by Diana Palmer
“That’s right,” Bowie agreed. “Guess who Ned Courtland is?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “But Ted Kingman gave up rodeo years ago. He made a killing on the rodeo circuit and invested that money in race horses. He gave that up some years back, after he’d made a million dollars at it, and went back to ranching, specializing in quarter horses. He almost wrote the book on training cutting horses...oh, my! No wonder he was so good with a rope, and knew so much about horses. Quick, we’ve got to tell Aggie!”
He caught her arm and held her back. “No.”
“But she doesn’t have to milk cows—he’s a millionaire,” she argued.
“The whole point of his coming here was to make sure she wasn’t after his millions,” he pointed out. “He wanted to see if Aggie McCayde of Casa Río could marry Ned Courtland who had no money and only a small ranch. Don’t you see? He wasn’t a gigolo. He was afraid she was a gold digger. It would almost be funny, if it hadn’t become so damned tragic.” He put his head in his hands. “I never should have interfered. I’ve put us all on the block because I was obsessed with keeping Casa Río intact.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to Jackson, Wyoming, of course,” he said. He looked up with a bloodshot grin. “And bring papa home where he belongs.”
“But Aggie...”
“Honey, Aggie can’t know. She mustn’t know. He might think she’s found out what he’s worth and wants him for his money. No, she has to think he’s still poor—just for the time being. And not a word to Montoya. He’d tell her.” He got up, a little shaky. “Damn, my head hurts!”
She got up, too, and pressed against him. “Want an aspirin?”
“Make it two, and a cup of black coffee.” He looked down at her in her pale blue gown and smiled a little. “That’s sexy.”
“I’m glad you like it. It’s one of Aggie’s that I borrowed. My gowns are kind of plain.” She blushed. “I thought this one looked feminine.”
“I’d like very much to show you how feminine it looks,” he sighed. “But I don’t have the time.” He bent and brushed his mouth lazily over hers. “You even smell nice.”
She drew his hands to her body and smiled against his shocked lips. “I like this,” she whispered.
“So do I,” he murmured, “but if you do much of that, I won’t get to Wyoming. And you’re not quite up to what I’ll want, either.”
She drew back. “Spoilsport,” she sighed.
He ripped the shoulder straps away and jerked the gown down to her waist with a slow, predatory smile. “I like it this way best,” he breathed, and bent to put his mouth hungrily against soft, warm flesh. She gasped, going under in a veil of pleasured memory, her hands holding his mouth against her. But before she could sink back on the bed, he’d picked her up and tossed her there, his black eyes slow and appreciative on the treasures he’d bared.
“That’s sexy,” he pointed out. “Damn the gown.”
She sighed, and smiled up at him with pure delight. “I’ll remember that you said that. How long will you be gone?”
He was still staring at her breasts. “God knows. Overnight, I suppose, if he doesn’t hang me up in his barn and let his men shoot me. I probably deserve it, if he’s in half the state Aggie is.”
“He can’t shoot you,” she said firmly. “I haven’t...” She cleared her throat. “He can’t shoot you yet.”
“I’ll tell him you said so,” he murmured sensuously. “Black coffee,” he repeated, pulling her up with deft, cool hands. “Two aspirin. And have Montoya get me a ticket on the next plane to Jackson.”
“All right,” she sighed. “I guess I can survive until you get back.”
He laughed with exquisite delight. “My God. And just think how we started out.”
“I’m much more interested in the way we’ll wind up,” she said, tongue in cheek, and smiled at him lovingly as she got into her robe and went downstairs.
* * *
THE FLIGHT TO Jackson gave Bowie time to collect his thoughts and decide what he was going to say to his prospective stepfather. An apology wasn’t going to do it—not after the things he’d said and done. He cringed, remembering how he’d accused Edward Courtland Kingman of being a gigolo. That was damned funny, considering what the man was worth. Casa Río was big, but Kingman had holdings in two states, and probably overseas as well. He was a keen businessman, and not only in livestock. Bowie had never seen a photo of him, but he’d heard plenty about the man in cattlemen’s circles.
He hired a taxi at the airport and gave the drive Ted Kingman’s name, but before he could give the address, the driver said, “Yes, sir!” and pulled out of the airport parking lot.
“You know of Kingman, I gather?” Bowie probed delicately.
“Gosh, who doesn’t?” he chuckled. “Mr. Kingman’s a square shooter. Not everybody likes him—he can be a hard-nosed so-and-so when he has to—but everybody respects him. He was champion calf roper two years running, and best all around twice. We’re pretty proud that he chose Jackson to call home.”
“I guess so.” Bowie leaned back, wondering how he was going to approach Kingman. He still didn’t have the slightest idea about what to say.
The driver pulled through a big wrought-iron gate with a scrolled “K” on both sides and up a long, paved driveway to a sprawling two-story gray stone house on a hill with its own spectacular view of the Tetons. Casa Río would have fit in one wing of it, with enough room left over to ride horses. Bowie laughed ruefully at his misconceptions about their mysterious guest.
Bowie paid the cab driver. “How about waiting for ten minutes or so, just in case?” he asked the man. “I may come through the door feet-first, and I’d hate like hell to have to walk back to Jackson.”
“Sure thing.” The cab driver cut off his engine and pulled his cap over his eyes, apparently content to sit and nap.
Bowie walked up the wide steps and rang the doorbell. It echoed in a cavernous hall and he heard footsteps.
The door opened. “Yes?” a middle-aged woman asked, and when she saw his face, her eyes widened and she stood just staring at him without another word.
She was at least fifty, Bowie imagined, thin, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and severe looking with her hair drawn back into a huge bun.
“Is Mr. Kingman at home?” Bowie asked hesitantly. The way she was staring at him made him uncomfortable. He shifted restlessly.
“What?” she asked. “Oh. I’m sorry,” she said and smiled sheepishly. “Yes, Ted’s home. I’m his younger sister, Ilene. Come in, won’t you, Mr.—?”
He wondered if she’d recognize his name. “I’m Bowie McCayde,” he said, watching her face closely.
The hard face grew briefly harder. Her eyes narrowed and she studied him with the same unnerving stare her brother had used once or twice. “You’re Aggie’s son,” she said finally.
“I don’t deserve to be,” he murmured dryly. “And I hope your brother isn’t in the same shape she is, or I may not get out of here in the same condition I came in.”
The hardness fell away. “You know who he is now. Did that help?”
“Not much. But seeing Aggie look like death and worn to a nub learning how to milk cows did.”
Ilene frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“She doesn’t know who your brother is,” he said patiently. “She thinks he’s got a little farm up here in the Tetons and needs a full-time ranch wife to help him do chores. She didn’t know how, so she went to Del Río to live with a cousin, who taught her. Now she’s back home, bristling with success, and she can’t find Ned Courtland to show him how capable she is.”
Ilene’s jaw fell. “Well!”
“So I came up here to see if your brother would like to come down to Casa Río and watch my mother milk a cow
.”
Ilene burst out laughing. She excused herself and ran to the doorway of another room, motioning frantically. She was joined by an older, slightly heavier version of herself who listened, gasped, and then burst out laughing.
“This is Joanne,” she introduced the older woman. “Joanne, this is Aggie’s son.”
Joanne sighed and took the hand Bowie offered. “If Aggie looks like you, no wonder our poor Ted sits and broods all day.”
Bowie moved restlessly. “Aggie’s small and dark,” he said. “I take after my father.”
“We all look like our father,” Ilene offered. “Our mother was small and blond. Dad adored her. She died when I was born, and we all paid for it in various ways. But that’s another story. Do come and see Ted. Uh, your insurance is paid up...?”
Bowie chuckled. “Yes. I told my wife he might hang me up and let his men use me for target practice, so I came prepared.”
“You’re married, Mr. McCayde?”
“Just recently. Oh, there’s a cab outside. I asked him to stay until I scouted the area for mines and such.”
“We’ll take care of him. Here you go.” Ilene knocked briefly on the study door and then opened it. “You have a visitor, Ted,” she told the man behind the desk.
He looked up and saw Bowie, and his dark eyes flashed fire.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“YOU LOOK LIKE HELL,” Bowie remarked conversationally. He stared at the older man reflectively, noting the new lines in that dark, hard face, the new gray hairs that had appeared among the black.
“Thanks to you, I guess I do,” Ted Kingman said icily. He got up from the chair, elegant in slacks and a patterned green silk shirt. He looked the very picture of a successful businessman, and nothing like the poor cowboy who’d come with Aggie McCayde from Jamaica. “You’ve got one hell of a nerve coming here.”
Bowie shrugged, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “I’ve made so many mistakes in the past few weeks that I don’t think I’ve got many nerves left.” He stood his ground. “Go ahead. Throw a punch at me if it will help.”
Kingman looked as if he just might. He came closer and his whole lean, fit body tensed. But after a minute, he sighed heavily and went to the liquor cabinet. “Do you want a drink?”
“No thanks,” Bowie said with a grimace. “I tied one on last night.”
“You don’t get drunk,” Kingman said, his narrow eyes piercing as he filled a snifter with brandy and went back to sit behind his desk. “Aggie said so.”
“Aggie doesn’t know what I did to Gaby before I married her, though,” Bowie said. He dropped lazily into one of the big leather chairs facing the desk and crossed his long legs.
“You married Gaby? Quick work,” the older man mused.
“So it was.” He hitched up his pants leg and studied his highly polished tan boot. “Aggie just got home from Del Río.”
Kingman’s brows lifted. “Del Río, Texas?”
“She’s got a cousin down there. She’s been having farm lessons.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Farm lessons,” Bowie repeated. “She’s learned how to pitch hay and milk cows and muck out barns.” He smiled wickedly. “Then she came home to look for you, to show you how good she was at it. She couldn’t find you, of course. She was looking for a man named Ned Courtland who had a few head of cattle in Wyoming.”
“That reminds me. How did you track me down?” Kingman asked.
“I hired a private detective,” Bowie replied. His eyes narrowed. “I think you knew I would.”
“Well, it’s what I would have done in your place,” the older man replied. “I don’t guess I blame you for being suspicious about me. You had every reason.” Kingman leaned back with a hard sigh. “I’ve been chased for nine years,” he remarked. “Ever since my wife died. I’m rich, you see.” He glared at his brandy snifter. “I thought Aggie had guessed, even though I didn’t dress like I had much money. But the real thing was to find out what kind of person she was, where she lived, what her lifestyle was like.”
“So that you wouldn’t wind up married to a gold digger,” Bowie offered.
Kingman smiled wistfully. “Something like that. I had high hopes for Aggie and me, until she balked at the first test. I thought if I could get her to agree to marry Ned Courtland, who had nothing, it would surely mean that she loved me.” He shrugged. “But it didn’t work out that way.”
“She’s been used to wealth all her life,” Bowie said. “She wasn’t sure that she could be what you wanted. I guess she had other ideas, though, because she left a palatial estate in Nassau to muck out stables in Del Río.”
The older man was still staring into his brandy. “I was too proud to try and get in touch with her,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know how she’d react to the truth, either.” He looked up. “What did she say when you told her who I was?”
Bowie took a draw from the cigarette. “I didn’t tell her.”
“What?” Kingman sat up straight. “You haven’t told her? She doesn’t know you’re here?”
“That’s right,” Bowie told him. “She’s been mooning around Casa Río like a ghost, half listening to what’s said and looking like death warmed over. Gaby and I agreed that it wouldn’t help things to lay it on the line just yet.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Kingman stared at him. “Then why did you come here?”
“I thought you might like to come down to Casa Río and watch Mother milk a cow.”
Kingman gave him a shocked look and took a big sip of brandy. “What would be the use?” he asked. “She didn’t want me the way I was.”
“For God’s sake,” Bowie muttered. “You didn’t give her a chance. All right, neither did I,” he agreed when the older man opened his mouth to speak. “I stuck my nose in where it wasn’t wanted or needed.” He lowered his eyes to his cigarette. “My old man never gave a damn about me,” he said stiffly. “I was his heir. Business was his whole life. There never seemed to be much room in it for me, or even for Aggie. We had our uses, but we never came first. Then, when he died, Aggie had plenty of time for Gaby, but she figured I didn’t need her anymore.” He laughed bitterly. “I’ve never had much affection. I guess I was jealous of the attention Aggie paid Gaby. It was a lot worse when you came along out of nowhere, apparently dead busted, and set your sights on her.”
Kingman finished his brandy. He stared into the empty snifter for a long moment before he spoke. “Business has been my solace for the past nine years,” he said then. “Then Aggie came along, and I lost my taste for conferences and working weekends and spread sheets.”
“Aggie seems to have lost hers for high living,” Bowie volunteered. “The thing is, she’s looking bad—really bad.” He averted his eyes. “She’s at the stage where she might do something desperate.”
The older man was very still. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Just that she’s a little disoriented, now that she can’t find you. She even mentioned that life had lost its appeal.” That wasn’t quite the truth, but didn’t they say everything was fair in love and war?
Kingman let out a long breath. “I didn’t realize she cared that much,” he said. “I thought she was rather relieved when she broke it off.”
“She told me that love hurts like hell at our ages.” Bowie’s chest rose and fell. “She was right. If I lost Gaby now, I don’t know what I’d do.”
Kingman studied the younger man for a long minute. “I might fly back with you, just for the day,” he said. “Just to see her. That’s all.”
“That might be just the thing,” Bowie said, and grinned.
Kingman glared at him. “No matchmaking,” he said. “It’s just a quick visit.”
“Sure.”
Kingman jerked up the phone and dialed.
“Frank? Get the Navajo checked out and gassed up. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
“Your own plane, too?” Bowie murmured. “We’ve got a corporate jet, but my pilot scares the hell out of me, so I fly commercial.”
“I’ve got a Learjet,” Kingman offered. “I fly it on long trips, but the Navajo is more my speed. Let me tell the girls where I’m going before we leave.”
His sisters were smiling smugly when he and Bowie went out the front door and down the steps, to climb into a dark blue Mercedes for the trip to the airport. Bowie tried not to look too smug himself, but things might yet work out for Aggie.
* * *
BACK AT CASA RÍO, Gaby was still digging into Bio-Ag’s past, trying to fight her way out of the delightful sensual web Bowie’s ardor had slid around her. It was hard to work at all, but this was part of the job, and she had to do it. Bowie’s life might depend on what she found.
She took long enough to go to church, her heart so full that she radiated happiness. Aggie had asked where Bowie was, but Gaby hadn’t told her. She’d only smiled and taken Aggie to church to divert her from her dogged questioning.
Afterwards, she went into the study and phoned the district attorney in Callahan, Texas, and found him home.
After a brief explanation of who she was and why she was bothering him, Gaby got down to business.
“A company called Bio-Ag is trying to locate here,” she explained. “We only know what they’ve given us in the press kits, but they’re leaving a lot of holes in their explanations, and we can’t seem to get at the truth. We thought you might remember something about them. I understand that they located in your community some two or three years ago.”
There was a pause. “Bio-Ag?”
“Yes. It’s short for Biological Agri-market, they say.”
He made a soft sound. “I’m sorry, but that isn’t a name I remember. I prosecuted an outfit that was involved in some cases of animal poisoning around here...”