Midnight Cowboy Page 14

  Andy tensed at the implied threat in the invitation, her stomach dropping to her toes, but somehow she managed to keep her expression pleasant. Was Gene Mott just a strange man, given to quirks of personality—insufferably rude one moment and overtly friendly the next? Or was he Nightmare Man—playing some sick, psychotic game with her?

  Either way, Andy was interested. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Good. Around two, then?”

  “We’ll be there,” Jack answered for her. Ignoring Andy’s bemused expression and Gene’s darkening one, he leaned forward on the saddle horn. He didn’t care if the whole town thought him rude, he’d be damned if he’d let Andy spend any time anywhere alone with either of these men. Now that she’d admitted to her true identity—whether or not she liked it—he was her brand-new shadow. “I was kind of hoping we’d run into the two of you.”

  Duke and Gene exchanged an uneasy glance as if they’d been caught doing something nefarious. This was the second time Jack had had that impression about these two men.

  Duke toyed with his reins. “Why is that?”

  Andy pushed her hat to the back of her head and directed her attention to Duke. “Jack and I visited your house this morning. We wanted to ask you something about…scorpions. You see, someone put one in my bed the other night.”

  Gene drew a sharp breath.

  Duke jerked his gaze to Andy. “Jeez, who’d pull a nasty trick like that on a pretty young thing like you?”

  “I don’t know. We thought if we could find where the scorpion came from…”

  “Don’t look at me.” Duke’s rugged face was all innocence.

  “Of course not. It’s just that Red said you gave him the scorpion in his bar.”

  Warily, Duke pulled his hat from his head and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his dirty shirt. “That I did.”

  “He said it was one of four you brought back from an excursion down south. He says you gave one to someone else and kept two for yourself.”

  Plummer shook his head. “Red’s mistaken. I brought only two scorpions home from Florida. I gave him the healthy one. The other died. I mounted it.”

  The one they’d seen on the shelf in his garage. Andy shivered.

  “Are you sure?” Jack asked, his Appaloosa prancing in a circle.

  Duke plopped his brown hat back onto his head. “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Something eating at you today, Jack?” Gene asked. “You sound downright hostile.”

  Jack shifted his gaze from the rifle near Gene’s leg, then up to his face. “The bullet that killed Coop has been stolen.”

  Gene’s icy blue eyes widened. “What do you mean—stolen? From the sheriff?”

  “No.” Jack glanced at Duke. “Before the sheriff arrived.”

  “Before—” Gene’s hands relaxed on his reins and he smiled coldly. “Oh, I see. You think one of us took it.”

  A nasty, nervous chuckle spurted out of Duke. Then he scowled at Jack. “Prove it.”

  “I don’t have to prove it.” Jack’s voice was frosty. “But the sheriff knows I left the three of you in charge of the murder scene. He’ll figure it out.”

  “There’s nothing to figure out.” Gene spoke calmly. “None of us had any reason to kill Virgil Cooper. He was a longtime friend.”

  “That’s right,” Duke echoed, tugging his hat lower on his forehead. “Hell, how do we know you didn’t shoot Coop and steal the bullet yourself?”

  “You don’t.” Jack’s smile was forced and unfriendly.

  “Then I guess we’ve reached an impasse, gentlemen.” Gene shrugged and took a solid grip on his reins. “Ms. Hart, see you tomorrow.”

  When they’d ridden out of earshot, Jack said, “Did you notice how sweaty and dirty those two were?”

  “Like they’d been toiling at some physical labor. I thought Gene was paraplegic. Am I wrong? Does he actually have the use of his legs?”

  “Not to my understanding.” Jack pulled his Stetson lower on his head. “And what about the scorpions? Who’s lying? Red or Plummer?”

  “I don’t know. Remember Red and Minna saying everybody in this town knows everyone else’s business. Do you think the whole town knows who murdered my parents? That they’ve banded together from some sort of misplaced civic loyalty and are keeping it secret?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Jack sat back on his saddle and gazed down at Andy with tender eyes. “The whole town covering up? I doubt it. First of all, that would make every citizen in Alder Gulch an accessory to murder. Secondly, it assumes they all thumbed their noses at the law, at your grandmother and your father—native daughter and son of the very town you’d have me believe they were protecting. Is that really logical, sweetheart?”

  “Oh, I suppose I’m grasping at straws.” Her gaze drifted over the alder grove cradled against the foothills, across the bleak remains of her childhood home that from this distance looked like half a dozen other burned-out homesteads she’d seen as she’d driven through the Western states in the past two months. “But I can’t help thinking someone must know something.”

  “Someone did.” Jack lifted his reins and clicked his tongue. The Appaloosa started forward.

  Did? Past tense? Despite the heat of the sun, a chill rushed over Andy as she hollered after Jack, “Virgil Cooper?”

  He glanced over his shoulder and nodded. “It seems more and more possible.”

  She would like to think he was right, that the bullet that had killed the photographer had never been meant for her. She urged the mare to action and caught up with Jack. “What about Minna Kroft? She said she was fond of Gram. Maybe she could tell us some of the gossip going on around the time just before my parents were killed.”

  “We’ll have a talk with her when we get back to the motel.”

  They descended the hillside, leveling out on a road that must once have been regularly traveled, but had over the years been slowly reclaimed by Mother Nature. On the left side of the road barbed wire clung to a row of rotted posts that stumbled along the dry ditch like drunken miners, leading to an equally dilapidated welcome arch made of peeled lodgepole pines.

  The Flying W Ranch.

  Butterflies collided in Andy’s stomach and she strove for something to occupy her mind, something other than the fear that was rearing through her with every step the mare took toward the welcome arch. Jack was gazing at the ground. “What are you looking at?”

  “Mott and Plummer were definitely here. There are two clear sets of fresh horses’ hooves in the dirt. Coming and going.”

  The sudden, odd feeling that someone was watching them raised the fine hair on Andy’s neck. Reflexively, she glanced over her shoulder at the hill above. If someone was there, she couldn’t see them. Her nerves playing tricks? She applied her attention back to Jack. “Why were they both carrying rifles?”

  Jack could tell she was rattled, and he didn’t want to frighten her any further, but she had to know the dangers in this country. He patted his own rifle. “We’re pretty far from town. Could be grizzlies, or wolverines, or rattlers out here.”

  “Being prudent, then. Like us.” Perhaps…but it didn’t explain how either man had gotten so dirty. A trickle of sweat traveled between her breasts. The heat of the day and fast riding? That might explain some of the sweat on Gene and Duke, but not all of it. Jack was right. Their suspects had looked like laborers on a prison chain gang.

  They rode beneath the welcome arch and started down the driveway. “Jack, if someone has purchased this property, why leave it in ruins with the Flying W sign still hanging—if somewhat precariously—from the arch?”

  “That’s what I’ve been wondering. According to what Wally and I could dig up, your great-grandfather won this plot of land in a poker game. It’s said to have an abandoned mine on it, but that the mine was played out long before that infamous card game.”

  A memory flashed into Andy’s mind and she craned her neck toward the clump of alders. There it was: t
he faint trickling of water. She smiled at Jack. “Daddy used to pan for gold in that creek out back. He wore a hunk of gold on a chain around his neck and told his friends that he’d panned it right here on his own property.”

  Interest spread across Jack’s face. “Had he?”

  Andy considered, trying to recall, then shrugged. “I was five years old. I really don’t know.”

  Her attention winged to the rubble pile that had been her childhood home. The river-rock fireplace still stood, looking the worse for wear. Rocks had fallen from its face, leaving its misshapen chimney lifting toward the vast blue sky like an outstretched hand seeking help from the heavens.

  Her hands dampened on the reins. Bits and pieces of memory, long-forgotten images of how the house had once looked, flicked through her mind like a handful of double-exposed Polaroid pictures, and Andy wanted to turn the horse around and ride hell-bent for town.

  But a voice inside her head stopped her, a voice that sounded like Gram’s. This house can’t hurt you now, Andy. But it might give you the knowledge you need to bring your parents’ murderer to justice.

  Armed with fresh resolve and the strange, certain knowledge that Gram was watching protectively over her, Andy climbed down off the horse. Jack did the same. He grabbed his saddlebag and flung it across his shoulder, then strode toward Andy’s mare.

  Andy glanced across the rubble pile inside the foundation. It was littered with mysterious, deformed objects, all blackened and rotting, some of whose identity she guessed by remembering the positions of the rooms in conjuncture with the fireplace—bedsprings near the front porch, the stove and refrigerator near the back.

  Surprisingly, the fire hadn’t completely destroyed all the timbers, but she knew the wood would be rotted and she stepped with care over the singed foundation, then moved gingerly through the rubble. Her boots sank in the soft debris, one toe thudding into something solid. She leaned over, spotted a cast-iron kettle and lifted it by the swinging handle.

  Didn’t you make tea in this, Gram? Andy hooked the kettle over her left arm as a sense of loss swept through her, weakening her knees. She ought to be desensitized by time and distance, but she doubted she ever would be. It wasn’t the material things she’d lost in this fire, but her childhood. Her parents. Tears sprang into her eyes and she moved blindly across the uneven rubble, the kettle bumping against her hip.

  Out of nowhere, panic awoke. It started in the pit of her stomach and inched upward, spiraling outward and prickling her skin. And with it came something equally frightening: the very memories she’d come here seeking. She was five again, stumbling from her bed, seeing, hearing. Hearing. She covered her ears to block out the sounds of that horrible night twenty years ago, sounds now blaring inside her head like a stereo she couldn’t shut off. The cast-iron kettle slipped down to her elbow.

  “No, no, no, no,” she murmured, staggering toward the foundation edge near the area that had once been the kitchen. Without warning the solid footing beneath her left foot disappeared as if she’d stepped over the edge of an unseen abyss, stepped into nothingness. She squealed and leapt back.

  Rubble dropped with a clatter, raising dust and a foul rotting odor and robbing Andy of the memories she’d been reliving. Relief and frustration wrestled for control of her emotions as she gaped at the newly formed hole and knew she was staring into what had once been the cellar stairwell.

  “What the hell—?” Jack hurried over to her. “Are you okay?”

  “I—” But Andy broke off, her heart jumping into her throat.

  As the last of the falling debris settled, there came from the cellar floor the unmistakable rattle of a diamondback. Then another and another.

  “Holy—” She hightailed it out of the foundation, relishing the feel of solid ground. She stomped her feet, dislodging some of the debris from her boots, but her gaze remained on the hole. “I’m fine. That’s our old root cellar. It’s more of a cave dug into the dirt. Gram once told me an occasional rattlesnake or rabid prairie dog would burrow through. Looks like the snakes have taken it over now.”

  “Well, they aren’t likely to bother us as long as we don’t bother them. I’ll tether the horses, then we can eat.”

  Andy doubted she could eat a thing, but she nodded. The snakes stirred again and she took another step back from the foundation. The proximity of the vipers was daunting, and the thought she’d been so close to recalling who Nightmare Man was and had lost it was infuriating and frustrating. And yet, that strange, comforting sense that Gram was with her persisted, consoling and soothing her. She took another step back.

  Jack had just reached the horses when he heard the crack of a rifle shot, immediately followed by a metallic thunk. He jerked around. “Get down!”

  But Andy was already falling, straight backward, her left arm outflung, the kettle flying off her fingertips, her right hand clutching her chest.

  Terror tightened Jack’s scalp. “Andy!”

  “GOODBYE, LEE LEE.” Nightmare Man grinned as he watched the woman hit the ground. Stretched on his stomach on the knoll above the Flying W ranch, not even feeling the rocks digging into his stomach and thighs, he shifted the rifle against his shoulder until he could see the man in its high-powered scope.

  “Your turn, junior.” He zeroed in on the man’s broad chest. It was easier to hit a still target, but he supposed it was natural for the man to be rushing to the fallen woman.

  With sweet anticipation he pulled the trigger. The jolt of recoil bit into his shoulder, but as he watched he laughed. Dead on. Jack’s body jerked. His step hitched and he fell like a dropped rock, landing on Andy.

  Just one more thing. The smell of his sweat stung his nostrils. He aimed the rifle at the two skittish horses and fired at the ground near their hooves. The mare whinnied, then bolted down the driveway; as she hit the old road to town, the Appaloosa was gaining on her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Amid the dust settling in Jack’s nostrils he detected an odd, flowery sweet fragrance like…perfume? And it wasn’t Andy’s. Dear God, Andy! He had her pinned to the ground, his body covering hers in the classic position for making love. What he felt at the moment was anything but loving. Fear was tearing through his heart, ripping out his guts.

  His first impulse was to roll off her and attend her wound, pull her to safety. But that was the problem. They were out in the open. The only cover—the alder grove—was at least sixty yards away. Whoever had shot them had done so with deadly intent and was likely watching, probably through a high-powered rifle scope, to see if he’d accomplished his feat.

  “Andy,” he whispered near her ear.

  Beneath him, Andy moaned. He felt it more than heard it. He eased his weight onto his forearms and lifted his chest from hers, the movement slow, hopefully indiscernible from a distance. He was rewarded with a gasp from her. “Where were you hit?”

  “Hit?” She sounded confused.

  “Shot,” he clarified hoarsely, holding his breath, praying against the odds that her wound was minor.

  Shot? Is that what had knocked her off her feet as if she’d stepped on a banana peel? Something had definitely struck her in the chest. A bullet? With an effort, she inhaled. Wasn’t that odd? There was the hint of flowery sweet perfume—Gram’s White Shoulders—in the air. “Am I bleeding?”

  A furious curse tore through Jack’s mind. Was her life seeping out of her? He needed to know. To stop it. He dare not find out. Not yet. But soon. Soon. “Don’t move, sweetheart. We need to play dead for a few minutes…and hope he doesn’t come down to finish the job.”

  What little breath she’d managed to tug in beneath Jack’s weight and the pain in her chest evaporated in a wave of fresh terror. “Can’t you get your rifle?”

  “The horses were run off.”

  Panic exploded inside Andy. She could not, would not, lie here like a wounded deer waiting to be finished off. She shoved at Jack and gained just enough space to scramble out from under him. As if she w
ere five years old again, she knew the only thing that would save her was to run and hide.

  Seeking shelter, she fled for the alder grove. Jack wasted no time following, covering her every movement, shielding her body with his larger one. There were no sharp cracks of rifle fire at his back. Andy darted through the trees and came to a stop at the creek. Breathless, she bent over gasping.

  Jack grasped her by the shoulders and spun her around. The terror on his face fled, replaced by confusion. Her shirt and jeans were greasy and grimy, but not bloody. There was no blood on her anywhere. He tossed his head back, let out a groan of relief and dragged her into his arms. “Thank you, God.”

  Andy snaked her arms around his middle, clinging to him.

  “When I saw you go down…” Jack pulled back and gazed at her. “How…?”

  Andy thought again about the scent of White Shoulders she’d noticed. Gram? But that couldn’t account for the bullet not striking her, or for the bruising ache on her breastbone. Of course. “The kettle. I’ll bet it has a real nice dent in it.”

  Jack remembered the metallic thunk. “It saved your life.”

  “That and my guardian angel.” Gram.

  Jack’s eyes softened. “An angel, huh?”

  “Don’t you believe in angels?”

  “Never thought about it.” Jack thought about it now, recalling the unfamiliar perfume he’d smelled. There was no explaining that, nor the fact that heusually as surefooted as they came—had hooked the toe of his boot on something buried in the dirt and tripped.

  Andy was trembling. The horror of being shot at was sinking in, the shock deepening. Jack pulled her closer, then froze at the sound of a galloping horse approaching. They had to take cover. Now. Across the creek a cluster of large boulders presented the perfect spot. Holding her in the crook of his arm, he hurried Andy along, splashing through the shallow creek and up the slight rise.