by Joanna Wayne
Clint climbed down from the horse he was riding and tied him next to Brandy. “I don’t think the owner got a lot of sleep last night.”
She finished spreading the plaid tablecloth on the ground before she walked over and slipped her arms about his waist. “Are you complaining?”
He reached under her jacket to pull her close. Her lips were puckered and waiting, but the cold metal at his fingertips made him pull away as if he’d been bitten by a rattlesnake.
“Since when did you start wearing a gun?”
“I don’t know. I guess since I joined up with the FBI. Evidently I’m not a ‘desk’ type.”
Darlene cocked her head back to study his expression. His eyes had lost the gleam of desire and grown dark and stormy.
“You’re on leave. Where did you get the gun?” His voice was frigid.
She held her ground. “I found it stashed away in one of my suitcases. Evidently I brought it with me, so I must know how to use it.”
“So, with gun in hand, you take off on your own. Did you think that carrying a gun was going to put you on even footing with the killer? Did you think that you could just go canceling airline flights and disregarding my advice because you found a weapon in your luggage?”
She inhaled slowly, gathering her wits and her nerve to stand up against Clint’s practiced intimidation techniques. She stiffened her backbone and held her head high. “Yes.”
“Yes?” Now his voice was booming.
“Yes. But I didn’t disregard your advice. I weighed it carefully. In the end, I decided that it was best for me to stay in Vaquero.”
“I’d like to know how you came to that decision.”
“And I’d like to tell you. After breakfast. Now, if you’ll get that thermos out of my saddlebag and pour the coffee, I’ll get the egg and bacon burritos. They’re wrapped inside a towel with a hot tile, so they should still be warm.”
The fire in his eyes dimmed a little. “We’ll eat, but that doesn’t mean this discussion is over.”
“Of course not. But heated discussions are bad for digestion.”
Clint poured the coffee, while Darlene filled the plastic plates with burritos, a smattering of salsa, and half a peeled orange. She settled on the edge of the cloth, Indian-style, and waited until Clint had done the same before lifting her cup of strong, black coffee in a toast.
“To making more new memories.”
Clint clinked his cup with hers. “You might not want the new ones when the old ones return.”
“A gorgeous and heroic cowboy, making breath-stealing love on a bed of hay, and a sunrise breakfast on a hilltop. What’s not to want?”
“I don’t know. When you remember, you tell me.”
Clint’s tone more than his words cut into the fabric of their morning. Earlier, while riding Brandy across acres of open spaces, she’d almost been able to forget the reason she was here. She’d almost been able to believe that she didn’t need the lost memories, that who she was right now was enough.
But in truth, the forgotten past stood between her and the present as surely as the barbwire stood between Clint’s cattle and his neighbor’s pasture. Not only her personal relationships, but her very life was balanced on threads of memory that had retreated to dark crevices where her conscience couldn’t find them.
They ate the rest of the meal in a strained silence. Darlene only nibbled at the last half of her burrito, but Clint ate every bite and then used an extra tortilla to scoop up the egg and bacon that had fallen onto his plate. His appetite was apparently not affected by his mood.
She waited until he finished, and then moved backward until she could extend her legs fully and use the stump of a tree trunk for a backrest. She’d already asked the question that clouded the air between them more than once, but this time she wasn’t going to settle for less than the truth. Or at least, the truth as Clint had interpreted it.
“Why did we break up six years ago, Clint? What happened between us?”
“Nothing as dramatic as you seem to be looking for. You just changed your mind about wanting to be my wife.”
“Had you asked me to?”
“I proposed.”
“And I said yes. Had we planned the wedding?”
“No. My mother was terminally ill with cancer. We decided to wait so that I could devote my time to making her as comfortable as I could during the last painful weeks.”
“Surely I didn’t mind that?”
“No. You couldn’t have been more understanding. Both of you cried when you showed her your engagement ring.”
Clint talked slowly, as if he were reluctant to pull the facts out of their shadowed hiding places and expose them to the light. But she had to know. It was the only way she could make sure that page of history didn’t repeat itself.
“Something had to happen to send me running away, Clint. I didn’t wake up one day and decide I wanted out.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Last night.” She swallowed and stumbled with the task of putting her feelings into words. “No one could walk away from what we shared last night.”
“We made love last night, Darlene. It was exciting.” He fingered the brim of his hat and stared into space for long seconds before locking his gaze with hers. “No, it was more than exciting. It was all a man could ever want from a woman. But it isn’t life.”
He was making excuses, either for her or himself. For all she knew those excuses had become fact to him, but she recognized them for what they were. Feeble, ego-saving excuses that relieved him of responsibility in whatever had happened between them.
“Why don’t you tell me what life is in your book, Clint?”
He crossed his arms in front of him and tipped his hat back. “It’s not my book. It’s the way it is. Life as my wife would have meant waking up every morning to a day not much different from the one before. It would have meant having the same view outside your window, running into the same people in the same grocery store, eating the same meal at Rosita’s when the urge to eat out hit you. You weren’t ready for that.”
She reached for the thermos and refilled their cups, this time sitting down on the edge of the cloth closest to him. “Were those my words?”
“No.” He swatted at a mosquito that darted about his face, his muscles as strained as if he’d been attacking a wildcat. “Your words were that McCord had intervened, and that you had been admitted to the training program at Quantico after all. McCord thought you would make a wonderful agent and you decided to go for it. After all, McCord had been like a father’to you, and you didn’t want to disappoint him.”
McCord. The name was poison on Clint’s tongue. And, just as she’d expected, his distaste for McCord had colored their breakup, at least in his mind. And now McCord was playing another major role in their relationship—ironically enough, bringing them back together.
“Tell me about McCord, Clint. What did he do that turned you against him this way when everyone else in the free world sees him as just a little beneath the second coming?”
Clint stretched to his feet and picked up his dirty plate and cup, wiping them clean with the corner of his napkin. “What did McCord do to me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
She’d expected the comment to reek of bitterness. What she hadn’t expected was the hurt that crept into his voice. Standing, she walked behind him and snaked her arms about his waist, burying her head against his strong back.
“When this is over, Clint, I won’t be marching to McCord’s orders. Whatever happens to us will be our doing. I just want you to know that.”
Clint turned and pulled her into his arms. She trembled, as always, at his touch. Tucking a thumb under her chin, he tilted her face upward and let his lips brush hers—a feather of a kiss that left her aching for more.
“I’ll hold you to that,” he whispered, his promise half swallowed by a gust of wind. “Now, all we have to do is keep you alive. Which brings up the real issue of the day.” He
lifted her off the ground and sat her on the tree stump, bringing them eye to eye. “If you ever go off on your own again before this killer is found, I’ll lock you in that cold, dingy jail of mine and bury the key in a haystack.”
He was back in his element. The Texas sheriff at his best. Fighting the bad guys and protecting his citizenry. He oozed power. And masculinity.
She hushed his words with her lips, catching the breath of his anger and mingling it with her desire. This time, he didn’t pull away until she’d been properly kissed.
“Kiss or no kiss, I meant what I said about your not going off half cocked and unprotected, Darlene.”
“Yes sir, Sheriff. Whatever you say.”
She tipped her hat and jumped down from the stump. She knew Clint was anxious to get out to the Altamira and dig up anything that might give him a lead. She planned to go with him. She was up to her eyeballs in this mess, and she couldn’t help but believe that if she could hit on the right fact, the events of Monday night would come toppling down on top of her.
And once those facts hit home, the rest of her memory would probably follow close behind, all tied to Mc-Cord—like a stick of dynamite, delivered and ready to blow.
It was clear Clint knew something about McCord that he wasn’t willing to share, not even with her. But she might know far worse already. McCord might have told her something so horrifying that she closed her mind to everything, rather than face the truth about him.
She busied herself packing away the used dishes, while Clint scraped the remainder of her food out for the scavenging birds and animals and emptied the last drops of coffee from the thermos.
Her mind whirled dizzily with the events of the last few days, and she wondered how she’d ever handled a lifetime of problems. Still, one of her questions had been answered, and though the answer didn’t make her feel a bit better about herself, she could live with it.
If Clint had read her past actions right, she’d broken her engagement with Clint because she’d been young and had craved adventure. Things were drastically different now. She wasn’t so young anymore. And while she wasn’t sure about the woman who’d lived in her body before last Monday night, she was sure about the one who lived here now. The current Darlene Remington was totally in love with Clint Richards.
DARLENE STEPPED OVER an open cardboard box stuffed to the brim with old letters, pictures, magazines and newspaper articles yellowed with age. She maneuvered the narrow maze among additional boxes and crawled back into the attic nest she’d made for herself from a Mexican blanket and a huge plastic beanbag chair.
“I’d hate to be around when McCord finds out the two of you have been rummaging through his attic and perusing his personal records.”
Darlene looked up from the article she was skimming to appraise the silvery-blond man who had just poked his head through the attic opening. As usual, Thornton Roberts wore a smirk on his face that indicated he was just a shade above the Altamira family he was paid to protect, and way above the rest of Vaquero’s residents.
Clint looked up from the letter he was reading. “I’m surprised to hear that, Thornton. I’d have guessed you’d be the first one to tell McCord, seeing as how you disapprove so heartily.”
“I’m old-fashioned, Sheriff. I expect lawmen to obey the law.”
“Then you’d be pleased to know I have permission to be here and to peruse these records.”
“I’d like to know how you got that permission. McCord hasn’t been heard from in days. I, for one, think the federal authorities should be alerted that he hasn’t been seen since the attack on Monday night. Emory, of course, thinks we shouldn’t do anything to provoke negative publicity.”
“For once, I agree with him. What do you think the authorities would do if you called them?” Clint asked, folding the letter he’d been reading and stuffing it back in the yellowed envelope. “McCord called and said he was fine, that he wanted some time to himself. That’s not a felony—not even for a future president.”
“He might have called under duress. For all we know, there might have been a gun poked in his rib cage while he talked.”
“And for what purpose? We haven’t had any demands for ransom or political favors in exchange for his release.”
Thornton climbed the rest of the way into the attic. He squatted near Clint. “Tell me the truth, Sheriff. You’re not as addle-brained as that personal bodyguard who’s not guarding a body. Not as dense as Freddie Caulder either. What do you really make of this?”
“What do I make of what?”
“Of McCord’s disappearance. I mean, the man walks out of here last Monday with Darlene, here, on his arm. He’s smiling, talking to everybody, acting like everything is fine and dandy. The next we hear, he’s been attacked. His blood is on Darlene’s blouse, his wallet’s recovered in the woods, and nobody’s seen the man since. Yet, the only word I get is to keep extra men on duty around the clock, and if anyone suspicious comes around, don’t let them out of sight.”
“Who’d you get that word from?”
“Freddie Caulder. That’s the other thing that bums me. I’m the one hired to handle security around here, and yet Caulder’s the only one McCord talks to when he calls.”
“McCord’s a rancher. Caulder’s his foreman. Not to mention that they’ve been friends for years. He’s only known you, what...ten or twelve months?”
“I’ve been head of security here for six months. But just because I’m new around here doesn’t mean I can’t see what’s going on under my own nose.”
The expression on Clint’s face shifted from barely tolerant to highly interested. He leaned forward, planting his elbows on his thighs. “If you’ve got a point to make, Thornton, let’s hear it.”
“Okay. I don’t have any proof, mind you, but I think Caulder was in on what happened Monday night.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The way he’s acting. He’s nervous, jumps every time you walk up behind him. And who’s to say he’s really talked to McCord? The senator might be dead, for all we know. He’s liable to be a buzzard buffet right now while we’re talking about him.”
The image rumbled through Darlene’s mind, and twisted sickeningly in her stomach. “I talked to McCord,” she said when the wave of nausea passed.
“You talked to someone who said he was McCord. You have no way of knowing who it really was, since you can’t remember him. Don’t you think it strange that no one else has talked to him? Not even Mary, and she’s been friends every bit as long as Caulder. She practically raised his daughter, if you can believe what she says.”
“If Mary says it, it’s true,” Clint put in.
Thornton pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at his forehead and the back of his neck. “I don’t know how you people stand the heat up here, or why you’d want to spend hours in a musty attic. The evidence you need is outside, riding around on one of McCord’s horses.”
Darlene considered his statement while he backed out of the attic. She could hear the clomp of his footsteps on the ladder and feel the vibration when he jumped from the last rung to the carpeted floor of the hall.
“Want to take a break?” Clint asked, dropping the stack of letters from his lap and coming over to sit beside her.
“Not unless you do. These letters are fascinating, but I’m doubtful I’ll find anything useful in them. McCord just talks about the beauty of the countryside and tells stories of the men who were in his unit.”
“I’m sure he didn’t want to worry his mother any more than she was already. The horrors of the Vietnam war were on the nightly news in living color.”
“Are we breaking the law reading these without McCord’s permission?”
“We would be if they were his.”
“Who do they belong to? They’re addressed to his mother, but she’s dead.”
“They belong to McCord’s daughter, Levi, now. Her grandmother split her personal effects between Levi and her cousin Robin, bu
t they never separated the memoirs. Levi faxed me permission to look through the records yesterday. She worries for her father. I think if it were up to her, he’d get out of politics altogether and run the ranch.”
“It must be difficult doing both, especially now, with all the hype about the millennium stirring up the loonies. Did you ever think of going into politics, Clint?”
“For about five minutes, one time. A committee came to my house requesting that I run for mayor.”
“What made you decide to turn them down?”
“I used the balance method. Cattle on one side, people on the other. The cattle won, hands down.”
“But you like being sheriff?”
He linked his hands behind his neck and leaned back, stretching. “I like parts of it. Other parts I tolerate. I like the challenge of stopping some people from running over others. I like taking brutal, vicious people off the street so decent people don’t have to fear them. I don’t like losing—and that’s what I feel is happening now. That’s why I won’t rest until I find the man who tried to kill you.”
“Maybe he’s given up, decided I’m not worth the effort.”
Clint reached over and took both her hands in his. “Don’t think that for a second, Darlene. If you think that way, you’ll let your guard down. That’s what he’s waiting on. That split-second window of opportunity when he can strike and not be caught.”
“Then why did he leave the other night when he was waiting outside Bledsoe’s gate?”
“Because he’s smart and cautious. This is not a crime of passion but of design. He plans to kill, and get away with it. If he had shot one or both of us the other night after Leon spotted him, he would have been the prime suspect in the murders. So he left, decided to bide his time. But he won’t wait forever.”
Gooseflesh popped out on her arms, and she felt the chill deep inside. “You’re frightening me, Clint.”
He slid a hand to the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair. “Good, A healthy fear will help keep you alive. That, and a good sheriff on your arm.”
He touched his lips to hers, and she melted into him. The kiss was long and wet and sweet. “I do like your protection policy,” she said when he finally pulled away. “But I think we better continue this part of it later in the privacy of your home.”