Out of the Dark

by Justine Davis

  Tears stung her eyes, then spilled over before she could stop them. She wiped quickly at her eyes as Mac nudged her gently, as if in commiseration. She had to stop thinking about it, she told herself. She couldn’t function if she did; dwelling on it was too painful.

  She should feel better, she thought, now that Cole Bannister was here, hopefully to do something about the disasters that had overtaken them. But somehow, thinking about him wasn’t at all comforting. And she couldn’t help remembering the flat, dead look in his eyes when he’d warned her never to trust him.

  Chapter 4

  Nothing in that afternoon’s workout changed her assessment of John’s remaining horse. The colt was willing, intelligent and marvelously coordinated. He had it all—drive, instinct and as much heart as any horse she’d ever ridden. Even this early in his training, she could see it, could feel it: this horse was something special. When he reached his full growth, and had muscled out, he was going to be spectacular. In a couple of years, she’d really like to see the cow that thought it could get past this guy.

  Even when Cole’s cat—she grinned to herself at the memory of his fervent denial of ownership—had dashed out unexpectedly from the barn, the colt had merely danced sideways a couple of steps and snorted at the unfamiliar creature, and when she had reassuringly patted him, had settled down immediately.

  When they were done, and she was bathing Mac in the washrack, laughing as he playfully tried to catch the stream of water from the hose with his teeth, she thought how lucky she was to be able to make a living—although a sparse one at the moment—doing this work she loved with the animals she loved.

  And how easy it would be to lose it all.

  Mac gave a short whinny as his head came up, ears swiveling forward. Tory looked around and saw Hobie and Cole heading her way. Her uncle looked almost fragile beside Cole’s height and breadth, although she knew when he was healthy his wiry strength and quickness was a match even for men who towered over him.

  And at their heels was Rocky, who suddenly dashed ahead, startling Mac.

  “Hi, honey,” Hobie said, grinning as the horse’s quick movement ricocheted a spray of water that drenched her already spattered T-shirt. It felt wonderfully cool.

  “Hi,” she said, an odd feeling flooding her as Cole looked at her. When she realized she was feeling self-conscious about her bedraggled appearance, she averted her eyes, confused at her own reaction.

  She had long ago given up worrying about her appearance while she was working. Horses and tidiness did not mix, not if you were really doing the work yourself. Only those women who picked up their horses already clean and saddled, and turned them back over to grooms when they were done, managed to always look chic and polished while riding.

  But something about Cole’s eyes on her made her aware of how she must look. She turned away, busying herself with shutting off the water and neatly coiling the hose to be hung out of the way, and only then realizing just how wet she was—and that her nipples had tightened against the chill of the wet shirt. She was grateful her back was turned as heat flared in her cheeks; she knew she must be the color of her red shirt.

  “This is the one I was telling you about,” Hobie was saying. “He’s only three, but he’s coming along like a house on fire. All the way back to Poco Bueno and Three Bars, top and bottom. He’s going to be a plum good horse, someday.”

  Feeling less flushed now, Tory looked at her uncle. “He’s already good,” she corrected. “Someday he’s going to be great.”

  Hobie’s grin widened beneath the bushy mustache. “You’ll have to forgive her, Cole. She’s a little head over heels about this young fella. Has been since the first day he got here.”

  “Yes, I am,” Tory admitted, Hobie’s gentle teasing erasing the last of her discomfiture and bringing a smile to her face. But the embarrassment came rushing back as Cole eyed her once more, one dark brow lifted.

  “Do you always fall in love so easily?”

  For a split second it seemed to her that he might have intended the obvious double meaning. But his expression was, as it so often seemed to her, unreadable, and she was certain she must have been wrong. So she answered the question as if it had been innocently asked.

  “Only with horses like this one.”

  She patted the colt’s shoulder, then began to use a long strip of smooth, hard rubber to squeegee the water out of his coat. She felt Cole watching her, but she didn’t look at him. She wasn’t a chatterer by nature, but for some reason she felt compelled to talk now.

  “Usually, when we get a horse, it becomes obvious pretty quickly what they’re best suited for,” she said. “Dancers, real athletic horses who are great at balance and quick on their feet, take well to cutting, if they’ve got the instinct for working cattle.”

  Cole nodded. “Nothing quite like a good cutting horse. Great to watch, and a challenge to stay aboard. ‘Dancer’ is a good description.”

  There was nothing critical in Cole’s tone, but Tory felt the heat rising in her cheeks again anyway. She paused in her work and looked at him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to...sound like a lecturer. I forgot you probably already know all this.”

  He looked surprised for an instant, but then it was gone. “Don’t apologize. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to a horse, let alone astride one.”

  “Well, now,” Hobie drawled, “I reckon we can do something about that. You could do me a favor, and take my old buckskin out for some work.”

  “That the one I saw in the pasture next to the barn coming in?” Cole asked.

  “Yep. Ol’ Buck, he’s been gettin’ fat and lazy since I been laid up with this damn new-monia.” Hobie rolled the syllables off his tongue in disgust.

  “Fat and sassy, no doubt,” Cole said dryly. “You trying to set me up, old buddy? Give the horse a nice long rest and plenty of feed so he’ll buck down the first dumb cowboy you can talk into climbing into the saddle?”

  Hobie grinned. “Why, I’d never do such an unkind thing.”

  “Yeah?” Cole gave Hobie a sideways grin. “Tell it to Charlie Horn, why don’t you? He bought it once.”

  “Now, it wasn’t my fault that horse took a notion to go sideways,” Hobie protested, but his laughter detracted greatly from his struggle to maintain an innocent look. “Besides, he oughta have known you always check your gear before you get on a strange horse.”

  “I’ll bet he never forgot to check it again, after that saddle let go on him,” Cole said with a laugh.

  Tory stared at him. It was only a laugh, and a slightly rusty sounding laugh at that. So there was no reason for the odd sensation that seized her, making her want to smile and have to blink back moisture at the same time. The sound of it just made it seem like Cole Bannister hadn’t laughed much in a very long time.

  Like she hadn’t, not since the troubles had started. Until today. Perhaps, she thought as she untied Mac and backed him out of the washrack, Cole hadn’t had much in his life to laugh about, either.

  * * *

  “Good food, honey,” Hobie said as he finished off the last of his third piece of garlic toast. “I haven’t eaten that much in ages.”

  “I know.”

  Tory’s voice was as soft as the expression in her eyes as she looked at her uncle. Cole felt something twist painfully inside him at the pure love that glowed in her face. He didn’t want to be responsible for this, didn’t want to be the one they pinned their hopes on. Old, ugly memories rose up to haunt him. He squashed them with an effort.

  Then he wished he hadn’t. At least those old memories had displaced the image his mind couldn’t seem to let go of—Tory, her eyes alight as she played with a clever young horse. Her soft lips curved in a happy, loving smile...and her breasts clearly outlined by the clinging, wet cloth of her shirt...wet cloth that had urged her nipples to a jutting tightness that had caused a similar sensation in his groin.

  It had been a long time since he’d reacted this way. In f
act, he wasn’t sure he ever had, not so hotly, or so fast. He’d longed for Kyra, but it had been more for the pure goodness of her than this sharp, instant, physical reaction. And with Kyra, not for the first time he had cursed this chance arrangement of features that drew flashy—and shallow—women to him and scared the real ones off.

  Not that he had any intention of pursuing this unexpected feeling now. Not only because she was Hobie’s niece, but because he’d finally figured out that it was best that he stick to the flashy women, the ones who played the game for its own sake. He only hurt the others. In one way or another, he always hurt them.

  He yanked his thoughts out of the well-worn groove as automatically as he had earlier squashed the ugly memories. He turned his attention to Hobie.

  He looked like he hadn’t been eating, Cole thought. Hobie had always been thin and quick and wiry, it was what had made him such an effective bullfighter. But he looked almost fragile now. And by the time he’d finished showing Cole around the ranch, pointing out the new cattle and introducing him to Kurt and Eric—the two boys who’d been helping out—Hobie had been visibly tired.

  He tried to hide it. Hobie had put on a good front when they’d walked around to the washrack where Tory had been bathing that young but impressive-looking colt. He had been teasingly cheerful, but Cole guessed his niece’s sharp eyes hadn’t missed the signs of strain around her uncle’s eyes. She’d quickly finished with the horse and ushered them inside to sit down and finish their talking. Cole had taken the hint and pled the necessity of unpacking, and when he’d returned to the living room Hobie had been asleep in his recliner. Cole had retreated quietly, to look around a bit more himself. And, reluctantly, to make sure Rocky wasn’t out there causing trouble.

  “Your cat seems to have made himself right at home,” Tory said, as if she’d read his thoughts. She sipped the last of her glass of the wine Hobie had insisted on opening, to celebrate Cole’s arrival, he’d said. The smooth, deep taste of the cabernet belied Hobie’s insistence that he didn’t hold much with those “fancy, cork-smellin’ libations.”

  “He’s not—”

  “—your cat,” she said, finishing for him with a grin. “So you said. He may not be yours, but judging from the mice he brought you, I’d say you’re his.”

  “Damn cat,” Cole muttered.

  The first time Rocky had laid his dead offering ceremoniously at Cole’s feet, so pleased with himself that he didn’t take even a token swipe at the hated snakeskin boots, Cole had been startled. The second time, right before dinner, he’d just been annoyed. It had been Tory, walking past the tack room where he’d been standing in time to see the second presentation, who had laughingly explained that it was a token of high esteem, a great gift, at least in cat protocol. He wasn’t impressed.

  “I’ll need a list of all your clients, past and present,” he said abruptly, changing the subject without dissembling.

  Hobie merely nodded, but Tory looked as if he’d tossed a glass of ice water in her face, which, in essence, he supposed he had. For the moment at least, perhaps in her happiness at seeing Hobie’s appetite returning, she seemed to have put the Flying Clown’s problems out of her mind. Until he’d forced them back in her face.

  “But...they would never...I know they wouldn’t ever...” Tory’s protesting words trailed away and she lowered her eyes to her empty wineglass.

  “You asked me here to do this, remember?”

  Cole knew he sounded irritated. He knew he was irritated. What he didn’t know was why. A client’s reluctance to admit that the source of their problem might be someone they knew and liked was something he’d encountered before. He was usually able to deal with it easily, figuring they were going to learn the lesson of not taking everyone at face value sooner or later, anyway.

  But somehow forcing Tory to face the possibilities wasn’t coming easily at all. He turned his gaze back to Hobie. Hobie understood; he’d seen all kinds in his years on the rodeo circuit. And he’d never been fooled by much of anything.

  “I’ll need anything else you know about them, too,” Cole said. “Their primary business or income source, where they live, names of family, banks—”

  “We don’t ask them to fill out an application,” Tory said a little sharply, still fiddling with her glass.

  Cole shifted his gaze back to her. “Maybe you should,” he returned flatly. Her head came up and her eyes narrowed as she met his look steadily.

  “They’re hiring us, remember?”

  Cole knew the phrasing, echoing his own, was deliberate. And she had a point. A good one. She also obviously had more than a touch of Hobie’s grit and sass—she wasn’t the least bit intimidated by him. In fact, he got the distinct impression that she, unlike most women he met, wasn’t impressed with him at all. It wasn’t conceit, just a knowledge born of the wearying fact that women tended to get either tongue-tied or outrageous around him.

  “Good point,” he conceded mildly. She looked surprised, as if she hadn’t expected him to agree. “Just tell me what you know. Or can find in your records, like what bank their checks were drawn on. Or what they might have mentioned in passing. Business problems, family problems, that kind of thing.”

  “You think somebody’s after insurance money?” Hobie asked.

  “When three expensive and insured horses die, insurance fraud is the first thing that comes to mind. Yes. You have copies of the autopsy reports? I’ll need to read those.”

  Hobie nodded, but Tory shook her head slowly. “I just can’t believe it. These people are horse people. None of them would actually—” she grimaced, obviously repulsed at the idea “—kill their horses for money.”

  “Be honest, honey,” Hobie said gently. “You can’t imagine anyone ever intentionally hurting a horse. Your mind just doesn’t work that way.”

  She looked at her uncle, her expression troubled. Then she glanced at Cole. He didn’t think anything showed in his face, but she suddenly crumpled her napkin in her fist until her knuckles were white.

  “All right,” she said, her voice tight. “I’m a naive little fool, then. I’ll leave you two to plan this war, since I’m obviously no help.”

  “Tory,” Hobie began as she stood up and threw her wadded napkin on the table.

  “And since I cooked, you can clean up while you’re doing it.”

  She turned sharply on her heel and walked to the screen door that led out to the yard. She yanked it open and was down the steps before it closed behind her. Cole silently watched her go.

  “She’s just upset,” Hobie said after a moment. “She hates seeing animals hurt, and those three horses going like that really got to her.”

  Cole only nodded. Hobie wasn’t telling him anything he hadn’t already guessed.

  “Arthur especially,” Hobie elaborated. “He was special to her. That Appy was such a clown. We didn’t think he had it in him to make any kind of a stock horse, but Tory stuck with him, and he turned out to be one of the best roping horses I’ve ever ridden.”

  “Which one was he?” Cole asked, still looking through the fine mesh of the door at the slender figure who had stopped mid angry stride to stoop and pet Rocky, who had appeared from behind the barn. Surprisingly, the aloof cat allowed it, although after two strokes he was back on his hunt.

  “The one we had to put down. Foreleg was shattered.”

  “The water-phobe?”

  Hobie nodded. “Tory was the one who insisted he had talent in him somewhere, we just had to find it. I would have given up on him long ago. But when she got through with him he handled a rope and a calf as well as any horse I’ve ever seen.”

  Cole nodded absently as he watched Tory disappear into the barn. It was to the horses, obviously, that she went for solace. He felt a pang that he apparently had sent her there, but he couldn’t be sorry that he’d made her face the facts; too often in cases like this, the cause was very close to home. She might not like it, but it was the truth.

  “I�
��m just glad nothing’s happened to Mac. I don’t know if she could deal with that.”

  Cole turned his attention back to Hobie to find the old cowboy watching him thoughtfully, with an expression Cole couldn’t define. And he found himself hurrying to fill the silence.

  “How many horses do you have now?”

  “Five, plus Buck.” Hobie said. “As of now, anyway. The story’s gettin’ around. I’m surprised no one’s pulled out, with all this happening. One of the owners has talked about it, but he hasn’t done anything, yet. Tory doesn’t know that.”

  “Protecting her?”

  “Somebody has to,” Hobie said gruffly. “She sure won’t take care of herself.” Then his mouth twisted in disgust. “We were at our maximum number, doing real well, but then I got sick and we had to cut back. Tory tried to keep it all going, but she was wearing herself out.”

  “I know,” Cole said softly. “She looks...drained.”

  “She’d run herself into the ground if I’d let her. She loves this place as much as I do.”

  “She loves you.” Cole’s voice was quiet, and even he heard the touch of wistfulness in it. Hobie’s expression became even more thoughtful, but he went on without commenting on it.

  “It was bad enough that I went and got sick right after we made the deal on that extra acreage I showed you. But to have this start on top of already being strapped...” Hobie’s eyes, so much like those of the woman who’d just left them, were sad and troubled now. “Let’s just say I’m damn glad you’re here. I told Tory if anybody could get to the bottom of this, you could.”

  Cole bit back the gut-level, instantaneous protest his mind screamed out. He should leave right now. Just walk out. He wasn’t up to this. He’d been a fool to come here at all. He’d known better, and he’d come anyway. But when he looked at Hobie, when he remembered that weathered face, pale and waxen from internal loss of blood after he’d put himself between the dazed Cole and the bull who wanted him dead, he knew he couldn’t walk out. But he couldn’t—wouldn’t—make any promises, either.