Books By Diana Palmer

by Palmer, Diana

  "Good." Nick walked with her to her horse. "I'll get some film and use the bunkhouse camera to get photos of the carcass."

  "Judd has enough on his plate right now with the investiga­tion he's got going up in Victoria. I don't want him worried about us as well."

  "He owns part of the ranch," she was reminded firmly. "He has every right to know what's going on."

  "I told him what was going on weeks ago, and he wouldn't listen," she replied shortly. "He thinks I'm making it up, that it's a bid for attention. Besides, he's so wrapped up with that red­headed model that he doesn't even hear me..." She swallowed. "Sorry. He's got a lot on his mind. So have I."

  Nick studied her with compassion, but he was worried, and it showed. "If he asks me, Crissy, I've got to tell him."

  She shrugged. "Do what you have to, Nick. But not unless he asks. Deal?"

  He smiled. "Deal."

  "And I want to know what the vet finds."

  "Sure thing."

  She turned the horse and rode back toward the ranch. But halfway there, she dismounted under a spreading pecan tree and sat down under it. No way was she going back home until Judd and his girlfriend finished lunch and went away. It had started out to be a bad day, and it just kept getting worse, she thought miserably.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  By the time Crissy got home, unsaddled her mount and gave the rifle back to the cowboy she'd borrowed it from, Judd and Tippy were gone.

  Maude was in the kitchen, muttering about the clutter of equipment she was having to work around.

  She turned around from the sink when Crissy walked in. "Hiding out, were you? I wish you'd had the kindness to take me with you, instead of leaving me here."

  "Was it bad?"

  "Bad!" The older woman put a dirty pan in the dishwasher. "She ran you down like a runaway tanker. She's got Judd con­vinced that you're pouting because he's paying her a lot of at­tention. She thinks you're totally immature."

  "I think she's a pain in the butt," Crissy said curtly, tossing her hat aside before she sprawled on a chair at the kitchen table. "He bought her an emerald ring. From the look of it, it had sev­eral diamonds, too."

  Maude scowled. "He bought it for her? With what?" she ex­claimed. "He doesn't have that kind of money."

  "He probably bought it out of his savings," she said miserably. "And what could I say, even if I knew for sure? It isn't fair that he has to spend every penny he makes to keep this place going!"

  "Oh, baby," Maude said, grimacing. "I'm sorry. I saw the ring, but I had no idea... Are you sure he bought it for her?"

  "She said he did. I'm not about to go ask him, if that's what you mean. I'm already in his bad book because I wanted Cash to teach me how to shoot a pistol."

  She hesitated. "He doesn't like Cash."

  "He says there are things in Cash's past that he can't tell me," she agreed. "But I'm not planning to marry him. He's my friend."

  "I think he'd like to be more."

  Crissy smiled sadly. "I'm married. Not that it matters to any­body else."

  Maude grimaced and started the dishwasher. It made a pleas­ant churning sound in the silence of the kitchen. "She doesn't know that."

  "What difference would it make if she did?" Crissy asked philosophically. "Women like her don't recognize obstacles. She can have any man she likes. She told me so herself," she added with a wicked smile.

  "Not Cash Grier," Maude countered.

  Crissy laughed, but not wholeheartedly. "At least one man isn't taken in by that poisonous smile."

  Maude looked at the younger woman worriedly. "Men will always look at something beautiful. But how many men would want to marry a face that every other man covets? How could he be sure that she'd be faithful to him?"

  "If she loved him, she might."

  Maude huffed. "She loves baubles, and she can't get past her own assets to notice anybody else's. You watch her," she added firmly. "She'll cut you out with Judd any way she can, and she's vindictive."

  "Judd doesn't want me to begin with," Crissy said on a sigh.

  "He never did." She discounted that long, lingering kiss. It had been, after all, only a point of comparison for her. It wasn't as if he'd followed it up. Then she remembered the strange, quick kiss in the SUV when he'd brought her home from lunch in town with Cash. She still didn't understand it. But then, Judd wasn't himself lately.

  "Where did you go this afternoon?"

  "To see my dead young Hereford bull," came the sad reply. "I'm pretty sure he was poisoned, like our young Salers bull. The fence was cut, just like the other two."

  "And you haven't told Judd?" Maude exclaimed.

  "You know he'd think I was making it up," Crissy said sim­ply. "Tippy Moore would help him think it was just another plea for attention."

  "Not if Nick backed you up."

  "He'd say I put Nick up to it. No. I have to have proof this time."

  Maude bit her lower lip. "Child, this is getting very danger­ous. You shouldn't be riding out alone, even with a gun."

  "You and Nick!" Crissy exclaimed irritably.

  "We're both right, and you know it!"

  She exhaled slowly. "I'll tell Cash Grier," she said finally. "He's the one person who'll believe me without reservation."

  Maude hesitated. "Judd owns half the ranch."

  "I know that, Maude," she replied. "But this is just a dead bull. He's investigating a murdered pregnant woman, and it's hard for him."

  "It would be, for a minister's son," Maude agreed. "He was a sensitive boy. He's learned how to hide all that since he grew up, but it's there just the same. Maybe the model keeps his mind off the ugliness he has to see."

  "Maybe she does," Crissy said noncommittally. "Could you feed me something?" she added wistfully. "I didn't even get breakfast."

  "Of course I can. What do you want?"

  "Soup."

  "I'll get a jar out of that canned beef soup I made last sum­mer out of the pantry, and make you some corn bread to go with it," Maude said, smiling.

  Crissy sighed and leaned back in her chair. "Comfort food," she murmured to herself, and then laughed at her own whimsy.

  Before Judd got back to the ranch to question Crissy about why she was avoiding him, Leo Hart phoned her with some in­formation about the herd sire of her Salers bull. He told her that the man from Victoria who bred them, Jack Handley, had fired the Clark brothers and lost his prize Salers bull and all four young bulls it had sired to mysterious causes. When he heard about Christabel's bull dying, he had one of his dead bulls au-topsied, and poison was found. He checked and found a pattern of cattle theft and retribution with the Clarks that went back two years. At least four employers had talked of similar problems with them. The Clark brothers were suspects in the death of Han­dley's bulls, but they had alibis. John had been in Jacobsville vis­iting his brother, and they had a witness, a man named Gould, who swore they were with him at a rodeo during the time of the poisonings. In fact, Gould worked for Handley and had a repu­tation as a hard worker who never made trouble.

  She told Cash about it, on one of their fishing afternoons in the pay-and-fish trout pond outside town. It was a hobby they both shared—and good eating, when they caught anything. The pond stayed open until the end of October, which it almost was. The afternoons were cool and sunny and pleasant this time of year.

  "Leo said he tried to tell Judd about it, but he was in a hurry and didn't have time to listen," she said as they sat with their feet dangling from the dock and watched their corks float.

  He glanced at her, straightening his line. "Have you had any more trouble?"

  She shook her head. "I know the Clarks are guilty. I just wish I could prove it."

  "We had a tip about a black pickup truck with a red stripe, one like Hob Downey saw parked near your fence, in connec­tion with the murder in Victoria. But we checked every ranch in Jacobsville and we didn't find a single one that matched it. If it was the Clarks, maybe they ditched it after Do
wney saw it."

  The vet had confirmed that poison had been used on her Here­ford bull. Crissy had told Cash, but she still hadn't told Judd.

  He searched her eyes for a long time, and then looked back toward the lake. "If they did poison your livestock, we'll catch them sooner or later."

  "We ought to ask Hob if he's seen that black pickup truck any­where since then," she commented. "He might have remembered something more, too."

  "Have you talked to him about the latest bull that was poi­soned?"

  "No," she confided. "The Hereford bull wasn't kept in a pas­ture near his place. He couldn't have seen anything."

  "Suppose we stop by there on the way back to the ranch and talk to him anyway?"

  She smiled. "If we catch two more fish, we can share with him. He does love a nice pan of trout. He and my dad used to fish together."

  "You don't talk about your father much."

  She drew in a long breath. "When he was sober, he was a won­derful man. But the scars are deep—physically as well as emo­tionally. It hurts to remember sometimes."

  He only nodded, but his face was expressive.

  Half an hour later, they packed up their six fish in an ice-filled chest and drove down the highway to Hob Downey's little cabin.

  His old beat-up truck was still parked where it had been the day Crissy had ridden up to talk to him. She frowned. He usu­ally drove into town to get groceries at least once a week. Odd that he'd have parked in exactly the same spot. Either that, or the truck hadn't been moved. And something else was odd. The front door was closed, but the screen door was standing ajar. Hob always kept it closed, so that he could open the wooden door without having one of his cats rush in by him.

  "That's strange," she murmured as they got out of the truck. "He never leaves the screen door open like that..."

  Before she finished the sentence Cash, who was several feet in front of her, tried the wooden door, found it unlocked, and opened it. He stopped abruptly and his whole body stiffened.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "I think you'd better wait here."

  She scoffed at that. "I'm no lily," she murmured, following right along behind him to the open door.

  There was a smell, a very sickening, sweet smell. Crissy had never smelled it before, and she gave it only a passing thought as she went into the living room where Cash was standing.

  The sight that met her eyes was so horrible that she gagged. She turned and ran back onto the porch and lost her breakfast and her lunch, hanging over the porch railing like a limp rag while tears of shock and outrage and grief poured down her white face.

  Absently, she heard Cash calling for an ambulance, the coro­ner, and a crime scene technician from the Department of Public Safety. She also heard him add a call to the Texas Ranger station in Victoria, temporarily located in the sheriff's office there.

  Cash got her off the porch and to his truck. He opened the pas­senger door and seated her on the running board. Seconds later, he handed her a silver flask.

  "Don't smell it, don't think about what it is. Just drink it," he said firmly, holding it to her mouth.

  She took a long swallow, choked, and cried some more. Cash drew her head to his chest and held it there, smoothing her hair, uttering words she didn't really hear.

  The ambulance came, followed by a sheriff's deputy. The coroner arrived five minutes later. Yellow police tape was stretched all around the front yard and the house.

  "Why are they doing that?" Crissy asked Cash.

  "Because until they can perform an autopsy, any suspicious death is open for classification," he said quietly. "He might have had a heart attack or a stroke, but it could just as easily be a homi­cide. There was a crowbar next to the body, and the hyeloid bone in the throat was broken," he added professionally. "They'll go over the house with fingerprint tape and document every single clue they can collect, right down to fingerprints and footprints and trace evidence on his clothing "

  She gaped at him. "Who'd want to kill poor old Hob?" she exclaimed.

  He held her hand in his. "He saw a pickup truck and two sus­picious men at your fence," he reminded her.

  "Oh, for heaven's, sake, it was only a cut fence, they didn't even steal anything," she exclaimed. "Nobody could prove who it was, and even then, it's not murder or anything!"

  He didn't say anything. His eyes were narrowed in on the house where all the activity was located. After a minute, he left her and went to talk to the medical examiner.

  A while later, Judd arrived in his SUV, along with the crime scene technicians in their van.

  Cash went to meet them. Judd glanced toward the track where Christabel was sitting and hesitated, but Cash motioned him up onto the porch. They went into the house with the other law en­forcement and medical people, and it was several minutes be­fore they came back out.

  Christabel had taken three large gulps of brandy from Cash's flask. It had steadied her, but she didn't think she could ever close her eyes again without seeing what was left of poor old Hob Downey. He'd obviously been dead some time, consider­ing the condition of the body. She barely recognized him now.

  "Christabel."

  She heard Judd's deep voice as if through a fog. He turned her white face up to his concerned eyes and studied it.

  "Shock," he told Cash grimly. "She's never seen anything like this. I'm going to run her to the hospital and have the resi­dent check her out."

  "You are not," she said huskily. "I'm all right."

  Judd actually winced. "That isn't a sight you should ever have been exposed to," he said harshly, and glared at Cash.

  "He tried to stop me," she defended the older man. "I wouldn't listen." She got to her feet, a little unsteadily, and handed Cash the flask. She took a wobbly breath.

  "What's in that?" Judd asked Cash, indicating the flask.

  "Orange juice," she told Judd firmly. "It can't be brandy, because I'm underage, and Cash wouldn't break the law on my account."

  Judd knew Cash had, but the circumstances were extreme. It was no time to split hairs. "All right. Cash, drive her home. I can't leave until the guys from the state crime lab finish." He looked as if it was killing him that he had to let her go with Cash.

  Christabel stared at him. "It's a homicide, isn't it?" she asked in a hushed tone. "You think somebody killed him!"

  His eyes narrowed. "I'm having all the angles checked." He exchanged a long look with Cash. "Once evidence is lost, it can't ever be regained. Get her out of here, Cash."

  She started to argue and Cash hesitated. Judd walked right around Cash, picked her up gently, and put her back into the pickup truck, strapping her in. She could feel the heat from his body at the proximity. She felt safe. She wanted to climb into his arms and hold on tight. Then she remembered the ring he'd given Tippy. He'd never given her anything so personal. He never would. Her sigh was audible.

  He saw that expression on her face and frowned curiously. His big hands held her arms firmly. "You stay with Maude until I get there, baby," he said in a tone so tender it made her want to cry. "Don't leave the house, and try not to think about what you've seen."

  She felt the pain all the way to her soul. "You have to look at things like that all the time, don't you?" she asked.

  He nodded slowly.

  Her hand went to his hard mouth and pressed there, gently. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. Her voice broke and she bit her lower lip to steady herself.

  His chest rose and fell heavily. "So am I." He pulled the palm of her hand to his mouth and kissed it hungrily. "I'd have cut off my arm to keep you from having to see that!" he ground out.

  "It's all right," she said huskily, and managed a smile. "I can handle it. You just go out there and get the guy who did it, okay?"

  He took a deep breath. She had grit. He smiled back. "You're one tough customer, Christabel Gaines," he murmured. "Okay, tiger. I'll catch the perp. You go home!"

  She grinned, despite her pallor. "Okay, b
oss!"

  He smiled grimly. "I'll see you later."

  He turned without another word and went back up onto the porch of the house.

  Cash climbed in beside her and buckled his own seat belt, with a quick glance at her face. "You're game, Crissy Gaines," he said with pride. "Most other women would have screamed or fainted. You just threw up."

  She managed a wan smile. "I'll bet you never have."

  "You'd lose." He started the engine and pulled out into the road. "The first homicide I worked as a rookie cop was in a locked house in the summer. There were three victims—a dou­ble homicide and a suicide, and the victims had been in there for a week. I actually passed out." He gave her an affectionate grin. "You can't imagine what it was like to have to go to work the next day."

  "I can, too. I learned from Judd that cops have really quirky senses of humor on the job."

  He laughed. "They do. I found a dead squirrel in my locker, a dead squirrel in my patrol car's trunk, a dead squirrel hanging from my apartment doorknob when I got home—needless to say, I never let them see weakness again."

  "Neither will I," she replied firmly, wrapping her arms around her chest. "The first time is always the hardest, isn't it, with any­thing?"

  "Yes." He glanced at her. "But you can live with it. You can live with a lot. It's just getting used to it."

  She leaned her head back against the seat. "You think Hob was killed, don't you, Cash?"

  He was quiet for a minute. "I don't think anything right now. Like Judd said, we want to do a thorough job of investigation, just in case." He glanced at her. "But for the time being, you don't go riding fence alone, even if you do carry a gun along."

  She nodded. She didn't meet his eyes. Judd would have made her promise. Cash didn't know her well enough.

  "Feeling better?" he asked.

  "Yes. I was thinking about medical examiners," she lied. "Judd's best friend, Marc Brannon, is always joking about one of the med­ical examiner's assistants up in San Antonio, a crime scene tech­nician named Alice Jones who has a rather quirky sense of humor."