BRYCE PERSUADED Mari to stay. He was the only one who made any effort to do so. She declined the offer of a swimsuit. It didn’t seem wise to get half naked with this crowd. For one thing, she didn’t consider herself to be in the bikini league, bodywise. Her self-esteem was already reeling from Rafferty’s rejection. She really didn’t need to compare belly buttons with the likes of Uma Kimball or Sharon Russell. Especially Sharon, whose figure belonged in a Frederick’s of Hollywood window display.
Besides, with the possible exception of Samantha, she trusted none of them. Lucas tracked her every move with his shark eyes. Sharon’s gaze was clinically cool, like that of a scientist watching a mouse in a maze. The bimbob was on another planet and Uma was from another planet. Mari felt as if she’d fallen into an alternate reality, one that was littered with corpses and shadowed with menace.
Bryce played host with a subdued air. He chose to sit with her in the shade, Samantha to his right side and an untouched glass of scotch in front of him.
“He was distraught over Lucy’s accident,” he said, tracing patterns in the condensation on the glass. “I suppose that was part of it.”
“They were that close?” Mari asked, her eyes on his bony hands as he fondled the tumbler. The action seemed borne of impatience rather than a need to soothe some inner restlessness.
Bryce’s eyes cut to her sharply, though he didn’t move a muscle. His voice was perfectly calm. “He gave Lucy the money to buy the ranch. She didn’t tell you?”
“I suppose I didn’t really want to know. I’m not a big advocate of illicit affairs.”
Samantha shifted uncomfortably in her chair, ducking her head as if she wanted to make herself very small and disappear. She had gone in and dressed with obvious attention to detail, like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s closet. It somehow made her seem just as vulnerable as she had looked in the bathing suit. Mari thought of Will and bit her tongue for punishment.
“That’s the irony, you know,” Bryce said on a sigh as he rattled the ice in his scotch. “Townsend wasn’t either. He was obsessed with Lucy, but he carried around a lot of guilt because of it. He wouldn’t leave his wife for her, even though he and Irene haven’t had much of a marriage in recent years.” He took a sip of the drink, just enough to taste the smoky quality of the liquor, and stared off across the pool. “Foolish, hanging on to something meaningless when he could have started fresh.”
Again, Samantha’s chair rattled against the flagstones as she shifted positions. “Maybe he still loved his wife,” she said quietly. “Maybe he just couldn’t help himself.”
Bryce gave her a long, level look. “We can always help ourselves, sweetheart.”
The girl’s eyes filled. Mari wanted to hug her and tell her Will still loved her, that he was worth hanging on to, worth fighting for, but she didn’t know that. Not really. It was just a feeling, and feelings had already gotten her in trouble with the Rafferty brothers. Still, she couldn’t just sit there and watch Bryce try to lure an innocent into his fold. It would have been like standing by with her hands in her pockets while satanists made off with the village virgin. She was here and she was accountable. In her heart she had made her commitment to this land, a commitment that had nothing to do with ownership and everything to do with personal integrity.
“If people could always help themselves,” she said, “then Betty Ford wouldn’t have a clinic. There’s a lot more to people’s problems than weakness.”
Bryce’s small mouth tightened. Mari ignored him and met Samantha’s pain-filled gaze, trying her best to communicate the personal applications of her statement through mental telepathy.
“That’s a very romantic notion: to think that everyone is redeemable-or worth redeeming,” Lucas said. Apparently feeling near nudity was an affront to the memory of the dead, he had changed out of his Speedos into a pair of loose black lounging pants and a wood-block print shirt worn open à la Bryce. “Rates of recidivism in our prisons dispel your theory, Marilee.”
“We’re not talking about hardened criminals. We’re talking about a good man who made some bad choices.”
Ostensibly Townsend, though Bryce knew the conversation had passed beyond the judge. He couldn’t call her on it without making another strong attack on Will Rafferty, and clearly Samantha was not ready to hear it. He sighed and tipped his head, conceding the point to Marilee, and reevaluating her status as a threat.
“You have a very naive view of humanity,” Sharon said, raising a margarita to her lips. She sat between the two men, still in her bathing suit with a sheer black cover-up falling back off her angular shoulders, not covering much of anything.
“I prefer to think of it as optimistic,” Mari countered with a brittle smile.
“Stupid,” she pronounced bluntly. Her attention had shifted to Bryce, who was captivated by Samantha, who was staring down through the glass-topped table at her toenails. “Everyone is out for their own selfish interest. The smart ones climb over anyone they need to to get what they want. The ruthless ones wear cleats. The fools are trampled and left for dead. It’s every man for himself.”
Mari raised her brows. “Well, you’d know more about that than me,” she said pleasantly. “I’ve led a very sheltered life,” she added as Bryce’s cousin began to redden around the gills.
“Stick around,” Sharon said, rising. “You’ll learn fast enough.”
“Fun girl,” Mari murmured, rolling her eyes as the statuesque blonde dropped her cover up on the tile apron and dove into the pool. Her long body sliced into the water like a knife. “I’ll bet the film-noir crowd thinks she’s a million laughs.”
“Sharon learned the hard way that life can be exceedingly cruel,” Bryce said. “She’s had to develop a survivalist’s perspective.”
“Hmm.” Mari pictured Bryce’s cousin in eye black, a chic camouflage jump suit with an M-16 in her hands. It really didn’t seem much of a stretch.
From the front side of the mansion came the sound of a truck engine with no muffler, a loud roaring that even managed to rouse Fabian from his concentrated sunbathing. Everyone looked toward the side gate expectantly.
“Delivery truck,” Bryce grumbled, rising. “For what they charge to come out here, they should be able to afford gold-plated exhaust systems.”
He let himself out the gate and came flying backward through it a moment later. The tall, weathered wood gate slapped against the stone wall with a resounding crack, and Bryce landed on his ass on the terrace. Everyone at the table came to attention as one, like a herd of wildebeest ready to bolt and run.
“Will!” Samantha shouted, vaulting to her feet.
Will came through the open gate, fists doubled before him, and went straight for Bryce. “You sonofabitch! Leave my wife alone, you goddamn sonofabitch!”
His words were slurred and he swayed a little on his feet, but he zeroed in on Bryce, who was scrambling to get up on the wet tile at the pool’s edge. Will took a big roundhouse swing with his left, landing a glancing blow on Bryce’s small knob of a chin. Bryce went down, spitting blood, and rolled out of range.
“Will, stop it!” Samantha cried, running at him. A part of her was mortified at his behavior, shocked at his appearance-he had stitches in his forehead and a black eye. Another part of her was elated that he cared enough to come here and make a scene. A million things flashed through her head: he loved her, he’d come to take her home, they would live happily ever after, Bryce would hate her, her opportunities for better things would vanish.
His brain down-shifting slowly and awkwardly, Will turned toward his wife. The young woman he saw was a stranger to him. Her hair hung loose in a shimmering curtain of black silk. She wore makeup and jewelry. The faded jeans and T-shirt had been traded for something chic and silk in a copper shade that enhanced her natural coloring. She looked like a model, like some snooty bitch from the pages of fucking Vogue. Not his Sam. Too good for him. Slipping out of his reach. Wanting more than he could give her. His ex-wife… ex-wife… ex-wife…
“What’s the matter, Sam?” he asked, dredging up anger to mask the fear. “You don’t want me busting your lover’s face?”
“He’s not my-”
“Save your breath. I know what he’s after.” He turned around in an unsteady circle, raising his arms to gesture to all visible trappings of Bryce’s wealth, a bitter smirk twisting his lips. “Mr. Rich Sonofabitch. He gets you, he gets a chunk of the Stars and Bars and a nice young piece of ass all in one.” He leaned into her face and gave her a blast of Jack Daniel’s fumes. “Helluva deal, huh, Sam?”
Samantha felt as if he had physically knocked her off balance. She felt as if she were tipping backward, her whole world rolling off its axis, and she threw herself at Will to save herself and to strike out at him all in one move. Her fists slammed against him.
“You bastard! How dare you say that to me! After all you’ve done, after all the women!” She choked on the rage and the hurt. Tears brimmed up and spilled down her cheeks in a torrent, smearing her freshly applied mascara. “After all you’ve done to hurt me!”
“Hurt you?” Will managed a caustic laugh as he tried to rub the sting out of his cheek. “Yeah, you look like you’re hurting, baby. Dressed up like a goddamn fifty-dollar whore, sitting around drinkin’ champagne with all your famous friends-”
“That’s enough, Rafferty,” Bryce said, circling around to stand behind Samantha. Blood leaked from a cut inside his lower lip. He fingered a tooth and winced; the cap had come loose.
Will sneered at him. “What you gonna do, rich boy? Tell Sam here to kick my butt for you? You sure as hell can’t do it. You just fuck people over with your money.”
“Will-”
Mary Lee moved into his field of vision. She was frowning at him. He hadn’t expected to see her here. He really didn’t know what he had expected as he’d roared up the mountain in Tucker’s old truck. The haze from the Jack Daniel’s had obscured everything but impulse. Most of the day was a vague memory shimmering like a mirage in his brain: Sam gone when he’d stumbled into the house to see her, to try to tell her-what? That he loved her? That he was scared of loving her? Didn’t matter, she wasn’t there, wasn’t at the Moose… Bryce, that bastard, giving her things, making her want things… Pure damn wonder he made it up the mountain… Should have crashed… wished he had crashed…
“Will-” Mari stepped closer and put a hand on his arm. He jerked away, snarling, feinting toward Bryce and laughing when Bryce dragged Samantha back two steps with him in retreat.
“You want my wife? Take my wife!” he shouted, desperation twisting inside him like a whirlpool. “Take my wife, pul-leeeeeeze! Hell, I never wanted one in the first place!”
Samantha gasped as if he’d reached out and cut her. Sobbing, she broke away from Bryce’s hold and ran into the house. Bryce shook his head in disgust.
“You’re pathetic, Rafferty.”
Will held his hands up and pretended to be afraid. “Oooooh! You nailed me that time! Have mercy!”
Bryce glared at him. Beyond reckless, Will jumped at him, coming within inches of Bryce’s nose with a jab.
“Come on, jerk,” Will taunted, jabbing again. “Give me the satisfaction. Fight back, city boy. Let’s see what you got besides money.”
Mari watched him weave a little as he shuffled. He seemed to be having trouble focusing, as if he might be seeing multiple Bryces. She took another half step toward him and raised a hand. “Come on, Will. You’ve done enough damage.”
Yeah, Willie-boy, you’re the screwup. Fuck up again. It’s what you do best. Anger and frustration and fear rushed through him like a fire, and he launched himself at Bryce with a wild cry.
Bryce caught him in the nose with a right cross. The bone gave way with a sharp snap and blood gushed down like water from a fire hose. Will staggered sideways, stunned and surprised. Bryce gave him no time to regain what faculties he had. With Samantha out of sight, he grabbed a chair from poolside and swung it like a baseball bat, catching his adversary in the ribs with one blow and in the side of the knee with a second.
At first contact with the chair Will doubled over as a pair of ribs cracked. The second strike forced his knee to buckle inward sharply and he felt something tear. He went down on the flagstone in a bloody, groaning heap. Bryce kicked him once in the belly for a final touch, the toe of his boot driving deep, driving up a good measure of whiskey and the indistinguishable remains of his lunch.
“Get off my property, Rafferty,” Bryce said coldly. Then he turned and walked away.
Shaken by the violence of Bryce’s attack, Mari dropped down on her knees beside Will and laid a shaking hand on his shoulder. “Can you get up?”
“Maybe.” He looked up at her-all three of her-and tried to grin through the blood and the vomit. “But you got lousy timin’, Mary Lee.”
Mary Lee frowned at him. “Come on, hotshot. I’ll give you a ride-to the hospital.”
The housekeeper rushed out onto the terrace, followed by a pair of ranch hands. Bryce nodded from the hands to Will.
“Get him out of here. Morton, drive that piece of junk he calls a truck into town. I don’t want it cluttering up my driveway.”
Mari’s head came up sharply. Morton. She pushed herself to her feet and stepped back on wobbly legs. Kendall Morton. Pigpen grown up and gone bad. He wore a dirty plaid shirt with the tails hanging out and the sleeves cut off to reveal an array of tattoos on his sinewy arms. His round face twisted in an ugly grimace as he hauled Will, flashing teeth that were varying shades of yellow and brown.
Kendall Morton hadn’t vanished at all. He was working for Evan Bryce. Oh, Christ, what next?
“You gonna give me a lecture, Mary Lee?” Will mumbled through the wad of blood-soaked tissues he held beneath his broken nose. He sat in the passenger seat, doubled over and listing heavily to the left in a vain attempt to relieve the pain in his ribs.
Mari pulled her gaze off the rearview mirror and shot him a look. “Why should I waste my breath? You’re too drunk to listen. I doubt you’d listen anyway. You seem to have a handicap in the area of listening. Maybe you should have the doctor check the connection between your ears and your brain.”
He started to chuckle weakly, but groaned instead as one of the Honda’s wheels dipped into a pothole. Mari winced in sympathy and eased off the gas. But the sympathy took a backseat to her anger and to her fear. Those two fermented inside her like sour mash with a good dose of frustration compounding the process.
She was beginning to understand why J.D. was so hard on Will. Will’s insistence on being a repeat offender in the drunk, disorderly, and stupid category was enough to make her want to shake him. And she had known him only a matter of days; J.D. had put up with a lifetime of Will’s shit.
She’d had the nerve to preach to J.D. about compassion and tolerance. Maybe Will didn’t deserve compassion. Maybe what he really needed was a kick in the butt. Maybe she should have been dragging him behind her car instead of letting him bleed all over the upholstery.
Her head began to pound as she chanced another glance in the mirror. Kendall Morton followed her in the truck Will had been driving. Another hand brought up the rear of their little motorcade in one of Bryce’s ranch trucks.
What the hell was Morton doing working for Bryce? Or had he really been working for Bryce all along? Her brain buzzed with the possibilities.
In the emergency room Dr. Larimer looked from Will to Mari and back again with an expression of extreme displeasure. He apparently preferred to see a variety of patients instead of the same cracked noggins and busted faces day in and day out. When Mari asked if they got a discount for being frequent casualties, his only reply was a grunt.
“Bet he cracks ’em up in the doctor’s lounge,” Will said, trying to grin despite the novocaine Larimer had injected around his smashed nose.
The doctor had been called into the next examination room to deal with a more urgent case. Mari sat on a straight chair and looked up at Will, humor beyond her where Will was concerned. His eyes were clearer than they had been. He might have been close to sober; it was difficult to tell.
“You know, I can’t begin to guess what you were thinking, coming up to Bryce’s place that way-”
“Thinking? What’s that?”
“-But it was so unbelievably stupid I can’t even find words to describe it.”
He scowled at her, his eyes tearing from the novocaine.
“Will,” Mari said, pressing her hands on her knees and leaning toward him. “Bryce doesn’t screw around. He plays for keeps. You piss him off, there’s no telling what he might do. The guy’s got more money than God, and I really don’t think he was hanging around when they passed out consciences. He has the power to ruin the Stars and Bars.”
“Yeah, well, that’s J.D.’s problem now, not mine.”
She ground her teeth and stood up. “I’d hate to guess which one of you has the hardest head,” she grumbled, dragging a hand back through her hair. “Okay, forget Bryce. What about Samantha? Where the hell do you get off raking her over the coals?”
“It’s none of your business, Mary Lee,” he mumbled, staring down as he rubbed a bloodstain on his jeans with his thumb. “Just drop it. You don’t know anything about me and Sam.”
“I know that if I were your wife, my running around with another man would be the least of your worries, because I would have taken a club to you by now.”
He raised his head an inch, petulance shining in his watering eyes and turning down the corners of his mouth. “Back off, Mary Lee. I got problems enough. I don’t need you chewing my tail. I don’t need it.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. She hauled her purse up off the floor and looped the strap over her shoulder, then started for the door, fed up to the back teeth with Rafferty men. With one hand on the knob she turned back and gave him a hard look. “What you need is to grow up.”
J.D. leaned ahead in the saddle a little as his horse surged to the top of the knoll at the blue rock. He reined the gelding in and sat for a moment with a hand braced against the pommel, listening, watching, waiting. Sarge turned his head from side to side in a lazy arc, ears flicking at the sounds of birds.
Del considered the blue rock the lower boundary of his territory. He maintained a diligent vigil over his space, patrolling the perimeter all hours of the day and night. He would have been ashamed of having J.D. know that. The thought weighed heavy in J.D.’s heart. Del didn’t want to be a burden on the family. He saw himself as an embarrassment, less than a whole man because of the fractured state of his mind. He lived up here year-round in part to hide himself-the ugly skeleton in the family closet. He worked the summer cow camp to redeem himself.
What else might he do for redemption?
Memories of bits of conversations swirled and bobbed in J.D.’s belly like backed-up sewage. Del’s crazy talk about his guns, the things he let slip about what he thought he saw up there at night, the way he had mistaken Mary Lee for Lucy. And he kicked himself mercilessly for the things he had said himself over the course of the last year. He had sounded off to Del about the outsiders pressing in on Rafferty land. He had vented his spleen about Lucy more than once. He had used his uncle as a sounding board, as if Del were too far gone to form his own opinions, never once thinking there might be a danger in it.
Christ, if Del had taken all that talk to heart, he might have seen killing Lucy as a noble cause. One act of violence could have pulled him off that narrow, crumbling ledge into the void.
J.D. didn’t want it to be true. Even considering the possibility seemed a betrayal. But he couldn’t keep the questions from forming or the possible answers from taking shape. Nor could he simply insulate the Stars and Bars from the outside world, as badly as he wanted to. There was no escaping society or its ambitions. They would have to fight and adapt to survive. He was responsible for the ranch and everyone on it, for their well-being and for their actions.
Responsible.
Will’s battered, angry face came to mind and threatened to pull him down another rough road, but the sharp crack of a rifle farther up the mountain shattered the image. Heart sinking lower, J.D. nudged his horse back into motion and continued on up the trail.
There was no sign of Del at the camp. No dogs ran out to greet him. The buckskin mare was gone out of the string in the corral. J.D. tied his horse to a rail and loosened his cinch, his gaze scanning the area the whole time for signs that Del had gone off the deep end. There were none. The place was immaculate as always. The snake curled in its cage nailed to the side of the cabin. That was hardly normal, but it was vintage Del, not out of what was ordinary for him. One of the first things his uncle had done when he moved up here was nail that cage to the cabin and stick a rattler in it.
Some unworthy part of his brain urged J.D. to go into the cabin and look around, but he flatly refused. Del’s cabin was sacrosanct; no one went in without his invitation. J.D. had always respected his uncle’s privacy. He wouldn’t step over that line now.
He sat himself down on a bench in the shade alongside the equipment shed to wait. If Will hadn’t gone, they would have been moving the herd that day. There wouldn’t have been time or energy to ponder questions of accountability and loyalty. But Will had gone. You gave him the boot, J.D. Your own brother. And now he sat waiting to question his uncle about the possibility of his involvement in two deaths. What kind of loyalty was that? Which of his obligations held the upper hand-to do what was legally right? morally right? right in his own mind? If he pledged allegiance to the family, then how could he turn his back on Will or his suspicions on Del? If the land came first, then was he really no better than Bryce?
He dropped his head in his hands and blew a breath out, wishing he could just snap his fingers and make it all disappear. A wish from his childhood, from the days when Tom had first taken up with Sondra, and the days when he had been blamed for Will’s mistakes or punished for some minor crime against the brother he had never wanted.
Damn foolish waste of time, wishing for things. Time, like most other factors, was not on his side. A man had to play the hand life dealt him. That was that. No whining, no slacking, no wishing for better cards.
From somewhere down the dark corridor of wooded trail that led to the north, a hound sent up an excited howl. Then Del’s black-and-tan coon dog came bounding into the yard, long ears fluttering behind him like banners. J.D. stayed where he was, looking idly down the trail. Seconds later Del burst from the thick growth east of the path. His buckskin horse exploded out of the woods like a demon erupting from another dimension, her ears pinned flat, nostrils flaring bright pink in her dark muzzle. They came into the yard at a gallop, Del standing in the stirrups, a rifle butt pressed back into his shoulder and J.D. in his sights.
“Jesus, Del!” J.D. shouted, vaulting up off the bench.
Recognition struck an awful spark behind Del’s eyes, beneath the metal plate that was heavy on his brain and charged with an evil current of electricity. He dropped the rifle out of position and reined the mare hard left. God damn, he’d nearly shot J.D.! He had nearly let the monsters inside him push him into pulling the trigger.
His legs were as rubbery as sapling trees as he stepped down off his horse. He gripped his rifle by the fore end of the stock to keep his hand from shaking.
“What the hell-” J.D. bit back the worst of what he wanted to say. Are you crazy? Have you lost your mind? He could see the shame in his uncle’s downcast eyes as he turned away to tie his horse to the corral railing.
His heart was running at a hard clip. The adrenaline that had burst through him ebbed now and his body shuddered as it receded. “You got the drop on me, pard. Guess I should have radioed ahead I was coming.”
Del didn’t comment. He flipped a rein around one of the rails. The mare had her head up and was still dancing a little from the excitement. The rest of the string abandoned J.D.’s sorrel and trotted over to their companion with their tails raised and eyes bright. Del focused on the Ruger 77, ejecting the brass-cased loads into his hand like peas from a pod.
“I heard a shot when I was down at the blue rock. That you?”
“Could be.”
“What’d you get?”
“Nothin’.”
J.D. narrowed his eyes. “Not like you to waste a shot, Del.”
Del turned away from him and slid the rifle into the scabbard on his saddle. “Too far out,” he mumbled. “Didn’t have a clear line.”
“What was it?”
Del swallowed hard and rubbed his scar with his fingertips. He couldn’t say he’d thought he’d seen a tiger. Tigers didn’t come out in the daylight. He shook his head and winced at the ache of his brain sloshing against the sides of his skull. No, dammit, J.D. didn’t know about the tigers. He couldn’t talk about the tigers-same way he couldn’t talk about the blondes dancing in the moonlight.
“Del?”
“Cat,” he said. “Don’t want cougars around with the cattle coming up.”
“Mmm. Well, we’ll be a little late bringing the herd,” J.D. said, falling into step beside his uncle. Del’s three dogs stood, hopeful of an invitation, in front of the cabin door. Their master growled at them and swung a hand, sending the trio scrambling away with their tails between their legs. “A week, maybe.”
Del didn’t ask why. He was glad though. He didn’t want the cattle up here now. He wanted the blondes gone first. The women and their familiars. He wished he could decide what to do about them. He wished he had the courage to do something, the sense to know what was right.
The rattlesnake raised its head and hissed at them. Del didn’t spare it a glance. He went into the cabin, to a shelf in the kitchen, and pulled out two cans of Dr Pepper. J.D. eased down on one of the chairs at the table and sipped on his while Del paced the room like a caged animal, rubbing his scar. The cabin was neat as a pin, as clean as every single rifle on the gun racks. The smell of Shooter’s Choice bore solvent served as an air freshener.
“You didn’t happen to be down on the Little Snake over by the Boxed Circle yesterday, did you?” J.D. asked casually.
Del jumped as if he’d been hit with a switch. “No… no…” he mumbled, his eyes on his rifles at the end of the room. “No.” He stopped suddenly and stared hard at J.D., the gray of his eyes seeming to glow like polished pewter in the filtered light that came through muslin at the windows. “You didn’t bring that blond woman, did you?”
J.D. bit back a sigh. “No.”
“I don’t want her here. She’s trouble.” He shook a finger at his nephew. “You mind my words, J.D.”
J.D. wasn’t sure whether Del meant Lucy or Mary Lee. He wasn’t sure Del knew the difference. He told himself he should have listened sooner in either case. “Never mind about her, Del. You leave her be, you hear? I can handle her. There’s no need for you to concern yourself.”
“Don’t you trust her,” Del growled. “I don’t trust none of them blondes. They’re all trouble.”
“Well, that’s a fact,” J.D. mumbled to himself. He took another sip of Dr Pepper and braced himself for the rest of the conversation. “I found Miller Daggrepont dead in the Little Snake yesterday. Guess he had a heart attack. Thought you might have seen him out there fishing.”
He sipped on the warm Dr Pepper absently, his gaze trained on his uncle’s face, looking for any sign of recognition… or guilt. His own guilt ate away at him, bubbling in with the warm pop to gnaw at his stomach lining.
“Did you see anything, Del?”
I saw a tiger on the mountain. I saw the corpses dance in the moonlight. Crazy things. Del felt his throat trying to close up, like one of the ghosts had hold of his windpipe. He tried to gulp a swig of Dr Pepper. Half of it ran out the dead side of his mouth and spilled onto his shirt.
“I-I saw a cat, that’s all,” he mumbled, wiping the stain with his handkerchief. “Don’t want cats up here with the cattle coming.”
He thought he might have already said that, but he couldn’t be sure. Beneath the plate his brain was buzzing like a swarm of mosquitoes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept more than two hours. He couldn’t remember sleeping without the dark dreams. It was important for him to stay awake now, he told himself. He had to help guard the ranch. He had to make sure the blondes didn’t steal it, or the city idiots, or the men who ruled the dog-boys.
J.D. drew a long breath in through his teeth. “Del, I have to ask you if you saw anything back when that woman was shot.” He searched painfully for the most diplomatic words he could find. Del had his problems, but he had his pride too. “Is there anything about that deal you might want to tell me?”
Del stared hard at his guns, his broken mouth opening and closing like a fish’s. His eyes gleamed with unshed tears and the dark light of a thousand nightmares. J.D. felt as if something inside his chest were being crushed. Loyalties and obligations pressed against one another and pushed and pushed. The pressure weighed on him like lead as he stood and crossed the room.
“Del? Do you have something to say about that?”
“No,” he murmured, staring at the rifles and shotguns with their oiled barrels and polished stocks. “You don’t want cats on the mountain when the cattle come up.”
J.D. rubbed his eyes. He knew he should have pressed. He knew he should have asked Del outright if he’d had anything to do with Lucy’s death. But, God help him, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He got burned either way. Quinn took his word that Del hadn’t done more than find the body. If he lied to the sheriff, his integrity suffered. If he turned Del over, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to live with himself.
And if your uncle is a killer?
No win. The answer slipped through the loop. Hang up your rope and call it a day, cowboy. Catch one tomorrow.
“Where’d you see that cat?” he asked softly. “Maybe I’ll have a look-see on my way home.”