast.
Roper, who’d eaten all he wanted, stood and carried his plate to the sink. “I’ll go out and make sure she’s all right,” he said.
“Fine.” Kirby drizzled more whiskey into his cup. “Maybe you can talk some sense into the girl.”
“Don’t hold your breath, Dad,” Rowdy said.
Ignoring the exchange, Roper opened the screen door and went outside. He’d expected to find Cheyenne huddled on the steps. When he didn’t see her there, he crossed the yard. He found her perched on the corral fence, watching the horses that had been unloaded from the trailer. Among them was Jezebel, the palomino mare she used for barrel racing.
Without a word, he joined her on the fence, slinging his leg over the top rail to settle beside her. Neither of them spoke at first, but the silence between them was comfortable.
“Is Jezebel all right?” he asked her.
“She seems all right. At least she’s not limping, and she ate her oats earlier. What do you think?”
Roper took a few seconds to watch the mare. “She looks fine to me,” he said. “It’s you I’m concerned about. That’s a nasty bruise on your cheek. Something tells me you’ve got more bruises that don’t show.”
She exhaled—a broken sigh, verging on a sob. “I don’t want to do rodeo with the boys anymore,” she said. “Stetson spent the night with a buckle bunny, and I think Rowdy is smoking weed, maybe more. Chance is headed the same way. Mom would have a fit if she knew. So much for having raised us by the Good Book.”
“I take it you’re not going to tell her.”
“Heavens, no. That would only break her heart and make everything worse.”
“So what are you going to do, Little Sis?” Roper asked.
Cheyenne watched the flight of a shooting star. A distant train whistle echoed through the darkness.
“That fall with Jezebel was a wake-up call,” she said. “It was my fault, not hers. I’d lost focus and cut the turn too sharp. If she’d been injured, I would never have forgiven myself.”
“You could’ve been hurt, too. Look at your dad. Look at me. Rodeo is dangerous business, even when you’re not riding a bucker. And the lifestyle’s tough, too. More cowboys die in road accidents than in the arena.”
“It’s not that,” Cheyenne said. “I just feel burned out— the culture, the people, even the sport. I want something different, Roper, and I think I know what it is.”
Roper held his tongue, waiting for her to go on.
“You know that this year, the Run for a Million added a Cutting Horse Challenge,” she said. “I’m not ready now, but with hard work I could aim for rookie status next year or even non-pro the year after.”
“That’s a tall order, Little Sis,” Roper said. “Make sure you know what you’re getting into.”
“I was cutting cows on our Colorado ranch when I was ten years old. I know how to do it.”
“But have you seen it in competition? It’s intense,” Roper said. “And being a rodeo champion won’t buy you much. You can’t just waltz into the big events. You have to work your way up. There are competitions every weekend. Winning takes time and experience.
“And no matter how good you might be,” Roper continued, “in cutting, it’s the horse that counts—a horse with the training, smarts, and cow sense to separate a cow out of the herd and keep it from running back, time after time. Believe me, those horses don’t come cheap. You can’t just use Jezebel.”
“Don’t patronize me, Roper. I know that. I’ve watched events on TV. And I know what good cutting horses cost.”
“Can you afford one?”
“I think so. I’ve put half my winnings in the account for the ranch. But I’ve saved the rest.”
“What about that modeling spread for Vogue magazine? How much were you offered?”
“A lot,” Cheyenne said. “I turned them down, but they said to let them know if I changed my mind.”
“You’d be smart to say yes. If you’re serious about cutting, the money would buy you a better horse.”
She gave him a tentative smile. “You know how I hate that sort of silliness,” she said. “But all right, I’ll grit my teeth and do it. When I have the money, I’ll need your help choosing a horse. And I hope you can help me with training, too.”
“Let’s see how it goes,” Roper said. “For now, I’ll try to get you a behind-the-scenes pass to the cutting event at the Run for a Million. You can see the horses and get a picture of how they’re trained and handled, maybe even meet some of the riders.”
“You could do that? That would be amazing!”
“I said I’d try. Meanwhile, you work on getting the money for your horse.”
Roper knew better than to make promises he couldn’t keep. If he were to leave his job with Lila, he might not be available to help his sister. Cheyenne was a superb horsewoman, but she couldn’t compete in cutting without rigorous training on her chosen horse. That included an enclosure where she could work with cows.
Two years ago, when she was eighteen and already doing rodeo, Frank Culhane had offered to train her in reining. He had taken her to the Cactus Classic in Scottsdale in the hope of rousing her interest. Cheyenne had turned him down flat.
Whether it was because she didn’t care for the sport or that she’d felt uncomfortable with Frank, Roper didn’t know. He had been in Colorado at the time, finalizing the sale of the family ranch there.
Now Frank was gone, and things were different at the Culhane Ranch. If Roper were to stay, Cheyenne might be able to do her training and keep her horse there.
If he were to stay.
He couldn’t afford to wait any longer. He needed to decide on the horse, the arrangement with Chet Barr, and his relationship with Lila.
The choices he made tomorrow could be life-changing.
* * *
The sun was climbing toward midday when Lila drove her new white Porsche Carrera to Willow Bend. A hundred years ago, the town had been a prosperous center for the cattle business. Now, with most of the animals being trucked off to feed lots and the money going to big city banks, Willow Bend had shrunk to a quarter of its former size. These days, it served the surrounding ranches with a grocery store and ranch supply store, a gas station with a garage, a police and fire station, a small courthouse with an attached jail, a saloon, a school, and a decent restaurant.
The Blue Rose, a seedy, rundown motel on the outskirts of town, served visitors and the occasional tryst. Driving past it, Lila couldn’t help wondering how many times Frank had bedded his young mistress there—and how many others there’d been.
Frank’s son, Darrin, lived in Willow Bend with his pregnant wife, Simone. He practiced law out of his home office and managed the ranch’s cattle operation, which his mother had been awarded in her divorce from Frank.
Since Frank’s death, Darrin had declared war on Lila’s right to inherit the Culhane mansion and stables. As she drove past his house—a large bungalow style, built by the founder of the town, Lila could imagine the red-headed weasel at his desk, working out the details of the lawsuit, to be set for court in the next few months.
Frank’s will, made early in the marriage, had left the property to her and their future children. But since Lila had given him no children, and she wasn’t a Culhane by blood, the lawyers were arguing that the will no longer applied and everything should go to his first family.
A nasty legal fight lay ahead. But Lila couldn’t think about that now, not when she was about to meet the woman who claimed to be carrying Frank’s child.
She parked at the curb in front of the Trail’s End restaurant, behind a battered blue Hyundai Elantra with a mismatched door. If that was Crystal’s car, she could be in desperate straits—or the car could be for show. Lila knew better than to assume anything about the woman she was about to meet.
Dressed simply, in khakis and a denim shirt, she slung her purse over her shoulder and climbed out of the Porsche. Willing herself to ignore her racing pulse, she walked into the restaurant. The busy lunch hour wouldn’t start for another fifteen minutes. She hoped that would give her enough quiet time to find out what she needed to know. If Miss Crystal Carter turned out to be a fraud, this messy business would be finished.
The dining area was arranged with booths around the outside and tables in the center. Lila scanned the booths. Spotting Crystal took no more than a few seconds. She was seated in the corner, sipping a soda. She looked up as Lila entered the room, then lowered her gaze. She was young and pretty, just the way Frank had always liked his girls.
Close up, she was even prettier, with doe eyes and a cloud of dark curls. Her makeup was heavy, the red lips, blue eyeshadow, and false eyelashes too dramatic for Lila’s taste, but she did have good skin. The woman’s left hand, splayed on the table, exhibited the same fake nails and rings that Lila had seen in the photo as it rested on Frank’s shoulder.
“May I sit down, Miss Carter?” Lila asked in a formal voice. The last thing she wanted was to appear sympathetic.
“Sure.” She was wearing a black tee that outlined her swollen breasts.
Lila slid into the booth and ordered a Coke with lemon from a passing server. “Just a few questions for now,” she said, skipping the usual pleasantries. “How far along are you?”
“I took one of those drugstore tests last week,” she said. “I’m already getting morning sickness, so I figure about three months. Once I start to show I’ll probably have to quit my job. That’s when I’m really going to need help.”
“And what’s your job?” Lila asked.
“I’m a hostess at the Jackalope Saloon down the street. That’s where I met Frank.”
“And you’re sure your baby is his?” Lila forced each word.
“Oh, absolutely. Whatever you might think, I’m not a tramp. I loved Frank. He was . . . the only one.”
“Did Frank know about the baby?”
She shook her head. “I was going to tell him, but . . . you know.” Her voice broke in a muffled sob. “Now I don’t know what to do.”
Was she grief-stricken or just acting? Lila took a deep breath. “Now comes the big question. Are you willing to submit to a paternity test?”
A startled look flashed across her face. “Can they do that—even before the baby’s born?”
“It’s done all the time these days.” Lila squeezed the lemon slice into the Coke that the server had left. Sipping the drink, she studied Crystal’s reaction. After a moment, she took a business card out of her purse. “Here’s the number and address of a doctor in Abilene. He’s agreed to take the sample and set up the test. I will pay, of course, and furnish a sample of Frank’s DNA. He’ll phone me with the results. If it’s a match, then we’ll talk. If not, we’re done. Give him a call. All right?”
Crystal looked confused. “But won’t it hurt the baby? And what about me? I’ll have to miss work to drive to Abilene. I know the baby is Frank’s. Can’t you just take my word for it?”
Holding back a storm of rage, contempt, and fear, Lila laid a $10 bill on the table for the drinks, slid out of the booth, and stood. Given free rein, she would have grabbed Crystal by the shoulders and shaken some sense into her. Instead, she kept her icy demeanor.
“Miss Carter, until you take that paternity test, this conversation is finished. If the baby is Frank’s, I’ll contact you. Otherwise, you and I will have nothing more to say to each other. Do you understand?”
Crystal’s chin quivered slightly. “Do you need my phone number?”
“I already have it.” Fighting her emotions, Lila turned away from the table, left the restaurant, and drove away in her car.
She had hoped to get some answers from Crystal. But she’d only come away with more questions. Was the young woman as na?ve as she’d appeared to be? Had she loved Frank or simply seized on a rare opportunity? Was he really, as she’d claimed, the only one?
For now, all Lila could do was wait for the results of the paternity test.
* * *
By the time Crystal finished her Coke, the lunchtime customers were arriving. For a moment she was tempted to pocket the money Lila Culhane had left for the drinks. But someone could be watching, and she didn’t need that kind of trouble.
She left the restaurant and then climbed into the beat-up blue Hyundai parked at the curb. Earlier, she’d glimpsed the white Porsche through the window. Lila, that cold bitch, had everything. The lady was a real ice queen—probably that way in bed, too. But in the end, Frank had found a woman who could give him the love he needed.
When she turned the spare key she’d found, the Hyundai’s engine coughed to life. The car, which needed a valve job and a muffler, wasn’t hers. Judd, her ex-boyfriend, wouldn’t need it until he got out of jail—if he got out. Dealing crack could get him months, even years, behind bars.
By the time he got out, she wouldn’t need his crappy car anymore. She would be sitting on a pile of money—unless her baby turned out to be not Frank’s but Judd’s.
She shifted down and pulled away from the curb, her sweating hands locked on the wheel. Why hadn’t she been aware that the paternity test could be done so soon? She’d hoped for more time to get help from Frank’s family, maybe a new car and a decent place to live. The reckoning wasn’t supposed to come until the baby was born. By then, even if the DNA wasn’t a match to Frank’s, she would have gained something.
But that time window had closed. Lila wanted proof now. Unless the test proved that Crystal was carrying a Culhane, Frank’s widow wouldn’t even talk to her.
If Frank was the father, that would put Crystal in a strong bargaining position. Lila would want that baby, or at least want to see it well cared for. With luck, she’d be willing to pay.
But if the kid was Judd’s, that would be the end of her hopes. Crystal didn’t want Judd’s baby. She didn’t want to have it or raise it. She would have a decision to make.
What were the odds? She hadn’t slept with Judd after she’d hooked up with Frank. But the last time had been close enough for the count. Her periods had never been regular. And she’d never bothered with birth control. Too expensive and too much bother.
There was one thing she needed to do. She had never made a clean break with Judd. Now that Frank was gone, Judd could be expecting her to come back to him. She needed to see him one last time, to make him understand that they were through.
She touched the pocket where she’d put the doctor’s card. The stakes were high—all or nothing. But the sooner she knew the truth about her baby, the sooner she could move forward with some kind of plan.
She would call the doctor tomorrow.