Detour

by Kurtz, Sylvie

  Were good at it, my evil twin whispered. Great. Now I had three voices playing tug-of-war in my mind—mine, Sofia’s and self-doubt.

  “Still am good at investigating,” I countered stubbornly.

  No one dared to object.

  I parked by the house. Once I figured out what was going on, I’d call in the cops and let them tie up the loose ends.

  Sofia’s energy reached out to me as I stepped out of the car. The air was heavy with heat, weighing on my chest. Ordinarily a stone house this grand would have stirred my curiosity feelers—I had a thing for fine architectural lines—but my feet prickled with the need to run to the stables. Wyatt’s name grew inside me on a wave of happiness, full and cresting.

  Despite the dry Texas heat, cold dread sat heavily in the pit of my stomach at the prospect of walking into a ghost’s world. I didn’t really want to deal with Sofia’s home or husband or her family. But if Sofia had a secret, this was where I’d find the information I needed.

  “Okay, get a grip. It’s just a bit of social engineering. Nothing to it.” Pretexting was once a thrill.

  As I knocked on the ranch house’s massive front door, I was still rehearsing what I’d tell Wyatt James. “Hi, your dead wife’s heart is beating inside my chest and I thought you should know she was murdered” was definitely not the right approach. The fib of my cover was for his own protection. I’d feel him out, see how far I could take the charade.

  “Hello, can I help you?”

  A small woman in her early fifties stood at the door. Her short brown hair was dyed and permed—badly—and framed her round face with tight curls. The amateur hairdo seemed at odds with the charmeuse of her peacock shirtdress that reflected taste and money. Her hazel eyes traveled over me with open curiosity.

  I had the sudden urge to hug the woman. Lorraine! Whoever Lorraine was, she apparently wasn’t a threat.

  “I have an appointment with Wyatt James.” I glanced at my watch and gave an apologetic smile. “My flight came in early.”

  “He’s out in the barn, honey.” She opened the door wide and the coolness of air-conditioning wrapped around me. “Come on in. I’ll have someone run down and get him.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Thank you. I’ll find him.”

  Her brows rose to meet her bangs. “Those heels and that pretty suit aren’t exactly barn wear.”

  I’d debated over what to wear for this meeting. Normally this would seem to call for jeans, blouse and boots, but something had kept nagging me to reach for the bright-blue, wrinkle-resistant suit that made the color of my eyes pop and brought out what curves I had. I’d propped my meager assets with a Miracle Bra and left my long legs bare. My instincts were never wrong when I dressed for a part, but now I was starting to have doubts. “They’re sturdy enough.”

  “Suit yourself. It’s the second building out back.” The woman shrugged, then shook her head as she went back inside. “City folk.”

  I headed toward the stable and my feet had started tingling again with a strange kind of eagerness. Shifting my new leather tote from one shoulder to the other, I swallowed hard. As a representative for a client who wanted to buy cutting horses, I’d have to show an interest in the animals I claimed I wanted to buy. I’d breathe shallowly. I’d wash my hands. No problem.

  Fingers tight around the straps of my tote, I stood just inside the wide stable doors. The sweet scent of hay rode on the breeze funneling down the main aisle. “Mr. James?”

  My only answer was the swish of tails and the curious looks from half a dozen equines, peeking over stall doors.

  The soft thud of horse feet drew my attention to the corral behind the barn. In the middle of the ring, a horse and rider moved as one, foiling the strange-looking cow’s every attempt to get by them.

  I dropped my tote to my feet and grabbed the fence’s top rail, caught up in the drama playing before me.

  The intensity of the rider’s total concentration made a marked contrast to the relaxation of his body as it flowed with the horse’s hard stops and fast turns. I didn’t need the picture I had in my tote to tell me the rider was Wyatt James. Not the way my heart was racing as if it wanted to fly right out of my chest and into his arms.

  His full mouth hypnotized me for a moment with its improbable familiarity. The straight sandy hair poking out the back of his hat would feel soft to the touch. Those steely arms would hold me tenderly.

  A metallic screech broke the spell of implausible awareness. My heart bumped heavily against my rib cage. Where had all this drivel come from? I’d never met the man.

  “Knock it off,” I warned Sofia under my breath.

  Wyatt. A blinding rush of need, desire and longing swirled through me like a tornado and nearly knocked me off my feet. I’ve missed you so much, my love.

  I grabbed the fence rail. “My way, Sofia,” I mumbled. “You have to let me do this my way. Get out of my head.”

  The mechanical cow stood in the middle of the arena. Its lifeless eyes stared straight ahead. Wyatt pressed the button on the remote control in his hand, but nothing happened.

  “Come on, li’l dogie.” The husky timbre of his voice slid over my chilled skin like a caress. Familiar. Intimate. Too intimate.

  He pressed the button once more. “Damn. I thought we had it this time, Ten.”

  He dismounted, dropping the horse’s reins. The sorrel stallion lowered his head and snorted but stayed where he was. Wyatt strode to the steer, opened the panel on its side and stared at the mechanical insides while absently rubbing at his left side.

  Scar. He had an old scar there. How could I possibly know that?

  “Just a loose connection.” Wyatt tightened a screw with a small screwdriver from his shirt pocket, then pressed the remote once more. The steer whirred to life.

  Wyatt mounted the horse. With its mechanical whir, the steer dodged right. Instantly alert, the horse played the steer with lightning-quick agility. Sinewy muscles flexed and extended with power and grace. Watching horse and man move arrowed an odd sort of pleasure right through me. With a press of the remote, the steer stopped and the horse halted.

  “Great job, boy,” Wyatt said and dismounted. The horse pawed in agreement. With a smile that packed a wallop of sex appeal, Wyatt extracted two pieces of carrot from his pocket and fed them to the horse.

  My mind reeled with dizziness. The whole scene was like déjà vu. I shook my head. Sofia’s memory. Not mine.

  This was too freaky. I tugged on the hem of my jacket. After one last gulp of hesitation, I stepped to the gate.

  Wyatt spotted me and walked the horse toward the gate. He checked his watch. Distractedly he wiped the horse’s saliva from his palm onto his thigh and extended a hand through the fence. “Miz Martindale, I presume.”

  “You must be Wyatt James.” I stared at his outstretched hand, letting it float awkwardly in midair. Shoot, I’d have to do better than this if my cover was going to work. I gripped his hand firmly, wondering how soon I could get to the antibacterial gel in my tote. An unexpected current of awareness flowed, warm and strong like a pulse, keeping our hands fused for a moment too long.

  The same intensity of concentration he’d fostered on the steer was now focused deep into my eyes, humming inside me like an overloaded circuit. Inviting green swirled into the wary brown of his eyes as if he knew me but couldn’t place me.

  I snapped my hand free. “That’s quite a show you put on.”

  “A good horse makes it look easy,” he said with an amiable drawl.

  “Are all of your horses of the same quality?”

  Wyatt let himself out of the corral and headed toward the barn. “Ten Bar None’s got great cow sense, and more important, he seems to pass it on to his get. I’ll give you a tour, if you like.”

  His once-over told me I’d gotten my attire all wrong. The suit had seemed so right at six this morning. He was old-fashioned. He liked women in dresses. He liked long, shapely legs. But this was business, not a sedu
ction. How could I have planned this pretext so badly? Sofia’s influence?

  Enough. As long as I kept my cool, things would turn out okay.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” I said with a salesman’s cheer. “I’m fresh off the plane, so I’m not exactly dressed for it, but I’d love to see how your operation runs.”

  The horse’s shod feet clattered on the barn’s concrete floor. I hung back for a second but followed in.

  An elderly stablehand looked up from his sweeping and rushed to take the horse from Wyatt. “In his stall or in the back field?”

  “Back field,” Wyatt said. “Make sure he gets a good rubdown. He’s earned it.”

  The old man nodded. Wyatt turned to me. “You didn’t come prepared to ride?”

  I suppressed a shudder at the thought of being jostled around on horseback. “I’m not a rider, just a buyer. My client wants to invest in the sport as a hobby.” I laughed. “I know what you’re thinking. More money than sense. But there you have it. He has some Canadian cowboy from Calgary lined up to ride the horse.”

  Something cold and wet touched my hand and I yelped. Looking up at me was an Australian sheep dog. “Hey, cutie. You surprised me.” I bounced a pat on his head, hoping he’d go away, but he butted my hand for more.

  “Jake, bed!” Wyatt ordered. His curiosity-filled gaze never left my face, making my nerves crackle. What had I done wrong this time?

  Jake lumbered back to a nest of hay by the front door.

  “Jake doesn’t usually cotton to strangers,” Wyatt said.

  “Animals usually like me.” I kept my tone friendly. “So, about that tour?”

  As Wyatt showed me around and pointed out various horses’ qualities, his gaze kept raking me with unspoken questions. I forced myself to keep on topic but my throat kept getting tighter. “Your horses have a very good performance record. You’ve had a National Cutting Champion, what, three out of the past five years?”

  “They’ve got great lineage.” Wyatt eyed me as if I were growing a horn in the middle of my forehead. “Doc Bar bloodlines. Makes them intelligent and easy to work with.”

  I asked a few more questions, but none of the information I’d gobbled up on cutting horses seemed to impress him.

  Even though he’d only shown me half the animals he had available for sale he cut the tour short. “Why don’t we go back to my office?”

  We walked to the back of the house and entered directly into his office. The air-conditioned interior was much too cool after the afternoon heat, and I couldn’t help the shiver.

  Masculine lines dominated the room. Brown, hunter green with small splashes of burgundy formed the color scheme. Something in me sighed and wanted to flop in the big leather chair in the corner and tuck my feet under me. How well would that go over?

  He hung his hat on a peg by the door, then fired up his computer and got out brochures of information about the ranch and individual sheets on the horses he had for sale. That strange feeling of déjà vu tingled up and down my arms. Only when his patter dried up did I realize I hadn’t been listening. A muscle jumped in his jaw and his eyes darkened.

  “Whatever brought you to my ranch, horses aren’t it.” Irritation coated his slow drawl. “What do you want?”

  So much for Southern charm. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You’re not a very good liar.”

  And here I thought I was giving an Oscar-winning performance, even if I’d picked the wrong pretext. “I came to look at horses.”

  “And you’ve looked at them.”

  Yeah, so what now? The cover was to get me in—which it had—but I needed to find a way to talk about Sofia.

  Tell him. The skin of my neck prickled.

  Impulsively I reached up and set the wind chime at his window into motion with the tip of my index finger. I cocked my head as the pewter horses clinked and clanked in a tune that resonated like a long-ago echo. A shiver clawed up my back.

  His eyes shimmered with something alive and dangerous, and something clicked inside me in a disturbing way. A need. A knowing. A fear.

  The books in the bookcases on the far wall melded one into the other, creating a solid bar of psychedelic colors. Ice-cold splinters sliced into my bones. I’d have to hit him with the last thing he wanted—the truth.

  He frowned at me. “Are you all right?”

  I fanned my face and it occurred to me that a weak woman would get more out of this man than a strong one. “I’m not used to the heat. Between that and the flight, I must be a little dehydrated. Could I trouble you for some water?”

  He reached into a small refrigerator behind his desk, pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to me. “About the reason you’re here…”

  I forced some water down. “Like I said, the horses aren’t for me. They’re for my—”

  “Cut the crap. You’re not here for horses.”

  I shrugged. “I’ll admit that I don’t usually buy horses. But when my clients want me to find something, I find it for them.” Close enough to the truth.

  “You’re a personal shopper?”

  “Yes.” I plucked a lime gumdrop from the candy dish on his desk. He shook his head as if to dislodge a memory.

  His glower deepened until it practically hid his eyes. “I feel I should know you.”

  Tell him.

  Butt out, Sofia. I know what I’m doing. “This is my first trip to Texas,” I said with a smile. “But I know what you mean.” I set the bottle of water on his desk and reached for the picture of a pretty horse, more blond than red. “I like this one.”

  Sofia growled like a two-year-old before pitching a tantrum.

  Wyatt frowned. “My reputation rides on matching the right horse to the right rider. Have your client send his rider along. That’ll be more productive all around.” He stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to get back to.”

  I ambled back to the wind chime hanging like a sun catcher on his window. “Your wife. She gave you this.”

  His expression turned hard, his eyes cold. Who could blame him? I mean, if the nightmares made no sense to me, how could they possibly make sense to him?

  “What do you know about my wife?” he asked, his voice completely stripped of warmth.

  “Not much.” I pushed one of the pewter horses with a finger. “I never met her. But Sofia gave you this at the office Yankee Swap where you met.”

  His jaw slid back and forth. “Are you trying to tell me you’re some sort of psychic? Did my mother send you?”

  Now there was a conclusion worth looking into. I gave a short, rough laugh. “No, your mother didn’t send me. And I’m definitely not psychic or else I’d already have all the answers to my questions.”

  He advanced toward me with the slow predatory purpose of a jungle cat. “Then what are you driving at?”

  Show him.

  Panic welled, but I squashed it down. I shrugged off my jacket, folded it on the back of the chair and, with wood-numb fingers, started to undo the buttons of my blouse.

  “What are you doing?” He caught my wrist, and my pulse beat steadily against his fingertips.

  Swallowing hard, I freed my hand with a release move Leo had taught me and finished disengaging the top four buttons.

  “A year ago your wife died and, because she died, I lived.” I parted the folds of silk and exposed the skin of my chest where a nine-inch scar bisected my breastbone.

  In slow motion, his hand reached up and hesitated over the scar, his gaze transfixed by the deep pink line on my chest. “Sofia…”

  “She’s haunted me since that night.” My voice caught in my throat and the words came out no louder than a whisper.

  His face shimmered behind the veil of mist stinging my eyes.

  “I see her die every night.”

  Still he said nothing, but his breaths pumped out faster.

  “It wasn’t an accident.”

  At the scalding touch of his fingertips on my scar, my br
eath escaped in one long, silent rush. My heart hammered hard and strong, reaching forward, it seemed, to the warmth of the palm now pressing softly against the length of the flaw on my skin.

  “Someone deliberately ran her off the road.”

  He ripped his hand from my chest, and I gasped as I stumbled back.

  “The police investigated,” he growled. “It was late. She fell asleep at the wheel and drove off the road.” He grabbed my jacket off the chair and thrust it at me. “I want you to leave. Now.”

  I let the jacket drop to the floor.

  “Her rental car was a white Taurus with a blue interior.” Meeting his condemning gaze head-on, I fitted the buttons of my blouse into their proper buttonholes. “She was wearing a black suit and a black leather coat. On the passenger’s seat there was a cordovan leather briefcase with the initials SCJ stamped in gold—”

  “You read newspaper articles—”

  “Those details were never released—”

  “An accident report—”

  “No—”

  “Why are—”

  “When they found the car, there was no briefcase inside because it was stolen by the person who ran her off the road.”

  Pain crazed his hazel eyes, sharpened the keen bones of his face. But now that I’d started down this path, there was no turning back. I had to make him believe. Needing a connection, I reached for his forearm, as if the truth could transfer itself with a touch. “When they found her, she was clutching a piece of paper in her right hand—”

  He ripped his arm away, severing the hot pulse zinging between us. “That’s enough! The police investigated. The case is closed.”

  “How could I know she always wore a seat belt? How could I know it didn’t function that night? How could I know the air bag didn’t deploy?”

  He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “Stop it.”

  “How could I know she wanted your help to figure out what to do about a mistake?”

  His features cemented, and his fingers dug into my skin. Between gritted teeth, he said, “Get out of here.”

  “I can’t, Wyatt. She makes me relive the accident detail by detail every night. She begs for help.” My throat worked as if I’d swallowed an apple whole and it had gotten stuck. “She says that it’s started. That people are dying.”