by Ken Casper
Engines. Motorcycles. Someone was on the grounds of Beaumarais.
Jed sat bolt upright. Fully awake now, he streaked naked from his bed and went to the window. He couldn’t see anything, but there was no mistaking the keening whine. The sheriff’s department? He didn’t suppose the forensics guys would be here for another hour or two. Besides, this wasn’t the sound of people seriously, conscientiously, doing a job. This was the racket of thrill seekers.
His bedside clock said seven. June wouldn’t arrive for another hour. After throwing on a pair of worn jeans and a knit pullover, Jed bounded down the stairs two at a time. He stopped in the library, opened the gun case, removed a twelve-gauge, loaded it with birdshot, put a handful of extra cartridges in his pocket and stomped out the back door.
A sprint along the edge of the pines on the north border of the back lawn brought him to the site the sheriff had cordoned off. The screech and roar of hard-charging engines grew in volume as he approached the barn where Gwyn kept her horses.
Three men old enough to know better were gouging deep tracks in the soft turf with their dirt bikes on the outside of the yellow tape Fielder’s people had stretched around the excavation. Nearby, Gwyn’s silly little horses were prancing, rearing and neighing in panic at the noise and disruption around them.
As Jed paused to catch his breath, one guy parked his bike, climbed over the wooden fence into the corral and tried to corner one of the miniature palominos. Had he not been so consumed with his own nefarious entertainment, he would have seen someone running toward him, but he was too self-absorbed to even notice Jed’s bright-red shirt.
Pointing the shotgun into the air and taking heed that the pellets would land harmlessly, Jed pulled the trigger. The blast cut through the shrieking of the engines and reduced them to a rattling purr. The man on foot froze in his crouched position.
“Turn off your engines,” Jed called out to the guys straddling their cycles. “You,” he shouted to the leather-clad man in the corral, “get out of there. Now!”
“What the—” one of the bikers snarled.
Before he could finish the sentence, Jed aimed his shotgun at him, the muzzle trained low. The guy flinched when he realized where the damage would likely occur. Both hands went straight up, palms out.
“Okay, man, okay.”
The other two fun seekers shut off their engines. Jed motioned them to get off the bikes. Leather-man climbed self-consciously over the whitewashed fence, his eyes never leaving the weapon leveled at him.
The sudden twitching of an eyebrow and leering smirk on the face of one of the others made Jed instantly aware of someone behind him. A fourth cohort? Where had he been?
“What’s going on here?” a female voice demanded.
Jed marginally relaxed. He knew that clipped northern twang. Resisting the impulse to turn and face her, he said, “We have some visitors who seem to think tearing up other people’s land and terrifying little horses is great sport.”
“Well, I don’t. I’ll go phone the sheriff.”
“No, don’t,” the guy in leather, apparently the leader of the pack, implored. “Look, we didn’t mean any real harm. Just having some fun.”
“Fun?” she repeated in alarm. “You call this fun?”
“Okay, so we got a little carried away.”
“Well, as far as I’m concerned, mister, the sheriff can carry you the rest of the way. To jail.” More calmly, she said to Jed, “I’ll go ring him.”
“Wait,” the leader practically begged. “We’ll pay for whatever damage we’ve done.”
Jed laughed without humor. “Are we supposed to take that as an offer of generosity?” He narrowed his eyes. “You trespass on private property, tear up the ground, endanger harmless domesticated animals, then think you can write a check and walk away? This isn’t an amusement park.”
He finally allowed himself to look over his shoulder at Gwyn. Definitely a mistake. Her hair was pulled back in its usual braid, but the woven coil was untidy this morning. Obviously, she’d just woken up. It took determined concentration not to think about her head on a pillow with that frazzled rope of auburn hair snaked over her shoulder. She wasn’t wearing lipstick, either, and the natural softness of her lips in this early-morning light was an intoxicating invitation to taste.
He was suddenly uncomfortably aware he had nothing on under his threadbare jeans. To keep from embarrassing himself further, he concentrated on the men.
“How’d you get on my property, anyway?”
“The gate on the lake road was wide-open, man,” the leader said.
Jed emitted a soft curse. “Call the sheriff’s office while I watch our visitors,” he told Gwyn.
Half an hour later, after she’d verified none of her horses were injured, the good-time boys were hauled away and Logan Fielder stood, legs set apart, thumbs hooked in his wide belt, scowling ferociously at Jed.
“Who the hell do you think you are, Louis, pulling a shotgun on people?”
“A man defending his property,” Jed replied caustically to the belligerent tone. “I wouldn’t have had to if your people had done their jobs. They left a gate open last night.”
“That’s your problem. You should have checked it,” Fielder snapped back.
Jed had, but either he hadn’t examined it closely enough or the detectives had come back again afterward.
“I promise you, Sheriff, I’ll make sure no one gets on my place again.”
“And I warn you, Louis, don’t try to restrict access to a crime scene or I’ll charge you with obstructing justice.”
Threats might have worked twenty years ago. They didn’t now. “Fail to take the proper safeguards, Sheriff,” Jed countered just as strongly, “and I’ll bring charges against you for neglecting your duty to protect the public and willfully allowing the destruction of private property.”
“It’d never stand up in court.”
“Maybe not,” Jed conceded with a lazy smile. “Then again, maybe it would. It’s a matter of proving intent.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Gwyn interceded. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“She’s right,” Jed agreed, satisfied he had the lawman on the defensive. “I’ll make a deal with you, Sheriff. You take due care and so will I.” Without waiting for a reply, he extended an arm in invitation to Gwyn and turned back toward the mansion.
Half expecting a shouted command from behind to halt, Gwyn tagged along but found herself having to nearly run to keep up with Jed’s long stride. “Am I a villain in this piece, too?” she asked.
He stopped and gazed at her. “What?”
“I understand you’re angry, Jed. So am I. Believe me, I don’t like to have my horses upset, but do you think you could slow down enough for me to keep up with you without breaking into a full gallop?”
An embarrassed smile crept across his face. “Sorry. I don’t know which gets me more ticked, those lamebrains on motorcycles or that lamebrain wearing the star.”
“Geniuses are all unique,” Gwyn offered. “Lamebrains are all alike.”
Jed laughed. Impulsively he put his arm around her waist and pulled her up against his side. “Not only beautiful, but wise.”
An amused grin came readily to her lips, but the sensation of his hard warm body touching hers was suddenly very disconcerting. She glanced up at him. The friendly smile she met in his twinkling eyes could easily have been the prelude to a kiss. The harsh caw of a bird awakened her to the fact that they were standing in the middle of open lawn in plain view of whoever wanted to watch. Her heart hammering, she stiffened and pulled away and walked on.
They reached the back steps of the mansion in silence. Her legs were still rubbery when she turned to face him. “Thanks—”
“Yesterday I checked out a place I own where you
can keep your horses until we get this crisis resolved,” he interrupted. “The stalls are too small for my Percherons, but they should be fine for your minis. The fence surrounding the pasture is a little too open, though, so I have a couple of workmen putting in an extra bottom rail. It should be ready by this afternoon. As soon as they’re finished, I’ll take you to make sure it satisfies your requirements.”
“Thanks, Jed.” Discussing business was definitely safer than touching. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”
“You’re paying for a safe place in which to keep your animals,” he reminded her.
The formality of his speech amused her. Apparently he, too, was discomfited by their close contact.
“Unfortunately,” he continued, “it’s not as convenient as where they are now, but I think it’ll work.” He extended his hand. “Got time for a cup of coffee?”
It was tempting, oh, so tempting. She sighed. “I still have animals to feed. Thanks, anyway.”
He dropped his arm, frustrated. “Do you need a lift home?”
Shaking her head, she retreated a step. “It’s an easy walk. I—I’ll see you later.” She managed a carefree wave before turning back toward her rental house.
There was just the hint of morning breeze as she cut a path through a thicket of brush beneath spindly pine trees to the little house just north of Beaumarais. Her French was rusty, but she remembered enough to understand the name meant beautiful morass. One of Jed’s ancestors, it would seem, had had a sense of humor. The label was apt, though, she thought. Caddo Lake was shallow for the most part, little more than swamp in many areas. Tropical cypress trees loomed above the muddy brown waters, their overhanging branches hung with the ragged gray bromeliad. The eerie setting was far more typical of the bayous of Southern Louisiana than the vast plains and open prairies characteristic of much of Texas.
As she stepped through the back door of the modest house that had once belonged to the murdered woman, Gwyn’s thoughts wandered from the landscape around her to the episode that had just transpired. Her physical attraction to the tall, gorgeous Texan, an attraction that was clearly reciprocated, was getting harder and harder to resist. But she was beginning to see another aspect of Jed Louis, too, one she didn’t like.
How many times had she heard him use the words private property?
He’d referred to it when he confronted her over the issue of Tessa Lang’s dig, and again when he acknowledged he would have leased his land to Gwyn simply because it was good business even though he didn’t like her horses. Then this morning he’d emphasized it in dealing with both the trespassers and the sheriff. He lived in a well-appointed mansion, owned land and houses all over town. Was Jed Louis obsessed with money and possessions? She’d grown up in a family intensely protective of their wealth and the power it gave them—including power over people.
A very pregnant seal point cat wound between her legs, rubbing her soft fur against Gwyn’s ankles. It purred loudly, a happy sound, as soothing to Gwyn as the affection of the animal making it.
She went to the pantry and got out a can of cat food, opened it and began scooping the smelly mush into Cleopatra’s bowl. Cleo jumped up and began devouring it greedily.
“Hungry, huh? I wonder how many you’re eating for.”
Putting on the kettle for a cup of instant coffee, Gwyn continued to muse about her landlord. She didn’t get the impression he was unwilling to spend money. He owned a late-model Jaguar, though most of the time he drove a new pickup truck. Beaumarais was beautifully maintained. She’d seen a groundskeeper there almost every time she’d driven by, and Jed employed a full-time housekeeper. Not the lifestyle of Ebenezer Scrooge. Did that mean he was willing to spend money only on his own comfort?
That didn’t quite make sense, either, she decided. After all, he’d hired people to custom-fit a piece of land for her horses—not exactly the actions of a skinflint. Unless he planned on charging her for the modifications.
Chapter Seven
AT FOUR O’CLOCK that afternoon, Jed pulled up the narrow driveway on the south side of Frannie’s old house. He’d rented it out many times over the past sixteen years, since purchasing it after the bank foreclosed on her unpaid mortgage. He’d repapered, repainted, upgraded appliances and installed central heating and air-conditioning, amenities the house hadn’t had when he lived in it with her. Nevertheless, no matter what he did to the three-bedroom, one-bath residence, or how many different names appeared on the mailbox at the curb, it had always remained “Frannie’s house.” He wondered sometimes when he showed people through it, if she would have approved of the changes he’d made. Probably, he concluded, though she might balk at his lavishing so much money on a place that was only rented.
He got out of his pickup and walked the mossy brick path from the driveway to the front door. Gwyn opened it before he had a chance to press the button on the right side of the jamb.
“I saw you drive up,” she said in response to his startled expression. “Come on in.”
He’d changed almost everything except the small entryway. Occupants rarely used the front entrance, so the charcoal-gray slate tile underfoot was in good condition. The raised paneling had a fresh coat of glossy white enamel; the old-fashioned crystal light sconces were still on the walls. Jed had a strange feeling every time he entered by the front door—as if he expected to see Frannie standing there, waiting for him. For the first few years after he’d purchased the house, he’d imaged her frowning in disappointment, the way she used to when he stayed out too late or failed to do his best. In the past couple of years, however, her ghost had met him with a smile, the way she had when he came home after winning an award or achieving some special goal. Today he felt her watching him, her expression curious, questioning, reserving judgment.
“I thought I’d show you where you can move your horses,” he told Gwyn as he followed her into the living room.
“They finished the fence?”
“About an hour ago.” He almost flinched when something brushed his leg. Looking down, he saw a tan-and-brown Siamese weaving lopsided between his ankles.
“That’s Cleopatra. She’s pregnant right now and in a very affectionate mood. Usually she’s standoffish with strangers.”
Jed picked up the cat and cradled her in the crook of his arm. “She’s beautiful.”
Gwyn smiled. “And temperamental.”
Cleo purred as he petted her. “Any problems with sightseers or the sheriff’s people?”
She gave him a wry grin. “Those bouncers you posted at the gates are rather intimidating. Even Fielder’s men seem put off by them.”
Jed had hired two large gentlemen of his acquaintance to stand sentinel at the gates that gave access to the crime scene. The sheriff had raised Cain about his deputies having to identify themselves to enter the property, but Jed had pointed out he was not restricting access to anyone with a legitimate right to be there. In fact, he was performing a public service by ensuring busybodies didn’t distract the investigators.
Jed chuckled and lowered the cat to the floor. “Good. Ready to go?”
“Do you mind if Romeo comes with us?”
Brow cocked, Jed asked, “Romeo?”
“My dog.” Gwyn went through the kitchen to the back door and admitted an impeccably groomed, longhaired, tricolor sheepdog. The animal moved cautiously to Jed. He let it sniff a minute, then bent down and petted him enthusiastically.
“Romeo, you’re one handsome devil.” Jed glanced up at Gwyn. “Is he a collie or a sheltie? He looks too small for one and too big for the other.”
“You know something about the breeds.” She was pleased. “Actually, he’s a purebred sheltie, but he’s a throwback.”
They rode in his truck in silence for several minutes, Romeo in the back of the crew cab, his mouth hanging open, long tongue dripping on
the towel Gwyn had insisted on spreading across the vinyl bench seat.
“What exactly does an animal manager do?” Jed asked.
“I make animals available on a short-term basis for things like advertisements and television commercials, movies, even carnivals and charity drives.”
“Do you own all the animals you manage? Your pregnant cat, a dog and miniature horses don’t seem like they’d be enough to make a living with.”
“They wouldn’t be. I also act as an agent for other people’s animals. A rancher I know in Colorado has several domesticated deer. Another in West Texas raises llamas. A third one has emus, storks, peacocks and turkeys. If someone needs a flock of sheep for a Little Bo Peep scene on television, they contact me and I find the person who has the requisite number available.”
“So you’re a middleman . . . er . . . woman.”
“Exactly. I’m always interested in cultivating new contacts. Would you be interested in having your Percherons earn you a few extra bucks, maybe in a beer commercial or just for people to admire at a county fair on a weekend?”
“Hmm.” He smiled. “Let me think about it.”
He turned down a narrow dirt road that wound through low hills and thick stands of untamed forest. When the road forked, he veered to the right.
“The advantage of this place is that it’s remote, which means there aren’t likely to be any casual rubbernecks. And the disadvantage is that it’s remote, which means trespassers aren’t likely to be noticed unless you happen to be here at the same time.”
“But there is a good gate,” she pointed out.
“Gates and locks keep out honest people. They don’t seem to inhibit the dishonest.”
“Not only handsome, but wise,” she quipped, parodying his description of her that morning.
The memory of his arm around her brought a new wave of warmth to her body. Unwilling to fully acknowledge what she was feeling, she cast a sidelong glance at the man on the other side of the console.
He started to open his mouth to speak, then closed it again. “It’s just a short walk,” he finally said with unusual softness, and opened his door. Romeo bounded across his lap, making him wince.