Caity pulled the covers up to Yolanda’s shoulders. “She needs rest, and I think we should wrap this up.”
“I need another minute.” Spense pulled the photograph they’d found on Yolanda’s floor out of an envelope. He stared down at the little group pictured: his father, then him—around age seven, and next to him, a boy with bright red hair . . . and a beautiful, young Yolanda. “I don’t remember this photo being taken, but I definitely remember the trip to Fort Worth—and meeting this boy and his mother.”
Yolanda opened her eyes and motioned with her hand. Caity cranked the bed into a more comfortable position for her. “Your father and I both thought that trip was a terrible idea. But Dutch had seen your picture in Jack’s wallet, and he kept begging to meet you. He just wouldn’t give up on it. So, finally, your father agreed. I took Dutch to the stockyards, and your father brought you. We stayed in separate rooms at Miss Molly’s.”
“I remember,” he said. They went down to the dining room. And a woman came up to the table, saying she had a boy who was going stir-crazy to be around someone his own age. Then his dad invited the woman and her son to join them for lunch. “We spent the day together at the stockyards. Watched the cattle drive through the streets. Rode rides, ate a lot of cotton candy. I’ll never forget it . . .” Because he’d had such fun with that other boy—even though they’d gotten into a bundle of trouble. He’d had no idea that playmate was really his brother.
“We looked away for one minute, and you dared Alex to climb into one of the bullpens.”
When the bull starting chasing the boy, Spense went in to save him. Then his father jumped in and pulled both boys out. Afterward, whenever Spense begged his dad to take him back to the stockyards, his father always gave the same answer, “No way. We’re not going back to the scene of the crime.” Dutch must’ve begged, too, and gotten the same answer.
“Your brother’s in terrible trouble. He needs you, Atticus.” Yolanda could barely lift her head to speak.
“You hang on to this.” He pressed the photograph into her hand. “I’ll get a copy when I come back with Alex. I’ll find him. And you have my word, Yolanda. I’m going to bring him home safe.”
Chapter Seventeen
Friday, October 18
4:00 P.M.
Fort Worth, Texas
UNTIL THEY ARRIVED at the stockyards, “Cowtown” seemed, to Caitlin, like any other major metropolitan city in this part of the country. But here, Fort Worth history came alive—especially as far as the cows were concerned. Over the centuries, this historic district might have evolved into a tourist trap, but in addition to the drugstore cowboys strolling the sidewalks, tipping their Resistols and Stetsons to the ladies, real cattlemen were still in business. Over at the exchange building, livestock auctions and big Texas-sized deals were taking place right alongside the fake shoot-outs, bank robberies, and saloon shenanigans.
Every day, just about this time, authentic cowhands drove an impressive herd of cattle right down Main Street. Any other time, this would’ve been a treat, and even in spite of present circumstances, she couldn’t help feeling a rush of excitement when she noticed the crowd thickening up. The show was about to begin.
Beside her, Spense strode wordlessly. Though he wasn’t giving her the silent treatment . . . exactly. On the three-hour drive here, they’d called a détente. Because of the recent attempt on their lives, the near-fatal attack on Yolanda Langhorne, and the fact that Dutch remained a fugitive from both the police and the bad guy, agreeing to temporarily table their personal beefs seemed the only sensible thing to do.
Given the urgency of their situation, Spense’s razor-sharp focus on the business at hand—searching the crowd for Dutch—was appropriate. But while Spense might’ve been to his fair share of rodeos, the closest she’d come to witnessing an actual cattle drive was watching City Slickers on her DVR.
As a woman waving a giant ear of corn on a stick passed by, Caitlin’s stomach gurgled. She turned her head to admire a pair of hand-tooled leather boots, stamped with pastel flowers in a store widow. But boot shopping wasn’t on the list. If Dutch was here at the stockyards, as they hoped, they needed to concentrate on finding him.
Though she felt certain they’d not been followed, who was to say Yolanda’s attacker—presumably the same man Spense had chased back in Preston Hollow and the same individual who’d flooded their room at the Blue Bayou with poison gas—hadn’t gotten the same idea they had about where Dutch might be hiding. Yolanda hadn’t told him, but it wasn’t impossible he’d figured things out. She pulled her gaze off the boots.
Spense smiled at her—and that was a sight for woebegone eyes. “You like those boots?”
She shrugged. “Just assessing the environment. Looking for likely places Dutch might’ve gone.”
“Right. He could be anywhere, including inside one of these gift shops.” Spense cupped his hand over his eyes and began peering into every store they passed.
As the density of the crowd increased, it became harder to stay together, or to recognize one Stetson from another. She realized this was actually a decent place to hide in plain sight. Some of the cowboys even had bandanas pulled over their mouths and noses. Not to mention the proximity to Dallas would be very convenient if Dutch had ideas about conducting his own inquiries into Cindy’s murder. He really might be here. And even with the costumes and crowds, it was a relatively small area to search. A flicker of optimism lifted her spirits. This was a hell of a mess—the police were looking to arrest Dutch for murder, she and Spense had put their jobs at risk, and a ruthless killer was after all three of them. But if only they could find Dutch, she had to believe that, together, they could figure a way out.
In the distance, she heard hooves thundering against brick. Lots and lots of hooves. She stepped back to let a family pass and came face-to-face with the fangs of a cottonmouth snake. She shuddered. She’d accidentally sidled into the doorway of a taxidermy shop. The shop gave her the creeps, with its wide display of snakes, buzzards, and cow skulls.
Then Spense reached back and took her by the hand. For a moment hope leapt in her heart, but then she realized why he’d grabbed her hand—he simply didn’t want to lose her in the crowd. He yanked her out of the shop and dragged her down the street. When he picked up his pace, she had to trot behind him through a throng of not-so-pleasant people. “Sorry. Sorry!” she called back as she jolted her way through the crowd. “Do you see something?” she yelled, winding up to a full-on jog.
“Red-haired cowboy at nine o’clock.” With her in tow, Spense zigzagged his way into the street.
A street full of cows.
“Spense . . .”
“Don’t worry,” he said, gripping her hand tighter. “They’re docile unless you rile them up. Just keep moving.”
Mooing, mingled with shouts from the crowd, filled her ears. One of the longhorns bumped her arm with its coarse, damp face, and she tried to put thoughts of a stampede out of her head. They made it to the other side of the road without being trampled to death, and she thanked her lucky stars. As they followed the red-haired cowboy, Spense slowed to a brisk walk, finally giving her a chance to draw a good breath. Then the scent of the herd put a damper on her will to breathe.
Keeping a low profile, they slowed up some more, hanging back until the cowboy was barely in sight. Even without the red hair, she would’ve recognized Dutch. His build, the way he carried himself, his posture—were uncannily like Spense’s. And she would’ve recognized that backside anywhere. Not that she’d spent time studying Dutch’s ass, but given the family resemblance, and the hours she’d logged admiring Spense from behind, she had no problem making the call. They were indeed on Dutch’s tail.
A few yards later, Dutch turned and walked off road. They passed some straggling cows and cowhands, and she wondered if they were headed towar
d the pens. Soon they found themselves trudging across a dirt path with no one else in sight. Apparently, the jig was up, assuming it’d ever been down to begin with. No telling how long Dutch had been onto them.
He whirled around. “Get the hell away from me, will you?”
“You’re welcome.” Spense pulled up short and spit in the dirt.
Caitlin dropped back, giving the men their space.
“I told that one”—he raised his arm and pointed accusingly at her—“that I don’t need any damn Bureau advocate. This is my problem, and I’ll handle it on my own.”
“Well, you’re doing a swell job so far. Sheridan’s got a BOLO out on you, and everyone this side of the Rio Grande is convinced you murdered your wife.”
“Including you, so why not get the hell away like I asked you to do?”
“I never said I thought you killed Cindy.”
“It’s written all over your face, and I can hear doubt in your voice every damn time you speak.”
Spense’s mouth twitched from side to side. “I have some questions, yes, but that doesn’t mean I’ve made up my mind you killed her.”
“So you think I might be innocent. That gives me the warm fuzzies. Now take Caitlin, who’s far more woman than you deserve, by the way, and go back to Dallas or to Tahiti or anywhere I’m not. I don’t care, as long as I don’t have to keep staring at your ugly mug. Unless, of course, you want to put a big fat target on your back, and Caitlin’s, too.”
“You’re a little late with the heads-up.” She suspected Spense’s accusation was directed as much to her as to Dutch.
Dutch swept off his hat and threw it on the ground. “What happened?”
“Long story, and one I don’t care to go into in the middle of a cattle drive. We’ll talk back in your room. Assuming you’ve got one. Assuming you’re not hiding out in that hole you dug yourself.”
Dutch kicked his hat. “I’m staying at Miss Molly’s. I’ll save you the trouble of tailing me back there.”
“So you really did return to the scene of the crime. That’s where we stayed that weekend . . .”
Dutch rubbed his eyes with his fists, then glared at the ground. “No idea what you mean.”
“That photograph your mother kept brought back a lot of memories, brother.”
Dutch transplanted his glare from the dirt to Caitlin. “She told you.”
“Didn’t have to.”
Why Spense felt the need to protect her, she didn’t know, but she was sick of lies. No need to toss another one onto the pile. “I had to tell him, Dutch. When someone tried to kill us, I realized keeping secrets was no way to protect anyone. I know you wanted to be the one—”
In the distance, she heard a clap of thunder. Spense put out his hand in warning. He wanted her to stay out of this. Message received. She shut up.
“Someone tried to kill you.” Air hissed through Dutch’s teeth, making it sound more like an accusation than concern. This could get out of hand fast. She itched to step in and try to mediate between the two brothers, but the black look in Spense’s eyes told her she’d crossed him enough for one day.
“Let’s go back to Miss Molly’s, and I’ll tell you everything. There’s a lot more you need to know.” Spense’s jaw clenched, and his voice sounded tightly stretched—like a rubber band about to snap.
“I don’t want you hanging around.” Dutch’s eyes narrowed to menacing slits. “You’re deadweight.”
Spense came up on his toes, making him seem even taller than usual. “I’m your brother.”
“Not hardly.”
“As in not hardly my fault.” The thunderclouds forming overhead were nothing compared to the lightning flashes in Spense’s eyes. “I just found out a few hours ago, but seems you’ve known all along—and for years you’ve made it clear how you feel about me. So if you wanna hate me, go right ahead, but don’t you dare put it on me that we never bonded over . . . over . . . whatever the hell brothers bond over.”
“I don’t hate you.” Dutch stepped closer to Spense. He reached his hand up, and Caitlin held her breath, hoping he’d offer a gesture of friendship. Instead, he jabbed Spense in the chest. “Go back to Dallas.”
Then Spense poked Dutch, and she saw his finger bend from the force. “I don’t hate you either. Not leaving you here.”
“Don’t give a damn.” Glaring at one another, the men began circling like boxers in a ring.
“Since you don’t give a damn, why pick Miss Molly’s? Why hide out here—in the one place we ever got to be brothers?”
“I don’t want you around.” Dutch stopped circling and ground the toe of his boot into the dirt.
Spense pointedly looked at a pile of manure. He inhaled a long, drawn-out breath. “I smell bullshit.”
“Bullshit?”
Another clap of thunder sounded overhead, but no one seemed to care. The air was charged with so much electricity, Caitlin half expected the tumbleweeds to burst into flames.
“Bull. Shit.”
Dutch slammed his fist into Spense’s jaw, knocking him back a step.
Looking away, Spense rubbed his face. “I didn’t pick you for my brother.” His body swung back, then forward, gaining momentum. His arm came around like a wrecking ball. He punched Dutch in the nose, and blood sprayed the air.
Adrenaline fired up her muscles and sent heat rushing to her face. Spense didn’t want her to interfere? Well, too damn bad. Her blood was up enough to make her want to throw a few punches herself. She wasn’t going to stand by and watch Spense and Dutch beat each other up. They had a chance to be a family, and they were throwing it away like it meant nothing. “Stop it! Both of you.” She tried to step between them, but it was too late. They grabbed each other by the shoulders and fell to the ground, cursing each other, and rolling around like kids in a schoolyard.
“Jack never took me fishing.”
“He was always gone on business. You were the business.”
Fists connected with guts. Bones crunched. Heads cracked.
She tried to grab Spense’s collar, but he and Dutch rolled at her, and she had to jump sideways to keep her feet under her. Planting her legs wide, she pulled in a deep breath and yelled loud enough to be heard above the din of slamming fists. “Stop it! You’re breaking my heart!”
Suddenly, Dutch climbed to his feet. “Get up, brother. I won’t hit you again.” He bent, offering Spense his hand. Spense grabbed him by the arm, yanked him down in the dirt, and let out a yelp of triumph.
Then Spense catapulted to his feet, grinning. “Get up, brother, and I won’t hit you again.” He jerked his bloodied chin toward Caitlin. “You heard the lady. We’re breaking her heart.” Reaching down, he extended his hand to Dutch, this time, without tricks.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, preceding a few drops of rain, then, from nowhere, both men began to laugh. Spense and Dutch clapped each other on the back and took off in the direction of Main Street like this had been nothing more than one of the fake fights put on for the tourists, like they hadn’t just kicked the tar out of each other in earnest.
Caitlin’s breath whooshed out in relief. A bubble of happiness rose in her throat. It was only a small miracle, perhaps, but a miracle nonetheless. Running to keep up with them, she narrowly avoided slipping in the mud.
Minutes later, they arrived back on Main Street, where the cattle drive had now ended. The threat of rain and the lack of cattle had most people scurrying toward the parking lots. Still trailing behind, Caitlin passed a building with a big picture window. MISS MOLLY’S according to the sign.
“Hey, guys . . .” She felt a lot like a third wheel, but she couldn’t help the pang of happiness that resulted from seeing the brothers ambling side by side, identical gaits, arms gesticulating wildly as they talked. They had years to catch up on, and there would be hard
conversations, she knew. Spense looked over his shoulder at her and grinned, and she could see that his lower lip was split and swollen. Dried blood caked the corner of his mouth. Dutch turned, and she noted a nice shiner already forming under his left eye and a cut below his nose.
She scavenged in her purse for wet wipes, then managed to catch up with them. “You gentlemen might want to clean up a bit.”
Halting, they touched their faces, then clapped each other on the back again—whole lot of that going on. Soon, they’d be bringing out the man hugs.
“You should see the other guy,” Spense said, then roared back laughing. “Oh wait, you are the other guy.”
Caitlin absolutely did not believe in violence as a way to solve problems, but she had to admit this fight had been like knocking the lid off a pressure cooker. If she wasn’t mistaken, Spense and Dutch were bonding—like brothers should. A bittersweet sight, since at the moment, Spense had to force himself just to be civil to her. A left-out feeling came over her, but she shook it off. Spense and Dutch were getting along, and that was the important thing.
That, and staying alive.
Chapter Eighteen
Friday, October 18
4:00 P.M.
Near Fort Worth, Texas
MALACHI DIDN’T MIND a setback. He’d learned through the years that most problems were actually opportunities in disguise. He’d learned many things from his profession, both about living and about dying. Given the amount of wisdom he’d accumulated, it was really too bad he didn’t have time to write one of those self-help books.
The point was, however, when he’d circled back to the hotel and learned from a chat with the desk clerk that Cassidy and Spenser had survived his hurried attempt to give them a meaningful death, he saw opportunity—not failure. It meant he got a do-over. Unfortunately, his employer didn’t view the situation in the same light.
Notorious Page 15