The Troubled Texan

by Phyliss Miranda

“Do you like my new sweater?” She touched the hem.

  “Yes. It’s very nice. Where did you get it?”

  “Oh . . .” She stopped and pondered. “From my closet. Yes, it was in my closet.” She shrugged her shoulders in defeat. “It’s gone.”

  “Mom, what’s gone? What are you looking for?”

  “You know!” she snapped, indignantly. Waving her hands through the air, she walked to the closet and jerked open the cabinet. “That thing! I have it every day after dinner.”

  Deuce pulled a Butterfinger from his coat pocket. “Is this what you’re looking for?” He presented the candy bar to her.

  “Oh, yes!” She grabbed the yellow-wrapped treat. “Yes . . . you are such a nice man.” Tearing open the end of the paper, she took a bite. “So much like my son. He’s a nice boy, too.” She looked up with a vacant look in her eyes. “Have I ever told you about him?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you’ve told me.”

  “He plays football for Texas A&M and I think the Steelers, too. Aren’t they a college team?”

  Not bothering to correct her, Deuce gave her a weak smile, remembering Elaine’s warning about not upsetting her.

  “That’s why he can’t come to see me. But he would if he could.” She blinked up at him.

  “I know he would.” The words dug at Deuce’s heart. “Mom, what happened between you and that nice Pink Lady you always talk about?”

  “None of your business, young man.”

  “Maybe I could help. Did she upset you or something—”

  “You are certainly nosey, but I have no intention of getting her in trouble. I just don’t want to see her again. How do you like my new sweater?”

  “It’s really pretty.”

  “I got dressed up today because I’m going to have a visitor.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Well, uh, they haven’t told me, but I hope it’ll be my son.”

  Like an old wound that ached on a rainy day, Deuce forced back a lump in his throat. Would he ever get used to this? He watched her eyes brighten.

  In a fragile, hesitant tone, his mother asked, “You know Deuce, don’t you?”

  Chapter Eight

  Deuce drove what seemed like a hundred miles back to the Slippery Elm, feeling as though he had been kicked out of Sunday school because he didn’t know the words to “Jesus Loves Me.” Despair gnawed in his gut and truly wretched thoughts of what he might find, or worse, wouldn’t find when he got home tore at his core. He couldn’t stand another disappointment. Not tonight.

  In the distance, the ranch house came into sight. Darkness permeated the house. Except for the steady drone of cicadas, the grounds shrieked of silence.

  Deuce sighed in relief. The Malibu was in the driveway, but then that didn’t mean Rainey was still there. Stubborn Miss Sassy-butt could have set out on foot and hiked cross-country to get away. To avoid what? Or who? Was it really Hunter who terrified her? Or could it be something else? Someone else?

  Easing the county pickup to a stop behind the Chevy, the ring of his cellular phone quickly replaced the engine’s hum. He glanced at the lighted screen. “Caller Unknown” flashed.

  “Oh, hell,” he mumbled before answering. “Sheriff Cowan.”

  To his surprise the Los Angeles County DA Judith Mason identified herself and without formalities began an interrogation, starting with the reason for his department’s interest in the Alonzo Hunter case.

  Seemingly satisfied the motives were strictly professional, she barged on. “So you’re the Deuce Cowan that Maressa so fondly spoke of?”

  “Miss Mason, I’m certain that if she spoke of me at all it wasn’t fondly.” If there was a feed yard within smelling distance, Deuce recognized bullshit, and he was already up to his hips in it.

  “She spoke most highly of you, sheriff. But you sound much too young—”

  “I can assure you that I am Deuce Cowan, but I’m sure she was speaking of my father.”

  “Oh, then you’re the other one?”

  Damn, he might as well be a two-headed rattler from her response.

  Quit beating the devil around a stump, Cowan! After all, he had done very little for Rainey to talk positively about . . . except being positively the most knuckleheaded ass most of their school days.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m the other one. Dad was Denton County’s sheriff, but died a few months back.”

  “I’m sorry,” she rushed on, possibly embarrassed. “I apologize for calling so late, but it took awhile to talk to the warden at San Quentin—”

  “And?”

  “You can rest assured that Alonzo Hunter is still there. Safe and secure.” She chuckled lightly. “Not all that sound I must admit, but certainly secure.”

  “But you didn’t see him yourself?”

  “Sheriff, the prison is north of San Francisco and it’s seven hundred miles round trip. I can’t drop things and rush off to reassure you that . . .” She methodically cleared her throat, corralling her obvious agitation. “I’m sorry, but I trust the warden.”

  Caution whispered, Rainey doesn’t know who to trust, so be careful, Cowan. “Ma’am, I don’t take a whole hell of a lot for granted, but I appreciate your efforts.”

  Shrugging off the lukewarm thank-you, she promptly changed the subject, rushing on. “Do you know anything about bonsais?”

  “Those puny-looking scrappy trees?”

  “That’s certainly a unique way to view one. A word of caution, bonsais must be treated delicately; otherwise, they’ll rebel and won’t thrive. Give her a lot of TLC and be very careful not to suffocate her.”

  “You are talking about a bonsai, aren’t you?”

  “Of course,” she said with a strange note to her voice. “I’ve become attached to a particular one over the years.”

  Deuce couldn’t help but smile at the cryptic message in her words. “A bonsai can be a bit stubborn and a tad testy. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “In more ways than you realize, sheriff, please take care of Mar—” Judith Mason halted in mid-sentence. “Uh, take care and have a good evening.”

  The phone went silent.

  Deuce slipped the phone into his pocket.

  Low light filtering from the upstairs guest bedroom caught his eye and kicked up his mood a notch.

  Rainey was home.

  Getting out of the car, he reached for his Stetson and in the process rammed his shoulder against the door frame.

  “Sonofabitch!” Automatically, his hand massaged the tender area. Rain was on its way, as the tendonitis in his rotator cuff was more predictable than most meteorologists’ forecasts.

  A cold beer and the hot tub would help ease the pain.

  Quiet welcomed him as he opened the front door. Deuce went into his office and slid the phone on the desk and locked up his service weapon. Hanging his Stetson on the coatrack by the staircase, he noted a stream of soft light escaping from beneath Rainey’s bedroom door.

  He grabbed his gray running shorts and Gold’s Gym shirt from the dryer and changed in the laundry room.

  From a bag of Meow Mix, he scooped up a serving. Deuce topped off the dish with an extra helping. Heck, Fat-Cat didn’t get his name by drinking Slim Fast.

  A pit stop at the fridge to pick up a Lone Star longneck, and he headed back to the front door.

  “Here kitty, kitty,” he called three times. “Damn it, Fat-Cat, where are you?”

  Deuce refreshed the tom’s water dish. Didn’t eat or drink much today. Guess you were off visiting the ladies. Deuce chuckled and rounded the corner of the house.

  At least one of them was getting some action.

  Deuce seriously needed a visit with a special friend, too. He took a long draw from his beer, enjoying the cold liquid trickling down his throat. He strolled past a lilac bush bursting with sweetness.

  Since getting the kind of workout he really needed wasn’t liable to happen, Deuce would have to settle for some serious crunches. Exercis
e should ease the ache in his shoulder, as well as the one that seemed permanently implanted between his legs.

  Flipping on the overhead light in the barn, he plopped down on the bench and aggressively began his routine.

  Up one, down . . . hell, why bother keeping count? He’d work out until he was too exhausted to do anything but sleep. Besides he could use the time to think and sort out his feelings. And dang it if he didn’t have plenty of new issues to work through.

  Fat-Cat crossed his mind. It was unusual for that dern cat not to welcome him home. Where was he anyway?

  Deuce winced. Holy crap, if Rainey tried to pick up the cantankerous bucket-of-lard, he’d scratch the daylights out of her perfect, satiny-smooth skin. Skin that smelled of lavender and vanilla. Skin ripe for a man’s caresses just beckoning to be explored.

  Sweet Jesus, corralling his testosterone had become a full-time job since Rainey’s arrival.

  That damn inner voice interrupted: Hey, cowpoke! Remember, it ain’t gonna happen.

  Up two, down—up three, down. He quickened his pace.

  In the distance, as though challenged to match Deuce’s increased tempo, the cadence of the cicadas’ cry accelerated.

  Deuce’s mind wandered back to his evening with his mother and his conversation with the nursing home administrator, Elaine. Like a leech latched on to his heart, not letting go no matter how hard he tried, the pain was a permanent reminder of an uncertain future for his mother.

  How long could he go on pretending that she was pretending not to know him? Surely somewhere deep inside she recognized him as her son? Surely she remembered giving birth to him? Protecting him? Surely?

  Taking a deep breath, he curled tighter and faster.

  It wasn’t a pretense. The truth lay in her vacant stare, as she struggled to understand it herself. Eyes that asked questions. Pled for answers. Her illness was reality at its nastiest.

  Deuce should be the child, letting his mother protect him . . . instead of the other way around.

  Thank God, Deuce’s father had taught him the need to be strong and to own up to his responsibilities. And never, never show fear.

  But as his mother’s illness dug in deeper, it had become more difficult to follow in his father’s footsteps, fighting daily not to show how much he truly hurt.

  He tucked his heartache away and tried to think of something more pleasant . . . the petite, pesky ray of sunshine that had waltzed into his life. Having Brainy Rainey to watch after felt kinda good, like finding a replacement for the hole in his heart that his mother’s illness had plucked out. On the other hand, he didn’t need a distraction. And boy-oh-boy, did Rainey ever distract him. Being around her was like trying to dance the do-si-do in a straitjacket.

  A rambunctious libido had replaced logic. He had a job to do. To protect the woman, not bed her.

  Once he was truly satisfied about Hunter’s whereabouts, he could reassure Rainey of her safety and deposit her in her own little abode. Of course, he’d keep his promise and help her with the depot repairs. Once finished, he’d be free to send the little tart on her way. Then, except to tip his Stetson when he passed her on the street, he’d have no reason to be involved with her.

  If Deuce really wanted her out of his life so badly, then why did his heart ache at the thought?

  Soft music floated through the darkness. Deuce halted, listening before pulling into another crunch.

  Through the serenity of the night, the sound of the door screen hitting the frame riddled his thoughts.

  Deuce shot straight up.

  What the hell! Was someone breaking into the house while he was holding a pity-party in his mind?

  And Rainey was alone. Trapped in the upstairs bedroom.

  In long strides, he hurried to the house.

  A river of light flowed from the kitchen, shrouding a short, petite figure standing on the deck near the hot tub. No mistaking the slight woman with nothing on except tiny diamond stud earrings and an itty-bitty, flimsy swimming suit.

  He squinted and took a second look. It wasn’t a bikini at all, but sheer, clingy, flesh-colored underwear. The tiniest, laciest, and naughtiest bra and panties he’d ever laid eyes on, and brother, he’d seen his share of feminine, extremely sexy, and very arousing undergarments. Good Lord, what she wore was nothing short of something he’d expect to see in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.

  Halting, Deuce stepped back into the shadows and justified his actions as not wishing to frighten the lady.

  His brain had tee-totally gone on the fritz, and refused to signal his feet to move. His eyes feasted on her, as she lifted her arms above her head and stretched, exposing even more of her flat, silky-smooth abdomen. The delicate fabric tugged tightly against her breasts, causing them to plunge over the top of the bra in high mounds of delicate flesh.

  Reality, Cowan. You like what you see! Dang, that tiny voice, probably his conscience, needed to go away and leave him alone. He was doing just fine without its interference.

  Damn it, just as he scrounged up enough resolve to get the pint-size twerp out of his system, she did something to arouse his interest and draw him right back in. And there he was, a peeping tom, standing in the shadows, turned on, and gawking like a hypocrite hot-wired to smut. But it wasn’t smut he watched, just a vision of yearning greater than anything he’d felt in a long time.

  Rainey tested the water with her toes before stepping into the hot tub. Settling deep in the whirling water, she eased back and shut her eyes.

  Deuce’s heart jumped to his throat, causing him to gasp, not at the sight but at Fat-Cat who streaked out of the darkness and in one laborious leap landed on the edge of the hot tub.

  The tomcat surprised Rainey, too. Her eyes shot open and she let out a giggle.

  “Hi, big boy, I’ve been wondering where you were.” She reached out and caressed the feline, causing him to extend his head to allow her full access to his chest.

  Rainey exclaimed, “Enjoying that, huh?”

  Deuce watched as the tomcat got his fill of scratching, and turned his attention to a bowl of something that looked pretty unappetizing, certainly not suitable for human consumption.

  “I figured you’d be back for another treat.” She spoke to him as one would talk to a small child. The animal stopped eating long enough to nestle the back of her neck with his nose in appreciation.

  Man, if Deuce wouldn’t like to be in that steamy, hot water with her, and it wasn’t just his head he wanted to rub against her. But how in the heck did she tame the wild bad boy?

  Damn, now more than his curiosity was aroused.

  Judith Mason’s words rang in his ear. “. . . but be careful not to suffocate her.”

  Giving Rainey privacy, he slipped from the shadows and made his way to the front of the house.

  In his best police technique, Deuce crossed through the living room to the kitchen and gingerly opened the refrigerator door. After moving aside a Pyrex bowl of fried chicken livers, he snatched up another longneck.

  Leaning against the sink, he took a long draw of beer and stared out the kitchen window. Just as he suspected, Rainey was hand-feeding the furry rascal that Deuce thought too barbarian for the likes of the lady.

  Turning from the window, Deuce deposited his beer bottles in the trash basket and headed for the stairs, ripping off his T-shirt as he climbed. A hot shower would wash away the sweat. A cold shower would wash away his enthusiasm.

  Thirty minutes later, Rainey silenced the TV when she heard Deuce’s bedroom door close and his footsteps disappear down the stairwell.

  When had he come home? What in the heck was that ornery Texan up to? She presumed he was out on a date. After all, a hunkster such as Sheriff Cowan would be a perfect candidate for an “all-nighter.” She must admit that he was one hot cowboy and not even a blind woman could fail to see the way Mr. Testosterone swaggered in his confident fashion. The way taut denim hugged hard-bodied muscle, and his smile that was sure to leave a woman gog
gle-eyed, wanting to share more than a box of Junior Mints and a bag of popcorn with him. And she could only imagine what lay beneath those tight-fitting jeans.

  If the mental pictures of Deuce didn’t go to bed themselves, she wouldn’t get a wink of sleep.

  Slipping between the sheets, Rainey flipped between cable news channels before settling on one of the local TV stations.

  Between the tranquility of the hot tub, a leisurely shower, and sinful fantasies about Deuce’s, uh, hidden attributes, fierce flames smoldered deep in the pit of her stomach.

  Deuce seemed comfortable about there being no strangers in town and had promised to verify the whereabouts of Alonzo Hunter. Considering there was nothing on the national news about a prison break, surely she could drift off to sleep. But first, the mental picture of the juicy hunk had to go away.

  If only she could access the Internet, then she could find the answers about Hunter for herself. Tapping into the records systems that she was so familiar with would be easy. But her password would flag the transaction, and she’d be dead meat. There was no reason to take a chance of arousing suspicion. That is, if they hadn’t already changed her password, which she had little doubt they had.

  Let Deuce do his job.

  Apparently, he hadn’t confirmed Hunter’s whereabouts or Deuce would have told her before he went out for the evening.

  Until she knew for certain that the sadistic murderer was still behind bars, she would not totally let down her guard. She must presume the worst . . . he could be stalking her. Or worse yet, have someone on the outside do the dirty work as he had threatened when he was pulled out of the courtroom.

  Suddenly, all the enchantment of the evening evaporated, quickly replaced with the troubled feeling that had become her constant companion.

  Deuce was downstairs and she should go find out what he knew. Recalling his disappointment because she hadn’t trusted him when she first arrived in town, she recoiled.

  No, she had given her word that she would trust him and that was exactly what she would do.

  She had to trust him . . . but should she?

  Chapter Nine