Never had understood.
The last of the sunlight threw long shadows from a line of red-rock mesas. Cedar and juniper trees burned along rocky ridges like deep green torches. The steeply slanting light gilded ridges and set fire to slopes, giving a unique, almost ghostly glow to the land.
The truck came down a winding grade and into a narrow river valley where the leaves of huge black-trunked cottonwoods had already begun to turn a deep yellow. Sunlight and wind made the leaves dance like pieces of beaten gold.
Looking at the clean, vivid landscape, she could understand why the Anasazi worshipped the sun. It was more than a farmer’s understanding that light was needed for corn and beans and squash. Sunlight was a blessing for the land, giving it a rich, warm beauty that never grew old, never corrupted, never was less perfect than it seemed.
The sister I loved never really existed. She never will. Accept it.
But a deep, stubborn part of Christy kept hoping, hurting, hoping, hurting…
With a long sigh she looked at the stack of letters on the seat. They made her feel old, used up, bleak. The sealed envelope that had no writing on the outside was buried beneath the others. She didn’t want to pull it out, open it, and find out more things she didn’t want to know.
Hoping.
Hurting.
She turned her head and looked out the side window, watching shadows lengthen and flow together, claiming the land.
The gentle caress of Cain’s fingers on her cheek was so unexpected that she flinched. Instead of withdrawing, he simply repeated the slow caress.
“Sorry, honey,” he said in a low voice. “I was out of line. There are some things about Jo-Jo you really don’t have to know. I keep forgetting how much you love your sister, come hell or high water or human frailty.”
Christy’s breath came out in a long, ragged sigh. “If you’d known her as a child…Sometimes she just broke your heart, she seemed so sweet.”
His answer was silent, another gentle stroking of his fingers over her cheek.
After a moment, Christy straightened, smiled wanly at Cain, and reached for the last envelope. It was so heavily taped that she ended up shredding it with her teeth.
Another, smaller envelope fell out. It had been rolled and taped until it looked like a fat pencil. With it came three folded envelopes. One had Jay’s familiar, bold handwriting, but her eye was instantly drawn to the other two letters. Both were in plain white envelopes that had been addressed in big printed letters. They looked as if they had been written by a child.
“A new player?” Cain asked.
“I guess.”
She checked the postmarks. One letter was three weeks old. The other had been mailed the same day that the big cashier’s check had been drawn. Both envelopes were postmarked Las Alturas, New Mexico.
The letters inside were written in the same blocky, semiliterate hand as the envelopes. The paper itself had been ripped from the kind of cheap tablets schoolchildren use. The message was simple.
YOU GIVE ME SISTERS OR I GIVE YOU BIG TRUBLE
The note was signed by what looked like a brand consisting of a 10 with an arch over the number.
The second letter was even shorter.
YOU WANT TRUBLE YOU GOT TRUBLE
The same stylized brand was drawn at the bottom of the paper.
“I don’t get it,” she said.
“Let me see.”
She held one of the notes out.
“Looks like Johnny was screwed out of some goods,” Cain said after a quick glance.
“Johnny Ten Hats?”
“That’s his sign. A number ten with a hat on it.” Cain looked at the rolled, taped envelope. “Want my knife?”
As he asked, he dug around in his pocket for the small jackknife he always carried. When he handed the knife over to her, it felt warm against her palm, infused with the heat of his body.
“Thanks,” she said, feeling oddly breathless.
As her fingers curled around the jackknife, she realized how cold she felt inside, a cold that Cain’s masculine warmth somehow eased. She knew she should resist the elemental lure.
And she knew she wasn’t going to.
Carefully she slit the tape and the envelope beneath. Another envelope was beneath. It wasn’t sealed. When she opened it, gleaming chain spilled out into her hand, along with a pile of splinters. The chain was old, handmade, fragile. Delicate gold nuggets no bigger than peas alternated with the worn links.
“Gramma’s necklace,” Christy said huskily, fighting tears. “Jo-Jo kept it for me after all.”
He looked at the splinters in Christy’s palm, started to speak, and thought better of it. “Mind if I look at what came with the necklace?”
She gave him an odd look but tipped the small mound of fragments into his open hand. “What is it?”
“Bones. Old, very old.”
Her hand jerked.
“Open the envelope again,” he said. “I’ll put them back in for you.”
She pulled the edges of the envelope apart. A slim, pale green sheet of paper was hidden inside. She knew even before she pulled it out that she would find Jo-Jo’s writing.
Hi, Sister.
If you got this far, I’m in more trouble than I thought. Help me get out and then I’ll help you, because you’re in a LOT of trouble. I left a trail pointing right at you, but I’ll clear it all up from Rio.
Help me, Christmas.
Please.
Chapter 40
Christy’s hands trembled, but her voice was even when she read the note aloud to Cain. It didn’t take him two seconds to understand what Jo-Jo had done to her sister—she’d put Christy right on the firing line.
“Jesus.” He flexed his hands on the wheel, wishing it was Jo-Jo’s neck. “She really is a piece of work. What about the other letter?”
“What letter?”
“Lover boy’s. The one she thought was special enough to hide away from the others.”
Christy reached almost eagerly for the envelope with Jay’s handwriting. His crude enthusiasm for Jo-Jo’s body would be easier to deal with than Gramma’s necklace wrapped in ancient bone fragments and a plea for help from a sister she’d never really known.
She pulled out the letter, expecting the familiar coarse endearments. What she found was a lament from Jay that he hadn’t been able to finish Cain off before the Moore brothers showed up. Christy made a low sound and closed her eyes.
Hoping. Hurting.
And now just hurting.
“Honey?”
“You were right,” Christy said raggedly. “Jo-Jo set you up to be killed.”
There was nothing he could say without adding to Christy’s pain, so he just nodded.
“But you were wrong about Johnny,” she whispered. “It was Jay who tried to murder you.”
Cain whistled softly between his teeth. “You sure?”
“I’m sure. Now what?”
“Find flyboy.”
The flatness of Cain’s voice made her feel even colder. It surprised her. She hadn’t thought she could feel any worse than she did when she understood what Jo-Jo had done. Her secret sister.
Her deadly sister.
“How do we find Jay?” Christy asked.
“We’ll start with Sherberne Gallery.”
“Santa Fe.” She sighed and rubbed eyes that felt like sandpaper. “How far is that now?”
“Too far.”
She gave him a questioning glance.
“You’re exhausted,” he said.
“It doesn’t take much energy to sit.”
“We’ll stop up ahead at Ghost Ranch,” he said, ignoring her bid to keep going. “Ever heard of it?”
She smiled wanly. “Anyone interested in design, style, art, and women has heard of Ghost Ranch and Georgia O’Keeffe.”
“Then you’ve heard of the Chama River Valley and Abiquiu.”
“Sure.”
“Look around you, honey. That’s the Ch
ama River shining off to the right.”
The names triggered a flood of images in her mind, paintings from texts and museums: The Road to the Black Place and the Church at Rancho de Taos, the cottonwood series, and the black raven soaring like death and freedom over the landscape.
Cain pointed toward the hills ahead. “Ghost Ranch is right over there. It’s a retreat for church groups now. A friend of mine runs it.”
“Is Ghost Ranch as beautiful as I’ve heard?”
“Tell me tomorrow.”
She made a questioning sound.
“We’re going to sleep there tonight,” he said.
A mile later Cain turned off the highway and headed up a gravel road toward the clay hills and stone mesas. Though not much of the establishment was visible from the paved road, the buildings weren’t far off the highway. He drove into a small parking area and turned off the engine.
“It looks like a classy resort,” she said.
“If you look harder, you can see the remains of an old working ranch.” He got out. “I’ll be back in a bit. Just rest, honey. You need it.”
He was right, but she needed to stretch more. She got out of the truck and loosened up stiff muscles. Then she sat on the chrome running board of Constable Moore’s pickup, watching daylight fade over Ghost Ranch.
She soon realized that Cain was right about the ranch, as he’d been right about so many things. Just beneath the new buildings of the retreat lay remnants of the old ranch. There were corrals and loading chutes, the stately, gnarled remains of an orchard, and overgrown irrigation ditches that fed water to fifteen acres of pasture and hay. The lines of the old ranch flowed together like a shadowy skeleton just beneath the surface of reality.
Then the last of the light drained away, taking the shadows of the past, leaving only the present, where new buildings gleamed with artificial brilliance against the coming night.
Cain walked out of the long ranch house that served as offices for the resort and crossed the yard to the truck.
“We’re in luck,” he said. “Mack always keeps one of the old cabins in reserve for family visits and other emergencies.”
“Which are we?”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “Both. There’s even some food, if we don’t mind cooking.”
“I don’t mind.” She yawned once, then again. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m so tired.”
“You’re finally coming down off your adrenaline jag.”
“Oh, God.” She groaned. “Don’t tell me I’m going to be run over by the adrenaline express again.”
Laughing softly, he held out a hand. She took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. Gently he stuffed her back into the truck and drove toward a cabin that was set apart from the other buildings in the mouth of a small canyon. Soon the headlights of the truck outlined a small adobe building with weathered vigas showing just beneath the flat roof. French windows looked out across the ranch toward the looming, mysterious mesas. The adobe had been sanded down by sun and wind and storm.
When Cain shut off the engine, the companionable chirping of crickets filled the night.
“Not much by Manhattan standards,” he said.
“This adobe has its own standards and traditions.” Christy smiled at the building. “It’s part of time and the land, like the cliff houses of the Anasazi.”
“You keep surprising me,” he said after a moment.
“Probably because you keep misjudging me. You look at me and see East Coast, Jo-Jo, bitch-goddess, trouble…” Christy’s voice faded. “Well, you’re right about the trouble. I’ve been a lot of that.”
“Not your fault. It started months before you came here.”
“Years before,” she said. “It started when I went east and left Jo-Jo rudderless in Wyoming.”
“Bullshit, honey.”
Wearily she shook her head. “I was the only one who could get through to her.” At least, I thought I could. “I left anyway, and she…”
“Jo-Jo made her own choices,” he said, getting out of the truck. “Every damned one of them. Her, not you. It was always her.”
The door shut hard. He got around to the passenger side in time to help Christy down. She moved stiffly, drawn by a tension even fatigue couldn’t loosen. Her knees gave slightly when her feet reached the ground.
“No more talking about Jo-Jo for now,” he said. “You’re nearly finished. If you don’t let down, you’ll fall down.”
Christy didn’t argue with his blunt assessment. For the first time in her life she felt fragile. She hated the feeling, but she couldn’t ignore it any longer.
The cabin wasn’t locked. He opened the door wide and flipped on a light. The adobe was a western version of an efficiency apartment. The single room still held the warmth of the day and smelled of dried flowers from a vase on the table. There was a kitchen in one corner, bathroom off in a closet, and a sofa that unfolded into a double bed.
She turned and looked at him, a silent question in her eyes.
“After dinner we’ll flip to see who sleeps in the back of the truck,” he said.
“On metal?”
“On a mattress. Larry’s no fool.” Cain opened the French windows to let in the cool twilight air. “We’ll need a fire before long, I’ll get the wood if you’ll see what’s in the kitchen cupboards.”
“Any requests?”
“As long as it doesn’t bite first, I’ll take it. Hell, if it bites first, I’ll still take it.”
She knew just how he felt. It seemed like days since she’d eaten.
No wonder I feel fragile. I’m hungry, that’s all. No big deal. A little food and I’ll be fine.
It didn’t take her long to go through the cupboards and the tiny refrigerator. Eggs, cheese, butter, and a small package of tortillas came from the refrigerator. A big can of frijoles refritos, a bottle of salsa, and a tin of coffee came from the pantry.
Since cupboard space was at a premium, the coffeepot and the cast-iron skillet were already on the stove. After a brief hunt, she found matches and was ready to go.
By the time Cain gathered wood and laid the fire in the small stone fireplace, she had huevos rancheros on the table. The corn tortillas were steaming from being warmed in a skillet with just enough butter to glaze the pan.
“Looks great,” he said as he sat down. “Thanks for cooking.”
Surprised, she glanced up from her own plate. “No thanks needed. It was nothing.”
“Not to me. I love a home-cooked meal.”
They ate quietly, watching the last purple light fade from the western horizon. Somewhere between the old adobe and the ranch house, an owl called several times. Another answered from a stand of trees across the narrow little valley.
Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, absorbing the peace of the valley. The sound of him pouring coffee into her cup was a variation on the sound of cottonwood leaves stirred by a freshening wind. A chair creaked as he sat down again.
“Why did you break up with your boyfriend?” Cain asked.
She shrugged.
“That exciting, huh?” he said dryly. “In that case, why was he your boyfriend in the first place?”
She opened her eyes.
Cain was watching her over the rim of his coffee mug. His eyes were the clear gleaming gold of scotch whiskey.
“Mistaken identity,” she said. “I thought he wanted someone to take to concerts and exhibits and—”
“Bed?”
She shrugged again. “Sex isn’t a big deal for either one of us. Then he turned forty and wanted home, hearth, and heathens.”
Laughing softly, shaking his head, Cain asked, “What else?”
She gave him a puzzled look.
“Why did you break it off while I was talking to Larry in the saloon? That’s what happened, isn’t it? You told What’s-his-name—”
“Nick.”
“—to get lost.”
“What should I have told
him? That I’m raving around the Southwest with an ex-con who’s wanted for killing an Indian called Johnny Ten Hats, who just happened to be trying to kill us at the time? That I saw a man die and heard a dog whine with pain and bleed and bleed and—” Her voice broke.
“Easy, honey. It’s all right.”
“No,” she said bleakly. “It isn’t.”
She felt her throat tighten and knew she should stop talking, but she couldn’t. The enormity of what had happened kept breaking over her in great dark waves, dragging her down in her sister’s muddy wake.
“Maybe I should have told Nick that I’m looking for my sister, who happens to be the Million Dollar Body that Nick drools over whenever he sees a magazine layout.”
Cain’s eyes narrowed. “Nick liked Jo-Jo?”
“He’d never met her. He didn’t even know we were sisters until this week.”
“Why not?”
“I get damned tired of being the ugly sister, that’s why.”
“Ugly? Christ, honey, you’re not—”
“Compared to Jo-Jo, I am,” she cut in.
“Not to me.”
She ignored him. “Or maybe I should have told Nick about Peter Hutton, who has demons on his walls and gets off watching my sister bang the local cowboys.”
“Somehow I don’t think Nick is up to hearing that.”
Christy laughed a little wildly. “Neither am I.”
With surprising gentleness, Cain took the coffee mug from her trembling fingers.
“The last thing you need is caffeine,” he said.
“Then what do I need?”
He started to tell her, but thought better of it. Just because she watched him out of haunted, intrigued, and sometimes approving eyes didn’t mean she wanted to be his lover.
Chapter 41
Cain stood, dumped the coffee in the sink, rinsed the cup, and went to the firebox in the living room. A moment later he pulled a bottle of brandy out of a nest of kindling. He poured half a mug and put it on the table in front of her.
“I can’t drink all that,” Christy said.
The Secret Sister Page 25