by Janet Dailey
Rose took a bite of her sandwich. She wanted to believe the words she’d just heard. But she knew better. Bernice appeared to be one of those trusting people who refused to speak or even think ill of anyone—including her.
The truth, Rose knew, was that Bull would do whatever it took to hang on to her land. And she would do whatever it took to get her inheritance back.
“This sandwich is delicious,” she said, changing the subject. “Thank you. I was really hungry.”
Bernice smiled. “You’re welcome, dear. Now you enjoy your lunch while I go out and gather the eggs.” She started toward the back door, then turned. “Oh—Jasper said you’d likely be wondering about our chickens. You’ll be happy to know they’re the great-great-great-grandchildren of the ones he helped you rescue and bring here.”
Rose gave her a genuine smile. “Thanks. That makes me happy. I loved those silly chickens.”
After Bernice had gone out, Rose finished her sandwich and milk. She was just carrying the plate and glass to the sink when the doorbell chimed.
At the innocent sound, her instincts sprang to full alert. Had she been followed here from Río Seco? Could someone be waiting on the other side of the door to shoot her or drag her back to face Refugio Cabrera in Mexico?
Her pistol was in the car, under the seat, far out of reach. Maybe she’d be safer not answering. Rose took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm and think rationally. Odds were that the visitor posed no danger at all. She could be jumping at shadows.
A glance out the front window revealed a late-model black Porsche parked in front of the house. It sported current Texas plates and appeared freshly washed and waxed. Her own car, after the long drive, was coated with dust, its hood and windshield spattered with the remains of flying insects. Any vehicle pursuing her from Mexico would likely be in the same condition.
Unless Refugio’s connections in the U.S. were already on her trail . . .
The doorbell rang again. Telling herself to stop being so skittish, Rose strode toward the door and opened it.
The tall, snobbish-looking young man on the porch was dressed in khakis and a yellow polo shirt. His blond hair was combed back in waves, his nose large and sharp, like a hatchet blade, and his chin slightly receded. He looked her up and down, his pale eyes reflecting surprise, curiosity, and something else that roused a prickle of discomfort. Rose willed herself to stand her ground.
“Miss Rose Landro?” He had a curiously formal way of speaking, as if he’d practiced the lines before a mirror. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Garn Prescott. My father asked me to give you this note and to wait for your answer.”
Prescott.
Rose had been about to invite him in, but the name gave her pause. Could this unlikely looking fellow be Ferg’s son? Deciding to err on the side of caution, she stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind her. Only then did she take the envelope from his hand.
“Please have a seat.” She gestured toward one of the two rocking chairs on the porch and sat down in the other one. “I’d offer you a drink, but this isn’t my house. Who did you say your father was?”
“I didn’t say.” He sat on the edge of the chair. “My father is Ferguson Prescott.”
“So I see.” She glanced at the letterhead on the envelope before lifting the flap and reading the message inside.
Dear Miss Landro,
I’ve been told that you’re the owner of a vintage Buick. As a collector of rare autos, I would like to discuss buying it from you for a fair price. If you’re interested, please follow my son home in your car. If your vehicle turns out to be what I’m looking for, I can offer you cash on the spot.
Sincerely,
Ferguson Prescott
Garn Prescott appeared to have read the message before giving it to Rose. “My father collects old cars,” he said. “He’s building a special barn for them.” He glanced at the Buick, which was parked next to his shiny Porsche. “I can promise you he’ll be interested in this one.”
Was it a trap? Rose hesitated, weighing the offer. It seemed almost too good to be true. But she did need to trade the Buick for something more serviceable, like a pickup with a camper on it. The trouble was, without a title or registration, she had no idea how to get rid of the old Buick, especially for a decent price. Ferg Prescott’s offer, if legitimate, could be a lifesaver. But she knew enough about Ferg to be cautious.
“The car is a dirty mess,” she hedged. “Besides, there’s no paperwork. I took the car after the owner died.”
“My father can handle the paperwork, and he’ll have one of the boys wash your car before he gives it his final okay.” Garn unfolded his lanky frame from the chair. “Come on. What’ve you got to lose?”
Plenty, Rose thought. But if she meant to settle on her land, sooner or later she would have to deal with Ferg. So why not now, especially if his offer to buy her car was genuine?
“Fine,” Rose said, rising. “Lead the way. I’ll be right behind you.”
For an instant, she weighed the idea of telling Bernice where she was going, then decided against it. The good woman would only worry, or worse send someone to rescue her if she was late getting back. It was an easy decision. But as she climbed into the car and fished the key out of her pocket, she remembered her tools in the trunk and the pistol she’d left under the front seat.
Garn was pulling away, but he stopped when she jumped out of the car and waved him down. “Stay here,” she told him. “I need to unload the car before we go.”
Without waiting for his response, she drove around behind the duplex, hauled the tools out of her trunk, and piled them against the back wall. The question of the gun gave her some pause. She would feel more secure going to the Prescott ranch with a weapon. But there was no way to hide the heavy pistol on her body, and she’d never get away with wearing it openly. The .44 would have to stay here.
After wrapping the gun in her serape, she carried it into her side of the duplex and stuffed it under the bed. Feeling vulnerable and more than a little nervous, she went back to her car and followed the Porsche along the back road to the Prescott Ranch.
She’d seen the two-story frame house before, from a distance. It looked the same as she remembered, impressive with its white exterior and gingerbread trim above the broad, shaded porch. As Garn escorted her up the front steps, she noticed that the paint around the door was peeling.
“Step into my parlor,” Garn joked, recalling the old poem about the spider and the fly. It expressed Rose’s feelings exactly, but she wasn’t about to say so. How much did this unsettling young man know about her past? What had she been thinking, letting herself be lured here with no way to protect herself?
The living room, with its heavy walnut cabinets, massive leather furniture, and mounted trophy heads—bison, cougars, coyotes, javelinas, bobcats, and a hideous black bear with its mouth open in a snarl—was overpowering in its masculinity. It wasn’t hard to imagine her own head, stuffed and mounted on the wall.
“This way.” Garn’s hand, settling on the small of her back, sent a jolt of alarm through her body. His touch lingered as he guided her down the hall toward an open doorway and nudged her through ahead of him. Only then did he drop his hand and take a step back.
Ferg Prescott rose from behind the desk, his features arranged in a smiling mask. He had aged in the past twelve years, his presence taking on a weight that was more than physical. Ponderous . . . That was the word that sprang into her mind. He was far from old. But it was as if the flesh of his face and body had been sucked downward by some invisible force. The pricey-looking wool shirt and leather vest he wore were as spotless as his hands, as if they’d never been exposed to a lick of outdoor work.
How much did he know about her part in his father’s death? How did he plan to use it?
“Thank you for coming, Miss Landro,” he said. “Let’s have a look at your car.”
Nerves quivering, she let him escort her back outside.
Garn walked behind her, so close that she imagined she could hear him breathing.
When they stepped out onto the porch, Rose saw that one of the ranch hands, who must have been given the order ahead of time, was already hosing down her car. She stood next to Ferg, watching the dirty water flow off the chassis of the old Buick.
“Not bad,” Ferg said. “Looks to me like a forty-seven Buick Super. Is that right?”
“I don’t know,” Rose said. “I was never told. But it’s been well maintained. It runs fine. The key’s in the ignition, if you want to try it out.”
“Since I wouldn’t be driving it much, that’s not an issue,” Ferg said. “The body looks to be in decent condition. Has it been restored?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I think so.”
“And the interior?”
“The same.”
“If it was all original, the car would be a treasure,” Ferg said. “Restored, I can offer you eight thousand cash.”
Eight thousand. Not as much she’d hoped for but enough for what she needed. “I got the car in Mexico,” she said. “There’s no title.”
“I can take care of that,” he said. “I took the liberty of drawing up a bill of sale. When we’ve filled in the blanks and you’ve signed it, the money’s yours. Do we have a deal?” He held out his hand.
Rose returned the handshake. His palm was smooth and cool, his clasp businesslike. She didn’t trust the man or his son, but she needed the money to carry out her plan. She had little choice except to gamble that Ferg was playing straight with her.
Back in his office, they signed duplicate copies of the bill of sale. Ferg counted out hundred-dollar bills from a strongbox in his desk, slipped them into a manila envelope, and handed them to Rose. The leaden eyes that met hers were flat and unreadable.
“You can count it again if you want,” he said.
“I watched you count it. That’s good enough.” Rose jammed the envelope into the hip pocket of her jeans. All she wanted to do was get out of there. But first she needed another favor.
“If you’d like to drink to our bargain, I’ve got some excellent Kentucky bourbon in my liquor cabinet,” Ferg said as they walked back into the living room.
“Thanks, but I’ve done what I came for. Now I need to get going.”
His smile was razor thin. “Another time, then. I can have somebody drive you back to the Rimrock.”
“I’ll do it.” Garn had joined them again. His father ignored him.
“Thanks,” Rose said, “but what I need now is to buy another vehicle. Is there anything like a used car lot in town?”
“The man who runs the garage usually has a few out back for sale, or he can tell you who else is selling one,” Ferg said. “I can’t vouch for his honesty. If you find one you like, you’ll want to have a man check it out for you.”
“I know enough about cars,” Rose said. “All I need is a ride to town.”
“I can drive her,” Garn said.
Again, Ferg ignored his son’s offer. “McCade’s around,” he said. “Go find him, Garn. Tell him he can take the new truck. The keys are on the hook by the door.”
Garn’s expression soured, but he did as he was told, hooking the key ring with a finger as he strode out the front door, leaving Rose alone with Ferg.
She stirred uncomfortably. “You must have things to do,” she said. “I can wait for my ride on the porch.”
Ferg gave her a smile. “That’s fine. But know that you can call on me anytime, for anything you need. Consider me your friend, Miss Landro. And trust me when I say that I can do more for you than Bull Tyler can.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” Rose started for the door, then paused. “How did you know me and know about my car?”
He smiled again. “No mystery. One of my hands saw you this morning. When he described you, I knew who he was talking about. And when he mentioned the car, I knew that I wanted to see it for myself. Does that answer your question?”
“I suppose so.” Rose remembered the feeling she’d had that someone was watching her. She’d learned to trust her instincts. This time they must’ve been spot-on. “I’ll let you get back to work,” she said, moving toward the door.
“Good luck finding your vehicle. If you need anything else, let me know.” With that, he vanished into the shadowed hallway.
Rose walked onto the porch, closing the door behind her. Leaning on the rail, she gazed across the distance at the russet cliffs of the escarpment that jutted skyward along the west boundary of the Rimrock. Two vultures circled above the foothills, riding on the warm spring updrafts.
The old Buick was gone from where she’d left it, taken to someplace where it would be cleaned or stored. And the envelope of money—more cash than she had ever seen in her life—was straining the rivets on the hip pocket of her jeans.
In the past hour, her life had taken on a surreal quality—money in her pocket and Ferg Prescott offering to be her new best friend. She’d have to be crazy to trust the man. Bull and Jasper didn’t hate him for nothing. But he’d just given her what she needed and hinted at more to come. Maybe he’d even be willing to help her get her land back.
But what would he demand in return?
Had she just sold her soul to the devil?
A shiny, dark blue pickup had come around the barn and was headed for the house. That would be her ride to town. Rose came down the steps as the truck pulled up to the foot of the porch. She was about to open the passenger door and climb in when the driver swung to the ground, strode around the truck, and opened the door for her.
Without a word he reached out to help her into the high seat. Glancing up, Rose glimpsed a craggy face, dark hair lightly silvered at the temples, and steel gray eyes. He was no movie star, but the skip of her pulse told her that his sheer masculinity had touched off a response.
She lowered her gaze. Hard experience had taught her to be wary of attractive men. They tended to think they could take whatever they wanted from a woman—especially a marked girl who would probably be grateful for the attention. Rose would never have called herself shy. But her self-protective instincts were razor sharp.
Avoiding eye contact, she clasped his forearm to lever herself upward. Through the worn flannel sleeve, his muscles were like ropes, taut and hard. His faded shirt and worn leather vest smelled of clean, fresh hay, as if he might have been working in the barn when he was called to drive her.
As she groped for the seat belt, he closed the door, went back around the truck, and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Tanner McCade’s the name, Miss. You want to go to town, right?” The sharp inflection of his words told her he wasn’t from Texas.
“That’s right,” she said. “I need to go someplace where I can buy a used truck. Mr. Prescott told me about a garage.”
“I know the place. I’ll wait while you look, in case you don’t see what you want.” He paused as if waiting for her reply, which didn’t come. “Believe me, you don’t want to be stranded in Blanco Springs,” he said.
She shrugged. “I don’t want to be a bother.”
“A bother? When it’s this or muck out the stable, it’s an easy choice.”
“Thanks.” He had made her smile, a rare accomplishment. But that didn’t mean she trusted him any more. Something told her that with this man, she would have to watch her every move and her every word.
Tanner McCade. The name sounded as if it belonged to a movie cowboy. For all she knew, he could’ve made it up. Was he what he appeared to be, a simple cowhand working for Ferg Prescott, or did he have his own agenda? Whoever he was, or however he might try to charm her, one thing was certain. She couldn’t afford to trust him.
* * *
Tanner turned the truck onto the main highway. The woman sat in silence beside him. Rose. Garn Prescott had mentioned her name. It didn’t suit her, Tanner thought. Or maybe it did. She was a prickly little thing, more like a wild rose than one of the hothouse beauties Ferg Prescott
’s late wife had planted below the porch.
He knew, of course, why Prescott had asked him to drive her to town. Prescott wanted him to get her talking and report back on anything she told him. So far, the lady wasn’t cooperating.
Was she in league with the cattle rustlers? That was what he was really supposed to find out. But Prescott seemed to want something else. Was it because he suspected Rose of murdering his father, or were his reasons even deeper and darker?
Never mind. He was here to investigate the rustling, not serve as Prescott’s private spy. Unless she mentioned cattle, he was under no obligation to pass on anything he heard.
“I have a question,” she said. “Mr. Prescott told me that one of his hands saw me this morning, and that the man told him about my car. Was that you?”
“It was. I was riding fence and saw you drive up.” A necessary half lie.
“Why didn’t you show yourself or say something?”
“I didn’t want to startle you. And I figured that whatever you were doing, as long as it wasn’t on Prescott property, it was none of my business.” Another necessary lie.
“But you told your boss. And you weren’t riding fence when you saw me. There isn’t a fence on that part of the boundary, just the creek.”
The woman was damned sharp.
“I mentioned you in passing. And no, I wasn’t riding fence. The boss wanted me to look into some missing cattle. I was checking for tracks.”
“And what did you find?”
“Nothing worth mentioning.” Except you.
He was tempted to ask her what she’d been doing on the Rimrock side of the creek, but he had a feeling she would either lie or shut down and refuse to talk to him at all. As for asking her whether she’d really murdered Ferg Prescott’s father, that would open a whole different can of worms.
He glanced at her firm yet delicate profile and small, work-worn hands. Not that it was his business, but so far he could hardly believe Rose was capable of killing anybody, especially the large man that Ferg’s father must’ve been. She was like a feisty, little brown-eyed cat, so vulnerable that he felt an awakening urge to protect her.