Cassidy, Carla - Midnight Wishes
Page 4
watched the action, wondering if the hair there was soft like fur or
coarse and springy. "Then I quit. Now, have dinner with me."
Abby stared at him and a small laugh bubbled out of her. "You can't
quit," she protested. "Rusty needs you. The ranch needs you."
"Then break your rule." Although he said the words lightly, there was
an undertone of command that caused Abby to stiffen in defense.
"I don't break rules."
He smiled, a small lifting of the corners of his mouth that did nothing
to dispel the intensity of his gaze. "That's not what I heard,"
"Oh, really? And what have you heard?"
He took a few more steps toward her, bringing with him' the scent of
dust, sweat and an underlying tinge of minty soap. It was a
distinctively male smell that called to the core of femininity inside
her. She took a step backward, bumping into Blackheart's solid side.
"I heard from all the folks in town that when you tire of a man in your
life, you just hit him over the head with a branding iron."
Anger surged inside Abby. So, the locals were feeding off this latest
tragedy and apparently she was the grist for their rumor mill. She
eyed Luke with an eyebrow raised. "If you believe that, then I would
think the last woman you'd want to have dinner with would be me. What
if I suddenly tire of you?"
His eyes flashed and his grin widened. "I'll take my chances. Besides,
I like my women dangerous."
Abby mounted Blackheart, her heart pounding in a foreign rhythm. "If
you want to see a dangerous woman, don't give me a good day's work for
your pay. That makes me dangerous. Good day, Luke." She turned
Blackheart and took off in the direction she'd come.
LUKE WATCHED HER RIDE, unable to help but admire the picture she made
on the back of the horse. Her pale blond hair was in sharp contrast to
the ebony darkness of the animal. She looked tiny on Black-heart's
back, yet completely in control. Blackheart. Ironic that her horse
was named the very nickname he'd given her.
"She's a looker, isn't she?"
Luke turned to see Roger Eaton grinning at him. The thin, wiry man
leaned on the handle of his shovel, his fair hair shimmering in the
sunlight. "You don't stand a chance with her. She's got the coldest
heart in the state of Wyoming."
"So I've heard," Luke answered, his gaze going back to where nothing
remained of her presence but dust devils stirred by Blackheart's
hooves. His eyes narrowed as he thought of the blue of her eyes, the
soft curve of her breast against her cotton blouse. The fact that she
was attractive only made his mission more pleasant.
"You should have seen her a couple of months ago, when Colette got
herself into some trouble. Abby Was like a tigress, all teeth and
claws."
Colette. Luke knew she was the youngest, the one who'd recently gotten
married. "What kind of trouble was Colette in?"
Roger wiped an arm across his forehead. "I don't know the whole story.
All I know for sure is she showed up here on the ranch ready to give
birth and without a memory in her head. Seems she was a government
witness against some powerful lawyer back in California. It all worked
out all right and she married the man who was supposed to be protecting
her. Anyway, all I know is that Abby loves three things... her two
sisters and that kid of hers. Beyond that, the woman has stone where a
heart should be."
Luke flashed the young cowboy a quick grin. "I always did like a
challenge."
Roger snorted. "I'm just offering some friendly advice. Don't waste
your time."
"I figure all I've got to lose is time." Luke tucked his bandanna into
his jeans pocket, then picked up his sledgehammer, indicating as far as
he was concerned the conversation was over.
What Roger Eaton didn't know---couldn't know--was that Abby Connor was
his whole reason for being here. He intended to get to know her,
wanted to learn her strengths and weaknesses, her hopes and dreams.
Then, systematically, he intended to use that knowledge to destroy
her.
Chapter Three
The day was far too beautiful for a funeral. It was as if nature
itself mocked the very gravity of the ceremony taking place. Birds
called cheerfully and the horses danced and neighed spiritedly in the
distant corral.
Weddings and funerals always commanded a crowd and today was no
different. Abby guessed between forty and fifty people stood beneath
the grove of trees that sheltered the Connor family cemetery.
Abby suspected most people had come less to pay their respects for
Greg's passing and more to assuage their curiosity about her . the
suspect in Greg's murder case.
Although murder might happen occasionally in the city of Cheyenne, it
was rare on the ranches surrounding Cheyenne.
"You all right?" Colette whispered next to her as Preacher Thompson
droned on and on. Colette's hand clasped around Abby's arm, supportive
and loving.
Abby nodded, wishing she could squeeze out a few tears to satisfy
everyone. She had a feeling most of the attendees were holding their
breath, hoping she'd throw herself onto the casket and sob out her
guilt.
But her eyes remained dry, although her heart entertained a small ache
for what might have been had Greg been a different kind of man.
When she'd met him she'd dreamed of what their lives would be like
together. They had been sweet, midnight dreams of love and laughter.
She placed a hand on Cody's shoulder. He looked up at her, flashing
her a small smile. Greg's death was no more than a stranger's passing
to the little boy. He'd been so young when Greg had left; he couldn't
grieve for a man he'd never known.
Wishing this were finished, dreading the gathering at the house that
would immediately follow, Abby looked around the group of people.
Junior Blanchard and Deputy Helstrom stood off to one side, eyeing each
and every person as if seeking answers to unspoken questions.
Several of the ranch hands looked ill at ease, their hats in their
hands. Abby knew they'd much rather be out working, but she'd called
off all work at the ranch for the day.
Her gaze locked with Luke's. His eyes held a stark, naked emotion that
for a moment threatened to buckle Abby's knees. Grief. Deep and dark,
it flowed from him for just a moment, then was replaced by a knowing
smile, making her wonder if she'd seen grief at all.
A shiver raked up her spine as she tried to figure out exactly what
she'd seen. Why would Luke Black feel anything about Greg's death? Or
had she only imagined that stark moment of grief?
She broke the gaze and instead focused on Preacher Thompson, who with
thunder and damnation reverberating in his voice, seemed to be winding
down.
With the official ceremony over, the crowd of people began to disperse,
although Abby knew over the next several hours most of them would make
their way to the main house.
As a unit, the Connors walked the distance back to the
house. "Abby,
Colette and I don't have to take off tomorrow," Hank said as he shifted
Brook, his daughter, from one arm to the other.
"I don't want to hear another word about it," Abby said firmly. "You
and Colette and the baby are getting on that plane tomorrow." She
smiled at her brother-in-law. "Really, Hank, I insist. There's
absolutely nothing you can do here. In fact, if I know you and Colette
are having a good time, it will make things easier for me."
"And it's not like she'll be here all alone," Belinda added. "I'll be
here with her."
"And me," Cody quipped, not wanting to be left out.
"Besides," Abby continued. "I'm sure it's just a matter of time before
Junior and Deputy Helstrom find the person who killed Greg." She hoped
her voice rang with more optimism than she felt.
At the house, Maria had prepared for the onslaught of people, a sturdy
twenty-cup coffeemaker perked in the kitchen and pitchers of ice tea
had been made. Throwaway cups and napkins lined the kitchen table
along with several platters of cookies. Abby knew most of the people
coming would bring food, as if hot casseroles and baked hams could be a
panacea for sorrow.
Abby went to her room to change into cooler, more comfortable clothes
and instructed Cody to get out of his little suit and into jeans. She
knew better than to expect Cody to keep his suit clean for an entire
afternoon.
By the time she returned to the living room, people had begun to
arrive.
As with most social gatherings, it didn't take long for the men and
women to find different areas of comfort. The women bustled in the
kitchen, helping Maria cope with the steady influx of food, and the men
rambled out to sit on the porch or lean against the front fence.
Abby drifted back and forth, accepting condolences and trying to ignore
the frank stares and whispers that followed in her wake.
"Heard she said she'd kill him..."
"She's always been a cold one..."
"Such a flirt, it's no wonder she killed him..." The whispers followed
her like shadows, snippets of conversations she knew dwelled on
everything from speculation on her love life with Greg, to how she
might have gotten into his rented room to kill him.
"Abby." Sheila swept her into a friendly embrace. "How you doing,
hon?" She pulled Abby out of the living room and into the quiet of the
hallway. "I can't believe you got stuck paying for Greg's funeral
expenses after all that man didn't do for you."
Abby smiled. "It seems even in death, Greg is still sucking money from
me. But I couldn't just let him be unclaimed, buried in some county
plot. As Cody's father, I owe him this much."
Sheila frowned. "Abby, I'm sorry about having to tell Dad about the
fight you and Greg had in the diner on the night he was killed. I hope
...I hope you aren't mad at me."
Abby gripped her. friend hand. "Don't be silly. If you hadn't told
your father, somebody else who was in the diner that night would have.
Besides, I just had a fight with Greg. I didn't kill him."
Sheila nodded. "I know that, and so does Dad. But I think he's going
to hand over the investigation of the case to Richard."
"Deputy Helstrom? But why would Junior do that?"
"Dad says he's too close to you. That if he's in charge, people might
say he's letting his personal feelings for you get in the way of his
job."
Abby raked a hand through her hair, unhappy at this turn of events.
"I'd say Richard Helstrom might be accused of the same thing."
Sheila frowned. "What do you mean?"
Abby shrugged. "Deputy Helstrom made me an offer on the ranch a couple
weeks ago. What better way to tip the scales in favor of me selling to
him than by putting me behind bars where I can't hold on to the
ranch."
"Richard would never do a thing like that," Sheila protested. Abby
looked at her, surprised at the vehemence in her defense of the lawman.
Sheila blushed prettily. "In the last couple of months since Richard
moved to town, we've been seeing each other quite a bit. I know you
aren't happy that he wants to buy your ranch, but he really is a nice
man."
Abby smiled. "I'm sure you're right. I'd just feel better if Junior
remained in charge of finding out who killed Greg." At least she knew
Junior would have her best interests at heart. She wasn't so sure
about Deputy Richard Helstrom.
"Don't worry, everything is going to be fine," Sheila assured her.
"Richard is a good man and he'll work every bit as hard as Dad to find
the real killer."
Abby nodded. "I'd better get back to the rest of the guests." She
gave Sheila a hug. "Thanks, Sheila, for being a good friend."
It was about an hour later that Abby stepped out onto the porch to get
a breath of fresh air. She immediately spied Junior leaning against
the corral railing. She walked over to him, noticing how the midday
sun emphasized his years. For the first time since she could ever
remember, he looked old and fired.
"I heard you're relieving yourself from Greg's case," she said in
greeting.
He flashed her a fired smile. "If I'm to guess, you've been talking to
Sheila. There isn't any barrier between what my daughter hears and
what she says ... it just kind of all flows in and out
spontaneously."
Abby smiled at the apt characterization of Sheila. "She's a good
friend."
He nodded. "And I have a feeling you're going to need some good
friends now."
"That bad?" Abby's heart quickened with dread. "Not good." Junior
heaved a deep sigh. "We've got a dead man, witnesses to your threats,
and a murder weapon that could only have come from your barn."
"Lots of people have access to the branding irons," Abby protested.
"That's true, but lots of people didn't have a motive for wanting Greg
dead. Motive, Abby, that's what seems to be lacking with everyone but
you. Hell, half the people on this ranch didn't even know Greg. He
hadn't been in town long enough to make anyone mad enough to kill
him."
"Don't underestimate Greg's charm. In a matter of minutes he could
make a saint angry," Abby replied dryly.
"You don't have to tell me about Greg Foxwood's character. I was here
when he left you, I remember how he broke your heart."
"But that was years ago and the punishment for breaking a woman's heart
isn't death."
"But Greg did threaten to take Cody away from you, didn't he?" Junior
eyed her sharply.
"Yes, but do you really think I'd telegraph my intentions by yelling
them to a bunch of people in a diner, then go out and follow through on
my threats?"
"It doesn't matter what I think, and most officials will tell you these
kinds of crimes aren't always committed with forethought. I just know
that's the motive that a prosecutor will use. He'll say you two argued
in the diner and you went to Greg's room to finish the argument, Things
got out of control and you smashed him in the head."
&n
bsp; "But that's not what happened. Somebody else met Greg in his motel
room and somebody else hit him with a poker from this ranch."
"It doesn't help that you've got no alibi that can be corroborated."
"I've got the truth," Abby replied.
Junior looked at her sadly. "I'm not sure in this case your truth is
going to be enough."
LUKE SAT on several bales of hay just outside the barn, his attention
captured by Abby and the sheriff talking by the corral.
"My daddy's dead."
He jumped at the sound of the boyish voice and turned to see Abby's son
standing near the end of the hay bales. "I know." He looked back at
Abby, noting the way the sun played on the pale hue of her hair, how
her long dress hugged her tall slenderness. The ruffled bodice and
sleeves gave her an overall innocent appeal, but Luke wasn't fooled.
"Are you a daddy?" Cody's voice interrupted Luke's thoughts and he
frowned at the boy. "No. I'm not a daddy."
Apparently not put off by the frown as Luke had hoped, the boy
scrambled up next to him on the bale of hay. He brought with him the
scent of boyhood, of sunshine and innocent mischief, of lemon fabric
softener and rich black dirt. "I feel bad 'cause I don't feel bad ...
about my daddy, I mean. Everybody keeps saying 'poor little boy' but I