by Joanna Wayne
Heather stopped and looked around. “This is a restaurant.”
“It is now.” Matt tugged her toward a creaking sign. “I asked a few questions today. Twenty-five years ago this building was a hotel that also served as a bus stop.”
“It’s not big enough.”
“The back part burned in ’79. The hotel had closed a couple of years before, and the bus stop had moved down by Grady’s Mercantile.”
Heather dropped to a bench that sat by the front door. “My mother might have waited in this very spot for a bus to take her away from me.”
She trembled, and Matt dropped down beside her, taking her hands in his. She swayed closer, suddenly craving his warmth. “I wonder if it was dark and deserted like this. I wonder if she was afraid, if she felt all alone, if she thought about me.”
Matt gathered Heather beneath the curve of his arm. He knew what she wanted to hear, but he couldn’t say it. “There’s no reason to think she was afraid. She was doing what she chose to do.”
“But she was young, barely more than a teenager. Mrs. Purdy told me that. She didn’t want to leave me. She made them promise over and over to take good care of her little Heather.”
“Is she the one who named you?”
“Yes. My adoptive parents kept the name my birth mother had given me. Mom said they wanted to do something for the woman who’d given me to them.”
The coils tightened in Matt’s stomach as his own memories merged with Heather’s. Only he had no illusions left.
“Your mother left, Heather. Either she couldn’t deal with a baby or she was running away from something, or someone. We may find out which, but chances are you aren’t going to like what we find.”
“So you’ve said before, but you can’t know that.”
“You’re right. All I know for sure is that she left you a hell of a legacy—people smashing in your face and planting bombs in your car. And there’s a good chance that the bullet that killed Ariana today was meant for you. I shudder to think what waits around the next corner, all thanks to Kathy Warren.”
Heather pulled away from him. “She gave me life, Matt. Part of her lives on inside me. And good or bad, I want to know the truth about her.”
“I hope so, Heather, because we’ve gone too far to back down now. The murder today made certain of that.” Matt stood and extended a hand to Heather. She ignored it, standing on her own and stalking back towards the truck. He’d upset her again. No surprise.
As his Ranger captain had always said, he lacked the fine art of tact, always blurting out the truth when a white lie would be much more palatable. But what good did it do to coat a hard reality with sugar? It would still be bitter when the shell melted away.
Tomorrow they’d pay a visit to Mrs. Purdy and then he’d spend the afternoon digging up the past, his own as well as Heather’s. And if it turned out the two were tied together in some bizarre web of murder, there might be all hell to pay—for him, too.
His father had been sheriff of Dry Creek twenty-five years ago, and he had not found Susan’s attackers. As Matt had told Heather, it was the only major crime in his district he’d let go unsolved...
Matt had his theories on the subject. He hoped this investigation proved him wrong. No matter what personal wounds festered between him and his father, he didn’t want to be the man who tarnished the legend of Jake McQuaid.
“YOU MUST BE STARVING,” Matt said, pushing through the back screen door of his ranch house and standing aside for Heather to pass. “It’s nearly ten, and we haven’t had dinner.”
“I thought maybe starvation was part of the protection plan.”
“No, but it’s pretty standard procedure for a Ranger chasing after a murderer. Eat on the run, or do without.”
Heather opened the refrigerator. “There’s milk and bread.” She pulled opened the crisper and peeked inside. “And makings for a salad. I’ll throw one together.”
“That’ll do for starters.”
“A salad’s a meal.”
“Sure, for a jackrabbit. I take mine as an appetizer before a steak, grade A beef, not long off the hoof.”
“How carnivorous. I guess the steak you’re salivating for used to wander about on your ranch.”
“Of course. I raise beef cattle. Damn good ones. I’ll fire up the grill.”
He pulled a pair of fresh-thawed filets still wrapped in freezer white from the refrigerator, and she realized he’d planned ahead. Steaks for two, an intimate dinner. The prospect dissolved her fatigue. Only she wasn’t really a guest. Her presence had been forced upon Matt, all in the line of duty.
“What’s that you’re using on the steaks?” she asked when he came back in the kitchen after firing the grill and started brushing a dark liquid over the meat.
“The Hathaway special marinade.”
“Not the McQuaid special? After listening to the locals talk, I’d expect the McQuaids to be best at everything.”
“My dad was well-liked by his cronies.”
“You’re too modest.” Heather poked the lettuce under the faucet and let the water splash over the crisp leaves. “Jake McQuaid is a regular folk hero around here. Rube and I had a long conversation this morning while you were with Gabby and the body. He told me how Jake McQuaid had cleaned up the town and put a stop to the fights and shooting that went on every weekend. He said there were men still behind bars that Jake McQuaid put there when no one else would take them on.”
“That’s the way I’ve always heard it.” Matt poked in the refrigerator. “Would you like a beer?”
“Are you having one?”
“At least one. It’s been a long day. I might even have a bottle of wine somewhere if you’d rather have that.”
“No, a beer would be fine.”
He opened the can and poured hers into a tall glass. He left his own in the can, taking a long drink before he took two plates from the shelf and set them on the table.
“You don’t seem quite as impressed with your father’s accomplishments as the men around town,” she said, not willing to drop the subject.
“He’s my father. Living with a legend’s a little harder than just knowing one.” Matt came up behind her, reaching around her to open the drawer that housed the eating utensils. He took out forks and knives and moved away.
A casual move in a cozy kitchen, but her heart raced erratically. Her breath came quick and shallow while she threw together the fresh greens and chopped a tomato. She mixed her own dressing, a light oil-and-vinegar, avoiding the rich bottled one she found in the refrigerator.
By the time Matt reappeared in the kitchen with the steaks, her pulse had almost returned to normal. He pulled out a chair for her, and she slid into it, suddenly ravenous and not feeling the least bit carnivorous.
“You make a great salad,” he said, after he’d swallowed the first bite. “I could get spoiled having you around.”
“But then you’d have to put up with conversation with your meal.”
“On second thought, maybe I could just get your recipe,” he teased.
She stuck her tongue out at him and then rewarded his devastating smile with a few minutes of silence. Besides, it wasn’t polite to talk with your mouth full, and for once her hunger took precedence over her curiosity.
The steak was cooked to perfection, brown on the outside, a touch of pink in the middle, succulent juices escaping from every bite, and so tender it seemed to melt in her mouth. She moaned in appreciation.
“I take it the steak is to your liking.”
“It’s wonderful. I’ll swap recipes with you. My salad dressing for your Hathaway marinade.”
“It wouldn’t be the same. You’ll just have to show up at my door again when you want steaks this good.”
“Only if you promise your neighbors won’t throw another welcoming party.”
“I’d never have taken you for a party pooper.” He forked another bite of steak.
Heather chewed contentedly, and part o
f the weight seemed to lift from her shoulders. It must be the beer and the food taking effect. It certainly couldn’t be the situation, although even Matt was making a stab at small talk.
“I have to admit it’s kind of nice having a beautiful woman across the table from me oohing and aahing over my steaks.”
“So why haven’t you married?” she asked, and then wondered where the question had come from. “You don’t have to answer if that subject is too personal for the bodyguard /protector relationship.”
Matt looked up from his plate. “You’re not thinking of proposing, are you?”
“So you do have a sense of humor.”
“I try not to but it slips out every now and then.” He wiped his mouth on the napkin. When he met her gaze, the teasing smile had vanished. “I’ve thought about marriage, even got engaged once.”
“What happened?”
“The lady in question wised up in time to save both of us a lot of misery. She said I didn’t need her enough, that I was married to my job and my cows.”
“Didn’t you fight for her, try to convince her she was wrong?”
Matt’s gaze caught and held Heather’s. “She wasn’t wrong. And I had no argument for what she said.”
“Where is she now?”
“Married to the guy who was supposed to be my best man. They have a baby, and they’re very happy. Strangely enough, I’m happy for them. He’s still my best friend.”
“Maybe you two weren’t right for each other, but that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be perfect for someone else. Surely you wouldn’t let one bad experience frighten you away from marriage and a family.”
“I know my limitations, and I don’t go looking for trouble.” He finished his beer and went to the refrigerator for another, signaling the conversation about marriage had ended. “Want another?” he asked, holding up a can.
“I still have half of the last one.”
“It’s warm by now. I’ll get you a cold one.”
“Why not? A good meal and two beers, and I should sleep like a baby.”
He returned with the beers and settled back into his steak. Heather pushed her plate aside. She’d had enough food, but not nearly enough answers. One woman had walked away from Matt, blaming his inability to meet her needs on his job and his cows.
Heather’s guess was it was something more than the job and cattle that ruled Matt, something that made him afraid of intimacy and commitment, made him keep people a safe distance from his heart.
He’d said he wouldn’t kiss her again. She wondered how he’d react if she got up from the table right now and walked over and kissed him full on the mouth. Her insides quivered as titillating images danced across her mind.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Matt said after he’d chewed and swallowed the last bite of his steak and finished off his beer. “You must be exhausted after the day you’ve had. Why don’t you get ready for bed, and I’ll clean up in here.”
“I’m not that tired.”
Matt started to the sink with their plates. Heather got up to help. Idle hands, paired with the thoughts she’d been entertaining, could definitely lead to trouble. And her cup of problems was already spilling over the top.
THE THREE MEN HUDDLED behind the barn, away from prying eyes and ears.
The short, stocky one glared at the man who’d called the meeting. “I told you I didn’t want to be mixed up in murder. I told you that up front.”
“You should have thought of that twenty-five years ago.”
“I did. You promised then we weren’t going to kill anyone. Just rough Billy Roy up and get his attention—that’s what you told me and that’s the only reason I went along with you.”
The tall, lanky guy stepped between the other two. “Forget Billy Roy. Why’d you go and kill Ariana? She didn’t know anything.”
“I didn’t kill Ariana. You shot her.”
“No, I didn’t—why would I?” He wiped his clammy hands on his jeans. “It’s Heather Lombardi and Matt McQuaid who are causing all the trouble.”
“If you didn’t kill Ariana, who did?” The short man was sweating buckets in spite of the cool, dry night air.
“Probably someone who thought she needed killing, but it has nothing to do with us. It was just damn poor timing. Now Matt McQuaid’s not about to let things alone down here.” The man raked his fingers through his graying hair. He’d kept his two accomplices quiet for years, but they were getting awfully nervous now. He’d have to do something fast.
“Keep your cool, and keep your mouths shut for a little while longer. I promise you we are not going to jail for the murder of Billy Roy Lassiter or for anything else.”
“How can you guarantee that?”
“The same way I take care of everything else. I’m not afraid to do what needs to be done.”
HEATHER SAT bolt upright, startled awake from a dreamless sleep. She glanced at the clock by her bed—it was 2:30 a.m., but there was light shining beneath her door. Evidently Matt was up. Maybe the killer had struck again.
Slinging her legs over the side of the bed, she ran her toes around until they found her slippers. She didn’t bother with a robe.
The noise stopped her before she reached the door. A sharp, shattering crack, like a gunshot outside her window. Oh, no, not again!
“Matt! Matt!”
But only the echo of her own voice answered her call.
Chapter Eight
The back door stood open, and the wind shuffled the edges of the newspaper on the kitchen table. Heart pounding, Heather rushed to the door and stared into the night. Slowly her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The shadows and angles materialized into the swing, the porch railing, the pickup truck. But no Matt.
Something rustled the grass, and she zeroed in on the spot, focusing on one lone figure crouched beneath a tangle of brush. Moonlight glinted off something in his hand.
If the figure was Matt, why was he crouched in the bushes, and what had he shot? Not a person, she begged silently. Please don’t let it be a person.
Heather’s heart slammed against her chest, her dread so real it stole her breath away. She couldn’t handle another senseless death, another body. She’d never bargained for any of this when she’d come to Dry Creek.
“Matt, is that you?”
He stood up and stepped into full view. “It’s me, Heather. Go back inside.”
But something was wrong. He was clutching his arm, and holding a gun. She rushed down the steps to meet him. “What’s wrong with your arm?” Before he could answer, she saw the blood dripping down his sleeve. Her stomach rolled wildly. “You’ve been shot.”
“No, it’s just a scratch.” He walked past her;
“How did it happen? What were you doing out here in the middle of the night?”
“The horses were acting up, neighing and kicking around in the corral. I figured it was a varmint spooking them, so I went out to check.”
“Was someone there?”
“1 didn’t see anyone, but somebody had left my ax stuck between the shelf and the supports with the blade pointing out. My arm caught the edge of it.” Matt tore the shirt from his body and held his arm over the sink. Adjusting the faucet, he maneuvered his arm under the spray.
“I’ll call 911.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“You’re hurt, Matt. You have to see a doctor.”
“Not for this. The doctor would shoot me himself if I woke him up for something as minor as this. I’ll stop by Dr. Cappey’s office tomorrow and have him take a look at it. 1 need to talk to him anyway.”
“Isn’t Dr. Cappey the vet?”
“Yeah. If he’s good enough for my critters, he’s good enough for a scratch. Don’t worry,” he added, obviously reading the concern in her face. “My shots are all up to date.”
“Here, let me help you.” She took a towel from the freshly folded stack in the laundry room and wrapped one around his arm to catch the drips of water. The bleedi
ng had all but stopped, but the wound was an angry red.
“I’ll get the antiseptic and the dressing,” she said, hurrying to the bathroom. Fortunately Matt had an adequate supply of first aid equipment. She’d seen it this morning while getting some more medicine for her own cut, which paled in comparison to Matt’s.
She rummaged and found some peroxide and bandages and a disinfecting ointment. When she got back to the kitchen, Matt was at the table poring over a page of notes.
“You said someone left the ax blade sticking out. Who besides you would have been in your tack room?”
“Could have been any number of people. I have help out here checking on things when I’m tied up in San Antonio. The young guys get careless, but that’s no excuse. I can’t imagine why the ax would have been in the tack room to start with.”
“Did you find out what was spooking the horses?”
“No, it doesn’t have to be much to get them jumpy.”
“But I heard a shot.”
“Something slithered in the grass when I stepped on it. I wasn’t in a snake-friendly state of mind.”
A rattlesnake. Even the possibility sent new shivers flying up Heather’s spine. If she had to choose, she’d take a killer with legs any day. She pulled her chair next to Matt’s and unscrewed the top from the bottle of peroxide.
“This will only hurt a little,” she said, mimicking Matt’s tone and words from a night ago. Only one night ago...it seemed like weeks. So much had happened.
She’d been in Dry Creek for five days. The first four had been uneventful except for the note, but from the minute Matt McQuaid had walked into her life, the action had been nonstop, and none of it good.
Well, none of it except what passed between the two of them when they were alone. She propped his arm on the folded towel and poured a dash of peroxide over the wound. It bubbled like a witch’s brew, but Matt didn’t even wince.
“You treat this like nothing, which makes me think you’ve seen far worse. Were you ever shot in the line of duty?”
“Depends on what you call duty. My brother Cameron shot me once, accidentally of course. I was six, and he was playing with a BB gun. It hit me in the backside.”