The Secret Sister

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “About what?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “About what?” she demanded.

  He simply laughed again.

  Everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours boiled up in Christy. As though standing outside herself, she watched as she did something rare. She lost her temper.

  She wanted to hit him but knew it wouldn’t do anything except hurt her fists.

  Hell.

  She surged to her feet and splashed out of the pool, not caring that she might as well be naked for all the cover the clinging shirt gave her.

  “You son of a bitch,” she said, clipping each word.

  “What the—”

  She kept talking. “What we have here is the usual old-fashioned western relationship. The dumb little woman gives and the smart big man takes.”

  “What are—”

  “Thanks for the lesson,” she continued savagely. “I’d forgotten that western bastards like you are the biggest reason western women like me can’t wait to go east.”

  Chapter 19

  Cain’s home

  Sunday morning

  Christy awakened slowly, trying to piece together her reality. It was early. Something had split the gray light of dawn into four squares. A dormer window. She was in a sleeping loft.

  It was cloudy outside.

  Something on the bed beside her moved. She felt the pressure of another body along her leg, and the warmth of something resting on her hip.

  It felt like the weight of a man’s hand.

  “You worthless son of a bitch. Enjoy it, because it will never happen again.” Despite the words, Cain’s voice was soft and amused.

  The pressure along Christy’s leg and hip shifted as Moki raised his head and glanced toward the bedroom doorway. His tail beat once on top of the down cover, then again.

  “Red, you awake yet?” Cain asked, flipping on the light.

  He was standing in the doorway with a bundle of cloth under one arm and a cup of coffee in his right hand.

  “Go to hell,” she said.

  “Still mad that I wouldn’t take you back down the mountain last night?”

  She gave him a look that would have frozen the hot spring.

  “Whew,” he said. “How about a truce?”

  “How about jumping off a cliff?”

  “I’d rather have a cup of coffee. What about you?”

  She looked at the steam gently rising from the mug in his hand. The heady aroma told her the coffee was made the way Gramma had always done it—strong, thick, boiled. It would clear the cobwebs out of her brain and put the sun right up in the sky.

  She tried to think of a way to get the coffee and still ignore Cain. She couldn’t.

  A look at his gleaming eyes told her that he knew it.

  “Coffee,” she said in a clipped voice.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Sorry, am I down on my etiquette? Are kidnappers expecting to be thanked these days?”

  “Bullshit,” he said without heat. “I haven’t done one damn thing except refuse to drive down a mountain road after drinking brandy and soaking my brains out in a hot spring.”

  “Does that mean I dare to hope for my freedom this morning?”

  “You can hope for whatever you want. Maybe you’d like me to call Danner and tell him you’re coming in to talk about Johnny Ten Hats, Hutton’s house, and Kokopelli?”

  Her stomach clenched. “You wouldn’t.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Don’t bet anything important on it, Red. Someone tried to kill me. I’m going to find out why.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “Mexican standoff,” he said. “You won’t tell me why you were sneaking around in Hutton’s house. I won’t take you back to the hotel until you do.”

  Her eyes flew open.

  He watched her, waiting.

  “What’s for breakfast?” she asked through her teeth.

  “Oatmeal. Wear these. The slick city stuff you had on last night got shredded up pretty bad when you went over the railing.”

  He tossed the bundle under his arm to her. It unraveled into a pair of white denim jeans, a blue-and-white windbreaker, a fuzzy white silk pullover sweater, and a man-styled shirt in pale blue.

  Jo-Jo’s clothes.

  “Where did you get these?” Christy demanded.

  His black eyebrows rose at the tone of her voice.

  “Jo-Jo came prospecting here a while back,” he said ironically. “She left in such a hurry she forgot to pack.”

  With a hand that trembled slightly, Christy reached for the clothing. Though sturdier than the silk she’d slept in, the jeans and blouse were still lightweight.

  Spring weight.

  “Don’t worry,” Cain said sardonically. “I had them disinfected.”

  She let out a long breath. Jo-Jo hadn’t left the clothes in his cabin lately. She wouldn’t have been caught dead in spring fashions after May first.

  “They won’t fit,” Christy said.

  “Honey, from what I saw last night, they’ll fit just fine.”

  She turned toward him so quickly that her hair fanned out like wind-driven fire. “What?”

  “When you stalked out of the pool, my shirt fit you like black paint. Anyone ever tell you that you have nice legs? And a really fine ass.”

  Her mouth dropped. “I don’t believe this.”

  “Yeah, it set me back too. Spent a long time thinking about it before I got to sleep. You sure you’re a good woman?”

  “You’re just doing this to—to—to keep me off balance!”

  His smile flashed against his black beard. “Works both ways, honey. If I hadn’t been sitting down, seeing you that way last night would have brought me to my knees. Breakfast in five minutes. Don’t be late, or I’ll feed yours to that no-good dog who slept where I wanted to last night.”

  Cain left, taking the cup of coffee with him.

  Three minutes later she walked into the kitchen. To her amazement, he’d been right about the fit of the clothes. She’d left the waistband unbuttoned to make room for breakfast, and the pant legs were nearly two inches short, but the rest fit as though made for her.

  She’d put Jo-Jo’s key in her left pocket. Now she wondered if the pants were tight enough to show the outline.

  “Shoes and socks by the chair,” he said without turning away from a bubbling pot on the stove. “See if they fit. It’s rough country where we’re going.”

  “Where is that?”

  “To see if we can track down Kokopelli and his ‘sisters.’”

  She looked at the Gore-Tex walking boots and the white socks. She knew they would fit. She and Jo-Jo had shared shoes since the eighth grade. Or, rather, Jo-Jo had regularly raided her older sister’s closet.

  “Are prisoners allowed telephone calls?” Christy asked as she put the shoes on.

  “Not if they keep harping about being prisoners when they know damn well they could leave anytime.”

  Her teeth clicked together. “May I use your phone?” she asked carefully.

  “Sure.”

  “Is it a land line?”

  “Nothing else works out here.”

  No shit.

  She strode to the phone on the kitchen counter and called the hotel, wishing the place had voice mail so she wouldn’t have to parade her business past the hotel desk. She suspected that the locals liked it that way. Nothing else interesting was going on in the town.

  “This is Christa McKenna in room eight. Any messages for me?”

  “You have one from Mr. Hutton.”

  “Read it, please.”

  “‘Sorry I didn’t have more time with you. What did you think of the show, or were you too busy looking around Xanadu to watch?’ Signed, Peter.”

  Her heart paused, then beat more quickly. It could be a veiled hint that Hammond had recognized her. Or it could be a polite way of letting her off the hook if she didn’t want to talk about her response to Hutton’s desi
gns.

  “Any other messages?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Read them all, please.”

  “‘Staff librarian says no more material on Hutton or Xanadu. Call me when you’ve seen the designs.’ It’s signed Myra. There’s one more. No signature.”

  “Read that one too,” Christy said impatiently.

  “‘Thinking about you. Are you thinking about me?’”

  Damn it, Jo-Jo, you know I am.

  “That’s it?” Christy asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing else? No one asking about me?”

  “No, ma’am. But the day is young.”

  The clerk’s dry reminder that it was barely dawn made her flush. She had no doubt that the locals were being kept fully up to date on the immoral comings and goings of Hutton’s guests.

  “Thank you,” she said stiffly, and hung up. “If Sheriff Danner is after me, he’s keeping it quiet.”

  “Cops usually do,” Cain said.

  “I’ll bow to your superior knowledge of law and disorder.”

  “You do that, Red, and we’ll both be better off.”

  Chapter 20

  The silence lasted until Cain pulled the steaming pot off the stove and dished oatmeal into two soup bowls.

  “No fried steak, fried eggs, fried potatoes, flapjacks, and toast?” Christy asked. “What’s the West coming to?”

  “At altitude, you need your blood for carrying oxygen, not for digesting a bellyful of grease. Later, you’ll thank me for it.”

  “Hold your breath.”

  “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  He put a cup of coffee in front of her and sat down opposite her. They ate in a silence that slowly became companionable.

  It was hard to be angry with a man who was eating mush across a small table from you.

  She ate almost as much as he did before she remembered the top button of the jeans. After he finished his second bowl, he stood and began clearing the table with the easy motions of someone doing a familiar task.

  “You cooked, I’ll clean up,” she said, falling into the childhood pattern of dividing chores.

  He raised his eyebrows but said only, “I’ll get a few things and warm up the truck.”

  “How long will we be gone?”

  “However long it takes. All day, likely.”

  She started to object that she had to wait around in case Jo-Jo tried to get in touch. Then she thought of the taunting message—Are you thinking of me?—and decided to let her beautiful sister stew for a change.

  The kitchen took only a few minutes to straighten up. Christy was drying the soup bowls when she heard the truck rumble to life. A minute later she was outside, feeling her spirits lift just because of the clean air and shining sky.

  The morning was chilly and calm. The air carried a quiet promise of winter coming soon. The sweater, blouse, and windbreaker she wore just barely kept the cold at bay. Her breath hung like smoke in the still air. She wanted to laugh for no reason she could figure out.

  Moki trotted past her to the idling truck. Its white exhaust plume was like a long exhalation from a great beast. The dog sat on his haunches beside the rear cargo doors. His rakish ears were held at an expectant angle.

  “Okay, boy,” Cain said.

  Moki leaped through the open cargo doors like a deer clearing a garden fence.

  “Warm enough?” Cain asked, looking at Christy, frankly approving the fit of her jeans.

  “So far.”

  “Let me know if that changes. There’s an extra wool shirt in the back you can use as a coat.” He smiled. “If it’s too big, we’ll just wet it down and let it shrink to fit.”

  “Is that before or after I turn you into toad droppings?”

  “Glad to see you’ve got your sass back.” Grinning, he dropped a full leather knapsack near the dog and closed the door.

  From the corner of her eyes, she watched Cain. He was wearing a lightweight down vest and a long-sleeved wool shirt over his jeans and work boots. He’d traded his Stetson for a black knit watch cap. As he climbed into the front seat, he offered a similar cap to her.

  “It’ll be windy in places up on the mesa,” he said. “If you keep your head warm—”

  “—the rest of you will stay warm,” she finished for him. “Followed by, ‘It’s easier to stay warm than to get warm.’”

  “Your mama didn’t raise any dumb ones.”

  “My mama didn’t raise any, period, dumb or smart. But thanks for the cap. Cold ears were the curse of my childhood.”

  He headed the truck back in the direction they’d come the night before. Color was just coming on in the east, behind the San Juan Wall. In the west stars were dissolving into a sky that was more deep indigo than true black. There weren’t many other vehicles on the road.

  Cain tuned the radio to the local Remington station. The six A.M. local newscast was of the neighborhood bulletin board variety. Cattle prices, road repairs, bar brawls, and snow level in the passes.

  “No bodies discovered in the ditch beside the road,” Cain said after listening for a while. “No strange disappearances reported. No prowler caught in Hutton’s house. No prowler not caught in Hutton’s house.”

  She looked sideways at him. “Meaning?”

  “Either Johnny talked his way out of trouble or they haven’t found the body yet.”

  “But then, the day is young,” she said dryly, remembering the desk clerk.

  The weather forecast was more serious than the local news. Brisk northern winds and the expectation of snow flurries at higher elevations. Cain shut off the radio when feed prices, hog futures, and the price of light sweet crude became the focus.

  “How high are we going?” she asked.

  “What we’re looking for has never been found above eighty-one hundred feet.”

  “Just what are we looking for?”

  “I’m not sure. A ruined house and a grave, most likely.”

  “Lovely. You’re a real ray of sunshine this morning.”

  “Beats being toad droppings.”

  Christy smiled in spite of herself.

  Wind outside buffeted the heavy truck. A chill passed through the steel doors into the interior. She pulled the windbreaker more firmly around her. When a cold nose nudged her ear, she jumped.

  “It’s just Moki poaching a little affection,” Cain said.

  Turning, she saw what he meant. The dog had leaped out of the cargo area and onto the back seat. As she watched, he braced his hind feet on the cushion and his front feet on the console between the people in the front seat. She reached for the dog’s shaggy neck and worked her fingers into his thick fur, enjoying his sheer animal warmth.

  “What’s a Moki?” she asked a few minutes later.

  “It’s what the local people called the Anasazi long before eastern professors arrived and started digging.”

  A dirt road came into the highway. She turned and looked at it as they sped by. “Isn’t that the road we were on last night?”

  “Good guess.”

  “What makes you so sure I’m guessing?”

  “Most city folks can’t find their way around any ground that isn’t named, numbered, and nailed down by concrete.”

  Five miles farther south, he turned off the main road onto a dirt track that headed across the scrub flats toward a white sandstone mesa.

  “Do you know where we are now?” he asked.

  “We must be close to the south edge of Hutton’s ranch.”

  “Dead on. You haven’t been in the city long enough to lose your sense of direction and distance.”

  “I had a detailed research package on Xanadu.”

  “Good. From here on out, you can tell me if I’m on Hutton’s land. That way we won’t trespass any more than we already have.”

  “I thought he’d fenced all of it.”

  “He tried,” Cain said. “But along the back side, where the plateau unravels into a thousand nameless little canyon
s and gullies, Hutton sort of ran out of steam.”

  “How did the rancher who owned it before Hutton—”

  “Donovan.”

  “—keep his cattle from wandering?”

  “The locals let God and the red-rock cliffs take care of most of the fencing. The rest got sorted out at roundup.”

  Christy frowned. It had been a long time since she’d been anywhere that wasn’t laid out in a grid and measured down to the last inch.

  “What about GPS?” she asked.

  “Same as cell phones. Doesn’t work down in a lot of the little canyons and creases. Great for the flats, though.”

  “My cell phone isn’t.”

  “Yeah, well, we noncity types don’t have that much to say to each other.”

  She rolled her eyes. Then she looked out at the vast, uneven, unfenced country. She didn’t have to be western-raised to know how easy it would be to get lost in broken country.

  “Do you at least have a U.S. Geological Survey map?” she asked.

  “Hip pocket. Want to get it?”

  She gave him a sideways glance.

  He grinned. “Maybe when you know me better. Right now we’re about half a mile south of the technical boundary of Xanadu.”

  “Who owns the land on either side of the road?”

  “We do.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “The Bureau of Land Management just administers it for us,” he said. “Nice of them, huh?”

  She laughed.

  “Tell me when you figure we’ve crossed back onto Hutton’s land,” Cain said.

  “Okay.”

  He smiled slightly, knowing what was ahead. In the next mile, the gravel road deteriorated to a dirt road and then to a set of tracks that meandered across a heavily grazed meadow and started up a short chute canyon.

  He slowed and reached over to pull the transfer case lever down into four-wheel drive. “You do know how to drive, don’t you?” he asked. “Just in case something happens to me out here.”

  Like a deer hunter out for other game.

  “I drove a tractor years before I got my first period,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s one of the few things about the West that I miss.”

  His smile gleamed against his beard. “Having a period?”

  She snickered. “Driving. But you can have the tractors. What I miss is this kind of driving.”