Anacacho

Louise Gaylord

An Allie Armington Mystery

Beverly Hills, California

Anacacho: An Allie Armington Mysteryby Louise Gaylord

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright © 2002 by Louise Gaylord. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner, whatsoever, without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews. For information, address Cedar Vista Books, 269 South Beverly Drive, Suite #1065, Beverly Hills, CA 90212. 866-234-0626

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Gaylord, Louise.

Anacacho/Louise Gaylord. --1st ed.

p. cm--(An Allie Armington mystery; 1)

ISBN 978-0-9841441-0-5 (ebook)

1. Armington, Allie (Fictitious character) --Fiction.

2. Women lawyers—Texas—Fiction. 3, Texas—Fiction.

1. Title

Paperback ISBN 10: 0-9786049-0-3

ISBN 13: 978-0-9786049-0-5

Book Designer: Dotti Albertine

Editor: Brookes Nohlgren

Also by Louise Gaylord

The Award-Winning
Xs
An Allie Armington Mystery

Julia Fairchild
A Novel

This book

is dedicated with love

to my husband, Ted, and our children—Ted, Missy, and John.

Chapter 1

“HEY, ALLIE, GUESS WHO?” Reena Carpenter’s husky twang slithers through my telephone to rip open old wounds.

Forget her? Never. Seven years before, Reena, supposedly my very best friend and loyal sorority sister, ripped the love of my life right out of my unsuspecting arms. Over time I managed to erase her from my mind and ease the ache of my double loss, but in my dreams those sad months following her betrayal still replay with haunting clarity.

Reena doesn’t wait for my reply. “I’ve snagged a ride to Houston on the jet tomorrow. Will you see me?”

I manage a constricted, “How did you know where to find me?”

She gives her famous rusty-nail laugh. “Oh, c’mon, now. I have my ways. How about meeting me at Rudi’s for lunch?”

A familiar cold nugget settles on the bottom of my stomach, one I hoped would never return. “Rudi’s is a little too stiff for my pocketbook,” I say, glancing at the suddenly welcome stack of case files on my desk. “Besides, I only have one week left with this grand jury panel and I’m backed up with presentments. I don’t see how I can possibly...”

“Please, Allie.” Reena’s voice pinches with pain. “It’s graveyard.”

Top secret. I haven’t heard that word since our days at Texas.

I picture Reena Harper, silky blonde locks tumbling over her shoulders, as she pulls Susie Baxter and me onto her bed.

I hear Susie chirp, “If it’s graveyard, I gotta shut the door. You never know who’s out in the hall. Right, Allie?”

Allie. That’s what my father conjured out of my rather plain but alliterative Alice Armington. I was the giant of the trio, pushing five-foot-ten, all angles and bones. Heir to my father’s aquiline nose, along with a healthy dose of his love for the law.

My resolve never to see the woman who savaged my past wavers. After all, Reena Harper gave my first three years at Texas an aura of excitement I have never experienced before, nor since.

I check the court calendar and see my jury panel has Monday off for Martin Luther King Day—plenty of time to run through the cases. Curiosity wins. “All right... I guess. How about noon?”

“Thanks, Allie. This means a lot. See you tomorrow.”

A deep voice behind me says, “Did you say something about a stiff at Rudi’s?”

I cradle the receiver and swivel my chair to look into the steady stare of Duncan Bruce, a recent transfer from Chicago.

Duncan bears his ancestors’ tall, massive build. His hair and heavy eyebrows shimmer with the blue cast of Highland Clans.

“Not that kind of stiff. I was talking about Rudi’s killer charge for a simple tuna salad.”

Duncan smiles. “Come to think of it, I haven’t been back since I took my mother there the last time she camped out in my guest room.” He settles on one corner of my desk and pitches me a file. “Check this.”

I scan it, suppressing a thundering roll of envy. I am an Assistant District Attorney in the Grand Jury Division. Duncan works in Major Fraud. This file covers a big-time white-collar theft of more than a million dollars and a glaring paper trail.

“Lucky you.” I hand his plum back and turn to the stack of fifty-plus cases my panel of grand jurors will hear on Wednesday. Most deal with possession or delivery of a controlled substance or the never-ending auto thefts.

Duncan can read me like a book. “Tired of your gig?”

I sigh. “Somebody has to do it. Too bad the bastards are out on the streets before they ever serve a day. But this is just the small stuff—the end of the pipeline. I’d give a million bucks to get my hands on the really big boys.”

“Better up that ante since the government has already spent billions.” Duncan takes a few steps toward the door, then turns. “How about dinner? I have some great homemade ravioli and salad fixings ready to go.”

This is too good to pass up. Not only is Duncan a master chef and a great kisser, he lives three floors above me.

“You’re on,” I say to his retreating back. “I’ll bring the wine.”

The evening starts well enough. A glass of Chianti Classico, then a few very nice long kisses followed by a crisp romaine with crumbled blue cheese. Finally, the pièce de résistance, morel ravioli with a subtle cream sauce that melts the minute it passes my lips.

In between cool spoons of spumoni, I bring up the disparities between my caseload status and his.

Duncan is a reasonable man, but he can home in on a problem with the precision of a military strike. “If you don’t like your job, quit.”

“Did I say that?”

He takes the dish of spumoni from my hands, sets it on the coffee table beside his, and turns to face me. “No, you didn’t exactly come right out and say it, but every chance you get, you complain about how hard you work and never get a decent case.”

I stiffen and pull away. “Gee, thanks.”

He gives me his attorney’s once-over. “Tell me why the only woman in her class to serve on Law Review is hiding in the Grand Jury Division of the Harris County DA?”

Damn, Duncan. He’s evidently picked up on my one horror: presenting a case. I love doing the research and prepping witnesses, but the thought of standing up in a courtroom before a judge and jury makes me weak in the knees.

For some reason I can’t bring myself to tell him that, so, like most cornered women, I come out swinging. “I’ll tell you why, if you tell me why you left Chicago?”

This is the one question that Duncan has left unanswered.

He gives me a pained smile. “I wondered how long it would take you to bring that up.”

Something in his voice makes me immediately regret my boldness. I put my arms around his neck, drawing his face close to mine. “I’ll strike that question, counselor, if you can think of a decent bribe.”

His relief is more than obvious. “How about this?” He plants a long, sweet kiss on my lips and ushers me out the door.

I pout all the way to my apartment, longing for a cat to kick or a roommate to rag on, but by the time I crawl in bed, my focus is on tomorrow’s lunch with Reena. What on earth was I thinking? Facing my enemy after all these years will only bring back the pain.

I groan into the darkness, wondering if I have some sort of built-in mechanism that sabotages every male-female relationship I’ve been in since Paul Carpenter walked out of my life.

The morning dawns gray and humid. By the time I arrive at the fashionable uptown restaurant my hair has seized-up into “brand-new perm” mode. That and the fact that I’m ten minutes early and I know Reena will be her usual twenty minutes late puts me in a sour mood.

The maître d’ gushes when I mention Carpenter. A regular for years, he says. So lovely.

Damn. If Reena’s been a regular at Rudi’s for years, why did it take her so long to track me down?

He leads me through the dimly lit room to a table in the far corner. Refusing the offer of a glass of champagne, I spend the next few minutes composing myself and dealing with that cold stone at the bottom of my stomach, which is fast becoming a boulder.

Reena has arrived. A buzz rolls through the crowd. She unloads five Neiman Marcus shopping bags on the hapless maître d’, then threads her way through the gawkers toward me.

She is still devastatingly beautiful, a startling clone of Farrah Fawcett, who paraded across the UT campus some twenty years before we did. No wonder the Tri Delts were thrilled to pledge Reena. All the Greeks were after her. It didn’t matter she hailed from a hole in the middle of the road, they knew she would be the talk of the campus and she was. Susie and I were simply drawn along in her wake.

Not that there weren’t plenty of benefits. Reena played a role in every prank the guys thought up, so Susie and I not only visited every fraternity house on campus, but also went on more beer busts than I care to count.

She gives me an air-kiss, settles in the offered chair, then leans across the table to cover my hand. She rasps, “I’ve missed you, Allie. Please say you’ve missed me. Just a little?”

I only hesitate a nanosecond. “I haven’t had much time to miss anybody.”

It’s almost the truth. My dogged pursuit of the law and my burgeoning career saved my sanity. After I lost Paul, I buried myself in a three-year grind at University of Houston Law, including summer internships and Law Review. Now, the job with the DA and my blooming relationship with Duncan have almost filled the gaping hole my first love left.

I see Reena’s smile brighten to a full ten on the sparkle-meter. It’s her Farrah Fawcett number, aptly dubbed by my sister, Angela, who noticed the resemblance the first time she came to visit. Susie added validity when she caught Reena looking at one of the movie star’s pictures in a magazine then practicing in the mirror. I grin to myself remembering how Susie and I shortened “Farrah Fawcett” to “Double F” so Reena wouldn’t catch on.

Suddenly anxious to put a quick end to this meaningless charade I say, “Maybe we should order.”

When the waiter arrives, Reena orders vodka-on-the-rocks and, seemingly oblivious to his presence, bends forward as her face collapses. “Oh, Allie, seeing you is the best thing that’s happened to me in years.” She pauses to let a single crocodile tear roll slowly down her cheek, dabs it away with her napkin, then blurts, “Lately, my life has been one living disaster.”

Above us the waiter clears his throat. “And what about you, ma’am?”

I flash him a knowing grin. “My life is fine, thank you.” Reena glares at my small joke and I order a white wine. When he walks away, I say, “What do you mean disaster? You have a huge mansion with staff and a Citation jet to boot.”

Those limpid pools dry to dark holes and she hisses, “Don’t believe everything Susie Baxter tells you.”

I start to add that Darden is now Susie’s last name, but think better of it.

We trade trivia until the drinks arrive.

Reena downs her vodka, then orders another before the wine glass reaches my lips.

Since I am an attorney and Reena’s opened the door, I’m surprised how casual “Okay then, how is Paul?” sounds when my heart is fluttering so.

“Oh, dear.” Her voice drips with sympathy. “I thought you’d be over him by now.”

That’s a gut-shot. I know I should pay attention to the growing lump in my stomach, but I don’t. Instead I flash my most nonchalant expression. “It was a summer romance. Nothing more.”

She’s not quite buying, so I quickly change the subject. “What’s the graveyard?”

Reena lowers her voice as her eyes soften and brim once again. “There’s another woman. It’s just a matter of time until Paul asks me for a divorce.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” It’s a lie, but what the hell? I don’t owe Reena a thing. Besides, it’s pure pleasure to see her in pain. “But, if Paul’s wells are still pumping, you should come out of this marriage a very wealthy lady.”

Reena crumples. “He made me sign a pre-nup before we eloped.” Between sobs she blubbers, “He canceled my Visa and Amex cards after the December bills. Now, I have to beg him for spending money. The only thing in my name is the title to my little red Mercedes.”

I want to tell her she could probably break the agreement if she got a good lawyer. Instead, I find myself wallowing in the first real satisfaction I’ve felt in years.

I take a small sip of wine. “So, why don’t you fill me in on your terrible existence.”

Reena gives me a penetrating stare, then nods. “Okay, okay. So Paul didn’t quite turn out to be the husband I thought he’d be. The minute we got back from the honeymoon he was out of bed before dawn and away all day, busy with the cattle and the oil. On top of that, he hunted every damn weekend from September through February.”

She sighs. “When Paul wasn’t away hunting with someone on their property, he invited the men and their wives to hunt on the Anacacho. At first, it was fun being the hostess with the mostest, but after seven years of those long evenings, and Paul’s latest...” She must think better of her next words because she shakes her head. “Let’s just say it’s turned into the marriage from hell.”

Reena downs her second drink. “The weekends are bad enough, but for the last ten months, Paul has been spending most of the workweek in Laredo. Says it’s oil or an ‘urgent bank matter.’ But I know better.”

Laredo? That’s a new twist. Paul always did business in San Antonio, boasting his was the third generation to do business with the venerable Frost Bank.

I offer a sympathetic, “Maybe you’re imagining things.”

She grabs my hand. “Come back to the ranch with me. See for yourself.” She squeezes hard. “I’ve never begged before in my life, Allie, but I’m begging now. Please?”

Go with her? After what she did? Then I see her pain, and realize she must be desperate. Why else would she want to see me after all these years? Am I the only one left she can trust?

Allie-the-attorney kicks in. Get real. For as long as you’ve known her, Reena has never played it straight. She wants something.

But what?

I silently damn my inborn curiosity, pick up the menu, and study it a moment before saying, “Let me think it over while we have a bite. After all, you said you were buying.”

Reena nods and pastes the “Double F” smile on her face. She’s got me and she knows it.

Chapter 2

THERE’S A LIMO WAITING outside the restaurant and when we stop by my apartment on Bammel Lane to pick up some clothes, Reena insists on coming up.

I don’t mind. The building is a very nice, secluded mid-rise near River Oaks. I live on the third floor. That puts me in the treetops. In spring and summer, I’m surrounded by an ever-darkening green cocoon. In late fall and winter, I’m treated to Houston’s Oz-like skyline in the distance.

All in all, it’s not a bad flat. Combined living and dining with a nice-sized porch. Pullman kitchen. A large bedroom with attached bath and walk-in closet. Down the hall is a small study with a foldout couch across from a half bath.

After running from room to room oohing and aahing, Reena joins me in the bedroom.

“You always did have wonderful taste, Allie. Your print collection is—is fabulous.” She shakes her head. “I wish mine were that good.”

Susie told me about Reena’s collection. Interspersed among several works by well-known Texas artists are two fine pieces: a small Georgia O’Keeffe preliminary sketch of a cow’s skull and a pen-and-ink cartoon attributed to Frederic Remington.

Uh, oh. Reena’s being nice again. Bail out. Bail out.

I ignore my better judgment and zip the fold-over.

It’s then I remember my trusty Beretta Tomcat .32, retrieve it from my nightstand drawer, and stick it in my purse.

I love this gun, a gift from Dad when I joined the DA’s office. Fits right in the palm of my hand and is so light I barely know it’s there.

My father has always hunted, and believes that everyone should know how to use a gun. Because of this, Angela and I got BB guns for our sixth birthdays, .22s for our tenth, and finally Fox 410s at twelve.

When my sister announced she was leaving to find her fortune as a high-fashion model in the Big Apple, Dad marched us out to the range and spent several weeks instructing us in the use of small firearms. Though I’ve never used the gun except for target practice, I feel comfortable with it and carry it with me wherever I go.

We zip out the Gulf Freeway to Hobby Airport. When we arrive at the private aviation hangar, there’s no jet.

Reena tears up and I’m about to offer comfort when the woman behind the counter motions her over.

After a few whispered words she returns. “It’s just a small delay. Paul had unexpected business in Laredo. The plane will be landing in a few minutes to take us to the ranch, then pick him up in time to join us for dinner.”

The flight takes a little over an hour. Anesthetized by the vodkas, followed by two glasses of red wine, Reena falls asleep immediately, giving me time to arm myself for a meeting with Paul.

Seven years. What will he look like? How will I feel when I see him? He never said goodbye. Our short but intense love affair ended as suddenly as it began.

“Come home,” my mother had sobbed, then blurted the tragic news. Her mother and father gone forever. Early morning fog on the highway. Tractor-trailer smashed their car to smithereens. When I didn’t answer, she turned the screw. “Angela is giving up a major assignment in Paris. She’s already on her way.”

Since it was “only” my senior year, there was nothing to do but pack up and go. No time to steal a night wrapped in Paul’s arms. Only time for a hurried explanation and his sympathetic, “Do what you have to do. We have a lifetime to share.”

Angela fell weeping into my embrace, then led me upstairs, where Mother lay in the curtain-drawn bedroom staring into nothing. I went to her, arms open, but she sighed. How well I knew that sigh. Not now, it said. Not now.

The following morning we drove to Temple for the funeral. It was a crisp, blue-sky day with gum trees flaming against the green slash pines, and blurring to a bright Christmas streamer as we hurried east.

I hunched in the front seat next to Dad, who gripped the wheel in silence, his mouth drawn in a tight line. In the back Mother’s tears, punctuated with choking moans, were blotted by Angela’s kisses and Kleenex.

To her credit, Mother held up during the service, but she was hopeless at the grave. As the caskets were lowered, she keened, and collapsed in Dad’s arms. He swooped her up like a feather, nodded for Angela, then headed for the car.

Minutes later he stood by my side as people murmured their sympathies.

Mother’s lifelong friend grabbed Dad’s hand. “Poor thing. Too bad she was an only child. No one to share her grief. Thank heavens she has Angela...” She glanced in my direction and rushed on, “... the two girls to lean on.”

I ignored the slight. By age five I learned the fine art of dissociation—an effective weapon against rejection. Angela was Mother’s favorite and everybody knew it.

Paul called every night the first week, then every other the next, and, finally, not at all. I couldn’t understand what was happening, but there was little I could do. Trapped at home in Lampasas, I was too proud to call him or mention his strange behavior to Reena or Susie, though after the truth came out, I remembered Reena never answered the phone.

By that time I was dealing with a more pressing problem. I was pregnant. There was nothing else to do but call Paul. When I finally got up the courage, I was informed he was on his honeymoon.

That news forced me to make the most agonizing decision of my life. The following morning Angela trumped up a modeling interview in Dallas and asked me to go with her. Mother was too dazed to protest, but Dad thought it was a good idea for us to escape Mother’s pervasive grief and offered to stay home while we went on our lark.

Some lark. I remember only Angela’s tears, not mine.

Though Paul’s abandonment and the loss of our child were devastating, I didn’t learn Reena was the cause until I went back to UT after the Thanksgiving break.

The screech of tires meeting the runway pulls me back to the present and I peer out the window as the plane taxis to the hangar at the far end of the airstrip.

We deplane and Reena introduces Miguel Alvarez, who, with his wife Adelena, is in charge of the house. He nods mutely, takes the shopping bags and luggage from the pilot, then races to open the doors to a late-model station wagon with “Anacacho Ranch” painted on the side.

We travel down the tarmac away from the hangar, then through an electric gate, and continue for a mile or so down a paved lane.

When we pull onto the highway, Reena sighs. “Too bad we didn’t bring a driving drink. It’s still a couple more miles to the house.”

Several minutes later we pass the Darden mailbox, and the past burbles forward. Susie’s adoring upturned face. The way she took as gospel every word Reena spoke. Now, though separated by only miles, the two women seldom see each other.

“So, that’s where Susie and Del live?”

“If you can call it living. Del tells me the house is a pigsty.” Reena must read my disapproval. She turns to peer out the back window. “You can’t see the house from here. It’s set almost a mile back in those trees. As the crow flies, Susie and I live only a mile apart but it’s almost two by the highway. There’s a dirt road from the airstrip to the Anacacho. Goes right past the Dardens’ barn. Very convenient for Del since he manages both ranches.”

We travel the remaining distance and turn between two large sandstone pillars supporting a wrought-iron “Anacacho,” then drive slowly up the long, cedar-lined road to the house.

The impressive two-story structure of massive ochre and gray stones built in the late thirties by Paul’s father looms at the end of the drive. An imposing three-story tower dominates the east end of the building, a detail Paul forgot to mention, or omitted because it might have sounded too grandiose to a hick-chick from Lampasas.

Miguel pulls up before a wide, covered, slate porch that seems to circle the entire house. He helps each of us from the car, then rushes to open one of the massive oak front doors. I follow Reena into a generous entry hall, bounded on one side by a wide, circular staircase.

“Miss Armington will be in the room next to mine,” Reena says. “Put the shopping bags on my bed.”

Miguel gives a silent nod, then glides upward, carrying the load of luggage and packages as if they were air, while Reena heads for the living room, her stiletto heels echoing on the polished tiles.

The seductive aroma of red chiles being blackened permeates the room.

Reena smiles. “Adelena’s starting one of her fabulous moles. Want a drink before the tour or after?”

“Now sounds good.” I hurry behind her, suddenly needing a little Dutch courage to face Paul.

I’m barely in the room when Reena lets out a yelp. “What happened to my paintings? They were here when I left this morning.” She whirls to face me, then points to the wall above a long refectory table. “Paul threatened to take them but I never really believed he would.”

I step to the table and run my hand over the surface of the wall. Not a nail hole to be felt. It’s as dry as a bone. There’s no way a group of paintings could have hung here this morning. The repairs to the wall are excellent, with several layers of painting and sanding. I turn to say as much, but Reena has headed for the bar.

She pours two glasses of wine and drags me toward the front door. “We’ll tour the stables before it gets too dark.”

The stables are hardly that. The air-conditioned building houses ten stalls next to an office sporting a large teak desk across from an overstuffed brown leather couch. In one corner sits a tall safe.

“This appeared a few days before Christmas. Paul won’t tell me what’s in it. But never-you-mind, I’ll find out before too long.” Reena shows me a notebook filled with every combination she’s tried.

She leads me back into the center walkway and to the next door. “You have to see the tack room. You won’t believe it.”

She struggles with the combination lock and the door swings open. “Voilà. Paul’s crown jewels.”

She isn’t exaggerating. Most of the saddles boast pommels and stirrups adorned with heavily etched silver encrusted with semi-precious stones. The headstalls of the matching bridles are so ornate, it’s amazing a horse could raise its neck.

I make appropriate noises about the gaudy wares and follow my hostess out into the evening air.

We return to the house for a refill, then Reena leads me to the second floor and proudly shows off six guest rooms identically outfitted with handmade furniture from Nuevo Laredo. When we get to my room, which is next to the master suite, she takes a minute to show me the secret door leading from my closet into hers, explaining my room used to be Paul’s as a child and the door gave his mother easy access to him in case of illness.

“Now for the master suite.” She pulls me through the double doors and down a wide hall to view the king-size bed, which dominates the left side of the room. To the right, a comfortable sitting area features an entertainment center and a wet bar. Reena has good taste and she’s used it well.

A phone rings in the distance. In minutes Adelena, the cook, appears at the door to announce the Señor will not be home in time for dinner.

“Thank you, Adelena. Since there’s just the two of us, we’ll dine in the tower.” Reena turns to me. “You’ll need a warm-up suit. It’s quite chilly after the sun goes down, but the view is spectacular.”

I nod, waiting for further instructions from my hostess, but all I get is a smirk. “Too bad. Paul must have forgotten you were coming.”

I feel my jaw go south. What was the point of that statement? Is she trying to start a fight? I immediately regret my decision to come and try to remember what Reena said to pique my curiosity.

It’s plain she’s drinking much too much. Reena hardly drank at Texas. Said it muddied her mind—strange how memories stick.

And what’s with the pictures? Why did she carry on like that when they were obviously taken down long before today?

Reena gives me a nudge in the direction of my room. “Hurry up and change or you’ll miss the sunset.”

By the time I reach the tower, I’m glad for the protective cover of my warm-up suit. The still January air is briskly crisp, but a piñon-wood fire crackles in a nearby fireplace.

As the sun’s last rays pink the horizon, Reena motions me to join her at an imposing oak table bearing a pair of tall, ornate candelabra.

She chooses the chair facing the Anacacho Mountains, then points me to the seat to her left so I can share the full moon’s spectacular debut.

The moment we are seated, Miguel appears to tend a dumbwaiter built into one of the side-walls just as two steaming bowls of fragrant tortilla soup rise from the kitchen below.

The soup is followed by thick, juicy steaks and crispy French fries. The meal ends with a piñon flan topped by a smoky, chocolate-tinged, caramel sauce. All the while, Miguel keeps Reena’s glass topped with red wine, while I allow myself the customary two.

By dessert we’ve exhausted all the usual chitchat and finish our meal in silence until Miguel serves coffee.

Wine glass empty, Reena motions him to open a second bottle, then says, “I’m sure you talk to Susie often.”

The truth is, Susie and I have remained close since graduation and talk once or twice a month. I’m about to say so when a red flag pops up. I lie. “We mostly talk on holidays. Susie’s really busy with the kids. The baby’s just beginning to crawl, but I guess you know more about that than I do.”

“Not really. I haven’t seen Susie in over a year.”

It’s all I can do not to snort since Susie has recounted several incidences when Reena openly snubbed her.

“It makes me so mad,” Reena whines. “Susie could have done so much better. I can’t imagine why she picked that broken-down football hack for a husband.”

Del, anything but a hack, was about to sign on as quarterback for one of the NFL teams when Reena dumped him for Paul. Unable to concentrate on little else but his loss, Del was sacked attempting his first pass in the opening game of the season. Badly torn ligaments in his right knee sidelined him for good, throwing him into an even deeper despair.

I don’t know what Del might have done if it weren’t for Susie. She literally saved him. For the rest of the school year, she cooked his meals, washed his clothes, and with a little help from me, was able to coax him through finals.

After Susie and Del married, the two went home to work the Dardens’ hardscrabble ranch. With some financial aid from Susie’s family, they managed to eke out a bare existence until their second son was born. It was then Paul gave Del the foreman’s job on the Anacacho.

I still hold Reena personally responsible for the injuries that plague Del in the cold of winter, and it’s hard to keep the venom out of my voice. “Delman Darden would probably be enjoying a profitable pro football career if you hadn’t dumped him.”

Reena’s wine glass stops in midair as shock fills her face. “Are you saying I caused his injuries?”

“Well, he certainly wasn’t concentrating on his game the day he was sacked.”

Reena bristles. “Oh, puleese, give me a break. Does Del really blame me for that?”

I hesitate for only a second before my own little evil demon kicks in. “He may not, but Susie and I sure suffered through that last semester. I swear he was almost suicidal.”

Reena empties her glass and slams it to the table, her mouth twisting into a tormented grin. “Wellll now, let’s have a pity party, okay? Pooor Del, pooor Susie, pooor Allie. What about me? What about my pain?”

Our eyes lock and freeze as silence screams between us. What on earth do I say next? How can I stop this before it gets out of hand? Then comes reason. Play it cool. Reena’s drunk. She won’t remember a thing.

I yawn and stretch. “Great food and good wine, but they’ve about done me in.”

Reena studies me for a moment, then, grabbing the table to steady herself, she rises. “Yeah. It’s beddy-bye time for me too.” When I take her arm, she tries to wrench free. “I can make it just fine.”

I smile. “Oh, I know you will, but I’m going to need some help getting down those stairs. How about lending me a hand?”

“No problem,” she mumbles. “I know the way.”

With a few bobbles here and there we make it to the second floor, then down the hall to my room. Reena gives me an awkward hug and disappears through the double doors to the master suite.

I rummage through my suitcase for my flannel nightshirt and slip it over my head. The room is still heavy with Reena’s scent and, anxious for a breath of fresh air, I throw open the casement to a perfect night. The moon is high in the sky, a chalk white that delineates the dips and hollows of the mountain range.

After several deep breaths, I slide beneath the welcome warmth of my down comforter. My efforts to make some sense of the evening are dulled by the wine and I tumble into darkness.

Voices drag me out of my dreams. Once I’m awake, I realize the thick walls and the closets between the two rooms have muted an escalating argument.

“Why the hell did you bring her here? Why now?”

I recognize Paul’s voice, stumble to the closet, and press my ear to the secret door.

“Why not?” Reena screams. “Admit it. You’ve always been in love with her.”

“Shut up.” Paul’s low growl evidences his anger. “You’re up to something, damn you. What is it?”

“I’m not up to anything,” Reena shouts back. “Pardon me for mentioning it, but aren’t you the one who’s up? I know all about your dirty little secret.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn what you know, you’re nothing but a high-class slut.”

“Call me what you want, but you’re in way over your head, Paul. You can’t afford to keep going on like this.”

I hear a dull thwack, then a moan followed by hurried footsteps. Reena shrieks, “Ohhh, my cheek. It’s going to be black-and-blue by tomorrow. You bastard. You can go straight to hell.”

To hear Paul’s voice after so long brings back memories of the brief but intense immediacy we experienced and the question I was never able to answer. If the love we shared was so rare, how, in only a few short weeks, could Reena destroy it?

Back beneath my comforter, I change positions at least a hundred times before I hear a faint noise and slowly crack one lid to see Paul standing above me.

The bed moves as he kneels beside it and I hear him murmur, “You’re all I want. All I’ve ever wanted.”

His face is so close I smell whiskey on his breath as he asks, “How could I let it happen to us?”

I roll away, clutching the comforter to me in a pathetic attempt to escape, but Paul pulls me back and his mouth covers mine.

He takes his time before moving into my bed. First, soft caresses, followed by even softer kisses. Nothing seems urgent. It’s as if we have a lifetime to reconnect.

The sound of the door to the master suite opening and closing awakens me to find the sun well above the Anacachos.

Remembering the feel of Paul’s body surrounding mine, I turn to caress the place he shared beside me and gasp. The pillowcase remains crisply smooth. I draw the comforter away from his side of the bed to see the unwrinkled sheet still tightly tucked.

Chapter 3

IT’S PAST EIGHT BY THE TIME I SHOWER and don jeans, a long-sleeve red cotton shirt, and my boots. I descend to the dining room, smell the fresh-brewed coffee, and head toward the sideboard where a large carafe sits among a cluster of mugs.

At the sound of footsteps, I turn to see Paul walking toward me. He’s still the handsome Paul of my dreams, but grown gaunt, his face lined with time. That doesn’t matter. The love I see jump-starts my heart.

He gives me his fabulous grin as he moves beside me to pour a mug for himself. His arm barely brushes mine and I feel the hairs rise all over my body. I want Paul so badly, I think I might leap right out of my skin.

Paul must feel me startle. His voice is so low, I almost miss the “Welcome home.”

After he settles next to me at the end of the table, he touches my hand. “You haven’t changed. I was afraid you might.”

Adelena appears with a bowl containing an assortment of fresh fruit, giving me time to compose myself. When she retreats I say, “But I have changed, Paul. In every way.”

“Of course you have. And, sadly, so have I.”

Time collapses as a tingle skitters through me just as it did when we first met.

The UT Women’s Golf Team was finishing its most successful season in years. We would be participating in the prestigious Collegiate Invitational in Hawaii that summer if I could win the last match against SMU.

I traded leads with my opponent until the eighteenth hole, where I faced a twenty-foot downhill for a birdie and a win. I stared hard at the dimpled white orb, took a deep breath, then shut my eyes.

The roar of the crowd told me I was home free. I looked up to see a tall, well-built, redhead with a craggy face staring back. That was my first glimpse of Paul Carpenter.

Later that evening the Phi Gams hosted a party in the team’s honor, and there he was again. This time he came straight for me, hand extended. “That was some putt. Congratulations.” He searched my face and grinned. “Hey, we’re almost twins. You have gray eyes, too.”

When he grasped my hand, hot ice cascaded down my spine. I put my free hand over his. I didn’t want to let him go.

We didn’t say much that evening. I remember sharing a beer with him as we walked into the shadows of the large backyard to the limestone wall at the end of the property.

It was May. The lemon-scent of magnolia filled the air. In the distance there was laughter and someone was playing “Streets of Laredo” on a guitar.

Paul leaned against the wall and drew me to him as his lips covered mine. I don’t remember how long we stood there, but from that moment on, we were inseparable.

I jerk back to reality as Adelena splashes more coffee in my mug. The memory of that night is still etched in my mind. I can’t help but wonder what might have happened if Reena hadn’t come between us. Would we have married? If we had, our child would be in the second grade.

Paul puts his hand on mine. “Penny for your thoughts.”

I pull myself out of my sad reverie and give him a sparkling smile. “Sorry, they’re much too expensive for a mere penny.”

We chat through breakfast, the conversation centering on the mundane, but the silent messages traded are anything but.

Once the dishes are cleared, Paul whispers, “Come riding with me this morning.”

When I don’t answer he says, “Reena takes pills so she can sleep.

I guess her days are too long if she doesn’t. We won’t be missed.” Being alone with Paul after all this time has been a long-time dream of mine, but a niggle in the corner of my mind gives me pause. “Shouldn’t we wait for Reena?”

“Reena doesn’t ride. Besides, she won’t be up until she can start the day with a Bloody Mary and we’ll be back long before then.” He rises and stands so close I can feel the heat from his body. His voice is soft. “How about it?”

Paul chooses a sturdy Morgan mare for me, saying, “Her name is Sugar and she lives up to it.”

He waits until I’m settled in the saddle, then mounts his horse, a roan called Chief. After telling Miguel to expect us back around eleven, we set out toward the mountains.

The Anacachos would be termed foothills by Coloradans, but in this part of Texas they give substance to the undulating scrub. The weather is temperate, almost warm for January. Not unusual since the South Texas climate is controlled by the Gulf of Mexico. Cold fronts sweep across the open plains from the north or west, but quickly soften under the Gulf ’s southerly push.

We ride for more than an hour, then come to a fork in the trail and Paul says, “Everybody gets confused here. Just remember, right is wrong and left is right.”

At first glance the way to the right is well defined, while the one to the left is a narrow, deep cut in the sandstone that seems to disappear. Paul’s right. Once my horse edges through the cut, the trail opens to a path that hugs the side of the mesa.

The vista is breathtaking. In the distance I see the ranch house, the airstrip, and the cluster of oil pumps bobbing slowly up and down: a perfect view of Paul’s realm.

At the highest point is a lean-to shaded by a stand of scrub oaks. The structure is open on three sides, with canvas drops for bad weather. Against the back wall, a wide mattress-covered platform dotted with large pillows, faces south.

I realize Paul’s intentions and decide a quick exit is the best ploy, but when I try to turn Sugar toward the stables, she strains against the reins and gives a soft whinny.

Paul urges Chief to my side. “Sugar knows there’s water up here and after such a long ride, I bet she’s thirsty.”

It’s too late to escape. I’m trapped. Paul helps me dismount, then clasps my waist, as he whispers, “I’ve dreamed about this moment for years.”

“Don’t...” My small attempt to stop what I’ve longed to hear fails.

“I have to. You need to know what happened.”

I try to move out of his arms, but Paul tightens his grip. “Seven years ago I was a coward and I’ve paid for it ever since. I knew Reena was attracted to me long before you were called home.”

He was right about that. Every time Paul would come to pick me up, Reena would race out of her room, throw her arms around Paul’s waist, wink at me, and say in that husky voice of hers, “He’s too tall, I’m too small, and that’s two toos, too bad.”

“After you left, I managed to steer clear of Austin, but when Miguel gave me the message that Del set up a pigeon shoot for the frat alums, I was on the road in minutes.

“When Del wasn’t at the Phi Gam house, I called your place. Reena answered and said Del’s dad called him back to the ranch. We chewed the fat for a few minutes, then she asked if I’d like to grab a bite of dinner before I headed back. I didn’t see any harm in that. I was lonely. She was friendly. It turned out to be the worst goof of my life.

“The next morning, I apologized and told her it was all a big mistake. She agreed, and I thought it was over, but after a couple of weeks, she called to tell me she was pregnant.

“When I told her I didn’t love her, she went ballistic, jumped in her car, and raced off. I followed her all the way to Smiley and when I got there Reena announced if I didn’t marry her she would get an abortion.”

Reena pregnant? Is that how she got him?

I think back to the time Paul and I first discussed marriage and the fact that I wasn’t a Roman Catholic. Religious affiliation seemed so insignificant then. Besides, I was in love. Now, realizing how important this issue must be to Paul, I’m relieved I never told him about my own sad dilemma and the choice I was forced to make.

“When Reena miscarried on our honeymoon, I was too stupid to realize it was her period. After trying to have kids for several years, we consulted a fertility specialist. You can imagine my shock when he told me Reena’s uterus had never fully developed and it was impossible for her to conceive.”

Paul turns me toward him. “All she wanted was my money, but I couldn’t see that until it was too late. I was a fool, Allie. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved. Say there’s a chance for us. Tell me we can begin again.”

The pre-nup Reena mentioned. Was she telling the truth? Or is Paul lying?

To my surprise, I say, “You’ll never know how much I longed to hear those words, but we can’t erase the years. Besides, as much as I’d like to, I won’t betray Reena.”

He grabs me by the shoulders. “Then tell me why you came.”

“I honestly don’t know. At first I thought it was because Reena really seemed to need me. She told me the marriage was in trouble—that there was another woman. You must know that in her own strange way, she loves you.”

He shrugs that away. “I never thought you’d be her champion.” “I’m not. Believe me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to see you.”

“I knew it.” He clasps me to him. “There is no other woman—no one but you.” He pushes me away, and stares down at me with those clear gray eyes. “Remember this, Allie. I intend to have you. One way or the other.”

One way or the other? What’s the other? Instead of melting against him, I shiver and tense. Paul’s voice. There’s a hardness to it that makes his declaration of love sound more like a life sentence.

I have little time to analyze my reaction. Paul slides his hand behind my neck and brings me forward until my mouth meets his. I’m trembling, but then, so is he. My lips respond to his and I drown in the intensity of his passion.

When we finally part, Paul’s voice is rough with desire. “I want you and I know you want me. Why are you fighting it?”

Somewhere at the edge of my mind I see this red flag waving as Allie-the-attorney pushes Allie-the-confused to the rear and says, Objection, Your Honor. This woman is unable to act on her own behalf.

I step out of Paul’s embrace. “If you really want to begin again, get your life straightened out. Then give me a call.”

His features freeze in a frustrated jaw-clench for only an instant, then rearrange into an I’m-definitely-in-control expression. “I understand where you’re coming from, Allie. I respect you for it.” He grabs my hand. “Let’s get out of here before I do something really high school.”

Chapter 4

REENA IS STANDING just inside the door of the stables talking to a tall, slouchy man in denims and boots. When he turns to look my way, I cringe. He has the battered face of a prizefighter with a forehead so thick it seems like a shelf above the rest of his face. His lips, splintered with lines, flesh out beneath a tortured nose.

In sharp contrast, Reena looks like a Dresden doll. Dressed in white slacks with a long-sleeved white shirt, she sports her usual wide-brimmed hat. Of course, there are the sunglasses. Reena always was most un-Texan in her loathing for the sun. Even in college while we were spread out on the banks of Hippy Hollow in various degrees of nudity, Reena would slather herself with sunblock and huddle beneath the nearest shrub.

As we near, the man tips his hat to Reena, then disappears into the dark of the barn. I stiffen, readying myself for the expected onslaught, but to my amazement when we dismount, Reena gives us her FF smile and says, “Back at last. How was the ride?”

I load my voice with enthusiasm. “Wonderful. Paul is an expert guide. The Anacachos are much higher than I thought.”

“I wouldn’t know about that. I never learned to ride. Horses scare me to pieces.”

When I start for the house for a shower and fresh change, Reena calls after me. “Don’t be long. I have some great Bloody Marys waiting and the Dardens are on their way. They can’t do dinner. Some child thing.”

I send up a small thanks that the Dardens will be there to diffuse any tension that might exist among the three of us. In fact, I can’t wait to see them.

In the year and a half since Susie visited Houston, the triple-whammy of an imminent delivery, a kid still in diapers, and a cheating husband hasn’t done much for her psyche or her looks.

Her Valentine face, once haloed by coal-black curly hair, is drawn and puffy; those ringlets now drab straight strands shot with gray. Susie is a far cry from the vibrant girl Reena was with the first night we met in front of the Tri Delt house.

I remember stepping back to let the gorgeous platinum blonde dragging her pixie-like captive pass. Instead, the blonde stopped, tapped me on the shoulder, and said in a croaky voice, “You’re the perfect one. I choose you.”

My mouth must have dropped, because she laughed that husky laugh I would never forget and grabbed me with her free hand. “You’re coming with us.”

The rest of the evening was a blur. Hoards of guys attracted by this blonde magnet swarmed around us begging her for a date.

The pixie was Susie Baxter from Uvalde and she and Reena Harper lived at a boarding house just up the street from mine. Reena wandered into Susie’s room that very afternoon, asked her to join her for a Coke in the basement, and when she found they were slated to attend the same rush party, she pronounced they would go together.

Susie and I were bewildered and flattered by Reena’s “blessing” and quickly warmed to our assignment as her lackeys. From that evening on, we held each other’s hands through the following perilous weeks, and all screamed with joy when we pledged the sorority Reena chose.

The pledge captain made it clear to Susie and me that Reena made a deal and we better “hump” it. It took almost a year for us to earn our stripes. She made All-Star Volleyball and I was the leading golfer on the women’s team.

By May, we three were widely known as the Tri-Delt-Trio, with Reena the star.

“Allie.” Susie’s joyful greeting brings me into the moment. She grabs me to her and whispers, “I’ve missed you so much.”

Del steps into view. “Hey, don’t I get a hug?”

To my surprise, he looks great. An older version of the once-leading quarterback for the Texas Longhorns, his coppery hair bleached from the sun and there are deep channels in his cheeks, but he still gazes at me with a fondness forged by our mutual losses.

“You can count on that.” I step into his arms and warm to his hug. In spite of what Susie thinks is going on now between Del and Reena, I can’t help but still care for him.

The five of us climb the stairs to the tower, conversation flush with enthusiasm and joviality, making it seem just like old times. After Miguel passes Bloody Marys and salsa dip with chips, Paul and Del drift off to one corner of the tower while Reena occupies herself with checking the table arrangement.

Susie hunches close. “Did Reena say anything about the missing paintings?”

My eyes widen with surprise. “Practically pitched a fit. Said Paul had them removed while she was lunching with me in Houston.”

Susie gasps. “That’s a bunch of hogwash. Del told me the pictures were taken down the beginning of December.”

I wonder what Reena’s up to. Why would I care about her paintings? Paintings I’ve never seen.

In the corner voices rise, then Del breaks away from Paul to join us. “How’s crime in the big city?”

I pat the seat beside me. “Better than ever. How’s ranching?”

“Worse than ever. It’s bad enough Susie and I can barely keep our heads above water, but Paul doesn’t get it.”

Paul stands above us, fists clenched, jaw set. “Just what don’t I get?”

Reena hurries over. It’s plain she’s sized up the situation and wants to break the tension. “How’s that baby, Susie? Did you show Allie his picture?”

Susie rummages through her purse as Paul repeats the question and adds, “I’m waiting for an answer, Del.”

I feel Del tense and see his hands grip the edge of the cushion. “In case you haven’t noticed, the cattle business is shot this year. But, I guess you don’t care. You have the oil.”

“Two beers and you always go back to that. How many times do I have to tell you? Everything was legal.”

“Is having a judge in your hip pocket legal?” Del is smiling but his eyes are hard. “Seems to me there’s an easy way out for you, my friend. Give me the income from one well and I’ll tell my lawyer to drop the suit.”

Paul’s face darkens with his voice. “You keep that lawyer talk up and you’ll see what trouble is.” He slams his glass on the table and heads for the stairs with Reena at his heels.

“You can’t leave now. We have luncheon guests. Please, Paul.” She turns, smile frozen in place. “Sorry, but you know what a short fuse Paul has when things don’t go his way.”

I start at that. The Paul I remember used to have a slow burn. Maybe life with Reena has changed that part of him, too.

The tension is broken when Miguel and Adelena arrive bearing large wicker trays of sandwich makings.

Del tries to carry the day by describing the antics of his four boys, but Reena and Susie don’t open their mouths. We eat in silence until Paul’s jet roars overhead to become a small speck in the east.

Del’s voice is thick with bitterness. “Paul’s got it all, doesn’t he? A pretty wife, derricks galore with fat cattle in between. And top that with a jet to run away from his frustrations. Must be great to be a member of the lucky sperm club.”

Reena has finished the pitcher of Bloody Marys and several glasses of wine, so her response is slurred. “Now, Del, don’t be like that. He’ll be back. And he won’t remember why he left.” She struggles to her feet as a stoic Miguel rushes from nowhere to take her arm. “I think I’ll go sleep this off. Stay and enjoy. Adelena will bring dessert and coffee.”

Del waits until Reena vanishes, then collapses in his chair. “Paul treats her like dirt.” He checks the stairwell, then says, “He’s been seeing some gal from Laredo for over a year. I hear he’s just bought her a place in town.”

Susie shoots him a murderous glance and hisses, “Yeah, I can imagine how it hurts to know Paul’s cheating on her.”

At that Del jumps up. “That’s it. I’m sick and tired of your suspicions.”

He must see the shock on my face, because he smoothes the anger out of his voice. “Sorry about that, but I’m sure Susie’ll be more than happy to fill you in on what she thinks is going on. I’m going home and work on Darrell’s pitching game.”

Susie holds up her hand for help, then lets it fall to her lap. “I really wanted to talk for a while, but...”

Del looks at the two of us. “Okay, okay. I realize it’s been a long time since you two have gotten together. So, gab away. I’ll come back in a couple of hours. Will that be long enough?”

“No,” I say. “But, thank you for letting me have Susie to myself for a while.”

He bends to give me a small hug, glares at his wife, and vanishes.

Adelena serves coffee. When she leaves, the silence between Susie and me lies heavy. She loses herself to an intense study of her coffee until I finally break into the quiet. “Do you really think Del is sleeping with Reena?”

Susie looks up from her cup, as tears come. “It’s been going on a couple of years, maybe longer. Dammit. Don’t you think he’d remember how badly she treated him?”

She shakes her head. “Del’s never gotten over her. I get laid three or four times a year and always seem to end up pregnant. Reena gets him three or four times a week and all his damn sympathy.”

The pain in her face is devastating. I silently curse Reena and change the subject. “What’s going on between Del and Paul?”

“Del’s father claimed his family once owned the tract where the oil was discovered. Way back then they didn’t have a clue about what was under the ground. They’ve been cattle ranchers for generations.

“In the late forties Mister Carpenter found some old boundary markers that he said belonged to his family and took Mister Darden to court. Seems nobody could find any real paper on the property or records at the courthouse. Since neither family paid taxes on it for years, Carpenter stepped up, paid all the arrears, and took the property.

“According to Del, his father swore there was some sort of hanky-panky going on. He said there were missing ledgers at the courthouse and the judge who ruled on the case knew about the oil and got part of the play when the field was tapped.”

“That’s terrible. Didn’t the Dardens try to fight it?”

“They never had an extra dime.” Susie shook her head. “The issue died with Del’s father, but Mister Carpenter put Del through high school and helped supplement his football scholarship.”

“That’s one way to soothe a guilty conscience.”

“Maybe so. After Mister Carpenter died Paul did the best he could to keep on making up for it. He gave Del the foreman’s job at Anacacho when Dawson was born. So, the oil issue only comes up when our ranch has a bad year and Del has a few pops.”

“I’m so sorry. It must be awfully hard on you.”

“Oh, we’ll make it. But trying to feed four growing boys is expensive.” She caresses the heavy bulge of her coming child. “I’m having a girl at last.”

“Oh, Susie, how wonderful.”

“And I’d like to name her Allie. Is that okay?”

My answer is to hug her tight. Then I look away to hide the painful stab I feel over my long-ago loss.

Susie puts down her cup and takes my hand. “So, what’s with you and Paul?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, Allie, you’ve never been able to hide things very well.” Susie lowers her voice. “Please be careful. Paul’s changed a lot in the past few years.” She sighs. “I suppose living with Reena would do that to a man. She’s never played it straight.”

I come to attention. “What do you mean by that?”

“The way she set Paul up. There wasn’t any pigeon shoot. It was Reena who left the message for Paul the minute Del’s dad called him back to Dewey on some emergency. Don’t look so shocked. You know she’d do anything to get her way.”

“Does Paul know this?” “Del doesn’t even know.”

Before I have time to assimilate that news, Susie drops an even bigger stone in the pond. “Did Reena tell you Paul’s been seeing another woman for some time and he’s not trying to hide it?”

That confirms everything. Susie has no reason to lie.

The distant rattle of the cattle guard beneath Del’s pickup pulls us from the tower and Susie and I say our goodbyes.

“Call me often. Please?” she whispers. “You make the day brighter when you do.”

“You bet I will. And you call me when my namesake arrives.”

I climb the stairs to my room and throw myself across the bed as Susie’s two pieces of news occupy my attention.

Paul is an innocent lamb compared to the conniving Reena. Then I realize there has to be some reason for my visit. But what? What do I have that Reena wants?

I try not to add the “other woman” to the equation, since my head is already engaged in mortal combat with my heart. Part of me regrets refusing Paul’s invitation to bed. The other lists all the sensible reasons why re-establishing a relationship with Paul spells doom. Finally, I escape by falling asleep.

It’s dark when I awaken. Voices and footsteps coax me downstairs. The living room is empty, but from behind the dining room, pots clank, plates clink, and pleasantries pass among the help on the other side of the kitchen door.

As I start toward the noise, Reena’s voice floats from above. “Wait for me.”

She glides down the stairs and pulls me toward the bar. “Cocktail time. Name your poison.”

“Wine is fine.” I settle on the stool and watch her deftly uncork the bottle.

My hostess shows no sign she over-served herself at lunch. In fact she looks fantastic. Every hair is in place and her makeup is flawless. I bet she still wears the same dress size she did in college.

Reena sported the best pair of legs this side of the Sabine River and came to Texas with a pedigree of sorts, being Smiley’s head cheerleader and homecoming queen two years in a row.

In contrast, I was Valedictorian of my class and Lampasas’s only female varsity golfer, but I was too tall to take part in the homecoming court and didn’t even try out for cheerleader.

The sound of ice knocking the sides of a glass distracts me from my dreary tick list as Reena splashes a generous amount of vodka, pours my wine, then lifts her glass. “Salut.”

I remember the old college routine. It was a joke among the three of us. We knew we wanted the wealth, but never worried about our health or the time to enjoy it.

I raise my glass and gently touch hers. “Pesetas.” After a sip, I say, “Mmmm, that hits the spot.”

Reena points to the sofa in front of the glowing fireplace and heads for it. Once we’re seated, she raises her glass. “Guess you’ve figured we’re eating alone.”

“Suits me fine. I came to see you.”

She starts to say something, then heads for the bar and a quick refill.

Reena slowly turns toward me, glass raised. “Is Paul still as good in the sack as he used to be?”

At that, needles of adrenaline course my body as spots spire before my eyes. To my horror I feel as guilty as if I actually committed adultery. I concentrate on relaxing my grip on the stem of my wine glass before I say as nonchalantly as I can muster, “What do you mean?”

She plops on the couch. “You might as well know, I asked Luke Hansen to follow you two up to Paul’s little lair.”

I almost faint from relief. Maybe he saw us kiss, but that was all he saw.

I take a few seconds to gather myself before I speak. When I do, my reply is a surprisingly steady, “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m an old-fashioned girl. No married men for me. Paul and I were just catching up. After all, seven years is a long time and we had a lot of ground to cover.”

“Oh c’mon, Allie, don’t tell me Paul didn’t at least try to make a pass at you.”

The proverbial lightbulb blinds me. I was her last ditch. Pictures of Paul and me in flagrante would certainly help her case in the divorce. Luke Hansen was probably the ugly man at the stables talking to Reena when Paul and I rode up. Well, too bad, Reena, you lose. I relax and take a sip of my wine, grateful I kept my wits about me.

Reena continues the attack. “Don’t think Paul has been saving himself for you, my dear. Goodness, no. He has his little routine down pat. First, he asks his target-of-the-moment to go for a ride.” She laughs to herself. “It doesn’t matter whether the ladies can ride or not. I’ve seen Miguel tie them to the saddle.

“Off they go into the sunrise, high noon, or sunset. When they stumble onto Paul’s little retreat, he leads the lady to the very convenient platform bed, tells her she’s the only woman that’s ever shared his special hideaway. Aaand, as they say, the rest is history.”

I start to speak, then remember the only way to Paul’s retreat is on horseback. Not even a four-wheeler could make it. How does Reena know these minute details when she claims she’s too scared of horses to ride?

Reena pours another drink and smiles through tears. “I know it’s over. It’s just a matter of time. Paul has never forgiven me for lying about being pregnant.”

Adelena saves the moment by announcing dinner and we move into the dining room.

Over delicious broiled striped bass in a sweet pepper sauce, we chat about the good old days at the sorority house.

When Reena makes a few oblique references to Paul’s abrupt departure, I take the opportunity to ask about his shifting his business from San Antonio to Laredo.

“In the past few years the air traffic into San Antonio has become so congested that even though Laredo is about twenty miles farther, it’s a shorter shot. I engaged a CPA for Paul and he found us a bank. Too damn bad the bank found Fanny.”

“Fanny?”

“The next Mrs. Paul Carpenter.” We finish the meal in silence.

Reena doesn’t mention Paul again except to announce that Miguel has informed her the plane will fly me back to Houston first thing in the morning.

We down our coffee, mount the stairs, and part.

I sigh relief once the door clicks shut behind me. Relief that Reena didn’t insist on an after-dinner drink. Relief that Paul won’t be returning to tempt me.

Chapter 5

I BREAKFAST ALONE, then Miguel drives me to the waiting jet. There are a dozen questions I want to ask this quiet man who seems not only loyal to his boss, but very protective of Reena.

I get home just after ten and head to the basement to do a load of laundry. When I get off the elevator, I hear a dryer running. I’m not much in the mood for idle chat with one of my neighbors, but my blues dissolve when I see Duncan hunched before the window watching the laundry whirl.

He waves and I wave back, dump my clothes in the washer, feed it the required quarters and join him on the bench.

He puts his arm around me, plants a friendly kiss on my cheek, and says, “When did you get back?”

“Minutes ago.” Duncan is glad to see me. That’s all that matters. So I apologize. “Sorry about the other evening. Nothing personal. I was just venting.”

“I know. But it’s obvious you’re not happy with your present situation. Maybe the private side of the law would be more enjoyable.”

“Maybe so. But I’m not hurrying into anything.”

We sit there for a while, neither speaking. Watching laundry dry is a lot more interesting than one would imagine. For one thing, I discover Duncan has a yen for plaid boxers. I’m about to make some flip comment about that when he says, “How about a movie?”

When I reach my apartment, there are four messages on my machine. The parents’ usual Sunday call, followed by one from my sister, Angela, Duncan’s info on a one-thirty viewing of some foreign film at the Greenway Three, and Paul.

“I’m sorry about Saturday, but I knew if I didn’t leave Anacacho I wouldn’t be able to honor your wishes. I have to see you, Allie. I need to be with you. I’ll call this afternoon. Please be there.”

I erase the messages and return the phone calls. Angela is out as usual, but the parents are in. After I give a brief rundown of my week, Mom rhapsodizes over Angela’s latest modeling gig while my stomach crimps with envy.

I was five when I learned I would never be the “star,” no matter what I achieved. I’m sure Mom would have cut her tongue out if she discovered I was hiding behind the couch when she told a friend, “Angela’s our beauty and Alice is our brain.”

Even at that young age, I knew my mother spoke the truth. Angela inherited Dad’s high cheekbones, Mom’s perfect nose, and a tawny spill of wavy hair. A package that would later pull in a hefty six-figure income.

Despite all this, I love Angela and we have always been close. Though she’s fifteen months older than I, somewhere along the way, I became the big sister.

It’s a so-so movie, black-and-white with subtitles. Duncan is thoroughly engrossed, but all I can think about is Paul and the past. We spent only four months as a couple, but every memory replays in gold-tinged slow motion. Our first kiss. Our first night together. We were so in love. So passionate.

But the sad thing is, I don’t remember what we talked about. Did we share our hopes and dreams, or trade stories about our pasts? Come to think of it, most of what I knew about Paul came from Susie or Del.

I sneak a look at Duncan, his mouth open to receive the single bloom of popcorn, and realize I know almost as much about him as I do Paul.

Duncan must sense my distraction because he leans into my ear. “Great movie.”

I nod and try to focus on the screen.

It’s four o’clock. Duncan and I stand in front of my door. We’re in another discussion about the job. He’s been trying to persuade me to check Perkins, Travis, a local firm dealing in corporate real estate. He’s offering to set up an interview, when my phone rings.

“You need to get that?”

I shake my head. “The machine will catch it.”

I can hear Paul’s voice leaving a message, then silence.

Duncan can hear it too, but doesn’t pay much attention. Instead, he stands there staring at me. I think he’s trying to decide whether I want him to kiss me. I don’t, at least not now, so I give him a peck on the cheek, smile my brightest smile, and jam the key in the lock. “Thanks for the movie. See you tomorrow.”

I ignore his dejection and begin to edge into my apartment. Before I can close the door, Duncan grabs my hand and stops my retreat. “What happened this weekend?”

I can’t believe I’ve been that transparent. “Why do you ask?” “You shoveled your popcorn and never stopped jiggling your right leg. I bet you can’t tell me what the movie was about.” He’s moving inside my door now and shutting it behind him.

Did I do that? Scarf my popcorn? Jiggle? But Duncan’s right, I can’t remember one thing about the movie except it was a French black-and-white.

I’ve got to get him out of here before Paul calls again. “I guess I’m just overly tired. My girlfriend is having marital troubles and we stayed up all night talking. I’m sorry I was so distracted.”

Duncan relaxes. “If that’s all, I’ll beat it so you can get some shut-eye.”

When he gets to the door, he turns, voice low. “I care a lot about you, Allie. I guess you’ve already figured that out.”

I nod mutely, lifting my hand in salute. When the door snaps shut, I head for the machine.

Paul’s messages come on the half-hour, each filled with declarations of love. Weekends anyplace I choose, the jet at my disposal.

When the phone rings, I let the machine take it and hear panic in his voice. “I know you got to the Hobby terminal safely and I’ve checked the police for any accidents. Where are you, Allie? Or are you there and don’t want to talk? Please don’t do this to me. Not after this weekend. Not after you’ve given me reason to hope.”

To my surprise, I find myself analyzing his urgings instead of responding to them. He’s offering everything I’ve dreamed of for the past seven years. Why can’t I pick up the phone, tell him I love him? I reach for the receiver, then yank my hand away and stand staring at the machine.

The tape whirrs on in silence, then beeps, signaling the caller to disconnect and Paul begs, “Allie. Please.”

When he finally breaks the connection, I turn off the telephone and the answering machine and head for bed.

Sleep doesn’t come easily, giving me most of the long, dark night to do some serious thinking.

On the ride back to Anacacho from Paul’s hideaway, I treated myself to a small dream of a future with him. But at lunch, his volatile behavior toward Del, followed by his abrupt departure, gave me pause.

Despite Paul’s denial, Susie’s news of the other woman and Reena’s confirmation about someone named Fanny becoming the next Mrs. Carpenter still echo in my mind, drowning Paul’s pleas for a new beginning.

I punch a hole in my pillow and settle into it. The game plan has changed. Paul and I have changed. Time does that whether we want it to or not. What kind of future could we possibly have?

Chapter 6

IT’S THE LAST MONDAY IN APRIL. I have mixed emotions as I watch the grand jury pose for their “class” picture, then file out of the hearing room for the final time.

The panel—one of my best—included people from varied financial, ethnic, and racial backgrounds. The foreman: an insurance executive, eligible bachelor, and man-about-town. He’s going to ask me out and I’m going to say no. Despite all this, I’m looking forward to the brief hiatus before the three-month May grand jury term begins.

I force myself from the air-conditioned building into the glare, and the heat knocks the breath out of my lungs. Spring is short in Houston. A week max, that occurs in early March. Today, the temperature is already in the high eighties with matching humidity. All we can do is pray for one more puny push from the north before the sauna kicks on for a good nine months, carrying the miserable summer and early fall seasons “to term.”

Duncan’s voice curls over my shoulder. “Going back to the office?”

I turn and look into a longish face that ends in a nice square chin. The mouth is a shade too wide and the nose a bit too long to fill the allotted space, but all-in-all he’s not bad-looking.

The thick load of files, clasped to my chest, bulges between us. “I sure don’t plan to lug these home.”

“How did the interview go with Perkins, Travis?”

“Great. Besides being impressive attorneys, I like them very much. I’m hoping they’ll make an offer.”

Duncan grins. “And I have an offer for you. Tonight I’m featuring a terrific pesto over penne. How about it?”

I have avoided dining “in” since my return from Anacacho and Duncan’s been a brick about it. Instead, we eat out, judiciously halving the tab, then usually hit a movie.

I’m back to the proper popcorn consumption level now, and haven’t jiggled my foot once. We are still trading nice long kisses, but only outside my front door. I’m relieved that Duncan hasn’t pressed me, and hope it’s because he’s serious about a long-term commitment.

It’s been almost three months since I made my decision not to see Paul. The following day I bought Caller ID. Just as I was installing it, Susie phoned to report she delivered and little Allie was feeding like a hungry puppy. She promised to call once she was settled at home and that was that.

For the next few weeks Paul called several times a day. After a few long, impassioned tries, the messages abruptly stopped.

I have to admit there were times I thought about Paul and what he said that soft January morning, but not with the longing I once felt.

Duncan gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “Well? What about it?” “Your offer’s too good to pass up. Nobody makes pesto better than you. Chianti Classico or Montepulciano?”

His eager grin throws his whole face off-kilter. “You choose. Come up about seven.”

Dinner is divine. I help Duncan clean up and we settle on his couch. It’s very comfortable to be in his arms and feel his lips on mine. For the last two months Duncan has let me make the moves, but tonight he wants more and he deserves it.

It’s time to tell him about Paul.

I move away and say, “We have to talk.” He tries to pull me to him.

“Please, Duncan.”

He lets me go. “Want some wine? I have a feeling this is serious.”

After he fills two glasses and sits, I give him a brief synopsis of my relationship with Paul, carefully omitting the pregnancy. Frankly, I’m torn about not giving full disclosure, but what happened was so many years ago and I dealt with my loss as well as I could. Still, I know how the past can sometimes jump up and bite you in the rear.

“I appreciate your honesty, Allie.”

He takes my hand in his. “I owe you the same.”

Damn. I’m not into true confessions. Not now, anyway. I scramble to break the moment, but find no way to do that without seeming callous.

“You once asked why I left Chicago. Remember?”

I nod. “But it’s really not necessary to...”

“I was engaged to my boss’s daughter. I thought she was the one, but when it came down to actually planning the wedding, I balked. Joe Pine, our illustrious DA, is Mother’s half-brother. He took me in until I could find a place to live and helped me get the job.”

I smile. “Seems we both have a past. So let’s be a little careful.” Duncan smiles back, his voice buzzy. “I love you. Is that okay?”

When I find my own words, they’re a little buzzy, too. “I love you right back and it’s more than okay. But I need a little time.” He gathers me to him and whispers, “Do I have a choice?”

It’s after nine-thirty when I open the door to my apartment. Though I’m still “intact,” the level of intimacy between Duncan and me has accelerated.

I regard this new plateau in our relationship as sort of a promise of a promise. Since we declared our feelings, it seemed a little silly not to allow a greater range of latitude between us and, it was all I could do to put on the skids.

Duncan knew all the right moves, yet I never felt pressured to do anything I wasn’t willing to do. It was actually his choice to stop when we did, but he made the suggestion with grace and diplomacy.

We were still sort of in our clothes when he kissed the base of my throat and said, “This has to be your call, Allie. Is it my bed or the door?”

I knew he meant it. I still don’t know why I chose the door, but when I did, he kissed me long and hard, then moved away so I could put myself together.

“I guess I better get out of here before things get worse.” “Things are pretty bad right now,” Duncan whispered. “In fact, I’m about to ask you to reconsider.” “How about a rain check?”

“How about tomorrow night?”

I nodded, then slipped away and through his door.

I barely notice the blinking light on my machine because I’m still decompressing from being wrapped in Duncan’s arms. When it grabs my attention, I wander over and idly push the play button.

Susie’s voice is broken with sobs. “I don’t know how to tell you this except straight out. Reena’s dead. You have to come, Allie. I’m sure Paul will send the jet. Please don’t say no.”

I’m shocked by my reaction to the news. It’s as if some great hand ripped a hole in my stomach. All I can see is Reena, shiny blonde cascades framing her porcelain face. Those huge blue eyes. I can almost hear that croaky laugh as she describes the latest cockamamie stunt for the evening.

Tears stream as I call Duncan. He’s here in seconds. Pours me a stiff drink and sits beside me until I’m calm enough to have a few rational thoughts.

At his suggestion, I check the times of the messages. Susie’s call was around eight. There were hang-ups at eight-ten and eight-thirty.

We sit huddled together and wait in silence.

When the phone rings we both jump. I pick up the receiver. It’s Paul.

“Allie?”

“Oh, Paul, I’m so sorry. When...?” I can’t finish the sentence. “Last Friday. We fought. She took her car.” He pauses. “I have to be honest. I was glad she went, but when her mother called on Sunday, I told her she was visiting a neighbor. Reena wasn’t many things, but she was a good daughter. She didn’t let a weekend pass without talking to her family. First thing Monday I went to the sheriff in Uvalde. They saw the buzzards and found her.”

I shudder. “How did she die?”

“They didn’t say. They’re not giving out any information until they have all the evidence.”

“Where did it happen?”

“At my place in the mountains.”

“But Reena doesn’t ride. How did she get there?” Silence.

“Paul?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure they think I did it.”

I must confess that immediately occurred to me. But then, I rationalize, Paul would be stupid to leave Reena’s body at his private hideaway, a spot surrounded by rugged terrain, accessible only by horseback.

“Can you represent me?”

“No, I can’t. I have next to no trial experience. I’ve only been third chair in a child abuse case. You need the best criminal defense you can find.”

“But will you come?”

I cadge a glance at Duncan, who’s now alert. “I have a week off before the next Grand Jury session.”

“I knew you wouldn’t let me down.” There’s relief in Paul’s voice.

“I should be able to clear things up here by early afternoon tomorrow. Have the jet at Hobby by three.”

I hang up and turn to see that Duncan’s face has lost some of its sympathetic glow. “You’re going?”

“I have to. Reena Carpenter was an old friend and Paul is... was her husband.”

“The Paul you told me about?”

When I nod, his hands grasp my shoulders. “Let me come with you. I’ll get a room at a motel. I’ll go to the funeral with you, then we can come home.”

“I can’t ask you to do that. What about your caseload?”

“Damn the caseload. Damn the law.” He squeezes me hard and whispers, “I don’t want to lose you.”

Chapter 7

TO MY RELIEF, THE JET LANDS at the Uvalde airstrip instead of continuing on to Anacacho, but I know Paul will be waiting.

He gets out and leans against his car until the engines wind down, then walks slowly toward me, not with the proud bearing I remember, but stooped as if someone laid a whip across his back.

My feelings for Paul I was so positive had faded, tumble forward as tears come. “I’m sorry—so sorry.”

He gathers me to him and hugs hard.

I feel him shaking and look up.

“They want me for questioning.” He motions behind him. “Oh, Paul.” I crane to see a police car parked down the road at a discreet distance.

“I know the sheriff pretty well, in fact I helped him get elected, but the only special favor I’m allowed is to get you settled before...” He doesn’t finish.

“No warrant is out?”

“He didn’t mention a warrant.” “Do you have representation?”

“I didn’t think I needed any.”

I start to chastise him for not getting an attorney, then realize the man is obviously in shock and not thinking clearly.

“Don’t worry. From what you’ve said, this sounds like a routine interview. Let me drop off my stuff and I’ll come with you.”

It’s a short drive to the motel on Highway 90 with the patrol car not far behind. Paul parks in front of the fourth cabin from the office. After pointing out an all-night café across the highway, he unlocks the door.

The room is spare but spotless and a card on the television touts a satellite. Luckily, I have my cell, since there seems to be no telephone. I dump my fold-over and suitcase on the double bed and join Paul for the trip to the municipal building.

After we are ushered into the sheriff ’s office, Paul introduces me.

The man grabs my hand as his electric-blues look into mine and connect with a surprising jolt. “I’m Bill Cotton.”

He’s wearing some sort of aftershave—a delicious smoky scent of sandalwood.

I snatch my hand away and move to the nearest chair, relieved that no one else seems to catch the moment.

The sheriff produces a tape recorder, mumbles information into the microphone, and sets it before Paul.

“Okay, Paul, if you’ll just give us your name, address, etcetera, we’ll get you through this as quick as possible.”

The sheriff ’s eyes grab my attention for the second time. Angela would call them Paul Newman blue. Maybe, but the resemblance ends there. Beneath brown wavy hair, his face is sharp with angles: high cheekbones, a well-balanced but somewhat patrician nose, and a square jaw. But in a pleasant contrast his full lips turn up at the corners.

The sheriff ’s questions are relatively simple. When did Paul see Reena last? What were the circumstances surrounding her departure? Why did Paul wait so long to report her missing? How many others knew of his hideaway?

He looks up from the notes he’s been taking, rivets his eyes to mine, then finally breaks the charged silence with a low, “And what do you do?”

My response is almost conspiratory, as if no one else was in the room. “I’m a prosecutor for Harris County.”

He turns to Paul. “Is she the attorney of record?” “I’m here as a friend.”

He cocks one brow. “A DA? In that case, I guess we won’t have to watch you so close.”

“Thanks for your vote of confidence.” I match his stare for a few seconds, then say, “I do have a favor to ask.”

“Shoot.”

“Would it be possible for me to visit the murder site?”

“I don’t see why not. My guys are done up there. Can you handle a horse in rugged terrain?”

“No problem.” “What’s your reason?” “Curiosity.”

He studies me for a moment then says in a slow, lazy drawl, “Remember what happened to the cat.”

That finally gets me and I struggle to keep my voice even. “I believe a cat has nine lives, but for the record, how do you think Reena got up there?”

That gets his attention. “Pardon?”

“I’m asking how Reena got there. She didn’t ride. She was scared to death of horses.”

He turns to Paul. “That’s pretty important information, Carpenter, why didn’t I hear it from you?”

Paul couldn’t look any worse or more guilty. “Sorry, I guess I haven’t been thinking very straight. But Allie’s right, I never saw Reena go near a horse.”

The sheriff adds a few sentences to his notes, then rises. “You’re free to go for now, but don’t leave the county.”

As we start for the door, he says, “Oh, by the way, we may have a jurisdictional problem here. I know the main house sits in Uvalde County, but doesn’t your property spill into Kinney and Maverick Counties?”

Paul thinks a minute. “Yes, both.”

“Do you know which county that lean-to is in?”

Paul nods. “I’m not sure, but I have the survey at the ranch.” “If you can’t come up with it, we’ll dig through the records at the courthouse.”

The sheriff is now standing next to me, notes clasped to him. I notice the creases in his short-sleeved uniform shirt are still crisp even after what I assume is a long day. His arms sport a fine sheen of sun-bleached hair over smooth, well-tanned skin. The scent of his aftershave invades my nostrils, making me a little unsteady on my feet.

He runs his hands through his heavy crop of hair. “I’ve been meaning to call on you about another problem, so I’ll just ask you now. Have you noticed any unusual tire tracks on the Maverick County side of your land?”

Paul shakes his head. “I haven’t ridden the fence line for years. But I’m sure if something was amiss, my new hand would have mentioned it. He’s pretty alert. Looking for wetbacks?”

“At first we thought so, but instead of the usual footprints the Maverick County sheriff found bicycle tracks leading from the river toward the highway.”

“Bicycles?” Paul says. “How can those poor bastards afford a bicycle?”

“They can’t. Someone’s supplying them. The sheriff and his deputy picked up a few discarded bikes along Highway Two-Seventy-Seven. Seems they’ve been modified to carry several hundred pounds of cargo and I don’t think we’re talking suitcases. More than likely marijuana or cocaine. I’d appreciate it if you’d check with your hand, then give me a call. What did you say his name was?”

“I didn’t, but it’s Luke Hansen. I’ll talk to him first thing in the morning.”

The sheriff turns to me. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Welcome to Uvalde.”

For the second time, his handshake sends a spark through me that makes my knees go weak.

“You, too,” is all that comes to mind and as the words leave my mouth I curse myself for being so inane.

Paul and I return to the all-night diner for a late supper. Once we are seated in a cracked red vinyl booth, he orders salads, steaks with fries, and homemade apple pie, then pours vodka from a silver flask into the two glasses of ice the waitress has provided.

He shoves my glass across the tired Formica, then hunches into his shoulders. Reena’s death seems to have aged him a good ten years. I notice he’s no longer just thin, but hollow-cheeked, and there’s a day’s stubble on his chin. Even his voice seems to crawl from the deeps.

“Lord, I’m tired.”

My next question seems to pitch him into a bluer funk. “Have you seen Susie and Del?”

He looks away. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk. But to keep the conversation afloat, I say, “Susie delivered a little girl the Monday after I was here in January. Her name is Allie. After me.”

“I didn’t know that. Or maybe I did once, and just forgot.” He’s been staring down at his glass for the last few minutes, so I haven’t been able to read his reactions. He looks up. “Del’s been overseeing the ranch business. We mainly communicate by fax. As for Susie...” He shrugs and downs his drink.

I’m surprised Paul no longer seems to care about the ranch as much as he once did. When we first met, he was putting in long hours and was proud of the way he expanded the cattle business along with drilling two more oil wells.

“Who’s handling your oil properties?”

Before Paul can answer, from behind us a loud voice underlined by a steel-tipped staccato says, “Paul Carpenter. I’ve been looking all over town for you.”

He looks up and flushes. “Fanny.”

I look into dark brows knitted into a single line accentuating flashing eyes.

In one ear, I hear Susie’s voice: “Paul’s been seeing a woman for several months and he’s not trying to hide it.” In the other: Reena’s, “Too damned bad the bank found Fanny.”

The diner falls silent as Paul slides from the booth, grabs the woman’s arm and mutters, “Sit down.”

Her generous mouth draws into a downward curl. “This booth is a bit too crowded for me.”

Though she struggles to break Paul’s hold, he wins and pulls her next to him. “Allie, this is Fanny Hansen. Fanny, this is my attorney, Alice Armington.”

I watch as she tries to collect herself, then realize that Paul has just lied. It’s plain he’s lied to appease her, but he has lied.

Despite her tough demeanor, Fanny is very pretty. Her hair is almost the same brown as mine and is complimented by a smooth olive complexion. She’s probably in her late thirties, closer in age to Paul who is a good five years my senior. Her sleeveless red linen dress, cut high at the neck, is chicly defined by several twined ropes of white chalk. But what grabs me is the major diamond weighing down her left ring finger.

“You’re Paul’s lawyer?”

I give Paul a reproving look and say, “No, I don’t represent Paul. I work for the Harris County District Attorney.” “A DA?”

“An Assistant DA with the Grand Jury Division.” At this point I decide to go on attack. “And just what do you do?”

She shoots back, “Real estate,” then blinks at Paul and coos, “That’s how I met Paul.”

“You live in Laredo?”

“I have a condo there.” She pauses. “But I have a place here, too. Two to three months now, isn’t that right, darling?”

I make a few mental calculations and realize Paul must have set her up in February. So much for his declaration of undying love.

Paul’s misery grows exponentially at every word Fanny utters. He’s been caught and can’t escape. He excuses himself, leaving us to stare stonily at each other until he reappears.

When he does, a wide smile has replaced his former dejection. He settles next to Fanny, gives her a nudge, then turns on the charm and tells a few slightly risqué stories. When the food arrives, Fanny orders a Lone Star beer, then amuses herself by snitching fries off Paul’s plate and begging in baby-talk for bites of steak from his fork. I notice he hardly touches his food, but ring it up to Fanny’s cloying ministrations.

Her act is so nauseating, I plead exhaustion, shake Fanny’s hand while repeating all the polite phrases my mother taught me, then shove my apple pie toward her and say in my best French, “Bon appétit.”

Paul, who has abandoned his bewildered fiancée to walk me across the highway to the motel, is standing much too close. “May I come in?” he whispers.

The ring on Fanny’s finger has shaken me terribly. “Is that your ring?”

“Does it matter?”

“You conveniently forgot to mention this woman.”

“Fanny isn’t... I knew I’d lose you if I told you about Fanny, and... I can’t face the future without you.”

“There is no future.”

“There has to be. After you left, I called you every day. When you didn’t answer...”

“I couldn’t. Not after Susie told me you’d been seeing someone. And when Reena told me Fanny was to be the next Mrs. Carpenter, what was I supposed to think?”

“It’s business. Believe me, this woman means nothing to me. I can’t tell you why right now, but...” His voice trails to silence.

I recover my wits enough to step away. “My job is to help you find out who murdered Reena. Can’t you act just a little sorry that she’s dead? If you don’t muster up at least a small dollop of grief, you could be in real trouble.”

“I’m already in more trouble than you know.” His concern dissolves to a hopeful smile. “How about breakfast at eight? Then I’ll take you to Susie’s.”

I don’t sleep well in strange beds. That fact and the muted whump every time the air conditioner compressor engages means there is no hope for any sort of continuous slumber. I try counting sheep, but there are too many unanswered questions surrounding Reena’s death, compounded by the glaring truth that I still harbor more than a few unresolved feelings for Paul.

Chapter 8

PAUL IS STANDING AT MY DOOR a little before eight the next morning dressed in freshly pressed jeans and gleaming boots, looking a lot jauntier than he did the night before. I feel a small push of jealousy, knowing that he and Fanny probably ended the evening together in bed.

I slide past him into the already warm day. “It’s going to be a hot one and I forgot to bring a hat.”

“Don’t worry, we can stop by the house. Reena had at least a hundred. Hey, wait for me.” Paul catches up, grabs my arm. “What’s your hurry?”

“I’m hungry.” I race across the highway with Paul at my heels. We don’t speak until the coffee’s poured.

I dump a packet of sweetener in my cup and say, “Perhaps we should call Susie before we drop by, after all it’s a school day.”

Paul pulls out his cell phone, punches in a number, and hands it to me just as Susie answers. “Hi Suze, it’s me.”

“Oh, Allie, I’m so glad you’re in town. I need to talk to you. Alone. I have to tell you about something I saw...” A screaming argument between little boys erupts in the background and drowns her out, then, “... this afternoon? The babies go down around two.”

“I’ll be there.”

I hand the phone back to Paul. “She wants to see me this afternoon. Too hectic this morning.” I hesitate before asking, “Do you have a Jeep or something I can use? If not, I can get a rental.”

“No need for that. I’ll be your chauffeur.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I can get...” I see the hope in his face fade and hurry to add, “But I don’t want to interrupt your schedule.”

“I have no schedule. I can’t leave the county, the Anacacho practically runs itself, Del takes care of the cattle, the oil is pipeline injected, and, as of last night... well, I guess you now know what my ‘business’ was in Laredo.”

I ignore his whine. “Your open affair with Fanny could be construed as motive. If I were you, I’d ship that lady out of Uvalde until we can find Reena’s murderer.”

He gives me a baleful look. “Fanny went to Laredo this morning.”

“That’s a relief. Now, do you have a car or not?” Paul hesitates. “There’s Reena’s.”

Reena’s car? Didn’t Paul say Reena left in her car?

It’s almost ten by the time we stop before the double oak doors of the main house at Anacacho.

Paul gets out and says, “Come on in and pick out a proper sombrero.”

I follow him into the entry, now quiet as a cloister. Remembering the sound of Reena’s heels clicking across the tiles, my throat catches. I’ll never hear that husky drawl—never see those bright blue... Wait a minute here. I remind myself what hell Reena made of my life.

Paul heads through the living room toward the back of the house with me close behind. I stop dead in my tracks. Reena’s “little” art collection fills the once-empty space above the refectory table, now covered with fragrant peonies.

The O’Keeffe and the Remington sketches are to the right and slightly below several Salinas oils of bluebonnets and wind-twisted oak trees.

“When did this happen?”

He stops and turns. “What?” “Where did these come from?”

He glances at the wall. “They’ve always hung there.”

“That’s funny. When I was here in January Reena made a big deal about her collection being stolen.”

“Is that what she told you? The pictures were stolen?” Paul shakes his head. “That bitch never missed a chance for high drama.”

“Well, maybe she didn’t say ‘stolen,’ but I remember she jumped all over Miguel about it.”

“I don’t know how he put up with her. It’s true the pictures weren’t hanging in January. Just after Thanksgiving I sent the collection to San Antonio to be cleaned and re-appraised. While they were down, I had the living room re-painted.”

The ride into the Anacacho Mountains is quite different from our last. This time we’re going to see where Reena died.

We make our way through the mesquite and low scrub. Most of the wildflowers are past blooming, but here and there a bright orange paintbrush waves in the whispering breeze.

The sun beats down and dust curls upward behind Paul’s horse and settles around me in a loamy cloak. I’m grateful for Reena’s wide-brimmed straw, anchored firmly beneath my chin by its leather strap. In the distance a dove calls, answered by its mate. It’s hard to envision how Reena died amid all this serenity. Her pale skin burned black, her eyes picked clean by the buzzards.

Who could have hated her so besides myself? Paul, certainly, but I can’t or won’t see the murderer in him. Besides, he wouldn’t be dumb enough to do her in at his favorite hideaway. It’s obvious someone is trying to frame him—someone who knows him well.

Could it be Del? The Carpenters took land away from the Dardens and then discovered oil on it. That’s enough to make anybody murdering mad, but mad enough to kill the woman he once loved in order to frame Paul? No. Not Del. And certainly not Susie. Even if she wished Reena dead, she wouldn’t have time to commit murder. Not with that string of kids to wrangle.

We dismount at the lean-to and Paul points toward a copse of mesquite. “If you’re looking for the murder site it’s behind those bushes over there. They found her at the watering trough.”

When we get past the underbrush, I see staked yellow tape filled with the never-ending print: “CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS,” swaying and flapping in the tiny gusts of late spring wind.

I try to imagine Reena’s last moments in this desolate spot. Did she struggle? Try to run? I can almost see her staring upward into the beating sun since there was little shade to shield her fair skin or protect her from the ever-circling scavengers.

Paul stands behind me, hands on my shoulders. “Don’t waste your tears. Reena was a low-class slut. Slept with every man that set foot on this ranch. Guest or hand, it didn’t matter who.”

I step away as indignation jams my craw. “For Pete’s sake, Paul, we’re standing where Reena was murdered. How can you say such things?”

“Because, it’s the truth; bad as it sounds, it’s the truth.”

He tries to draw me to him, but I turn my face away from his. “Don’t. Not here.”

“Okay, okay.” He releases his hold and starts toward the lean-to. “I’m going for cold water. Want some?”

I nod, then turn to check around the trough, hoping there might be something—anything the sheriff ’s men might have overlooked.

Day-glo pink spray paint marks the outline of Reena’s body, her arms flung wide and her feet pointing toward the trough. But she didn’t ride—didn’t have a horse to water. Who drew her up here? And away from the lean-to? Someone.

“Puzzling, isn’t it?” Paul’s voice jerks me around. “Reena didn’t ride and the only way up here is on horseback.” He hands me a cold bottle of water, then drains his.

I toss my head back and let the cool liquid trickle down my parched throat. “Yes, ‘puzzling’ is the perfect word.”

I point in the direction of the lean-to. “How did you get the materials up here to build a lean-to?”

“Helicopter. This flat area makes a perfect landing site.”

I hand him my empty bottle, then roll up my right sleeve and plunge my arm into the trough.

Paul quickly steps forward to stop me, voice steely. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. That water can be pretty gross. Horse saliva is riddled with germs.”

The look on his face makes me hesitate. I straighten, wiping my hand on my jeans. “Maybe you should empty it. There could be evidence.”

Paul gives me a strained smile. “I’ll be sure to mention that the next time I see the sheriff.” He squints skyward, then says, “Let’s get out of here before the heat gets us.”

Chapter 9

IT’S JUST PAST TWO as I gun Reena’s red Mercedes SL down the rutted lane and up the hill to Del and Susie’s ranch house. The Darden spread is small for this part of Texas, about 10,000 acres in mostly scrub. At best it takes a couple of acres to support one grazing animal.

The rambling, wood house stands beneath a cluster of old oaks carefully nurtured to maturity by Del’s grandfather. A wide porch with rocking chairs and tables circles the entire structure affording an elevated view of the land below.

Susie once complained the house was so old it couldn’t be air-conditioned. Despite large windows and wide doors, her only relief was a ceiling fan in every room.

My dear friend exits the front door and runs down the steps. We hug hard and long, then she says, “I see you’re driving Reena’s prized possession.”

“Paul loaned it to me. The other option was using him as a chauffeur.”

“Guess he doesn’t have much to do these days, does he?”

I’m about to say that Fanny Hansen is keeping him more than occupied when Susie grabs my hand, pulls me up to the front door and inside the hall.

She points toward the living room, then starts toward the kitchen. “I made lemonade. Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

The sagging furniture suffers from age and the onslaughts of four growing boys, the only exception being a large late-model television on a dolly. Beneath the television, toys spill out of a large, wooden box and several plastic G.I. Joes peek from beneath two stained easy chairs and their ottomans.

I notice a bassinet placed near one worn arm of the sofa and tiptoe over to see my namesake. There before me is a perfect round head shrouded in dark curls, one thumb jamming a rosebud mouth and a diapered rear poking toward the ceiling. Little Allie is a vision to behold. I touch one tiny toe, then watch as she draws her knees more tightly beneath her and sucks hard on her thumb, until she drops into deep sleep.

Susie’s at my side. “Allie’s been a love from the beginning. It’s Donny that’s driving me bonkers. Fourteen months and he’s not sleeping through. Misses my breast, I guess. Thank the Lord he’s still crawling. If he could walk I’d be a goner.” She shoves a glass of lemonade in my hand. “I just got him down when I heard the car. That gives us a good two hours.”

We settle on the couch, Susie closest to the bassinet, and sip our drinks in silence. The breeze floating gently though the open doors and windows seems almost chilly and she leans to pull a coverlet over the baby. “Del tells me you went up to the murder site. How bad was it?”

“Grim. They outlined her body in Day-glo pink. You remember how Reena hated the sun? She was up there days before they found her.”

Susie shudders and hugs herself. “I hear they beat the buzzards away. Who do you think killed her?”

“Could have been anyone.” “Well, it wasn’t Del.”

“Of course it wasn’t. Del wouldn’t hurt a fly.” I decide to press. “You said you wanted to tell me something?”

She shoots me a veiled look. “Did I?”

“Well, I might have misunderstood. The boys were making such a racket...” I think back over our brief telephone conversation. I need to talk to you. Alone. I have to tell you about something I saw... I’m sure that’s what she said.

“I was probably speaking to the boys. They can make such a ruckus.”

No use in pursuing. Susie won’t give it up, at least not now. “So, how is Del?”

She turns away to fuss with the baby’s coverlet. “On overload. I’m afraid little Allie is the last straw.”

Their first son, Darrell Royal Darden, was named for the well-known Longhorn coach Del worshipped. He was followed by Dawson. It seemed for a while that the two boys were enough, then after a brief production hiatus, David and Donald arrived in quick succession and, now, little Allie.

Five children in seven years. Reena’s sarcastic, “You’d think she’d figure out what causes them,” echoes.

Susie turns toward the bassinet, spends more than enough time straightening the coverlet over Allie’s bottom, then her body lurches.

“Del never really loved me.” She chokes on her words. “It was always Reena.”

I scoot to circle her with my arms. “Oh, Susie, I’m so sorry.” “He never looked my way until Reena dumped him.”

“And you were wonderful to him, Suze. I think he might have ended his life if you hadn’t taken him under your wing.”

“We were happy in the beginning. Darrell Royal was the light of Del’s life. Luckily, Paul and Reena were gone most of the time.

“After our second son was born, Del said he didn’t want any more children. Said he would never be able to make ends meet. He made me promise.

“Everything was fine until Del started skipping dinner whenever Paul was away. I don’t know why he thought I wouldn’t figure it out. You can’t miss the sound of that jet.”

She sees the shock on my face and says, “I know adding three more mouths to our pitiful existence was stupid, but it was the only way I knew to keep him.”

The baby’s cry pulls Susie to her feet and over the bassinet. “You awake, Little Allie? Come meet your godmother.” She lifts the baby and places her in my arms.

The warmth of my namesake’s tiny body against mine makes me ache with longing for my lost baby, but I manage to say, “She’s beautiful.”

I rock her until her tiny mouth begins to nudge my breast while her free hand joins in the search. My thready voice betrays me. “You better take her, she’s hungry.”

Susie retrieves Allie, and in one quick motion, releases her breast to her daughter, then coos, “This makes it worth it all.”

I see peace replace sorrow with each suckle until the face of a Madonna looks up. “Don’t you feel like you’re missing out not having children?”

Her question is a heat-seeking missile. Steel bands cut into my chest making it impossible to breathe and I lower my head to conceal my anguish.

“Allie? Are you all right?”

“Indigestion. I ate too many of Adelena’s tacos for lunch. Big mistake.”

Susie laughs. “There’s a Coke in the refrigerator.”

I’m out of there and in the kitchen before I give into this sudden sadness. Tears I never shed rush forward. With a Coke in one hand and a paper napkin to erase the evidence in the other, I step onto the back porch in search of relief.

After a few minutes listening to the whispering wind and cattle lowing in the distance, I can breathe again.

I tell myself to get a grip. It’s been seven years since the... I shudder at the word. Abortion.

This time I’ll make sure the pain is buried a little deeper in my heart before I put away the past for safekeeping.

Chapter 10

A LONE POLICE CAR IS PARKED just inside the Darden gate beneath the shade of a large oak. The sheriff leans against the fender, binoculars around his neck, fly-boy sunglasses shoved into the dark curls above his forehead.

He motions me to pull over, then saunters to my side of the car, opens my door, and offers his hand.

I notice the long fingers, feel their strength, and try to keep my voice steady. “Is this official?”

I stand facing him, keenly aware of his good looks. Tall, taut, and lean, and those damned blue eyes that capture mine.

“It wasn’t until now.” He motions me toward his car. “Want a cold drink? I keep a cooler in the trunk.”

The afternoon sun glares through the thick cover of the oaks and there’s no breeze, a far cry from Susie’s cool perch on the hill. I nod. “Sure. Whatever.”

After he opens a Big Red for each of us, we lean against his fender. He keeps a respectable distance, but I still shiver despite the heat. What is it about this man?

We take a few welcome gulps before he begins. “Where’d you get the car?”

“Paul loaned it to me.”

“You know it’s Reena’s.” I nod.

“Paul told me Reena left in her car.” “Yes. I wondered about that, myself.”

“So you just got in and pulled away without asking any questions?”

“Hold on a minute here. I thought you were the one conducting this investigation.”

“Cool it. You’re not under suspicion—yet, but I’d be grateful if you let me take the car. Could give us some clues...”

He has no right to the car and he knows it. I’ve committed no crime. Besides, the car isn’t even mine.

He must see my hesitation, because he gives me a knowing grin. “Okay, okay, I know I don’t have the authority, but you would sure be helping me out.”

“Paul should make that decision.”

“Yeah. I get you. If it’s all right with you, I’ll follow you back to his spread and get his okay.” He thinks a minute, then adds, “Mind if I roll your fingerprints? They’re probably all over the steering wheel, but if I have yours to compare to any others we might find, it’ll save us some time.”

I give him an indifferent shrug. “Fine by me, I’ve had dirty fingers before.”

He returns to his car, gives a few instructions over the radio, then opens the trunk. Portable print kit in hand, he ambles back.

He places the kit on the fender, then moves behind me. His signature scent, magnified by the heat, a redolent perfume.

His hand guides mine and we lean forward together as he slowly rolls each of my fingers in the ink, then onto the paper. It’s almost a ballet. The two of us bending and swaying in the warm afternoon. Neither of us seems to breathe, or is it that we’re in unison? I give in and lose myself in the moment. Delicious. Delicious.

After that, we draw apart to sip in silence.

He leans close. “Are you representing Paul?” “I told you I wasn’t. I don’t lie.”

“I didn’t say you were, it’s just that what I’m about to tell you is confidential. Something you need to know for your own protection.”

“Protection?”

“Not in the physical sense, but I’d hate to see you take Paul’s case on without having all the facts.”

“I have no intention of defending Paul. I’m not that experienced in trial work, much less a homicide.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He raises a cautionary finger. “But, this is for your ears only. Okay?”

He waits until I nod. “Paul is about to lose the oil property. Seems the Carpenters never had any legal claim and there were never any overlapping boundaries. If anything, it was an oversight on the Dardens’ part. No taxes were paid for thirty or so years. Paul’s father must have found out, planted a few rusty stakes, made the claim, then paid up. Slick as a whistle.”

My first thought is for Susie and those five children. If this is the truth, she and Del will never have another care. But, then I can’t help but feel sorry for Paul. His silver spoon is about to be yanked for good. “How do you know?”

“Reena was snooping around the courthouse last summer. Said she was doing some historical research on the ranch. I think she found out about the bogus claim, then probably told Del because he’s been down there on a regular basis since then.”

“Del knows about this?”

“It’s public record. All you have to do is spend a little time tracing back through liens and deeds. Guess his dad didn’t have the interest or the know-how.”

It’s then that the harsh words Paul and Del exchanged during my visit to Anacacho in January flash through my mind.

Del’s loaded, Give me the income from one well and I’ll tell my lawyer to drop the suit. And Paul’s angry retort, You keep that lawyer talk up and you’ll see what trouble is.

I remember Reena’s desperation over the pending divorce. She would have used anything, done anything, to preserve her lifestyle. Was that why she went after Del?

“So you think Reena confronted Paul with the news and he killed her to keep it quiet?”

“People have killed for less.” A hint of a smile plays on his face. “Now, I have a few questions for you.”

I freeze and wait, mind speeding through the mazes of my past. What could I possibly know that would help the sheriff?

“I’ll start with the easy one. Why are you here?” “Susie and Paul asked me to come.”

“I can see why Susie might want you here, since you were so close, but why Paul?”

“We go back a long way. We dated some in college.” “How ‘some’? A fun fling? Or more serious stuff?” “Pretty serious.”

“And?”

“You must have heard how Reena dumped Del for Paul? How Del and I ended up on the outside looking in?”

His hands open in supplication and I can’t help but see the hint of amusement. “Don’t shoot. I’m a friend.”

“Sorry, but you’re the second person this afternoon who’s opened old wounds.”

His regret seems genuine. “I wasn’t in town back then. I was in the east; prep, then college and finally the military.”

Eastern education? Why would he come to this small Texas town and run for sheriff?

“So what’s with Paul now?”

Earth to Allie. The sheriff isn’t asking these questions for the record. It’s purely personal and I’m surprised to discover I want him to be personal.

“He was kind enough to send his jet for me. In case you don’t know, I’m staying at the motel over on Highway Ninety.” He smiles. “Oh, I know.”

I look away from those startling blues, then attack. “Paul didn’t kill Reena and you know it.”

“And just how did you come to that conclusion, Counselor?” He’s mocking me, but I ignore it. “I can assure you Paul wouldn’t be stupid enough to kill his wife at his favorite hideaway.”

He doesn’t miss a trick. “You were up there before this morning?”

“Yes, when I visited Reena in January.”

“But, I understood you to say she didn’t ride.”

I swallow and nod. “That’s right. I went with Paul.”

Cotton studies me hard for a minute. To my surprise, I’m the one who breaks eye contact. Damn those eyes. I feel them on me as he drains the rest of his soda and crunches the can in his hand.

We stand in silence while I strain, hoping to hear a motor, hoping for a passing car to distract him from the bare implication. But there’s no other sound except insect whine and an occasional cow low in the distance.

I check my watch. “If that’s all, I better be going.”

His voice cuts to authority-mode. “Fine. I’ll follow. I’m sure Paul will want to cooperate.”

I remember my curiosity about the trough. “I guess your men searched the trough?”

He studies me for a few seconds before he drawls, “Yeah. Sure. Why do you ask?”

“Wouldn’t that be a good place to stash a weapon or for that matter almost anything else a person could carry?”

He throws back his head and laughs. “You know better than that. No one in his right mind would stash the murder weapon that close to the crime scene. Besides, we’re not looking for a gun.”

I start at that. How did I get the idea Reena was shot? I feel his stare and give an innocent shrug. “Guess they must not have found anything.”

“Guess not.” He puts me in Reena’s car, then leans in the window. “Don’t drive too fast; I’d hate to give you a ticket.”

It’s all I can do not to reach out and touch him once more, needing to feel that electricity flow between us. There’s something in his face that draws me to him, makes me want to know everything about him.

Chapter 11

I START TO PULL ONTO the long circular drive leading to the house, when I notice Paul’s black Mercedes 600 parked at the stables.

I motion for the sheriff to pull alongside. “Paul must be at the barns. His ranch office is there.”

He nods and follows me down the road toward the compound of ranch service buildings.

Together we search the office, then the stalls to find one empty. Paul’s horse is missing.

“I guess he’s gone for a ride.” “In this heat?”

I have to agree. What would draw Paul away from the ranch on horseback during the hottest part of the afternoon? The scene that morning at the watering trough replays and I remember Paul’s reaction to my arm immersed in the cloudy water. There was something definitely strange about that. And then there was the sheriff ’s look when I asked if his men had searched the trough. Maybe he was covering a mistake. Is he thinking the same thing?

He gives me a courteous nod. “Well, no point in wasting time here, is there? I’ll come back for the car later.” His words hang in the air a bit too long.

Deciding to let the matter drop—on my end at least, I smile. “I’ll tell Paul to expect you.”

He gives me a long, probing look, then a half-salute. “Catch you later?”

I wait until the patrol car disappears, then return to the stables and wander past the padlocked tack room filled with elegant hand-tooled saddles Paul collected through the years.

During my last visit Reena had dragged me to the stables to show off the horses and Paul’s “loot,” as she put it.

Though Reena bragged she had access to most of the ranch, I can’t forget how curious she was about what Paul kept in the tall safe behind his desk. The new addition, she said, appeared out of the blue in the back of a canvas-covered truck a few days before Christmas. She then showed me a notebook filled with every combination she had already tried.

The ranch office is empty. The drone of the air conditioner lures me inside and to the pillow-strewn leather couch shoved beneath a window at the far end of the room. The refrigerated air and the darkness offer a welcome respite from the mid-afternoon heat.

Lulled by the hum of the compressor, I replay the afternoon. Susie, so sad and despairing over Del. Sheriff Cotton, so full of questions, but who also delivered some interesting information about Paul. And Reena’s car, no longer at my disposal. And still, the unanswered question: How did that car get back to Anacacho?

The sound of hooves on cement brings me to in time to see Paul dismount and pull a large package from in front of the pommel. It must be heavy because he strains to carry it with one arm while jockeying his lathered horse with the other. After a brief struggle, he drops the package at the tack room door and tethers his horse nearby. He looks both ways before working on the combination lock. When it springs free, he hauls the bag into the darkness, shuts the door, and locks it.

Miguel appears and hands Paul an envelope, which he rips, hurriedly reads, then jams in his pocket. Whatever is in that letter is causing a lot of hand-waving by Paul and solemn head-shaking by a silent Miguel.

I wait until Miguel disappears before sticking my head into the suffocating afternoon sauna. “Hi.”

Paul whirls toward me. The look on his face is not a pleasant one, nor is the tone of his voice. “What are you doing in my office?”

My antennae engage. No point in revealing what I know. “Waiting for you. It was cool in here, so I took a short snooze. I can’t believe you took your horse out in this heat.”

Before Paul can answer, a phone rings, then Miguel sticks his head out of a door at the far end of the stable. “Señor?”

“Later.” Paul nods to Miguel, who nods back then vanishes. When Paul turns back, his face bears that old familiar smile. “I’ll take the call after I’ve washed up. It’s much too hot down here.” He searches my face, then says, “You’ll join me in the tower for dinner?”

I hesitate, knowing there’s that unasked question in his invitation.

He must read me because the famous smile radiates again. “Just dinner, I promise.”

He motions me to join him in his car, opens the passenger door, and bows.

I slide in, wait until he shuts his door, then give him the news. “The sheriff wants to take Reena’s car.”

Paul stares ahead, a definite set to his jaw. “How do you know?”

“When I was coming down the Dardens’ drive he was parked at the entrance, waiting. We had a nice, long chat.”

He shakes his head and moves the car slowly down the gravel road toward the house.

We’re at the front door, but the motor’s still running and Paul’s made no move to get out.

“Cotton wondered what I was doing with Reena’s car, since you told him she left the ranch in it.” I rush to add, “And frankly, I was wondering, too.”

“But she did leave in that car.” He bangs his fist on the steering wheel. “This noose around my neck is getting tighter by the minute. Everything points to me. Everything. But I didn’t kill Reena. I swear.”

“Where did you find the car?” “In the garage.”

“I didn’t know there was a garage.”

“It’s that long, low, steel building between the stables and the barns. We store the farm equipment there—a tractor with a posthole attachment, a small back hoe, an ATV for running the fences, and there’s a place for our cars, but we seldom use the garage because it never rains.”

“What made you look there?”

“When they found Reena’s body, I realized she had to get back here somehow. So, I waited until the law left and the servants turned in, then I took a flashlight and there it was. All bright and shiny, with a full tank.”

“Oh, Paul, you should have told the sheriff the minute you found the car. There might have been fingerprints.”

“Fat chance of that.” He slumped forward on the wheel. “Face it. I’m being set up. I might as well find Bill Cotton and turn myself in.”

I can’t disagree. Everything seems just a little too pat. “Don’t be too hasty about turning yourself in. There’s no hard evidence as far as we know.” I think a minute, then say, “I guess the question comes down to, who hates you so much that they would kill your wife, then fix it so you’ll hang for it?”

Paul winces at my words, then gives me a thin smile. “No nooses for years and they cashed in Ol’ Sparky for the needle a while ago.” He shudders and rubs his arm. “Oh, God. I hate needles.”

I’m now driving the Anacacho station wagon. Miguel has been demoted to driving a ranch pickup.

The motel room is still stuffy despite the open windows, so I slam them shut and turn on the air conditioner. It rumbles into action, the noise promising more than the pale emission the machine produces, but it’s still cooler than nature’s best.

After collapsing into the creaking armchair, I check my cell for messages. Only one from Del asking that I call him as soon as possible.

I grab the phone and punch.

Del answers on the second ring and yells hello over the blaring television.

“Hi Del, it’s Allie.”

“Just a minute.” He’s all business. I hear the noise fade and a door slam before he mumbles, “I have to speak to you a.s.a.p.”

“What about the diner across from the motel?” “Twenty minutes.”

I’m halfway through my first cup of coffee when I see Del’s truck roll up and the headlights flicker and die. He waves to me, says something to the cashier, then eases into the booth. “Thanks for seeing me.”

After the waitress sets his beer on the table and refills my cup, I lean forward. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing but listen.” He chugalugs half the longneck and bends closer. “I didn’t want to get into this, but I thought you might want to know something. Paul took out an insurance policy on Reena for a million dollars.”

There goes another hitch in the noose around Paul’s neck. “When did this happen?”

“Right after you came to visit last January.” “How do you know?”

He looks away. “Reena. She told me Paul made her go for a physical. Said she wasn’t looking too good. You can imagine how she felt when Doc mentioned the reason for the exam.”

His sheepish look says it all.

“Oh, Del, don’t tell me it’s true?”

He glances at the cashier, who’s leafing through a magazine, then turns back. “It was over last summer, except for a few times in February. Reena was scared Paul was going to have her killed.” “And so you just ambled over and offered your... your... support?”

He winces, then rushes to dig his hole deeper. “I never intended to let things get that far, but when Susie’s nursing, she’s not real romantic.”

“Oh, well, that excuses everything.”

“No, no. But I’m only human. And Reena... you know how persuasive she could be.”

That’s the last straw. I shoot back. “Susie Baxter is one hundred times the woman...” I see the cashier come to attention and lower my voice, “... Reena Carpenter ever was.”

Del’s face reddens. “Don’t you think I know that?”

I snort. “If you recall, it was Susie who saved your life after Reena dumped you. How could you cheat on her like that?”

He looks up, face filled with misery. “You gotta know I would never leave Susie. I love her.”

I pat his hand. “I’m glad to hear that. Now, make it up to her, will you?”

His large paw covers mine and he gives me a broad grin. “You don’t know how close I am to doing that very thing.”

The worst is over. I’ve chastised, Del’s apologized. It’s time to get back to the subject at hand. “So, you think Paul killed Reena? And he did it for a million-dollar policy?”

“I’m just passing on information.”

“That’s a piece of pretty damaging evidence. But, I don’t think Paul would be stupid enough to kill his wife at his retreat. Besides, Reena couldn’t ride. She told me she was scared of horses.”

Del’s mouth falls open. “She told you she couldn’t ride? When?”

“Last January.”

“She sure had you buffaloed. Where do you think we were meeting? It damn sure wasn’t in her bedroom.”

So that’s how Reena knew. She and Del were using Paul’s hide-away for their own secret rendezvous.

“Did Paul know Reena could ride?”

“I’m not sure, but Miguel knew. He was the one who taught her. Reena told him she wanted to learn as a surprise for Paul.”

“And Miguel bought it?”

Del sighs. “Miguel’s a man, Allie. Reena could charm the birds out of the trees if they were males.”

What if Paul somehow discovered what was going on between Reena and Del? Maybe he followed Reena to the lean-to. Saw them together. Waited until Del left and...? No. Not there. That place means too much to Paul.

“Paul tells me Reena slept around a lot. Were you aware of that?”

Del pulls his gaze from mine to stare out the window. When he speaks, his voice is low. “Okay, dammit. I knew there were others. Lots of ’em. I even ran into Reena and one of Paul’s shooting buddies at the Saint Anthony Hotel in San Antonio. “But for some reason, it didn’t matter when we were together. Reena made me feel like I was the only one.”

I think back to Del’s desolation. How he wanted to die when Reena dumped him to run off with Paul. What did she possess that made her so irresistible? What was it that made Del want to come back for more?

Del touches my arm. “I know you’ve never forgiven Reena for taking Paul away, but there wasn’t a mean bone in her body. She never intended to hurt anyone. It just never occurred to her that she was.”

I don’t answer.

Del drains his beer, then half whispers, “Okay then, don’t admit it. But you and I know you miss her too.”

It’s my turn to look away as sadness wells. Del is right. We all worshipped at Reena’s shrine. She was the center of our world. When we were with her, anything was possible.

I grab Del’s hand. “I guess that’s one thing we can agree on, no matter what she did, everybody loved Reena.”

He sadly shakes his head. “No. Not everybody.”

Del walks me across the highway and unlocks the door to my cottage, then opens his arms and says, “How ’bout a hug for an old friend.”

“You bet.” I let him fold me to him, then I rest my head on his shoulder. It’s a brotherly hug offering no more than much-needed comfort.

We stand there for a moment, then Del steps away. “Thanks, I needed that.”

“I did, too. You can collect one anytime.”

I wait until he disappears, then close the door behind me, letting the dull hum of the air conditioner numb my thoughts.

The evidence against Paul is mounting. The million-dollar insurance policy on Reena was a stupid move, especially since half the county knows he’s been seeing another woman.

I make my way across the room by the dim glow of neon from the motel sign and grope for the bedside lamp, when a voice comes out of the darkness.

“It’s about time.”

I recognize the voice and the aftershave. Bill Cotton. My pulse zips into the tattoo I’ve come to expect when he’s in proximity.

I switch on the light to see him in the only comfortable chair in the room. “How did you get in here?”

“Friends in high places.”

I settle on the straight chair in front of the desk. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Do you?” He’s mocking me, but his voice has a warm cast to it. “Not too well in this place. It’s the pits.”

“You ought to try the jail. What did Del want?”

“To tell me about an insurance policy Paul took out on Reena.”

“Old news. But why was Darden so anxious for you to know about the insurance policy?”

“Beats me.”

He smirks. “Maybe what he wanted was a little sympathy and a warm body.”

“Maybe your mind is in the sewer.”

He laughs. It’s a nice laugh that comes from somewhere near the bottom of his belly.

I rearrange myself on the hard seat searching for comfort. “If you already know about the policy, then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Well, I have two bits of information for you.”

When my brows arch he says, “The car was clean. Other than your prints we found zip, zero, nada. Whoever had the car last must’ve worn gloves.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean Paul.”

“No. But why didn’t Paul come to us with this important piece of evidence?”

Since I’m not Paul’s attorney, I squelch my urge to mount a defense. “Go figure. What’s the other bit?”

“I’m allowing Carpenter to leave the county tomorrow. Seems his CPA needs him, tax extension or something, so one of my boys is driving him to Laredo bright and early.”

“What possible difference could that make to me?”

He gives me a lazy grin. “I didn’t want you to think he was standing you up.”

“We didn’t make breakfast plans.” I check my watch and stand. “It’s late and I’m exhausted. See you tomorrow.”

The sheriff pulls himself out of the chair and crosses the room to stand much too close for comfort. “Tomorrow?”

His eyes don’t leave my face, but I feel as if he’s stripping my clothes from my body. I realize I’m trembling, but not from fear. No man has ever sexually stirred me so—not Paul nor wonderful, steady, comfortable Duncan. A momentary wave of guilt cuts through my heat, but quickly fades as he closes the distance between us. He’s not touching me, but he might as well be. And, if he does, I don’t think I can be held accountable for my next move.

I use every bit of will to break the moment and slide toward the door. “Reena’s autopsy report? Nine o’clock?”

The minute there’s space between us, my strength resurges and a crazy thought burbles through my head that maybe this man’s aftershave contains Kryptonite.

“Oh. Right.” He stands there staring at me, face soft with longing.

“Thanks for dropping by.” I nod toward the darkness and say, “See you tomorrow.”

He runs his hand through his thick mop, then smiles back. “Tomorrow.” Then slips past me and steps into the night.

My reaction to Bill Cotton’s visit only adds to my frustration as I check my heart rate and find it has hardly diminished in the minutes since his departure. In fact I’ve been wandering about, slowly peeling my clothes away, dropping them wherever I stand until I collapse on the bed and pull the sheet over my bare body.

The air conditioner wheezes, sending a small rush of tepid air across me. It’s then I realize I didn’t have time to deal with the cooling problem, much less with the evening crowded with new revelations.

The news of Paul’s trip to Laredo troubles me. He didn’t mention one word about it at dinner. There were several phone calls during the evening, all taken on the second floor, but he remained a winning host throughout. To my surprise he took my exit reasonably well, and was even gracious enough to walk me to the station wagon.

He took my hand. “There’s so much I want to tell you. So much I need to tell you.” He sighed. “There’s been a lot going on in my life. A lot I’m not very proud of. Now that Reena’s dead, I’m afraid I might be next.”

“You know who killed her, don’t you?”

Paul started to reply, then seemingly changed his mind. “If anything happens to me, there’s a copy of the combination to the safe in the stables taped underneath the top left drawer in my dresser.”

He kissed my forehead, then whispered, “Remember, I love you. I always have. I always will.”

As if on cue, the air conditioner belches. I fret about the ominous symptom of impending air-conditioner-death for a moment, then pitch to my side, pulling the pillow over my ear, hoping to block the noise.

Del’s news about the million-dollar policy gives me pause. It’s true Paul has changed. So have I, but I always considered him a prudent person. Why would he make such a blatant move?

I roll to the other side and, just as that infernal machine burps again, pull the sheet around me in anticipation of a shot of cooler air. Nothing happens for a moment, then there’s a huge grinding sound and I realize it’s in its final death throes.

One last whump, then a wheeze, then merciful silence. No matter that there’s not a breath of air coming through the open window. Tomorrow I will change rooms, hoping to find a healthier cooling unit, and an end to the sheriff ’s too-easy access.

Chapter 12

AT SIX A.M., I PULL MYSELF from a second night’s torture and stagger to the bathroom. No pleasure palace there. The washbasin stands alone, offering no accommodation for even the barest of necessities.

The sink is aces compared to the tub, the bottom of which is etched brown with rust. I am a shower person, but I need a miracle to get the gushing downward spate up the pipe to the showerhead. I crank the transfer handle that jerks, then trembles while the partly clogged nozzle above coughs and clinks until it gives forth its anemic offering. Nothing can make the stream any stronger than a puny trickle and I long for my stinging spray in Houston.

Though I manage to get the soap out, my mousey-brown crimp fails the squeaky-clean test. I hate that. Call it a fetish, but clean hair matters. The only answer is to towel dry it and, before it kinks, twist it into a knot on the top of my head.

By the time I make it to the Medical Examiner’s office, which is a few doors from Cotton’s, I am very out of sorts.

My nose quivers as the smell of death rushes forward. It’s not exactly the odor of decay, but the antiseptic veil that covers it.

Dr. Keene, the ME, is nowhere in sight, but Cotton is already there, slumped in one chair, wearing a crisp uniform. “Did your mama say it was all right to wear your hair up?” His taunt is softened by a lazy drawl and an amused look on his face.

I ignore the jibe and sit. “Where’s Keene?”

“My men just hauled in a ‘floater.’ Some galoot drowned in a cattle tank out by Knippa last week.”

He grabs a folder from Keene’s desk. “Are you sure you want to see these? They’re pretty graphic.”

“I’ve seen about everything there is to see.”

“Okay. But remember, you asked for it. Hope you have a strong stomach.”

It’s a blessing the photos are in black-and-white. The first shot from behind the corpse shows the full body, face up. Reena is clothed in her trademark long-sleeved shirt, long pants, and sling-backed flats.

The scavengers have taken their toll. Blackened claw prints punctuated by droppings trail across the blouse and down the slacks. To one side, her shattered sunglasses glint in the sun.

I pick up a magnifying glass from Keene’s desk and study the picture. There appears to be only a few wrinkles in the groin area of the slacks and the creases are still sharp at the knees. Reena couldn’t have been riding a horse. Was she knocked unconscious away from the site, then slung across the back of a saddle like a bag of feed?

The next shot is taken from foot to head. It’s then I see the gaping slit in her throat that begins below the left ear, goes downward and across the mid-line of the neck, then ends below her right ear.

I shiver and stutter, “They cut her throat? I thought it was a shooting.”

“Shooting would be too merciful. Whoever did this wanted her to suffer. It’s called a necktie job. Usually mob connected.”

That doesn’t make any sense at all. “So, you think it was a professional killing?”

He shrugs. “We don’t know. There’s so little evidence...”

His voice trails to a halt as the third glossy sends me reeling. It’s a close-up of Reena’s face. Those delicate features that trapped many a male, obliterated by the sun’s relentless rays and the hungry predators’ feast. Only gaping sockets remain. Her lips have vanished. Teeth jagged stubs.

I can almost feel the buzzards’ tough beaks, pulling—picking, slashing—tearing. I try to knock the gruesome picture away. No use. I’ll remember it as long as I live.

The sheriff ’s voice intrudes. “Want some water?”

I shake my head, afraid to look up, afraid to betray my feelings.

Keene’s return saves me. He’s a dried-up bone of a man savaged by the South Texas sun. Unimposing in every way except for piercing black eyes and straight bushy brows.

He speaks to the sheriff, first describing the state of the “floater,” saying he’ll have some results by tomorrow.

Then, he turns to me. “I see you have the pictures.”

I nod and squeak, “Her throat was slit.”

Keene nods back. “Never saw one of those before. People out here usually settle their differences with a gun or a noose.”

Nothing in my career as Assistant District Attorney has prepared me for what I’ve just seen or for what Keene says next.

“FYI, the subject was involved in a sexual encounter sometime shortly before her demise.”

He lays the information on me in a rather off-hand manner, then I realize he’s of the old school and is embarrassed to say such things in front of a woman.

I sit up at that and notice that Bill Cotton does, too. “With the man who slit her throat?” I ask.

Keene smiles a little. “Looks like it. That’s the one concrete piece of evidence we have. If we’re lucky, the DNA results will give the bastard up.”

He runs his finger down the report. “No defense injuries. Fingernails clean. Not a crack in her manicure. There was no attempt to ward off an attack. It appears she knew her killer—well.”

I flip back to the first photo. “But she was fully clothed.”

“They probably had sex first,” Keene said. “Then he killed her.”

My mouth drops open at that. “Oh, come on. Are you telling me the killer waited for Reena to put herself together before he swacked her?”

The sheriff reaches for the photo, examines it a minute, then says, “Maybe it wasn’t the person she had sex with. Maybe it was someone who caught them in the act. Like a jealous husband?”

“Could be,” Keene says. “But then that would mean there’s a witness still walking around. That doesn’t seem quite logical. I mean, if I killed someone in front of a witness, that witness would have to go, too.”

I can’t believe Keene’s overlooked such an obvious clue: Reena’s shoes. “Maybe Mrs. Carpenter wasn’t even killed at that site. She wouldn’t have gone riding in those shoes.”

I hand him the photo.

He examines it for a few minutes and when he looks up, his face holds new respect. “You’re right. She couldn’t have ridden a horse very well wearing shoes like that.” He picks up the report and rereads a paragraph on the second page. “Nope. No contusions noted on her feet or ankles. ’Course the body was pretty badly decomposed.”

Keene stands, indicating the meeting is over. But when I rise, the room spins, then grows dark. I lurch sideways into the sheriff. He guides me back into my seat, then sits beside me.

Through the haze, I hear Keene say, “Have her lower her head between her knees, while I rustle up some smelling salts.”

I don’t have the strength for that, so I tilt into his chest, realize he’s trembling, and feel him for the briefest instant barely touch the top of my head with his lips.

The ammonia snaps me to and I see Keene’s grinning face only a few inches from mine. “I was wondering how long it would take for all this to hit you. Those pictures were pretty grisly.”

I sit up, head still a little too light for comfort. “I’ve seen plenty worse, but I knew her. Guess I’m not as tough as I thought.” Keene slides behind his desk. “Don’t sell yourself short, little missy. I’ve seen big fellas keel over much quicker’n you did.”

Cotton has shepherded me down the street to the only drugstore in town that features a soda fountain and a few booths.

“Two orders of eggs over easy with ranchero sauce, a side of beans, and some black coffee.”

He shoots me a brief smile, then busies himself with his cell phone. “Hey, it’s Cotton. Just checking in.”

I see his jaw bunch and his mouth flatten to a hard, thin line. Finally, he lets out a long breath. “Stupid sonovabitch. I ask him to do one simple little thing and he screws up. You got an APB going?” His nods are accompanied by a lot of “uh-huhs,” then he flips the phone shut.

“Well, your boyfriend has slipped my deputy.”

I frown, because what he says isn’t registering.

“Paul Carpenter is missing. He managed to shake off the deputy I sent with him to Laredo. I don’t need to tell you what this means, do I?”

My stomach vacates the premises. Though Paul is not technically a fugitive, he can now be arrested if they find him.

“Bad news is, Carpenter’s on foot. Leaving us with no car to trace. We didn’t let him take his cell, so that’s a dead end, too. CPA said he was with another client when Carpenter arrived, then got waylaid in the hall on some tax matter. By the time he got to the office where my deputy sequestered Paul, more than twenty minutes had passed and Paul adiosed.”

My mind races. If Paul was planning to run, wouldn’t he have told me? I think back to the last evening we shared and his parting words: Remember, I love you. I always have. I always will.

Was that his way of saying goodbye?

“Did Carpenter say anything to you about... anything?”

“You were the one who told me Paul was going to Laredo when you paid me a visit last night. Remember?”

“Right.” He looks a little sheepish. “I was a damn fool to let him get so near the border. The whole thing’s my fault. His CPA’s office building is a single story and only blocks from the bridge. All he had to do was mingle and cross.”

“He wasn’t under arrest, was he?”

“You know he wasn’t. Don’t try to be his lawyer. It’s too late for that.”

Breakfast arrives, but my concern for Paul and the horrific pictures of Reena have killed my appetite. I shove my eggs around the plate and watch the sheriff demolish his.

By the time we get to the Anacacho station wagon, the sheriff is all business. I’ve been given strict instructions to notify him immediately should Paul contact me, and cautioned not to speak to anybody about this latest development.

He helps me into the station wagon, then pushes on the door until it softly clicks. “Where will you be?”

There’s no point in lying. In all probability, he’ll have me tailed as a precaution. “I thought I’d drive out to Anacacho. Paul might have contacted Miguel by now.”

“Not a bad idea. I’d like us to work together on this, are you game?”

“Fine by me, but you better give me your cell phone number.” He studies me for a minute. I guess he’s trying to decide whether or not I can be trusted. If he were to ask me that question directly, I honestly don’t know how I would answer. My main mission is to find Miguel and hopefully, through him, find Paul.

He pulls out a pad, scribbles a number, and hands it to me. “Just use the area code, not the one.”

He nods, then turns away to begin the trip back to his office in the municipal complex.

I reach for the key, then sit back and sigh. What on earth could Paul have been thinking? Did he slip his escort on purpose, or did “they” spirit him out of that CPA’s office against his will?

He’s been missing long enough to get back to Anacacho, but I’m sure he won’t go to the ranch house. Maybe the lean-to? It’s quite possible Paul might hide there. If that’s so, I want to get to him first.

Chapter 13

THE IMPOSING STONE MANSION with its once-welcoming covered porch now seems stark and sinister beneath the late-morning glare. I park the Anacacho station wagon next to Paul’s Mercedes, enter the dark entry hall and stop to listen. Nothing.

I call out. “Hello?” then tiptoe across the entry hall tiles into the living room and suppress a scream. The paintings are gone, the furniture too. I hurry to the wall. It’s exactly as it was the first time I visited Anacacho: bare, smooth, and cool to the touch, except that mangled picture hooks give evidence of a hurried removal.

I rush through the empty dining room, pausing only an instant to notice the faint outline of the Navajo rug that once lay beneath the long refectory table. Above, naked wires hang where a wrought-iron chandelier had softly lit the room.

The swinging door sighs into the kitchen. Counters gleam. Floor spotless. It’s as if no one has ever been here.

The refrigerator—empty. I think back to the previous evening and the pungent odors wafting to the tower from below while Miguel served drinks as the sun set. Then, dinner under stars, still paled by the gloaming. Now, there’s no hint a meal has ever been prepared in this kitchen.

The pantry, once crammed with cans and boxes and bottles and jars—bare as a bone. Suddenly cold, I shiver from it. In less than twelve hours, the entire first floor of the ranch house has been completely evacuated.

I no longer care about sound and my heels click on the tiles as I race toward the stairs to the second floor, then down the long hall to the master suite.

Reena’s closet. Empty. Paul’s is a carbon copy. I cast caution aside and begin pulling open the built-in drawers, first Reena’s, then Paul’s. All empty. Then, remembering what Paul told me about the combination to the safe in the stable, I pull out the upper left-hand dresser drawer and feel beneath it. I’m trembling so, I barely manage to peel the tape from the wood and stuff it in the pocket of my slacks.

My throat constricts. Deep in my gut I know Paul will never see his beloved Anacacho again.

I turn and run down the hall, down the stairs, out the door. I step onto the wide slate squares of the front porch and check about me for any signs of life. I hear nothing but the wind. No whinnies, no lowing cattle. Nothing.

The stables are empty. I open the door to Paul’s office. The tall safe that once so intrigued Reena has been removed along with the rest of his furniture. I feel for the combination in my pocket and pull it out. The numbers are written in Paul’s distinctive hand. My birthday. Everything he said last night replays. Now, certain I will never see him again, I lean against the wall and sob.

It takes a while to get myself under control. Then, I remember the tack room filled with priceless saddles and bridles and hurry there. Empty. Everything not nailed down has vanished. It’s like some giant vacuum cleaner has sucked Anacacho dry of all its possessions. Only Paul’s Mercedes remains parked in front of the main house.

A gate creaks, sending a fresh trail of ice down my spine. When it bangs on the boards of the fence, I realize the wind is my only companion.

I know I have to call the sheriff, but I can’t make myself go back to that house. Then I remember the phone in Paul’s office and hurry to the darkened room. It’s gone.

I race down the row of doors to the end office and smile. Miguel stepped through that door only the day before, a receiver in his hand.

The wall phone is still attached. It’s an old-fashioned model—black, with a dial—probably one of the first ever made after World War Two. I lift the heavy receiver from the hook. A dial tone. Pay dirt. I search my other pocket for the scrap of paper with Cotton’s cell on it and struggle to drag the sluggish rotary dial from number to number.

I’m sitting in one of the many rockers on the porch of the main house waiting for Cotton to return. He’s planted me here and told me not to move. Since then, it seems as if every policeman, trooper, and patrolman in Texas has descended on Paul’s ranch.

A uniformed man runs out the front door toward yet another arriving patrol car, then directs it toward the stables. That’s where the sheriff is now. The house has already been searched as have all the buildings on the ranch. There’s not a soul to be found. Not a single pet. Not even a feather from a chicken in the once-crowded coop behind Miguel’s house.

Just a few minutes ago, one of the patrolmen standing by the driveway said to his buddy, “Aliens, you suppose?”

The other man shrugged, then a voice crackled on his walkie-talkie and they headed toward the stables.

The cattle guard rattles and I look up expecting to see another blue-and-white, but it’s Del’s truck and Susie is with him. I wait until they make the porch, then rise to greet them. The three of us huddle together.

“Thank the Lord you weren’t here, Del. I think they’ve all been kidnapped.”

“I haven’t been over here since last Friday, but Susie and I heard several helicopters about six this morning. We thought it was the Border Patrol.”

Were Miguel and Adelena, and all the rest of the ranch personnel, herded into those giant front-loading maws, then flown to heaven-knows-where?

I point to the house and then the stables. “Everything is gone. And I mean everything. Even the livestock.”

The sheriff appears out of nowhere. “They phoned to say the jet’s still in the hangar. That’s good news. There’s also a small Piper Cub. Know anything about that?”

Susie’s face drains. She looks at Del, then at the sheriff and stammers, “I—I know something about that little plane.”

She grabs my hand. “I was going to tell you about this yesterday, but...” Her voice trails.

The sheriff bends forward, notebook in hand, pen poised.

Her hand trembles in mine as she begins. “I started taking walks as soon as I could after Little Allie was born.” She glances at Del, then says, “Dad paid for a teenager to come in every afternoon for a few hours, so I could get back in shape. By the middle of last month, I was walking almost a mile—half a mile down the road that runs between our property and Paul’s to the end of the Anacacho airstrip and then back home.”

Del tenses but remains silent.

“I was just past our barns when I saw Paul’s jet take off. I knew Del wouldn’t be home for dinner, so I phoned home to say I’d be a little later than usual. From there it was a little more than half a mile to Reena’s. I thought I could make that easy and be back by dark.”

Now, Del’s face is not only strained, but red as he realizes what Susie’s mission was. His voice is sharp when he asks, “Just how did you phone home from the middle of the pasture?”

“Dad gave me a cell when the baby was born so I wouldn’t be out of touch.” She gives him a sly smirk. “Now, we both have one.”

The sheriff clears his throat to get their attention. “Never mind about that. What happened next?”

“I came in sight of the Anacacho barns when I saw a lot of people going in and out of that long metal shed. They were loading something in white sacks into the back of one of the trucks.”

“You mean feed sacks?”

“No.” Susie makes a smaller square with her hands. “About as big as a piece of notebook paper, but really fat.”

I don’t need to hear any more. It’s cocaine. Is that what Paul regretted? His words echo: There’s been a lot going on in my life. A lot I’m not very proud of.

The sheriff barks into his walkie-talkie, “Get a lab team down to the long metal building behind the stables and another one to sweep the Piper. We’re talking cocaine.”

Del breaks in. “Hey honey. Remember those helicopters we heard early this morning? They sounded louder than usual. Had to be big ones—two-rotor jobbies.”

Cotton hits his forehead. “Well, I’ll be damned. That’s what happened. There are no towns between here and the border except El Indio.”

He snaps his notebook shut. “Got some checking to do.”

Susie looks up at Del. “You were lucky. You could have been here. I’m glad you were in Uvalde this morning.”

“I haven’t been here since last Friday when I quit.”

“Quit? You quit? Delman Darden, you never said a word.”

He ignores the sting in her voice. “I guess I just forgot to tell you. I’ve been real busy down at the courthouse.”

“Just forgot? You just forgot to tell me there won’t be any more paychecks coming in?” Susie’s fists are jammed into her hips, her face crammed with anger. “And what the hell have you been doing at the damn courthouse when you should be out looking for work? Have you forgotten you have seven mouths to feed?”

Del whispers something to Susie and her squeal pierces my ears. “The property is ours? Oh, Del.” She throws her arms around her husband’s neck and plants a kiss on his lips. When it becomes obvious that the kiss means more than just a kiss, I look away. Susie deserves a few rainbows in her life.

The three of us stand there grinning and silent, then Susie says, “It’s time to feed Little Allie. I’ve got to get home.”

Del starts to go but I catch him and turn to Susie. “Would you mind letting Del stay with me for a while? I have the Anacacho wagon with me and can drop him off.”

Susie looks at Del, then offers an unwilling, “Well, sure, but—”

“I promise not to keep him too long. Sheriff Cotton wants me to wait until he’s done. I sure could use some company since things are so weird around here.”

Susie smiles. “No problem. Don’t be too long, we have big plans to make.”

After the dust from the Darden truck fades, I settle into one of the rockers.

Del grabs another and drags it close to mine. “Thanks for asking me to stay. If you didn’t, I would have gotten back with you this afternoon.”

“About?”

“I just might need your help.” He hunches toward me. “I may be operating a little outside the law since I didn’t come forward with this information sooner.”

“Let’s hear what you have to say, then I’ll tell you whether you need my help.”

“For starters, Paul hasn’t really been up on his businesses since I’ve been foreman. A trader in Houston handles the oil spots and a CPA in Laredo handles his taxes. Paul just deposits the checks.”

“That’s not the Paul I remember. What do you suppose changed him?”

“Mister Snow can take credit for that.”

Paul’s obvious weight loss, his abrupt mood swings, and his total lack of interest in what he once cared so much about. I can’t avoid the truth any longer. “You’re telling me Paul’s into cocaine?” “Big time. Reena said she could take it or leave it, but Paul needed more and more.”

My stomach wrenches. An addict. “What about those people Susie saw? Is Paul working with them?”

“I don’t know. But Luke Hansen has been up to no good from the minute he stepped on the ranch.”

Luke Hansen. The ugly cowboy. The man Reena sent to spy on Paul and me. “When was that?”

“About the time I split with Reena last summer. She was real mad and said she’d tell Susie about us, but I threatened to tell Paul she was filching money out of the ranch account and that shut her up. She’s been taking funds ever since she offered to do the books.” “Paul let her handle the books? What’s with the CPA?”

Del gives a rueful laugh. “C’mon, Allie. The CPA’s a man. You know Reena and men.”

How could I forget? “Maybe Reena was the one involved with the trafficking. She seemed very friendly with that cowboy when I was here in January.”

“Reena knew Paul was seeing Fanny and was terrified he would dump her without a cent. She told me she had no money of her own.”

The January lunch at Rudi’s replays and I remember Reena’s tear-filled eyes when she told me about the pre-nup. “Reena told me Paul made her sign a pre-nup before he would marry her.”

Del gave me a crooked smile. “Oh, yeah. The one she signed left her with something like a quarter of a million. Guess that sounded huge back then. Peanuts.”

“So, it is possible she could have been in collusion with Luke?” “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you? Still a little soft on Paul?”

“Just cutting him a little slack for old time’s sake, I guess.” “Yeah. That’s what I did for a while. It didn’t pay off.” “Then who hired Luke?”

“Not me, that’s for sure. When I finally complained about Luke not attending to his chores, Paul said he was reporting directly to him and to lay off.”

“So you quit?”

“I couldn’t afford to quit. Not until last week. That’s when I told Paul I had all the proof I needed to get the oil property back and was planning to hire a lawyer if he wanted a fight. You know, he didn’t even flinch. He said I deserved the property. Then we shook hands and I left.”

Del leans forward. “Paul and I may be on the outs, but we go back a long way. I hate to think what’s going to happen to him now that the oil property is gone.”

“And that’s the last time you were at Anacacho?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the end of the story. I ran into Reena just as I was about to climb in my truck. She looked awful and you know Reena never looked awful. She grabbed me. Told me she was in deep shit. Said she had a monster by the tail and couldn’t let it go. Then she begged me to drive her to Uvalde so she could catch a bus.”

I can’t help but snort at that news.

Del smiles. “Yeah, I know. Reena on a bus. No way. As a matter of fact, I was just about to offer her my truck when Luke Hansen appeared out of nowhere, and said she had a phone call. They walked toward the stables, but it looked more like he was forcing Reena to go with him. I started to follow, then decided not to mess with that bastard since he packs a gun.” “Wise move.”

“I hate that snake. I’m almost positive he’s the one who brought the drugs to Anacacho.”

“Are you admitting Reena was in on it?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth. But what other explanation is there? Reena needed big money and drugs is about the fastest way to get it.”

Things begin to fall into place. Anacacho has the perfect setup. A remote ranch with precious little between it and the border. A landing strip. A jet. A Piper Cub. Plus an owner into drugs. Perfect on paper, but something must have gone horribly wrong. I think back to the photos and the gaping slit beneath Reena’s chin. A necktie killing. Professional. Was Reena in too deep to get out?

When the sheriff rounds the corner, Del stands and motions for the car keys. “I’ll get the wagon.”

He waits until Del disappears, then extends a hand to help me out of the chair. “We’re almost done here. The DEA is on the way. Want to meet for lunch? The drugstore makes terrific burgers.”

“Fine with me. I’ll drop Del off, then meet you there.”

When I stand, our bodies make contact. Neither of us moves. I hate the way I feel. Silly, shaky, confused; like some adolescent on a first date. I scramble to make a flip remark, but nothing comes.

The sheriff steps away, but not before I feel his own unsteadiness. He takes a step toward me, eyes signaling a coming kiss. I’m eager to meet his lips—anything to break the tension that has been growing between us over the last two days.

Instead, the kak-kak-kak of an approaching helicopter breaks it for us.

“Better scratch that lunch.” He gives me a sad smirk. “It’s the DEA. Their timing has always been impeccable.”

Chapter 14

AFTER DROPPING DEL AT HIS RANCH, I head for town and the drugstore. I chose a booth toward the back rather than a counter stool. To my surprise, the burger tastes as good as filet mignon. I scarf it and order another.

While I munch on one half of the second burger, I try to make some sense of what has happened since Reena’s phone call last January. Now that I know some of the story, it’s plain Reena hoped to catch Paul and me in a compromising situation. Not that adultery figures much in divorces these days.

It’s the insurance that puzzles me. How did Paul think he could cash in? A move like that is much too obvious. A million-dollar policy in January—a murder in April? He never mentioned the policy so it could have been part of his frame.

The sheriff slides into the seat across from me. “Thought you might be here.”

My first impulse is to tell him my plan, but I stop. He never mentioned searching the lean-to. At least not in front of me.

“My, that was quick.”

“The DEA likes to run its own show. I just filled them in on the details, asked if they needed some of my men, dismissed those they didn’t, and here I am.” He grins and points to the hamburger. “Did I steer you right?”

“One of the best I’ve ever had.” I take a bite and relish the mingle of beef, grease, onion, and mustard.

He raises his right hand and puts up two fingers. “Hey, Bruce, ditto the lady’s order, will you?”

A voice floats from the kitchen behind the empty counter. “Sure thing, Shurff.”

He lowers his hand and places it over mine and I start at his touch, unsure of my next move. My right hand is poised in midair, clutching the second half of the burger. I’ve been managing just fine with only one hand, so there’s no valid reason for my left hand to rush to its assistance.

When I see the same look on his face that I saw only an hour before, I realize the table and the burger are my only saviors. My mind goes completely blank but my hearing becomes so acute, I can hear the meat sizzle on the griddle, Bruce’s shuffle, and his low hum of some off-key version of a tune I can’t quite place.

Bruce’s hip thuds against the kitchen door and I relax as Cotton’s fingers slide away from mine. After Bruce slams down the plate, he says, “How’s that burger, ma’am?”

I gratefully focus on his flushed, expectant face and manage a munchy, “Five-star, for sure.”

He turns to Cotton. “What you drinking, Shurff?”

“Milk, I guess.” His voice has a strangled pinch to it. “I’m still on duty.”

“Coming right up. More ice tea, ma’am?”

I nod, still chewing on that same bite, afraid to reveal how shaken I am, knowing that if our eyes meet, there will be trouble.

After Bruce brings the milk and splashes more tea in my glass, the sheriff says, “What are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?”

“Guess I’ll head for Susie’s. No point in sitting in that dreary motel room with a dead air conditioner.”

“I bet they’ll be happy to see you. Nothing like sharing good news with friends.” He finishes the end of his hamburger, downs the last of his milk and stands. “I’ll catch the tab. Nice to find somebody that likes Bruce’s burgers as much as I do.”

I’m too flustered to wave the banner for political correctness, so I do the ladylike thing and say, “Thank you, Sheriff.”

His voice comes softly from above me. “How ’bout making it Bill?”

I don’t look up. I’m afraid I’ll betray myself. “I can do that if you call me Allie.”

“Allie.” It’s almost a croon. “I’d like that a lot.” His hand finds my shoulder, then falls away.

I hold my breath until the door jingles shut, then relax against the cushion, relieved to have made it through another close encounter.

At the motel, I move to another cottage, then change into jeans and boots. The new accommodation is positively frigid compared to my former digs, and I’m sorely tempted to fall on the bed and pass out for a couple of hours. If my mission weren’t quite so serious, I would.

I step into the heat, then remember my Beretta, retrieve it from the bottom of my fold-over, and slip it into an inside pocket of my light twill vest.

It’s almost three by the time I arrive at the Dardens’. They are sitting on the east porch, holding empty glasses, a Champagne bottle jammed in a galvanized water pail between them.

Del stands as I mount the steps. “We’ve been celebrating. Join us?”

There doesn’t seem to be any background ruckus and I ask, “What have you done with the kids?”

He laughs. “It’s their night in town with Susie’s mom and dad. Only Little Allie’s home, so come help us celebrate.”

“I’d like that, but what I’d like better is the loan of a horse.” His grin dies. “What for?”

I slip into the chair my host scoots into the group, and lie. “I thought a ride might relax me.”

“In this heat? Hell, Allie, you must already be sunstruck.”

I wonder why Del seems to be stonewalling me and counter with, “It doesn’t seem that hot.”

Susie chimes in. “That’s because we’re under trees and on a hill. It’s almost ten degrees cooler up here than down at the barn.” She points to the champagne. “C’mon, Allie, help us celebrate. We’re going to be rich.”

Del settles next to his wife. “Get Allie a glass, will you, Suze?” When she disappears, his demeanor changes. “That mountain is no place for you to be right now.”

I shiver. Is Del in this, too? I study him, searching for anything that will make a liar out of me. But it’s in his face. Did he take Reena to the hideaway for a tryst? Did they argue? Did he slit his “true love’s” throat and leave her to die? I think back to Susie’s tale of the cocaine and Del’s reaction. I read it as surprise, now I realize it was shock. His wife was opening the biggest can of worms in Uvalde County.

I have to get out of here.

A small voice inside my head whispers, Cool it, and my attorney mode kicks in.

“Mountain?” Then I let the light dawn. “Oh, you mean the hideaway? That’s much too far from here. Besides,” I lie, “I have a dinner date with the sheriff if he gets off in time.”

His wariness dissolves. “You and Cotton? Sharing dinner? I’m sure glad to hear you say that. It’s not safe to be roaming around by yourself while those people are still at large.”

Del’s right. It certainly wouldn’t be safe, now that I’ve telegraphed my intentions. I curse myself for being so mouthy. Fortunately, Susie’s return saves the day. I gladly take the glass of champagne and sip. No use to seem in a hurry.

Precious minutes slide by as we finish the bubbly and exchange idle chatter until I’m saved by my namesake’s squeal.

When Susie rises and starts toward the door, I stand. “Thanks for the drink. I know you two have things to do, so I’ll head on back to town and wait for Bill.”

Susie gives me a quick hug, then hurries toward the baby’s cries.

Del guides me down the steps, in an unnecessary show of chivalry. When he helps me into the car, he says, “I’m telling you. Don’t even think of going up there.”

He means business. What happened to my old buddy? What if Del is in on this?

“I’m going back to Houston as soon as Reena’s buried.”

“Take my advice. Don’t wait for the funeral. I don’t think there will be one.” With that he turns and walks away, leaving me trembling and speechless.

It’s a little after four when I pull away. In my rearview mirror I see Del climb to meet Susie at the top of the steps. They hug. It’s the last glimpse I have of my two friends before I make the turn in their drive.

The Anacacho station wagon is much too visible for my purposes, so I turn onto the road heading for the hangar and park on the far side. Hopefully, no one will be able to spot the car before I can put my plan into action.

Actually, it was Susie’s description of her walk from her house to the ranch that gave me the idea. Her mention of the swale between the properties is the perfect way to get to the Darden barn without being seen.

As I walk, flashes of past conversations filled with half-truths and Paul’s last words echo. I don’t want to believe that Del is involved in what seems like a major drug distribution setup. For the first time since her death, I curse Reena for introducing drugs to Paul and luring Del back into her treacherous web.

Regardless of Del’s warning, my mission is to find Paul and the only place for me to look is on the mountain. If Paul isn’t there, I don’t know what I’ll do next. Pack my bags and head for Houston? Or stay?

I’ve never been in the Dardens’ barn before. The musty mélange of hay and oats, mixed with the pungent ammonia of fresh manure, brings back childhood memories.

I spend some time to locate the tack and then choose a horse that seems fairly gentle. Susie has often mentioned how well the boys ride, so I figure there must be a start-up mount for the toddler. After checking all five horses in their stalls, I pick a wide-backed sorrel.

“Mr. No-Name” is carved over the entry to his home. When I call his name sotto voce, he sends back a low whinny and takes some oats from my open palm.

I’ve made an excellent choice. He almost helps me put the bridle on, stands patiently while I tighten the cinch beneath his soft belly, then nuzzles me gently as I pause to listen for approaching footsteps.

Not a sound, but I can’t afford to be caught this far into the plan, so I walk him almost a half-mile, before I swing my leg over his back, then urge him toward the mountains.

Chapter 15

IT ISN’T DIFFICULT to pick up the trail to Paul’s hideaway, since the path has been well-traveled over the years.

It’s past four when I reach the last fork in the trail and recall Paul’s, “Just remember, right is wrong and left is right.”

After tethering Mr. No-Name to a nearby mesquite, I make my way through the narrow cut and up the trail. Halfway to the top I realize that I’m a sitting duck. Anyone could pick me off with a single shot from any number of locations. I clutch the pocket of my vest. The gun is exactly where I put it. That makes me feel better.

Though the climb is steep, I’m not particularly out of breath, but because I can’t hear any sounds other than my footsteps and my breathing when I walk, I stop every few steps to listen. So far, my stops have netted only the breeze whispering through the rocks.

I don’t know whether to be disappointed or elated when I arrive at the summit. Not a soul to be seen. I strain to see the lean-to, then remember I won’t be able to see the platform until I approach from the south.

Now sure no one is here, I pick up my stride. One brief check of the area and I’ll retrace my steps, pick up Mr. No-Name and be back at the Dardens’ barn well before dark.

The moan stops me short. I hurry forward to see Paul curled on his side. He is bound and gagged. The terror in his eyes sends my hand for the Beretta stashed in my jacket pocket just as the lights go out.

The pain is excruciating. I peer into darkness, then realize I’m blindfolded and my mouth has been taped shut. I’m lying on my side, arms tied behind me, legs trussed. My head feels like a poleax is buried in the back of it.

The horror in Paul’s face still burns front and center in my brain. I hear voices and struggle to concentrate on the conversation, but the deafening throb in my head takes precedence.

A male voice says, “Are we going to take her with us?”

“Don’t ask me. I’m not calling the shots.” It’s Fanny. Why am I not surprised?

“What do we do with her when she comes to?” the man asks.

“I don’t think we have to worry about her for a while. You were very efficient with your rifle butt. She’s going to have a helluva headache.”

“Serves the snoopy bitch right.”

I feel weight settle next to me as a hand pushes my face into the mattress and it’s all I can do not to scream from the pain.

It’s the man. “Not much blood.” His hand slides down my back, then across my rear. I struggle not to flinch. “I want this one, Fan. That okay with you?”

“Dammit, Luke, let’s get the business part of this deal done, first. Then, as far as I’m concerned you can do whatever you want.”

He squeezes my buttock, then tries to slide his hand between my legs and whines, “I want first dibs, Sis. Just promise me that.” Fanny is Luke’s sister? Anything to take my mind off the thundering ache. I try to reconstruct the events. Did Fanny meet Paul, set him up, then send Luke to the ranch? Or did Luke size up the deteriorating relationship between Paul and Reena and call his sister?

Fanny must be standing above me. Her words are muted. “I’d hold off on that. No point in stirring things up.”

Luke jams his hand farther between my legs, then moves it back and forth. “But she likes it. I know she does.”

“I said, hold off.”

Their voices are drowned by the whine of an approaching helicopter.

The motor finally dies, giving me a little relief.

Minutes pass, then there are more footsteps and whispers.

I hear Luke say, “I did what I had to do, dammit. Somebody should have been on her tail. You should have kept her away from here.”

I listen for a reply, but my head is splitting. I’ve never felt such pain. Never imagined I could be alive and hurt so badly. A firm hand touches my forehead, then I smell the familiar smoky aftershave. It’s Bill.

“Too late now to do anything about it. What’s wrong with Carpenter?”

Fanny laughs. “Coming down from Mister Brown isn’t as much fun as losing the glow from Mister Snow.”

Smack, junk, brown sugar, horse, and skunk roll through my mind, all street names for heroin. I think back to January. No visible tracks then. His symptoms were those of a cocaine abuser.

Bill’s accusation interrupts my thoughts. “You shot Carpenter with heroin?”

“A real big dose. One more and he’s bye-bye,” Luke says. “I say we put a bullet in her, then kill Carpenter and he gets the blame.” “No can do, Luke. We can’t leave her here. That’s too dangerous for the operation.”

Fanny sounds close. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

I feel Bill examine the back of my head. His hands are gentle. He pats my shoulder, then says, “I’ll take care of her.”

He rolls me over, then lifts me. “Do what you want with Carpenter. He’s already dead meat.” He stops. “They’ll be here in less than an hour, so whatever you do, do it pronto.”

Chapter 16

VOICES. TOO FAR AWAY. Can’t hear what they’re saying. Where am I? I don’t know. Where have I been? I can’t remember.

“Allie? Can you hear me? It’s Dad.” Someone’s holding my hand. I feel clean. The sheets seem smooth beneath me. Why do I smell rubbing alcohol? I should get ready for work, but it’s still too dark to get out of bed.

The voice is deep. “Your daughter suffered a pretty severe concussion complicated by a subdural hematoma. The pressure’s been relieved. Shouldn’t be too long before she comes out of it.”

A finger pries open my right lid and a bright light pierces the darkness.

“See how quickly the pupil responds?” Deep Voice says. “That’s a very good sign.”

“Allie? I’m Doctor Dirk Knight, your neurologist. Can you squeeze my hand?”

A hand squeezes. I want to squeeze back. But how? I don’t know how. I can’t remember.

“Try hard, Allie, I know you can do it.” Can I?

I must, because I hear Dad’s, “That’s my girl.”

The hand squeezes again and Deep Voice says, “That’s great, Allie, but I’d like a repeat.”

“So would I.” That’s my voice. A little croaky, but definitely mine.

Deep Voice comes into focus. He’s a huge man with buzz-cut red hair and so many freckles he looks like he has a rash. I can see my reflection in his owlish glasses. I’m just short of a mummy with a football helmet of bandages.

“How long have I been out?”

He flips open my chart. “Not sure exactly. You were unconscious when they found you outside the Laredo ER late Friday night. Your ID was in your jeans pocket.”

“And today is?” “Wednesday.”

Dad peers over the doctor’s shoulder. “The police called your apartment manager, who contacted us. We thought Houston had the best medical facilities.”

When the doctor leaves, Dad settles beside me. “Thank God you’re all right. We were so worried. Angela has called at least twice a day.”

I am just about to ask about my mother when the door flies open and I hear her voice. “They said she’s awake.”

My mother’s tear-stained face comes into view as cool, quivering hands cover my cheeks. “Oh, Allie, we were so afraid we were going to lose you. Thank heavens you’re okay, because I couldn’t have made it through another funeral.”

“How’s this?” Dr. Knight is above me, checking my pupillary reaction for the third time this morning, and for the third time this morning the probing light ratchets the dull ache to a pile-driving pound.

“Same as before,” I groan. I jam my eyes shut, hoping the usual dizziness and nausea will remain at bay.

“Mmmm.”

I hear him leaf through my chart and I crack one lid. The room isn’t spinning. A good sign. The clock on the wall reads just past eleven. I should have my appetite up to speed by the time they deal out the lunches.

Today is my first day up and though I was a little dizzy, I managed to shower. There’s a large shaved spot at the back of my head where they drilled through my skull to drain the hematoma. For the first time in a week, I feel like I might have a chance to rejoin the human race.

“Good news.” Knight slaps shut the chart, then settles next to my bed. “Despite the lingering pain and your inability to recall recent events, the concussion you sustained is healing nicely.”

I feel the back of my head. Not as bad as I thought. Thank heaven for thick hair.

When I don’t answer, he goes on. “As I said yesterday when I was removing your bandages, this memory loss is not unusual, so don’t worry too much about that now. Give yourself some time—a couple of months usually does the trick.”

He studies me for a while, then says, “Still no idea of what happened?”

My throat clamps shut. Damn him. He just said not to worry—that it would take some time to remember. Why does he ask something in the very next breath I know nothing about? I glare back at him, hating him for asking, hating myself for not remembering.

At first I was afraid I had lost everything. Well, not everything, because I immediately recognized my parents. And my past life through high school was completely intact.

Bit by bit, some of the rest has fallen in place. I’m still a competent law practitioner who once shared some long, nice kisses with Duncan.

I know Susie and Del married after Reena dumped him and they have lots of boys. That Reena and Paul live on a huge spread down the road from them. But there are so many blank spots.

Knight presses on. “You don’t recall making a second trip to Uvalde to attend your friend’s funeral?”

To hear about Reena’s death is still shocking, but I shake my head. “No. I know Reena’s dead only because my parents brought me the article in the paper. She was murdered.”

I take a deep breath, but the throat and chest are still engaged. It’s panic. I know all the signs. The thought that those months may be lost forever scares me senseless.

Knight probes again. “Do you remember getting to Uvalde?” Though Duncan told me I met Reena for lunch at Rudi’s the previous January, then flew home with her for the Martin Luther King Holiday, I struggle to think of anything connected to Uvalde. Nothing comes but more panic symptoms accompanied by intense uneasiness. Hard as I try, I remember nothing. Now it’s mid-May. I’ve lost four whole months.

“Nice town, Uvalde. Real pretty courthouse.” Knight’s trying to nudge me along, but it’s all a blank.

I give him a baleful look. “If you say so.”

The room is starting to spin. There goes lunch.

He must read me, because he pats my hand and stands. “Try to get some sleep. Rest is the best medicine.” He’s almost out the door when he turns. “Might want to make a few plans. If tomorrow and Friday go well, we’ll be releasing you Saturday. Too bad your parents couldn’t stay.”

I rush to cover. “Dad has a big trial coming up.”

In truth my mother’s growing litany of small complaints was driving us crazy. Sitting in a hospital or a motel room was such a bore. The cat needed tending. The plants were probably already dead.

I saw Dad begin to cave under her relentless onslaught and let him off the hook. After enlisting an eager Duncan, I assured them I would be fine.

Duncan’s lips on mine pull me out of the darkness. I check the clock on the wall. Almost five-thirty. I’ve managed to put away six hours in dreamland, but there are no dreams, or none that I remember.

“They said you didn’t eat lunch. That’s not good.”

“Then tell Doctor Knight to keep his damn light out of my face. I get nauseated every time he checks my pupils.”

“I will. But not right now. We only have a few minutes before they bring dinner.” Duncan eases onto the bed, then takes me in his arms and finds my lips.

This has been his routine whenever we’ve been alone, but I’m not at all comfortable with it. I have a private room, but when has a room in the hospital ever been private?

I’ve grown used to his kisses, but still freak out when his hand finds its way inside my hospital gown.

Duncan says he loves me and from the look on his face, I believe him. But this is the scary part. I’m supposed to be practically engaged to this man, yet he’s a borderline stranger.

Knight’s voice echoes in my mind. “They did a rape kit on you in Laredo. Standard procedure for female victims these days. It was negative.”

That was a shocker, but the news was a relief, even if I didn’t know just what I was a victim of.

I guess I’ve somehow signaled my reluctance, because Duncan disengages his mouth from mine. “Bad day all the way around?”

“Yeah. Sorry. But I did get some good news today. Doctor Knight’s releasing me on Saturday.”

“It’s about time. I’m surprised he kept you so long.” “Doesn’t seem that long to me, it’s less than two weeks.”

He cuddles me to him. “Seems like two years. We have a lot to make up for.”

I feel safe in Duncan’s arms—as safe as I can be under the circumstances.

“I’m so scared.”

“You’re going to be fine. You just need to rest and take care of yourself for the next few weeks.”

Actually, the timing of what happened is perfect. A job offer from Perkins, Travis was among the messages Duncan picked up off my answering machine followed by a confirming letter. Duncan called them to explain my situation and they’re willing to wait until I get my bearings.

The DA regretfully accepted my resignation with a letter of commendation saying how well I performed my assignments and wishing me the best of luck in my new job.

Frankly, I’m relieved I don’t have to go back to the routine. The thought of handling drug drops and auto thefts is somehow frightening, though I can’t exactly put my finger on the reason.

Duncan kisses my throat. This has always been a trigger for me. I can’t help but respond since I’m only human and I suppose I must love him.

Duncan lets out a soft moan and moves away. “You’re so tempting.”

“Then don’t stop.” I pull him back to me, wanting him to go on, needing to feel connected to something—anything.

“Believe me, I don’t want to stop. But I’d like a better setting.” He gives me a gentle kiss before he slides off the bed. “I have something for you.”

When he fishes in his jacket pocket and pulls out a small black box, my heart thuds. A ring. He’s giving me a ring. Panic blooms full force and my stomach rebels. There goes dinner.

When my stomach begins to heave, I turn away. “Allie, are you all right?”

I hear the love and concern in his voice and this makes it worse. I don’t know how I feel about him. I don’t remember. I can’t accept his ring. Not now.

“Get a nurse. I’m going to be sick.”

Chapter 17

I’VE BEEN HOME ALMOST A WEEK and, though I’m still a little wobbly, the headaches are diminishing.

I still haven’t a clue about the large gap in my memory, nor strangely, am I particularly interested in finding out. My reluctance puzzles me since I’m basically a very curious person.

Susie’s number is written on the pad next to my phone and I have lifted the receiver several times in the last week, but I can’t seem to make the call. The minute my finger touches the pad, I quickly hang up.

Remember what happened to the cat.

Who said that? I try to place the voice. Nothing.

Since I tire easily and find sleep a welcome release, I’ve hardly left my bed except to bathe.

There’s no ring on my finger and no further mention made of it. I think Duncan finally realizes I need more time. Though he’s continued the ritual he began in the hospital, he remains fully clothed with the sheet and bedspread between us.

Sometimes he falls asleep beside me, exhausted from the complicated case he’s trying with a dicey witness he’s afraid will sour on him any minute. I feel a twinge of guilt because he doesn’t need the added strain of trying to care for me.

This afternoon I went to see Dr. Knight, who assured me I would soon regain my full strength, then cautioned me not to push myself. I kept waiting for him to ask about the memory loss but he must have forgotten. I was relieved when he didn’t because I had no intention of bringing it up.

I took a cab to and from his office and collapsed on my bed as soon as I got back. I must have fallen asleep because it’s almost eight and twilight when I hear Duncan in the kitchen, and do a little primping before I hurry to join him.

He’s layering something in a casserole, hands engaged, so I circle his waist with my arms. “Hi.”

His voice resonates through his back. “You’re finally up.” “And hungry.”

“Music to my ears. It’s lasagna. How does that sound?” “Magical. Shall I do a salad?”

“Sure.”

We stand hip to hip, sharing a glass of Chianti, not saying anything. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know we’ve done this before and for the first time since coming out of whatever I suffered after my concussion, I feel a genuine rush of love for this man.

I push the romaine aside, pull him to me, and plant a nice long kiss on his mouth. This turns into an even longer engagement and he responds by guiding me out of my small kitchen, past the minute dining table set for two and to the couch.

I finally find a second between kisses to say, “Will the lasagna keep?”

“Who cares?”

Somehow, I know Duncan will be a generous lover. When we make it to my bed, he says he wants us to take some time to become reacquainted, but what begins as gentle exploration, ignites and rapidly propels forward.

Afterwards, we sit at the dining room table—Duncan in his red plaid boxers, I in my black teddy—and wash down the lasagna and salad with the rest of the Chianti.

We try to clean up, but can’t keep our hands off each other. Leaving the lasagna pan to soak, we barely make it to the bed.

Now, after a delicious reprise of our pre-dinner encounter, Duncan sleeps beside me. He has a gentle snore, but it’s enough to keep me awake—that and the three-carat square-cut diamond on my ring finger.

I hold up my hand to catch the reflection of the bathroom night-light. It’s a beautiful ring and Duncan’s endearing plight will be forever engraved in my memory.

I have been well-fed, well-bedded, and have just become engaged to a wonderful man. Why then am I bleeding tears?

Chapter 18

MY BEIGE WOOL SUIT is the perfect foil against the chill of the early November morning. Not only is the suit perfect, but my life is about as perfect as it can get. There’s a bounce to my step as I make my way along the path from the parking lot to the vinecovered brick building that houses Perkins, Travis, Attorneys-at-Law.

I love my new job. The firm is small but powerful, driven by Richard Perkins and Will Travis, who are renowned for their expertise in corporate “roll-ups” and real estate coups.

I’ve been here three months, arriving just in time to be well vetted, then chosen as lead attorney in the Dixon-Renchen negotiations.

“P&T,” as they are fondly referred to by associates and staff, let me call the plays from the beginning and I took to it like the proverbial duck. Now, I’m sitting in my very own office, basking in my first major success.

Duncan and I reserved a church and a reception hall for late March and put in a bid on a home in the old Tanglewood area of the city. It’s a remodel with three bedrooms, two and a half baths, and a wonderful kitchen—an absolute requirement for Duncan.

Though we are still in our separate apartments, we haven’t spent a day apart since he slipped the ring on my finger, and we would be married now, if there still weren’t those large holes in my past.

Sad to say, absolutely nothing has happened in the memory department. Knight now believes these mental lapses are hysteria-driven and is insisting I get therapy. I have been able to put this off due to my vital part in the Dixon-Renchen deal. But he’s threatening action soon.

The phone interrupts my glow. “Allie Armington.”

Avery Dixon’s voice purrs in my ear. “My favorite lawyer. Do we have a deal?”

“Copies of the agreement are being couriered to you for your final signature. Renchen’s already signed, sealed, and delivered.”

“That’s my girl.”

Despite Dixon’s politically incorrect referral, I enthusiastically blot up his exclamations of praise. The negotiations have been tricky, impeded by the two major egos involved, but thanks to my insight and a soft touch, I have landed my client a really sweet contract.

We chat a few moments then an incoming call ends our conversation with my promise to meet him for a celebratory drink the following evening. I depress the hook and let the phone ring a few times before I alight from my cloud.

“Armington.”

“Alice Armington?” The voice is not familiar, but decidedly Texan. “Speaking.”

“This is Raymond T. Gibbs of Jaynes and Gibbs in Laredo. I’m calling about the estate of Paul Carpenter.”

Paul’s estate? Paul dead? I break into his monotone. “Are you saying that Paul Carpenter is dead?”

“Oh, yes, for quite some time. Lessee here.” Silence as pages shuffle. “Mister Carpenter was found dead at a remote site on his ranch, Friday, May fourth.”

The moan comes from the depths of my soul as Paul’s face etched in terror, slides into place. I am standing above him, hand jammed in my vest pocket, clutching my Beretta, while I stare into his pleading eyes.

The sudden pounding in my ears is accompanied by a blinding ache at the base of my skull that is so debilitating, I can barely hold the phone.

His voice threads weakly through the commotion in my brain. “Miss Armington?”

“Yes, I’m listening. Go on.”

“Well, there’s very little left of Mister Carpenter’s estate. Seems the drug runners have all but cleaned out his ranch. Happening all over the counties bordering the Rio Grande. Those hombres got cojones bigger’n Dallas.” There’s a pause followed by, “Excuse my language, ma’am. It’s just that I get so danged mad when I think about how helpless we are against these dogs. Now, where was I?” A long sigh is accompanied by more shuffling paper. “The reason we’re contacting you, Miss Armington, is about a brown envelope addressed to you that was found in Mister Carpenter’s safe deposit box at the bank. As a matter of fact, the envelope was the only thing in the box. Sorry it’s taken so long, but we had a heckuva time tracking you down.”

I want out of the conversation. The pain of those last moments with Paul are too grim to handle. “Just send the envelope to...”

“Well, I would have done that already, ma’am, but the envelope comes with explicit instructions that it is only to be opened by you in the presence of witnesses and if you are unable or incapable of opening said envelope, it is to be destroyed while still sealed.”

I’m sitting in the dark when Duncan comes in humming something from Brigadoon. When he switches on the dining room light, I see the sacks in his arms indicating a feast is in store, but my stomach turns at the thought.

He doesn’t notice me until I rise, then he looks at my face and lowers the sacks to the table to take me in his arms.

I don’t know how long we stand there, but I finally get myself together enough to say, “Paul Carpenter is dead. A heroin overdose.”

I relate as much of Gibbs’s speech as I can remember, then wait for Duncan to spout some sort of miracle solution.

“And you remember you were there?”

“I must have been there, Duncan. I remember the look on Paul’s face. Pure terror. He was tied up. I think I went to find him.” I search the ceiling, hoping to jar another memory loose, but nothing comes.

“The date of his death and the date you were found couldn’t be that coincidental...” His voice trails. “Do you think you might have walked in on something you weren’t supposed to see?” Here comes my old friend panic. The headache is back despite the powerful analgesic I took only an hour before. It’s the third dose since I got the news of Paul’s death.

“Why can’t I remember?” I’m wailing now, shaking uncontrollably inside Duncan’s embrace, afraid if he releases me, I’ll spin out of control.

Chapter 19

DR. DAVID SOLOMON SITS STARING AT ME, balding head pitched slightly forward. He’s combed as much of his hair as he can to cover the baldness. Besides the fact that it looks silly, to my mind that makes him vain. I hate that in a man and it’s even worse for a shrink.

He’s been waiting some time for me to answer his last dumb question, but I want out of here so badly I can taste it. It’s the third session in ten days and so far nothing has happened except for the usual panic attacks, followed by jackhammer headaches.

“Who are they?” he asks again.

I try to stanch my rising anger. He’s been brow-beating me for almost an hour with zero results and I’m sick of his smooth, reasonable voice. “I heard you the first time, Doctor. If I knew who they were, I’d tell you.”

He smiles and spreads his hands. “Don’t shoot. I’m a friend.” Those words and his gesture are disturbing. I’ve seen and heard the same somewhere in one of those holes.

He lunges forward in expectation. “Have we hit a chord?”

I repeat the words to myself as I open my hands. I can see his hands. Almost hear his voice. I’m angry about something and it’s hot. We’re outside, under trees, leaning against...? A fence? No... no... a car. I stretch for the memory but it’s gone.

“A man said almost the same words—opened his hands like that. I can’t see his face, but I know we’re outside and talking about something that has made me angry.”

“Very good, Miss Armington.” Solomon makes a few notes in my thin file, then stands and extends his hand. “How about Friday?”

I’m standing, too. If Knight weren’t so high on this man, I’d be out of here in a minute and never come back. “Do you really think this is doing any good?”

Solomon smiles. “Well, so far we know Paul Carpenter was probably at the same site where you were attacked. And since you keep referring to ‘they’ and ‘them’ this indicates to me there are others involved. Notably, another man besides Carpenter that you seem to know well.”

“So?”

“My guess is you were so traumatized, you’re repressing the events from January through April. We know you made two trips to Uvalde. One at the end of January, then one at the end of April when your friend Reena was murdered. There is something interrelated in those trips. Perhaps something happened during your first trip that triggered events on your second visit.” His smile widens as he rubs his hands together. “Quite a little puzzle, isn’t it?”

He’s so damned pleased with himself, I want to punch him in the puss or mess up his careful “do.” Anything to wipe that smug look off his face. Instead, I smile and nod. “Quite.”

Duncan rises as I exit Solomon’s inner sanctum. He sees the look on my face and leads me through the door without speaking. We are halfway from Solomon’s office to Bammel Lane when I finally say, “We made a little headway.”

“Want to talk about it?” His voice is almost too soft. This has been as hard on him as it has on me. It’s almost as if he wants the past to stay buried. Not that I blame him.

Gibbs, the Laredo attorney, has called a couple of times to ask my pleasure, but I’m too scared and torn to make a decision. I can’t make up my mind whether to accept the envelope or just blow it off and let them destroy the document.

I hate myself for feeling this way. Scared of my shadow. Jumping when the phone rings. It’s not my modus. When I mentioned this to Solomon, he gave me little help. “You’ll face this when you’re ready.” But the question remains: Will I ever be ready?

Once I’m settled on the couch, Duncan shoves a tumbler of Scotch into my hand, then sits beside me.

After I go through the small breakthroughs and Solomon’s trauma theory, Duncan says, “I did a little checking right after you were flown in from Laredo.”

That’s a surprise. “Really?”

“Don’t get excited. I was politely stiffed all the way around. The ER in Laredo found you on a gurney outside the entrance. They sometimes leave them there after a transfer has been completed, especially if they’re busy—and they were.

“Then I called the Uvalde Police. Never heard of you.” “Did you try to phone the Dardens?”

“I made two or three calls. Kids took messages, none returned.”

My pulse begins to race. I know there’s something I should remember about the Dardens.

“Don’t you think it’s strange that your friend Susie hasn’t called you? She has to know Paul is dead.”

Duncan has asked the question I’ve been afraid to ask myself. But then, I haven’t called Susie either.

“I don’t understand why she hasn’t called to see if you’re okay? You were in Uvalde for three days. Certainly, you must have seen her.”

“I’m sure I did.” I put down the drink, no longer interested in it.

“Isn’t she supposed to be your best friend? Didn’t you tell me you two used to talk on a regular basis?”

I want him to stop this. The pain behind my eyes is almost as bad as it was when Knight kept shining that damn light.

“I’ve given Susie’s silence a lot of thought. But for some reason I can’t make myself pick up the phone, either. Maybe we had a fight.”

Duncan puts the telephone on the couch next to me. “Then why don’t you make the first move? You don’t have to tell her you can’t remember anything. Just say you’ve been busy with a new job and a fiancé that demands all your waking hours.”

A child answers. “Dardens.”

“Hi, this is Allie Armington. Is your Mom around?”

The phone clatters in my ear and I wince, hoping it’s not a harbinger of what’s to come.

Susie’s, “Hello,” is painfully tentative.

“Hi, yourself. I’ve been thinking of you all day, so I decided to give you a call. How are things?”

“Oh. Fine.” She pauses. “Just fine. And you?”

“Fine, too.” I take a deep breath and say, “I haven’t heard from you in such a long time, Suze. Are you mad at me or something?” The reassuring denial I pray will come back, doesn’t. Her voice is flat when she says, “It hasn’t been that long, has it?”

No point in idle chat, so I leap in with, “I just heard about Paul.”

Dead silence, then a small, “Really?” “Why didn’t you let me know?”

More silence, broken by children’s gleeful squeals in the background.

I can’t figure whether I’m confused or angry at her apathy, so I push. “His lawyer said it was a heroin overdose. Did you know that?”

Finally, Susie whispers, “We’ve been asked not to discuss Paul with anyone. Especially not you.”

At that, my heart begins a panicky tango through my chest. “Who told you not to say anything to me?”

Her next words are fear-filled. “Look, Allie, I’ve already said too much. You’re my dearest friend and I want you be around long enough to be in the front row at your namesake’s wedding.”

Namesake? I struggle to remember a namesake. Nothing comes and I can’t pursue the issue without revealing the gaping hole in my life. Before I can answer, I hear Del’s voice in the background and then the dial tone.

Chapter 20

SUSIE’S LAST WORDS sent me through a sleepless night, quivering in Duncan’s embrace, and this morning I am seated across from the vain and balding Dr. Solomon.

After briefly relating my conversation with Susie and the news that I have a child named after me whom I know nothing about, I plead for his help. “I’ll do anything, take anything, try anything to get my memory back.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he stares at me until I look away. Then he speaks. “You want a quick fix. Is that it?”

The man must have iron for brains and Dr. Knight must be nuts if he thinks Solomon can help me. When I face him, my impatience is much too obvious. “I said I’ll do anything.”

“You don’t like me very much, do you Miss Armington?”

Oh, dear, is it that apparent? I sigh and dish the truth. “No. Sorry.”

He smiles. “Don’t be. In this business, liking your therapist helps, but it’s trust that truly matters.”

He opens my file, pulls out the papers and reads through them while I perch on the edge of my chair, wondering what comes next. Will he refer me to someone else or struggle along with me despite my obvious antagonism?

He finally looks up through steepled hands and says, “Hypnotherapy, and in my opinion that is the best way to deal with hysterical or retrograde amnesia, not only involves your willingness to cooperate with me, but it’s my responsibility to get you to trust me. Sad to say, we have a way to go before that can happen.”

I don’t have the time to learn to like him. My, “Oh, I certainly trust you,” sounds as bogus as it is.

“No matter how desperate you are to get your memory back, this procedure involves your complete collaboration, because I cannot and will not hypnotize you until you are willing to give me complete control.”

I slump back in my chair. Either I get out of here or I get on the horse and ride. At that, I picture the sign “Mr. No-Name.”

When Solomon repeats his lurch-forward-and-seem-interested look of the day before, I beat him to the punch. “I rode a horse named Mister No-Name.”

“And?”

I try to picture the horse, or the stable, or something connected, but nothing follows. “Nothing else.”

“Try to relax. Take three or four deep breaths for me, will you?”

What harm can that do? I follow his instructions and actually feel some of the starch go out of my spine.

His voice breaks my imposed trance. “If you’re willing, Miss Armington, I would very much like to be the one to get you through this.”

He smiles. “Here’s my proposition. As best I can tell, your hysteria is due to one or more traumatic experiences connected to your trips to Uvalde. I think we can work through your memory loss with a series of thirty- to sixty-minute sessions. You can make the decision whether we should meet several times a week or less.”

“How long will it take?”

“If you decide on using a more aggressive approach, that is, several sessions a week, my best guess is somewhere within five to fifteen weeks.”

Not exactly music to my ears, but as the man says, I’m desperate. “I’d like to try the aggressive route, but I do have a job.”

“Not a problem. I often see patients after business hours.”

I stand to go, but he motions me back to my chair. “I have a few assignments for you. This is a two-person job, you know.”

“Assign away. I’m game for almost anything.”

He pulls out a small spiral pad and hands it to me. “First, I want you to record anything you might remember about the period covering your memory loss. A word, a feeling, even a period of unease. Describe what you think triggers it, and if possible write down the time of day that each flash occurs.”

“That seems easy enough,” I say and start to rise. “There’s one more thing...”

Down I go, again.

He pulls out several sheets of paper stapled together. “Secondly, it is imperative that you immediately begin a daily regimen of self-relaxation. Try these techniques at least once, until you find the one that works best for you. Then practice that technique at least three times a day, in your home, at your office, and if possible in a public place.”

I take the pages and quickly leaf through them. “There are almost twenty here,” I protest.

“That’s right, and if none of those work, there are twenty more.” He stands and extends his hand. “I’m looking forward to a successful endeavor with you Miss... may I call you Allie?”

I extend mine and we shake hands. He has a nice firm grip and a warm, dry hand. If he’d just do something about the side swipe of hair on top of his head.

“You can call me anything you want, except incurable.”

Chapter 21

THANKSGIVING IS HARD UPON US and after almost five weeks my little notebook is still blank. In the beginning, I wondered what Solomon and I were going to discuss after I got my relaxation technique down pat.

It didn’t take long to realize his series of rather gently probing questions were part of his trust-building procedure, so I easily breezed through years three to eighteen in the first couple of sessions.

Straight A’s in school. Boyfriends? Not really, just a gang of good buddies who hung out together. Angela was the one who dealt with the string of swains.

Lots of “I sees” from Solomon. Not much else. Today it’s Texas. UT. The orange tower.

I take my place on the couch and do my relaxation technique, which consists of deep breathing and counting backward from one hundred until I almost fall asleep. I’m surprised to find that I actually look forward to getting into this Zen-like state.

Solomon’s voice comes strained through cotton. “Did you enjoy your time at the University?”

My response is a dreamy, “Oh, yes.”

I visualize the place where I spent my first year. Mrs. MacFalls, known to its tenants as Big Mac’s, was a large, white, three-story house with wide porches across the front on the first and second floors. Rooms varied greatly in size and were meted out on longevity. Freshmen, unless they had a mentor, were relegated to the chopped-up rabbit-warren on the third floor. But thanks to my sister’s camp roommate, who was in her final year, I occupied the other bed in a large, airy space with access to the second-story porch.

“So it was a pleasant experience?”

“Three of the best years of my life, thanks to Reena Harper.” “Your friend?”

“She, Susie Baxter, and I were known as the Tri Delt Trio. Though neither Susie nor I could figure out what a beauty like Reena was doing with a couple of turkeys like us.”

“Don’t you consider yourself attractive?”

“Attractive? I suppose. But attractive isn’t stunning. My sister is stunning.”

“And you’re not?”

I try to bury the rush of envy I feel every time I think of Angela. “Never was. I miss stunning by millimeters. Luck of the gene pool, I guess. You know, nose just a smidge too long, eyes just a bit too small, and hair just a tad too curly.”

“Just like me and my brother,” Solomon says. “He’s ten years older and still has a full head of hair.”

For the first time, I feel a true kinship with this man and empathize with his pitiful attempt to cover his balding pate. Life is not fair.

Solomon intones from above, “Ah, we digress. Let’s get back to Reena.”

“Sorry. Reena—Reena was a stunner. I’ll never forget the first time I saw her. This fabulous blonde rushing toward me, dragging a cute, short, dark-haired girl behind her. I stepped back to let the twosome pass, but the blonde stopped and pointed at me, then said, ‘I choose you.’”

“But she picked you out of a large group of other women. She must have thought you were as attractive as she.”

“If you say so.”

“And your other friend?”

“Susie Baxter from Uvalde. She lived with Reena in a boarding house just up the street from mine.”

“You said the first three years were...” He checks his notes. “Three of the best years of your life. What happened to change that?”

Don’t go there, a tiny voice says somewhere at the side of my mind as an almost unbearable sadness overwhelms me. Then I whisper, “Paul Carpenter happened.”

For the rest of the session I talk about Paul. How I felt when I first saw him. The first night we slept together. The four months we spent before Reena got to him. Everything. Even the abortion.

I suppose I am already weeping by the time I get to the part about my abortion. But I sob and heave as that sad, long-ago morning, so carefully locked deep in my soul, comes spewing forth in clarifying detail. The noise of the electric suction pump. The feel of a hand in mine and the soothing voice of the nurse as my baby is pulled from me forever.

Only then do I realize it’s Solomon’s hand and Solomon’s soothing voice.

He offers me another tissue to add to the ten or fifteen little damp balls in the wastebasket next to the couch and says, “What a sad secret you kept. First, losing the love of your life to a woman you considered a dear friend, then having to silently grieve for the death of your child.” He pauses, then says, “Paul never knew?”

“What was the point?”

“You must be a very strong person to have worked through such a devastating experience.”

“I can’t see how reviving my pathetic tale is going to help. I mean it’s been eight years since that happened. I dealt with it. Got on with my life. You know I’m getting married in March.” I pause. My hands grow clammy and, opening my eyes, I quickly qualify my announcement. “What I mean is, we have a church and a hall reserved for March.”

“That’s wonderful news, Allie.”

My reaction frightens me. I should be filled with joy, flushed with anticipation, instead I feel some sort of bleak emptiness. “Is it?”

Solomon’s smile dies. “Isn’t it?”

I look down at Duncan’s ring and murmur, “I was counting on being through with our sessions by the end of January.”

“I was hoping for that too.” “But?”

“Not a ‘but,’ just a new concern. I’ve noticed the ring on your finger, but until this moment you never mentioned your fiancé or your approaching marriage. Why do you suppose that is?”

I shrug and stare back.

“If this man is going to be part of your future, don’t you think we should spend a little time discussing him?”

“I suppose. That is, if you think we should.” “Don’t you?”

I capitulate and tick down a list of Duncan’s vital statistics. “Sounds like a fine young man.”

“Oh, he is, but...” I search for an ending to this uncomfortable exercise but nothing comes.

Solomon saves me by flipping through my thickening file. After reading the last sheet, he puts it on his “done” stack. The drill is over.

“I’m pleased with your ability to put yourself into a relaxed state so easily. That will be most helpful when we start the hypnotherapy.”

“And when will that be?”

“When you ask for it.”

Duncan won’t be home until late. He’s tied up with witness interviews for his latest fraud case. I’m grateful for the time to sort through my sad past alone. Finally being able to talk to someone about the abortion has been a great relief.

I have made a hot cup of chamomile tea and am nestled in bed. I’m a mess. Eyes still red hours later. The session with Solomon was the worst so far. Dredging up the past only makes me realize how much I lost and bringing up my future with Duncan has been very unsettling.

I set my empty teacup on the bedside table, fluff my pillows, and turn off the light. After thirty minutes trickle by, I decide to practice deep breathing and counting backward from one hundred.

I’m not sure if I’m dreaming, but I hear Paul’s voice as if he were standing next to me. Say there’s a chance for us. Tell me we can begin again. The moments at his hideaway replay with sharp edges. Especially his shock at my refusal to sleep with him while he was still married to Reena.

A chunk of my memory has just fallen into place.

I rummage through my purse and pull out the little notebook. Note the time: 9:30p.m. I write that first, then what happened, then Paul’s words.

For the first time in weeks, I fall asleep alone.

Chapter 22

I HAVE MADE PROGRESS with the memory loss, having recalled most of my January visit to Anacacho. The strain between Paul and Del, Susie’s suspicions that Reena and Del reconnected, as well as the fact that Susie was just about to deliver a daughter and name her after me.

The brown envelope remains with Gibbs because Solomon advised me to leave it in the attorney’s hands until I regain all my memory. I didn’t tell Gibbs about my problem, only that I was involved in a large real estate transaction and was out of the country.

Sad to say, now that my memory is returning, I have found it increasingly difficult to be intimate with Duncan. I’m able to handle the kisses, but the minute he becomes more familiar, I tense up. The only way I can get through the rest of our love-making is to clench my teeth and wait for the act to be over. That bothers me enormously because, in the beginning, sex with Duncan was the greatest.

When I told Dr. Solomon about my problem, he suggested I blame my growing aversion to intercourse on that particular stage of my therapy. This has helped dissipate some of the tension between Duncan and me, but I sense a reluctance on his part to have sex unless I take the initiative—and I don’t.

I must say, good old Dr. Solomon has tried every psychiatric tool to get through that stone wall surrounding my second trip to Uvalde, but so far, nothing has worked. And now, it’s show time.

Today, he’s going to try to hypnotize me. It was my suggestion. It had to be. That was the deal. And I am ready. By that I mean I’m able to drop into the alpha state in only three deep breaths while counting backward from one hundred to ninety-six. It’s amazing how helpful this has been in connection with my work. An issue arises—I spend a few relaxed minutes—the issue seems easier to solve.

Since it’s Saturday, Dr. Solomon suggested I dress comfortably, and I have chosen a jogging suit and running shoes. I notice he’s done the same, probably relieved to get out of the iron suit and hangman’s tie for a change.

Before the hypnosis begins we chat for about twenty minutes, reviewing some of my memories of Uvalde. I know he’s gunning for my second visit. Apparently, that’s where the trouble lies.

Dr. Solomon’s next question is a jolt. “Is it possible you met someone new while you were there?”

I feel the heat between my legs and redden with embarrassment at my intense and rapid arousal as a fragment of the past replays. I’m on the porch at Anacacho with a man. His body is barely touching mine, but I don’t want to move away. I hope he’ll kiss me. I try to see who it is, but I can’t look up.

“Are you suggesting I fell in love?” I meet Dr. Solomon’s penetrating stare and know he’s seen the heat in my cheeks. “But, how could that be? You tell me I was there for a little over three days.” “True.” He smiles and shakes a friendly finger in my direction. “But love at first sight is very real.” He motions to the crammed bookcase. “There have been a number of conclusive studies done on the phenomenon, though I prefer to think that the love is probably more a sexual attraction than spiritual.”

“Wouldn’t I remember such a strong emotion?” “Did you not?”

I blush and nod.

“Then, too, your reluctance to be intimate with your fiancé indicates something or someone has entered the picture. The closer we get to hurdling that wall you’ve built, the more you seem to want Duncan out of the way.”

Why is he saying this? Why does he need to put me on the defensive? “I’ve tried to—to be loving. But Duncan’s been busy with his work and I’ve been just as swamped.”

“So, no time to make whoopee. Is that it?”

Whoopee? That’s straight out of the Dark Ages. I want to leap out of my chair and poke him in the nose. Instead, the lump in my chest grows heavy with the truth that lately Duncan’s comforting arms seem more like vises and what he calls love seems more like an imposition.

Dr. Solomon breaks into my thoughts. “Are you ready to let me jiggle a few memories?”

This is it Allie. You have to give him control. Instead of answering, I lie back, begin my deep breathing and counting and in no time I’m limp as a noodle.

Solomon sounds like he’s in a well. “You feel very heavy now. Arms and legs weigh a ton. Too heavy to lift, but try to raise your right hand for me, just a little, will you please?”

I think I manage to slightly move my index finger, but I don’t care. It’s very peaceful, wherever I am. Then I look into the bright blue eyes of the man on the porch. He’s in a police uniform. Sheriff.

I’m trembling, not because I’m afraid, but because no man I’ve ever been with has aroused me so. We are in a musty room. I hear him speak for the first time, though his voice is almost a whisper. “Tomorrow?”

Yes, that’s his voice with the soft, lazy drawl. I say something to him, but whatever it is doesn’t move him. I say it again. Nine o’clock autopsy.

Finally, he edges by me and disappears into the darkness.

I want to think about that moment. Feel the way I felt. Delicious. Yes. Delicious.

Solomon’s voice cuts in. “What about the autopsy?”

The scene shifts to a well-lighted office. I smell stale coffee—hear the clacking keys of a typewriter. Yes. Yes. It’s him. I see his lips move. “I’m Bill Cotton, the Sheriff. Welcome to Uvalde.”

“Come with me now, Allie,” Dr. Solomon insists. “It’s nine o’clock and time for Reena’s autopsy.”

“No.” I blurt, shaking my head hard.

“Does it frighten you to see your dead friend?”

“I never saw her body. Pictures. I saw pictures.” I try to turn my head as the gruesome black and white images flash before me.

I hear myself say, “Don’t gag, ask questions. Good. We’re leaving but I can’t stand up. Oh hell, I’m going to pass out.”

“Who’s with you? Is it Paul?”

“No, not Paul.” I smile. “Bill Cotton.”

“So,” Solomon says. “We finally have a name.”

I nod and murmur, “Yes. The sheriff.”

Solomon brings me out of the trance by counting down from ten. He waits until I sit up and face him. “And was it love at first sight?”

I’m startled by his question. “Maybe so. Certainly a strong sexual attraction, but there’s more to it than that, I’m positive.”

“I’m sure your first impulse is to get in touch with this man, but I’m strongly advising you not to because you don’t know the whole story yet.”

“Okay, okay. I promise I won’t call until all the pieces fall in place.”

I rise to go, but Solomon’s next words stop me in my tracks. “What about Duncan?”

I slip back into my chair and sigh. “I don’t want to think about Duncan right now.”

“But maybe you should,” Solomon says. “After all, you tell me you haven’t been able to be intimate with him for the past few weeks. That should tell you something.”

“But, I do love him.”

“Yes, I think you do, Allie, but isn’t it plain this Bill Cotton is standing in the way of any future the two of you might have? Wouldn’t it be better to let the guy off the hook until all this is resolved?”

It’s like a large stone lifts. Tears come, but not sad ones. Tears of relief. Later that day, I removed my engagement ring and put it in the office safe.

Christmas in Lampasas turns out to be the best one we’ve had since my grandparents were killed. Angela and I are able to be just “the girls,” staying up late every night. Mother cooks our favorite foods and Dad takes us skeet shooting. We even get stockings stuffed with crazy gifts, just like we did when we were little.

The table is once again filled with guests who watch as Angela and I fight over who gets the pully-bone.

Duncan calls only once to wish me Merry Christmas. It’s a short conversation, lots of noise in the background of both homes. I hope he won’t say he loves me, and am relieved when the conversation ends without it.

The holiday is over before we know it. After dropping Angela off at the Austin airport, I have almost two hundred miles to consider a future with Duncan and am surprised to discover I scarcely thought about him at all while I was away. That I never once longed to be with him. That the ring is exactly where it belongs. By the time I arrive in Houston, I know I have to end the relationship.

The first evening Duncan is back, I suggest we meet for dinner at a downtown restaurant not far from his office since I have a meeting at the nearby Pennzoil Building. When he agrees, I make a reservation, specifying a banquette in a side alcove usually reserved by lovers.

Our greeting embrace is as brief as the kiss, but then, we’re in a public place. We follow the maître d’ through the crowded main room, slide into the banquette, then order martinis. Though Duncan makes no move to take my hand, the mood we share is relaxed and our conversation centers on family holiday anecdotes for the first part of our meal, then what is happening in our careers.

I drop it on him over dessert and coffee, then extract the ring from my purse and place it on the table next to his hand.

He looks at me, then down at the ring, then back at me.

“My therapy isn’t going well at all. Solomon says it may take a year or even longer before my memory is completely restored, and I can’t ask you to begin a marriage based on the unknown. It isn’t fair after all the waiting you’ve done already.”

I hear the words tumble from my mouth, planned—practiced, but they sound rushed, false, and unfeeling.

I search his face to find no pain there, no look of amazement, just speculation. Then he says, “I had a feeling about us when we didn’t get the house in Tanglewood, didn’t you?”

The house in Tanglewood? Did I know we’d lost the bid? I search my memory and come up empty.

Duncan picks up the ring, slides it in his pocket, then gives me a thin smile. “I’ll miss you, Allie. We had something pretty great going there for a while. Looks like fate’s just not on our side. I think it’s best if we don’t see each other at all. They say a clean break is always better.”

He signals for the check, walks me to the car, and says goodbye.

I feel tears edge forward, surprised my emotions could still be so raw. Everything was neatly planned. Just a civilized dinner and a short goodbye. And now that it’s done, where’s the relief? Why, instead, regret?

Chapter 23

I HAVE JUST FLOWN IN FROM DALLAS. On the way to Bammel Lane I take a slight detour down Kirby Drive to witness the beginning of spring. The flowering quince and pink magnolias have come and gone, but the azaleas are right on schedule: ready to pop just in time for the last freeze of the year. Seeing the burgeoning pale green trees and carpeted lawns dotted with tulips and daffodils is somehow soothing.

My job at Perkins, Travis is going extremely well. It seems real estate is my forte. My success with Dixon-Renchen rolled me into an even bigger venture dealing with a major property swap in Dallas, where I’ve been living in a hotel since January. This has limited Dr. Solomon and me to one Saturday session a week at best, and now that the deal is coming down to the wire, our group has been working through the weekend.

Even with that, the timing on the trade couldn’t have been better. Finding out about Bill Cotton and my attraction to him certainly clarified my feelings for Duncan. When Dr. Solomon brought me out of the trance that Saturday, I remembered everything that happened in the Medical Examiner’s office, when I saw the graphic pictures of Reena and almost passed out.

What happened after Bill and I left the ME’s office is still a big zero. This lack of progress is extremely frustrating for two reasons. The main one being my tremendous urge to get back within kissing range of the sheriff. The second is my failure to remember even one small detail after that nine o’clock appointment at the ME’s office.

For the last three sessions, after I go under, Solomon has me repeat the events while he tries to drive me over those last few hurdles.

He reports that when I’m hypnotized, I relate exactly the same events, and include exactly the same details. Still, he won’t tell me anything. Part of the therapy is for me to remember everything in a waking state.

After each session Solomon reminds me to keep hands off on any contact with Uvalde until I can remember everything. I’ve been tempted to call Susie more than once, but so far I’ve been able to resist, since the closing in Dallas has taken up most of my time.

My building has one great perk. A doorman who, if he likes you, will retrieve and park your car. Elton is round and middle-aged. He definitely has his pets and, happily, I’m one of them.

I hand over my car keys, then check my watch. Almost six. My appointment with Dr. Solomon is at seven, so I have plenty of time to bathe and get into something comfortable. I hardly notice the couple preceding me into the elevator until the man says, “Hello, Allie.”

I look into Duncan’s steady brown stare, then realize he’s attached to the woman next to him. “Allie, I’d like you to meet Ellen Anderson.” He turns to her. “You remember my telling you about Allie, don’t you, darling?”

She smiles and extends her hand. “Of course, I do. Glad to meet you.”

“And I, you.” I manage to purr, while checking out her blonde hair and flawless, glowing complexion. I glance at her left hand and there it is, the same ring that once graced mine.

I can’t ignore the surge of bile at the base of my throat as I realize Duncan has not only speedily recovered from being dumped, but has happily gotten on with his life.

The elevator stops and the doors glide open, but I can’t seem to turn away and make my exit.

Duncan’s soft voice gives me the thrust I need. “Your floor, I believe.”

I nod and push the closing door wide, then scurry to my apartment and drown in the morass of rejection.

“So,” Dr. Solomon says, as he pushes the tissue box in my direction. “You got blind-sided?”

“I guess you could say that. I certainly didn’t expect Duncan to be engaged so soon.”

“He’s ready to settle down, that’s all.” “But it’s only been three months.”

“True, but remember how relieved you were when you broke off your engagement? He probably suffered a lot back then.”

“Then why am I feeling this way when I was the one who broke it off?”

I tune up again. Damn, I hate to cry. I grab another tissue and blow my nose, but the tears keep coming.

“Simple. Nobody likes to lose control over a situation.” “And I did?”

He nods. “Your reaction is perfectly normal.”

“Seeing him with another woman really hurt. I suppose I was jealous.”

“Maybe you should think about that.”

“It’s too late,” I wail. “I told you, he’s engaged.”

Solomon smiles. “Trust me. When we get you through this, you will be able to make the right decision... and for all the right reasons.”

Chapter 24

IT’S MID-MARCH. With the Dallas deal successfully sealed, Perkins, Travis is talking partnership. I should be ecstatic, and would be if my therapy were producing the results I hoped for. Of course, Solomon has assured me we would have been right on schedule if I hadn’t spent all winter in Dallas.

Instead of attending the party for the Dallas group, I’m taking Friday off to fly home. Solomon has promised to set aside time this evening, as well as tomorrow, to “explore some other directions.”

I’ve been on the couch for over an hour, and Dr. Solomon’s voice sounds like he’s in the well again, but he hasn’t hypnotized me this time. I’m only in the alpha state.

“What happens when you and Cotton leave the ME’s office?” “I don’t feel so hot.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“My stomach is queasy, but Bill has my arm. We’re walking down the street. His shirt is brushing my cheek. He’s very tall.”

“And looks just like Paul Newman.”

We’ve been here before. Solomon is saying this to irritate me and he’s been plenty irritating lately.

“I never said that. Angela did. She’s the one hung up on movie star look-a-likes. The sheriff doesn’t look at all like Paul Newman. It’s the bright blue eyes.”

“Does he have on the Kryptonite aftershave?”

I smile. “Yes. Maybe that’s why I’m queasy.” “Allie?”

“Yes?”

“Can you hear everything you’re telling me?” “Yes.”

His voice is very close and it sounds as if he’s trying to buffer his excitement. “Please open your eyes.”

I do, and Solomon says, “I want you to look directly at me when you talk, okay?”

“Fine by me.”

I go through the rest of that day. Breakfast sitting across from Bill Cotton. Paul’s sudden disappearance. My trip to the emptied ranch and how frightened I was until I found the old wall telephone. Susie’s description of the cocaine and the small Piper Cub.

Dr. Solomon leans forward. “And what happened next?”

“I went back to the motel and changed rooms. The air conditioner was on the fritz, remember?”

He smiles. “And after that?”

“I put on jeans and riding boots and drive out to visit Susie and Del. They’re celebrating the recovery of the Darden oil property. They ask me to join them on the porch and Susie starts inside.”

I shiver as fear shoots through my innards and my two friends freeze-frame.

Poor Dr. Solomon, he’s so close—just inches away from getting me over that last dark hurdle. I guess he can’t stand it any longer because he says, “Didn’t you ask them about something before Susie left to get you a glass?”

I realize I’m wringing my hands. “Did I?”

“You were on a mission.”

I shake my now-throbbing head. “No. No. I went out to the Dardens’ for a drink because I was having dinner with the sheriff if he could get away in time.”

“What happens next isn’t that bad, Allie. You already know how it ends. You survived the blow to your head and you’re sitting here talking to me. What is it that frightens you so?”

My head is splitting. I thread my words through clenched teeth, “I don’t want to know the truth.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Can you tell me why you don’t want to know?”

“Can you?” I look away, searching for my purse, which I hope contains some aspirin.

“Oh, yes. I’ve known the reason for your reluctance for several months. And if you’ll allow yourself, you will too.”

Eureka. I find the bottle, throw two aspirin in my mouth and wash them down with water from the glass on the table next to me, hoping that will be enough to dull the pounding.

Solomon’s voice weaves through the ache. “I thought you were using the relaxation technique to solve your headache problem. Too much aspirin can tear up your gut.”

“It’s my gut, dammit, and these are my memories. Besides—” I grab my purse and stand, relieved he didn’t hypnotize me this session. “That’s enough for today.”

Solomon stares up at me, then says, “You’re afraid Cotton is involved with the drug trafficking operation, aren’t you?”

I lose my middle and crash back to the couch as the scenes I couldn’t face replay. Del’s veiled threats. Stealing Mr. No-Name. The journey up the mountain. The terror in Paul’s face. Every detail of those last moments on the mountain flashes before me.

Tears stream down my face. “Satisfied?”

Dr. Solomon nods sympathetically. “There are a couple of questions you need to ask yourself, Allie. The first being, if you’re so sure Cotton’s involved, why didn’t he kill you then? He couldn’t possibly have known you were amnesic. For all he knew, once you recovered, you could’ve gone straight to the police and exposed the operation implicating him.”

I brighten. “I didn’t think of that.”

He frowns, then says, “But, there’s also this to consider: If there are no obstacles in his life, why hasn’t he tried to contact you?”

My euphoria fades as quickly as it bloomed.

Chapter 25

HOUSTON’S BRIEF BUT GLORIOUS spring is over, but thanks to daylight savings time, I’ve been able to get in a late-evening jog on the cinder track at a high school near my apartment.

Unfortunately, this evening I’m still at my desk, re-reading the final paragraph on a contract before I head for freedom.

When I hear, “Miss Armington?” I look up to see the firm’s security officer, standing in my door, a paper-filled clipboard in one hand.

The ex-CIA agent is trim and fit, but about as exciting as a wet mop. He gives me a dry, thin smile and says, “Do you have a minute?”

I motion him in, surprised and slightly annoyed that he’s barring my escape. “What can I do for you?”

He closes the door behind him and settles in a chair across from me. “I think the shoe is on the other foot, Miss Armington. It’s more like what I’ve already done for you.”

I push the contract to one side. “Pardon?”

He fishes in his jacket pocket and pulls out a small round metal disk. “Do you know what this is?”

“Looks like a battery of some sort, for a watch or a camera?” “But it isn’t.” He gives me a triumphant smirk.

“This is a small transmitter—a bug, if you will. I found it in the mouthpiece of your telephone Saturday.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“One of my jobs is to make a sweep of the offices every six months or so.” He riffles through the pages on his clipboard. “The one before this was done in September. This office was empty then.” “That’s the month I joined the firm.” The reality finally sinks in. “You say you found a bug in my handset?” He nods.

We sit staring for a few minutes as my mind races back through the business transactions I’ve made. Nothing sensitive. All negotiations up front and aboveboard.

Just as I open my mouth to say as much, a red flag pops up. I am an officer of the court who has known about a drug trafficking operation for almost a year.

“I can’t imagine why anybody would want to bug my phone.” He gives me an oh-really look. “Gee, me either.”

“What should we do?”

Again, that thin smile. “It looks like your recent international transaction has been successfully concluded and the contracts you’re covering now are local and don’t include sensitive material, but I did notify Mister Perkins.” He pauses, then puts the clipboard on the edge of my desk. “Since your phone is the only one that was bugged, it doesn’t look like the tap is business-related. Anything personal I should know about?”

When I don’t answer, he rises. “I’ll keep a watch on things. Easy to do, now that I’ve pinpointed the problem.”

Despite the laundry room gossip that Duncan has just dumped his fiancée, my decision to contact him is purely professional. As Assistant DA he offers the easiest access to that side of the law. I reach for the phone, then hesitate, wondering what he’ll say. I dumped him plain and simple and when I found that he was going on with his life, I wasn’t happy about it at all. Am I using this latest development as an excuse? Reason overcomes my guilt. I need his help.

Duncan seems genuinely happy to hear my voice and after catching up on careers and carefully skirting anything of a personal nature, I say, “My office phone was bugged. The security chief found it Saturday while making a routine sweep.”

After a long silence, he says, “Do you think it could be about that mess in Uvalde?”

“Maybe.” I hesitate only a second before saying, “I remember everything.”

There’s a second long silence on his end, then, “That’s really good news... isn’t it?”

“I suppose. Frankly, I hoped this was all behind me, but...” He interrupts. “I think I can get hold of someone who’ll help you. Can you leave work now? I’ll meet you at the Capitol Grill.”

I forgot how handsome Duncan is and to my surprise, I feel my heart skip a few beats when he clasps my hand. We manage to get through the greeting and seating, then he orders two martinis. Mine “up” with three olives. He hasn’t forgotten.

We are halfway through our drinks when Duncan’s buddy Nate Fallon pulls out a chair and slides into it. A private investigator who often works for the county, Nate is a man who gets a job done—fast.

“So?”

With that one question asked, Nate stirs his lime and Perrier furiously until there are hardly any bubbles left, while I fill him in on the discovery.

He nods agreement. “Something’s out of whack. Bugging’s mostly corporate espionage stuff.”

Duncan interrupts. “Tell him, Allie.”

I know I have to, but the thought of revealing my knowledge of drug trafficking in the Valley gives me pause.

Nate gives me a gentle urge. “I can’t help you unless I know the facts.”

“I know.” I take a large draw from my martini and launch into the story, carefully omitting anything personal about Bill Cotton.

Nate’s low whistle is echoed by Duncan’s, “Wow.”

For the next few minutes the three of us are silent, surrounded by the buzz of low conversations and the clink of flatware against china.

Finally Nate says, “I’m not going to soft-pedal this, Allie. Somebody must be afraid you know too much about what went on, or is still going down, out there.”

“If there is a bug in my apartment and you remove it, what happens then?”

“If I yank it, they’ll find another way to keep tabs on you. You might not want to go there.”

After dinner, which the two men inhale and I pick over, we head for my apartment. Once inside, Nate opens the small black bag he retrieved from the trunk of his car and heads for the telephone.

I watch as he twists off the mouthpiece and smiles. With a pair of tweezers he picks up the twin to the disc in my office and, to my horror, replaces it.

When I gasp, he puts his finger to his lips, then assembles a wand-like device. Moving from room to room, he scans the lamps, the tables, the pictures on the wall, and the electrical outlets.

When he reappears, he waves us into the elevator hall, and says, “Only a telephone plant. Probably all they had time for.”

I grab his arm. “Why didn’t you take it out?”

He removes my claw and shoots me a million-dollar smile. “Look. The thing works only when you lift the receiver. Why tip them off that you know? The bug at the office could have been damaged somehow, but if both bugs go...”

The light dawns. “I’ll just have to watch what I say.”

He nods. “If you need to make a sensitive call, use somebody else’s phone. Otherwise, just the usual on your own line.”

Duncan closes the door and turns. “It’s going to be fine, Allie. Nate gave you some good advice.”

Angered by his glib assurance, I flop on my couch, arms crossed. “Some comfort that is. I’ve probably been tailed since I got back from Uvalde.”

“Probably.” “But by who?”

When Duncan shrugs, I answer my own question: Someone’s been in here. Going through my things. Planting a bug. But how long have I been bugged? And how did they get past Elton? Then a chill cuts through me—could Bill be in on this?

Duncan looks toward the door and I realize I can’t let him leave just yet. “Care for a nightcap?”

He checks his watch. “Sure. Want me to open some wine?”

I’m already halfway to the kitchen. “I have part of a bottle of Port left. Stay put.”

Once I’ve settled on the couch next to him, Duncan raises his glass, then says, “What’s your next move?”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to sit around and play the damsel in distress. Guess my next move is to fly to Laredo and get that envelope.”

Duncan puts his hand on mine. “That’s the last thing you should be thinking about. Not after what happened today.”

I bridle at the remark. “What do you mean by that?”

“The last time you made a trip out there, you were almost killed. Remember?”

Duncan’s concern sounds more like control. I stiffen. “I have no reason to think that could happen again.”

“But you don’t know this lawyer or anything about him. How do you know you’re not stepping into a trap?”

The gauntlet’s down. I leap to my defense, voice dripping acid. “Don’t be such an old lady. Gibbs is only interested in clearing up his client’s estate. I’ve talked with him several times on the phone. No reason to think the man is anything but aboveboard. Besides, I have no intention of going near Uvalde or the Anacacho.” Exasperation fills his words. “Can’t you just wait and see what Nate digs up before you go off on some cockamamie mission?” “Cockamamie? What I do, cockamamie or not, really shouldn’t concern you, Duncan.”

He winces and jerks his hand away as if he’d touched a red hot poker, then takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. If you’re so damn comfortable with this Gibbs, then let’s go through the scenario. You meet in his office and when you open the envelope you find incriminating evidence in it. What then?”

To my relief the rough patch between us dissolves. I speak attorney to attorney. “First a question: Since Laredo’s in a different county, wouldn’t that mean jurisdictional problems?”

“Not necessarily. Since you believe this to be drug trafficking evidence, it immediately comes under the DEA’s auspices. So, in order to save time, I’d ask that the witnesses be DEA.”

“I can’t imagine the evidence would be anything else.”

“Neither can I. That’s why your trip could be dangerous.” His voice lowers. “What’s the problem with Gibbs coming here?”

“Well, he sounds rather elderly for one thing.”

“If that’s what you’re planning to do, I know a few Feds in the Valley. I’ll be glad to call them and set up an appointment.” “Thanks, Duncan, you’re a brick.”

“Still glad you made the switch to the private side of the law?” “More than you can imagine. I’ll always be grateful you steered me in that direction.”

I notice his glass is empty. “Refill?”

“Thanks, but I better be on my way.” He stands and looks down at me. “Unless there’s something else you’d like to discuss?”

I rise to join him, extending my hand. “Nothing I can think of, right now, but do I have permission to recall?”

He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “You bet.”

Duncan turns to go, then pauses. “Are you sure you feel comfortable about making this trip?”

Chapter 26

IT’S ALMOST TWO O’CLOCK on a Friday afternoon in mid-April when the Embraer Turbo Prop touches down on the runway in Laredo. An unexpected trip to Columbus, Ohio, prevented me from hooking up with Mr. Gibbs until now. Even then, because the Feds were involved, it was all I could do to set up this meeting on such short notice.

Duncan has been a big help with the DEA. He says they promised at least one agent and hopefully two will be waiting in Gibbs’s office when I arrive.

It’s hot, the delayed flight on the commuter was bumpy, and the cab ride through the teeming throngs in the central business district isn’t helping my frame of mind. I’m particularly disgruntled because there are no longer creases in my slacks, and my linen jacket looks like it ran into a mix-master.

I take the wheezing elevator to the third floor and push open a door reading Jaynes & Gibbs, Attorneys-at-Law. I smile my way past the secretary, and extend a firm hand to Mr. Gibbs. He looks nothing like he sounded over the phone.

I pictured sort of a round, Santa-like man, but though his hair is white as snow, he’s really quite dashing. Dark complected, indicating some Border heritage despite the Gaelic surname, Gibbs is medium tall and powerfully built.

He ends the shake and motions toward the nearest chair, then settles behind his desk. “Well, little lady, we meet at last.”

I flinch at his lack of political correctness, but taking his age into account, I cut him some slack.

“Yes, at last.” Since I saw no one in the outer office when I greeted his secretary, I wonder what he’s done with the DEA. “Nice flight?”

“Very bumpy and late, as you can see.”

“Maybe some iced tea? My secretary makes a pretty mean pitcher.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.”

We exchange idle chat until the secretary slams down a couple of glasses on the desk and retreats. Gibbs rises and comes around to my side of the desk, hands me my glass, then sips from his. “Hits the spot, doesn’t it?”

I have to admit it does.

We stare at each other for a few minutes, then he retreats to his chair. “Guess you’re looking for this.” He pulls a large brown envelope from his desk drawer and pushes it across the desk.

I pull it to me, and stare at Paul’s hurried scrawl.

The “ie” of my name has been reduced to a few squiggles with the dot for the “i” almost over the “A” of Armington.

I turn it over.

The flap is seemingly still intact, though it easily could have been steamed open and re-sealed.

“Well?” Gibbs is almost salivating with eagerness.

It dawns on me that there will be no DEA present—at least not today. Either Gibbs has headed them off at the pass or they have chosen to ignore Duncan’s request.

“I’m sorry, Mister Gibbs, but when we discussed my trip down here, I requested that at least one member of the Drug Enforcement Administration be present when I opened this.”

He studies me for a minute through hooded eyes, then says, “Yes, I remember, Miss Armington, but I can’t believe you really meant that. Think of Mister Carpenter and what these revelations, if any, could do to his good name.”

“That’s exactly what I am considering, Mister Gibbs. Paul was...”

I start to add that Paul was murdered in cold blood and though I didn’t witness it, I overheard plans being made for his death and mine, but there goes the red flag. For some reason, I decide to save that piece of news until I get a better picture of this man.

I stand, lean over his desk and into his face. “I certainly agree that Paul’s good name is at stake, therefore, I do not intend to open this until the DEA is represented.”

He raises his hand against my onslaught. “I sincerely apologize for failing to recognize the urgent nature of your request.”

“You told me Paul died of a heroin overdose. To me that indicates some type of criminal action was going on at his hideaway. That’s why I insisted on having a DEA agent present.”

“Oh dear, this is far more grave than I ever realized. Of course, I have no idea what’s in that envelope, so, when they called this morning, my secretary told them it wouldn’t be necessary to send anyone over.”

“But I felt it was necessary and I still do. I thought that was our agreement.”

“It was, it was. But I got to thinking. What if there’s nothing in that envelope? Then we would have wasted one or maybe two valuable men and their time. The DEA is short-handed as it is with all this border mess.”

Though Gibbs has made a valid point, I’m not giving an inch. “No DEA, no open. Sorry.”

He hides his surprise rather well by raising his brows and offering a broad smile. “It is I who am sorry, Miss Armington. I shouldn’t have tried to think for you.”

I check my watch. Still ample time to make the last flight to Houston. I start to stand and he motions me back to my chair.

“I’d like to make this up somehow.” He shoots me a toothy grin. “If you’ll be a guest in my home this evening, I promise you will have someone from the DEA to witness the opening of that envelope first thing in the morning.” Before I can answer, he says, “My wife, Elvira, is not only a fine cook, but a wonderful hostess and we’d be honored to have you stay with us.”

Though it’s not too late to make the last flight, what would that accomplish? I’d just have to reschedule and, as it is, I’m booked on a Sunday flight to New York to begin negotiations with a Dutch group interested in another tank farm on the ship channel. Fortunately, I always carry the bare necessities in my briefcase.

I hand the envelope back to Gibbs, still leery of his hospitality. “I’d rather not impose, thank you. However, I would like to get this handled now. I have to be in New York by Monday. If you don’t mind, I’ll get a room at a hotel. I hear La Posada is very nice.”

He laughs and moves toward a wall safe that is open, deposits the envelope, and slams it shut. “Fat chance you’d have of getting a room there. It’s spring and a weekend. I’d be willing to bet they’ve bussed every other cost-conscious woman in Texas down here to shop ’til they drop across that damn river.”

Gibbs yells to his secretary to call the hotel and we stare each other down until she calls out, “Booked solid.”

After Gibbs instructs his secretary to call his wife and contact the DEA, we take the elevator to the first floor and head down a darkened hall to the parking lot at the back of his building. When he points me toward a shiny black Suburban, I can’t help but smile. Mr. Gibbs is anything but old-school.

Gibbs inches the Suburban past the crowd and away from the center of the city to a pleasant, upscale neighborhood. After winding through a few streets, he turns into a circular driveway and stops in front of a two-story stucco with a walled patio in front.

He escorts me through the wrought-iron gates, beneath a large elm to double doors that open into a commodious entry hall. To my surprise the decor belies the exterior of the home. I assumed Elvira was a Latina and would have such tastes, but the furnishings and art are highly sophisticated.

The aromas wafting through the house invite us to the kitchen, where I fully expect to see a woman near Gibbs’s age bustling over a hot stove. Instead, a tall, curvaceous woman with jet-black hair turns away from the wall-oven to face us.

Gibbs plants a long kiss on her lips. “Miss Armington, my wife, Elvira.”

Her engaging smile reveals a row of even, white teeth. “I’m glad to meet you, Miss Armington. You’re just in time. The margaritas are in the freezer and the nachos are a minute away from perfect.”

I warm to her immediately. “Thank you for going to all this trouble on such short notice.”

“Not at all. Ray’s secretary explained the small glitch in your meeting.” She turns to check the oven. “I hope you’ll take advantage of the delay by enjoying our guest room and a good, home-cooked meal.”

The Gibbses prove to be lively conversationalists, well-versed on Valley politics as well as the latest shows in Manhattan. An unlikely connection since they are practically in Mexico.

The meal turns out better than billed. No doubt the margaritas before dinner and the fine bottle of Cabernet to complement the most delicate cabrito I’ve ever put in my mouth have something to do with it.

Blaming an attack of sciatica, Ray leaves the two of us to finish our Port. Since Elvira seems in a chatty mood, I take advantage of the opportunity to do a little sleuthing. “You two seem like newlyweds.”

She smiles. “Well, thanks. We’re going on five years. But it’s the first marriage for both.”

My guess is Ray is pushing sixty-five and, on closer inspection, Elvira could be in her early forties. Still, it’s almost a twenty-five-year gap.

She must read my mind. “Ray was my father’s law partner. Dad was the Jaynes of the partnership and Ray just left it the way it was. When I was fifteen my parents were killed in an automobile accident and, since there was no next of kin, Ray became my legal guardian. He took me into his home and shepherded me through high school and college, then saw to it I had a safe place to live in Manhattan.”

“So, that’s why you know so much about Broadway shows.” “Oh, yeah. I was going to be the Broadway star. I won some tap and jazz competitions in high school and was runner-up in the Miss Texas Contest, so I was pretty full of myself, and announced to Ray that I was going to conquer the Big Apple. He was wonderful. Never put up a peep. So off I went.”

“That’s amazing. How long were you in Manhattan?”

She laughs. “Seems like a hundred years, now, but I struck gold my first time at audition. Got a long-running chorus part in ‘Sugar Babies.’ After that, I wasn’t so lucky, but it was fun. I did a lot of road show re-runs. It was a great way to see the country.”

“And what about Ray?”

“He stayed here and practiced law, but whenever I called, he was there for me. Lord knows how many broken romances he loaned his shoulder over.” She gives me a gleaming grin. “That’s how I finally hooked him. I just kept crying on his shoulder until I got his attention.”

At that, I think of Duncan and how close we came to marrying. “Were you ever sorry you didn’t marry...?”

I pause, wondering how to put my question a little more delicately, but she beats me to the punch.

“A man closer my age? Never in a million years. Not one of those guys could hold a candle to Ray. But he sure was a slow learner. I bided my time until he finally grew up.”

“Speaking of guys...” She lowers her voice. “Ray tells me you were once involved with Paul Carpenter.”

Odd, coming from her. I search my mind to recall if Paul ever made any mention of Raymond Gibbs and come up blank. “That was a lifetime ago. His wife was my college roommate.”

“I never met his wife, but I did know Fanny Hansen. I dabbled in real estate a few years back and crossed paths with her a couple of times. She was a real bitch.”

“Do I hear past tense?” “You didn’t know?” “Know what?”

She glances toward the door her husband exited, then whispers, “Fanny disappeared the day Paul died. They think he killed her first, hid her body, then took his own life.”

I start to protest, wanting to explain that when I last saw Paul he was trussed like a pig, then think better of it.

“He used the same technique on Fanny,” she said, widening her onyx orbs and making a long slash with her index finger across her throat, “that he used on his wife... uh, your roommate.” She lowers her eyes to stare intently at her wine glass.

Elvira’s crude reference to Reena doesn’t concern me. “They” means Uvalde—Bill Cotton. I bury the question looping up from the back of my mind. “But, if they didn’t find a body...”

“I’m just telling you what I heard.”

“Pinning two unsolved murders on a dead man makes everything very neat and tidy, doesn’t it?”

Elvira’s expression flattens and I know for some reason I’ve hit a nerve when she rises abruptly, grabs my empty glass and begins to stick the last few dishes in the dishwasher. “It’s late. Guess we better turn in.”

Once I’m beneath the covers, Elvira’s words echo. They said he used the same technique on Fanny that he used on his wife.

Why would Bill make an official announcement without producing a body and then pin it on a dead man?

Why didn’t I listen to Duncan? I’m virtually helpless. No backup. No Nate’s protective shadow. My groan echoes my anguish as I curse my egotistical stupidity.

Then I remember my cell. I could call Duncan. Give him an update. A friendly voice. That’s all I need. A friendly voice.

I pull my briefcase onto the bed and search for the phone. Then I search again and groan. The cell is sitting on my kitchen counter in the charger.

Low voices rising from the patio below pull me from my panicky thoughts. I can’t quite make out the words but the timbre of one of the voices sends tingles through me. I leave the bed, noting that the digital clock reads 12:47, then kneel at the half-open window.

Gibbs says something, and when the other man replies, I sink weakly to my haunches. It’s Bill. I go hot, then cold, with conflicting emotions.

My first thought is to run downstairs and throw my arms around his neck, even though I know he’s a probable drug dealer and, after what I learned tonight, possibly a murderer. Still, he saved my life.

My mind is crammed with unanswered questions. Are Bill and Gibbs in this mess together? Is it the money? It has to be. It’s no secret that more than a few law officers have succumbed to the vast fortunes made from drug trafficking.

But Bill couldn’t have killed Fanny, my inner voice reasons. He was in the helicopter with me, making sure I got to a safe haven.

I rise to my knees and press my ear to the opening in time to hear Bill say, “Okay, okay, if that’s the way it has to be, I’ll do it. But I don’t like it, Ray. It isn’t safe.”

The crusty creak of the sliding glass door is followed by Elvira’s voice. “Ray? What on earth are you doing out here? It’s almost one o’clock. Come on back to bed, honey, you need your sleep.”

She pulls him into the house. The sliding door grinds shut and the lights go out, leaving me to wonder where Bill disappeared to so quickly. It was plain Elvira didn’t see him, or she would have greeted him.

I roll from one side to the other, unable to purchase comfort. The Gibbses know too much. Bill knows too much. And I shudder when I realize that I’ve blabbed too much.

I’m perched on the chair across the desk from Ray Gibbs, body tense with anticipation. The envelope has been retrieved from the wall safe and lies only inches from my hand.

“Coffee?” Ray asks for the second time in as many minutes. “No thanks.” I gaze toward the door. On the other side, Ray’s secretary, who was sullen and grumpy when she unlocked the office door for us at 4:00, is greeting someone.

I hear the response and shiver. When the door opens, I suppress a gasp. Though there are more lines in his face, the sheriff has never looked better.

When he sits beside me, I clasp my icy hands together to stop the trembling, and ask Gibbs through clenched teeth, “Are you telling me Sheriff Cotton is DEA?”

“I most certainly am,” Gibbs says. “Show Miss Armington your ID, Bill.”

He extracts a leather wallet-sized case from his back pocket, flips it open to reveal the badge and ID.

Knowing how easily an ID can be faked, I take the case from him. To his credit, the plastic covering the ID is discolored and worn from the impression of the badge, which bears the same wear. And too, the picture on the ID looks somewhat younger. Still...

“How do I know this isn’t a fake?” “You’re alive. Isn’t that proof enough?”

When our eyes lock to telegraph the same message sent almost a year before, I know nothing has changed between us.

Oh, God, I want to believe him. But what about his conversation with Gibbs last night? It’s possible Bill could be a double agent, but what about his cover? He’s blown it with me. Gibbs knows too. Probably Elvira.

His eyes beg. My “Yes” is barely a whisper.

Gibbs rubs his palms together, forcing us to turn his way. “Well then, let’s get this over.”

His joyful anticipation dulls when I say, “I wonder if your secretary would mind recording this? After all, if this is new evidence on the drug traffickers, we should have documentation and other witnesses since there is only one agent here.”

Gibbs shoots a questioning look in Bill’s direction. “Okay with you?”

“By all means. I should have thought of that myself.”

Gibbs bellows, “Hey, honey? Get in here and bring your pad.”

Once the woman is settled, Bill picks up the envelope by one corner. “Got a letter opener?”

The secretary runs back to her desk and returns with a commercial opener.

He slides the instrument across the top of the envelope, then carefully removes a hastily scribbled sheet by one corner. “If you don’t mind, Allie, we need to check for prints.”

I nod and squint at the dangled page. “It looks like Paul’s writing.”

I look at Gibbs’s secretary, who’s sitting with pen poised, mouth open. “For the record, I, Alice Armington, attest that these documents appear to have been written by the deceased, Paul Carpenter, and dated May third.”

She glances at her boss, who nods. “Write it exactly as Miss Armington has stated it, then read it back, please.”

After she does this, I read Paul’s letter. First to myself, then aloud.

Allie dearest:

If you are reading this, I am dead. Most probably murdered because I knew too much.

I should never have taken Reena’s Mercedes out of the garage. Whoever is in charge of the operation must have seen me and realized I knew about the setup.

They’re all in it. Fanny, Luke, even Reena. I’m positive Bill Cotton and Del are too.

This written accusation isn’t much, but it may be enough to generate some activity by the DEA. I’m counting on you to get this information to someone there. Ray Gibbs will help you. Trust him.

I always loved you and I always will.

Paul

Guilty tears burn. If only I hadn’t been so stubborn in demanding my own transportation. Why didn’t I rent? And why did Paul let me use the car Reena was supposed to have left the ranch in? It’s plain someone, maybe Reena’s murderer, saw me in her car and realized Paul was onto something.

I start at the feel of Bill’s hand on my shoulder and look up, suddenly aware that anything I say could damn me. If he and Gibbs are colluding, I now know too much and have given them every reason to put me out of the picture just like Reena, Paul, and Fanny.

He must read my mind because he says, “We wanted Paul to believe we were in on the operation. If he wrote anything else we would all be in jeopardy, can’t you see that?”

I search his face wanting to believe him and fill with hope when I see his gaze is unwavering. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“I’ll have to take the note as evidence.”

He asks Gibbs’s secretary, “Do you have a folder we can use?” Then to us he says, “I want the San Antonio lab to check this.”

When she closes the door behind her, Bill touches my arm, and pulsing heat shoots through every fiber of my being. His next words are strangely reassuring. “Paul was right about one thing. Raymond Gibbs is as honest as the day is long.”

Gibbs says, “I thank you for that vote of confidence, but you’re in this mess of alligators up to your ass and that makes you a dead man if you’re not careful.”

“Hey, Gibbs, would you mind giving us a little privacy?”

A chair scrapes and the attorney heads for the door. “If you two will excuse me?”

“How long do we have?”

“Not more than ten minutes—fifteen max. You have to be out of here before sunup and Miss Armington has to make the six o’clock flight to Houston. Otherwise, she’ll have to wait until the twelve-twenty-five and I can’t promise a safe exit for her that late in the day.”

When the door closes, neither of us moves. The tension between us is too strong to act on.

Finally, I manage, “What does Gibbs mean by safe exit?”

“It’s best no one sees you. As for me, it’s taken years to get in with the Mexicans and I can’t afford to blow my cover now.”

“You’re assignment was to infiltrate?”

“I’m the perfect candidate. Hometown boy. Not much of a past to trace.” He laughs a low laugh that sends shivers down my spine. “We’ll have lots of time to compare histories after all this is over.”

I barely hear his next words. “Nobody but Ray, his wife, and the secretary knows you’re here. You should be safe.”

“What about the evidence?”

“Don’t expect to hear anything until we break this case.”

“I heard you tell Fanny and Luke to do what they wanted with Paul.”

His concern seems genuine. “If I tried to take Carpenter, I might have blown my cover.” “But they killed him.”

“Yes. But Paul was already a goner. He had a very expensive habit and was skimming the stuff from the cartel. They’re still looking for the million plus in cocaine he stashed someplace.”

I look away as the memory of that hot spring afternoon replays and the large fertilizer-type bag Paul struggled from his saddle and into the padlocked tack room.

Bill’s voice brings me back. “The druggies were minutes behind me. That’s why I needed to get you out. If I hadn’t...”

“And Fanny?”

“I wasn’t there.”

“What about a body?”

“People disappear down here all the time. We did a routine search. Officially, she’s listed as missing.”

“Did you have my phones bugged?”

“Do you mean the DEA? No. Not us.” “Then who?”

“Probably the drug runners. I’m sure they were curious about how much you really knew. Will you promise me you’ll go back to Houston and let us handle this? Just keep a low profile and don’t talk about what went down. They are watching you. The bugs prove that.”

I’ve never wanted to believe somebody so much, but somewhere at the side of my mind lurks a nasty niggle of distrust.

“It shouldn’t be too much longer, I promise,” he says. “The minute I’m out of this, you’ll know it.”

“Do you know how to contact me?”

He grins. “I know more about you than you can ever imagine.”

It’s then I realize he isn’t going to make a move. So, I stand and say the only thing I can without betraying my feelings. “Please, be careful.”

He doesn’t answer, instead he turns and leaves without looking back.

“Ready?” Ray Gibbs stands in the doorway.

I nod and re-pack my briefcase. “I guess there’s nothing else for me to do here.”

He ushers me past the dozing secretary, then down the hall to the elevator. “I’m sorry I can’t take you to the airport myself, but I have a client. There’s a cab waiting for you in the parking lot.”

Chapter 27

THE FIRST RAYS OF LIGHT stab the horizon as I enter the waiting cab. It is still too dark to make out the cabbie other than he’s a male, but the Mexican music blaring on his radio gives me a lead and I take a crack at Spanish. “Aeropuerto, por favor.”

A muted, “Sí” precedes the rev of the motor and we pull out of the parking lot into the deserted street.

I barely notice where we’re going, still daunted and breathless from my meeting with the sheriff. Then, too, the streets that were jammed the previous afternoon are now empty and look quite different in the approaching dawn.

I check my watch, 5:30, plenty of time to make the 6:10 flight. I lean back and close my aching eyes, hoping to catch a few winks before we get to the airport.

The cab swerves, then shudders to a screeching stop, pitching me out of my doze. I fully expect to see the Continental Baggage Check-in. Instead, the muzzle of a nine-millimeter pistol is balanced on the lowered window in front of Luke Hansen’s ugly face.

“Remember me, sweetheart?”

The response I will make means life or death, but for some reason I am strangely calm as I take in the situation.

The road is clear in front of us. A second man has a pistol pointed at the driver’s head. Did the cabbie, unaware we were being followed, opt for a shortcut to the airport? At least that’s what I hope. If he’s part of it, it’s all over anyway.

I zero in on Hansen’s forehead. “How dare you stop an officer of the court. Do you have a warrant?”

The puzzled look on his face is the payoff. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life. Step on it, driver.”

Luke’s gun doesn’t waver. “Hey, hombre, turn off the fucking motor or you’re dead meat. And can that goddamn music.”

The driver shrugs and the engine dies, but the music booms until Luke’s bullets drill the dashboard into silence.

My door opens and Hansen gives an exaggerated bow and a flourish. “Step this way, ma’am.”

Since Hansen is being annoyingly polite, I give him a rather haughty, “No thanks. I prefer to stay just where I am.”

He looks at his accomplice. “Come here and watch the bitch while I demonstrate what Miss High ’n’ Mighty will get if she doesn’t step out of the cab.”

The man moves my way, gun still trained on the driver. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Shut the fuck up and do as I say.” Luke waits until the man has his weapon aimed at me.

When Luke moves to the driver’s side and raises his pistol, I lunge forward hoping somehow to protect the innocent.

Too late. A deafening report fills the car and the driver jerks to the right as a fine spray of red splatters across the windshield.

I scream, covering my face to escape the burning consequence of my misguided reaction.

The sting of Hansen’s hand on my cheek brings me up short. His next words start low, but by the time he’s through, he’s shouting. “If I had my way, bitch, I’d pull you into that thicket over there and show you what a real man can do, then get rid of you once and for all. But I got orders I have to follow. Now get your goddamn ass out of the fucking cab.”

He grabs my briefcase and yanks me to him. When I struggle he smiles. The stench of whiskey almost makes me gag as he whispers, “Keep it up, bitch, that really turns me on.”

“Hey.” The other man calls out. “Hold off on that stuff. We got things to do here.”

Luke whirls to face him. “Listen, asshole, I’m running this show. Get it?”

“Okay, okay, but you better tell me what to do with the body.” “Do I have to tell you everything, asshole? Put-the-fucking-body-in-the-trunk-and-pull-the-fucking-car-over-there-behind-those-fucking-mesquites. Get it, fuck-head?”

Luke pushes me toward his Bronco as the cab swerves off the road, bumps across the ditch, and disappears into a low stand of mesquite trees. Minutes later the man emerges and trots toward us.

I manage to stammer, “Where are you taking me?”

He shoves me and my briefcase into the back seat, slams the door, then slides behind the steering wheel as his cohort enters the other door.

“None of your fucking business, bitch. Just keep your trap shut.”

With that, our exit covers the murder scene in a pall of roiling dust.

The numbing scene replays again and again as I stare hopelessly into the endless brown landscape that characterizes that part of South Texas. One gravel road turns onto another and it soon becomes plain Luke is avoiding the main arteries. To make matters worse, the skies have grayed, and I have no way to tell if we are going north, south, east, or west.

Any prospect of rescue or escape dies when we come to the first gate and the sidekick hops out, picks through the ten or twelve locks, and rolls through a combination.

When the gate swings open, my throat constricts. No one will find me now. Duncan knows I’m in Laredo, but what does he care? Bill and the Gibbses? How do I know this isn’t part of their plan?

Fighting back tears, I try to gather some semblance of order, but my head is throbbing too much to form a decent thought. I take several deep breaths in a small attempt to relax, but my muscles, crabbed with fear, refuse to give up their spasm. Escape. Escape. There is only one escape.

I pull my briefcase onto the seat to use as a rough pillow, hoping sleep will provide some sort of temporary release from the sure doom that lies ahead. None comes. Staring at the ceiling is all the relief I’m afforded.

The braking car throws me almost to the floor. I struggle to regain my balance and see Luke leaning over the front seat, his face so close to mine, I have to turn away to avoid his fetid breath. “Better get up. Seeing you laying down is mighty tempting.”

I suppress a shudder and sit up. We’re in front of a melting adobe building with a rusty tin roof topped by a crazily bent pipe belching smoke. This misbegotten wreck is surrounded by pickups and a few broken-down cars. To the right of the entrance, a crudely lettered sign, hanging by one end, says, “Pulquería.”

I check my watch. Two-thirty. “Where are we?”

“It don’t matter where we are. I’m ready to eat. Best migas in the Valley.”

Valley? Are we heading toward the Gulf or away? “Migas? What’s that?”

“Scrambled eggs and tired tortillas,” Luke says. “Add salsa and it’s the best.”

My captor seems in better spirits so I try a timid, “If you don’t mind, I could use a cup of coffee and a restroom.”

“That can be arranged. Just don’t do anything dumb or I’ll shoot you on the spot.” He grins and chucks me under the chin. “If you think I won’t, remember what happened to Señor Stupido back there.”

He opens the glove compartment and pulls out a Beretta Tomcat. Mine.

“Recognize this?” Luke palms it and shoves it in his pocket. “Nice little piece of insurance for close-range action.”

The café is dark and smoky, but I realize I’ve waded into a sea of testosterone.

We slide through the crowd to an empty booth at the back, where Luke manhandles me into the corner of one side and squeezes in beside me. “If you got to take a leak, you’ll have to use the only head in the joint.”

I see “Caballeros,” no “Damas.”

Luke leers. “Don’t be afraid, girlie. Ol’ Luke’ll come with you.”

I turn away, no longer brave enough for a confrontation. “I’d rather go alone.”

Luke jams into my ribs. “Then, wet your pants, bitch.”

His accomplice gives an exasperated sigh. “Give it a rest, Luke. If she has to pee, let her go by herself.”

My Beretta is out of Luke’s pocket and in the man’s face. “What did you say, asshole?”

“Asshole” jerks back, then gives a dejected, “Whatever.”

The exchange is blunted by the arrival of a Latino wearing a soiled waist apron wrapped over a tattered shirt and worn jeans. He speaks border dialect, but I pick up the gist. No women allowed.

Luke pulls out his wallet and flips it open. “Official, comprende?”

The man looks me over, then motions Luke to follow.

When the two disappear through the swinging door leading to the kitchen, Luke’s minion points toward the restroom. “Hurry. I’ll stand outside.”

To my relief, the stench-filled latrine is empty and we are back at the table several minutes before Luke emerges.

Once he settles, he gives his buddy a triumphant grin. “All I had to do was drop the name.” He gives me a swift look, then rises. “I’d better let them know we made a successful pickup. I gave Rosario the order, so eat up when the food gets here. I can eat in the car while you drive.”

When three orders of scrambled eggs arrive accompanied by what looks like a steaming bowl of chili, Luke’s accomplice urges with his fork. “Dig in. We don’t have long.”

“Do you mind if I ask your name?” “Jed... just Jed, okay?”

“I’m Allie.”

“I know who you are.”

We concentrate on the eggs, which are delicious. I take a little of the sauce, which adds a pleasant tang to the mixture. “Mmmm. Good. What did he call this?”

“Migas. It’s a local dish.” He takes a quick survey of the room, then says, “Look, Miss... Allie, I wouldn’t give Luke any more lip. He has a real short fuse.” He pauses to scan the room, then says, “I don’t know if I can control him much longer.”

“I promise to behave. I just don’t want...”

“Want what, bitch? A little of this?” Luke slides in beside me, using my thigh as leverage, then his fingers begin to move slowly upward.

I gasp and Jed looks up from his half-empty plate. “We’re running way behind schedule. Better get a take-out container.”

Luke’s hand jerks away and goes for his pocket. “I don’t need no advice from you.”

My Beretta is in Jed’s face once again and this time Luke’s finger is on the trigger as danger crowds his voice. “I told you not to push me. Asshole.”

Sudden silence freeze-frames the other customers. Forks poise and cups pause halfway to their mouths.

Jed raises his hand. “I was just worried about the crossing schedule, that’s all.” He gives a knowing chuckle. “You’re calling the shots. I know that sure as I’m sitting here.”

Luke’s trigger finger relaxes. “Pay attention to what I say.” He turns to me. “You too, bitch.”

He grips the handle, then presses the weapon into Jed’s chest. “Next time you get one-fucking-inch out of line, you’re dead.”

For the next few hours the Bronco follows a gravel road fenced on each side. Now and then, a gate blocks worn tire ruts that fade in the scrub, but there’s not a house or even a shack in sight.

Luke’s, “Blindfold her,” jerks me back to reality as Jed slides over the back of his seat and motions me to turn.

I allow him to cover my eyes with the red cotton bandanna. And though he ties it loosely, I’m rendered helpless and afraid. The squeeze at the base of my throat begs for tears, but I’m too depressed to cry.

Without warning a hand grabs my arm followed by a needle stick and a brief sting.

Jed’s protest explodes above me. “What in hell are you doing? He didn’t tell you to drug her.”

The last thing I hear is Luke’s muzzy, “Relax. This is just a little insurance.”

Chapter 28

I’M NOT SURE IF MINUTES or hours pass when there is a tremendous thud and I slam to the floor.

“Holy Jesus, Luke, you almost did it then.” Jed screams.

Luke’s voice is shaking, “Sonovabitch, I never saw the damn thing.”

His door opens and I hear his feet hit the ground. “Shit. Looks like the damn wheel’s busted.”

The blindfold drops from my face but it is difficult for me to focus. My mouth is parched and my head hurts. Then I remember the stick in my arm, lift my sleeve, and gasp. An angry spot in the middle of my upper arm trails the brownish maroon of dried blood.

I struggle to the seat to see the windshield smeared with blood. To the right of the Bronco lies the brutalized carcass of a deer.

“What happened?”

Jed starts at the sound of my voice, then turns. “You all right? You’ve been out for almost two hours. That damn fool gave you the whole c.c. I was afraid he’d done you in for good.”

His concern is touching and I rush to reassure. “I think I’m okay. Just a small headache and blurry vision. We hit a deer?”

“More like it hit us. It’s a damn ten-point buck. All tore up. No hope to salvage any meat outta him.”

Luke rises from his crouch at the left front fender. “Quit yapping with Sleeping Beauty and make yourself useful, asshole.”

Jed opens his door, and trudges around the bloody hood to join his leader.

After they confer in muted tones, Luke’s voice raises. “I don’t give a flying fuck what he said, we need help. We should be in range by now, so go-get-the-goddam-walkie-talkie.”

“Okay, okay, but don’t blame me if shit hits the fan.” Jed edges past the deer to the still-open passenger door, reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a narrow black handset. “Bronc to Base. Come in. Bronc to Base.”

The roar of static is the only response. “Nothing,” Jed says. “I told you we weren’t close enough. This only has a two-mile range.”

“I thought he said this was state-of-the-art.”

“It is. Too bad we don’t have cell service down here.”

“Who the hell would use it? Nothing down here but a bunch of fucking vaqueros tending their fucking cattle.”

Down here? Did we cross into Mexico while I was out? Not hard to do. In some places, the Rio Grande can be easily forded in a vehicle like this. Was that the reason for the blindfold and the shot?

Soured migas rise to my throat as raw truth grabs my senses. I am going to die. If not here in the middle of this lonely wasteland, then at the mercy of some nameless devil waiting at the end of the line.

Luke grabs the walkie-talkie. This time the static is broken by some sort of whining signal. He smiles. “Hear that, asshole? That tone means we ain’t too far outta range.”

He jams the instrument into Jed’s hand and points him down the road. “Now, get going, and don’t stop until you’ve made contact.”

Adrenaline surges through my body. I’m in a weakened state and without Jed’s protection I’ll be at Luke’s mercy. Being alone with him is too horrible to contemplate without becoming violently ill. I make a decision. Better off dead than writhing in agony beneath Luke Hansen. I will run until he guns me down.

Jed pitches the walkie-talkie back to his astonished boss. “No way. I’m not going to be the one to break contact. Go ahead. Shoot me. Anything’s better than facing him if I break silence.”

I face my new savior, who has put his life on the line for me in a boldly daring move. I send up a quick prayer that his ploy will work.

Luke looks at the walkie-talkie, then back at Jed. I can almost see the wheels grinding. If it weren’t such a desperate situation, the scene would be hilarious. The man is caught. If he shoots Jed, he has no dog to kick. If he goes and Jed stays, Luke relinquishes a big hunk of his pathetic self-importance.

He hooks the walkie-talkie to his belt. “You’re nothing but a yellow-bellied coward and I’m fucking ashamed we’re kin.”

He points to me. “I better find her just like I left her, asshole. Get that kerchief off her neck. She don’t need it no more.”

After Luke disappears over a rise in the road, Jed takes the bandanna from me and opens the tailgate of the Bronco. “You must be thirsty. Want a beer?”

I scramble out of the back seat, cherishing the feel of solid ground beneath my feet. “I’d love one. Thanks for what you did. It was very brave.”

He hands me an open longneck. “I hate that fucking bastard.” The cool, bitter fizz is nectar to my parched throat and I down almost half the bottle before I say, “Did I hear Luke call you kin?”

“Cousin. His dad was my mother’s brother.” “And he bullied you into this mess?”

Jed stares at me for a minute, then flashes me a quirky grin. “I guess you could say that.”

His open face and crooked smile seem somehow reassuring. For the first time since I was yanked from the cab, a small push of hope nudges the desolation that fills my soul.

He tosses his empty in the back, then hops on the tailgate to peer in the direction Luke disappeared. When he jumps down, he says, “I think I’ll head out to meet Luke and give you a little privacy.”

“Thanks. I promise not to run.”

He laughs and waves his arms at the barren landscape. “There is no place to run.”

I watch Jed shrink with the distance, then look around. He’s right, nothing but the usual panorama of cactus and mesquite. And something else is missing. There are no telephone poles. We have left civilization as I know it.

Half an hour later, I hear the swearing before the two men, silhouetted in the dwindling light, appear.

During Jed’s absence, the sky has darkened from a rapidly advancing late April “norther,” heralded by pale flashes of lightening echoed by muffled thunder. When the first heavy drops raise tiny puffs of dust, I slide into the back seat and close the door. Seconds later the two men throw open the front doors and slam their sweat-soaked bodies into the front seat.

“Just made it, no thanks to you, asshole.” Luke leans across his cousin to stash the walkie-talkie in the glove compartment before turning to me. “They’re sending help. So shut up and sit tight.” Those are the last words I hear. For endless minutes the pounding rain drowns all sound as winds savagely buffet the car. Lightening strikes too often and too close for comfort followed by exploding thunder.

I see Luke’s mouth move and read his lips. No prayers there. Jed huddles in his seat, body jerking at every bright strobe and crash.

For some reason the fury of the storm gives me a beginning sense of strength. Perhaps Jed’s earlier kindness planted that small seed of hope, but it’s there and I intend to nourish it.

The front passes as quickly as it arrived, followed by a clear, inky sky. We all seem to sigh at the same time and when Luke rolls down his window, goose bumps raise. My short-sleeved linen pantsuit is no protection against the sudden twenty-degree drop. “Damn it’s dark.” Luke switches on the headlights. “Where the hell is that goddam truck?” He fiddles with the keys, then lets loose a string of pungent swear words. “This is the most dumb-assed thing I’ve ever done. Kidnap a fucking dame. Why he wants her down here is beyond me. She’s liable to screw up the whole damned operation.”

Kidnap? It takes a few seconds for the word to take on meaning, then my stomach curdles. I recall Gibbs’s mentioning a safe exit, then conclude “he” must be head of the cartel.

If this is so, I’m a goner. What possible use would they have for me other than to get me out of the picture? There must be something they think I know—something they don’t want me to tell the Feds.

“Maybe nothing’s wrong with the wheel,” Jed says. “I said it was broken, asshole, didn’t you hear me?”

“But who knows when the truck’ll be here. What do we have to lose?”

“Our asses, that’s all. But, what the hell.” Luke turns the key and the engine comes to life.

He eases the gear out of “park” and metal groans as the car lurches a few inches forward, raises crazily, then drops as the wheel begins its rotation.

“Hot damn,” Luke shouts. “I think we’re in business.”

We slowly bump and thump along until there is a sharp crack and the vehicle drops precipitously to the left.

“It’s Fucking-A over.” Luke turns and lands a heavy blow on Jed’s chest. “You and your dumb-ass ideas. We’ve had it now.” As if on cue, headlights crest the hill and jiggle toward us.

By the time the truck arrives, I have retrieved my briefcase and Luke and Jed have pulled several cardboard boxes and the cooler from the rear of the Bronco.

Luke jumps on the running board and peers into the darkened cab. “It’s about time.”

A muffled but somehow familiar “Sorry, Señor Luke” gets my attention.

I strain to catch a glimpse of the driver, but the man notices my stare and pulls the brim of his Stetson low on his brow.

Luke steers me toward the back of the large canvas-covered truck where the tailgate hangs open. I scramble upward but not fast enough to avoid his attempt to explore my derriere. That gives me the impetus to make one last pull and I skitter away to sit on one of the side benches, followed by Jed, who sits on the bench across from me.

After securing the tailgate, Luke pounds on the back of the cab, then slumps into me. When I try to inch away, he circles my neck with his arm. “Too bad we don’t have a longer trip. If I had time, I could make you real happy.”

I break his hold and slide the length of the bench to the rear of the truck with every intention of jumping over the tailgate if he pursues.

The rattle and flap of the canvas fails to obscure a struggle followed by silence and I realize Jed has come to my rescue once more.

I stare into the dust-filled night unable to decide whether throwing myself over the back of the rumbling truck and taking my chances in the dark would be better than meeting “him.”

The truck squeaks to a stop and a gate creaks. We edge over a cattle guard, then wait until the gate swings shut. Endless minutes pass before the truck finally stops in front of a dimly lit porch and the aroma of food embraces my senses. Despite my fear, I’m ravenous.

The tailgate flops down.

“It’s about time.” Luke stomps past me to jump and land heavily on the ground below. He speaks to someone I can’t see. “I want my pay first thing in the morning. Hear?”

There’s some low conversation, then he disappears, footsteps fading in the distance.

I sit shivering, partly from the cold, but mostly from the ice in the pit of my stomach. I’m too frightened to cry, too panicked to pray. Deep in my gut, I know it’s over.

Finally, a man says, “Give Miss Armington a hand, will you, Jed?”

That voice. I know that voice.

Chapter 29

PAUL CARPENTER, even more emaciated than I remember, steps out of the shadows to stand before me.

Tears of relief and joy come as I fall from the tailgate of the truck into his embrace. He hugs me hard against his trembling chest, then whispers my name before his lips meet mine.

Stunned by the sharp mountains of his spine beneath my hands, I step away and stutter, “It’s a miracle, but how?”

“Smoke and mirrors? Magic? Take your pick.”

My initial joy at seeing Paul alive dissolves to anger, then fear. “You did this? Had me kidnapped? Blindfolded? Drugged?”

The smile on his face sets as he steers me toward the open door. “Now, now, Allie. It wasn’t as bad as all that, was it? I’ll explain everything over cocktails since I’m sure you’ll want to freshen up.”

I stare at Paul as the day replays. The strained meeting with Bill Cotton in Gibbs’s office. Luke Hansen’s ugly face behind a gun pointing in my face. His bestial dispatch of the cab driver. His verbal abuse of Jed and myself. And now, Paul’s seemingly cavalier attitude.

When we enter the hall, I gasp. Except for the missing staircase, it is the exact replica of the entryway at Anacacho. I turn to see Adelena, standing in the opening of a wide corridor to the right. Not the serene Adelena I remember, instead, a shadow of her former self with wringing hands and anguish crowding her face.

Paul must read my shock. “Adelena hasn’t been well, but she’s on the mend. Aren’t you, Adelena?” His question seems more a command.

I glance down at my wrinkled linen. “I’ll need a miracle to resurrect this.”

“Oh, we’ll remedy that. Adelena has dredged up a few things for you.”

Adelena nods a little too vigorously. “Sí, Jefe. This way, Señorita.”

I follow her down the hall that ends at double doors much like the ones that delineated the master suite at Anacacho. When she stops at the third door on the left and motions for me to enter, I know before I see the room, it will be exactly like the room I once occupied.

“Shall I draw a bath?” Adelena is already at the bathroom door when she asks.

“Please don’t bother. A shower will be fine.”

She turns and we practically collide. When I see her fear, I take her by the shoulders and whisper, “What is it? What’s the matter?” Adelena stiffens, then steps away shaking her head, quickly scanning the room. She puts her finger to her lips, then says brightly, “You will find a fresh change of clothing in your closet, Señorita. Please don’t keep Jefe waiting. He has been most anxious to see you.”

The door to my room closes and I’m left alone with a million questions.

Paul is “Jefe”? But that can’t be. The last time I saw Paul he was gagged and bound with ropes and I will never forget the terror on his face.

Hoping that a shower will wash away some of my confusion, I turn the knob and enter the closet to undress. Though the light from the bathroom is not that bright, I see several pairs of slacks and some blouses hanging in front of me. I step closer to examine them, then lurch away.

My clothes. Though it seems like years, I’ve only been away from Houston a little over twenty-four hours. Somehow someone slipped through lobby security and gained entry to my apartment.

I look down. My shoes. Two pair of flats and a pair of Nikes. I ease open a drawer in the chest. Bras, panties, and pajama tops—all mine.

Then I see the faint outline of the door leading to the master suite. It’s the same setup as Anacacho, no handle or lock on my side. Paul is free to come and go as he pleases.

After hanging up my pantsuit, with trembling fingers I remove my underwear. As the last piece of my clothing drops to the floor, my body is quaking so I have to clasp my arms tight about me to stop quivering.

I’m too exhausted to think straight. I don’t even know where I am other than miles from the rest of the world. Somewhere south of the border. Without a passport.

Then I remember Adelena’s admonition to hurry. Paul is waiting.

The living room is dark except for a crackling fire that flickers on Reena’s collection of paintings above the antique Spanish table. The room is an exact replica of the living room at Anacacho down to the turquoise-studded cigarette box on the mantle. I shudder, remembering my run through the empty ranch house, then shudder again at what this means.

“Allie.” Paul rises from the sofa and comes to meet me, arms open, a broad smile on his face. “Welcome to Anacachito. Not as grand as my childhood home, but what I have here is just as good.”

“I see you have Reena’s paintings.”

“Oh, yes. They were a vital part of the move.” My eyes question his.

“I believe I told you they were being cleaned and re-appraised.” He gives a knowing smirk. “Not quite the truth. Several million from the street sale of a coke stash were sealed beneath the back papers of those paintings. One of my major coups.”

He tries to draw me close and I slide free. “It’s been a very long day. I sure could use a drink.”

If I’ve offended him, Paul doesn’t show it. Instead he ushers me to the couch. “What’s your pleasure?”

“Scotch, on the rocks, please.”

Miguel steps into view. “Sí, Señorita.”

He disappears as Paul takes his place next to me and covers my hand with his. “I’ve been waiting for this since I last saw you and now that it’s here...” He bends forward to plant a kiss just as Miguel appears with the Scotch.

After a long sip of my drink, I ask, “What happened that day, Paul?”

He studies me for a moment, then says, “It’s a long and complicated story. One that needs to be told in the proper sequence so you’ll understand the ‘why’ of everything.” He smiles as he combs my body from head to toe. “How lovely you look in the firelight.” Follow his lead, my inner voice says. Savor his seeming adoration and enjoy the Scotch.

Miguel announces dinner and Paul offers his hand and turns me toward the dining room. No surprise there. The Navajo rug and the long refectory table sit beneath the same wrought-iron chandelier that filled the dining room at Anacacho with a golden glow.

Once Paul has seated me to his right and poured a fine Chardonnay, he raises his glass. “To my dream of dreams. You’re here at last.”

The kitchen door swings open and Miguel appears with the first course.

I dip into clear broth floating with shredded chicken, tomato and lime slices, then give a satisfied sigh. Adelena’s agitation has not affected her culinary talent.

Paul nods his approval of my gusto. “You see why it was absolutely necessary to bring Miguel and Adelena, don’t you?”

He’s given me an entry and I take it. “That was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. To duplicate my life at the Anacacho as closely as I could. This house and the stables took more than a year to build.”

“What happened to Anacacho?”

Miguel’s entrance to remove the empty bowls puts an untimely end to my first probe. He quickly returns to place a beautifully garnished platter before his master.

Disregarding my question, Paul beams. “You’re in for a treat. Grilled marinated pork loin.”

Miguel nods and disappears, leaving Paul to carve, then serve both gilded plates with the meat topped by a roasted corn and poblano chile relish.

After filling a second wine glass with Merlot, he raises his again. “To you, to me, to us. We’re going to have a perfect life.” We finish the meal in silence. Though there’s some tension in the air, I don’t feel the need for small talk. I have more important questions to think about.

Paul’s revelation that this second ranch took over a year to build means construction must have begun months before Reena asked me to the Anacacho. But it must have taken longer than that for Paul to secure the property and have plans drawn.

Paul’s hand covering mine startles me from my thoughts. “Adelena made piñon flan with caramel sauce especially in your honor. Do you have room?”

The look is tender, the voice solicitous, and for one small instant, Paul becomes the man I once loved so much.

I reach for my glass of Merlot and take a sip to steady myself. “How sweet of Adelena to remember.”

The creamy flan slips down my throat and I relish the heaviness of the caramel and the pop of piñon nuts against my tongue. I must betray my pleasure because Paul laughs that deep, low laugh I used to adore.

“After watching you eat all that food, I’m afraid you’ll founder.”

I laugh for the first time in what seems like a decade. “Only horses and cows founder. Goodness, do I look that bad?”

Paul rises to stand by my chair, brushes the top of my head with his lips, and whispers, “To the contrary, you’ve never looked better.”

When the first pale offerings of dawn paint my room in deep gray tones, I come to and sit bolt upright. The desperation and depression I left behind during the long night catch up and shove me to the edge of panic.

I have made it through the night untouched. I grab the bottle of water from the nightstand and guzzle what’s left. At that, some semblance of rationality returns and I head for the closet.

Before retiring I placed the vanity stool in such a way that if Paul came through the door he would run into it. If he tried to breach my flimsy fortification, there’s no sign. Still, the fact that he easily could have is very disturbing.

Paul is already at the dining table and rises to greet me. “Did you sleep well?”

I nod. In truth, I sat propped against the headboard, watching both doors until first light.

I settle next to him as Adelena appears with coffee and for one brief instant the moment is déjà vu until I notice the hand that pours is trembling.

When I look into her tears, she gives a slight “no” shake, then asks my pleasure. I order huevos rancheros and she disappears through the swinging door, leaving me with my captor.

Paul beams and pronounces, “I can’t wait to show you around. Of course there’s still much to be done. Miguel and Adelena are temporarily housed behind the kitchen in what will become storage and a utility room. But I suspect they’ll be starting a family soon and will need a house of their own.”

I lower my hands to my lap so he can’t see them tremble and put on a look of pained disappointment. “I’ll have to take the tour some other time. I’m booked out of Houston to New York this afternoon.”

His smile dies. “New York this afternoon? That won’t be possible.”

The huevos arrive, more coffee is poured, and Adelena vanishes.

The tone of his voice is unbearably solicitous. “I didn’t know you had a trip scheduled.”

Didn’t know? Was someone feeding him information? The Gibbses? Bill? I stanch my rising panic, hoping my anxiety doesn’t show and my voice won’t quaver.

“My first deposition is at ten tomorrow.” Before he has a chance to speak I hurry on. “But that’s no problem. I can make the early afternoon Continental out of Laredo and still have ample time to make any one of several evening flights from Intercontinental.”

He shakes his head. “Sorry. Perkins, Travis will have to send someone to New York in your place. It will be an inconvenience, but most law firms are quick to recover from the loss of a partner.” Perkins, Travis? He knows the name of my firm. Were the bugs Paul’s? Anger overrides my anxiety. “I’m not a partner—yet—and I won’t be if I don’t make that flight.”

“I was hoping this wouldn’t be so difficult for you. That you would realize...”

“That I’m your prisoner?”

He smiles through cold eyes. “I would hardly call ‘wife,’ ‘prisoner.’”

Wife? The man is demented.

Careful. Careful. I’m not sure where the warning comes from but I’m grateful some part of my confused brain is still operational.

Fingernails dig into palms. Immediate escape is out of the question. My only choice is to play along. For now.

Words form, then reform, until what finally comes is a muted, “Oh, Paul. I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say except ‘I do.’” His voice is warm, but he warily probes my face. “I remember your saying that I needed to get things straightened out before we could be together. Well, now they’re all straightened out.”

“By that do you mean Reena’s death?”

“I didn’t kill Reena. You have to believe that.” “But you know who did?”

“Does it matter? What’s done is done.” “And Fanny?”

“She means nothing to me. Never did. Yeah, we fooled around, but it was mostly a business proposition.”

I remember the ring on her finger and the way she acted. Some business. But he said “means.” Use of the present tense startles. “I thought Fanny was killed.”

“As far as the police are concerned, she was.” He chuckles. “Fanny is one of the most upwardly mobile women I’ve ever met. She not only found this property and helped me build, she arranged for my ‘escape.’”

I look away, too stunned to speak. Paul has covered all his bases. Reena’s death, Fanny’s disappearance. Yes, it seems he has everything figured out—except for my feelings. But it’s obvious my feelings don’t matter.

He rises and places a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I’ll get the horses. Adelena has managed to scrounge some jeans and boots for you as well as a warm jacket. It was forty-five this morning.”

As his footsteps fade, I stare into my half-filled plate, my appetite crushed beneath the growing stone in my stomach.

Paul’s wife? A few years before—something I desperately wanted. Now—a life sentence.

The door swishes and I feel Adelena at my side. She touches my arm, then motions me to follow her through the exact duplicate of the kitchen at Anacacho into the pantry.

After shutting the door, she turns to whisper, “I heard everything, Señorita. What will you do?”

“Do you know where we are?”

Adelena shrugs. “Quien sabe. We were herded like cattle into that—that—” She makes the circular motion of a helicopter rotor and whirring sound. “I couldn’t see out, but we flew forever.”

“Then, we are in Mexico.”

“Señor Carpenter—Jefe—he—he’s muy loco. We hate it here.”

“Who is we?”

“Miguel and myself. Some of the hands.” She crosses herself and mumbles some benediction beneath her breath.

“What about your children?”

Adelena lowers her head. “The good Lord did not bless Miguel and me before we were spirited away. And now—there seems no good reason to bring a child into—this.

“Can you help us, Señorita? We must get home to our families. Miguel’s mother was very ill when we left. Perhaps Jefe will listen to you.”

“I don’t have much hope for that. I was kidnapped yesterday morning on the way to the Laredo airport.”

“But we were told of your arrival several days ago. Jefe was so pleased your clothes came before you did.”

My pulse picks up a beat. “And just how did they get here?”

“A little yellow plane brings in supplies and fresh food every day. They came on that.”

A little plane? Is there a way out of this hell after all? “How many people are on the ranch?”

She thinks a minute. “Jefe, of course. Señor Luke, his cousin Señor Jed, and maybe three hands. They run the ranch. Miguel and me. Eight of us. Now, nine, counting you.”

“No other personnel? Like the pilot?” “That’s Señor Jed.”

I allow myself a small taste of hope. “Any others?”

“Though I am not allowed to go to the barns, I have often seen many men down there. None come to the house.”

“What a dreadful existence for you. I suppose you have to do all the cleaning and cooking for everybody?”

“I work only for Jefe. I don’t know who takes care of those other men. Thank heavens the house is big. If I didn’t have all this to do, I would go insane. The days here are very long.”

Outside steps freeze. Then we hear Miguel’s voice. “Lena?”

She cracks the door, peeks out. When Miguel sees me, fear fills his face. “Ándele, ándele. Jefe’s coming from the barns with the horses. He’ll expect the Señorita to be ready.”

Chapter 30

I STEP INTO THE EARLY MORNING chill to see Paul, eyes pinpoint bright, nostrils inflamed, standing between his roan, Chief, and the mare I rode into the Anacacho Mountains over a year before.

I try to ignore the obvious signs of his addiction by hugging the mare’s neck and greeting her by her name. “Hey, Sugar, remember me?” I warm at her whinny of recognition.

Paul laughs. “And they say only elephants never forget.” He helps me into the saddle, then mounts Chief.

“This way.” He points to a trail leading away from the house into an endless expanse of tumbleweeds and mesquite.

We ride in silence for almost a mile while my mind ferrets through the past twenty-four hours: the abduction—the shocking reappearance of a man I thought dead. Paul’s intentions seem clear, but addicts can change with the wind. What if I displease him? What if all this craziness is just a charade?

The monotone landscape and gentle motion of the horse beneath me soothe my frazzled nerves and give me courage to say, “You’ve been involved with this business for some time, haven’t you?”

“Going on five years.”

“That long ago?”

Paul smiles that irresistible smile of his. “If you’re counting years, my first brush with this ‘business’ came when I was at UT. My roommate’s father was a Mexican drug baron dealing in marijuana and heroin. After the DEA shut down the Colombians’ cocaine highway through Florida, the cartel approached Ramón’s dad.”

“So, you called this guy up and said you’d like to play?”

“Not exactly. Ramón and I stayed in touch after we graduated. He often hunted with me on the Anacacho. I knew what his business was, but we never discussed it. Actually, I have to thank Reena for opening that can of worms. She told Ramón she wanted to try some coke and the next time he came, he brought a kilo. Said it was a ‘thank you’ for the weekend. I’m sure it was for a lot more than that, but then, we know what Reena was.”

I ignore Paul’s slam. “And you got hooked?”

“I’m in control.” We ride on a bit before he adds, “I plan to wean myself as soon as we settle down to some sort of normalcy. I want to be a good husband to you and a good father to our children.”

I’m sure he means this, but hooked is hooked and it’s doubtful that a trafficking operation could be called normal. Besides, he has easy access to the stuff. The substance isn’t as bad on organs as heroin, but cocaine abuse is just as deadly. And if there’s any validity to the drug dealer’s mantra, “Never get high on your own supply,” I’d wager Paul’s business is in trouble.

Because of Chief ’s longer stride, Sugar has fallen behind and Paul slows the horse so I can catch up.

When I come alongside Paul, our two shadows stretch across the desolate landscape, outlined by the quickly rising sun. He takes a deep breath of the crisp morning air. “Smell the mesquite?”

I breathe in but the aroma eludes me.

When I don’t answer, he urges Chief forward and continues. “I saw the oil property slipping away and knew I would need another source of income. But I never considered trafficking until Ramón and his brother came to me with a proposal I couldn’t refuse.”

“And what was that?”

“A big percentage of the take to establish the business in the US, transfer the production down here, then use the airstrip at Anacacho to receive the goods. It’s a very clean operation. Ramón’s family is better than most.”

Paul’s description sounds like ad copy. I wonder if that’s how he’s justified the “business” to himself. And I’m amazed he’s being so up front with me. Though cokeheads tend to ramble, he’s giving out much too much information. Still, I’ve never passed up an opportunity—why start now?

“You never told me what happened to the ranch. For all intents and purposes, you’re dead.”

He laughs. “Ever the lawyer, aren’t you? Gibbs sold the ranch and the jet to pay off debts. A Laredo man bought the airstrip.”

“What a deal.”

“Ramón set everything up. And after we cut the deal, he sent me the best people in his organization—Fanny and Luke Hansen.”

My mouth drops. “Gibbs sold the airstrip to Luke Hansen? He’s the most disgusting human being I’ve ever met.”

Paul’s guffaw fills the air. “Hey, tell me how you really feel.”

I long to go into Luke’s abuses on the trip across the flat and barren countryside, but fear reprisal if I do.

“Luke is a mite rough around the edges, but he cleans up pretty good when he has to. Despite what you might think, he comes from a nice Valley family. Went to TMI with Ramón and then attended A&M for a while.”

“Does Gibbs know who Luke Hansen is?”

“Of course not. Ray Gibbs is the most honorable man I know.”

At that I try to check Paul’s expression but he’s too far ahead of me. His quick response sounds much too pat. Then Paul’s letter comes to mind and the ending. Ray Gibbs will help you. Trust him.

Ray could be an unwitting front for Paul’s scheme, but his words echo. Just be patient and I’m sure everything will turn out just fine. Though his words were reassuring, the look on his face betrayed them.

I remember that dreadful moment before I was hit from behind. “You were tied and gagged. Was that part of your plan?” “We needed to convince Cotton I was going to be killed by some disgruntled drug lord. As it turned out, your surprise visit made my untimely ‘death’ more believable.”

“But, I heard Fanny tell the sheriff she gave you heroin.”

“Part of the script. Cotton needed to believe I was dead for the plan to work.”

“Fanny. You said she planned the escape?”

“And did a damn good job. Now, she’s gone on to a much better life.”

“Six feet under?”

Paul gives me a tut-tut look. “Hardly. She recently bagged a plush apartment for herself in the El Prado suburb of Barranquilla on the coast of Colombia. Fanny’s mistress to one of the Medellín cartel. A dangerous move for most women, but if I know her, she’s doing just fine.”

“So the sheriff is in on this too?”

A gust of wind carries Paul’s voice away. Is he saying mordida? “What did you say?”

“Payoffs.”

I bridle at Paul’s condescending attitude. Most native Texans know about “the bite.”

He gives me a self-satisfied grin. “I’m dead as far as the sheriff ’s concerned. Right now, he thinks he’s dealing with a Mexican called Jefe.”

My mind replays the meeting in Gibbs’s office and Bill’s voice echoes. That’s what we wanted Paul to believe. If he wrote anything else we would all be in jeopardy, can’t you see that?

“The sheriff ’s playing both sides?”

“Has to. He’s dirt poor and the county pay isn’t that good.” Our horses now neck and neck, Paul studies me for a few seconds. “How do you think the Piper Cub gets across the border and back? We fly below radar level, but when the plane is at capacity, there’s not much speed. So, it’s up to Cotton to shell out cash on each side of the river as fast as we can get it to him.”

We ride on in silence, my mind scrambling to make sense out of what I’ve just learned. It’s a relief to know Bill hasn’t been exposed yet, but I wonder how much longer he can keep his role with the DEA a secret. There are too many corrupt officials on both sides of the border and someone is bound to squeal.

Our horses strain to gain a small ridge, then stand panting. In front of us lies a long, narrow body of water lined with willows. I notice the slight breeze coming off the water seems almost chilly.

“What’s this?”

Paul dismounts and offers his hand. “This is the only reason I could leave Anacacho.” He ties the horses to a nearby fence and comes back to stand beside me.

I survey this unbelievable anomaly in the midst of the unending scrub and sigh. “A treasure in the middle of nowhere.”

Paul smiles. “I guess you could call it that.”

He points over swaying willows to a jagged purple line on the horizon. “There’s an underground river rising in those mountains that flows through a fault in the limestone. The pipe breaks to the surface, runs above ground for close to one thousand feet, then dives again just beneath us.”

“But the mountains seem so far away.”

“Optical illusion. Just a couple miles. Not much elevation. The force of the water is like an artesian well. Here.” He squats, pulling me with him. “Even on the hottest days, it’s just like this.”

I swish my hand through the rushing water. It’s mirror clear and icy cold.

“There’s another surprise just through here.” Paul rises and motions me to follow him through a break in the willows. In a clearing beneath swaying leafy tendrils is an exact replica of Paul’s hideaway in the Anacacho Mountains.

Face filled with expectation, he grabs my hand. “I built this especially for you.”

My stomach wrenches as Paul’s lips find mine. I taste the bitter residue of his latest snort and it’s all I can do not to shove him away. But that calm, cool voice inside my head tells me not to resist anything he might try.

I wait, breath held, for him to make his move. After all, it’s the perfect place. We’re alone and the “bed” only a few steps away.

To my surprise Paul releases me and smiles. “Isn’t this a great summer getaway? On the hottest days, it’s as cool as it is right now. I consider this one of nature’s small wonders.” He checks his watch. “We better head back. It’s almost time for lunch.”

We are almost to the ranch when Paul says my wedding dress arrived from Laredo this morning and we will marry this coming Saturday.

At those words, the full sense of my predicament rushes forward with nauseating clarity. I have only five days to attempt an escape.

I manage to smile and make all the right sounds while the half-formed idea of the previous night begins to take shape. Jed may be as crooked as the rest of them, but he’s my only hope. How do I get to him? It won’t be easy since Paul has separated his domestic staff from the production crew.

After we dismount at the back porch, Paul pulls me close for a lingering kiss. To one side, I notice Miguel staring away, trying to ignore our intimacy.

When we part, Miguel says, “Perdóname, Jefe, you are needed at the stables.”

Paul excuses himself and hurries away, leaving Miguel to gather the horses and follow.

I catch up with him. “May I speak with you?”

Miguel jumps away. “Please, Señorita, we must not be seen talking. Speak only to Lena. She will relay what you have to say to me.” He breaks into a trot, pulling the horses behind him.

Adelena is at the stove when I enter the kitchen and I pull her toward the safety of the pantry and close the door behind us.

“I have to get away from here before Saturday.”

Adelena, face crammed with despair, nods. “I see Jefe has told you about the ceremony.”

“This morning. What do you know about it?”

“He asked me to prepare quail for the wedding feast.” “How many guests do you expect?”

“Jefe said twenty.”

Adelena’s just as much in the dark as I am. Remembering Paul’s announcement about my bridal attire I change the subject. “I hear my dress arrived.”

“Sí, Señorita. It is very beautiful. Jefe had it made in Laredo. It matches the mantilla.”

First the quail, now the dress and veil. Hard evidence of Paul’s insane master plan.

“I don’t have much time, Adelena. It’s very important that I speak to Señor Jed as soon as possible. Can Miguel get a message to him for me?”

Adelena nods. “He can try. But there are no places here to meet secretly except this pantry and there is no reason for Señor Jed to visit the house.” She wrings her hands, her face contorted with anguish and hope. “Do you really think you can get away?”

“I have to. I can’t marry that man. He’s...” I make the “crazy-in-the-head” sign.

Adelena nods in agreement. “Too much white powder,” she whispers, then crosses herself and says, “Dios mío, whatever will become of us?”

It’s just eleven and my newly-bowed legs beg for relief. I head for my room and a long soak in a steaming tub.

I don’t notice the dress until I stumble into it. The crackle of the plastic cover sends chills as I slowly turn to look.

An intricately filigreed ecru mantilla slithers to the floor and I step away, not wanting to touch it at first. Silent seconds pass before I make myself reach down and bring the heavy lace to my cheek. It’s so fine, it feels almost like silk.

I peer through the clear plastic to see a long dress, low cut with short sleeves. The lines are simple, accented with lace matching the mantilla. It’s as lovely as the veil. Under ordinary circumstances this would be a gift of love, but these are no ordinary circumstances.

After re-draping the mantilla over the dress, I deposit my sweaty riding clothes in the hamper and head for the beckoning bathtub.

The soak brings physical relief. Emotionally I’m a wreck and tears slide from beneath my closed lids. “This can’t be happening” hammers like a mantra until I can stand it no longer. I scrub my arms and legs until they burn. Finally, I pull the plug, watch the water disappear, and wonder if my life will be down the hole as well in the next few days. I have to face the truth. I’m trapped.

I’ve just toweled down when Adelena brings news that Paul will remain at the barns until dinner. She bears a tray with a bowl of hot bean soup and a goblet of red wine. Grateful for the chance to gain some control of my frayed emotions, I scarf the lunch, then take to the bed and snatch a few hours of much needed sleep.

It’s dark when the sound of Paul’s footsteps awaken me. The rush of his shower plunges me into action and when he finally appears in the living room, I’m enjoying my first sip of Scotch.

I raise my lips to meet his welcoming kiss and lie. “I missed you at lunch.”

Paul settles beside me just as Miguel materializes with his martini and disappears. “Better get used to odd hours and interrupted evenings. The crew goes into action the minute the shipment arrives.”

Dinner is devoted to a rundown of Paul’s plans for our wedding day. Masses of fresh-cut flowers will be flown in and only Roederer Cristal Champagne will be served to wash down Adelena’s celebrated broiled quail.

When I venture to ask how many guests will be sharing our “special moment,” Paul evades the question by saying, “How do you like the dress?”

I don’t have to lie. “It’s beautiful.”

He places his hand over mine. “I knew you’d like it. I bought the two matching mantillas last year with you in mind.”

I lower my head to hide my true thoughts. The man is delusional if he thinks I’m spending the rest of my life in this godforsaken hellhole.

We finish our coffee in silence, take a brief stroll around the house, and end the evening with a long goodnight kiss at my bedroom door.

Paul travels the few steps to his room and turns. “Sleep well, my darling. I want those black circles gone before our wedding day.”

I force my brightest smile. “You can bet on that.”

After checking to be sure my “alarm stool” is in place, I plump my pillows and sit against them, then spend the second night fighting a losing battle with sleep.

I jerk awake at first light, body aching from the horseback excursion, eyes bleary from catnapping, then drag myself into the bathroom and yet another hot shower.

I’m almost dressed when I hear the Piper buzz overhead then fade in the distance. Hoping Paul might be a passenger, I quickly twist my damp hair into a knot and hurry to the dining room.

The table is set for one. I push open the swinging door to see Adelena seated at the kitchen table sorting pinto beans.

“Did he go?”

She puts her finger to her lips, and points toward the pantry. Once the door is closed, Adelena says, “Jefe never leaves the ranch. He told Miguel it’s too dangerous for him. Everyone is down at the barns. A second big shipment came after dinner and they worked through the night. The first lot has just flown out. Miguel tells me they will transport until sunset.”

I can’t hide my disappointment and when Adelena sees this, she begs, “Please don’t give up, Señorita, you are our only hope.”

I force a smile and pat her hand. “Don’t worry. I’m getting out of here any way I can.”

After several cups of coffee, I wander through the house to the entry hall, then onto the covered front porch. The wind is still from the north and, though not quite as strong as the previous day, has set the rocking chairs in motion.

Forty-eight hours have lapsed since Luke snatched me from the taxi. By now, news of my disappearance should have reached someone’s ears. Surely, the law offices in New York where I was to hold my deposition have called Perkins, Travis to ask where I am.

I plop into the nearest rocker, survey my surroundings, and sigh. Adelena’s right. There isn’t a stand of mesquite in sight and the road from the barns to the house is wide open. Any attempt to make contact with Jed would be suicidal.

Only eight-thirty. If I don’t find something to do, I’ll go nuts. Midmorning, Adelena brings me a large glass of iced tea and some news. Miguel and Jed have talked. There will be an “electrical” problem at the house. Since Miguel knows nothing about electricity, he will wait until Luke and Paul are busy, then ask Jed who’s apparently Luke’s second-in-command to come to the house. It’s a simple plan, and may work if Paul and Luke are preoccupied with preparing the next outgoing shipment. My spirits rise a little just knowing there is a plan and that I haven’t misread Jed.

After lunching alone on a small salad washed down with two generous glasses of white wine, I stare out the window into the never-ending wasteland. This tedium must have driven Reena to sleeping late and drinking two or three Bloody Marys before lunch. If this is to be the usual routine around here, I can easily picture myself diving into the bottle by midmorning.

My lids suddenly grow heavy and the thought of much needed sleep drives me from the table toward my bedroom. When the living room couch beckons, I accept. Best to be close to the pantry in case Jed can get away.

Paul’s kiss awakens me. He sits back on his haunches, keeping his face even with mine, and whispers, “You’re beautiful when you are sleeping. I’d forgotten that about you.”

It’s late afternoon. The mantle clock reads five. No Jed.

I mask my disappointment with a stretch and a yawn. “I decided to wait for you here. I can’t believe I’ve been asleep so long.”

Paul rises and looks down at me smiling. “In just a few more days, we can take our siestas together.”

I awaken well past nine the following morning and take my time dressing. By the time I get to the dining room it is almost ten.

Over seventy-two hours gone. I stare at my empty coffee cup and sigh. Hearing Adelena’s quiet movements in the kitchen, I realize if I can’t escape, she and I will be sharing a lot of lonely mornings.

The kitchen door swishes open, my cup is refilled, and I look up to see Adelena’s retreating back. So far, she and I have traded only the barest of conversation: Huevos, por favor. Café negro. Gracias. De nada. All this in polite monotones as she looks from window to door in furtive surveillance.

It’s warmer this morning and a gentle breeze lifts the curtains from their sill. Through the open windows I hear doves calling. The setting would be almost idyllic except for the lack of trees and the drug operation going on a half-mile away.

I empty my cup and shove back from the table just as the Piper Cub passes low overhead, preparing to land. There were two runs yesterday. This is the first today. I have gauged the take-off and landing intervals and they’re pretty much the same. I figure it’s two hours out and back with an hour to unload, load, and refuel. If I’m calculating correctly, that means there must be at the least a hundred miles from airstrip to airstrip, but I could be way off since I have no clear idea of the maximum speed of a Piper Cub.

Low voices from the kitchen drift into the room. The door cracks and Adelena motions for me to come. Once I enter the kitchen she motions toward the pantry, then hurries past me into the dining room.

I open the door to see Jed. Once the door is shut I settle beside him. “Thank you for coming. I know it’s a great risk.”

“I don’t have long.” He looks at his watch. “Have to watch the schedule.”

“I won’t waste words. Can you get me out of here?”

“That’s been the plan. We’ll have to wait until after midnight to make the break. If there’s no shipment expected, most of the men are drunk by sundown and passed out by ten. It’s safer that way.”

“How can I help?”

“You’ll have to help push the plane from the hangar to the far end of the runway.”

“No problem. Just tell me when and where.”

“It’s not that easy. I’m talking about a runway that can handle large jet aircraft. It’s a pretty fair stretch. But the Cub only needs two hundred feet to take off fully loaded. With just us, we should be off the ground and far enough away to avoid gunfire.”

I suppress thoughts of a gun battle and voice my enthusiasm. “Sounds like a piece of cake.”

“Let’s hope it is.” Jed cracks the door to check the kitchen, then pulls it shut. “I’ve gathered all the evidence I need here. The problem is getting Carpenter across the border.”

I gasp. “You’re a Fed?”

“I work directly for Bill Cotton.” “He knows where I am?”

“Yes. Your capture wasn’t part of the plan, but now that you’re here, he’s sure if we can get you ’cross the river, Carpenter will follow.”

“You mean I’m the bait?”

“I guess you could say that.” He leans forward. “The man is a hopeless addict who’s lost all touch with reality. Thinks he’s created the consummate ‘world’ with you at the center. As far as he’s concerned all he needs is a wife and children to make life down here about perfect.”

Paul trying to recreate the life he lost. The house. Cocaine. And me. But I have to give it to him, up to now everything’s gone pretty much as he planned.

“How could he be sure I would come to the border?”

“The letter in the safe deposit box. He knew you couldn’t pass it up. I gotta say he’s a very patient man. You were tailed for months. Phones bugged, too. Gibbs’s secretary alerted Cotton the day you made the appointment. He tried to stall you. That’s why there were no Feds at the meeting.”

“Then Gibbs is in on this.”

“We’re not sure. His secretary is. She’s married to Ramón’s second cousin. She went to work for Gibbs a few months before Paul’s ‘death.’”

The family, no last name ever mentioned, but clearly one of the powerful Mexican cartels holding the border in their grip.

“Do you know who the family is?”

Jed nods. “But you shouldn’t. The less you know the better.”

“How did you manage to...?”

“Get in on the operation?” He smiles. “Cotton and I met at Quantico. One Texan can usually spot another. We were just the guys the DEA was looking for. Cotton was assigned to his home town Uvalde and they sent me to Laredo. New territory for me since I was raised in Amarillo. But there was a natural connection. Cousin Luke. We saw each other over holidays when we were kids, then we grew up and went our separate ways.

“I looked up Luke, said I served a little time and produced a manufactured record. He needed a sidekick. Knew I flew. Figured my stint in prison was enough to hold me hostage. He never bothered to check it out.”

He looks at his watch and stands. “Gotta go.”

I get up and beat his hand to the door knob. “When?”

“Not tonight for sure. I have another run and won’t be back until after six. Hopefully we won’t get another shipment for a few days. The men are zonked as it is. They need a few nights to get drunk and laid.”

“They keep women here?”

He laughs. “Are you kidding? Women are nothing but trouble. There’s a ‘Boys Town’ full of cantinas and brothels about five miles south of here. The men pile in the truck that picked us up last Saturday. They stay for a couple of days. It’s the only way to keep them happy.”

Jed puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a reassuring squeeze. “Adelena will get word to you in plenty of time. Don’t bring luggage. Just be sure you have your driver’s license and any cash you have in case we run into trouble.”

Chapter 31

THERE WAS A DRUG SHIPMENT late Tuesday that seemed to take everyone by surprise. Paul has been at the barns around the clock, sleeping in snatches, trying to keep some semblance of order among the already exhausted men.

Since I knew a Tuesday escape was out, I slept like a log, but I spent Wednesday and Thursday nights beneath the covers fully clothed, Nikes at the ready, and one ear cocked for Adelena’s signal.

It’s amazing that I have been able to get through the last forty-eight hours without going mad. The stark contrasts of Paul’s new world border on the schizophrenic. Life at this end of the ranch seems to move no faster than lava, while the other end hums with frenzied activity in the race to get drugs across the border.

After a sponge bath I change into a fresh shirt and head for a hot cup of coffee.

The dining room is vacant. I push open the swinging door hoping to find Adelena. On the large center table I see enchilada fixings, but the kitchen is empty as well, its silence broken by the sound of a softly playing radio coming from the temporary servants’ quarters.

In the dining room, I jockey some coffee and pop two pieces of Adelena’s fresh-baked bread in the toaster. After slathering the steaming slices with butter, I carry my breakfast onto the verandah and settle at the nearest table. Before me lies a monotonous vista of flat, endless Sahara broken by heat waves warping low, brown brush.

Late morning brings catcalls and yahoos in the distance, then the canvas-covered truck pulls into view and heads down the dusty road. The men have been liberated. Tonight, hopefully, so will I.

Minutes later Paul bursts onto the porch. “I need a hug, woman.” It’s obvious he’s relied on cocaine to keep going. His lower face is covered with a fine dusting of white.

His lips savage mine, then he murmurs, “You look and feel so delicious I don’t know if I can wait another night.”

This is definitely not what I want to hear, but I curb my anxiety. “You look exhausted.”

As though given permission, his smile fades and he slumps. “That’s the understatement of the year. I’ll pop a few ‘ludes.’ They’ll treat me to a few hours of sleep.”

I force myself to kiss him again, then offer, “What you need is a hot shower and a nice long nap.”

“Sounds like a great idea, but Adelena’s making red enchiladas.”

It’s past four and Paul is asleep. After picking at his lunch while waiting for the Quaaludes to act, he finally lurched down the hall and, still fully-clothed, collapsed on top of his bed. If he keeps this up much longer, he’ll be down to skin and bones.

The only thing left for me to do is take a long soak in the tub. I’m just about to nod off in my steaming cocoon when I hear the whine of a jet overhead followed by hurried footsteps and rapid knocking on Paul’s bedroom door.

Miguel’s voice thunders in my ear. “Jefe? Jefe? Señor Carpenter? Please wake up. El Patrón is landing.”

My escape chances have just been cut to zero.

I hear Paul groan. “He wasn’t due ’til tomorrow, dammit. Keep him entertained while I grab a quick shower and shave.”

Miguel’s footsteps fade and seconds later, I feel a rush of air and turn to see Paul, still in his rumpled work clothes, standing in the doorway to my closet.

I draw my knees to my chest in an attempt to cover myself and force a smile. “I hear we have visitors.”

He stares at me for a few dazed seconds. “Yeah. I didn’t expect Ramón until tomorrow. Not to worry. I’m sure Adelena can easily set a third place.”

He flashes that captivating smile. “Can you believe it? Ramón asked to serve as my best man.”

I bite my tongue and smile back. What can I say? Paul is in control—for now.

“By the way, I have some things for you in my closet. Sort of a trousseau. Towel off and pick something out while I shower.” He retreats through the door, shedding his shirt as he goes.

In the hall I hear several voices engaged in muffled conversation interspersed with deep laughter. Ramón is not alone.

I do a quick calculation. Five empty guest rooms. Ten guests at most. My grand plan is crumbling by the minute.

Mind mired in shock, I dry, then wrap the towel around me and step into Paul’s closet. To one side of his business suits hang three identical long cotton dresses in cerise, aqua, and maize. They have capped sleeves, a square neck, a tight bodice, with moderate fullness from waist to floor. The fabric has been stitched into fine lines that elongate the appearance. All would flatter my dark hair and complexion. I choose the maize.

After I twist my hair into a French knot and pull a few fetching tendrils down the back of my neck, I slip into the dress.

Paul appears again through the closet door to stand behind me. “These pale in comparison to you.” He produces a string of heavy black pearls and drapes them around my neck. When he clasps the choker, they clutch my neck like a noose.

“Oh, Paul.” My words contain no joy, only the hopelessness of a desperate woman.

Ignoring my bleat, he kneels beside me, pulls a large single matching pearl from his pocket and slides it on my engagement finger.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment forever. Come. I can’t wait for you to meet Ramón.”

Paul offers me his hand and we walk down the long, wide hall. As a glimpse of my grim future flashes before me, my senses hone. The alabaster sconces spaced on each side of the hall give a soft glow I’d never noticed before. The geometric pattern of the oriental runner beneath our feet leaps up in bright rusts and vibrant blues. A pair of half-moon tables in the entry hall seem larger now that they bear vases laden with pale pink peonies.

The pungent odor of a cigar wafts through the wide opening into the living room, where Miguel, dressed in black leather pants, a matching bolero jacket, and a high-necked white shirt, holds a silver salver bearing two glasses of champagne.

Six men dressed in identical pinstripe suits encircle a man smoking a cigar. There are no women present.

Paul straightens to full height and pulls me close. “Gentlemen, may I present my bride.”

It’s easy to spot Ramón. He stands several inches above the rest of his group and strikes a ramrod posture. Beneath a heavy mane of silver-streaked brown, his narrow face bears an aristocratic look.

He steps from the midst of his companions, hand extended. “It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

I have no choice but to place my hand in his. In one smooth motion, he turns it and brushes it with air.

I nod and murmur, “And I you.”

Ramón turns to Paul. “Soft-spoken as well. What a surprise these days.”

I meet the rest of Ramón’s entourage. They don’t look like drug traffickers, but have they come this distance just to attend a wedding? I think not.

The silence is almost suffocating. Every man is staring at me like a circle of waiting vultures. I turn to see Paul’s jaw flexing. It’s obvious he feels the tension. When his hand becomes a vise, I wince, then smile up at him. “I’d love some champagne.”

He jerks to attention. “Of course, darling. Pardon my bad manners.” He flashes his disarming smile and releases my hand as Miguel offers us a glass.

Ramón raises his in salute. “A toast to the bride and groom to be.”

The men follow his lead, then resume their conversations, leaving the three of us an island in their midst.

I can’t help but notice the contrast between the two men. Ramón, cool and unconcerned; Paul anxious and tense.

Luke Hansen, dressed in the same pinstripe as the others, saves the moment by rushing through the front door. Paul said Luke cleaned up pretty good when necessary. If this is his best, he’s failed. He looks like head bouncer in a sleazy nightclub.

He acknowledges me and Ramón with a courtly bow. “Pardon me, Patrón, Señorita, but I need a few moments of Jefe’s time.”

Ramón nods and smiles. “Take all the time you like, Luke. I will be delighted to entertain Miss Armington.”

He waits until Paul and Luke disappear, then motions for Miguel to top our glasses.

When Miguel moves away, Ramón waves his hand toward the open French doors. “Would you mind stepping onto the verandah with me?”

The soft night air, with a slight breeze from the west, is laden with delicious aromas from Adelena’s kitchen. The horizon, a black endless scape crowned by a tiara of pink-gold clouds. Under any other circumstances it would be a picture-book evening.

Ramón leads me to a seating area at the far end of the verandah, motions me to sit, and settles beside me. “I don’t have much time to talk, Miss Armington, so please don’t interrupt until I’m finished.”

He leans toward me and speaks in a low voice. “It is unfortunate Paul chose this particular time to bring you here. Of course, he’s been rambling on for months about how he planned to make you his bride, but I must confess I gave his words little credence. The family business presents many more daily pressing issues than the delusional ravings of a cokehead.”

“That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps, but I’m sure you’re aware there is little room for addicts in this business. Cuts into the profits.”

He smiles at his small joke, then must read the disgust on my face. “I’m not surprised you disapprove.”

“I used to make my living putting people in your business behind bars.”

Ramón raises one brow. “In Mexico young boys in the barrios see narcotics as their only way out. We have become the heroes of our poor, downtrodden society. Have you not heard of the many narco-corridos written about us?”

“Narco? Corridos? I don’t get the meaning.”

“Drug ballads. In those songs the drug smugglers are celebrated for their wiliness, vigor, and notoriety—qualities that are highly valued in our culture. These men are lauded also for their manliness, courage, sincerity, and sense of fair play.”

I recoil at each proudly spoken word, then shoot back, “Exemplary terms, to be sure, but I believe they’re better known as bribery, coercion, corruption, and killing.”

To my surprise, he laughs. “You have great spirit, Miss Armington. So, I will simply concede, Cada uno a lo suyo.”

He waits for me to react, then translates, “Each to its own.”

I give him my stoniest stare. “Though Paul has performed reasonably well, we have been aware of his growing excesses for quite some time. A change in management was planned, but there seemed to be no rush since he was being well monitored.

“If only we had known his plans were this far along. Believe me, Miss Armington, we would have stepped in sooner and saved you this little inconvenience. Naturally, the minute Luke contacted me, I initiated immediate steps to rectify the situation. Unfortunately, sudden inroads into our territory by a rival family have prompted us to make some hasty decisions and this evening is the first opportunity we had to follow through.

“We are shutting down this operation immediately. As we speak, Luke and his men are placing the important records in the jet and destroying others. The workers will be transported to another location as soon as they’ve enjoyed their fiesta. We’ll all be leaving tonight after dinner.”

This man is talking about springing me. Still, I can’t help but think back to that terrible day when I went to the Anacacho, only to discover it stripped bare. Will it happen here? Will Paul’s life, as he so carefully planned it, dissolve into thin air?

Ramón’s voice creeps through my thoughts. “Sad to say, Paul is no longer of use to the family. We hoped he would be able to restrain his intake, but, as you know, he is totally out of control and therefore a great liability.”

The “no longer of use to the family” turns my spine to Jello. There’s only one remedy for that.

“Surely, Paul can be cured.”

Ramón gives me a paternal smile. “Of course, of course. A cure is exactly what the family wants for Paul. He has served us well and we pride ourselves in our loyalty.”

In a pig’s poke. I check to be sure my agreeable face is still on. Now is not the time to look a possible escape hatch in the mouth.

“Now, for tonight. I am assured that they cannot possibly make it here until midday tomorrow. So, we will enjoy a fine meal before we head in our respective directions.”

He sets his glass aside. “This is where you come in. We plan to sedate Paul during the meal. You must accompany him to his bedroom and remain beside him until we are ready to move. We cannot afford to alarm him. That could compound the trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“We don’t expect any. Our intelligence is very accurate.”

I search his face, wondering if he knows about the Feds. “What happens to me?”

“You will come with us.”

Magic words. Almost unbelievable, but I need to hear a second confirmation. “Are you offering me a way out?”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s a relief. Because I planned to leave here tonight come hell or high water.”

“On foot?”

“I was hoping to borrow a horse.”

“Either option is equally foolish, Miss Armington. Neither you nor a horse would last long enough to make the border. Surely, you must realize that.”

“I realize I’d rather be dead than live this existence.” “Remarkable.”

I know I’m on shaky ground, but I race on. “Adelena and Miguel were also brought here against their wills. Adelena is frantic to contact her family, and Miguel’s mother was very ill when they were taken. I promised them if I could get away, I would come back.”

“You were very brave to make such a promise. How can you be sure you could keep it?”

“I’m not brave. Adelena and Miguel have kept me sane during my brief imprisonment. I’d do anything for them.”

Ramón nods. “I am touched by your concern for Miguel and his wife. They will be safely returned. You have my word.”

I want to believe him. Crooked as his operation is, he seems to have some sort of code of ethics. It doesn’t really matter. If he’s offering me a way out of here, I intend to take it.

“It seems we have concluded our business.” Ramón rises and offers his hand. “After Paul is placed on the jet, change into something comfortable. Bring only what you can carry.”

He touches the pearls at my neck. “Don’t forget these. Paul paid a pretty price for them.”

I gasp at his suggestion. “But they belong to Paul.”

“He won’t need them. Just think of them as a little memento of your ordeal.”

Chapter 32

THE DINING TABLE, SET FOR TWELVE with gold-rimmed crystal and china, glows beneath the wrought-iron chandelier. Gracing the center of the long board is a stream of pale pink peonies spilling from low containers interspersed with twinkling votives.

I stand mesmerized by the stunning but surreal setting, as Ramón directs his subordinates to their places.

He takes Paul’s place at the head of the table seating me to his right and Paul next to me. Across from me, Luke Hansen is deep in conversation with the man to his left. His Tex-Mex is fluent, his gestures, contained. In profile he looks halfway presentable, but bears a still-sinister shadow of the brute who killed an innocent cab driver, then spent the whole trip across South Texas constantly terrorizing me and threatening Jed at every imagined disobedience.

Miguel and Adelena serve the first course: a colorful salad of orange and jicama slices topped with a mixture of white button mushrooms, onions, and celery accented with squeezed lime and a generous dash of red chili powder.

The room hums with low conversation interspersed with civilized clinks of silverware on china. Not a bad table manner among the group. Even Luke has cleaned up his road act.

Ramón, Paul, and I again become a conversational island with the two men carrying on a banal exchange.

Ramón cocks his head and leans conspiratorially across me. “My Nita is encinta with our fourth.”

Paul slurs, “Fourth? Wow. A fourth. How I envy you.” He peers at me through bleary eyes. “Isn’t that wonderful, darling? Maybe soon we can have some news of our own.”

I give Ramón a wan smile. “Please give your wife my best wishes.”

Paul is drinking too much. His usual martini, a double, was expanded to two and Miguel has already filled Paul’s glass four times with a nice crisp Fumé Blanc.

I give the room another once-over. No Jed. It’s plain he’s not part of the “in” group even though he’s Luke’s cousin. Maybe Ramón is superstitious about a thirteenth place at the table.

Adelena has outdone herself with a tender chicken breast in an almond mole, its thick, spicy sauce highlighted by a tangy texture of almonds and peanuts with the added piquancy of cloves and cinnamon.

The conversations continue between the men, their faces averted, leaving the three of us and our conversation limited to trivia, since Paul is now obviously drunk.

Finally, in desperation I suppose, Ramón brings up the wedding and Paul brightens. “I’m very honored you want to be my best man.”

He squeezes my hand and fuzzes, “Allie’s going to be a beautiful bride. Make me happiest—” He gropes for his next words, then smiles. “Yes, tomorrow will make me happy. Isn’t that right, darling?”

I nod, longing to be anyplace but at this table and in this untenable situation.

“Of course she will. That’s all you want, isn’t it, Miss Armington?” Ramón softly touches my arm with his forefinger.

His touch may be gentle, but to me it feels like an electric prod. I start, then blurt, “Oh, yes.”

Adelena’s grand finale is Natillas, a custard pudding and stiff competition for my favorite piñon flan.

Coffee and brandy are poured, then Miguel passes a large humidor of Cuban cigars. Ramón’s gift as best man. Paul is barely able to mumble his thanks before he slumps against me.

No one seems to notice the host’s sad predicament, except Ramón, who taps Luke on the shoulder. “We must help Miss Armington with her fiancé.”

Luke is at our side in three quick steps. “I’ll ask Felix to accompany us, Patrón. I’m sure you would enjoy finishing your cigar.”

Ramón nods and smiles, then leans his mouth to my ear. His hand bores into mine as orders come like bullets. “Rise now, Miss Armington. Wait until Luke and Felix have your fiancé on his feet, then follow them. Do not leave Paul’s side until you are told. Do you understand?”

I’m warm from the wine and the food, but a shiver knifes my body as the terrible truth becomes clear. How stupid I’ve been to think Ramón would let me go. I know far too much.

I watch Luke and a man I suppose must be Felix, hoist Paul from the chair and shoulder his arms. Somehow, he staggers between them, while I follow a few steps behind down that long hall and into the bedroom.

Luke barks, “Shut the door.”

As I do, I hear Paul’s body hit the bed, then turn to see the men standing only feet away.

Luke slaps his compadre on the back. “Gracias, Felix. Please go back to your brandy and Cubana. I’ll handle it from here.”

The man looks at me, murmurs something and slides past me to the door.

When it clicks shut, Luke pushes me away and snaps the lock.

I make a move toward the bed, but he catches my arm, slams me against the wall and pins me with one hand. “Jefe can’t protect you. He’s out for the count.”

I squelch stinging fear by staring at the center of his forehead. Surprisingly, my response brims with self-confidence. “I don’t need protection. Least of all from you.”

“That’s what you think, sister. I’m taking care of you right now. Bad news is I don’t have time to give you a parting fuck like Reena.”

“You?” I squeak.

Luke smiles. “Yeah. I had orders.” “Paul?”

“That fucking weenie? No way. Patrón called that shot. Reena was a weak link. Could cause us trouble later. Face it, the bitch was useless.” His smile widens into a hideous grimace. “And now I’m taking care of you.”

He reaches into his boot, pulls out a stiletto, and waves it in my face. “What do you think about this?”

I glance away to hide my alarm as the tension between us takes on a life of its own.

“Better think again, Luke.” The steady cadence of my voice surprises me. “While you and Paul were putting the records on the jet, Ramón promised me safe passage out of here and I don’t think he’ll be very happy if you produce a corpse.”

His sneer fades to shock then disbelief. “You’re bluffing.”

I manage a small smile. “Am I?”

The hallway fills with sounds of the ending dinner party, but instead of the usual conviviality, panic seems to carry the mood as shouted orders are drowned by gunning engines.

Hurried footsteps approach the door and a rapid knock accompanies, “It’s Jed. Open up.”

Luke hesitates only a moment to place the knife in his boot, then moves quickly to admit his cousin.

“Change in plans. Carpenter’s going on the jet. You, too, Luke.”

Luke’s “What?” sounds like a chicken squawk.

“You heard me. Ramón needs you. Says it’s urgent. Says there’s big trouble. Follow me.”

The two men disappear down the hall without a backward look, leaving me trembling like an aspen to collapse weakly on the bed next to Paul.

I cover his clammy forehead with the palm of my hand and whisper, “Paul? Can you hear me?” No response.

Luke’s departure brought a brief wave of relief, but that emotion died as quickly as it came. Deep sorrow engulfs me as I bear witness to the depravity that took control of Paul’s life. His face, though numbed with drugs and alcohol, a portrait of desolation.

Despite my eagerness to put as much distance as possible between myself, this place, and Paul, I realize this probably will be the last time I see the man I once thought I couldn’t live without.

If by some miracle Paul is spared, he will need money. I touch the strand of pearls at my neck. Footsteps in the distance spring me to action. I struggle with the clasp, desperate to conceal the pearls in Paul’s pocket before I’m discovered. At first try, the pearls drop away from my neck. I wiggle the ring from my finger and stash both in his pocket.

The door opens and Jed runs toward me followed by Miguel.

“I’m flying you to Anacacho in the Piper as soon as I load Carpenter on the jet. Get into your escape gear a.s.a.p. Something big’s going down. Maybe a turf war. All I know is, we gotta make tracks pronto.”

I can’t help but blurt, “That bastard was going to kill me.” Jed must realize how shaken I am because he touches my arm. “That’s over. He’s gone. We have to get out of here.”

“But—”

His touch becomes an urgent grip. “We don’t have much time.”

I nod, take a deep breath, then glance toward Miguel, who is bent over Paul. “What about him?”

“I’ll work on the math, but I can’t promise you anything. Once we get Carpenter settled, I’ll head for the Piper. Wait in your room.”

Chapter 33

THE CHAOS SURROUNDING the jet’s departure is filled with shouted orders, countermanded by others, followed by slamming doors and motors gunning. By the time Miguel comes for me, I hear the whine of starting jets in the distance.

“Hurry, Señorita, we don’t have much time. Patrón told Jed that twenty or more men in a three-truck convoy were headed our way and we have an hour at the most before they arrive.”

I rush after Miguel’s retreating back and finally catch up with him at an idling Jeep. “Did you get Señor Carpenter safely on board?”

He motions for me to climb in next to Adelena, who is also dressed in jeans and a jacket. “Sí, Señorita, but I don’t know how safe Jefe will be at the hands of those murderers.”

I scrunch into the seat as a dark wave of gloom covers me. Paul is as good as dead. But I can’t think about that now. We have so little time—so little real hope of making it with four of us in that tiny canvas plane.

We arrive at the strip just as the jet roars overhead. Jed motions me to join him and yells to Miguel, “Keep a sharp lookout, will you? We don’t want to be caught with our flaps down.”

He pulls me close. “If you want to make it, we have to leave them here.” “No way.”

“You’re right, no way. Look, Miguel seems pretty resourceful. He and his wife can make it to the nearest boy’s town and get help. They’ll be just fine.”

I stand a little taller. “I made a promise and I intend to keep it.”

It’s plain Miguel and Adelena have overheard us. Hovered to one side, they too are engrossed in whispered conversation.

“Look, dammit. It’s simple math. Six hundred forty-two pounds is the magic number. When we began the operation, I reconfigured this baby by removing the second seat. I pushed the pilot’s seat forward leaving me only enough room to operate the controls. The three of you jammed in the back will throw the balance way off.”

“We’ll just have to take our chances.”

He barks back. “What the hell do you know about flying a light, single-engine aircraft?”

“Not a thing, but if they don’t go, I don’t go.”

Jed squints down at the yellow pad. “Hold that flashlight steady.”

It’s plain he’s nervous as hell about risking four people in the airplane, but as far as I’m concerned we’re committed.

I check my watch. We’ve wasted ten good minutes arguing.

Jed removes his rifle from its rack in the plane, then totes up the column again. “Our combined weight adds up to five-fifty. That leaves only seventeen gallons of fuel at seven pounds a gallon. By jettisoning this, we might have nineteen, but it’s still gonna be a scraper.”

“Then it’s a scraper.”

“Taking on two more people is just plain suicide.”

At that, Miguel leaves Adelena to join us. “I’ll stay, Señor Jed, but I beg you, please take my Adelena.”

Even though it’s dark, I can almost see the stricken look on Adelena’s face and say, “Don’t be ridiculous, Miguel. We’re all going. Aren’t we, Jed?”

The words are barely out of my mouth before Adelena is clinging to Miguel, sobbing rapid Spanish into his ear.

I jab Jed in the rib. “We’re all going.”

“Ouch. Yes, dammit. I’m not leaving anybody behind.”

I scan the horizon for the glow of approaching headlights and see none.

“That’s what I thought. Hurry up. We’re wasting time.”

Jed shakes his head for the fourth time in as many minutes. “I still don’t think there’s enough gas to get us to the Anacacho strip.” It’s hard to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “You’ve flown fully loaded before. Don’t you have those figures in your head?”

“But I’ve always been able to balance the weight. I shift the bags to even the load, but hell, with almost four hundred pounds to the rear, we’ll be lucky to get this ruptured duck off the ground. And if we do, once we’re airborne, we’re liable to stall.”

It’s time to take matters into my own hands. I point the flashlight toward the opening. “Miguel, you get in first. Then you, Adelena.”

Jed’s, “I tell you, it’s not going to work,” trails me as I place one foot on the step and scrunch into Adelena’s knees.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry, Señorita, I’ll be fine.” There’s an excitement in Adelena’s voice that ignites my own.

I shine the flashlight on the step. “Come on, Jed. We’re pushing our escape window.”

He checks his shoulder holster, then grumbling expletives, hauls himself into the pilot’s seat. Once he has closed and locked the opening, he turns. “Every goddamnbody pray.”

The sound of the engine turning over raises my adrenaline to pitch level and I pat Jed on the shoulder. “I know you can do it. Just tell us what to do.”

“You must know something I don’t.”

I glance out the window and freeze. Three sets of headlights have just graced the horizon.

“What I know is, we’ve run out of time. Look to your rear right.”

“Oh, shit. Hang on everybody.”

The plane rolls slowly down the tarmac, then, bit by bit, gains momentum as the engine strains to attain the rpm needed to take us into the air.

The plane bucks, then shudders as the tires break from the runway and for an instant we are free.

All of us scream, venting our triumph, but it’s short-lived as the wheels crash back into the runway.

From behind comes a muted, “Ave Maria.”

“I told you it was suicide.” There’s a weariness in Jed’s voice I don’t want to hear.

“Dammit, Jed, you can’t give up now.”

Miguel’s voice is almost in my ear. “Señor Jed, you must try again. If you don’t, we are all dead.”

Jed shouts, “Okay, okay. Everybody move forward. Get that weight out of the rear.”

I kneel, knees screaming against the unforgiving floor, clutch the back of Jed’s seat, and pull myself forward. Adelena’s arms circle my waist, pulling me backwards, and when I feel Miguel’s added tonnage, it’s like I’m dragging an elephant.

Jed guns the motor a second time and the tail pops away from the ground.

No cheer this time, only silence. I hold my breath, praying there will be enough lift beneath the wings. Then, magically, we slowly rise above the mesa and into the night.

The plane sways, dips, then rights itself as Jed adjusts, then readjusts the fuel mix to avoid a stall. From his earlier description, I know the next few minutes in the air are crucial. If he can get the plane on an even keel, we’re outta here. If he can’t—I don’t want to think about that or the searing pain in my knees, so I look out the window to see the widening gap between us and the three sets of bobbing headlights below.

The minutes that follow seem like hours, but finally, Jed shouts, “Okay. Relax. But no quick movements. You first, Miguel. Slide back to your original position. Adelena, stay where you are for now.”

I lose half the elephant. Still, my shoulders quiver from the strain of holding so tightly to the seat and I’ve lost all feeling in my knees.

Though the motor drones on, the plane dips slightly to the rear, then levels out again.

To my relief, Jed seems to have regained some optimism because his next words are a command. “So far, so good. Okay, Adelena. Settle back against Miguel. Allie, stay forward.”

Again the plane dips, but resumes its level flight with ease.

“All right, Allie. Ease back into a sitting position, but take it real easy. A sudden shift in weight could stall us out.”

I release my grip and slowly rearrange my aching legs. The steady hum of the motor, and the feel of Adelena’s knees against my back are pure heaven.

My initial experience of heaven quickly fades as the minutes crawl by and Adelena’s shins turn into razor blades. I check my watch, hoping to see the minute hand has made it to twelve, but it’s still stuck on six.

The pale glow of the instrument panel creeping around Jed’s shoulders gives the plane’s interior an eerie cast. Behind me Miguel and Adelena are talking, but the drone of the engine mutes their words. No point in trying to talk to Jed. He has enough on his mind. Nothing to do but try to keep my full weight off Adelena’s slender support.

I must doze a little because I jerk awake at Jed’s shout. “Hey, people. Great news. We’re finally back in the good ol’ U. S. of A.”

I never thought I’d be so glad to hear those words. I’ve been gone less than a week, but it seems like a century.

Despite my euphoria, I whine, “How much longer?”

Jed laughs. “Wow, that’s one right out of my little boy’s mouth.”

What a shocker. I assumed Jed was single since he was in such a dangerous line of work. Besides he doesn’t look old enough to be married, much less have children.

“How old is your son?”

“Four. His baby sister turned two yesterday. I was hoping to be there to celebrate. Thank the Lord I have an understanding wife.”

“She must worry.”

“She’s used to it. Grew up in a law enforcement family. Her dad was a Texas Ranger.”

I pause, wondering what to say next. “Was” could mean killed in the line of duty, dead, or retired—hopefully the latter.

Jed saves me. “Cotton was supposed to be at the party. He’s my daughter’s godfather.”

My heart flutters against my chest as the unasked flies forward. “So, is he married too?”

He gives a wry chuckle. “If you want to call it that.”

Not at all what I wanted to hear about the sheriff, but it makes his actions toward me, or lack thereof, more understandable.

Jed breaks into my rationalizations. “Worst mistake he ever made. He met Julia Lee on a blind date when we were at Quantico. She couldn’t wait to let you know she was a direct descendent of Robert E. Lee and a real Virginia blue blood. She even tried to get Bill to drop Cotton and take her name. Said she just couldn’t feature herself being Julia Lee Cotton for the rest of her life. I thought that would tear it right then. But it didn’t. He thought it was funny.

“They had only dated two weeks before they eloped. Her family was fit to be tied. Only daughter marrying some hick Texan instead of a FFV... sorry, First Family of Virginia. Hell, as far as I was concerned, outside of being one of the best-looking broads I’ve ever seen, she didn’t have one redeeming feature.” “Then he’s divorced?”

“Almost five years. After a couple of months, she moved back to the plantation. He took it real bad. It was a long time before he got over that bitch.

“When we were assigned to this project, it was like manna from heaven. He eats, sleeps, and breathes this job. Hasn’t looked at another woman since.”

I want to say, “Oh, yes he has.” Instead a shiver shinnies up my spine as I conjure up Bill, his eyes marrying mine, his voice echoing in my ear, I know more about you than you can ever imagine.

“Will the sheriff be meeting us?” I croak, congratulating my instincts. Knowing now there is definitely something brewing between Bill and me.

Jed shakes his head. “I doubt it. No way to contact him. We’ll probably have to hoof it to the highway and hitch a ride into Uvalde.”

Again I ask. “How much longer?”

“About fifteen minutes... if we’re lucky.”

I check my watch. Almost ten o’clock. I’m not at all happy about Jed’s “if we’re lucky.”

After what seems like the Iron Age, Jed shouts, “I can see the Uvalde beacon; too bad we can’t land there.” “Why can’t we?”

“This plane is listed as stolen property.” “But it belongs to Paul.”

“Gibbs reported it stolen before we could get to him.”

I turn my attentions to the sea of darkness below. “How will you find the Anacacho strip in the dark?”

“There’s a mercury vapor light on the strip side of the hangar.

Works on a photo-cell. Perfect guide to the runway. Don’t worry, I can land this plane blindfolded.”

The drone of the motor deepens as we descend. Then, to my horror, the prop feathers and dies.

Jed’s voice is dead calm. “Don’t worry, we’ll make it. Just sit tight until we meet the ground and come to a stop.”

Behind me, Miguel and Adelena join in a Hail Mary.

I send up a small prayer and brace myself.

The air rushing past is the only other sound, but the Piper remains rock steady. Not one waggle. Like a feather, we float toward the bright light ahead.

The wheels screech against pavement, but with no motor, the flaps give little resistance, and we roll on.

“What if we hit something?”

“Nothing to hit but a cow. Keep cool. There’s still plenty of runway left. I promise.”

I relax, peer out the window, then petrify. Driving slowly alongside the Piper is the dark, grim specter of a Suburban.

Chapter 34

I TAP JED ON THE SHOULDER, then lean close to his ear. “Company to our right.”

He peers into the darkness. “Damn. We’re bone dry and at the mercy of whoever’s behind that wheel.” He cranes again. “What bothers me is, Suburbans are the druggies’ vehicle of choice.”

As the plane squeaks to a stop, the Suburban, headlights still dark, continues in a slow arcing turn, then halts about ninety feet in front of the Piper.

Jed twists to face me and says, “Okay, this is what I see. My automatic’s loaded and I have a couple of boxes of ammo under the seat. But if I fire first, we’ll all be dead the next minute. Canvas isn’t much protection against bullets.”

From the back Miguel offers, “Why don’t we men get out first? See who it is. Maybe they’ll think it’s just the two of us.” “I’m sure they’ve spotted a woman in here with me. Since you two are so far back in the plane, I’d lay good odds they don’t know about you. The best bet is for Allie to get out with me.”

“You take charge of the automatic and the ammo, Miguel.” He pauses. “You can shoot, can’t you?”

“Since I was ten years old, Señor.”

“That’s good enough for me. At least you’ll get a few shots off if you have to.”

Jed lets his shoulder holster slip down his arm, then leans forward. “Try to stay in the same position you’re in now, everybody. Allie, without making too many moves, drag the holster along the floor beside you until Adelena can reach it. Next, slide the ammo boxes along. I’ll try to distract them by going through check-out and shut-down motions.”

Miguel says, “I have the automatic and the bullets, Señor Jed. Ready when you are.”

Jed opens the door flaps, then locks the top flap in place. “Good luck everybody. Keep a cool head.”

He steps onto the tarmac, then helps me down to stand beside him to face whatever comes next. For a few endless seconds it’s just the two of us, ruffled by a gentle breeze from the south, with the noise of the Suburban’s idling engine the only sound.

I let out a sigh of relief. “So far so good. At least they haven’t turned on their headlights.”

The roar of the Suburban engine, accompanied by the glare of hi-beams, catapults us into action.

Jed yells, “Head for the tail. I’ll take the other side. Grab on to me there.”

We make the tail, throw ourselves across the rear fuselage, and lock arms, just as the Suburban, engine screaming, headlights blinding, rams.

The next moments are slow-motion as the nose collapses inward with a sickening, crick-snap-crunch, then the plane gives a sluggish shudder and groans resistance as its tires begin to reluctantly roll in reverse beneath the weight of the heavy car. As Piper Cub and Suburban pick up momentum, Jed and I are shoved backward down the tarmac toward the hangar, our rag-doll-feet bouncing crazily in front of us. To let go means death beneath the Suburban’s wheels—to hang on means only a few minutes more of life. I steel myself for what I pray will be a painless exit.

Brakes screech, jamming my body into a contorted jackknife. Jed loosens his grip and murmurs, “Hit the ground, roll to your side and remain motionless. It’s our only chance.”

I do as he says.

Whoever is inside, revs the engine to peak rpm, sending a rush of heat over me. There’s nothing to do but lie there and wait.

After what seems an eternity, gears grind as the Suburban slams into reverse. Two more revs and the dark menace roars into the night, leaving the wounded plane in the glow of the mercury vapor light.

Jed finally offers a hoarse, “Hot damn. It worked. But I can’t figure why they stopped. A few more feet and we would’ve been history.”

“Maybe they were worried about damaging their engine.” “Could be. You okay?”

“I guess.” I roll to a sitting position, then try to stand, but my knees fail and I hit the ground.

Jed steps toward me and I croak, “I’m fine. Better check Miguel and Adelena.”

He ducks beneath the wing, and after a few grunts punctuated by expletives, heads for the hangar and comes back with a crowbar and flashlight.

“I’m going to try and pry the seat forward. Hold the light so I can see what I’m doing.”

I stagger toward him and grab the flashlight. “Are they all right?”

“Miguel’s okay. Adelena’s out.”

Jed works for a good five minutes before the seat begins to inch forward and Adelena’s hesitant moan turns into a shrill wail.

I hear my own scream. “My God, can’t you see she’s caught under there?”

Jed’s reply is a calm contrast. “Let’s not panic the subject, okay? Focus the light down here.”

I get his message, compose myself, then move the light down to reveal an even worse situation than I imagined. Adelena’s right thigh is exposed beneath ripped denim. It’s badly contused and angled in an unnatural position.

Jed’s terse, “We need help bad,” says it all. “Is there a phone in the hangar?”

“No.”

“The closest house is the Dardens’.”

He shakes his head. “Dardens? Don’t know ’em.” “Well, I do. But I don’t know the area very well.”

Jed leans into the cockpit. “We’re going to get water, Miguel. Be right back. Okay?” He motions me to follow him.

When we enter the hangar, Jed says, “Did you see that thigh? It’s a compound fracture at best. No telling what’s with the other leg, or what internal injuries she might have sustained from the seat being jammed into her.”

He heads for a water cooler that stands beneath a long shelf, pulls down a small Thermos, fills it, and hands it to me. “Not much in the way of help, but at least we’ve got something to give them.”

He extracts four plastic cups from a dispenser, grabs a small stack of cloths from the shelf, then places them in my arms. “Do the best you can for them. I’ll be back.”

“But you don’t know where to go.” “Don’t worry, I was a Boy Scout.”

“Just a minute here. I’ve known the Dardens for years, and I have a general idea which way their house is. I’m the one who should go.”

“Man, are you a pain. Okay, okay. Don’t guess anything much could get you but a rattler or a coyote.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I get help.”

We part at the hangar entrance, Jed heading toward the badly damaged plane and I toward what I pray is the Dardens’ house.

Once I adjust to the darkness, I see a road to the right and remember Reena saying there was a back road between the airstrip and Anacacho that ran past the Dardens’ barn.

Minutes later, I stand at the back steps of the Dardens’ house, clasping my ribs and gasping for breath. The light in the kitchen is almost blinding after my long haul in the darkness.

Del’s voice trails from the living room. “And get us a couple of beers will ya, honey?”

At the sound of Susie’s quick step, I’m about to open the screen door, longing to reconnect with my old friend, then hesitate when she enters the kitchen. Susie is not happy.

I back quickly into the shadows and watch her yank open the refrigerator door, snatch two longnecks from the shelf and slam them on the counter. She stands a moment, hands on hips, takes several deep breaths, then shakes her head.

Del’s entreaty is honey-coated. “What’s taking you so long, Suze? Don’t leave us in the desert dying of thirst.”

“Hold your horses, I’m on my way.” She flips off the two bottle caps, plants a smile on her face and, taking a bottle in each hand, hurries toward the living room.

I sidle down the back steps, make my way along a side path to the front of the house and have one foot on the steps when I see it. Parked next to Del’s truck is a dark Suburban.

Chapter 35

I FREEZE, thankful I haven’t given myself away. Another ten steps and I stand in front of the ruptured grill. Whoever tried to kill us is in that house.

The grim realization that Del might also be in on this mess adds to my dilemma. He tried to warn me away from the hideaway, not once but twice. There was no doubt he meant business. Why didn’t I remember that until now?

I scuttle to the side porch and slide into the bushes. The living room windows are cracked to let in the south breeze and I can make out some of the conversation.

Susie is saying, “Got to get these boys to bed. Nice to meet you, sir.”

A deep, courtly voice resonates, “And you, too, ma’am.” Needles sting my scalp as my stomach gives a sickened wrench. I know that voice. Ray Gibbs.

“Please,” Susie says. “Don’t get up. Enjoy your beer. Goodnight.”

Her steps fade, then a distant door slams. “Mighty pretty wife you have, Darden.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m proud to call her mine.” There’s a wariness in Del’s voice. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Not a thing. I’m just grateful I saw your lights. I didn’t know where else to go. Sure do appreciate your hospitality.”

He saw their lights from the road? No way. Something’s definitely fishy. The ensuing silence seems like forever. I wonder if Del is thinking the same thing.

Finally silky-tongue says, “I was just wondering, did you happen to hear a small plane fly overhead within the last hour?”

After another long pause, Del answers. “Can’t say I did.”

“I’m sure you know, there’s been some concern about drug trafficking through the Anacacho.”

Del’s head pops into view. I see the puzzlement on his face and slump with relief. “I’ve heard something about it. I used to foreman that property.”

“You don’t say?”

“I haven’t been over there for more than a year.”

“Glad to hear that. It’s become a dangerous place to be since Carpenter was killed. If I were you I’d steer clear of the airstrip.” Another pause. “Just a friendly piece of advice.”

“And I thank you for it, sir, but as I said before, I haven’t been on that property for over a year and I don’t intend to start now.” There’s a creaking sound of someone rising from a chair and Ray Gibbs fills the rest of the window. “I’m mighty glad to hear you say that.”

I watch him turn toward the front door, then disappear from view.

The screen door squeaks, then heavy feet hit the porch and pause. “Thank you for the beer. Hit the spot. Good evening.”

I count Gibbs’s six steps down the front stoop to the path, then ten more to the Suburban. The door opens and shuts, the motor rolls over, then tires crunch gravel as the vehicle moves down the lane.

I wait until the taillights disappear, then make the steps two at a time to see a dazed Del standing at the open door. “Hi.”

He startles back, face paling. “Whoa there. Allie, is that you? Are you all right? We heard you were over in Laredo on a case and got kidnapped.”

“I guess you could say that. How did you hear?”

Del pushes open the screen door. “Deputy came by. Said you were in a taxi on the way to the airport and the driver was killed. Asked if we’d heard from you. We didn’t know what to think.”

Only Gibbs would know the details. No one else could have associated the dead taxi driver with me. I slide past Del into the living room.

“Listen, Del, I’m in desperate need of help. I was in that plane I heard Gibbs ask you about. That bastard tried to kill us. Actually, he thinks he did.”

The shock on Del’s face is a true comfort.

“I heard him warn you away from the Anacacho strip, but I don’t think he’ll go back there since he thinks we’re dead.” “Dead?”

“There are four of us. One badly hurt. Can you help me get her to the nearest hospital?”

“But, Gibbs said not to go out there.”

“Please, Del. Don’t waste any more time. The woman may be dying.”

That seems to get his attention. “I’ll tell Susie.”

He starts for a door to one side of the living room, but I clamp a hand on his shoulder. “The less she knows about this, the better. Okay?”

He nods and calls out. “Hey, Suze? I’m taking the truck out to the barn. Back in a minute.”

Her cheery, “Take your time, we’re having baths,” filters through the boys’ screams and splashes.

Del and I ride in silence to the barn, but when he turns right toward the airstrip, he barrages me with questions. “How do you know that man?”

I shoot back, “How do you know him?”

“I don’t. I mean I didn’t until about a few minutes ago. But it’s obvious you do.”

“Unfortunately. Gibbs is Paul’s lawyer. Lives in Laredo.”

“Is Paul’s lawyer? But Paul’s dead. Allie, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m telling you, Paul’s not dead. At least I hope and pray he’s not. He was alive a few hours ago. I’ll tell you everything once we get Adelena to the hospital.”

“Adelena? You mean Paul’s Adelena? But she and Miguel have been missing for over a year.”

In minutes the headlight beams bounce along the back side of the hangar, then Del turns onto the tarmac. The eerie glow from the vapor light outlines the ruptured Piper until the truck lights blaze it into gleaming yellow. Beneath the wing I see Jed, standing in a pool of blood, leaning into the cockpit.

Del lets out a low, “Jeez.”

I throw open the door tossing an order over my shoulder, “Pull as close as you can to the plane. We need your headlights—” then leap from the truck before it’s fully stopped.

“How is she?”

Jed shakes his head and waves me away, but I press forward, throat jammed with unborn sobs.

Del catches me before I get to the plane and pulls me into his comfort as my sobs break through. “She was my friend. I should have done more to protect her.”

Del walks me away from the disaster toward his truck. “I’m sure you did everything you could. Now, you gotta be strong, Allie. Hear? I got to go help this guy. What’s his name?”

I manage to get out, “Jed. I don’t know if he told me his last name. Could be Hansen. He said he was Luke’s cousin.”

“Hansen? This guy’s related to that bastard? How do we know we can trust him?”

“He’s DEA. He helped me escape.”

“That’s good enough for me. Take my keys and get in the driver’s seat.” Del slams the door and hurries to Jed’s side. When Del returns to the truck and opens the door, he shakes his head, then leans behind me to pull out a blanket. “Looks like a major artery in her leg was severed and she bled to death. Jed’s pretty sure Miguel is just bunged up, but mentally freaked out. He won’t let her out of his arms.”

“Poor man. Maybe I could help with that.”

“Maybe you can.” Del offers me his hand and I step out of his truck.

We take only a few steps when the shot rings out, ripping through the silent night like a cannon blast.

Jed jerks back, then staggers away.

Del and I lunge forward as I shout, “Jed? Are you all right?” Jed turns to reveal a face crammed with agony. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, it never occurred to me—I mean I never thought he would—ohmygod. I should have taken the gun.”

Chapter 36

THE THREE OF US STAND STARING at one another in frozen horror, but my agony compounds. I insisted that Miguel and Adelena come with us.

“It’s all my fault,” someone wails. That can’t be my voice, but my hands pressed to my chest and the tears sliding down my cheeks give clear evidence.

Jed gives me the perspective I need. “You had good intentions. If we’d left them there, Lord knows what might have happened. They’re back home. At least their families will have some sort of closure.”

Del gropes his belt. “Damn, I left my cell phone at the house. You wait here, I’ll notify the sheriff.”

I recover enough from my grief to jump on that. “No.”

“What do you mean ‘no’?” Del points toward the dreadful scene. “We can’t leave these people out here to rot.”

“But we can’t call anybody. Not yet, anyway. Ray Gibbs thinks Jed and I are dead and if he finds out we’re alive, we won’t be for long.”

Jed jerks to life. “Gibbs? What in hell does Ray Gibbs have to do with this?”

“It was his Suburban. He was the one who rammed the plane.”

Disbelief fills Jed’s face. “No way. Gibbs is clean. I’d bet my life on it.”

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you. Right, Del?”

“Hell, how would I know? I never saw the man before tonight.”

“You saw Gibbs tonight?”

Del nods. “Dropped by. Said he saw our lights from the road. There’s no way—from the road. He must’ve been bottom fishing—checking to see if we heard the plane. I gave him a beer. He warned me away from the strip. Then he left.”

“He must have gotten your name from the sheriff ’s office,” I say. “And if that’s so, then the druggies probably have an informer planted.”

Del either doesn’t hear me or is lost in his own thoughts. “I could show up at the sheriff ’s office tomorrow morning, take Bill for coffee. I do that every so often. I don’t think that would arouse suspicion.” His voice trails to silence as entreaty fills his face. “That’s about all I feel comfortable doing. Wish I could help more, but my family...”

“Of course. You must put Susie and the children first. But can you get us to a safe place before daylight? We need a place to hole up until you can get to the sheriff.”

“No problem. Paul’s hideaway. You two stay in the barn until I come get you. There’s a couple of spare horses you can use.”

The truck’s front seat easily contains the three of us and the trip to the barn is a speedy one. Del pulls into the barn opening and turns off the motor.

“We’ll need weapons,” Jed says. “No problem.”

Del opens his door and motions for me to do the same. “Sorry about the accommodations.”

After Jed hits the ground, Del hands me a horse blanket and points me toward a long, leather seat salvaged from a vintage pick-up. “Jed’ll have to make do with the hay. Don’t get too comfortable. I’ll be back.”

When the truck motor fades, Jed gives me a silent salute, throws himself on the hay, and in minutes begins to snore.

Del’s grip on my shoulder is insistent. “Come on, Allie, you gotta wake up. There’s not much time. I gotta get you up that trail before sunrise.”

I groan and sit as he shoves a Styrofoam cup of smoking coffee into my hand. “Drink this. I brought toast. It’s probably cold by now, but it should hold you for a spell.”

By the time I demolish the toast and drain the coffee, Del has saddled up two horses, refilled the canteens and put them and several sandwiches in my right saddlebag.

Jed, already on his horse, slides a rifle into its sheath, then drops several boxes of ammo into the side pouch.

Del helps me mount, checks the cinch and stirrups, then says, “Rifle or automatic?”

Before I can answer, Jed says, “We’ll need everything you can give us.”

Del nods, hands me a .32 and sheaths a second rifle next to my right leg. “Neither is loaded, but once I contact Cotton...” The look on his face says the rest.

With that, he heads down the row of stalls into the darkness, then reappears leading his palomino. “Pay close attention to the way we go. You’ll be on your own after this trip. I won’t be coming back.”

There’s barely enough light to make out landmarks, but I see we’re following the back road that leads to Anacacho. The dip into the swale comes sooner than I remember, but it’s been a year since I took this route in my frantic search for Paul.

Thinking of Paul brings the past week to mind. Has it only been seven days since I was kidnapped by that horrible Luke Hansen? The endless hours spent in Mexico are over at last, but at what price? Tears start as I remember there will be no future for Miguel and Adelena, innocent victims of Paul’s demented and grandiose plans for a life south of the Rio Grande.

And what of Jed and me? Safe for the moment, but for how long? Ray Gibbs somehow knew we would land at the Anacacho strip. Knew the exact hour. He came to kill us. When he finds out he failed, he’ll be back.

Del reins in his horse and turns to face us. “Okay, guys, this is as far as I go. I’ll telephone the sheriff the minute I get home. There’ll be grub and water waiting for you at the barn this evening, but don’t come down ’til dusk. Too easy to spot a horse and rider on the side of the mountain.”

He turns his horse, then stops beside me. “I hate to leave you, but Jed seems like a good sort. You’ll be safe with him. I’ll get help to you as soon as I can.”

I nod and grasp his hand. “We’ll be all right. I know the way from here.”

I join Jed, who urges his horse to the right, then hesitates and turns. “We take the trail to the right. Right?”

I laugh and shake my head. “No. We’re going left.”

“You’re kidding.” He leans forward to inspect. “No way a horse can get through there.”

“From here it looks much narrower than it really is. That’s why this place is safe. Follow me.” I pass him and head left toward the cut in the sandstone, then up the tight trail that hugs the side of the mountain.

We have traveled a quarter of a mile and are at about five hundred feet when the sun breaks the horizon flooding the vista in a golden glow. First the tower of the abandoned ranch house, then the pumping oil wells that now belong to the Dardens, and finally, in the distance, the hangar and airstrip come into view.

The horses are breathing hard by the time we reach the trail’s end and halt before the lean-to. To my dismay, Paul’s prized hide-away has suffered badly from a year’s neglect. The once-inviting pile of pillows—gone. The mattress, ravaged by varmints, unfit for sleeping. And the protective canvas side-drops hang pitifully at half-mast, flapping aimlessly in the early-morning freshet.

Jed slides off his saddle. “Is this it? I thought there was a cabin.”

“This is all there is. Hopefully, we won’t be here for very long.”

“If Del sticks to his schedule, we should see some action at the hangar by midmorning. But I wouldn’t count on getting back to civilization until Cotton has Gibbs in custody and that may take a few days.”

“Thanks for the good news.” I dismount and point in the direction of the mesquite copse. “The horses need water. The trough is this way.”

Tending to the horses takes some time, since Jed and I can’t agree. I say they should be allowed to roam. He wants to tether them to the hitching rail by the trough in case we have to make a run for it.

On close inspection, we discover the hideaway is strategically perched on a small, steep-sided butte with no other way down except the one narrow trail near the lean-to.

After we release the horses, we hoist the saddles over the hitching rail and start back for the lean-to, Jed in the lead. “We can relax for a while. The area looks pretty secure to me.”

“It is—more or less.”

He whirls to face me. “What do you mean by that?” “Helicopters. That’s how Paul got the material up here to build the lean-to. That’s how Bill rescued me from the druggies. The sound of the rotors will give us ample warning to arm ourselves, but there isn’t any place to hide.”

“Damn. You’re dead right. Why didn’t I see it before now? This place is nothing but an over-sized landing pad.”

He turns and breaks into a lope toward the lean-to.

By the time I find him, Jed is on his knees pawing through the ammo boxes.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“We need to spread this stuff around. Find places where we can stash it—and ourselves—in case.”

I kneel beside him. “Didn’t you hear me? There isn’t anyplace to hide, except this lean-to, and it’s open on three sides.”

“There’s got to be someplace else. Maybe under the mesquite?”

“Trees have branches, leaves, and lots of air spaces. Not much protection from a bullet.”

Jed says, “You’re right. We’re sitting ducks.”

I start to offer some consolation, but there is none. If trouble comes from the air, we don’t stand a chance.

“Your friend Del must’ve done his job,” Jed shouts from his lookout at the head of the trail.

Sleep-sluggish from my boredom-imposed siesta, I prop one elbow on the reclaimed mattress to see him motioning for me to join him.

The hangar is surrounded by several dome-tops and an emergency vehicle with lights still flashing.

Jed gives me a wide grin. “I saw the dust first. Guess they didn’t feel the need to use sirens. Del must’ve told Cotton they were dead.”

Miguel and Adelena, how sad their families will be in a few short hours.

I settle beside him on the low boulder. “What now?” “I guess we wait until dark.”

I do a swift check of my dusty and pungent outfit. “I sure could use a bath and a real bed.”

He nods. “I could use a visit to my family.”

“Hopefully, this will end quickly and we both can get on with our lives.”

We watch the ambulance pull slowly away, followed by a couple of police cars, while the remaining men string yellow crime scene tape from the hangar to and around the tiny airplane.

An hour later only one car remains with only one man, who walks the area before stopping beside the driver-side door.

Jed turns to me. “Guess you know who that is.”

Chapter 37

IT’S BEEN PITCH BLACK for the last forty minutes and an hour since Jed mounted his horse and disappeared in the dying dusk. The moon won’t rise until almost midnight, so, with the two loaded weapons, extra ammo and what’s left of the food and water, I’m stationed in the middle of what remains of the mattress.

Despite the warm evening, I fight chattering teeth. I hate that it’s dark because the usual insect and animal sounds have magnified. Worse still, I have lots of time to think, remember, and agonize over Paul, Miguel, and most especially Adelena, who became my friend and ally. We were the only women stuck in that bizarre ersatz world, each of us longing to escape, each offering the other comfort and hope.

I jerk to at the sound of a distant snort and stifle my first impulse to call out a greeting. What if Jed were caught? What if?

I grope for the rifle and automatic, then slide carefully off the far side of the bed, placing the rifle on the mattress in front of me. I chamber a round in the automatic and jump at the loud metallic click. At least I will have some cover and a fair chance of getting off a few shots if there’s only one of them.

The horse snorts again and gives a groan as it struggles up the last sharp incline. After a few more snorts, in between heavy heaving, feet hit the ground and I hear the sound of a shotgun being breeched, then clacked shut.

Not a sound now. No steps. Nothing. “Allie?”

It’s not Jed. “Allie?”

It’s Bill. I start to answer, then hesitate, positive my hearing has been distorted by my surging heartbeats. Now unsure, I remain frozen in place, my weapon pointed at the sound of his voice.

Steps come toward me, then, “Do you have a flashlight on you?”

I take a deep breath, lower my weapon, and smile. It’s Kryptonite. “Bill?”

“Thank God. I was beginning to think...”

He stumbles onto the platform then bumps into the bed with a couple of expletives.

The mattress jars as his body hits. “Jeez. Don’t you have any light? I’m blind as a stump.”

Still on guard, I slide the rifle to the floor, place the revolver next to it, and after a brief search, find his hand.

To touch him after all this time sends a wave of warmth through my body as unexpected tears come.

He pulls me toward him, moaning as we meet, then his arms surround me as his lips command mine.

Our hunger is mutual and urgent. When we break for air, we almost say in unison, “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this.”

Then we laugh. Mine is filled with relief, joy, and a million other emotions that insist on crowding along.

“Is Jed okay?”

“Should be surrounded by his family right about now.”

“He was great. Even managed to keep Luke from killing me.”

“I heard.”

I’m comfortably buried in Bill’s chest and feel safe for the first time in what seems like months. Yet the attorney in me wins over the woman in love. “Luke killed Reena. A specimen of his DNA should nail him.”

“We’ll get him. We’ll get them all.”

“Jed was a real hero. Flying us out of there was...” A lump closes my throat and I have to swallow a few times before I manage, “I’ll never be able to thank him enough.”

“Too bad about the other couple. Jed was pretty broken up about that.”

“Did he tell you about the plant in your office?”

“I was pretty sure who it was, but I’m grateful for the confirmation. We’ll keep him under tight wraps until all our ducks are lined up. Don’t worry, he’ll be spoon-fed all info.”

“Then, it’s over?”

Bill softly kisses my eyes. “Not quite.”

I shove away the grim picture of the ravaged plane and Adelena to greedily claim his lips for a second time.

He ends it with a gentle, “I’d be more than happy to spend the rest of the night this way, but we don’t have much time.”

I pull away at the serious tone to his words. “What’s wrong?” “We have to get out of here.”

“Gibbs?”

“Or his men. I’m sure the news of your survival has been leaked by now. I’m positive they’ll make a pass tonight. Can’t afford not to. Thankfully, I beat them.”

I grab the rifle and automatic. “It’s going to be hard to round up my horse. He’s running free.”

“No time. We’ll walk down and lead mine. In case they catch us on the trail, we can use him for cover.” He stands and pulls me along with him. “Hurry.”

Rifle breached and firearm on safety, I stumble behind him until he finds his horse.

He takes the rifle and snaps it shut. “Now your revolver.”

After I hand it to him, he gives me a gentle shove. “Sorry, but you’ll have to lead. Stay close to the cliff, if you can use your free hand to judge the distance that would help, but whatever you do, take your time.”

The dirt seems chilly beneath my sweaty hand but offers comforting support as I timidly begin my descent. Thankfully, the path has worn smooth with time and gravity helps me downward.

For the next half-hour we work our way toward the bottom of the butte and have just made the two large boulders marking the trail when the familiar kak-kak-kak of a helicopter motor sounds in the distance.

Chapter 38

I FREEZE. “What now?”

“Keep on going. Stay close to the cliff. There’s a small thicket of live oaks across from the opening to a cave. We’ll take cover there. It’s unlikely they’ll check this side of the butte first. They’ll be concentrating on the lean-to.”

He sounds confident even though the helicopter is fast approaching, so I keep floundering ahead until the sandstone seems to drop away. A rush of cold air flies past me with a low “whoosh.”

“Hold it. I think I’ve found the cave.”

Bill moves to my side. “Don’t move. You take the reins. I’ll lead. There could be a drop-off. No use killing ourselves after all this. Damn. I wish we had a flashlight.”

He slips past me and hooks my hand through his belt. After sliding one foot then another slowly forward for a few steps, he stops.

“There’s definitely cooler air coming from ahead. Could be from an underground river. Stay put. I’ll backtrack to see how far inside the cave we’ve come.”

He has just edged past me and the horse, when the helicopter’s deafening roar invades my ears as a glaring strobe momentarily blazes the cave.

Startled by the noise and the light, the horse lunges, pushing me forward into the returning darkness.

Knees crash into hard rock and hands fly into nothingness as I pitch forward, crushing my stomach and knocking the air from my lungs. As I haplessly search for breath, I realize my arms are dangling downward and the weight of my upper body is slowly slipping in that direction.

The pain in my lungs is unbearable. I try to cry out but there’s no breath to give birth to my horror.

“Are you all right?” Bill’s words are thin with alarm. “Allie. Answer me.”

The horse whinnys and begins to move frantically about, hooves striking one side of the cave, then the other.

By the time Bill settles his horse, the vise around my chest has eased a bit, allowing some air into my lungs.

After what seems like forever, his hands circle my ankles and he pulls me away from the edge of the abyss.

He leans down beside me. “You okay?”

I manage a strangled, “Great.”

When the racket of the helicopter fades in the distance he pats my shoulder. “Guess they checked out the lean-to and didn’t find anything. I’m getting the horse out of here. He’ll be safe tethered in the scrub oaks for tonight.”

I choose a spot near the entrance of the cave and relax—relieved to be safe. I don’t even feel the pain from the crimson scratches above my waist where my shirt pulled away from my jeans.

When Bill returns, he gathers me to him and softly kisses my temple.

I savor the feel of his arms for just a second, then murmur, “What happens next?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Then his voice floats above me. “Tomorrow morning is Sunday, and I can guarantee you that Lawyer Gibbs will be spending most of the morning on his knees.”

“How can you be so sure?”

He chuckles. “In spite of Gibbs’s protestations of innocence, the DEA has been following his movements for the last several months. To let you know just how thorough we’ve been, we have his bathroom schedule down to the minute.”

“So, every Sunday morning?”

“A short stroll around the block upon rising.” He plants another kiss on my temple. “A long shower followed by a nice hearty breakfast with Elvira. Then off to Unity Methodist Church, where, as Senior Warden, he’ll greet the nine-thirty and eleven o’clock parishioners and run the noon bring-your-own buffet in the parish hall. The effing sonovabitch.”

“I trusted that man. How could I have been so stupid?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. We’ve been raised to believe guys who have snow-white hair have to be good.”

“How much longer do you think it will be?”

“Before we bring them down? I don’t know. We don’t have a connection between Gibbs and Ramón—yet. Not much point in tagging Gibbs without that.”

I cuddle against him. “It really doesn’t matter what happens to them—just as long as we’re together.”

He stiffens. “Hold on a minute. We need to regroup.”

“Later.” I circle his neck, pull him to me for another searching kiss and feel his responses quicken.

The passion grows between us until he whispers, “Don’t get me wrong, Allie, I want you so bad I can taste it, but not now.”

“Why not now?”

“I’m deep in the middle of this mess.” “It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m operating as a double agent.” “It doesn’t matter.”

“But it does. If I’m caught by the wrong people, I could be convicted and end up in prison.”

“But you’re DEA.”

“They ‘lose’ double agents all the time. They tell you that right up front. It’s part of the job risk. Oh, God, I didn’t count on meeting you.”

“But you did.” I clutch him to me with all the strength I have. “And I don’t give a damn what happens.”

“But I do.” He unlocks my grip. “I’ve never owned a home. Never owned a car. Dammit. Don’t you know how I feel? Knowing I can’t offer you anything?”

I want to cover my ears. Shut out his dismissal. “Don’t say that. I know you feel the same way I do.”

“Yes.” He pulls me close. “But I don’t know how long this will take. Or even if I’ll make it.”

Hours later I open my eyes. The moon is high in the sky, and I’m cradled in Bill’s arms.

I stir and he kisses my forehead. “Sleep now. You’re safe.”

Chapter 39

MORNING FINDS ME CURLED on my side—alone. The ache in my joints feels like I’m a hundred. I must look at least that old. To make matters worse, my hair is a mess and I hate that.

When I hear footsteps, I smile to myself. “It’s about time.”

I roll to look into a gun barrel pointed directly at me.

A metallic taste invades my mouth. I blink my eyes to clear my vision, but there’s no mistake, Bill Cotton is on the other end.

“Good job, Bill. This is one petty annoyance I’m delighted to attend to—personally.”

Gibbs steps into view wearing boots, jeans, and a pale-yellow short-sleeve shirt. Hardly church-wear. “Good morning, Miss Armington.”

He waves at someone to the side. “Do come see what our boy Bill caught.”

Luke Hansen sidles forward and doffs his Stetson. “Now, ain’t this a nice surprise?”

I turn away from the man who vowed to kill me. Bill’s face offers nothing but cool appraisal.

My brain must be dead. I can’t seem to put together the most basic thoughts. Worse still, there’s not a hint of the adrenalin surge I need for action.

I seek Bill’s face again, hoping for a wink, a knowing look, something.

He looks at the two men and smiles. “It’s about time. What took you so long?”

“Luke was late—as usual.”

“I had hell getting the fucking four-wheel in gear,” he whines. “That fucking piece of junk has had it.”

Luke’s last words are drowned by approaching hoof beats.

Gibbs draws his weapon and steps out of the cave entrance. “Expecting company, Bill?”

“Hardly.”

When Gibbs disappears, Luke pulls an automatic from his belt and crouches facing outward just inside the cave entrance.

A shot is fired, then several more. Luke yells, “Cover me,” and inches forward.

Bill shoves the rifle in my hand and draws his weapon as Gibbs staggers into view, three scarlet blossoms on his shirt. He utters a plaintive, “Jesus,” then collapses against Luke.

Bill crouches to better his aim. “Drop it.”

“I fuckin’-A don’t think so, you bastard.” Luke rolls away from beneath Gibbs’s limp body, weapon aimed at Bill.

Bill rises, then steps forward—too late. Luke fires and he spins to the ground.

Luke turns in my direction, sees the shotgun I have pointed at him, and grins. “You won’t shoot. You ain’t got the guts. You’re nothing but a weak-ass pussy.”

I don’t think he got to the end of “pussy” when the shot peppered a wide hole in his throat. At least the surprise on his face before he lunged forward and hit the ground seemed real.

I crawl the few feet to Bill. “Are you all right?”

He nods. “It’s the shoulder.” He pulls his hand away to reveal a gaping hole throbbing a rivulet of blood.

I take off my jean jacket and fold it. “It’s not the most sanitary piece of goods, but it should stanch the bleeding until we can get you to town.”

Jed, followed by several uniforms, appears in the opening. “Allie? Bill? Are you all right?”

I start to answer, but he looks past me and says, “Hey, Chief, I brought the white hats like you requested. Sorry, we were late.”

Chapter 40

HOUSTON IS EXPERIENCING one of its dazzling fall days. The cloudless sky is that wonderful Colorado blue, signaling crisp mornings and bright afternoons.

Appropriately, this glorious day marks a major milestone in my life. I am now full partner of Perkins, Travis, Attorneys-at-Law, with all the attendant benefits including a corner office with my name on the door. Sadly, my personal life is still stuck in limbo, but much of what happened last April has faded from stark horror to an occasional nightmare.

I don’t know how Duncan found out I was back, but I have to admit, the smile on his face and his enthusiastic hug were more than welcome. Over wine, I gave him the gory details of my abduction. He refrained from the usual “I-told-you-sos,” then delivered a piece of interesting news. He was leaving the DA to open his own practice in criminal defense. After a few toasts, he invited me upstairs for dinner the following evening. I said no.

That “no” must have sounded pretty final because, since then, we’ve been nothing more than friendly neighbors, often meeting in the laundry, where we exchange small talk and discuss our latest cases.

To my surprise, Perkins, Travis was pretty understanding about my absence even though I couldn’t tell them much more than I was abducted by an old flame. I waited for them to grill me. After all, the story, or what little I could tell them was too weird. Instead, they proposed I take a week vacation in Cozumel at their expense.

I took it. Lolled on the beach. Slept for hours on end and tried to figure out why Bill Cotton hadn’t contacted me since he put me on the plane in San Antonio.

It’s past seven by the time I arrive at the mid-rise on Bammel and enter the lobby.

Elton the doorman, who also handles the reception desk, waves me over. “Package for you, Miss Armington.”

He disappears below the counter, then comes up holding a small, flat box wrapped in plain brown paper. “Is it your birthday?”

“Not today.” I take the box, which is not very heavy, and jiggle. There’s a succession of soft clicks as its contents slide back and forth.

He leans toward me, face filled with anticipation. “Sounds interesting.”

I give him a rueful smile. “Yes, doesn’t it? Goodnight.”

Once in my apartment, I lay the box on the kitchen counter, pour a large glass of water and pop a couple of aspirin. I rummage through a drawer for a paring knife and carefully open the paper to reveal a thin, highly polished, dark mahogany box with slightly rounded edges. A golden clasp holds the top to the bottom. I turn the box and whatever is inside again sighs with a series of clicks to rest at the lower end.

I don’t want to open that box. I can’t open that box. But I do and tears come.

The strand of black pearls is curled to one side of a note that reads, “If you value Paul’s life, stay away from the trial.”

Now there’s no doubt the cartel plans to use Paul as a weapon to prevent me from testifying.

I grab the phone and punch out a number. After three rings, Duncan’s gruff, “Yeah,” startles me out of my panic. What’s worse, I didn’t even realize it was his number I dialed.

“Oh, Duncan, I’m so sorry to bother you this late, but I need help. May I come up?”

Minutes later, a barefooted Duncan wearing a sweat suit opens his door.

I restrain the urge to throw my arms around his neck. Instead, I give my most grateful smile. “Thanks.”

He closes the door behind us and points me toward the couch. “What’s up?”

I show him the pearls and hand him the note. “These came this evening.”

Duncan reads the note, jumps up and starts to pace, his left hand gingerly rubbing the back of his head. I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen him do this when he’s under stress over a case. This does not make me comfortable.

After a few minutes he sits. “Okay. Okay. Remember when you told me they let you go and I didn’t buy it? Remember I said they were too smart for that? Well, I think they had a plan in mind for you all along.”

When I start to reply, he holds up his hand. “And there may be two scenarios. First, they’re holding Paul hostage, hoping you won’t testify.”

“I can see that.”

Up goes the hand again. “Or they want you to testify against Ramón to get him out of the way without implicating the cartel.” “That’s a little far-fetched, since as far as I can tell, Ramón is the head of the cartel.”

“Maybe he is or maybe he isn’t. I think this is just the first communication. They’ll wait to see how you react.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Sit tight. Don’t say anything to anybody. I’ll have your apartment swept. My guess is you’re bugged so they can monitor you.”

“But if we remove the bug won’t that tip them?”

“Yeah, yeah. Let me think this through a bit.” He stares away for a few minutes. “Look. Why don’t you stay up here tonight? I’ll take the couch. Then tomorrow we can make a plan when our heads are clearer.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I have an early meeting. I really appreciate your help on this.”

Duncan lets out a long breath and rises. “Whatever. Just don’t do or say anything incriminating.”

He walks me to the door, opens it, then in a surprising move turns me toward him and pulls me close. “Dammit, Allie, why can’t you stay out of trouble?”

His voice is soft, almost a whisper. It’s obvious he cares. Maybe not like he once did, but his tenderness is touching.

Instead of my usual bristle, I relax and let him draw me to him. This feels good.

I’m pretty sure Duncan is just as surprised as I am and probably wonders whether he should make another move.

As for me, I’m more than content to enjoy the warmth of his body against mine.

We stand together for several minutes, not speaking, not moving. Then I pull away, step into the hall, and give his hand a final squeeze before I head for the elevator.

The hot shower should have put me under hours ago but it’s three o’clock in the morning and I’m wide awake.

It’s one thing to be intimidated, threatened, and brutalized in another town or country, but the appearance of those pearls makes it crystal clear that Ramón’s arm is long and powerful. I shiver, knowing now I’ve been under their surveillance since my return to Houston.

If that isn’t enough to keep me awake, there’s the encounter with Duncan. I liked being in his arms. It’s been six months since Bill and I clung together in that cave. Six months since I was so sure he was the “one.” It saddens me that I have trouble remembering his face, though a whiff of that heady Kryptonite aftershave makes me yearn for what I’m finally beginning to realize can never be.

Chapter 41

IT’S BEEN A BUSY MORNING, mainly because my latest deal in California is on very shaky ground and needs immediate resuscitation.

When the phone bleats its seventh complaint, I realize my secretary has left her post, slam down the California contract, and grab the receiver. “Alice Armington.”

“Guess you’re busy.” It’s Duncan and he doesn’t wait for a reply. “No bugs. What do you make of that? Could it be you’re being surveilled some other way?”

His voice fades as a small, nondescript man in a rumpled suit materializes out of nowhere.

“May I help you?”

He doesn’t crack a smile. “You Alice Armington?”

Duncan intrudes before I can answer. “Earth to Allie? Earth to Allie?”

I reply sotto voce behind my hand, “Hold on,” then cover the mouthpiece. “Yes, I am Alice...”

Mr. Nondescript whips a folded document out of the inside pocket of his coat and slaps it on the desk in front of me.

I stare open-mouthed as the man shoves the paper across my desk until it touches my hand, then he disappears through the door.

I almost hang up the phone, then remember who’s on the other end. “Sorry about the hold, but I’ve just been served.”

I scan the document, gathering the pertinent facts, then read them aloud. “Two weeks from next Monday I’m to appear as a witness for the United States Government versus Raymond Talavera Gibbs. My God, Gibbs lived. Federal District Judge Marshall Good will preside. Seven hundred East San Antonio Street, El Paso, Texas.”

Duncan says, “Damn. They must have known you were being served today. This is serious. We need a strategy. Meet me for dinner at The Capitol Grill.”

My answer is to hang up. The initial thrill at finally being subpoenaed is sullied by a jumble of emotions—fear, front and center.

Duncan pops up from a far table, waves me over, and pulls out my chair. “I took the liberty of ordering our usual.”

It feels good to hear “our usual” again, nice to share time with Duncan. I take a sip of the martini and run my tongue across my upper lip. “Pure heaven.”

Duncan gives me an especially endearing smile before he raises his glass to his mouth. “It is good. In fact I’d forgotten just how good it is to be with you.” He gives my hand a gentle squeeze.

Warmed by the martini and the feel of his touch, I amuse Duncan with the description of the summons server.

He sobers. “I want to come with you.”

At that, one antenna rises. Duncan is climbing into his protective mode. My lungs tighten as I watch him pull his date book from inside his coat and search the pages.

His face clouds. “Damn the luck. I’m scheduled for trial then.”

I look toward the ceiling. Thank you, Lord. He’s tied up. I can breathe again. “Oh, Duncan, please don’t bother yourself over this. It’s my problem. I’ll handle it.”

He doesn’t seem to get my drift because he wags a finger in my face. “No way, José. This time you definitely need someone to go with you.”

Air turns to lead. I’m smothering. I try to keep the anger out of my voice and fail. My words strain through clenched teeth. “Thank you for your concern, but I don’t need a nanny. I can take care of myself.”

He snorts. “Oh, right. Just like last April? I tried to warn you then, but no—you and your cockamamie idea of women’s independence got you into a big pile of you-know-what.”

I struggle to remember that Duncan cares for me and is doing only what a caring person would do.

Diversion. Isn’t that what the experts recommend? When a child is acting out, change the venue or introduce a new subject?

Since Duncan is in child-mode, I take one of the menus and open it. “Oh, goody. They have Dover sole tonight. Just what I was hoping.”

His mouth drops. “How can you give a damn about Dover sole when your life is in danger?”

I grin. “Because I feel like a dangerous soul.”

He shakes his head. “Cut the lame humor, will you? This is too damn serious to joke about.”

He jams the calendar back inside his jacket, stares at the ceiling for a few seconds, then snaps his fingers.

“I’ve got the perfect solution. Just tell them you’re in the middle of a crucial deal and can’t leave the city—or something. Ask to dictate your deposition. Request that someone from the U.S. Attorney’s office come here.”

The man is clueless. I’m an instant short of a sharp retort when I recall the comfort of Duncan’s arms around me. Instead, I take a sip of my martini, and let out a long breath before I answer with a restrained, “I’m not in the middle of a crucial deal.”

Now it’s Duncan who bristles. “For Pete’s sake, Allie, everybody lies a little to get out of a situation. Why are you being so stubborn?”

That’s it. We’ve been around this track before. To hell with the comfort of his damned arms, he’s not going to run me.

When I grab my purse and stand, his mouth forms a surprised O. “Ladies room?”

“Home. I’ve had enough.” “Enough? Are you mad?”

“Just tired of being micro-managed.” Before Duncan can respond, I am gone.

The drive back to the apartment gives me time to wind down and examine my actions. Maybe I blew things out of proportion. After all, I was the one who called Duncan. He was only trying to be helpful and I took his head off for no good reason. God, I’m a thankless bitch.

I pull up to the entrance to see Elton the doorman in the lobby. After peering at me through the double glass doors, he beckons me in.

When I enter, he raises a box. “This came by FedEx.”

My knees turn to aspic. When I start to crumple, the firm grasp of a hand at my elbow, and Duncan’s, “I’m here” are the last things to register.

I’m laid out like dinner on one of the lobby couches, a cold compress over my eyes. Duncan is busy assuring someone that I’ll be just fine in a few minutes.

The edge of the compress lifts and Duncan’s beady-browns look into mine. “How’s it going?”

I manage to mumble through trembling lips, “Not so good.” “You’re white around your mouth. Sick to your stomach?”

I nod.

“I getcha. Just make yourself comfortable until you feel better.” Then he clucks, “You didn’t have any food. Just that martini.”

“I’m sorry I was such a bitch.”

He pats my arm. “Hey, what are friends for?”

It’s almost ten by the time Duncan, FedEx box tucked under one arm and me glued to his body with the other, gets me upstairs.

I flop on the couch and watch him place the box on the coffee table in front of me.

“What’s in the fridge?”

The mere mention of food makes my stomach roll, but I rise to my usual gracious hospitality level and croak, “I don’t remember, but help yourself. Open some wine. I’m sure you could use a drink after all this. None for me though.”

Duncan disappears into the kitchen, leaving me to stare at the FedEx. My stomach gives a sick lurch as sweat films my face and I fall into the back pillows.

Footsteps signal his return and I crack one lid. He’s fixed himself a sandwich and poured a glass of red. “Nice Merlot.”

When I manage a weak “Thanks,” he points to the package. “Do you want me to open it?”

“Eat first. It can wait.”

He makes short work of the sandwich between swigs of wine, then rises. Dishes clatter, water sprays, and the dishwasher door clanks shut before the cushion moves again and Duncan grabs my hand.

“I know you’re scared. You have every right to be, but we need to open this package.”

“What if it’s a bomb?”

“I don’t think they’re that stupid. They just want to scare you. May I?”

I nod, still refusing to look.

He rips open the box. Paper crinkles and Duncan gasps. Despite the spinning head, I lean forward and gasp myself. It’s my Beretta.

Duncan scans the note and hands it to me. “If you show up at the trial, you’ll need this. This is your final warning.”

Chapter 42

EL PASO, TEXAS

“AND YOU CAN DEFINITELY identify the defendant as the man who was driving the Suburban that rammed your plane?”

I look beyond the defense attorney into Ray Gibbs’s steely stare. The once-silky-white hair is pasted to his head. Gray, sallow skin hangs from his cheeks and neck. Surviving three bullet wounds to the chest has left a hollow of a man in a wheelchair nervously attended by a worn Elvira.

There are no doubts left about Gibbs’s border heritage. That was established the first day of his trial when the prosecution claimed that Ray’s mother was the only sister of Ramón Talavera’s father, making the two cousins cohorts in crime.

I nod. “Yes.”

“Please point to that person.”

When I do, the U.S. Attorney says, “For the record, the witness has pointed to the defendant, Mister Gibbs.” He turns toward the bench. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

I sit back and let out my breath, pleased my testimony has gone so well. The attorney led me through the meeting with Rámon and has established Ray’s connection to Adelena’s death. But there’s the upcoming cross-examination to face.

Neither Jed nor Bill have shown their faces and for some reason I feel relief instead of my anticipated disappointment. Maybe we were only a passing item. Maybe.

“You may step down, Miss Armington.” The Judge’s voice booms above me. “As I have several documents to sign, we will recess for the afternoon. Miss Armington’s cross-examination will begin tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.”

I hear the bailiff ’s, “All rise” just as I lock onto Elvira Gibbs. Her stare glitters hate that is echoed in the rigidity of her body. She frowns, whispers some epithet obviously meant for me, then turns her attentions to her handcuffed husband.

“Fine job, Miss Armington.” The U.S. Attorney extends his hand for a shake. “Just stick to the facts tomorrow and you’ll be fine.”

I nod, then follow the waiting deputy to a side corridor and down the back stairs.

The ride to the motel where the witnesses are stashed is a short one. The government is taking no chances. Working in concert with the Mexicans, they have managed to extradite Ramón, whose trial will follow that of his cousin.

The deputy escorts me to my room on the second floor, lined with other officers stationed at strategic points.

“Room service again, ma’am?” “That will be fine. About seven?”

“I’m right down the hall if you need me.”

I insert the card into the key slot of my stuffy little prison, shove the door into the half-darkened room, and a hand covers my mouth. I jam my hand into my purse to release the safety on my Beretta, then I smell the Kryptonite.

To feel Bill’s arms around me and his lips on mine is pure heaven after seven long months. When we finally come up for air, he cups my face with his hands. “I couldn’t stay away.”

It’s then I notice he’s not in uniform. “Is it really over? Are you free at last?”

“I suppose you could say that. I’m through in Uvalde.” “What does that mean?”

“Officially, I had to resign when the DEA ‘discovered’ my connection with the cartel.”

“But it was because of you they were able to get Ramón.” “Yeah. I did my job, but for obvious reasons, I can’t show my face around those parts ever again.” “It’s not fair.”

“Double agents never get to play the hero.” “Then you’re not testifying?”

He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t even be here, but some of my DEA buddies are romantics at heart and let me make a detour.”

I remember his wound and touch his left shoulder.

“All healed,” he says. “Stiff in the morning, but it doesn’t interfere much.”

“What happens to you now?”

“I’m on my way to Washington. New assignment.” “Can you say where?”

“I don’t know myself. But I had to see you one last time.”

We stand locked together in this airless cell, passion dimmed by the grim realization we will probably never meet again.

Bill’s voice resonates through his chest. “You’re safe. You have my word.”

I cling to him, not wanting to let him go. I want to beg him to come back to Houston with me. Have children together. Live a nine-to-five life. But deep in my heart, I know it would be hell for both of us. He’s been a loner too long.

“I love you, Bill. I always will.”

He touches my cheek, his eyes memorizing mine. “I love you, Allie. If only...”

I turn away, still clasping his hand.

The door opens. His hand slides from mine. Then, he’s gone.

I abandon my memories of the previous evening to look at Gibbs’s attorney. He’s smooth all over. Smooth face. Smooth slicked-back, black hair. Smooth black pinstriped Brooks Brothers suit and matching shiny-smooth tassel loafers. And, dammit, a smooth cross-examiner.

“You say you saw Mister Gibbs behind the wheel of the Suburban that destroyed the Piper Cub?”

I stare him down a moment before I respond. “No.”

He smiles, then flips through his notes. “Right. It was only later that you saw Mister Gibbs at the Darden house?”

“I saw him, then saw his Suburban. The grill was a mess. The hood was still hot.”

He looks down at his notes again. “So you made the assumption then?”

“No. Not until Mister Gibbs asked Mister Darden if he’d recently heard a small plane fly over.”

“And Mister Darden replied that he had not?” “Yes.”

“Since you didn’t see Mister Gibbs behind the wheel of the Suburban that wrecked your plane, isn’t it possible that his Suburban could have met with an unfortunate accident someplace else?”

I shrug.

The Judge leans over the bench. “You have to answer for the court reporter.”

“I suppose.”

Smoothy’s teeth gleam like a wolf on his prey. “And that Mister Gibbs was only paying a neighborly call? And it’s entirely possible he and his Suburban were never near the airstrip? And that you’re only supposing the conversation between my client and Mister Darden was related to your accident?”

The federal prosecutor jumps up. “Objection, Your Honor, Counselor’s badgering the witness.”

“Sustained. Counselor. One question at a time.”

“My client never referred to the accident, did he?” “No.”

He raises his hand and smiles his smooth-toothy grin. “No further questions for this witness, Your Honor.”

Damn him. He’s left me twisting in the wind. I check the twelve men and women to my left. Most have their heads bowed taking notes.

Panicked, I look to the prosecutor, who stands. “Redirect, Your Honor?”

When the Judge nods, he picks up a large poster board and places it on an adjacent easel. It is the diagram of the airstrip, the Darden ranch, and Anacacho.

He traces the dotted line representing the dirt road that runs from the hangar and airstrip, behind the Darden Ranch, to the Anacacho barns. “The distance from the airstrip to the Dardens’ barn taking this back road is approximately?”

“One mile. Maybe a little more.”

Smoothy jumps in. “Objection, Your Honor, we’ve already been through this.”

“Background, Your Honor, that directly pertains to and lays the predicate for this witness’s testimony.”

“Don’t take too long. Overruled.”

“And from the Darden barn to the Darden back door?” “Half a mile at the most.”

The federal prosecutor then points to the exit from the airstrip to the county road. “And if one were to travel to the Dardens’ on the county road, how far would that be?”

“It’s at least a mile down the airstrip road to the county road, then maybe a mile and a half to the Darden gate and almost another mile to the house.”

“That’s approximately three and a half miles?”

“Objection.” Smoothy jumps up. “Puleese, Your Honor. We’ve heard all this before.”

“Overruled.”

“Now, Miss Armington, in your previous testimony you told us that the Suburban backed away from the wreckage of the plane and exited down the paved road to the county road. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then you said that when you discovered the two other people inside the plane were badly injured, you set off on foot on the back way to the Darden ranch.”

“Yes.”

“It took about half an hour or so to make the distance.” “Yes.”

“Very well. Now, once you arrived at the back of the Darden house. You told us...”

The federal prosecutor flips through the yellow pad and reads, “I went back down the steps and proceeded up the side of the house to the front steps. Then I saw the Suburban. I went over, saw the condition of the grill and felt the hood.”

“Your Honor? Who’s testifying here?” Smoothy’s face is jammed with exasperation.

“Overruled.”

The federal prosecutor shoots me a smile before he continues. “And I went back to the living room side of the house. The windows were open. I could hear Mister Darden talking with his guest.”

He looks at me and I nod. “That’s right.”

“Then you said you immediately recognized the guest’s voice.”

I nod vigorously. “Oh, yes. It was Mister Gibbs.”

Smoothy starts to rise, but the Judge motions him to sit.

“And you said, ‘Gibbs said he saw their lights and decided to take advantage of the Dardens’ hospitality. I remember being startled that he said such a thing. It’s impossible to see those lights from the road.’”

Smoothy jumps up. “Objection. Hearsay.”

“We will corroborate in Mister Darden’s testimony, Your Honor. He’s to be called next.” “Overruled.”

The federal prosecutor flicks his free hand in Smoothy’s direction. “In his cross, Counselor suggested to you that Mister Gibbs might have been paying the Dardens a neighborly call.”

I nod. “He did.”

“What do you term ‘neighbor’ to mean?”

“Someone who lives next door, or down the street.”

“But, as we know, some Texans will travel miles to visit a neighboring ranch. Is that not so?”

“Yes.”

“Knowing where the Dardens live, would you consider Mister Gibbs a neighbor?” “No.”

“And why is that?”

“Mister Gibbs lives in Laredo.”

I see Gibbs redden. He’s forgotten about my little visit. The prosecutor grins as his brows arch. “I believe you were once an overnight guest of Mister Gibbs and his wife.”

I smile. “Yes. April of this year.”

If Elvira could shoot, I would be dead.

Smoothy’s mouth pops open, then he leans into Gibbs, his back to us. He shakes his head, then turns to write something on his legal pad.

The prosecutor glows a “we-got-him” look. “Thank you, Miss Armington.” He smiles at the jurors as he passes in front of them and resumes his seat. He turns to the defense. “Your witness.”

Smoothy doesn’t look up from his scribbling. “No further questions.”

“Thank you, Miss Armington. You may stand down.”

I nod and make my way down the center aisle toward the exit to the hallway as the bailiff calls Del to the stand. Just as I push through the swinging doors, Del meets me and gives me a “thumbs up” look as we pass.

As I head for the room that’s been designated for the U.S. witnesses, talons clamp my arm, and I look into Elvira Gibbs’s anger.

She mutters, “Paul Carpenter is dead. You can thank yourself for that.”

My heart falls away as my last hope dies, but I recover enough to spit back, “I’m not surprised. Paul was dead the minute he sniffed his first line.”

Her eyes widen, then narrow as a mean smile begins. “You’re a tougher bitch than I thought. But don’t think you’re done. If my man goes to prison, you will pay.”

I smile back. “Oh, he’ll go and so will his cousin. And if the Feds can get some more goods on you, you’ll be next.” With each word I speak, her talons relax.

When she turns to go, I grab her arm and pull her toward me as I jam my right hand into my purse and close it over the grip of my Beretta. “Don’t move quite yet. I have a message for you to deliver.”

She pales as I push the concealed barrel into her ribs and whispers, “You’re crazy. You wouldn’t dare shoot me in here.”

I step away. “Of course not. I just want you to thank Ramón for returning my weapon. Tell him I plan to carry it with me. Always.”

Elvira studies me for a few seconds, then brushes by, leaving me to enjoy my small triumph.

One of the guards touches my shoulder. “Miss Armington? The car is waiting to take you to the airport.”

The author wishes to acknowledge:

Virginia Abercrombie and Guida Jackson Laufer, who first believed in me. With a special nod to my paternal grandmother, Alice G. Brogniez, whose handwritten manuscript became the 576-page published novel And Yet They Were Brothers.

The Tuesday Writers Consortium, who listened, critiqued, and nurtured. Dear friends who read and encouraged. John Duncan for invaluable information on the Piper Cub. Attorneys Jack Campbell and Tom Martin Davis for legal expertise. Joan Cramer Wilson, MSW, for technical assistance with the psychological issues. Vanessa Leggett for “pace and place” editing. Patsy Burk for suggesting Dan Poynter’s Publishing Workshop, where I met Ellen Reid of Smarketing. Ellen, together with Dotti Albertine, Laren Bright, Brookes Nohlgren and Bill Frank, transformed my dream into reality.

LOUISE GAYLORD is the award-winning author of Xs,second in the Allie Armington Mystery series, and the novel Julia Fairchild. A world traveler and oper a buff, Louise divides her time between Houston, Texas; Santa Barbara, California; and Old Forge, New York, in the Adirondacks. She is currently at work on the third book in the Allie Armington Mystery series.

Photo of the author by Priscilla

www.santabarbaraseen.com

www.louisegaylord.com

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42