by Meryl Sawyer
“You know, ma’am, some of us have to work to keep a roof over our heads.” He dropped her hand as if it were a poisonous snake. “A friend gave me two pieces of canvas and four colors of paint.”
“Don’t tell me you painted these”—she waved her hand toward the wall—“by blending just four colors?”
“Yes, ma’am. I couldn’t afford a brush, so I used a yucca quill.”
The astounded buzz that followed his words mirrored Angela’s own amazement. Someone would have to desperately want to paint to create works like these. In her entire life, nothing had touched her as much as his work. Not even the death of her father. She had everything; the artist had nothing.
Nothing but talent that money could never buy.
Angela orchestrated a smile, her chin tilted up just slightly as she turned to Claire. “Put sold stickers on both paintings.” She slowly faced Paul. “Come on, I’m going to buy you a drink. A man of your talent needs a mentor.”
Seventeen
“What do you think is happening in Paul’s painting?” asked Claire as she walked up to Zach.
It was late now and the gallery was almost empty after the Art Festival. Most people had drifted into the plaza to dance or had gone to one of the nearby restaurants. She hadn’t noticed Zach return to the gallery until she spotted him admiring her prize bronze, Wild Horse.
Zach turned and looked at her. For once he didn’t inspect her body in that arrogant, insulting way of his. Instead he smiled, an adorable smile that canted slightly to one side. But it wasn’t anywhere near the devastating grin he’d unleashed on Vanessa.
“How in hell would I know what Paul Winfrey had in mind?” he asked.
She bristled, telling herself that his cussing made her angry. Be honest, Claire. Be honest. She was upset because the cute grin he had for her was nowhere near the magnitude of the smile he’d bestowed on the actress.
“Don’t you have an opinion?”
He grinned again, more of a smirk this time, but she didn’t smile back. Forget Angela’s advice. This man was trouble with a capital T.
“I haven’t a clue,” Zach said. “I’m wondering how this artist managed to show the fine hairs in Wild Horse’s headdress.”
“That’s the secret to crafting a great bronze,” she said, very proud of her mother who had spotted the Colin Ashcroft bronze long before the artist became world renowned.
“No thought about what Paul’s painting means?” she asked as Zach continued to study the bronze.
Finally, he looked over his shoulder at the painting, then at Claire. “The cowboy loves her, but all he has to offer is himself. Does she love him enough to accept the flowers he picked … and accept him for what he is?”
His eyes never left hers during the explanation, and she knew there was some hidden meaning to what he was saying. Suddenly, the gallery seemed too empty and too dominated by Zach’s masculine presence, all six-feet-four-plus of him. Every time they were alone something happened. She bridged her torso with her arms to combat a shiver of anticipation.
“What do you think it means?” he asked.
She hesitated to say what she thought. She’d heard so many interpretations of Paul’s work that she was confused. “My first impression was the woman loves him. She honestly loves him, and she’s touched by the wildflowers he’s brought. She turns away to keep him from seeing the tears of happiness. It’s the kind of painting that means something different to everyone. That’s what makes it so powerful.”
He looked back at the painting, then turned his gaze to her. She told herself not to let her guard down, but it was difficult. There was something boyish in his expression that reminded her of the young Zach Coulter the bad boy who hid his sensitive side from everyone but her. She had defied her father for the first time and had secretly met Zach, night after night, convinced she loved him. Well, she’d been a kid then, too young to know the meaning of true love.
“Should I lock up?” asked Suzi.
Claire blessed the interruption and glanced around. Everyone had left except the three of them. No doubt, Suzi was anxious to get out to the plaza where the band was now playing. “Go on. I’ll close the shop. You were a tremendous help tonight. Thanks. There’ll be something extra in your paycheck.”
“Who bought Paul’s paintings?” Zach asked as Suzi left.
“Angela Whitmore took both of them. She’s decided to become his mentor. They’re over at Tortilla Flats having a drink.” She scrambled for something else to say, conscious of being alone with him. “People loved Paul’s work. I would have sold both paintings in the first ten minutes, if I hadn’t put such a high price on them. He was an instant hit.”
“Paul’s a good guy. He deserves it.” He was silent for a moment, then his dark gaze moved over her face. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”
The suggestive undertone to his voice warned her to keep the conversation light. She opted to ignore the remark, waving her hand at the near-empty display cases. “Look at this place. Red dot heaven. People bought everything in sight. I have a lot of cash. I need to take it to the night drop at the bank.”
“I’ll walk over with you.”
She started to protest, but changed her mind. The night drop at her father’s bank was around the corner from the plaza on a dark side street. Normally this wouldn’t have concerned her, but the town was filled with strangers. The last thing she wanted to do was risk losing the money that would be a giant step toward getting her out of debt. No one would dare take on Zach Coulter.
She brought Lucy and Lobo inside and locked the gallery, then dropped the keys in her pocket. “Boy, I have a lot of cleaning up to do, not to mention restocking.”
Outside, the band blasted rock music up to the star-filled sky. A blue corn moon sulked between mountain peaks, creating pools of shadow and light. A full moon like this meant warm summer days which would make the corn grow tall, promising a bountiful harvest.
Tonight the air was soft and filled with the mouthwatering aroma of chilis roasting on piñon grills and tamales steaming in blue corn husks. Claire’s stomach rumbled, and she realized that she hadn’t eaten all day.
Zach walked beside her, but he hadn’t said anything since volunteering to accompany her to the bank. He put his hand on the small of her back to guide her through the crowd in front of a sidewalk café. She tensed, as the warmth from his palm seeped through the summer-weight suede.
She clutched the deposit bag under her arm, aware of a lightness that made her slightly giddy and the chill prickling down her arms. Was this the way other women responded to Zach? Undoubtedly. He was the talk of the town, she reminded herself—just the way his father had been.
Never forget it.
“The weirdest thing happened.” She was jabbering nervously and she knew it, but if she could keep talking, she could overcome her body’s involuntary reaction. “Tohono stopped by to see Paul’s paintings. I asked Tohono who he thought killed Duncan Morrell. What do you think he said?”
His arm was around her waist now, touching her lightly, guiding her through the crowd, but there was something possessive—and reassuring—about his touch. A dangerous warmth was invading her body, and she had to steel herself against it.
He gazed down at her, a hint of mocking laughter in his eyes. “I give. Who does Tohono think murdered Morrell?”
“A chindi.”
“A ghost?” Zach chuckled as they rounded the corner and walked down the dark side street. “What do you expect? Tohono’s part Navajo and comes from the Talking Water clan. They love to spin a yarn, particularly tales about ghosts. When something isn’t easily explained—like this murder—they blame it on a chindi. It’s Tohono’s way of copping out. Believe me, he has an opinion about who committed the crime.”
“Well, the killer might as well be a ghost. Nobody saw anything. No one even heard the shot,” Claire said, but Zach didn’t comment. Whatever he knew, he was no longer sharing it with her.
Ac
ting on a hunch, she asked, “Who was the man with you tonight?”
A half beat of silence. “Brad Yeager is the Special Agent in Charge of the FBI field office in Gallup. He’s a friend who’s in town to help with the rodeo crowds.”
Claire smiled inwardly, his words confirming her suspicions. Zach was keeping information about the case to himself because the FBI was in on the investigation. She wasn’t a bit surprised. The lithograph fraud had been simmering for sometime, ready to boil over and tarnish the entire art community.
“Maybe this will be like Manby’s murder,” she said, referring to a turn-of-the-century case that was never solved. “Arthur Manby was just like Duncan Morrell. He’d bilked so many people that there were more than a dozen prime suspects. Any one of them had reason to cut off his head and leave it on the fireplace.”
Zach didn’t take the bait. Without commenting on the similarities between the two cases, or telling her anything, he held open the night deposit box.
She dropped the pouch into the slot. Wait until morning when the teller counted the cash, tallied the checks, and added the credit-card receipts to the total, she thought. Her father would have to be impressed by The Rising Sun’s success. Then she wondered if she would ever be able to please him.
She suppressed the niggling feeling of anxiety that always came when she thought about pleasing her father. Nothing she was going to do short of giving up the gallery and coming to work at his bank was likely to make him truly happy. But if he would just once be a tiny bit encouraging, she would be satisfied.
They walked back toward the plaza, Zach’s hand still on her waist. People filled the square and the street, which had been blocked off for the event. The band began fiddling a country tune that sounded vaguely familiar.
“Listen to them butcher that song,” commented Zach. “They aren’t Flash and The Rusty Roots. Why even try to play ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia?’ It’s a crime.”
“I knew I’d heard that song somewhere. They were playing it the night someone put a Roofie in my drink. One line says something about the devil being in the house of the rising sun. I laughed then, but I’m not laughing now. Duncan’s dead and I’m one of the suspects.”
“It’s one of my favorite songs—played right. The Charlie Daniels’ Band does it best,” he responded, again dodging any reference to the case.
“Really? I didn’t know you liked Country Western music.” Claire looked up at him.
His eyes were so blue, so compelling, and the lashes framing them so dense that together they tempered the angular planes of his face. His eyes spoke to her and always had. At times they seemed to see straight through to her soul, silently communicating with her in a way no one else could. It was just Zach’s special brand of magnetism, she reminded herself.
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Claire.”
She wasn’t touching that one. She forced her gaze away from his and looked at the brightly lit plaza. People were dancing, laughing, having a great time. She’d be dancing on air herself but Duncan Morrell’s murder hung over her, dampening her spirits. Knowing the FBI was involved should reassure her, but instead it gave her a very uneasy feeling.
“I just wish the man with the beard would turn up and give me an alibi,” she said. “In a way, I hoped it was Paul because I really could use an alibi. But when I saw his work and discovered how talented he was, I didn’t ask him. I don’t know if I could work with him if he’d been the man at The Hideaway.”
“Claire, I told you earlier. Paul is not your stranger.”
Zach’s words were reassuring, yet something in his tone troubled her. Coyote waits. Lurking in the shadows. Tohono’s ominous warning came to her suddenly. Could there have been two people involved in Duncan’s death?
She shuddered, remembering her archrival had been killed in the bungalow next door to the room where she had been that night. What had happened to the stranger? Why hadn’t he contacted her?
“Let’s get one of Manuelito’s chiles rellenos,” Zach suggested.
She knew better than to spend any more time with Zach Coulter, but the thought of one of Manuelito’s chiles stuffed with meat and cheese made her stomach overrule her brain. They stood in line at Manuelito’s stand. She looked up and found Zach smiling at her. She couldn’t resist; she returned his smile.
“Hey, two of my favorite people.” Manuelito greeted them, his gold-capped front tooth twinkling. He didn’t look one day older than when Claire’s mother had brought her to his stand when she’d been a youngster. “My special, no?”
They both said “Yes” in unison, then laughed. Zach pulled out his money clip, and Claire started to protest, but remembered that all she’d brought with her were the keys in her pocket.
Finding an empty park bench was out of the question, so they ate standing up. All around them other people were eating or listening to the band who had given up on country music and had gone back to rock. Nearby a woman was making balloon animals for children. Just beyond her, a sidewalk artist was sketching charcoal portraits for tourists.
“H-m-m-m,” Claire murmured as she dabbed at her lips with the napkin. “No one, but no one makes a better chile relleno than Manuelito.”
“True. All the years I was away, I kept trying to find rellenos like Manuelito’s.”
She looked at him a moment, more than a little surprised by his comment. Had Zach missed Taos the way she had? She couldn’t imagine why he would want to return to a place that had so many unhappy memories, but the unique pueblo, the soaring mountains, and the quaint town had a special magic that lured people.
It would be easy to ask him why he’d returned, but she didn’t want to get too personal. Last night he’d made it clear that he intended to make love to her. At the time she’d been tempted to give in to ensure his silence. But Tohono’s reference to a chindi triggered the realization that this case was going to take longer to solve than she’d anticipated. With the FBI investigating, her involvement was certain to be exposed.
A ghost hadn’t killed Duncan; a flesh-and-blood person had. Coyote. A clever, tricky person, who wasn’t going to be caught easily. The longer it took, the less chance she had of keeping her involvement secret. She might as well tell her father and brace herself. There was no reason to hurt her father by getting involved with Zach.
Ollie Hammond sauntered through the crowd, greeting everyone with a smile, but when he saw Zach, the police chief’s brow furrowed. His immaculate uniform and erect bearing heralded his military background and rigid personality. Zach’s black outfit with the badge off-center made a sharp contrast, but a welcome one. There was something friendly, yet protective, about a casually dressed sheriff.
“Shouldn’t you be out at the rodeo grounds in your own territory?” Ollie asked.
There was such obvious dislike and outright animosity in the police chief’s voice that Claire was tempted to tell him to drop dead. Ollie was the most bigoted man in town, the perfect stereotype of a racist law officer. For years he’d had a sign on the door to his office. No Dogs or Indians Allowed. The city fathers finally insisted Ollie remove it, but he hadn’t changed his attitude.
Zach’s expression was cold and closed. “I’m off duty until midnight.”
“Yeah?” Ollie hooked his thumbs in his belt and glared at Zach. “What have you done to find those chukes who roughed up Bam Stegner? Nothin’. You’re not even looking for Morrell’s killer either.”
Zach tensed, his eyes narrowing slightly. She knew how explosive Zach’s temper could be. A thought flashed through her mind. What would it be like to live your life with people always expecting you to fail?
Ever since Zach had been a young boy, people had thought the worst about him. True, he’d been a hellion, responding with his fists to older boys who teased him about his mother’s drinking. When his father was killed, the chip on Zach’s shoulder became a slab of granite. No matter what she thought of him personally, she was proud that he’d made somet
hing of himself, beating the odds.
Now the whole town was waiting and watching, judging him on how he solved one miserable case. Arthur Manby’s murder had happened over seventy-five years ago, but people still condemned the sheriff who failed to solve the case. She didn’t want Zach adding to his problems by getting into a fight with Ollie.
“Of course, the sheriff is investigating.” Claire moved closer to Zach. “He was just going over the information I gave him earlier.”
Ollie grunted, clearly surprised she was involved. Obviously, he’d thought she was standing near Zach because the plaza was so crowded.
“Yeah, well, Coulter hasn’t got what it takes to solve this case,” Ollie told her, then he turned and shoved his way through the throngs of tourists.
Zach started to go after him, but Claire grabbed his hand. “Let’s dance.” She tugged and he moved with her toward the gazebo area where people were dancing.
“You don’t have to defend me, Claire,” he said, allowing her to lead him around a group of children eating cotton candy with their fingers. “I’m used to taking care of myself.”
She looked over her shoulder. “I’m taking care of you, the way you took care of Bam Stegner for me.”
“What in hell are you talking about?”
She stopped and he bumped into her. Their hands were still linked, but now his large hand had closed over hers and their fingers were laced together. “Come on, Zach. How stupid do you think I am?”
“Aw, hell. Now that you mention it. I think you’re—”
“Zach, be serious. Chukes did not beat up Bam Stegner. You did.” She pointed to the small cut near his eye, then to the scabs on his knuckles. “Don’t deny it.”
“I took off my badge and got Bam out to the reservation where the tribal police have jurisdiction,” he admitted. “It was a fair fight. One on one. Bam landed a few good punches. I’ve got a cut and a bruise and a few cracked ribs, but he won’t be pulling any stunts on you like that rattler.”