The Secret Sister

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Chapter 36

  The metal box was so full Christy had to fight to remove the thick wad of letters. Two fat rubber bands wound around the envelopes.

  You don’t come here much, do you, Jo-Jo?

  Christy smiled to herself rather grimly. She didn’t doubt that Jo-Jo would have been able to pass occasionally as a tourist or a transient ranch cook. She’d been raised like Christy in a small western town. There was also no doubt in Christy’s mind that her sister had hated every instant of dressing down, of not being the sexual magnet that held everyone’s eyes.

  So what were you hiding here, sister mine?

  The top letter was addressed to Christa Jody McKinley. Anger flared. Just what she needed. More grief.

  Thanks a lot, Jo-Jo. Nice of you to point the finger at me.

  The McKinley was like the rest of Jo-Jo. Half invented. Half real. All trouble.

  Footsteps sounded in the main lobby. They were coming toward the post office boxes.

  She stuffed the letters under one arm, closed the box, and locked it. No one gave her more than a casual glance as she walked out of the post office, across the street, and through the front door of the Dew Drop Inn.

  Inevitably the jukebox was playing Merle Haggard. Ignoring the irritating nasal music, she scanned the long bar for Cain. Several weathered outdoor types stared back with blunt masculine interest. Her clothes were loose, but nothing could disguise the female curves of her body.

  She remembered that Cain had said he would be in a booth in the rear. She started toward the back.

  “Hey, darlin’, looking for somebody?”

  The cowboy’s dusty sweat-stained hat was pushed back on his head, revealing a shock of straw-colored hair. He was good-looking in a rawboned way and he knew it. He held a half-full beer glass in his hand. There were three pitchers on the bar in front of the men. The pitchers were empty. The cowboys were about half loaded.

  She gave the blond man a quick glance. Something about him was familiar. She looked at his partner. The men reminded her of her past, of males who looked at a woman like one more farm animal to be appraised, discussed, and used when they got around to it.

  Once, that look had enraged her, because she’d been terrified that the men were right. Now she knew just how wrong they were.

  She met the cowboy’s measuring gaze with an amused female smile. “Too late, cowboy. I’ve already found him.”

  The man’s intent, predatory expression turned into a smile of simple masculine appreciation. “You change your mind, ma’am, you know where I am.”

  “Bet your wife does too,” Christy said, still smiling.

  The cowboy’s buddies hooted, and so did he.

  No one else tackled her while she walked to the booths in the back of the saloon. As she approached, Cain looked up from a glass of beer that had gone flat while he waited. When his eyes met hers there was a cold, calculating light in them that burned like a laser.

  Uneasily she examined the man who was sitting across the booth from Cain. The stranger was as tall as Cain but hadn’t been fined down by injury and rehabilitation. When he glanced toward her, he smiled approvingly but without blunt sexual interest.

  “This your lady friend?” he asked Cain.

  Cain nodded.

  The big man stood up, removed his hat, and waited to be introduced. Light glanced off the shiny five-pointed star that was pinned on his shirt.

  Christy’s mind went blank. For an icy instant she felt trapped, it was the alcove all over again, only now the stone was falling in slow motion.

  “Christy McKenna, this is Larry Moore,” Cain said. “He’s the Remington town constable and brother of the man who owns a ranch up near the Sisters.”

  She gave Cain a glance that said he’d lost his mind. He smiled slightly, knowing what she must be thinking.

  Moore swept his hat off his head and bowed with a flourish. His skin was weathered, and he sported a flowing, beautifully sculpted handlebar mustache with tightly waxed ends. He moved with remarkable grace despite a solid gut that struggled to escape over his ornate silver and turquoise belt buckle.

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Cain here is dead particular about who he keeps company with.”

  She looked away from Cain, swallowed, and said, “Good to meet you, Mr. Moore.”

  “Larry,” he said easily.

  “Uh, Larry.”

  She glanced around unhappily. Half the booths at the back of the bar were empty, but there were still too many possible eavesdroppers for her comfort.

  Cain slid out of his side of the booth. “Get in. Even in Angie’s clothes, you put every man in here on red alert.”

  “Yeah, right,” she muttered sarcastically.

  “Would you believe yellow alert?” he whispered as she slid by him.

  “I’d believe you’ve been doing tequila shooters.”

  Silently he pointed to his single, nearly full glass of beer.

  As she settled into the booth, he tucked a lock of red hair back beneath the bandanna. The motion was frankly intimate, as was the smile he gave her.

  Moore’s revolver clunked against the side of the booth when he sat down again on the other side.

  “Well?” Cain asked Christy.

  She looked at him blankly.

  “The box,” he said.

  “I took care of it.”

  “What was—”

  “No,” she cut in. “My turn. May I speak privately with you for a few moments.”

  It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.

  “Larry’s a friend,” Cain said.

  “That’s nice.”

  She stared at the constable’s badge.

  Moore smiled at her. “Don’t worry about me, ma’am. I’m on Cain’s side.”

  “Looks more like you and Danner are on the same side,” she said flatly.

  “I’d sooner side with a polecat,” Moore said. “To our lord high sheriff, I’m just a fat old doorknob shaker who ought to be fired.”

  “Danner made a pitch to the town council to take over patrol duties in Remington,” Cain explained to her.

  “Luckily, I had the votes to put him off for the time being,” Moore said, “or I’d be a jobless loafer like Cain.”

  “You’re already that,” Cain retorted. “If it wasn’t for stray cats in trees and folks who lock their keys in their cars, you wouldn’t have a single thing to do.”

  “That’s why the council passed up Danner’s kind offer,” Moore drawled. “They couldn’t see paying good money for what I do.”

  Christy glanced from one man to the other in disbelief. Despite Moore’s shiny star and Cain’s spotted past, the bond of friendship between them was real. They seemed as close as brothers. Closer.

  Siblings didn’t always turn out to be friends.

  “Don’t worry about Larry,” Cain said. “For my money, he’s the only honest lawman in southwestern Colorado.”

  Moore’s face lit up at the compliment. “Yeah,” he drawled, “and the lowest-paid, too. There seems to be a direct relationship.”

  Cain looked at her. “Spit it out, honey.”

  “I hope you know what we’re doing.”

  “I do.”

  “I’m so relieved,” she said acidly. “Because right now Danner is in front of the post office chatting up a Colorado state cop.”

  “Shit,” Cain hissed.

  “Was that jackleg cop Autry with them?” Moore asked. The drawl was gone. His lips were pursed as though he was going to spit on the floor.

  “Yes,” she said. “Danner and Autry drove up while I was in front of the post office. A state policeman arrived a few seconds later. I think he got a full briefing about—” She broke off and glanced quickly at Cain.

  “I told him about Johnny,” Cain said. The bleak look was back in his eyes, the look that said he’d killed a man.

  She grabbed his forearm and said urgently, “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Dead is dead,” Cain s
aid. “What did the state cop do?”

  “He got on the radio.”

  Cain and Moore exchanged looks.

  “That’ll make it a lot harder to move,” Moore said. “The alert will be picked up in all four states. Inside of an hour, you’re going to be hotter than a two-dollar pistol.”

  “Do you have a rental car?” Cain asked Christy.

  “Yes, but Autry and Danner are chasing me too. They called my office in New York and my ex-boyfriend.”

  Cain gave her a sharp look. “Ex?”

  “Ex,” she said flatly.

  “Do they know you’re with me?”

  “Autry suspects it. He warned Nick about you, what a stud you were with the ladies, especially the New York kind ‘looking for a souvenir of the Wild West.’”

  Moore snickered and shook his head. But an instant later he was serious again. “If they suspect you’re together, they’ll pull the tag number of the rental car off Christy’s hotel registration.”

  “Yeah,” Cain said. “The joys of a small town.”

  “You’ll be nailed inside of a hundred miles,” Moore added. “You sure as hell won’t make Albuquerque.”

  “Why Albuquerque?” Christy asked Cain.

  “Larry’s given me a lead on a Bureau of Land Management investigator.”

  “So?”

  “The BLM man might be able to explain why Johnny had me filling that bag with grave dirt.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “I’ll know when I hear the explanation.” Cain tapped the bundle of paper underneath her arm. “Got something to share?”

  She pulled the bundle of letters out and put it on the table. “I don’t know what I have. I wasn’t about to stand around in the lobby and read Jo-Jo’s mail.”

  “Don’t start here,” Moore said to Cain. “You have a lot of friends in Remington, but Hutton has a lot more money.”

  “Yeah.”

  For the space of a long breath, Cain stared at the letters. Then he scooped them up and turned to Christy.

  “It’s too dangerous to stay with me, Red.”

  “No.”

  “Larry will see that you’re safe.”

  “No.”

  “I could have Constable Moore here throw you in the city tank for a while,” Cain said.

  “For my own good, of course.”

  Cain’s mouth thinned. “Yes.”

  “No,” she shot back. “For your good. You just want to get your hands on Jo-Jo when there aren’t any witnesses.”

  He became very still. “Do you really think I’d hurt her?” he asked in a low, savage voice.

  “All I know is that when you talk about her, I’m afraid. You hate her.”

  Moore sighed loudly and took a sip of Cain’s beer. “Flat,” Moore said to no one in particular.

  “Shit,” Cain said.

  “More like piss, actually.”

  Throwing Moore a disgusted look, Cain shot out of the booth, pulling Christy after him.

  “Jo-Jo doesn’t deserve you,” Cain said savagely. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 37

  “Hold it,” Moore said quietly.

  Cain waited.

  “No use going off half cocked,” More said. “What are you going to do about a car?”

  “There’s a rental agency in Durango,” Cain said. “That’ll buy me a few hours.”

  Moore dug a silver key ring out of the watch pocket of his faded jeans. He flipped the ring to Cain. “Take my truck,” Moore said.

  “But—”

  Moore ignored the interruption. “Camping gear and change of clothes are in the box in back. Sharon is shorter than Christy but wider in the beam. Maybe it will all even out. Where’s your truck?”

  “Out back,” Christy said when Cain didn’t speak.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Moore said.

  “But you can’t—” Cain began.

  “Bullshit I can’t,” he cut in. “I didn’t carry you on my back off the Sisters mesa just to turn you over to the likes of Danner. Now get your stubborn butt out of here before you make me mad.”

  Cain hesitated, then accepted. “I owe you.”

  “Like hell you do.” When Moore turned to Christy, his expression gentled. He tipped his hat and smiled. “Pleased to have met you. I do like a woman with sand.”

  The old western phrase made Christy smile.

  “You all be careful, now,” Moore added.

  Cain grabbed Christy’s arm and led her out of the saloon. He didn’t speak to her again until they were in Moore’s truck and safely out of town.

  “Okay, Red. Let’s have it. What was in Pandora’s box?”

  Christy pulled off the rubber bands and began sorting envelopes. “Letters, mostly.”

  Moore’s police scanner connected with a transmission, held for three seconds, then moved on, seeking a new transmission. Cain turned down the volume until it was barely louder than the sound of the tires on the asphalt road.

  “Sealed letters?” he asked.

  “So far they’ve all been opened.”

  “Who are they from?”

  “No return address. Same handwriting on the envelopes.”

  “Read one of the letters,” he said.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Hell, honey, I’d rather be home in the hot spring with you on my lap, but nobody’s offering me a choice.”

  She gave him a sideways glance. The smile on his face reminded her of the instant in the saloon when he had tucked her hair into the bandanna and caressed the nape of her neck at the same time.

  She had liked that.

  So had he.

  Don’t go there, she told herself. Safer to read Jo-Jo’s mail.

  She pulled the most recent letter out of its envelope, unfolded the notepaper, and began to read.

  “Aloud,” he said.

  She started reading without really thinking about the meaning of the words. “‘Hi, babe, How’s my creamy little fur pie?’”

  Cain gave a crack of laughter.

  Despite the red creeping up her cheeks, Christy laughed too.

  “Good friends, huh?” he offered blandly.

  “Sounds like.”

  “Keep reading,” he said.

  “I will.”

  “Aloud.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Chicken.”

  “Cluck cluck.”

  “What happened to those wings you flew away on?” he asked, grinning.

  “I molted.” She took a deep breath. “Does ‘fur pie’ mean what I think it means?”

  “What do you think it means?” he asked innocently.

  She gave him a disgusted look.

  “Yeah,” he said, relenting. “It means pussy.”

  “Thanks—I think.”

  “Anytime, honey. Anytime at all.”

  She began reading the letter rapidly.

  Silently.

  Her eyes widened. “Good God,” she muttered.

  “Need a translator?” he asked hopefully.

  “I may need one, but I don’t want one. Apparently Jo-Jo was head over heels with this Jay character.”

  “Heels over head, more likely.”

  Christy grimaced and folded up the letter. Before she could set it aside, Cain plucked the page from her hands. He shook it open, held it near the steering wheel, and scanned the pages with the speed of a man used to reading dense, scholarly textbooks. His black eyebrows climbed.

  “Find a new word?” she asked, deadpan.

  “‘Poontang’ is an old word.”

  “Same meaning, right?”

  “Right.”

  “That boy—”

  “Jay,” Cain interrupted, looking at the signature.

  “—has a one-track mind,” she finished.

  “Yeah. Tie ’em up, ride ’em hard, put ’em away wet.”

  She laughed. She couldn’t help it.

  Smiling slightly, he handed back the pages. “So she kept her lust lett
ers under lock and key. Big deal. Anything useful in the rest of that pile?”

  Christy sorted through the stack, dividing the correspondence into groups. The letters from Jay were the biggest stack.

  “Mostly from her fur pie man?” Cain asked, glancing over.

  “Looks that way. The postmarks span about eight months.”

  “Not a one-night stand, then.”

  “If the first letter was any sample,” Christy said absently, “standing was the only way they didn’t do it.”

  He gave her a startled look, laughed, and reached across the truck. A light tug on the bandanna and her red hair was free.

  “It’s a miracle I don’t burn my fingers,” he said, stroking a soft, flame-colored curl.

  “It’s a miracle you don’t get them smacked,” she said, but there was no heat in her voice.

  Smiling, he released the lock of hair and concentrated on the road while she finished sorting through the contents of her sister’s P.O. box.

  Once she’d set Jay’s letters aside, the rest of the papers were barely a handful. Jo-Jo had stuffed them into small manila envelopes with a word or two written on the outside. One of the envelopes was surprisingly heavy and had no label. It was sealed with wide, clear tape.

  Reluctant to intrude on her sister’s privacy any more than necessary, Christy put aside the sealed envelope and concentrated on the others. Pulling up the metal tabs on one of the manila envelopes, she shook out the contents. She flipped through them quickly, giving Cain a running commentary.

  “AmEx credit card bills, correspondence with several upscale hotels around the Southwest, gas chits.”

  He grunted.

  She opened another envelope. “Same stuff, different envelope.” She got into the third envelope. “More of the same,” she said, reaching for the fourth envelope. “She and Jay must have traveled to every—Hello, what’s this?”

  Cain looked over.

  She fanned out a dozen smaller envelopes and held them at his eye level. “Recognize any names?” she asked.

  “Scottsdale, Beverly Hills, Santa Fe, Dallas, Taos. Yeah, I recognize them. Galleries and art dealers.”

  “Fine art?” she asked, thinking of the demon paintings.

  “Southwestern-style fine art. Except for the Sherberne Gallery in Santa Fe. He’s almost exclusively Native art and artifacts.”

  “Anasazi?”