One


It wasn't so much the cockroach that made her scream as the chipped fingernail. The cockroach was small. The chip was a dilly. On her manicured nail it looked as deep and jagged as the Grand Canyon.

Alex swatted at the cockroach with the laminated card that displayed the motel's limited room service menu. The reverse
side advertised the Friday night Mexican buffet and The Four Riders, a country and western band currently performing in
the Silver Spur Lounge nightly from seven till midnight.

Her swipe at the cockroach missed by a mile and it scuttled for cover behind the wood veneer dresser. "I'll get you later."

She found a nail file in the bottom of the cosmetic case she had been about to unpack when the metal clasp had wrecked her fingernail and the cockroach had come out to inspect the new tenant of room 125. The room was located on the ground floor of the Westerner Motel, three doors down from the ice and vending machines.

Once the nail had been repaired, Alex gave herself one last, critical look in the dresser mirror. It was important that she make a stunning first impression. They would be astonished when she told them who she was, but she wanted to create an even stronger impact. She wanted to leave them stupefied, speechless, and defenseless.
They would undoubtedly make comparisons. She couldn't prevent that; she just didn't want to come out on the short end of then' mental measuring sticks. If she could help it, they would find no flaws in Celina Gaither's daughter. She had carefully chosen what to wear. Everything-- clothes, jewelry, accessories--was in excellent taste. The overall effect was tailored but not severe, smart but not trendy; she exuded an aura of professionalism that didn't compromise her femininity.
Her goal was to impress them first, then surprise them with what had brought her to Purcell.
Until a few weeks ago, the town of thirty thousand had been a lonely dot on the Texas map. As many jackrabbits and horned toads lived there as people. Recently, town business interests had generated news, but on a comparatively small scale. By the time Alex's job was done, she was certain Purcell would capture newspaper headlines from El Paso to
Texarkana.
Concluding that nothing about her appearance could be improved upon short of an act of God or very expensive plastic surgery, she shouldered her handbag, picked up her eel attache case, and, making certain she had her room key, closed the door to room 125 behind her.
During the drive downtown, Alex had to creep through two school zones. Rush hour in Purcell began when school dismissed. Parents transported their children from school to dentists' offices, piano lessons, and shopping centers. Some
might even have been going home, but the sluggish traffic and clogged intersections indicated that no one was staying
indoors that day. She didn't actually mind the stop-and-go traffic. The delays gave her an opportunity to gauge the personality of the town.

Black and gold streamers fluttered from the marquee outside Purcell High School. The caricature of a black panther
snarled at the passing cars on the highway and temporary letters spelled out pounce permian. On the field inside the stadium, the football team was working out and running plays. The marching band, its instruments flashing in the sun, was rehearsing Friday night's halftime show on a practice field.
The activity looked so innocent. For a moment, Alex regretted her mission and what its outcome would most likely mean for the community. She dismissed her guilty feelings quickly, however, when she reminded herself why she was here. A harvest of rejection, as well as her grandmother's harsh accusations, were stored in her mind if she ever, even for a second, forgot what had brought her to this point in her life. She could ill afford the slightest sentimental regrets. Downtown Purcell was almost deserted. Many of the commercial buildings and offices facing the square were closed and barred. Foreclosure signs were too plentiful to count. Graffiti was scrawled across plate-glass windows that had once been filled with enticing merchandise. There was still a hand-lettered sign on the door of a deserted laundry. Someone had scratched out the r, so that the sign now read, 3 shits/$1.00. It crudely summed up the economic climate in Purcell County.
She parked in front of the county courthouse and fed coins into the meter at the curb. The courthouse had been built of red granite quarried in the hill country and hauled by rail to Purcell ninety years earlier. Italian stonecutters had carved
pretentious gargoyles and griffins in every available spot as if the amount of decoration justified the expense of their
commission. The results were ostentatious, but gaudiness was one of the edifice's attractions. Atop its dome the national
and Texas state flags flapped in the brisk north wind.
Having worked in and about the state capitol of Austin for the last year, Alex wasn't intimidated by official buildings. She took the courthouse steps with a determined stride and pulled open the heavy doors. Inside, the plaster walls showed
peeling paint and signs of general disrepair. The aggregate tile floor had faint cracks in it that crisscrossed like the lines in the palm of an ancient hand. The ceiling was high. The drafty corridors smelled of industrial-strength cleaning solution, musty record books, and an overdose of perfume that emanated from the district attorney's secretary. She looked up expectantly as Alex entered the outer office.
"Hi, there. You lost, honey? I love your hair. Wish I could wear mine pulled back in a bun like that. You have to have real tiny ears. Wouldn't you know it, I've got jug handles sticking out from the sides of my head. Do you put henna on it to give it those reddish highlights?"
"Is this District Attorney Chastain's office?"
"Sure is, honey. Whatcha need him for? He's kinda busy today."
"I'm from the Travis County D.A.'s office. Mr. Harper called on my behalf, I believe."
The wad of chewing gum inside the secretary's cheek gota rest from the pounding it had been taking. "You? We were
expecting a man."
' 'As you can see . . ." Alex held her arms out at her sides.
The secretary looked vexed. "You'd think Mr. Harper would have mentioned that his assistant was a lady, not a man, but shoot," she said, flipping her hand down from a limp wrist, "you know how men are. Well, honey, you're right on time for your appointment. My name's Imogene. Want some coffee? That's a gorgeous outfit, so high-fashion. They're wearing skirts shorter these days, aren't they?"
At the risk of sounding rude, Alex asked, "Are the parties here yet?"
Just then, masculine laughter erupted from the other side of the closed door. "That answer your question, honey?"
Imogene asked Alex. "Somebody prob'ly just told a dirty joke to let off steam. They're just bustin' a gut to know what this hush-hush meeting is all about. What's the big secret? Mr. Harper didn't tell Pat why you were coming to Purcell, even though they were friends in law school. Is it something to do with ME getting that gambling license?"
"ME?"
"Minton Enterprises." She said it as though she was surprised Alex was not familiar with the name.
"Perhaps I shouldn't keep them waiting any longer," Alex suggested tactfully, sidestepping Imogene's question.
"Shoot, just listen to me running off at the mouth. Did you say you wanted some coffee, honey?"
"No, thank you." Alex followed Imogene toward the door.
Her heart started beating double-time.
"Excuse me." Imogene interrupted the conversation by poking her head into the room. "District Attorney Harper's
assistant is here. Y'all sure are in for a treat." She turned back toward Alex. One set of eyelashes, gummy with navy blue mascara, dropped over her eye in a broad, just-between-us-girls wink. "Go on in, honey."
Alex, bracing herself for the most crucial meeting in her life, entered the office.
It was obvious from the relaxed atmosphere that the men in the room had been expecting another man. The moment she crossed the threshold and Imogene pulled the transomed door closed, the man seated behind the desk sprang to his feet. He ground out a burning cigar in the thick, glass ashtray and reached for his suit coat, which had been draped over the back of his chair.
"Pat Chastain," he said, extending his hand. " Treat' is an understatement. But then, my good buddy Greg Harper always did have an eye for the ladies. Doesn't surprise me a bit that he's got a good-lookin' woman on his staff."
His sexist remark set her teeth on edge, but she let it slide. She inclined her head in acknowledgment of Chastain's compliment.
The hand she clasped in a firm handshake was so loaded down with gold-nugget jewelry it could have anchored a fair-sized yacht. "Thank you for arranging this meeting, Mr. Chastain."

"No problem, no problem. Glad to be of service to both you and Greg. And call me Pat." Taking her elbow, he turned her toward the other two men, who had come to their feet out of deference to her. ' 'This here is Mr. Angus Minton and his son, Junior."
' 'Gentlemen.'' Confronting them, meeting them eye to eye for the first time, had a strange and powerful impact on her.
Curiosity and antipathy warred inside her. She wanted to analyze them, denounce them. Instead, she behaved in the
expected civilized manner and extended her hand.
It was clasped by one studded with calluses. The handshake bordered on being too hard, but it was as open and friendly
as the face smiling at her.
"A pleasure, ma'am. Welcome to Purcell County."
Angus Minton's face was tanned and weathered, ravaged by blistering summer sun, frigid blue northers, and years of
outdoor work. Intelligent blue eyes twinkled at her from sockets radiating lines of friendliness. He had a boisterous voice.
Alex guessed that his laugh would be as expansive as his broad chest and the beer belly that was his only sign of
indulgence. Otherwise, he seemed physically fit and strong.
Even a younger, larger man would be loath to pick a fight with him because of his commanding presence. For all his strength, he looked as guileless as an altar boy. His son's handshake was softer, but no less hearty or friendly. He enfolded Alex's hand warmly, and in a confidence-inspiring voice, said, "I'm Junior Minton. How do you do?"
"How do you do?"
He didn't look his forty-three years, especially when he smiled. His straight white teeth flashed and a devilish dimple cratered one cheek, suggesting that he behaved no better than any given occasion called for him to. His blue eyes, a shade
deeper than his father's but just as mischievous, held hers long enough to intimate that they were the only two in the room who mattered. She withdrew her hand before Junior Minton seemed ready to relinquish it.
"And over yonder is Reede, Reede Lambert."

Alex turned in the direction Pat Chastain had indicated and located the fourth man, whom she hadn't noticed until now.
Flaunting etiquette, he was still slouched in a chair in the corner of the room. Scuffed cowboy boots were crossed at the ankles, their toes pointing ceilingward and insolently wagging back and forth. His hands were loosely folded over a western belt buckle. He unlinked them long enough to raise two fingers to the brim of a cowboy hat. "Ma'am."
"Mr. Lambert," she said coolly.
"Here, sit yourself down," Chastain offered, pointing her toward a chair. "Did Imogene offer you some coffee?"
"Yes, but I told her that I didn't care for any. I'd like to get to the purpose of the meeting, if we could."
"Sure enough. Junior, pull that other chair over here. Angus."
Chastain nodded for the older man to sit back down.
When everyone was reseated, the district attorney returned to his chair behind the desk. "Now, Miss-- Well, I'll be
damned. During all the introductions, we failed to get your name."
Alex held center stage. Four pairs of eyes were trained on her, curiously waiting to hear her name. She paused for dramatic effect, knowing that divulging it would cause a profound reaction. She wanted to witness and catalog their
individual reactions. She wished she could see Reede Lambert better. He was sitting partially behind her, and the cowboy
hat hid all but the lowest portion of his face.
She took a breath. "I'm Alexandra Gaither, Celina's daughter."
A stunned silence followed the announcement.
Pat Chastain, befuddled, finally asked, "Who's Celina Gaither?"
"Well, I'll be a sonofabitch." Angus flopped backward in his chair like a collapsing inflatable toy.
"Celina's daughter. My God, I can't believe it," Junior whispered. "I can't believe it."
"Somebody want to fill me in, please?" Pat said, still confused. Nobody paid him any attention.
The Mintons openly stared at Alex, searching her face for resemblances to her mother, whom they had known so well. From the corner of her eye, she noticed that the toes of Lambert's boots were no longer wagging. He drew his knees
in and sat up straight.
"What on earth have you been doing with yourself all these years?" Angus asked.
"How many years has it been?" Junior wanted to know.
"Twenty-five," Alex answered precisely. "I was only two months old when Grandma Graham moved away from here.''
"How is your grandma?"
"She's currently in a Waco nursing home, dying of cancer, Mr. Minton.'' Alex saw no merit in sparing their sensibilities.
"She's in a coma."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Thank you."
"Where have y'all been living all this time?"
Alex named a town in central Texas. "We lived there all my life--at least, as far back as I can remember. I graduated high school there, went to the University of Texas, and then, straight into law school. I passed the bar a year ago."
"Law school. Imagine that. Well, you turned out fine, Alexandra, just fine. Didn't she, Junior?"
Junior Minton turned on his charming smile full blast. "I'd say so. You don't look a thing like you did last time I saw you," he told her teasingly. "Best as I recall, your diaper was wet and you didn't have a single hair on your head." Considering the reason for this prearranged meeting, his flirting made Alex uneasy. She was glad when Pat Chastain intervened again.' 'I hate to butt into such a touching reunion, but I'm still in the dark."
Angus enlightened him. "Celina was a classmate of Junior's and Reede's. They were best friends, actually. Rarely did you see one of them without the other two when they were in high school. Crazy kids."
Then, his blue eyes turned cloudy and he shook his head sorrowfully. "Celina died. Tragic thing." He took a quiet
moment to collect himself. "Anyway, this is the first time we've heard a word about Alexandra since her grandma, Celina's mother, moved away with her." Smiling, he slapped his thighs. "Damned if it's not great to have you back in Purcell."
"Thank you, but--" Alex opened her briefcase and took out a manila envelope. "I'm not back to stay, Mr. Minton. Actually, I'm acting in an official capacity." She passed the envelope across the desk to the district attorney, who looked at it with puzzlement.
"Official capacity? When Greg called me and asked if I'd help out his top prosecutor, he said something about reopening
a case."
"It's all in there," Alex said, nodding down at the envelope.
"I suggest that you peruse the contents and thoroughly acquaint yourself with the details. Greg Harper requests the full cooperation and assistance of your office and local law enforcement agencies, Mr. Chastain. He assured me that you would comply with this request for the duration of my investigation." She closed her attache with a decisive snap, stood, and headed for the door.
"Investigation?" District Attorney Chastain came to his feet. The Mintons did likewise.
"Are you working with the Racing Commission?" Angus asked. "We were told we'd be carefully scrutinized before they granted us a gambling license, but I thought we had already passed muster."
"I thought it was all over except for the formalities," Junior said.
"As far as I know, it is," Alex told them. "My investigation has nothing to do with the Racing Commission, or the granting of your horse-racing license."
After a moment, when she didn't elaborate, Chastain asked, "Well, then, what does it have to do with, Miss Gaither?"
Drawing herself up to her full height, she said, "I am reopening a twenty-five-year-old murder case. Greg Harper asked for your help, Mr. Chastain, since the crime was committed in Purcell County."
She looked into Angus's eyes, then into Junior's. Finally, she stared down hard at the crown of Reede Lambert's hat.
"Before I'm finished, I'm going to know which one of you killed my mother."

Two

Alex peeled off her suit jacket and tossed it onto the motel bed. Her underarms were damp and her knees were ready to
buckle. She was nauseated. The scene in the D.A.'s office had shaken her more than she wanted to admit. She had left Pat Chastain's office with her head held high and her shoulders back. She hadn't walked too fast, but she hadn't dawdled. She had smiled good-bye to Imogene, who had obviously been eavesdropping through the door because she stared at Alex bug-eyed, her mouth agape.

Alex's exit line had been well rehearsed, well timed and perfectly executed. The meeting had gone just as she had planned it, but she was vastly relieved that it was over. Now, she peeled off one cloying piece of clothing after another. She would love to think that the worst was behind her, but she feared it was yet to come. The three men she had met today wouldn't roll over and play dead. She would have to confront them again, and when she did, they wouldn't be so overjoyed to see her.

Angus Minton seemed as full of goodwill as Santa Claus, but Alex knew that nobody in Angus's position could be as harmless as he tried to pretend. He was the richest, most powerful man in the county. One didn't achieve that status solely through benign leadership. He would fight to keep what he'd spent a lifetime cultivating.

Junior was a charmer who knew his way around women. The years had been kind to him. He'd changed little from the photographs Alex had seen of him as an adolescent. She also knew that he used his good looks to his advantage. It would be easy for her to like him. It would also be easy to suspect him of murder.

Reede Lambert was the toughest for her to pigeonhole because her impressions of him were the least specific. Unlike the others, she hadn't been able to look him in the eye. Reede the man looked much harder and stronger than Reede the boy
from her grandma's picture box. Her first impression was that he was sullen, unfriendly, and dangerous.

She was certain that one of these men had killed her mother.

Celina Gaither had not been murdered by the accused, Buddy Hicks. Her grandmother, Merle Graham, had drummed that into little Alex's head like a catechism all her life.
"It'll be up to you, Alexandra, to set the record right," Merle had told her almost daily. "That's the least you can do for your mother." At that point she usually glanced wistfully at one of the many framed photographs of her late daughter scattered throughout the house. Looking at the photographs would invariably make her cry, and nothing her granddaughter did could cheer her.

Until a few weeks ago, however, Alex hadn't known who Merle suspected of killing Celina. Finding out had been the darkest hour of Alex's life. Responding to an urgent call from the nursing home doctor, she had sped up the interstate to Waco. The facility was quiet, immaculate, and staffed by caring professionals. Merle's lifetime pension from the telephone company made it affordable. For all its amenities, it still had the grey smell of old age; despair and decay permeated its corridors.
When she had arrived that cold, dismal, rainy afternoon, Alex had been told that her grandmother was in critical condition.
She entered the hushed private room and moved toward the hospital bed. Merle's body had visibly deteriorated since Alex had visited only the week before. But her eyes were as alive as Fourth of July sparklers. Their glitter, however, was hostile.
"Don't come in here," Merle rasped on a shallow breath.
"I don't want to see you. It's because of you!"
"What, Grandma?" Alex asked in dismay. "What are you talking about?"
"I don't want you here."
Embarrassed by the blatant rejection, Alex had glanced around at the attending physician and nurses. They shrugged their incomprehension. "Why don't you want to see me? I've come all the way from Austin."
"It's your fault she died, you know. If it hadn't been for you ..." Merle moaned with pain and clutched her sheet with sticklike, bloodless fingers.
"Mother? You're saying I'm responsible for Mother's death?"
Merle's eyes popped open. "Yes," she hissed viciously.
"But I was just a baby, an infant," Alex argued, desperately wetting her lips. "How could I--"
"Ask them."
"Who, Grandma? Ask who?"
"The one who murdered her. Angus, Junior, Reede. But it was you . . . you . . . you. ..."
Alex had to be led from the room by the doctor several minutes after Merle lapsed into a deep coma. The ugly accusation
had petrified her; it reverberated in her brain and assaulted her soul.
If Merle held Alex responsible for Celina's death, so much of Alex's upbringing could be explained. She had always wondered why Grandma Graham was never very affectionate with her. No matter how remarkable Alex's achievements,
they were never quite good enough to win her grandmother's praise. She knew she was never considered as gifted, or
clever, or charismatic as the smiling girl in the photographs that Merle looked at with such sad longing. Alex didn't resent her mother. Indeed, she idolized and adored her with the blind passion of a child who had grown up without parents. She constantly worked toward being as good at everything as Celina had been, not only so she would be a worthy daughter, but in the desperate hope of earning her grandmother's love and approval. So it came as a stunning blow to hear from her dying grandmother's lips that she was responsible for Celina's murder.
The doctor had tentatively suggested that she might want to have Mrs. Graham taken off the life support systems.
"There's nothing we can do for her now, Ms. Gaither."
"Oh, yes, there is," Alex had said with a ferocity that shocked him. "You can keep her alive. I'll be in constant touch."
Immediately upon her return to Austin, she began to research the murder case of Celina Graham Gaither. She spent many sleepless nights studying transcripts and court documents before approaching her boss, the district attorney of Travis County.
Greg Harper had shifted the smoking cigarette from one corner of his lips to the other. In the courtroom, Greg was the bane of guilty defendants, lying witnesses, and orderly judges. He talked too loud, smoked too much, drank in abundance,
and wore five-hundred-dollar pinstriped suits with lizard boots that cost twice that much. To say that he was flashy and egomaniacal would be gross understatements. He was shrewd, ambitious, ruthless, relentless, and profane, and would therefore probably carve out quite a niche for himself in state politics, which was his driving ambition. He believed in the reward system and appreciated raw talent. That's why Alex was on his staff.
"You want to reopen a twenty-five-year-old murder case?" he asked her when she stated the purpose of the conference
she'd requested. "Got a reason?"
"Because the victim was my mother."
For the first time since she'd known him, Greg had asked a question he didn't already know the answer to--or at least have a fairly good guess. "Jesus, Alex, I'm sorry. I didn't know that."
She gave a slight, dismissive shrug. "Well, it's not something one advertises, is it?"
"When was this? How old were you?"
"An infant. I don't remember her. She was only eighteen when she was killed."
He ran his long, bony hand down his even longer, bonier face.' 'The case remains on the books as officially unsolved?''
"Not exactly. There was a suspect arrested and charged, but the case was dismissed without ever going to trial."
"Fill me in, and make it short. I'm having lunch with the state attorney general today," he said. "You've got ten minutes.
Shoot."
When she finished, Greg frowned and lit a cigarette from the smoldering tip of one he'd smoked down to the filter.
"Goddamn, Alex, you didn't say that the Mintons were involved. Your granny really believes that one of them iced your mother?"
"Or their friend, Reede Lambert."
"By any chance, did she provide them with a motive?"
"Not specifically," Alex said evasively, loath to tell him that Merle had cited her, Alex, as the motive. "Apparently, Celina was close friends with them."
"Then why would one of them kill her?"
"That's what I want to find out."
"On the state's time?"
"It's a viable case, Greg," she said tightly.
"All you've got is a hunch."
"It's stronger than a hunch."
He gave a noncommittal grunt. "Are you sure this isn't just a personal grudge?"
"Of course not." Alex took umbrage. "I'm pursuing this from a strictly legal viewpoint. If Buddy Hicks had gone on trial and been convicted by a jury, I wouldn't put so much stock in what Grandma told me. But it's there in the public records."
"How come she didn't raise hell about the murder when it happened?"
"I asked her that myself. She didn't have much money and she felt intimidated by the legal machinations. Besides, the murder had left her drained of energy. What little she had went into rearing me."
It was now clear to Alex why, since her earliest recollections, her grandmother had pushed her toward the legal profession. Because it was expected of her, Alex had excelled in school and had ultimately graduated from the University
of Texas Law School in the top ten percent of her class. The law was the profession Merle had chosen for her, but thankfully
it was a field that intrigued and delighted Alex. Her curious mind enjoyed delving into its intricacies. She was well prepared to do what she must.
"Grandmother was just a widow lady, left with a baby to raise," she said, building her case. "There was precious little she could do about the judge's ruling at Hicks's competency hearing. With what money she had, she packed up, left town, and never went back.''
Greg consulted his wristwatch. Then, anchoring his cigarette between his lips, he stood up and pulled on his suit jacket. "I can't reopen a murder case without a shred of evidence or probable cause. You know that. I didn't snatch you out of law school 'cause you were stupid. Gotta confess, though, that your shapely ass had something to do with it."
"Thanks."
Her disgust was obvious and it wasn't because of his sexism, which was so brassy she knew it was insincere. "Look, Alex, this isn't a teensy-weensy favor you're asking of me," he said. ' 'Because of who these guys are, we're talking earth-shattering shit here. Before I stick my neck out, I've got to have more to go on than your hunch and Granny's ramplings."
She followed him to the door of his office. "Come on, Greg, spare me the legal lingo. You're only thinking of yourself."
"You're goddamn right I am. Constantly.
His admission left her no room to maneuver. "At least grant me permission to investigate this murder when I'm not actively involved in other cases."
"You know what a backlog we've got. We can't get all the cases to court as it is now."
"I'll work overtime. I won't shirk my other responsibilities. You know I won't."
"Alex--"
"Please, Greg." She could see that he wanted her to withdraw the request, but she wouldn't capitulate to anything less than a definite no. Her preliminary research had piqued her interest as a prosecutor and litigator, and her desperate desire to prove her grandmother wrong and absolve herself of any guilt further motivated her undertakings. "If I don't produce
something soon, I'll drop it and you'll never hear of it again."
He studied her intent face. "Why don't you just work out your frustrations with hot, illicit screwing like everybody else? At least half the guys in town would accommodate you, married or single." She gave him a withering look. "Okay, okay. You can do some digging, but only in your spare time. Come up with something concrete. If I'm going to win votes, I can't look or act like a goddamn fool, and neither can anybody else in this office. Now I'm late for lunch. 'Bye."
Her caseload was heavy, and the time she had had to spend on her mother's murder had been limited. She read everything she could get her hands on--newspaper accounts, transcripts of Buddy Hicks's hearing--until she had the facts memorized.

They were basic and simple. Mr. Bud Hicks, who was mentally retarded, had been arrested near the murder scene with the victim's blood on his clothing. At the time of his arrest, he had had in his possession the surgical instrument with which he had allegedly killed the victim. He was jailed, questioned, and charged. Within days there was a hearing. Judge Joseph Wallace had declared Hicks incompetent to stand trial and had confined him to a state mental hospital. It seemed like an open-and-shut case. Just when she had begun to believe that Greg was right, that she was on a wild goose chase, she had discovered a curious glitch in the transcript of Hicks's hearing. After following up on it, she had approached Greg again, armed with a signed affidavit.
"Well, I've got it." Triumphantly, she slapped the folder on top of the others cluttering his desk.
Greg scowled darkly. "Don't be so friggin' cheerful, and for crissake, stop slamming things around. I've got a bitchin' hangover." He mumbled his words through a dense screen of smoke. He stopped puffing on the cigarette only long enough to sip at a steaming cup of black coffee. "How was your weekend?"
"Wonderful. Far more productive than yours. Read that."
Tentatively, he opened the file and scanned the contents with bleary eyes. "Hmm." His initial reading was enough to grab his attention. Leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the corner of his desk, he reread it more carefully.
"This is from the doctor at the mental hospital where this Hicks fellow is incarcerated?"
"Was. He died a few months ago."
"Interesting."
"Interesting?" Alex cried, disappointed with the bland assessment. She left her chair, circled it, and stood behind it, gripping the upholstered back in agitation. "Greg, Buddy Hicks spent twenty-five years in that hospital for nothing."
"You don't know that yet. Don't jump to conclusions."
"His last attending psychiatrist said that Buddy Hicks was a model patient. He never demonstrated any violent tendencies.
He had no apparent sex drive, and in the doctor's expert opinion, he was incapable of committing a crime like the one that cost my mother her life. Admit that it looks fishy."
He read several other briefs, then muttered, "It looks fishy, but it's sure as hell not a smoking gun."
"Short of a miracle, I won't be able to produce any concrete evidence. The case is twenty-five years old. All I can hope for is enough probable cause to bring it before a grand jury. A confession from the real killer--because I'm convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Bud Hicks did not murder my mother--is a pipe dream. There's also the slim possibility of smoking out an eyewitness."
"Slim to none, Alex."
"Why?"
"You've done enough homework, so you should know. The murder took place in a barn on Angus Minton's ranch. Say his name anywhere in that county and the ground trembles. He's a big enchilada. If there was an eyewitness, he wouldn't testify against Minton because he'd be biting the hand that feeds him. Minton runs about a dozen enterprises in an area of the state where they're gasping their last breath, economically speaking.
' 'Which brings us to another delicate area, in a case riddled with delicate areas." Greg slurped his coffee and lit another
cigarette. "The governor's racing commission just gave Minton Enterprises the green light on building that horse-racing
track in Purcell County."
"I'm well aware of that. What bearing does it have?"
"You tell me."
"None!" she shouted.
"Okay, I believe you. But if you start slinging accusations and casting aspersions on one of Texas's favorite sons, how do you think that's going to sit with the governor? He's damn proud of his racing commission. He wants this pari-mutuel thing to get off the ground without a hitch. No controversy. No bad press. No shady deals. He wants everything above reproach and squeaky clean."
"So, if some smart-ass prosecutor starts shooting off her mouth, trying to connect somebody his hand-picked commission
has given their coveted blessing to with a murder, the governor is going to be royally pissed off. And if said prosecutor works in this office, who do you think he's going to be the most pissed off at? Moi."
Alex didn't argue with him. Instead, she calmly said, "All right. I'll resign from this office and do it on my own."
"Jesus, you're theatrical. You didn't let me finish." He pressed his intercom button and bellowed to his secretary to bring him more coffee. While she was carrying it in, he lit another cigarette.
"On the other hand," he said around a gust of smoke, "I can't stand that bastard who's living in the governor's mansion. I've made no secret of it, and it works both ways, though the sanctimonious sonofabitch won't admit it. It would tickle me pissless to watch him squirm. Can you imagine nun justifying why his commission picked, from the hordes of applicants,
somebody associated with a murder?" He chuckled.
"I get a hard-on just thinking about it."
Alex found Greg's motivation distasteful, but she was ecstatic that he was granting her permission. "So, I can reopen the case?"
"The case remains unsolved because Hicks was never brought to trial." He lowered his feet, and his chair rocked forward jarringly. "I have to tell you, though--I'm doing this against my better judgment, and only because I trust your gut instincts. I like you, Alex. You proved yourself when you were interning here as a law student. Great ass aside, you're good to have in our corner."
He looked down at the material she'd compiled and fiddled with a corner of one folder.' 'I still think you've got a personal
grudge against these guys, the town, whatever. I'm not saying it's unjustified. It's just not something you can build a case
around. Without this shrink's affidavit, I would have turned down your request. So, while you're out there where the buffalo roam and the deer and antelope play, remember that my ass is in a sling, too." He raised his eyes and stared at
her balefully. "Don't **** up."
"You mean, I can go to West Texas?"
"That's where it happened, isn't it?"
"Yes, but what about my caseload?"
"I'll put interns on the preparations and ask for postponements. Meanwhile, I'll talk to the D.A. in Purcell. We were in law school together. He's perfect for what you're trying to do. He's not too bright, and he married above himself, so he's always striving to please. I'll ask him to give you whatever assistance you need."
"Don't be too specific. I don't want them forewarned."
"Okay."
"Thank you, Greg," she said earnestly.
"Not so fast," he said, snuffing her enthusiasm. "If you trap yourself out there, I'll disclaim you. The attorney general has made no secret that I'm his heir apparent. I want the job, and I'd like nothing better than to have a good-looking, smart
broad as chief of one of my departments. That goes down good with the voters." He pointed a nicotine-stained finger at her. "But if you fall on your ass now, I never knew you, kiddo. Got that?"
"You're an unscrupulous son of a bitch."
He grinned like a crocodile. "Even my mama didn't like me much."
"I'll send you a postcard." She turned to leave.
"Wait a minute. There's something else. You've got thirty days."
"What?"
"Thirty days to come up with something."
"But--"
"That's as long as I can spare you without the rest of the natives around here getting restless. That's longer than your hunch and flimsy leads warrant. Take it or leave it."
"I'll take it."
He didn't know that she had a much more pressing deadline, a personal one. Alex wanted to present her grandmother with the name of Celina's killer before she died. She wasn't even concerned that her grandmother was in a coma. Somehow, she would penetrate her consciousness. Her last breath would be peaceful, and Alex was certain she would at last praise her granddaughter.
Alex leaned across Greg's desk. "I know I'm right. I'll bring the real killer to trial, and when I do, I'll get a conviction. See if I don't."
"Yeah, yeah. In the meantime, find out what sex with a real cowboy is like. And take notes. I want details about spurs and guns and stuff."
"Pervert."
"Bitch. And don't slam--ah, shit!"

Alex smiled now, recalling that meeting. She didn't take his insulting sexism seriously because she knew she had his
professional respect. Wild man that he was, Greg Harper had been her mentor and friend since the summer before her first
semester of law school, when she had worked in the prosecutor's office. He was going out on a limb for her now, and she appreciated his vote of confidence.
Once she had gotten Greg's go-ahead, she hadn't wasted time. It had taken her only one day to catch up on paperwork, clear her desk, and lock up her condo. She had left Austin early, and made a brief stop in Waco at the nursing home. Merle's condition was unchanged. Alex had left the number of the Westerner where she could be reached in case of an
emergency.
She dialed the D. A.'s home number from her motel room.
"Mr. Chastain, please," she said in response to the woman's voice who answered.
"He's not at home."
"Mrs. Chastain? It's rather important that I speak with your husband."
"Who is this?"
"Alex Gaither."
She heard a soft laugh. "You're the one, huh?"
" 'The one'?"
"The one who accused the Mintons and Sheriff Lambert of murder. Pat was in a tailspin when he got home. I've never seen him so--"
"Excuse me?" Alex interrupted breathlessly. "Did you say Sheriff Lambert?"

Three


The sheriffs department was located in the basement of the Purcell County Courthouse. For the second time in as many
days, Alex parked her car in a metered slot on the square and entered the building.

It was early. There wasn't much activity in the row of offices on the lower level. In the center of this warren of cubicles was a large squad room, no different from any other in the nation. A pall of cigarette smoke hovered over it like a perpetual cloud. Several uniformed officers were gathered around a hot plate where coffee was simmering. One was talking, but when he saw Alex, he stopped in midsentence. One by one, heads turned, until all were staring at her. She felt glaringly out of place in what was obviously a male domain. Equal employment hadn't penetrated the ranks of the Purcell County Sheriffs Department.

She held her ground and said pleasantly,' 'Good morning.''

"Mornin'," they chorused.

"My name is Alex Gaither. I need to see the sheriff, please." The statement was superfluous. They already knew who she was and why she was there. Word traveled fast in a town the size of Purcell.

"He expectin' you?" one of the deputies asked belligerently, after spitting tobacco juice into an empty Del Monte green bean can.

"I believe he'll see me," she said confidently.

"Did Pat Chastain send you over?"

Alex had tried to reach him again that morning, but Mrs. Chastain had told her that he'd already left for his office. She tried telephoning him there and got no answer. Either she had missed him while he was in transit, or he was avoiding her. "He's aware of why I'm here. Is the sheriff in?" she repeated with some asperity.
"I don't think so."
"I haven't seen him."
"Yeah, he's here," one officer said grudgingly. "He came in a few minutes ago.'' He nodded his head toward a hallway.
"Last door on your left, ma'am."
"Thank you."
Alex gave them a gracious smile she didn't feel in her heart and walked toward the hallway. She was conscious of the eyes focused on her back. She knocked on the indicated door.
"Yeah?"
Reede Lambert sat behind a scarred wooden desk that was probably as old as the cornerstone of the building. His booted
feet were crossed and resting on one corner of it. Like yesterday, he was slouching, this time in a swivel chair. His cowboy hat and a leather, fur-lined jacket were hanging on a coat tree in the corner between a ground-level window and a wall papered with wanted posters held up by yellowing, curling strips of Scotch tape. He cradled a chipped, stained porcelain coffee mug in his hands.
"Well, g'morning, Miss Gaither."
She closed the door with such emphasis that the frosted-glass panel rattled. "Why wasn't I told yesterday?"
"And spoil the surprise?" he said with a sly grin. "How'd you find out?"
"By accident."
"I knew you'd show up sooner or later." He eased himself upright. "But I didn't figure on it being this early in the morning." He came to his feet and indicated the only other available chair in the room. He moved toward a table that contained a coffee maker. "You want some?"
"Mr. Chastain should have told me."

"Pat? No way. When things get touchy, our D.A.'s a real chickenshit."
Alex caught her forehead in her hand. "This is a nightmare."
He hadn't waited for her to decline or accept his offer of coffee. He was filling a cup similar to his. "Cream, sugar?"
"This isn't a social call, Mr. Lambert."
He set the cup of black coffee on the edge of the desk in front of her and returned to his chair. Wood and ancient springs creaked in protest as he sat down. "You're getting us off to a bad start."
"Have you forgotten why I'm here?"
"Not for a minute, but do your duties prohibit you from drinking coffee, or is it a religious abstinence?"
Exasperated, Alex set her purse on the desk, went to the table, and spooned powdered cream into her mug. The coffee was strong and hot--much like the stare the sheriff was giving her--and far better than the tepid brew she'd drunk in the coffee shop of the Westerner Motel earlier.
If he had brewed it, he knew how to do it right. But then, he looked like a very capable man. Reared back in his chair, he did not look at all concerned that he'd been implicated in a murder case.
"How do you like Purcell, Miss Gaither?"
"I haven't been here long enough to form an opinion."
"Aw, come on. I'll bet your mind was made up not to like it before you ever got here."
"Why do you say that?"
"It would stand to reason, wouldn't it? Your mother died here."
His casual reference to her mother's death rankled. "She didn't just die. She was murdered. Brutally."
"I remember," he said grimly.
"That's right. You discovered her body, didn't you?"
He lowered his eyes to the contents of his coffee mug and stared into it for a long time before taking a drink. He tossed it back, draining the mug as though it were a shot of whiskey.
"Did you kill my mother, Mr. Lambert?"

Since she hadn't been able to accurately gauge his reaction the day before, she wanted to see it now. His head snapped up. "No." Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on the desk and gave her a level stare. "Let's cut through the bullshit, okay? Understand this right now, and it'll save us both a lot of time. If you want to interrogate me, Counselor, you'll have to subpoena me to appear before the grand jury."
"You're refusing to cooperate with my investigation?"
"I didn't say that. This office will be at your disposal per Pat's instructions. I'll personally help you any way I can."
"Out of the goodness of your heart?" she asked sweetly.
"No, because I want it over and done with, finished. You understand? So you can go back to Austin where you belong, and leave the past in the past where it belongs." He got up to refill his coffee mug. Over his shoulder he asked, "Why'd you come here?"
"Because Bud Hicks did not murder my mother."
"How the hell do you know? Or did you just ask him?"
"I couldn't. He's dead."
She could tell by his reaction that he hadn't known. He moved to the window and stared out, sipping his coffee reflectively.
"Well, I'll be damned. Gooney Bud is dead."
"Gooney Bud?"
"That's what everybody called him. I don't think anybody knew his last name until after Celina died and the newspapers
printed the story."
"He was retarded, I'm told."
The man at the window nodded. "Yeah, and he had a speech impediment. You could barely understand him."
"Did he live with his parents?"
"His mother. She was half batty herself. She died years ago, not too long after he was sent away."
He continued to stare through the open slats of the blinds with his back to her. His silhouette was trim, broad-shouldered,
narrow-hipped. His jeans fit a little too well. Alex berated herself for noticing.
"Gooney Bud pedaled all over town on one of those large tricycles," he was saying. "You could hear him coming blocks away. That thing clattered and clanged like a peddler's wagon. It was covered with junk. He was a scavenger. Little girls were warned to stay away from him. We boys made fun of him, played pranks, things like that." He shook his head sadly. "Shame."
"He died in a state mental institution, incarcerated for a crime he didn't commit."
Her comment brought him around. "You've got nothing to prove that he didn't."
"I'll find the proof."
"None exists."
"Are you so sure? Did you destroy the incriminating evidence the morning you ostensibly found Celina's body?"
A deep crease formed between his heavy eyebrows.
"Haven't you got anything better to do? Don't you already have a heavy enough caseload? Why did you start investigating
this in the first place?"
She gave him the same catchall reason she had given Greg Harper. "Justice was not served. Buddy Hicks was innocent. He took the blame for somebody else's crime."
"Me, Junior, or Angus?"
"Yes, one of the three of you."
"Who told you that?"
' 'Grandma Graham.''
"Ah, now we're getting somewhere." He hooked one thumb into a belt loop, his tanned fingers curling negligently over his fly. "While she was telling you all this, did she mention how jealous she was?"
"Grandma? Of whom?"
"Of us. Junior and me."
"She told me the two of you and Celina were like the three musketeers."
"And she resented it. Did she tell you how she doted on Celina?"
She hadn't had to. The modest house Alex had grown up in had been a veritable shrine to her late mother. Noting her frown, the sheriff answered his own question. "No, I can see that Mrs. Graham failed to mention all that."
"You think I'm here on a personal vendetta."
"Yeah, I do."
"Well, I'm not," Alex said defensively. "I believe there are enough holes in this case to warrant reinvestigation. So does District Attorney Harper."
"That egomaniac?" he snorted contemptuously. "He'd indict his own mother for selling it on street corners if it would move him any closer to the attorney general's office."
Alex knew his comment was partially true. She tried another tack. "When Mr. Chastain is better acquainted with the facts, he'll agree that there's been a gross miscarriage of justice."
"Pat had never even heard of Celina until yesterday. He's got his hands full chasing down wetbacks and drug dealers."
"Do you blame me for wanting justice? If your mother had been stabbed to death in a horse barn, wouldn't you do everything possible to see that her killer was punished?"
"I don't know. My old lady split before I was old enough to remember her."
Alex felt a pang of empathy for him that she knew she couldn't afford. No wonder the pictures she'd seen of Reede had been of a very intense lad with eyes much older than his years. She'd never thought to ask her grandmother why he looked so serious.
"This is an untenable situation, Mr. Lambert. You are a suspect." She stood up and retrieved her purse. "Thank you for the coffee. I'm sorry to have bothered you so early in the morning. From now on, I'll have to rely on the local police department for assistance."
"Wait a minute."
Alex, already making her way toward the door, stopped and turned. "What?"
"There is no police department."
Dismayed by that piece of information, she watched as he reached for his hat and coat. He stepped around her, pulled
open the door for her, then followed her out.
"Hey, Sam, I'm leaving. I'll be across the street." The deputy nodded. "This way," Reede said, taking Alex's elbow and guiding her toward a small, square elevator at the end of the hall.
They got into it together. The door creaked when he pulled it closed. The sound of grinding gears wasn't very reassuring.
Alex hoped it would make the trip. She tried to help it along by concentrating hard on their ascent. All the same, she was fully aware of Reede Lambert standing so close to her that their clothing touched. He was studying her.
He said, "You resemble Celina."
"Yes, I know."
"Your size, your mannerisms. Your hair's darker, though, and it has more red in it. Her eyes were brown, not blue like yours." His gaze moved over her face. "But there's a striking resemblance."
"Thank you. I think my mother was beautiful."
"Everybody thought so."
"Including you?"
"Especially me."
The elevator jerked to an abrupt stop. Alex lost her balance and fell against him. Reede caught her arm and supported her long enough for her to regain her balance, which might have taken a little too long, because when they separated, Alex felt light-headed and breathless.
They were on the first floor. He shrugged into his jacket as he guided her toward a rear exit. "My car's parked out front," she told him as they left the building. "Should I put more money in the meter?"
"Forget it. If you get a ticket, you've got friends in high places."
His smile wasn't as orthodontist perfect as Junior Minton's, but it was just as effective. It elicited a tickle in the pit of her stomach that was strange and wonderful and scary.

His quick grin emphasized the lines on his face. He looked every day of his forty-three years, but the weathered markings
fit well on his strong, masculine bone structure. He had dark blond hair that had never known a stylist's touch. He pulled on his black felt cowboy hat and situated the brim close to his eyebrows, which were a shade or two darker than his hair.
His eyes were green. Alex had noticed that the moment she had walked into his office. She had reacted as any woman would to so attractive a man. He had no paunch, no middle-aged softness. Physically, he looked two decades younger than he actually was.
Alex had to keep reminding herself that she was a prosecutor for the sovereign state of Texas, and that she should be looking at Reede Lambert through the eyes of a litigator, not a woman. Besides, he was a generation older than she.
"Were you out of clean uniforms this morning?" she asked as they crossed the street.
He wore plain denim Levi's--old, faded, and tight--like the jeans rodeo cowboys wore. His jacket was brown leather, and fitted at the waist like a bomber jacket. The fur lining, which folded out to form a wide collar, was probably coyote. As soon as they'd stepped into the sunlight, he'd slid on aviator glasses. The lenses were so dark that she could no longer see his eyes.
"I used to dread the sight of a uniform, so when I became sheriff, I made it clear that they'd never get me in one of those things."
"Why did you always dread the sight of one?"
He smiled wryly. "I was usually trying to outrun it, or at least avoid it."
"You were a crook?"
"Hell-raiser."
"You had run-ins with the law?"
"Brushes."
"So what turned you around, a religious experience? A scare? A night or two in jail? Reform school?"
"Nope. I just figured that if I could outchase the law, I could outchase the lawbreakers." He shrugged. "It seemed a natural career choice. Hungry?"
Before she had a chance to answer, he pushed open the door of the B & B Cafe. A cowbell mounted above it announced
their entrance. It was the place where things were happening, it seemed. Every table--red formica with rusted chrome legs--was full. Reede led her to a vacant booth along the wall.
Greetings were called out to him by executives, farmers, roughnecks, cowboys, and secretaries, each distinguished by his attire. Everyone except the secretaries wore boots. Alex recognized Imogene, Pat Chastain's secretary. As soon as they passed her table, she launched into an animated, whispered explanation of who Alex was to the women seated with her. A hush fell over the room as word traveled from one table to the next.
No doubt this microcosm of Purcell gathered every morning at the B & B Cafe during coffee-break time. A stranger in the midst was news, but the return of Celina Gaither's daughter was a news bulletin. Alex felt like a lightning rod, because she certainly attracted electric currents. Some, she sensed, were unfriendly.
A Crystal Gayle ballad about love lost was wafting from the jukebox. It competed with "Hour Magazine" on the fuzzy black-and-white TV mounted in one corner. Male impotence was being discussed to the raucous amusement of a trio of roughnecks. The nonsmoking movement hadn't reached Purcell, and the air was dense enough to cut. The smell of frying
bacon was prevalent.
A waitress in purple polyester pants and a bright gold satin blouse approached them with two cups of coffee and a plate of fresh, yeasty doughnuts. She winked and said, "Mornin', Reede," before ambling off toward the kitchen, where the cook was deftly flipping eggs while a cigarette dangled between his lips.
"Help yourself."

Alex took the sheriff up on his offer. The doughnuts were still warm, and the sugary glaze melted against her tongue.
"They had this waiting for you. Is this your table? Do you have a standing order?''
"The owner's name is Pete," he told her, indicating the cook. "He used to feed me breakfast every morning on my way to school."
"How generous."
"It wasn't charity," he said curtly. "I swept up for him in the afternoons after school."
She had unwittingly struck a sore spot. Reede Lambert was defensive about his motherless childhood. Now, however, wasn't the time to probe for more information. Not with nearly every eye in the place watching them.
He devoured two doughnuts and washed them down with black coffee, wasting neither food, nor time, nor motion. He ate like he thought it might be a long time before his next meal.
"Busy place," she commented, unself-consciously licking glaze off her fingers.
"Yeah. The old-timers like me leave the new shopping mall and fast food places out by the interstate to the newcomers and teenagers. If you can't find who you're looking for anyplace else, he's usually at the B & B. Angus'll probably be along directly. ME's corporate headquarters is just one block off the square, but he conducts a lot of business right here in this room."
"Tell me about the Mintons."
He reached for the last doughnut, since it was obvious that Alex wasn't going to eat it. "They're rich, but not showy. Well liked around town."
"Or feared."
"By some, maybe," he conceded with a shrug.
"The ranch is only one of their businesses?"
"Yeah, but it's the granddaddy. Angus built it out of nothing but acres of dust and sheer determination."
"What exactly do they do out there?"
"Basically, they're a racehorse training outfit. Thoroughbreds mostly. Some Quarter Horses. They board up to a hundred and fifty horses at a time, and get them ready for the track trainers."
"You seem to know a lot about it."
"I own a couple of racehorses myself. I board them out there permanently." He pointed down to her half-empty coffee cup. "If you're finished, I'd like to show you something."
"What?" she asked, surprised by the sudden shift in topic.
"It's not far."
They left the B & B, but not before Reede said goodbye to everyone he'd said hello to when they came in. He didn't pay for the breakfast, but was saluted by Pete the cook and given an affectionate pat by the waitress.
Reede's official car, a Blazer truck, was parked at the curb in front of the courthouse. The space was reserved for him, marked with a small sign. He unlocked the door, helped Alex up into the cab of the four-wheel-drive vehicle, then joined
her. He drove only a few blocks before pulling up in front of a small house. "That's it," he said.
"What?"
"Where your mother lived." Alex whipped her head around to stare at the frame dwelling. "The neighborhood isn't what it was when she lived here. It's gone to pot. There used to be a tree there, where the sidewalk dips slightly."
"Yes. I've seen pictures."
' 'It died a few years ago and had to be cut down. Anyway,'' he said, slipping the truck back into gear, "I thought you'd want to see it."
' "Thank you." As he pulled the Blazer away from the curb, Alex kept her eyes on the house. The white paint had grayed.
Hot summer suns had faded the maroon awnings over the front windows. It wasn't attractive, but she swiveled her head and kept it in sight as long as she could.
That's where she had lived with her mother for two short months. In those rooms, Celina had fed her, bathed her, rocked her, and sang her lullabies. There, she had listened for Alex's crying in the night. Those walls had heard her mother's whispered vows of love to her baby girl.
Alex didn't remember, of course. But she knew that's how it had been.
Tamping down the stirring emotions, she picked up the conversation they had been having when they had left the B & B. "Why is this proposed racetrack so important to the Mintons?"
He glanced at her as though she'd lost her senses.' 'Money. Why else?"
"It sounds like they've got plenty."
"Nobody ever has enough money," he remarked with a grim smile. "And only somebody who's been as poor as me can say that. Look around." He gestured at the empty stores along the main thoroughfare they were now traveling. "See all the empty businesses and foreclosure notices? When the oil market went bust, so did the economy of this town. Just about everybody worked in an oil-related occupation."
"I understand all that."
' 'Do you? I doubt it," he said scornfully.' "This town needs that racetrack to survive. What we don't need is a wet-behind-the-ears, blue-eyed, redheaded female lawyer in a fur coat to come along and screw things up."
"I came here to investigate a murder," she lashed out, stung by his unexpected insult. "The racetrack, the gambling license, and the local economy have no relevance to it."
"Like hell they don't. If you ruin the Mintons, you ruin Purcell County."
"If the Mintons are proven guilty, they've ruined themselves."
"Look, lady, you're not going to uncover any new clues about your mother's murder. All you're going to do is stir up trouble. You won't get any help from locals. Nobody's gonna speak out against the Mintons, because the future of this county is riding on them building that racetrack."
"And you top the list of the loyal and closemouthed."
"Damn right!"
"Why?" she pressed. "Do the Mintons have something on you? Could one of them place you in that horse barn well before you 'discovered' my mother's body? What were you doing there at that time of day, anyway?"
"What I did every day. I was shoveling shit out of the stables. I worked for Angus then."
She was taken aback. "Oh, I didn't know that."
"There's a lot you don't know. And you're far better off that way."
He whipped the Blazer into his parking slot at the courthouse and braked, pitching her forward against her seat belt.
"You'd do well to leave the past alone, Miss Gaither."
"Thank you, Sheriff. I'll take that under advisement."
She got out of the truck and slammed the door behind her. Cursing beneath his breath, Reede watched her walk up the sidewalk. He wished he could relax and just enjoy the shape of her calves, the enticing sway of her hips, and all else that had immediately captured his notice when she had entered Pat Chastain's office yesterday afternoon. Her name, however, had robbed him of the luxury of indulging in pure, masculine appreciation.
Celina's daughter, he thought now, shaking his head in consternation. It was little wonder that he found Alex so damned attractive. Her mother had been his soul mate from the day in grade school when some snotty kid had hurtfully taunted her because she no longer had a daddy after her father's sudden death of a heart attack.
Knowing how ridicule about one's parents could hurt, Reede had rushed to Celina's defense. He had fought that battle and many others for her in the ensuing years. With Reede as the bearer of her colors, no one dared speak a cross word to her. A bond had been forged. Their friendship had been extraordinary and exclusive, until Junior had come along and been included.
So he knew he shouldn't be surprised that the assistant D.A. from Austin had churned up such emotions inside him. Perhaps his only cause for alarm should be their intensity.

Even though Celina had borne a child, she had died a girl. Alexandra was the embodiment of the woman she might have
become. He'd like to pass off his interest as purely nostalgic, a tender reminder of his childhood sweetheart. But he'd be
lying to himself. If he needed any help defining the nature of his interest, all he had to do was acknowledge the warm pressure that had developed inside his jeans as he had watched her lick sugar off her fingertips.
"Christ," he swore. He felt as ambiguous toward this woman as he'd felt toward her mother, just before she had been found dead in that stable.
How could two women, twenty-five years apart, have such a pivotal impact on his life? Loving Celina had almost ruined him. Her daughter posed just as real a threat. If she started digging into the past, God only knew what kind of trouble would be stirred up.
He intended to trade his sheriffs job for one that would generate wealth and status. He sure as hell didn't want his future shadowed by a criminal investigation. Reede hadn't worked his butt off all these years to let the payoff slip through his fingers. He'd spent his adult life overcompensating for his childhood. Now, when the respect he'd always wanted was within his grasp, he wasn't about to stand by and let Alex's investigation remind folks of his origins. The sassy lady lawyer could wreck him if she wasn't stopped.
The people who said material possessions weren't important already had plenty of everything. He'd never had anything.
Until now. He was prepared to go to any length to protect it.
As he left his truck and reentered the courthouse, he cursed the day Alexandra Gaither had been born, just as he had on
that day itself. At the same time, he couldn't help but wonder if her smart mouth wouldn't be good for something besides
spouting accusations and legal jargon. He'd bet his next win at the track that it would.

Four


Judge Joseph Wallace was the Prairie Drugstore's best customer for Mylanta. He knew as he pushed away from the lunch table that he'd have to take a swig or two of the stuff before the afternoon was over. His daughter Stacey had prepared the meal for him--as she did every day of the week except Sunday when they went to the country club buffet.
Stacey's dumplings, light and puffy as always, had landed like golf balls in his stomach.
"Something wrong?" She noticed that her father was absently rubbing his stomach.
"No, it's nothing."
' 'Chicken and dumplings is usually one of your favorites.''
"Lunch was delicious. I've just got a nervous stomach today."
' 'Have a peppermint.'' Stacey passed him a cut-glass candy dish, conveniently kept on a dust-free cherrywood coffee table. He took out a wrapped piece of red-andwhite-striped candy and put it in his mouth. "Any particular reason why your stomach is nervous?"
Stacey had become her father's caretaker when her mother had died several years earlier. She was single and rapidly
approaching middle age, but she had never exhibited any ambition beyond being a homemaker. Because she had no
husband or children of her own, she fussed over the judge.
She had never been a raving beauty, and age hadn't ameliorated that unfortunate fact. Describing her physical attributes
with tactful euphemisms was pointless. She was and always had been plain. Even so, her position in Purcell was well established.
Every important ladies' league in town had her name on its roster. She taught a girls' Sunday school class at the First Methodist Church, faithfully visited residents of the Golden Age Home each Saturday morning, and played bridge on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Her activities calendar was always full. She dressed expensively and well, though far too dowdily
for her age.
Her etiquette was above reproach, her decorum refined, her temperament serene. She had weathered disappointments in a style that was noble and worthy of admiration. Everybody assumed that she was happy and content.
They were wrong.
Judge Wallace, a sparrow of a man, pulled on his heavy overcoat as he made his way toward the front door. "Angus called me last night."
"Oh? What did he want?" Stacey asked as she pulled the collar of her father's coat up around his ears to guard against
the wind.
"Celina Gaither's daughter turned up yesterday."
Stacey's busy hands fell still, and she took a step away from her father. Their eyes met. "Celina Gaither's daughter?"
The voice coming from her chalky lips was high and thin.

"Remember the baby? Alexandra, I believe."
"Yes, I remember, Alexandra," Stacey repeated vaguely.
"She's here in Purcell?"
"As of yesterday. All grown up now."
"Why didn't you tell me this last night when I came in?"
"You were late coming home from the chili supper. I was already in bed. I knew you'd be tired, too, and there was no need to bother you with it then."
Stacey turned away and busied herself picking the empty cellophane wrappers out of the candy dish. Her father had an annoying habit of leaving the empties. "Why should the sudden appearance of Celina's daughter bother me?"
"No reason in particular," the judge said, glad he didn't have to meet his daughter's eyes. "On the other hand, it'll probably upset the whole damn town."
Stacey came back around. Her fingers were mutilating a piece of clear cellophane. "Why should it?"
The judge covered a sour belch with his fist. "She's a prosecutor in the D.A.'s office in Austin."
"Celina's daughter?" Stacey exclaimed.
"Helluva thing, isn't it? Who would have guessed that she would turn out that well, growing up with only Merle Graham for a parent."
"You still haven't said why she's come back to Purcell. A visit?"
The judge shook his head. "Business, I'm afraid."
"Does it have any bearing on the Minions' gambling license?"
He looked away, and nervously fidgeted with a button on his coat. "No, she's, uh, she's gotten the D.A.'s okay to reopen her mother's murder case."
Stacey's bony chest seemed to cave in another inch. She groped behind her, searching for a place to land when she
collapsed.
The judge, pretending not to notice his daughter's distress, said, "She had Pat Chastain arrange a meeting with the Mintons
and Reede Lambert. According to Angus, she made this grandstand announcement that before she was finished, she would determine which one of them had killed her mother."
"What? Is she mad?"
"Not according to Angus. He said she appears to be razor sharp, in complete control of her faculties, and dead serious."
Stacey gratefully lowered herself to the arm of the sofa and laid a narrow hand against the base of her neck. "How did Angus react?''
"You know Angus. Nothing gets him down. He seemed amused by the whole thing. Said there was nothing to worry about--that she couldn't present any evidence to a grand jury because there isn't any. Gooney Bud was the culprit." The judge drew himself up. "And no one can question my ruling that the man was incompetent to stand trial."
"I should say not," Stacey said, rising to his defense.
"You had no choice but to commit Gooney Bud to that hospital."
"I reviewed his medical records every year, took depositions from the doctors who treated him. That facility isn't a snake pit, you know. It's one of the finest hospitals in the state."
"Daddy, nobody is pointing a finger at you. Good Lord, all anybody has to do is review your record as judge. For more than thirty years, your reputation has remained unblemished."
He ran his hand over his thinning hair.' 'I just hate for this to come up right now. Maybe I should retire early, not wait till my birthday next summer to step down."
"You'll do no such thing, Your Honor. You'll stay on that bench until you're ready to retire, and not a day before. No little upstart fresh out of law school is going to run you off."
For all her starchy show of support, Stacey's eyes revealed her anxiety. "Did Angus say how the girl. . . what she looks
like? Does she resemble Celina?"
"Some." The judge went to the front door and pulled it open. On his way out he regrettably mumbled over his shoulder,
"Angus said she was prettier."
Stacey sat woodenly on the arm of the sofa for a long time after the judge left, staring into space. She completely forgot
about cleaning the noon meal dishes.

"Hello, Judge Wallace. My name is Alex Gaither. How do you do?"
Introductions were unnecessary. He had known who she was the minute he had stepped into the office outside his chambers. Mrs. Lipscomb, his secretary, had nodded toward a chair against the opposite wall. Turning, he saw a young woman--twenty-five, if his calculations were correct--sitting in the straight chair with all the poise and self-confidence of royalty. It was an air she had inherited from her mother.
He hadn't had much personal interaction with Celina Gaither, but he knew all about her through Stacey. The girls had been classmates through eleven years of public schooling.
Even whittling away Stacey's typical adolescent jealousy, he'd still painted an unflattering picture of a girl who knew she was beautiful, well liked, and who held all the boys in the class in the palm of her hand, including the only two who really mattered, Junior Minton and Reede Lambert.
Too many times to count, Stacey's heart had been broken because of Celina. For that reason alone the judge had despised
her. And because this young woman was her daughter, he disliked her on sight.
"How do you do, Miss Gaither."
Judge Wallace shook her proffered hand, but no longer than was necessary to serve propriety. He found it difficult to consider this fashionable woman his colleague. He preferred lawyers who wore white shirts and worsted wool, not chic, short-skirted suits and fur. Viable members of the bar should emanate the faint smell of cigar smoke and leather-bound
tomes, not a delicate perfume.
"Has District Attorney Chastain briefed you on why I'm here?"
"Yes. This morning. But I heard from Angus last night."
She tilted her head, as though to say that that information was interesting and worth storing away for future consideration.
He could have kicked himself for volunteering it.
The truth was, he was rather dazzled. Angus Minton had been right. Alexandra Gaither was better looking than her mother.
When she moved her head, a shaft of sunlight coming through the window blinds set her dark hair afire. The collar of her fur coat brushed her cheek, giving her complexion a glow as fresh and delectable as ripe apricots. Stacey had a similar coat, but it turned her complexion the color of cold ashes.

"Could I have a moment with you in your chambers, Judge Wallace?" she asked politely.
Needlessly, he consulted his wristwatch. "I'm afraid that's out of the question. Actually, I just stopped by to pick up my messages. I've got an appointment out of the office for the rest of the afternoon." Mrs. Lipscomb started with surprise, a dead giveaway that he was lying.
Alex pondered the toes of her shoes for a moment. "I hate to insist, but I must. This is very important, and I'm anxious to get the investigation underway as soon as possible. Before I can move forward, I need to verify some facts with you. It
won't take very long." The corners of her mouth turned up into a smile. "I'm certain your cooperation will be appreciated by my office in Austin."
Judge Wallace wasn't stupid; neither was Alex. She couldn't very well pull rank on him, but she could make him look bad with the Travis County D.A., who hobnobbed with the powers that be in the capital.
"Very well, please come in." He shrugged off his overcoat, asked Mrs. Lipscomb to hold his calls, then followed Alex into his chambers. "Have a seat."
"Thank you."
His stomach was burning in the center of his gut like a crashed meteor. He'd drunk two swallows of antacid on his way back to the courthouse, but he could stand another kick.
Alex didn't appear the least bit rattled. She sat down across the desk from him and gracefully shrugged out of her coat.
"Let's get to it, Miss Gaither," he said imperiously.
"What do you want to know?"
Alex opened her briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of papers. Inwardly, the judge groaned. ' 'I've read the transcript of Bud
Hicks's hearing, and I have some questions about it."
"Such as?"
"What was your rush?"
"I beg your pardon?"
' 'Bud Hicks was arraigned on a charge of first-degree murder and held without bail in the Purcell County jail. His competency hearing was held three days later."
"So?"
"Isn't that a rather brief period of time in which to weigh a man's future?"
The judge leaned back in his cordovan leather chair, which had been a gift from his daughter, hoping to impress the young attorney with his composure. "Maybe the docket was loaded and I was trying to clear it out. Or maybe it was a slack time and I was able to act quickly. I don't remember. It was twenty-five years ago."
She lowered her eyes to the notepad resting on her lap.
"You had only two psychiatrists examine Mr. Hicks."
"His retardation was obvious, Miss Gaither."
"I'm not questioning that."
"He was, to put it unkindly, the town idiot. I don't mean to sound cruel, but that's what he was. He was tolerated. People saw him, but looked through him, if you know what I mean. He was a harmless fixture--"
"Harmless?"
Again the judge could have bitten his tongue. "Until the night he killed your mother."
"No jury convicted him of that, Judge."
Judge Wallace wet his lips, chagrined. "Of course." He tried to avoid her level gaze so he could collect his thoughts.
"I felt that two psychiatric analyses would be adequate, in this particular case."
"No doubt I would agree with you, if the analyses hadn't been so divergent."
"Or, if your mother hadn't been the victim of the crime," the judge said, getting in a shot.
She bristled. "I'm going to disregard that, Judge Wallace."
"Well, isn't that what this is all about? Or do you, for some reason unknown to me, want to question my integrity and undermine a judgment I made twenty-five years ago?"
"If you've got nothing to hide, then you've got no reason to believe that your excellent record will be marred by my asking a few questions, do you?"
"Proceed," he said stiffly.
"The two court-appointed psychiatrists disagreed on Mr. Hicks's mental condition the night of my mother's murder. This was the glitch that first intrigued me. After calling District Attorney Harper's attention to it, he agreed that the case should be reinvestigated. ' 'One psychiatrist clearly believed that Hicks was incapable of committing such an act of violence. The other said he was. Why didn't you seek a third, tie-breaking opinion?"
"It wasn't necessary."
"I disagree, Judge." She paused a moment, then looked up at him without lifting her head. "You were golf partners with the doctor you ruled in favor of. The other psychiatrist was from out of town. That was the first and only time he ever appeared in your court as an expert witness."
Judge Wallace's face became red with indignation. "If you doubt my honesty, I suggest you consult with the doctors themselves, Miss Gaither."
"I've tried. Unfortunately, both are deceased." She met his hostile gaze coolly. "I did, however, consult with the last doctor to treat Mr. Hicks. He says you punished the wrong man, and has given me an affidavit to that effect."
"Miss Gaither." He rose partially from his chair and slapped the top of his desk. He was angry, but he also felt naked and vulnerable. The soft knock on his door was a godsend. "Yes?"
Sheriff Lambert strolled in.
"Reede!" Alex wouldn't have been surprised if the judge had rushed across the room and embraced him. He seemed that glad to see him. "Come in."
"Mrs. Lipscomb said you weren't to be disturbed, but when she told me who was with you, I convinced her that I might be of service."
"To whom?" Alex asked tartly.
Reede sauntered to the chair next to hers and dropped into it. Insolent green eyes moved over her. "To anybody who needs servicing."

Alex chose to ignore the double entendre and hoped he would ignore the mounting color in her face. She directed her attention to the judge.
"Miss Gaither was curious to know why I ruled Mr. Hicks incompetent to stand trial. Since she didn't know him, she can't appreciate how easily he fit the criteria of being unable to understand the charges against him and assist in his own defense."
"Thank you, Judge Wallace," she said, seething, "but I know the criteria. What I don't know is why you made the ruling so hastily."
"I saw no need for a postponement," the judge replied, obviously more at ease now that Reede was there. "I told you earlier that most people in town merely tolerated Hicks. Your mother, to her credit, was kind to him. Gooney Bud latched on to her, in a pathetic way. I'm sure he was often a nuisance, the way he followed her around like a devoted little puppy. Right, Reede?"
The sheriff nodded. "Celina wouldn't let anybody pick on him when she was around. He used to give her presents, you know, mesquite beans, rocks, stuff like that. She always thanked him like he'd given her the crown jewels."
"I figure that Gooney Bud mistook her kindness for a deeper emotion," Judge Wallace said. "He followed her into the Mintons' stable that night and, uh, tried to force his attentions on her."
"Rape her?" Alex asked bluntly.
"Well, yes," the judge said, flustered. "And when she rebuffed him, he couldn't handle the rejection, and ..."
"Stabbed her thirty times," Alex supplied.
"You force me to be insensitive, Miss Gaither." Joe Wallace looked at her reproachfully.
Alex crossed her legs. Her stockings made a slippery, silky sound that drew the sheriffs attention to them. She caught him staring at her hemline, but tried not to let it bother her as she continued to question the jittery judge.
"Let me make sure I understand. It's your contention that the murder wasn't premeditated, but a crime of passion?"
"As you said, it's conjecture."
"Okay, but for the sake of argument, let's say that's the way it was. If Bud Hicks was acting out of extreme provocation,
outrage, uncontrollable lust, wouldn't he have utilized a pitch-fork, or a rake, or something else that was handy? What was he doing with a scalpel if he didn't enter that stable with the intention of killing her?"
"That's easy," Reede said. Alex looked at him sharply.
"A mare had foaled that day. It was a difficult birth. We called the vet in to assist."
"How? Did he have to do an episiotomy?" she asked.
"In the long run, no. We were finally able to pull the foal. But Doc Collins's bag was right there. The scalpel could have fallen out. I'm guessing, of course, but it's logical to assume that Gooney Bud saw it and picked it up."
"That's a very broad assumption, Sheriff Lambert."
"Not so broad. As I've told you, Gooney Bud collected all kinds of stuff like that."
"He's right, Miss Gaither," Judge Wallace hastened to say. "Ask anybody. Something as shiny as a surgical instrument would have attracted his attention the moment he went into the stable."
"Was he in the stable that day?" she asked Reede.
"Yes. There were people coming and going all day, Gooney Bud among them."
Alex wisely decided that it was time to retreat and regroup. She gave the judge a peremptory thank you and left the
chambers. The sheriff followed her out. As soon as they'd cleared the anteroom, she turned to confront him.
"From now on, I'll thank you not to coach whoever I'm questioning."
He assumed an innocent look. "Is that what I was doing?"
"You know damn well it was. I've never heard such a flimsy, farfetched explanation of a murder in my life. And I would eat alive any attorney who attempted to defend a client with it."
"Hmm, that's funny."
"Funny?"
"Yeah." She was subjected to another sly, arrogant once-over "I was thinking you were the one who looked good enough to eat."
Blood rushed to her head. She attributed it to outrage.
"Don't you take me seriously, Mr. Lambert?"
His insolence dissolved along with his insinuating smile.
"You're damn right I do, Counselor," he whispered fiercely.
"Damn right I do."

Five



"Calm down, Joe." Angus Minton was angled back in his red leather recliner. He loved this chair. His wife, Sarah Jo, loathed it.
When he spotted Junior standing in the doorway of his den, he waved him inside. Covering the mouthpiece of the cordless phone he whispered to his son, "Joe Wallace is in a tizzy."
"Now, Joe, you're jumping to conclusions and getting upset over nothing," he said into the mouthpiece. "She's just doing what she thinks is her job. After all, her mama was murdered. Now that she's got a law degree and a high falutin job as a prosecutor, she's on a crusade. You know how these young career women are."
He listened for a moment. No longer cajoling, he repeated, "Goddammit, Joe, calm down, you hear? Just keep your mouth shut, and all this will blow over. Leave Celina's daughter to me, to us," he said, winking at Junior.
"In a few weeks she'll go back to Austin with her tail tucked between her pretty, long legs and tell her boss she struck out. We'll get our racing license, the track will be unit on schedule, you'll retire with a perfect record, and this time next year we'll be sitting over drinks, laughing about this."
After saying good-bye, he tossed the portable phone onto the end table. "Jesus, he's a pessimist. To hear him tell it, Celina's daughter put his scrawny neck through a noose and pulled it tight. Fetch me a beer, will ya?"
"Pasty's in the hall waiting to see you."
That piece of news did nothing to improve Angus's sour mood. "Shit. I guess now's as good a time as any. Go get him."
"Don't be too hard on him. He's shivering in his boots."
"For what he did, he ought to be," Angus grumbled.
Junior returned a few seconds later. Pasty Hickam shuffled along behind him, head bowed in contrition, battered cowboy
hat in hand. He had come by his nickname by imbibing a whole bottle of Elmer's glue on a dare. His real name had been long forgotten. The deed must have occurred at some point in elementary school, because Pasty had forsaken education
before reaching the ninth grade.
He'd ridden the rodeo circuit for several years, but never successfully. What purses he won were small, and quickly expended on drink, gambling, and women. His job at the Minton ranch had been his first venture into gainful employment,
and it had endured for almost thirty years, a surprise to everybody. Angus tolerated Pasty's occasional binges. This time, however, he'd gone too far.
Angus let him stand and sweat for several interminable moments before he barked, "Well?"
"Ang . . . Angus," the old ranch hand stuttered, "I know what you're gonna say. I ... ****ed up sumthin' royal, but I swear to God I didn't mean to. You know how it's said that all cats look gray in the dark? Well, damned if it ain't true of horses, too. 'Specially if you've got a pint of Four Roses sloshing around in yore gut." He smiled, revealing that what few teeth he had remaining were black with decay.

Angus wasn't amused. "You're wrong, Pasty. That isn't what I was going to say. What I was going to say is that you're fired."
Junior shot up out of the leather love seat. "Dad!" Angus shot him a hard look that quelled any further interference.
Pasty's face turned pale. "You cain't mean that, Angus. I've been here nigh on thirty years."
"You'll get fair severance pay--a damned sight more than you deserve."
"But . . . but--"
"You put a colt into a paddock with ten high-strung fillies. What if he'd mounted one of them? That one from Argentina was in there. Any idea what that horse is worth, Pasty--over half a million. If she'd been injured or come in foal by that randy colt. . ." Angus blew out a gust of air. "Jesus, I can't even bear to think about the mess that would've put us in. If one of the other hands hadn't caught your mistake, I could have been out millions, and the reputation of this ranch would have been shot to hell."
Pasty swallowed with difficulty. "Give me one more chance, Angus. I swear--"
"I've heard this speech before. Clear your stuff out of the bunkhouse and drop by the office at the end of the week. I'll have the bookkeeper draft you a check."
"Angus--"
"Good-bye and good luck, Pasty."
The old cowboy glanced plaintively at Junior, but knew before looking that there would be no help coming from that quarter. Junior kept his eyes lowered. Eventually Pasty left the room, tracking mud with each step.
When they heard the front door close, Junior got up and headed for the refrigerator built into the paneling. "I didn't know you were going to fire him," he said resentfully.
"No reason you should."
He carried a beer to his father and twisted off the cap of another for himself. "Was it necessary? Couldn't you have yelled at him some, taken away some of his responsibilities, docked his pay? For crissake, Dad, what's an old guy like that gonna do?"

"He should have thought of that before he put the colt in that pasture. Now, let's drop it. I didn't enjoy doing it. He's been around here a long time."
"He made a mistake."
' 'Worse, he got caught!'' Angus shouted. "If you're gonna run this business, boy, you gotta grow steel balls. The job isn't always fun, you know. There's more to it than taking clients out to fancy dinners and flirting with their wives and daughters." Angus took a swig of beer. "Now, let's talk about Celina's girl."
Junior, resigned to accepting Pasty's harsh punishment, even if he didn't agree with it, dropped into an easy chair and sipped at his bottle of beer. "She went to see Joe, huh?"
"Yeah, and notice that she didn't waste any time doing it, either. Joe's jittery as hell. He's afraid his spotless tenure as judge is about to be flushed down the toilet."
"What did Alexandra want with him?"
"She asked some questions about why he rushed up Gooney Bud's incompetency hearing. Reede came to Joe's rescue,
which was a smart move on his part."
"Reede?"
"Never asleep at the switch, is he?" Angus removed his boots and dropped them over the padded arm of his chair. They hit the floor with a heavy thud. He had gout, and his big toe was giving him trouble. He massaged it thoughtfully while looking at his son. "What did you think of the girl?"
'I tend to agree with Joe. She's a threat. She thinks one of us killed Celina, and she's bound and determined to find out who.''
"She struck me that way, too."
"Of course, she's got nothing on any of us."
"Of course."
Junior looked at his father warily. "She's sharp."
"As a tack."

"And no slouch in the looks department."
Father and son shared a bawdy laugh. "Yeah, she is good-lookin',"
Angus said. "But then, so was her mama."
Junior's smile faded. "Yes, she was."
"Still miss her, don't you?" Angus shrewdly studied his son.
"Sometimes."
Angus sighed. "I don't suppose you can lose a close friend like that without it having a lasting effect on you. You wouldn't be human, otherwise. But it's foolish of you to pine for a woman who's been dead all these years."
"I've hardly pined," Junior countered. "Since the day I figured out how this operates," he said, touching the fly of his pants, "it hasn't gone inactive for long."
"That's not what I'm talking about," Angus said, frowning.
"Anybody can get laid on a regular basis. I'm talking about your life. Commitment to something. You were upset for a long time after Celina died. It took you a while to pull your shit together. Okay, that was understandable."
He pushed the footstool of his chair and sat up straight, pointing a blunt finger at Junior. "But you stalled, boy, and you haven't worked up a full head of steam since. Look at Reede. He took Celina's death hard, too, but he got over her."
"How do you know he got over her?"
"Do you see him moping around?"
"I'm the one who's had three wives, not Reede."
"And that's something to be proud of?" Angus shouted, his temper snapping. "Reede's made his life count for something.
He's got a career--"
"Career?" Junior interrupted with a contemptuous snort.
"I'd hardly call being sheriff of this piss-ant county a career. Big ****in' deal."
' 'What would you call a career? Screwing the entire female membership of the country club before you die?"
"I do my fair share of work around here," Junior argued.
"I spent all morning on the phone with that breeder in Kentucky. He's this close to buying that colt by Artful Dodger out of Little Bit More."
"Yeah, what did he say?"
"That he's seriously thinking about it."
Angus came out of his chair, booming his approval.
"That's great news, son. That old man's a tough son of a bitch, I've heard tell. He's a crony of Bunky Hunt's. Feeds his horses caviar and shit like that after they win." Angus slapped Junior on the back and ruffled his hair as though he were three, instead of forty-three.
"However," Angus said, his frown returning, "that just emphasizes how much we stand to lose if the racing commission
rescinds that license before the ink on it is even dry. One breath of scandal and we're history. So, how are we gonna handle Alexandra?"
"Handle her?"
Favoring his ailing toe, Angus hobbled toward the refrigerator to get another beer. "We can't wish her away. The way I see it," he said, twisting off the bottle cap, "we'll just have to convince her that we're innocent. Upstanding citizens." He gave an elaborate shrug. "Since that's exactly what we are, it shouldn't be that hard to do."
Junior could tell when the wheels of his father's brain were turning. "How will we go about that?"
"Not we--you. By doing what you do best."
"You mean--?"
"Seduce her."
"Seduce her!" Junior exclaimed. "She didn't strike me as being a prime candidate for seduction. I'm sure she can't stand our guts."
"Then, that's the first thing we gotta change . . . you gotta change. Just seduce her into liking you ... at first. I'd do it myself if I still had the proper equipment." He gave his son a wicked smile. "Think you can handle such an unpleasant chore?"
Junior grinned back. "I'd damn sure welcome the opportunity to try."

Six


The cemetery gates were open. Alex drove through them. She had never been to her mother's grave, but she knew the
plot number. It had been jotted down and filed among some official papers that she'd found when she had moved her
grandmother into the nursing home.

The sky looked cold and unfriendly. The sun was suspended just above the western horizon like a giant orange disk, brilliant but brassy. Tombstones cast long shadows across the dead grass.

Using discreet signposts for reference, Alex located the correct row, parked her car, and got out. As far as she could tell, she was the only person there. Here on the outskirts of town, the north wind seemed stronger, its howl more ominous. She flipped up the collar of her coat as she made her way toward the plot.

Even though she was searching for it, she wasn't prepared to see the grave. It rushed up on her unexpectedly. Her impulse was to turn away, as though she'd happened upon an atrocity, something horrible and offensive.

The rectangular marker was no more than two feet high. She wouldn't have ever noticed it if it weren't for the name. It gave only her mother's date of birth, and date of death--nothing else. Not an epitaph. Not an obligatory, "In loving memory of." Nothing but the barest statistical facts.

The scarcity of information broke Alex's heart. Celina had been so young and pretty and full of promise, yet she'd been
diminished to anonymity. She knelt beside the grave. It was set apart from the others, alone at the crest of a gradual incline. Her father's body had been shipped from Vietnam to his native West Virginia, courtesy of the United States Army. Grandfather Graham, who had died when Celina was just a girl, was buried in his hometown. Celina's grave was starkly solitary.
The headstone was cold to the touch. She traced the carved letters of her mother's first name with her fingertip, then pressed her hand on the brittle grass in front of it, as though feeling for a heartbeat. She had foolishly imagined that she might be able to communicate with her supernaturally, but the only sensation she felt was that of the stubbly grass pricking her palm.
"Mother," she whispered, testing the word. "Mama. Mommy." The names felt foreign to her tongue and lips.
She'd never spoken them to anyone before.
"She swore you recognized her just by the sound of her voice."
Startled, Alex spun around. Pressing a hand to her pounding heart, she gasped in fright. "You scared me. What are you doing here?"
Junior Minton knelt beside her and laid a bouquet of fresh flowers against the headstone. He studied it for a moment, then turned his head and smiled wistfully at Alex.
"Instinct. I called the motel, but you didn't answer when they rang your room."
"How did you know where I was staying?"
"Everybody knows everything about everybody in this town."
"No one knew I was coming to the cemetery."
"Deductive reasoning. I tried to imagine where I might be if I were in your shoes. If you don't want company, I'll leave."
"No. It's all right." Alex looked back at the name carved into the cold, impersonal gray stone. "I've never been here. Grandma Graham refused to bring me."
"Your grandmother isn't a very warm, giving person."
"No, she isn't, is she?"
"Did you miss having a mother when you were little?"
"Very much. Particularly when I started school and realized that I was the only kid in my grade who didn't have one."
"Lots of kids don't live with their mothers."
"But they know they've got one." This was a subject she found difficult to discuss with even her closest friends and associates. She didn't feel inclined to discuss it with Junior Minton at all, no matter how sympathetic his smile.
She touched the bouquet he'd brought and rubbed the petal of a red rose between her cold fingertips. In comparison, the
flower felt like warm velvet, but it was the color of blood.
"Do you bring flowers to my mother's grave often, Mr. Minton?"
He didn't answer until she was looking at him again. "I was at the hospital the day you were born. I saw you before they had washed you up." His grin was open, warm, disarming.
"Don't you think that should put us on a first-name basis?"
It was impossible to erect barriers against his smile. It would have melted iron. "Then, call me Alex," she said, smiling back.
His eyes moved from the crown of her head to the toes of her shoes. "Alex. I like that."
"Do you?"
"What, like your name?"
"No, bring flowers here often."
"Oh, that. Only on holidays. Angus and I usually bring something out on her birthday, Christmas, Easter. Reede, too. We split the cost of having the grave tended."
"Any particular reason why?"
He gave her an odd look, then answered simply, "We all loved Celina."

"I believe one of you killed her," she said softly.
"You believe wrong, Alex. I didn't kill her."
"What about your father? Do you think he did?"
He shook his head. "He treated Celina like a daughter. Thought of her that way, too."
"And Reede Lambert?"
He shrugged as though no elaboration was necessary.
"Reede, well ..."
"What?"
"Reede could never have killed her."
Alex settled deeper into her fur coat. The sun had set, and it was getting colder by the moment. When she spoke, her breath fogged the air in front of her face. "I spent some time in the public library this afternoon, reading back issues of the local newspaper."
"Anything about me?"
"Oh, yes, all about your Purcell Panther football days."
As he laughed, the wind lifted his fair hair. His was a much lighter blond than Reede's, and it was finer, better controlled. "That must have made for some fascinating reading."
"It did. You and Reede were cocaptains of the team."
"Hell, yeah." He crooked his arm as though showing off muscled biceps. "We thought we were invincible, real hot snot."
"Her junior year, my mother was the homecoming queen. There was a picture of Reede kissing her during halftime."
Studying that photograph had made Alex feel very strange. She'd never seen it before. For some reason her grandmother
had chosen not to keep it among her many others, perhaps because Reede Lambert's kiss had been audacious, full fledged, and proprietary.
Undaunted by the cheering crowd in the stadium, his arm had been curved possessively around Celina's waist. The pressure of the kiss had angled her head back. He looked like a conqueror, especially in the muddy football uniform, holding his battle-scarred helmet in his other hand.

After staring at the photograph for several minutes, she began to feel that kiss herself. Coming back to the present, she said, "You didn't become friends with my mother and Reede until later on, isn't that right?"
Junior pulled up a blade of grass and began to shred it between his fingers. "Ninth grade. Until then, I attended a boarding school in Dallas."
"By choice?"
"By my mother's choice. She didn't want me picking up what she considered to be undesirable habits from the kids of oil-field workers and cowhands, so I was packed off to Dallas every fall.
"My schooling was a bone of contention between Mother and Dad for years. Finally, when I was about to go into high school, he put his foot down and said it was time I learned there were other kinds of people besides the 'pale little bastards'--and that's a quote--at prep school. He enrolled me in Purcell High School that fall."
"How did your mother take it?"
"Not too well. She was definitely against it, but there wasn't much she could do about it. Where she came from--"
"Which is?"
"Kentucky. In his prime, her old man was one of the most successful breeders in the country. He'd bred a Triple Crown
winner."
"How did she meet your father?"
"Angus went to Kentucky to buy a mare. He brought it and my mother back with him. She's lived here for over forty years, but she still clings to Presley family traditions, one of which was to send all the offspring to private school.
"Not only did Dad enroll me at Purcell, he also insisted that I go out for the football team. The coach wasn't too keen on the idea, but Dad bribed him by promising to buy new uniforms for the team if he'd take me on, so . . ."
"Angus Minton makes things happen "
"You can bank on that," Junior said with a laugh. "He never takes no for an answer, so I went out for football. I'd never even touched one, and I nearly got the crap kicked out of me that first day of practice. The other boys naturally resented me."
"For being the richest kid in town?"
"It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it," he said with an engaging grin.' 'Anyway, when I got home that night, I told Dad that I hated Purcell High School and football with equal amounts of passion. I told him I preferred pale little bastards any day of the week over bullies like Reede Lambert."
"What happened?"
"Mother cried herself sick. Dad cussed himself into a frenzy. Then he marched me outside and threw footballs at me till my hands bled from catching them."
"That's terrible!"
"Not really. He had my interests at heart. He knew, even if I didn't, that out here, you've got to play, eat, drink, and sleep football. Say," he interjected, "I'm rambling on. Aren't you cold?"
"No."
"Sure?"
"Yes."
"Want to go?"
"No, I want you to keep rambling."
"Is this a formal interrogation?"
"Conversation," she replied, tartly enough to make him grin.
"At least put your hands in your pockets." Taking one of her hands in each of his, he guided them to the deep pockets of her coat, tucked them inside, and patted them into place. Alex resented the intimate gesture. It was presumptuous of him and, considering the circumstances, highly inappropriate.
"I gather you made the football team," she said, deciding to ignore his touch.
"Junior varsity, yes, but I didn't play, not in a single game, until the very last one. It was for the district championship."
He lowered his head and smiled reflectively. "We were down by four points. A field goal wouldn't have done us any good. There were only a few seconds left on the clock. We had the ball, but it was fourth down and miles to go because of penalties. Both the A-and B-string wide receivers had been injured in the previous quarters."
"My God."
"I told you, football's a blood-drawing sport out here. Anyway, they were carting the star running back off the field on a stretcher when the coach looked toward the bench and barked my name. I nearly wet my pants."
"What happened?"
"I shrugged off my poncho and ran out to join the team in a time-out huddle. Mine was the only clean jersey on the field. The quarterback--"
"Reede Lambert." Alex knew that from the newspaper accounts.
"Yeah, my nemesis. He groaned audibly when he saw me coming, and even louder when I told him the play the coach had sent in with me. He looked me right between the eyes and said, 'If I throw you the goddamn football, preppie, you ****in' well better catch it.' "
For a moment Junior was silent, steeped in the memory.
"I'll never forget that as long as I live. Reede was laying down the terms."
"The terms?"
"Of our becoming friends. It was then or never that I had to prove myself worthy of his friendship."
"Was that so important?"
"You bet your ass. I'd been in school there long enough to know that if I didn't hack it with Reede, I'd never be worth shit."
"You caught the pass, didn't you?"
"No, I didn't. In all fairness, I can't say that I did. Reede threw it right here," he said, pointing at his chest, "right between the numbers on my jersey. Thirty-five yards. All I had to do was fold my arms over the football and carry it across the goal line."

"But that was enough, wasn't it?"
His smile widened until it germinated into a laugh. "Yep. That marked the beginning of it."
"Your father must have been ecstatic."
Junior threw back his head and howled with laughter. "He jumped the fence, hurdled the bench, and came charging out onto the field. He swooped me up and carried me around for several minutes."
"What about your mother?"
"My mother! She wouldn't be caught dead at a football game. She thinks it's barbaric." He chuckled, tugging on his earlobe. "She's damned near right. But I didn't care what anybody thought about me, except Dad. He was so proud of me that night." His blue eyes shone with the memory.
"He'd never even met Reede, but he hugged him, too, football pads and all. That night was the beginning of their friendship, too. It wasn't too long after that that Reede's daddy died, and he moved out to the ranch to live with us."
For several moments, his recollections were private. Alex allowed him the introspective time without interruption.
Eventually he glanced up at her and did a double take.
"Jesus, you looked like Celina just then," he said softly. "Not so much your features, but your expression. You have that same quality of listening." He reached out and touched her hair. "She loved to listen. At least she made the person talking think she did. She could sit so still and just listen for hours." He withdrew his hand, but he didn't seem happy about it.
"Is that what first attracted you to her?"
"Hell, no," he said with a leering smile. "The first thing that attracted me to her was a ninth-grade boy's adolescent lust. The first time I saw Celina in the hall at school, she took my breath, she was so pretty."
"Did you chase after her?"
"Hey, I was dumbstruck, not crazy."
"What about this mad crush you had on her?"
"She belonged to Reede then," he said unequivocally.

"There was never any question about that." He stood up.
"We'd better go. Regardless of what you say, you're freezing. Besides, it's getting spooky out here in the dark."
Alex, still befuddled by his last statement, let him assist her up. She turned to brush the dry grass off the back of her skirt and noticed the bouquet again. The green waxed paper wrapped around the vivid petals fluttered in the brisk wind. It made a dry, rattling sound. "Thank you for bringing the flowers, Junior."
"You're welcome."
"I appreciate your thoughtfulness to her over the years."
"In all honesty, I had an ulterior motive for coming here today."
"Oh?"
"Uh-huh," he said, taking both her hands. "To invite you out to the house for drinks."

Seven

She had been expected. That much was evident from the moment Junior escorted her across the threshold of the sprawling
two-story house on the Minton ranch. Eager to study her suspects in their own environment, she had agreed to follow Junior home from the cemetery.
As she entered the living room, however, she couldn't help wondering if perhaps she was being manipulated, rather than
the other way around. Her determination to proceed with caution was immediately put to the test when Angus strode across the spacious room and shook her hand.

"I'm glad Junior found you and convinced you to come," he told her as he helped her out of her coat. He tossed the fur jacket at Junior. "Hang that up, will ya?" Looking at Alex with approval, he said, "I didn't know how you'd take our invitation. We're pleased to have you."
"I'm pleased to be here."
"Good," he said, rubbing his hands together. "What'll you have to drink?"
"White wine, please," she said. His blue eyes were friendly, but she found them disquieting. He seemed to see beyond the surface and lay bare the emotional insecurities she kept heavily camouflaged with competency.
"White wine, huh? Can't stand the stuff myself. Just as well be drinking soda pop. But that's what my wife drinks. She'll be down directly. You sit there, Alexandra."
"She likes to be called Alex, Dad," Junior said as he joined Angus at the built-in wet bar to mix himself a scotch and water.
' 'Alex, huh?'' Angus carried a glass of wine to her. ' 'Well, I guess that name suits a lady lawyer."
It was a backhanded compliment, at best. She let her thank-you suffice for both the remark and the wine. "Why did you
invite me here?"
He seemed momentarily nonplussed by her directness, but answered in kind. "There's too much water under the bridge
for us to be enemies. I want to get to know you better."
"That's the reason I came, Mr. Minton."
"Angus. Call me Angus." He took a moment to study her. "How come you wanted to be a lawyer?"
"So I could investigate my mother's murder."
The answer came to her lips spontaneously, which astonished not only the Mintons, but Alex herself. She had never verbalized that as being her goal before. Merle Graham must have spoon-fed her doses of determination, along with her
vegetables.
With that public admission also came the private realization that she was her own chief suspect. Grandmother Graham had said she was ultimately responsible for her mother's death. Unless she could prove otherwise, she would carry that guilt with her for the rest of her life. She was in Purcell County to exonerate herself.
"You certainly don't mince words, young lady," Angus said. "I like that. Pussyfooting is a waste of my time."
"Of mine, too," Alex said, remembering her concurrent deadlines.
Angus harrumphed. "No husband? No kids?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Dad," Junior said, rolling his eyes, embarrassed by his father's lack of tact.
Alex was amused, not offended. "I don't mind, Junior, really. It's a common question."
"Got an answer to it?" Angus took a swig from his long-neck.
"No time or inclination."
Angus grunted noncommittally. "Around here, we've got too much time and not enough inclination." He shot Junior a withering glance.
"Dad's referring to my failed marriages," Junior told their guest.
"Marriages? How many have there been?"
"Three," he confessed with a wince.
"And no grandbabies to show for any of them," Angus grumbled like a foul-natured bear. He aimed a chastising index finger at his son. "And it's not like you don't know how to breed."
"As usual, Angus, your manners in front of company are deplorable."
Simultaneously, the three of them turned. A woman was standing in the open doorway. Alex had painted a mental picture of what Angus's wife would be like--strong, assertive, feisty enough to meet him toe to toe. She would typify the coarse, horsy type who rode to hounds and spent more time wielding a quirt than a hairbrush. Mrs. Minton was the antithesis of Alex's mental picture.

Her figure was willowy, her features as dainty as those on a Dresden figurine. Graying blond hair curled softly about a face as pale as the double strand of pearls she was wearing around her neck. Dressed in a full-skirted mauve wool jersey dress that floated around her slender body as she walked, she came into the room and sat down in a chair near Alex's.
"Honey, this is Alex Gaither," Angus said. If he was put off by his wife's reprimand, he didn't show it. "Alex, my wife, Sarah Jo."
Sarah Jo Minton nodded and, in a voice as formal and cool as her acknowledgment of the introduction, said, "Miss Gaither, a pleasure, I'm sure."
"Thank you."
Her pallid face lit up and her straight, thin lips curved into a radiant smile when she accepted a glass of white wine from
Junior, who had poured it without being asked. "Thank you, sweetheart."
He bent down and kissed his mother's smooth, proffered cheek. "Did your headache go away?"
"Not entirely, but my nap helped it. Thank you for inquiring.'' She reached up to stroke his cheek. Her hand, Alex noted, was milky white and looked as fragile as a flower ravaged by a storm. Addressing her husband, she said, "Must you bring talk of breeding into the living room, instead of keeping it in the stable, where it belongs?"
"In my own house, I'll talk about anything I goddamn well please," Angus answered, though he didn't seem angry at her.
Junior, apparently accustomed to their bantering, laughed and circled Sarah Jo's chair to sit on the arm of Alex's. "We weren't talking about breeding, per se, Mother. Dad was just lamenting my inability to keep a wife long enough to produce
an heir."
"You'll have children with the right woman when the time comes." She spoke to Angus as much as to Junior. Then, turning to Alex, she asked, "Did I overhear you say you'd never been married, Miss Gaither?"
"That's right."

"Strange." Sarah Jo sipped her wine. "Your mother certainly never lacked for male companionship."
"Alex didn't say she lacked for male companionship,"
Junior corrected. "She's just choosy."
"Yes, I chose a career over marriage and having a family. For the time being, anyway.'' Her brow beetled as an original idea occurred to her. "Did my mother ever express any interest in having a career?"
"Not that I ever heard her mention," Junior said, "though I guess all the girls in our class went through that stage of wanting to be Warren Beatty's leading lady."
"She had me so early," Alex said with a trace of regret.
"Maybe an early marriage and a baby prevented her from pursuing a career."
Junior placed his finger beneath her chin and raised it, until she was looking at him. "Celina made her own choices."
"Thank you for saying that."
He dropped his hand. "I never heard her say she wanted to be anything other than a wife and mother. I remember the day we talked about it specifically. You should, too, Dad. It was summertime, and so hot you told Reede to take the day off after he'd mucked out the stables. The three of us decided to take a picnic out to that old stock pond, remember?"
"No." Angus left his chair in pursuit of another beer.
"I do," Junior said dreamily, "like it was yesterday. We spread a quilt under the mesquite trees. Lupe had packed us some homemade tamales to take with us. After we'd eaten them we stretched out on our backs, Celina between Reede and me, and stared up at the sky through the branches of those mesquites. They hardly cast a shade. The sun and our full bellies made us drowsy.
' 'We watched buzzards circling something and talked about chasing them down to find out what had died, but we were too lazy. We just lay there, talking, you know, about what we were going to be once we grew up. I said I wanted to be an international playboy. Reede said that if I did, he was gonna buy stock in a company that made condoms and get rich. He didn't care what he turned out to be, so long as he was rich. All Celina wanted to be was a wife." He paused a moment and looked down at his hands. "Reede's wife."
Alex started.
"Speaking of Reede," Angus said, "I think I hear his voice."

Eight

Lupe, the Mintons' housekeeper, showed Reede in. Alex turned in time to see him come through the doorway. Junior's
startling revelation had left her dazed. From Grandma Graham, she'd heard that Reede and Celina had been high school sweethearts. The photograph of him crowning her homecoming queen bore that out. But Alex hadn't known that her mother had wanted to marry him. She knew her expression must reflect her shock.
He took in the room at a glance. "Well, isn't this a cozy little scene."
"Hey, Reede," Junior said from his position near Alex, which suddenly seemed all too close and familiar, for a reason she couldn't explain. "What brings you out? Drink?"
"Come on in." Angus signaled him into the room. Sarah Jo ignored him as though he was invisible. That mystified Alex, since he had once lived with them like a member of the family.
He laid his coat and hat in a chair and moved toward the bar to accept the drink that Angus had poured for him. "I came to check on my mare. How is she?"
"Fine," Angus told him.
"Good."

There followed a strained silence while everyone seemed to contemplate the contents of their glasses. Finally, Angus said, "Something else on your mind, Reede?"
"He came out here to warn you about what you say to me,'' Alex said.' 'The same way he did Judge Wallace earlier this afternoon."
"When somebody asks me a direct question, I'll do my own answering, Counselor," he said testily. He threw back his drink and set down the glass. "See y'all later. Thanks for the drink.'' He stamped from the room, pausing only long enough to pick up his hat and coat.
Surprisingly, it was Sarah Jo who filled the silence once Reede had slammed out the front door. "I see his manners haven't improved any."
"You know Reede, Mother," Junior said with a casual shrug. "Another glass of wine?"
"Please."
"Have another drink together," Angus said. "I want to speak to Alex in private. Bring your wine if you want," he told her.
She had been helped out of her chair and escorted into the hallway before she quite knew how it had come about. As they moved down the hall, she looked around.
The walls were covered with red flocked wallpaper and held framed photographs of racehorses. A massive Spanish chandelier loomed threateningly overhead. The furniture was dark and bulky.
"Like my house?" Angus asked, noticing that she was dawdling to take in her surroundings.
"Very much," she lied.
"Designed and built it myself when Junior was still in diapers."
Without being told, Alex knew that Angus had not only built but decorated the house. Nothing in it reflected Sarah Jo's personality. Doubtless she countenanced it because she'd been given no choice.

The house was atrociously ugly, but it was in such appalling and unapologetic bad taste that it had a crude charm all its own, much like Angus.
"Before this house was here, Sarah Jo and I lived in a lineman's shack. You could see daylight through the walls of that damn thing. Nearly froze us out in the winter, and in the summer, we'd wake up with an inch of dust covering our bed."
Alex's initial reaction to Mrs. Minton had been dislike.
She seemed distracted and self-absorbed. Alex could, however, sympathize with a younger Sarah Jo who had been plucked like an exotic flower out of a gracious, refined culture and replanted into one so harsh and radically different that
she had withered. She could never adapt here, and it was a mystery to Alex why either Angus or Sarah Jo thought she could.
He preceded her into a paneled den that was even more masculine than the rest of the house. From their mountings on the walls, elk and deer gazed into space with resigned brown eyes. What space they didn't take up was filled with photographs of racehorses wearing the Minton colors standing in the winners' circles of racetracks all over the country. Some were fairly current; others appeared to be decades old.
There were several gun racks with a firearm in each slot. A flagpole with the state flag had been propped in one corner. A framed cartoon read: "Tho I walk through the valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil . . . 'cause I'm the meanest son of a bitch in the valley."
The moment they entered the room, he pointed her toward a corner. "Come over here. I want to show you something."
She followed him to a table that was draped with what looked like an ordinary white bed sheet. Angus unfurled it.
"My goodness!"
It was an architectural model of a racetrack. Not a single detail had been overlooked, from the color-coded seating in the stands, to the movable starting gate, to the diagonal stripes painted in the parking lot.

"Purcell Downs," Angus boasted with the chest-expanding pride of a new father. "I realize you're only doing what you feel like you've got to do, Alex. I can respect that." His expression was belligerent. "But you don't realize how much is at stake here."
Alex defensively folded her arms across her midriff.' 'Why don't you tell me?"
Needing no more encouragement, Angus launched into a full explanation of how he wanted the track to be built, enumerating its various features. There would be no corners cut, no scrimping. The entire complex was to be a first-class
facility from the stables to the ladies' restrooms.
"We'll be the only full-scale track between Dallas/Fort Worth and El Paso, and three hundred or so miles from each. It will be a good stopover for travelers. I can envision Purcell becoming another Las Vegas in twenty years, springing up out of the desert like a gusher."
"Isn't that being a little optimistic?" Alex asked skeptically.
"Well, maybe a bit. But that's what folks said when I started this place. That's what they said when I built my practice track and drew up plans for an indoor swimming pool for the horses. I don't let skepticism bother me. You gotta dream big if you want big things to happen. Mark my words," he said, jabbing the air between them for emphasis. "If we get that license to build this track, the town of Purcell will explode."
"Not everybody would like that, would they? Some might want to keep the community small."
Stubbornly, Angus shook his head. "Several years ago, this town was booming."
"Oil?"
"Yessiree. There were ten banks. Ten. More than in any other town this size. Per capita, we were the richest city in the country. Merchants had more business than they could handle. The real estate market was hot. Everybody prospered." He paused to take a breath. "You want something to drink? A beer? A Coke?"

"Nothing, thank you."
Angus took a beer from the refrigerator, twisted off the cap, and took a long drink. "Then, the bottom fell out of the oil market," he resumed. "We told ourselves that it was temporary."
"To what extent did the oil market affect you?"
"I hold a hefty percentage in several wells and one natural gas company. But thank God, I'd never invested more than I could afford to lose. I'd never liquidated my other businesses to support an oil well."
"Still, that drop in the price of oil must have caused you a substantial financial setback. Weren't you upset?"
He shook his head. "I've won and lost more fortunes than you are years old, young lady. Hell, I really don't mind being broke. Being rich is more fun, but being broke is more exciting. It's got built-in challenges.
"Sarah Jo," he said, sighing thoughtfully, "doesn't agree with me, of course. She likes the security of having money collecting dust in a vault. I've never touched her money or Junior's inheritance. I promised her I never would."
Talking about inheritances was foreign to Alex. She couldn't even conceive of it. Merle Graham had supported them on her salary from the telephone company, and then on her pension after her retirement. Alex's grades had been high enough to earn her a scholarship to the University of Texas, but she'd worked after classes to keep herself dressed and fed so her grandmother wouldn't have those expenses to complain about.
She had received financial assistance for law school, too, because her grades were so impressive. Working in public service didn't provide her with luxuries. She'd struggled with her conscience for weeks before rewarding herself with the fur coat for passing the bar. It was one of the few extravagances she had ever allowed herself.
"Do you have enough capital to finance the racetrack?" she asked, bringing her mind back around.
"Not personally."
"Minton Enterprises?"
"Not by itself. We've formed a group of investors, individuals and businesses, that would profit from having the track built here."
He sat down in his red leather recliner and pointed her into a chair. "During the oil boom, everybody got a taste of wealth. They're greedy for it again."
"That's hardly a flattering assessment of the population of Purcell--a group of avaricious carnivores waiting to gobble up horseracing money."
"Not avaricious," he said. "Everybody would get his fair share, starting with the major investors, and working down to the guy who owns the self-serve filling station on the nearest corner. It wouldn't mean just individual gain, either. Think of the schools and hospitals and public facilities the town could build with that increased revenue."
He leaned forward and curled his hand into a fist, as though grasping at something. "That's why this racetrack is so damned important. It would set Purcell back on its feet and then some." His blue eyes sparkled with enthusiasm for his argument. "Well, what do you think?"
"I'm not a moron, Mr. Minton, uh, Angus," she corrected.
"I realize what the track could mean to the county's economy."
"Then, why don't you drop this ridiculous investigation?"
"I don't think it's ridiculous," she retaliated sharply.
Studying her, he absently scratched his cheek. "How could you think that I killed your mama? She was one of Junior's best friends. She was in and out of this house on a daily basis. Not so much after she got married, but certainly before then. I couldn't have lifted a finger to hurt that girl."
Alex wanted to believe him. Despite the fact that he was a suspect in a criminal case, she admired him very much. From what she had read and gathered through conversation, he had started with nothing and built an empire. His brusqueness was almost endearing. He had a persuasive personality. But she couldn't let his colorful persona influence her. Her admiration for Angus wasn't as strong as her need to know how she, an innocent baby, had prompted someone to murder her mother.
"I can't drop the investigation," she said. "Even if I wanted to, Pat Chastain--"
"Listen," he said, scooting forward. "You bat those big baby blues of yours at him, tell him you made a mistake, and by this time tomorrow, I guarantee that he won't even remember what you came here for."
"I wouldn't do--"
"Okay, then leave Pat to me."
"Angus," she said loudly, "you're missing my point."
When she was assured she had his attention, she said, "As strongly as you believe in your racetrack, I believe that my mother's murder case was mishandled. I intend to see that rectified."
"Even though the future of a whole town is at stake?"
"Come on," she cried in protest. "You make it sound like I'm taking bread from starving children."
"Not as bad as that, but still--"
"My future is at stake, too. I can't go on with the rest of it until the case is resolved to my satisfaction."
"Yes, but--"
"Hey, time out." Junior opened the door suddenly and poked his head inside. "I've had a great idea, Alex. Why don't you stay for supper?"
"Damn you, Junior," Angus thundered, pounding the arm of his chair with his fist. "You wouldn't recognize a business discussion if it bit you in the ass. We're talking seriously here. Don't ever interrupt me when I'm in a private conference
again. You know better than that."
Junior swallowed visibly. "I didn't know your conversation was so private or so serious."
"Well, you damned well should have, shouldn't you? For crissake, we were--"
"Angus, please, it's all right," Alex said quickly. "Actually, I'm glad Junior interrupted. I just now noticed how late it is. I need to be going."

She couldn't stand to watch a grown man get a dressing down from his father, especially in front of a female guest. She was embarrassed for both of them. Most of the time, Angus was a good ole boy. But not always. He had an explosive temper when crossed. Alex had just witnessed how short his fuse was and just how slight a transgression it took to ignite it.
"I'll see you out," Junior offered woodenly.
She shook hands with Angus. "Thank you for showing me the model. Nothing you've said has diverted me, but you've clarified some things. I'll keep them in mind as I pursue the case."
"You can trust us, you know. We're not killers."
Junior walked her to the front door. After he had held her coatforher, she turned to face him. "I'll be in touch, Junior."
"I certainly hope so." He bent over her hand and kissed it, then turned her palm up and kissed it, too.
She took it back quickly. "Do you flirt like this with every woman you meet?"
"Just about." He flashed her an unrepentant grin. "Are you susceptible?"
"Not in the least."
His grin widened, indicating to her that he wasn't convinced and knew that she wasn't either. After saying another quick good night, she left. Her car was cold. She shivered inside her coat. As she drove down the private road toward the highway, she noticed the outbuildings on either side of it. Most were stables. There was a faint light burning inside one of them. Reede's Blazer was parked at the door. On impulse, Alex pulled up beside it and got out.

Sarah Jo's bedroom in Kentucky had been duplicated at her Texas home, down to the silk cord tiebacks on the drapes. When the house had been built, she had agreed to let Angus have his heavy, dark furniture, his red leather upholstery, and his hunting trophies in other rooms, but she had flatly refused to let his revolting frontier motif defile their bedroom.

Cheerfully, he had agreed. He liked her fussy, feminine, frilly things around him at night. He'd often told her that if he'd wanted to marry a cowgirl, he wouldn't have had to go all the way to Kentucky to find one.
"Mother, may I come in?" Junior opened the bedroom door after a tentative knock.
"Darling, please do." Sarah Jo smiled, evidently quite pleased over her son's visit.
Junior found her propped up on a mountain of satin pillows, wearing a lace night jacket, smelling of expensive face cream,
and reading the biography of some foreign statesman of whom he'd never heard. He'd never even heard of the country from which the man hailed. Probably no one except his mother had.
She took off her reading glasses, laid the book aside, and patted the quilted satin comforter. With a brisk shake of his head, Junior declined to sit down. Instead he remained standing at the foot of the bed, hands in pockets, jingling change,
resenting this nightly ritual that was a carryover from his childhood.
Long ago, he'd outgrown the need or desire to kiss his mother good night, but Sarah Jo continued to expect it. Her feelings would be hurt if he didn't. He and Angus went out of their way to spare Sarah Jo's feelings, which were always tenuous.
"It always smells good in here," he commented for lack of anything else to say. The dressing down he'd received in front of Alex still smarted. He was impatient to leave the house and go to one of the local nightspots where he wouldn't have to concentrate on his problems.
"Sachets. I keep them in all my drawers and closets. When I was a girl, we had a maid who made them from crushed dried flowers and herbs. They smelled wonderful," she said reminiscently. "Now I have to order them. They use artificial
scents in them these days, but I still think they're pretty."
"How's the book?" Junior was already bored with the subject of sachets.
"Quite interesting."

He seriously doubted it, but he smiled down at her. "Good. I'm glad you're enjoying it."
Sarah Jo sensed his melancholy mood. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"I can tell when something's wrong."
"Nothing out of the ordinary. I got on Dad's bad side by interrupting his discussion with Alex."
Sarah Jo made a moue of displeasure. "Your father still hasn't learned how to conduct himself when there's company in the house. If he can be rude enough to cart a guest out of the living room during the cocktail hour, you can be rude enough to interrupt a discussion."
She bobbed her head as though she had said her piece and that settled the matter. "What were they discussing so privately, anyway?"
"Something about her mother's death," he said nonchalantly.
"Nothing to worry about."
"Are you sure? Everybody seemed so tense tonight."
"If there's any cause for alarm, Dad'll take care of it, the way he always does. It's certainly nothing for you to worry about."
He had no intention of telling his mother about Alex's investigation. The men in Sarah Jo's life knew she hated being exposed to anything upsetting or unpleasant, and protected her from it.
Angus never discussed business with her, especially when it was bad. She was disappointed when their horses didn't perform well at the track and celebrated when they did, but beyond that, neither the ranch, nor any of the subsidiary companies comprising Minton Enterprises, held much interest for her.
Indeed, nothing held much interest for Sarah Jo, with the possible exception of Junior. She was like a beautiful doll, sealed inside a sterile room, never exposed to light or any other corrupting element--especially life itself.
Junior loved his mother, but recognized that she wasn't well liked. By contrast, everybody liked Angus. A few of his friends' wives, out of loyalty and obligation, were friendly to Sarah Jo. if not for them, she wouldn't have any acquaintances in Purcell at all.
She'd certainly never gone out of her way to cultivate a friendship. She thought most of the locals were vulgar and coarse, and she made no attempt to conceal her low opinion of them. She seemed perfectly content to reside in this room, surrounded by the soft, pretty, uncomplicated things she liked and understood best.
Junior knew she was the object of derision and gossip. It was said that she drank. She didn't, except for two glasses of wine before dinner. Some, who didn't understand her delicate sensibilities, thought she was odd. Others thought she was just plain "off."
Admittedly, she was distracted a good deal of the time, as though mentally reliving the privileged childhood she treasured.
She had never quite recovered from the premature death of a beloved brother, and had still been mourning it when she had met Angus.
Junior wondered if she had married his father to escape unpleasant memories. He could find no other grounds for two such mismatched people to base a marriage.
Junior was eager to get on his way to having a good time, but he lengthened tonight's visit, curious to know his mother's
opinion of their guest that evening. "What did you think of her?"
"Who, Celina's daughter?" Sarah Jo asked absently. Her brows drew together into a slight frown. "She's very attractive
physically, though I don't find such flamboyant coloring flattering to a woman."
Thoughtfully, she fingered the fine lace on the bodice of her bed jacket. "She's certainly intense, isn't she? Much more serious-minded than her mother. Celina was a silly little thing, God knows. As I recall, she was always laughing."
She paused and cocked her head to one side, as though listening to distant laughter. "I don't remember ever seeing that
girl when she wasn't laughing."

"There were plenty of times. You just didn't know her that well."
"Poor darling. I know you were crushed when she died. I know what it's like to lose someone you love. It's sheer misery."
Her voice, so soft, changed suddenly, as did her expression. No longer a shrinking violet, her features hardened with resolve.' 'Junior, you must stop letting Angus embarrass you, especially in front of other people."
He gave a careless shrug. This was familiar territory. "He doesn't mean anything by it. It's just a habit of his."
"Then, it's up to you to break him of it. Darling, don't you see," she said, "that's what he wants you to do. He wants you to stand up to him. Angus only understands one tone of voice--harsh.
"He doesn't know how to be soft-spoken and genteel, like us. You have to talk to him in a way he understands, like Reede does. Angus wouldn't dare speak to Reede in the condescending way he does to you because he respects Reede. And he respects him because Reede doesn't kowtow to him."
"Dad thinks Reede can do no wrong. To this day, it sticks in his craw that Reede left ME. He'd much rather have Reede than me around to manage things. I never do anything to his liking."
"That's simply not true!" Sarah Jo objected, showing more spirit than she had in weeks. "Angus is very proud of you. He just doesn't know how to show it. He's such a hard man. He's had to be tough to accomplish everything he's done. He wants you to be tough, too."
Junior grinned, doubling up his fists. "Okay, Mother, tomorrow morning I'll come out slugging."
She giggled. His resilience and sense of humor had always delighted her. "Not literally, I hope, but that's the spirit Angus wants to see in you."
Laughter was a good note to leave on. Junior seized the opportunity, said his good night, gave her his promise to drive safely, and left. On the stairs, he met Angus, who was carrying his boots and limping. "When are you going to see a doctor about that toe?"
"What good's a goddamn doctor, except to take your money? I ought to shoot off the sonofabitch and be done with it."
Junior smiled. "Okay, but don't get blood on the carpet. Mother would have a fit."
Angus laughed, all traces of anger gone. It was as if the episode in his den had never happened. He placed his arm across Junior's shoulders and gave them a quick squeeze. "I knew I could depend on you to get that girl out here. It worked out just like I hoped it would. We've put her on the defensive and planted seeds of doubt. If she's smart, and I believe she is, she'll call this thing off before too much damage has been done."
"What if she doesn't?"
"If she doesn't, we'll cross that bridge, too," Angus said darkly. Then he smiled and affectionately slapped Junior on the cheek. "Good night, boy."
Junior watched his father hobble across the landing. Feeling much better, he whistled softly beneath his breath on his way
downstairs. Angus wouldn't be disappointed in him this time.
The job he had been assigned suited nun to a tee. His experience in handling women was legendary. The challenges that Alex presented would just make the chase that much more exciting and fun. She was a damned attractive woman. Even if Angus hadn't told him, he would have wooed her anyway.
Doing it just right, however, would take some time and thought. He would give himself a few days to come up with a sure-fire strategy. In the meantime, there were lesser worlds to conquer. He saluted his handsome image in the hallway mirror on his way out the front door.

Nine


Like the house, the stable was built of stone. The interior was like any other that Alex had seen, except that it was spotlessly clean. Two rows of stalls were divided by a wide center aisle. It smelled, not unpleasantly, of hay and leather and horseflesh.

Low wattage night-lights placed between the stalls made it easy for her to see where she was going--toward a brighter light that was burning in a stall about midway down. Quietly she made her way toward it, passing an open tack room and a door that was labeled physical therapy. Through a wide opening she also saw a round pen with a walker that would exercise several horses at one time.

Before she saw him, she heard Reede, speaking in a low murmur to the occupant of the stall. Drawing even with it, she looked inside. He was hunkered down, sitting on the heels of his boots, rubbing his large hands up and down the animal's back leg.

His head was bent to one side as he concentrated on his task. His fingers pressed a spot which was obviously sensitive. The horse snuffled and tried to withdraw.

"Easy, easy."

"What's the matter with him?"

He didn't turn around or show the slightest surprise at the sound of her voice. Apparently, he had known all along that she was standing there and was just being obtuse. He gently lowered the injured leg and, standing, patted the animal's rump. "It's a her." He shot her a suggestive smile. "Or aren't you old enough to tell the difference?"
"Not from this angle."
"Her name is Fancy Pants."
"Cute."
"It fits her. She thinks she's smarter than me, smarter than anybody. Fact is, she's too smart for her own good. She goes
too far, too fast, and as a result, she ends up getting hurt."
He scooped up a handful of grain and let the horse eat it from his hand.
"Oh, I get it. That's a veiled reference to me." He admitted it with a shrug. "Should I take it as a threat?"
"You can take it any way you want it."
Again, he was playing word games, implying double meanings.
Alex didn't rise to the bait this time. "What kind of horse is she?"
"A pregnant one. This is the mares' barn."
"They're all kept here?"
"Away from the others, yeah." The mare nuzzled his chest and he smiled as he scratched behind her ears. "Mamas and babies cause a ruckus in a stable."
"Why?"
He shrugged his shoulders, indicating there was no clear-cut explanation. "I guess it's like the nursery floor at the hospital. Everybody goes a little nuts over a newborn."
He ran his hand over the mare's smooth belly. "This is her first time, and she's nervous about being a mother. She got a little skittish the other day when they were walking her and injured her metatarsal."
"When will she foal?"
"In the spring. She's got a while yet. Give me your hand."
"What?"
"Your hand." Sensing her reservation, he impatiently drew her into the stall with him until she was standing as close to the mare as he. "Feel."
He covered her hand with his and flattened it against the mare's sleek coat. The hair was coarse and short, and the vitality and strength of muscle beneath it was evident to the touch.
The animal snuffled and took a hesitant step forward, but Reede shushed her. The stall seemed close and overheated. The fecund smell of new life in the making permeated the square enclosure. "She's warm," Alex commented breathlessly.
"She sure is."
Reede moved closer to Alex and maneuvered her hand, together with his, down the contours of the mare's body to her swollen underbelly. Alex gave a soft exclamation of surprise when she felt movement.
"The foal." Reede was so close his breath disturbed strands of her hair and she smelled the scent of his cologne, mingled with that of the stable.
A swift kick against her palm made Alex laugh with spontaneous delight. She also gave a start of surprise and bumped
against Reede. "So active."
"She's breeding me a winner."
"She belongs to you?"
"Yes."
"What about the sire?"
"I paid dearly for his services, but he was worth it. Good-looking stallion from Florida. Fancy Pants took to him right away. I think she was sorry when it was over. Maybe if he was around all the time, I wouldn't have to worry about her getting out of line."
The pressure in Alex's chest was such that she could barely breathe. Her inclination was to rest her cheek against the mare's side and continue to listen to Reede's lulling voice. Thankfully, her reason reasserted itself before she did anything
so foolish.
She pulled her hand from beneath his and turned. He was standing so close to her that her clothes brushed against his, and she had to tilt her head back until it was resting against the horse in order to look into his face.

"Do all owners have access to the stables?"
Reede stepped back and allowed her to move toward the opening.
"Since I used to work for the Mintons, I guess they feel they can trust me."
"What kind of horse is she?" Alex said, reverting to her original question.
"A Quarter Horse."
"A quarter of what?"
" 'A quarter of what?' " He tossed back his head and laughed. Fancy Pants danced aside. "Jesus, that's good. A quarter of what?" He unfastened the chain that had secured the mare to a metal ring in the wall, and then joined Alex outside the stall, carefully closing the gate behind him. "You don't know much about horses, do you?"
"Obviously not," she replied tightly.
Her embarrassment seemed to amuse him for only a moment.
Then, frowning, he asked, "Was coming out here your idea?"
"Junior invited me."
"Ah, that figures."
"Why should it figure?"
"He's always hot on the trail of the newest available broad."
Blood surged through Alex's veins. "I am not available to Junior, or to anybody else. Neither am I a broad."
He subjected her to a slow and ridiculing once-over. "No, I guess you're not. Too much lawyer and not enough woman. Don't you ever relax?"
"Not when I'm working on a case."
"And that's what you were doing over drinks?" he asked scornfully. "Working on your case?"
"That's right."
"They've sure got funny methods of investigation in the Travis County D.A.'s office." He turned his back on her and swaggered toward the opposite end of the building.
"Wait! I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Subpoena me," he tossed over his shoulder.
"Reede!" Impulsively, she struck out after him and grabbed the sleeve of his leather jacket. He stopped, glanced down where her fingers were curled into the age-softened leather, then came around slowly and stared at her with eyes as green and sharp as jungle spears.
She let go of his sleeve and fell back a step. She wasn't frightened; rather, she was shocked at herself. She hadn't intended to call his name like that, and she certainly hadn't intended to touch him, especially after what had happened in the stall.
Wetting her lips nervously, she said, "I want to talk to you. Please. Off the record. To satisfy my own curiosity."
"I know the technique, Counselor. I've used it myself. You play chummy with the suspect, hoping that he'll drop his guard and tell you something he's trying to hide."
"It's not like that. I just want to talk."
"About what?"
"About the Mintons."
"What about them?"
Standing with his feet widespread, pelvis tipped slightly forward, he slid his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, which pulled his jacket open across his chest. The stance was intimidatingly manly. It aroused her as much as it annoyed her. Alex tried to suppress both responses. "Would you say that Angus and Sarah Jo have a happy marriage?"
He blinked and coughed. "What?"
"Don't look at me like that. I'm asking for your opinion, not an analysis."
"What the hell difference does it make?"
"Sarah Jo's not the kind of woman I would have expected Angus to marry."
"Opposites attract."
"That's too pat. Are they . . . close?"
"Close?"
"Close, as in intimate."
"I've never thought about it."

"Of course you have. You lived here."
"Apparently, my mind doesn't operate on the same prurient track as yours." He took a step closer and lowered his voice. "But, we could change that."
Alex refused to let him provoke her, which she knew came closer to his intention than seduction. "Do they sleep together?"
"I guess so. It's none of my business what they do or don't do in bed. Furthermore, I don't care. I only care about what goes on in my bed. Why don't you ask me about that?"
"Because I don't care."
Again, he gave her a slow, knowing grin. "I think you do."
"I hate being patronized, Mr. Lambert, just because I'm a woman prosecutor."
"Then stop being one."
"A woman?"
"A prosecutor."
Mentally, she counted to ten. "Does Angus see other women?"
She could see annoyance building up behind his green eyes. His patience with her was wearing thin. "Do you take Sarah
Jo for a passionate woman?"
"No," Alex replied.
"Do you figure that Angus has a healthy sexual appetite?"
"If it matches his other appetites, I'd say yes."
"Then, I guess you've got your answer."
"Has their relationship affected Junior?"
"How the hell should I know? Ask him."
"He'd only make some glib, dismissive comment."
"Which would be a nice way of telling you that you're interfering with business that doesn't concern you. I'm not as nice as he is. Butt out, lady."
"This does concern me."
He withdrew his hands from his hip pockets and folded his arms across his chest. "I can hardly wait to hear this rationalization."

She didn't let his sarcasm daunt her. "His parents' relationship might explain Why Junior has had three failed marriages."
"That's something else that's none of your business."
"It is my business."
"How so?"
"Because Junior loved my mother."
The words reverberated down the corridor of the quiet stable. Reede's head went back with a snap, as if he'd sustained a quick, unexpected uppercut on the chin. "Who told you that?"
"He did." She watched him closely, adding softly, "He said you both loved her."
He stared at her for a considerable time, then shrugged.
"In one way or another. So?"
"Is that why Junior's marriages didn't work? Because he was still carrying a torch for my mother?"
"I have no idea."
"Take a wild guess."
"Okay." Arrogantly, he angled his head to one side. "I don't think Celina had shit to do with Junior's marriages. It's just that he can't **** for recreation without feeling guilty about it later, so to ease his conscience, he takes a wife every few years."
His statement was intended to offend her, and it did. She tried not to show how much. "Why do you think he feels guilty about it?"
"Genetics. He's got generations of southern chivalry flowing through his veins. That makes for a guilty conscience where the ladies are concerned."
"What about you?"
A Cheshire-cat grin lifted one corner of his mouth.' 'I never feel guilty for anything I do."
"Even murder?"
His grin collapsed and his eyes turned dark. "Get the hell out of here."
"Have you ever been married?"

"No."
"Why not?"
"None of your goddamn business. Anything else, Counselor?"
"Yes. Tell me about your father."
Gradually, Reede lowered his arms to his sides. He gave her a hard, cold stare.
Alex said, "I know your father died while you were still in school. Junior mentioned it today. When he died, you came to live here."
"You have a morbid curiosity, Miss Gaither."
"I'm not curious. I'm looking for facts pertinent to my investigation."
"Oh, sure. Pertinent stuff like Angus's sex life."
She gave him a reproving look. "Motives are what I'm after, Sheriff Lambert. As a law officer, you can identify with that, can't you? Ever hear of motive and opportunity?"
His eyes turned even colder. "I need to establish your frame of mind the night of my mother's death."
"That's bullshit. What has that got to do with my old man?"
"Maybe nothing, but you tell me. If it's irrelevant, why are you so touchy about it?"
"Did Junior tell you how my old man died?" She shook her head. Reede snorted a bitter laugh. "I can't imagine why not. The nasty details made big news around here. People talked about it for years."
He bent at the waist so they were standing eye to eye. "He choked to death on his own vomit, too drunk to save himself.
That's right, look shocked. It was pretty goddamned horrifying, especially when the principal of the high school called me out of class to tell me."
' 'Reede." In an attempt to stop the flow of sarcastic words, Alex raised her hand. He swatted it aside.
"No, if you're so anxious to open all the closet doors and expose the skeletons, here it is. But brace yourself, baby, this one's a dilly.
"My daddy was the town drunk, a laughingstock, a worthless, pathetic, sorry excuse for a human being. I didn't even cry when I heard he'd died. I was glad. He was a miserable, scummy son of a bitch who never did a single goddamn thing for me except make me ashamed that he was my father. And he wasn't any happier about that than I was. Dickweed-- that's what he called me, usually right before he clouted me alongside the head. I was a liability to him.
"But, like a fool, I kept pretending, wishing, that we were a family. I was always after him to come watch me play ball. One night he showed up at a game. He created such a scene stumbling up the bleachers, tearing down one of the banners
when he fell, that I wanted to die of embarrassment. I told him never to come again. I hated him. Hated," he repeated,
rasping the word.
"I couldn't invite friends to my house because it was such a pigsty. We ate out of tin cans. I didn't know there were things like dishes on the table and clean towels in the bathroom until I was invited to other kids' houses. I made myself as presentable as possible when I went to school."
Alex regretted having lanced this festering wound, but she was glad he was talking freely. His childhood explained a lot about the man. But he was describing an outcast, and that didn't mesh with what she knew about him.
"I've been told that you were a ringleader, that the other kids gravitated to you. You made the rules and set the mood.''
''I bullied myself into that position," he told her.' 'In grade school, the other kids made fun of me, everybody except Celina. Then I got taller and stronger and learned to fight. I fought dirty. They stopped laughing. It became much safer for a kid to be my friend than my enemy."
His lip curled with scorn. "This'll knock your socks off, Miss Prosecutor. I was a thief. I stole anything that we could eat or that might come in useful. You see, my old man couldn't keep a job for more than a few days without going on a binge. He'd take what he'd earned, buy himself a bottle or two, and drink himself unconscious. Eventually, he gave up trying to work. I supported us on what I could earn after school doing odd jobs, and on what I could get away with stealing."
There was nothing she could say. He had known there wouldn't be. That's why he'd told her. He wanted her to feel rotten and small-minded. Little did he know that their childhoods hadn't been that dissimilar, although she'd never gone without food. Merle Graham had provided for her physical needs, but she'd neglected her emotional ones. Alex had grown up feeling inferior and unloved. Empathetically she said, "I'm sorry, Reede."
"I don't want your goddamn pity," he sneered. "I don't want anybody's. That life made me hard and mean, and I like it that way. I learned early on to stand up for myself because it was for damn sure nobody else was going to go to bat for me. I don't depend on anybody but myself. I don't take anything for granted, especially people. And I'm damned and determined never to sink to the level of my old man."
"You're making too much out of this, Reede. You're too sensitive.'
"Uh-huh. I want people to forget that Everett Lambert ever lived. I don't want anyone to associate me with him. Ever."
He clenched his teeth and hauled her up to just beneath his angry face by the lapels of her coat. "I've lived down the unfortunate fact that I was his son for forty-three years. Now, just when folks are about to forget it, you come along and start asking nosy questions, raising dead issues, reminding everybody that I crawled up out of the gutter to get where I'am."
He sent her backwards with a hard push. She caught herself against the gate of a stall. "I'm sure that no one holds your
father's failures against you."
"You don't think so? That's the nature of a small town, baby. You'll find out how it is soon enough, because they'll start comparing you to Celina."
"That won't bother me. I'll welcome the comparisons."
"Are you so sure?"

"Yes."
"Careful. When you round a blind corner, you'd better know what's waiting for you."
"Care to be less oblique?"
"It could go one of two ways. Either you won't measure up to her, or you'll find out that being like her isn't all that terrific."
"Well, which is it?"
His eyes swept over her. "Like her, looking at you reminds a man that he is one. And like her, you use that to your advantage."
"Meaning?"
"She was no saint."
"I didn't expect her to be."
''Didn't you?'' he asked silkily. ''I believe you did. I think you've created this fantasy mother in your head and you expect Celina to fulfill it for you."
"That's ridiculous." Her strenuous denial sounded juvenile and obstinate. More calmly, she said, "It's true that Grandma Graham thought the sun rose and set on Celina. I was brought up to believe she was everything a young woman should be. But I'm a woman myself now, and mature enough to realize that my mother was made of flesh and blood, with flaws, just like everybody else."
He studied her face for a moment. "Just remember that I warned you," he said softly. "You should go back to the Westerner, pack up your designer clothes and your legal briefs, and head for Austin. Leave the past alone. Nobody around here wants to remember that blight on Purcell's history--particularly with that license hanging in the balance. They'd much rather leave Celina lying dead in this stable than--"
"This stable?" Alex gasped. "My mother was killed here?"
It was clear to her that he hadn't intended to let that slip. He cursed beneath his breath before answering curtly, "That's
right."

"Where? Which stall?"
"It doesn't mat--"
"Show me, damn you! I'm sick to death of your half answers and evasions. Show me where you found her body that morning, Sheriff." She enunciated the last word carefully, reminding him that it was his sworn duty to protect and serve.
Without another word, he turned and strode toward the door through which she had entered the barn. At the second stall in the row, he halted. "Here."
Alex came to a full stop, then moved forward slowly until she was even with Reede. She turned to face the stall. There was no hay in it, just the rubber-covered floor. The gate had been removed because no horse was occupying the stall. It looked innocent, almost sterile.
"There hasn't been a horse boarded in this stall since it happened." Scornfully, he added, "Angus has a sentimental streak."
Alex tried to envision a bloody corpse lying in the stall, but couldn't. She raised inquiring eyes to Reede.
The skin seemed more tautly stretched across his cheekbones, and the vertical lines that framed his mouth appeared more pronounced than they had a few moments ago, when he had been angry. A visit to the scene of the crime wasn't as easy for him as he wanted to pretend.
"Tell me about it. Please."
He hesitated, then said, "She was lying diagonally, her head in that corner, her feet about here." He touched a spot with the toe of his boot. "She was covered with blood. It was in her hair, on her clothes, everywhere." Alex had heard jaded homicide detectives discussing gory murder sites with more emotion. Reede's voice was hollow and monotonal, but his features were stark with pain. ' 'Her eyes were still open.''
"What time was that?" she asked huskily.
"When I found her?" She nodded, finding it difficult to speak. "Dawn. Around six-thirty."
"What were you doing here at that time of day?"

"I usually started mucking the stables around seven. That particular morning I was worried about the mare."
"Oh, yes, the one that had foaled the day before. So, you had come to check on her and the foal?"
"That's right."
Tears were shimmering in her eyes as she raised them to his. "Where were you the night before?"
"Out."
"All night?"
"Since supper time, yes."
"Alone?"
His lips narrowed with irritation. "If you want more answers, Counselor, bring the case to trial."
"I plan to."
As she brushed past him on her way to the door, he caught her arm and drew her up against him. He felt hard and powerfully male. "Miss Gaither," he growled in irritation and impatience, "you're smart. Drop this. If you don't, somebody's
likely to get hurt."
"Namely?"
"You."
"How?"
He didn't actually move; he just inclined his body closer to hers. "There are any number of ways."
It was a threat, only subtly veiled. He was physically capable of killing a woman, but what about emotionally? He seemed to have a low opinion of women in general, but according to Junior, he had loved Celina Graham. At one time, she had wanted to marry Reede. Maybe everyone, including Reede, had taken for granted that they would marry until Celina had married Al Gaither and gotten pregnant with Alex.
Alex didn't want to believe that Reede could have killed Celina under any circumstances, but she certainly didn't want to believe he had killed Celina because of her. He was chauvinistic, arrogant, and as testy as a rattler. But a killer? He didn't look like one. Or was it just that she'd always had a weakness for dark blond hair and green eyes; for tight, faded jeans and worn leather coats with fur collars; for men who could wear cowboy boots without looking silly; for men who walked and talked and smelled and sounded and felt consummately male?
Reede Lambert was all of that.
Disturbed more by his effect on her senses than by his cautionary words, she pulled her arm free and backed toward the door.
"I have no intention of dropping this investigation until I know who killed my mother and why. I've waited all my life to find out. I won't be dissuaded now."

Ten



Reede let loose a string of curses the minute Alex left the stable. Pasty Hickam had overheard them from his hiding place in a nearby stall.
He hadn't planned to eavesdrop on their conversation. When he had come into the barn earlier, he'd only been looking for a place where it was dark and warm and solitary, where he'd have some privacy to nurse his damaged pride, cultivate his resentment of his former employer, and suck on his bottle of cheap rye as if it was mother's milk.
Now, however, his ennui had vanished and his mind was concocting a nefarious plan. Sober, Pasty was merely crotchety.
Drunk, he was mean.
He'd barely been able to contain himself as he listened to what that gal from Austin had to say to the sheriff, and vice versa. Lordy be, she was Celina Gaither's daughter, here to investigate her mama's killing.
Thanks to her, and a benevolent God he didn't even believe in, he had been given a golden opportunity to get revenge on Angus and that useless son of his. He'd busted his ass on this place, worked for miserly wages, and gone without completely when Angus was so broke he couldn't pay him, but he'd stuck it out. He had gone through thick and thin with the bastard, and what thanks did he get? Fired and booted out of the bunkhouse that had been home for almost thirty years.
Well, fortune had finally smiled on Pasty Hickam. If he played his cards right, he could finally have some money for his "retirement fund." Ruby Faye, his current lover, was always after him about never having any money to spend on her. "What's the fun of having an affair if I don't get something out of it besides the thrill of cheating on my husband?" she was fond of saying.
Monetary compensation, however, would be icing on the cake. Revenge would be sweet enough. It was past time that
somebody kicked Angus where it hurt. His impatience was at a near-frantic pitch by the time Reede finished examining his mare and left the stable. Pasty waited several moments to make sure he was alone before leaving the empty stall where he'd been curled up in the fresh hay.
He moved down the shadowed corridor toward the wall telephone.
He cursed a horse that nickered, spooking him. For all his meanness, courage had never been his strong suit.
He called Information first, then quickly punched out the digits of the number before he could forget them. Maybe she hadn't had time to get there, he thought anxiously after he'd asked the clerk to ring her room. But she answered on the fifth ring, a trifle breathlessly, like she might have come in while the phone was ringing.
"Miz Gaither?"
"Yes, who's this?"
"You don't need to know. I know you, and that's enough.''
"Who is this?" she demanded, with what Pasty thought was false bravado.
"I know all about your mama's murder."

Pasty cackled to himself, enjoying the sudden silence. He couldn't have got her attention any sooner or any better if he'd walked up and bit her on her tittie.
"I'm listening."
"I cain't talk now."
"Why not?"
"Cause I cain't, that's why."
It was risky to go into it with her now over the telephone.
Somebody might pick up another extension somewhere on the ranch and overhear him. That could prove to be unhealthy.
"I'll call you back."
"But--"
"I'll call you back."
He hung up, enjoying her anxiety. He remembered the way her mama used to sashay around, like she owned the world. Many a summer day, he'd ogled her lustfully while she frolicked in the swimming pool with Junior and Reede. They'd put their hands all over her and call it roughhousing. But she was too good to even cast an eye in Pasty's direction. He hadn't minded that she got herself killed. He sure as hell hadn't interfered and stopped it when he could have.
He remembered that night and everything that had happened like it was yesterday. It was a secret that he'd kept all this time. Now it would be divulged. And it was gonna tickle him to death to tell that prosecutor all about it.

Eleven



"Are you waiting to give me a parking ticket?" Alex asked as she got out of her car and locked it. She was feeling chipper this morning, due to the unexpected telephone call she had received the night before. Maybe the caller was the eyewitness
she'd been praying for. But it could have been a crank call, too, she realistically reminded herself.
If he was genuine, it would be a tragedy if he named Reede Lambert as Celina's murderer. He looked extremely attractive
leaning against the parking meter. Actually, since the meter was listing to the right, it might have been leaning on Reede.
"I should change my mind since you're being a smart ass, but I'm such a nice guy . . ."He slipped a canvas hood over the meter. In blue letters it was labeled, city of purcell-- official car. "Take this with you when you leave and use it from now on. It'll save you some change."
He turned and started up the sidewalk toward the courthouse.
Alex fell into step beside him. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." They climbed the stairs and went inside. "Come down to my office," he said. "I've got something to show you."
Curious, she followed his lead. They hadn't parted on the best of terms the night before. Yet this morning, he was going out of his way to be hospitable. Deciding that was out of character, Alex couldn't help but be suspicious of his motives.
When they reached the lower level, everyone in the squad room stopped what he was doing to stare. The scene became
as still as a photograph.
Reede gave the room one slow, meaningful sweep of his eyes. Activity was immediately resumed. He hadn't spoken a single word, but it was apparent that he wielded tremendous authority over his staff. They either feared or respected him.
Alex suspected the former.
Reede stepped around her, swung open a door to the left of the staircase, and moved aside so she could go in. She stepped into a small square, windowless, cheerless office. It was as cold as a meat locker. There was a desk so dented and scarred it looked like it had been made from scrap metal. The particleboard top was ink-stained, and holes had been chipped out of it. Sitting on it were an overflowing ashtray and a black, no-frills telephone. Behind it was a swivel chair she had little confidence in.
"It's yours to use if you want it," Reede told her. "I'm sure you're accustomed to fancier office space."
"No. Actually, my cubicle in Austin is not much larger than this. Whom should I thank?"
"The city of Purcell."
"But it was somebody's idea. Yours, Reede?"
"So what if it was?"
"So," she said, drawing out the word in an effort to ignore the chip he carried on his shoulder, "thank you."
"You're welcome."
Trying to temper the animosity between them, she smiled and said teasingly, "Now that we're in the same building, I can keep a closer eye on you."
He pulled the door shut as he backed out. "You've got it backwards, Counselor. I can keep a closer eye on you."

Alex tossed down her ballpoint pen and vigorously rubbed, her chilled arms. The electric space heater she had bought at
the hardware store was on full blast, but it wasn't helping much. The square little office was frigid and seemed to be the only dank, damp spot in this otherwise arid climate.
Earlier she had bought office supplies: paper, pencils, pens, paper clips. The office was hardly comfortable, but at least it was functional. It was also much more centrally located than her room at the Westerner Motel.
After checking to see that the heater was indeed working at its maximum, she bent over her notes again. It had taken all afternoon to compile and arrange them according to the individuals involved.
Beginning with her profile on Angus, she reread the briefs. Unfortunately, they were no more concrete or factually based
than they had been the first dozen times she'd read them. What she had was conjecture and hearsay. What few facts she had, she had known when she left Austin. So far, this trip had been a waste of taxpayers' money, and almost a week of Greg's deadline had elapsed.
For the time being, she decided to let the question of opportunity wait. She had to establish motives. All she had learned so far was that the three men had adored Celina. Adoration was hardly motivation for murder.
She had nothing--no evidence, not even a viable suspect.
She was certain that Buddy Hicks hadn't killed her mother, yet she was no closer to discovering who had.
After spending time alone with Angus, Junior, and Reede, Alex was convinced that getting a confession would be tantamount to a miracle. Contrition and repentance didn't fit their personality profiles. Nor would one testify against the other. The loyalties were solidly forged, though it was obvious their friendship wasn't what it had once been, which in itself was a clue. Had Celina's death splintered their clique, yet kept them bound to one another?
She still hoped that the person who had called a few nights before was an actual eyewitness. She had waited for days for
another call, one that hadn't come, which was a strong indication that it had been a prank.
Apparently, the only people near the stable that night had been Gooney Bud, the killer, and Celina. Gooney Bud was dead. The killer wasn't talking. And Celina-- Alex was suddenly inspired. Her mother couldn't talk-- at least, not in the literal sense--but she might have something valuable to tell.
The idea made Alex sick to her stomach. She propped her forehead on the palms of her hands and closed her eyes. Did she have the fortitude to do it?
She groped for alternatives, but came up empty-handed. She needed evidence, and she could think of only one place to look for it.
Before she could change her mind, she switched off the heater and left the office. Avoiding the unreliable elevator, she jogged up the stairs, hoping that she would catch Judge Joe Wallace before he left for the day.

She anxiously checked her wristwatch. It was almost five o'clock. She didn't want to put this off until tomorrow. Now that her mind was made up, she wanted to act on her decision before she had the time and opportunity to back out. The corridors on the second floor were deserted. Jurors had been dismissed for the day. Trials were in recess until tomorrow. Her footsteps echoed loudly as she made her way toward the judge's chambers adjacent to the empty courtroom. His secretary was still in the anteroom, and none too pleased to see her.
"I need to speak with the judge immediately." Alex was out of breath after quickly climbing two flights of stairs, and her voice was tinged with desperation.
"He's fixin' to leave for the day," she was told with a lack of apology. "I can make an appoint--"
"This is vitally important, or I wouldn't bother him at this time of day."
Alex wasn't intimidated by Mrs. Lipscomb's censorious stare or the retiring sigh she emitted as she left her desk and moved to the connecting door. She knocked discreetly, then went inside, closing the door behind her. Alex paced impatiently until she returned.
"He's agreed to see you. Briefly."
"Thank you." Alex rushed past her and into the chambers.
"Well, what is it this time, Miss Gaither?" Judge Wallace barked at her the instant she crossed the threshold. He was pulling on his overcoat. "You seem to have a nasty habit of showing up without an appointment. As you can see, I'm leaving. My daughter Stacey doesn't like to hold dinner, and it would be rude of me to expect her to."
"I apologize to both of you, Judge. As I told your secretary, it's urgent that I talk to you this afternoon."
"Well?" he demanded cantankerously.
"Could we sit down?"
"I can talk standing up. What do you want?"
"I want you to issue a court order to have my mother's body exhumed."

The judge sat down then. Or rather, he dropped down into the chair in front of which he was standing. He stared up at Alex with undisguised dismay.
"I beg your pardon?" he wheezed.
"I believe you heard me, Judge Wallace, although if it's necessary to repeat my request, I will."
He waved his hand. "No. Good Lord, no. Hearing it once was bad enough." He cupped each knee with a hand and continued to stare up at her, apparently thinking she was certifiable. "Why would you want to do such a ghastly thing as that?"
"I don't want to. I wouldn't ask for a court order if I didn't think exhumation was absolutely necessary."
Having recovered some of his aplomb, he ungraciously indicated a chair. "You might as well sit. Explain your reasons."
"A crime was committed, but I can find no incriminating evidence."
"I told you you wouldn't," he exclaimed. "You didn't listen. You came charging in here, slinging unfounded accusations, bent on getting vengeance."
"That's not true," she denied evenly.
"That's how I read it. What does Pat Chastain have to say about this?"
"The D.A. is unavailable. It seems he's spontaneously taken a few days' vacation and gone hunting."
The judge harrumphed. "Sounds like a damn good idea to me."
It sounded cowardly to Alex, and she'd been ready to chew nails when the aloof Mrs. Chastain had informed her of it.
"Will you permit me to look for evidence, Judge?"
"There is no evidence," he stressed.
"My mother's remains might provide some."
"She was autopsied when she was killed. That was twenty-five years ago, for crissake."
"With all due respect to the coroner at that time, he might not have been looking for clues when the cause of death was so readily apparent. I know an excellent forensic specialist in Dallas. We use him frequently. If there is anything to be found, he'll find it."
"I can guarantee you that he won't."
"It's worth a try, isn't it?"
He gnawed at the corner of his lip. "I'll take your request under advisement."
Alex recognized a brush-off when she saw one. "I'd appreciate an answer tonight."
"Sorry, Miss Gaither. The best I can do is think about it overnight and give you an answer in the morning. Between now and then, I hope you'll change your mind and withdraw the request."
"I won't."
He stood up. "I'm tired, hungry, and damned perturbed that you've put me in this awkward position." He aimed an accusatory index finger at her. "I don't like messes."
"Neither do I. I wish this weren't necessary."
"It isn't."

"I believe it is," she countered stubbornly.
"In the long run, you'll be sorry you ever asked me for this. Now, you've taken up enough of my time. Stacey will be worried. Good night."
He marched from the room. A few seconds later, Mrs. Lipscomb appeared in the doorway. Her eyelids were fluttering with indignation. "Imogene told me you'd mean trouble around here."
Alex swept past her and returned to her temporary office, only long enough to retrieve her belongings. The drive out to the Westerner took longer than usual because she got caught up in Purcell's rush hour. To further complicate the snarled
traffic, it began to sleet.
Knowing she wouldn't want to go out again, she picked up a box of carryout fried chicken. By the time she spread the meal on the round table near the windows of her room, the food was cold and tasted like cardboard. She promised herself that she would buy some fruit and healthy snack food to supplement her unbalanced diet, and maybe a bouquet of flesh flowers to brighten the dismal room. She debated taking down the lurid painting of the bullfighter that dominated one wall. The swirling red cape and slavering bull were real eyesores.
Loath to review her notes again, she decided to switch on the TV. The HBO movie she watched was a comedy she didn't have to think about. She was feeling better by the time it was over, and decided to take a shower.
She had just dried off and wrapped her wet hair in a towel when someone knocked on her door. Pulling on her long, white terry cloth robe and knotting the tie at her waist, she peered through the peephole.
She opened the door as far as the chain lock would allow.
"What are you, the Welcome Wagon?"
"Open the door," Sheriff Lambert said.
"What for?"
"I need to talk to you."
"About what?"
"I'll tell you when I get inside." Alex didn't move. "Are you going to open the door, or what?"
"I can talk to you from here."
"Open the friggin' door," he shouted. "I'm freezing my balls off."
Alex slid the chain out of its mooring, then pulled the door open and stood aside. Reede stamped his feet and brushed off the ice pellets that were clinging to the fur collar of his coat.
He looked her up and down. "Expecting someone?"
Alex crossed her arms over her middle, a gesture meant to convey her annoyance. "If this is a social call--"
"It isn't." He caught his finger between his teeth and pulled off one leather glove, then the other. He slapped the felt cowboy hat against his thigh to shake off the sleet, then ran a hand through his hair. He tossed the gloves into the crown of his hat, set the hat down on the table and lowered himself into a chair. He eyed the remains of her supper, then took a bite out of an untouched drumstick. Munching, he asked, "You don't like our fried chicken?''
He was slouched in the chair, looking like he had settled in for the night. Alex remained standing. She felt absurdly exposed in the robe, even though it covered her from jaw to ankles. Having a motel towel wrapped around her head didn't
help boost her self-confidence.
She tried to appear indifferent to him and her own dishabille.
"No, I didn't like the fried chicken, but it was convenient. I didn't want to go out to eat."
"Smart decision on a night like this. The roads are getting treacherous."
"You could have told me that over the phone."
Ignoring that, he leaned far to one side and looked past her at the television screen, where an unclothed couple were carnally involved. The camera moved in for a close-up of the man's lips against the woman's breast.
"No wonder you're mad that I interrupted."
She smacked the power button with her palm. The screen went blank. "I wasn't watching."
When she turned back around, he was looking up at her, smiling. "Do you always open your door to any man who knocks on it?"
"I didn't open my door until you swore at me."
"Is that all a man has to do, talk dirty?"
"You're the highest-ranking law enforcement officer in this county. If I can't trust you, who can I trust?" She was thinking she would trust a used car salesman in a green polyester suit before she would trust Reede Lambert. "And was it really necessary to strap that on when you came calling?"
He followed the direction of her gaze down to the holster riding just below his belt. He stretched his booted feet far out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. Templing his fingers, he peered at her over their tips. "I never know when I might have to use it."
"Is it always loaded?"

He hesitated, his eyes lowering to the vicinity of her breasts. "Always."
They were no longer talking about the pistol in his holster. But more than what was actually being said, the tone of the conversation made her distinctly uncomfortable. She shifted her weight from one bare foot to the other and dampened her
lips, only then realizing that she had already removed her makeup. Somehow, that made her feel even more vulnerable.
That, and his motionless, broody stare.
"Why did you come here tonight? What couldn't wait until morning?"
"An urge."
"An urge?" she repeated huskily.
He languidly got up out of the chair and moved forward until he stood only inches in front of her. He slipped his rough hand into the parting of her robe and encircled her neck with it. "Yeah, an urge," he whispered. "An urge to throttle you."
Uttering a frustrated grunt Alex removed his hand and stepped aside. By choice, he let her go. "Judge Wallace called me tonight and told me about the court order you asked him for."
Her heart, which had been beating furiously, slowed down, but she muttered a curse of aggravation. "Isn't anything private in this town?"
"Not much, no."
"I don't think I could sneeze without everybody within the city limits offering me a Kleenex."
"You're in the spotlight, all right. What do you expect, going around asking to dig up a body?"
"You make it sound so whimsical."
"Well, isn't it?"
"Do you think I'd disturb my mother's grave if I didn't think it was a vital step toward solving her murder?" she asked heatedly. "My God, do you think it was easy for me to even voice the request? And why did the judge feel it necessary to consult you, you, of all people?"

"Why not me? Because I'm a suspect?"
"Yes!" she cried. "Discussing this case with you is highly unethical."
"I'm the sheriff, remember?"
"I never forget it. That's still no excuse for Judge Wallace to go behind my back. Why is he so nervous about having the body exhumed? Is he afraid a forensic investigation will reveal something he helped to cover up?"
"Your request presented him with a problem."
"I'll just bet it did! Who is he trying to protect by keeping that coffin sealed?"
"You."
"Me?"
"Celina's body can't be exhumed. She was cremated."

Twelve


Reede couldn't figure out why he had elected to go to the seediest tavern along the highway for a drink when he had a perfectly good bottle of whiskey at home. Maybe it was because his frame of mind matched the dark, murky atmosphere of the honky-tonk.
He felt like shit.
He signaled for the bartender to pour him another drink. The Last Chance Bar was the kind of place that refilled glasses; customers didn't get a clean one with each round.
"Thanks," Reede said, watching the whiskey splash into his glass.
"You staking us out undercover, or what?" the bartender quipped.

Without moving anything but his eyes, Reede looked up at him. "I'm having a drink. Is that all right with you?" The silly grin collapsed. "Sure, Sheriff, sure." The bartender backed away to the opposite end of the bar, where he'd been carrying on a conversation with two friendlier patrons.
Reede noticed that one booth across the room was occupied by women. Surrounding the pool table was a trio of guys whom he recognized as wild well controllers. They were usually a rowdy bunch who parried hard between each dangerous
gig. For the time being, they were peaceable enough.
Pasty Hickam and Ruby Faye Turner were cuddled in another booth. Reede had heard in the B & B that morning that Angus had canned the old ranch hand. Pasty had made a damn stupid mistake, but Reede thought the punishment was severe. Apparently, Pasty was being consoled by his latest flame. Reede had doffed his hat in their general direction when he had come in. They gave every appearance of wanting to be ignored as much as he wanted to ignore them.
It was a slow night at the Last Chance, which suited the sheriff just fine for professional as well as personal reasons. He had gulped his first drink, barely tasting it. This one he sipped because he needed it to last longer. Nursing it delayed going home. Being alone didn't hold much appeal for Reede. Neither did passing time in the Last Chance, but it was better than the first option. At least, tonight it was.
The whiskey had started a slow fire in his belly. It had made the twinkling Christmas lights, strung year-'round over the bar, seem brighter and prettier. The dinginess of the place wasn't so obvious when viewed through whiskey fumes. Since he was beginning to mellow, he decided this would be his last drink of the night, another reason to savor it. Reede never drank to the point of intoxication. Never. He'd had to clean up after his old man had puked up everything but his toenails too many times for him to think that getting shit-faced was fun.
When he was just a kid, he remembered thinking that he might grow up to be a jailbird or a monk, an astronaut or a post-hole digger, a zookeeper or a big game hunter, but one thing he was not going to be was a drunk. They already had one of those in the family, and that was one too many.
"Hiya, Reede."
The sound of the breathy, feminine voice interrupted his contemplation of the amber contents of his glass. He raised his head and immediately saw a plump set of tits.
She was wearing a skin tight black T-shirt with born bad spelled out in glittering red letters. Her jeans were so tight she had difficulty climbing onto the bar stool. She managed, but not without jiggling her breasts and pressing Reede's thigh in the process. Her smile was as brilliant as a zirconium ring, and not nearly as genuine. Her name was Gloria, Reede remembered, just in time to be courteous.
"Hi, Gloria."
"Buy me a beer?"
"Sure." He called out the order to the bartender. Glancing pointedly over his shoulder, Reede called her attention to the
group of friends she'd left sitting in the booth across the dim tavern.
"Don't mind them," she said, flirtatiously tapping his arm where it rested on the bar. "It's every girl for herself after ten o'clock."
"Ladies' night out?"
"Hmm." She tipped the long-neck to her glossy lips and drank. "We were headed for Abilene to see the new Richard Gere movie, but the weather turned so bad, we said what the hell, and decided to stay in town. Wha'chu been up to tonight? You on duty?"
"For a while. I'm off now." Reluctant to be drawn into conversation, he returned to his drink.
Gloria wasn't going to be dismissed that easily. She scooted as close to him as the barstool would allow and threw her arm across his shoulders. "Poor Reede. It must get awful lonesome riding around by yourself all the time."
"I'm working when I'm riding around."

"I know, but still ..." Her breath fanned his ear. It smelled like beer. "It's no wonder you frown so much." A sharp fingernail plowed the deep furrow between his eyebrows. He jerked his head back, away from her touch. She snatched her hand back and uttered a soft, wounded sound.
"Look, I'm sorry," he muttered. "My mood's as bad as the weather. It's been a long day. Guess I'm just tired."
Rather than putting her off, that encouraged her. "Maybe I could cheer you up, Reede," she said with a timorous smile.
"Anyway, I'd sure like to try." Again she moved close, sandwiching his upper arm between her cushiony breasts.
"I've had the wildest crush on you since I was in seventh grade. Don't make out like you didn't know," she said with a scolding pout.
"No, I didn't know that."
"Well, I did. But you were taken then. What was that girl's name? The one that loony killed in the stable?"
"Celina."
"Yeah. You were real gone on her, weren't you? By the time I got to high school, you were at Texas Tech. Then I got married and started having kids." She didn't notice that he wasn't interested in her chatter. " 'Course, the husband's long gone, and the kids are old enough now to take care of themselves. I guess there never was much chance for you to know I had a crush on you, was there?"
"I guess not."
She leaned so far forward, her perch on the stool became precarious. "Maybe it's time you did, Reede."
He glanced down at her breasts, which were making teasing, brushing contact with his arm. As a result, her nipples made hard, distinct impressions against her T-shirt. Somehow, the blatancy wasn't as enticing as Alex's innocent, bare toes peeking out from beneath her white terry-cloth bathrobe. Knowing that there was nothing but Gloria under the black T-shirt didn't excite him as much as wondering what, if anything, was under Alex's white robe. He wasn't aroused, not even a little. He wondered why.

Gloria was pretty enough. Black hair curled around her face and emphasized dark eyes that were now lambent with
invitation and promise. Her lips were parted and wet, but he wasn't sure he could kiss them without sliding off. They were
coated with cherry-red lipstick. Involuntarily, he compared them to lips free of makeup, but still pink and moist, kissable
and sexy, without making any attempt to be.
"I gotta be going," he said suddenly. He unhooked his boot heels from the rungs of the stool and came to his feet, fishing in the pocket of his jeans for enough bills to cover the price of his drinks and her beer.
"But, I thought--"
"Better get back to your group, or you're liable to miss the party."
The wild well control boys had ventured toward the women, who were making no secret of being on the prowl and out for a good time. The merging of the two groups had been as inevitable as a hard freeze by morning. The delay had been calculated to build the anticipation. Now, however, sexual innuendos were being swapped at a rate to match the stock exchange on a busy day.
"Nice seeing you, Gloria."
Reede pulled his hat down low over his brows and left, but not before catching her wounded expression. Alex's face had held that same devastated, disbelieving expression when he had told her that her mother's body had been cremated.
Seconds after he had uttered the words, she recoiled against the wall, clutching the lapels of her robe to her throat as if she was warding off something evil. "Cremated?"
"That's right." He watched her face turn pale, and her eyes turn glassy.
"I didn't know. Grandma never said. I never thought. . ."
Her voice dwindled into nothingness. He remained silent and unmoving, figuring that she needed time to digest that sobering piece of information.
He had mentally cursed Joe Wallace for dumping such a rotten task on him. The goddamn coward had called him, fit to be tied, whining and carrying on, asking what he should tell her. When Reede suggested that Alex be told the truth, the judge had interpreted it as volunteering and had been all too willing to abdicate the responsibility. Alex's numbness hadn't lasted long. Her senses returned abruptly, as though she'd been jarred into consciousness by a thought. "Did Judge Wallace know?"
Reede remembered shrugging with feigned indifference. "Look, all I know is that he called me and said that what you wanted to do was impossible, even if he had handed down a court order, which he would have been reluctant to do."
"If he knew mother's body had been cremated, why didn't he tell me himself this afternoon?"
"My guess would be that he didn't want a scene on his hands."
"Yes," she murmured distractedly, "he doesn't like messes. He told me so." She looked at him without expression.
"He sent you to do his dirty work. Messes don't bother you."
Reede, declining to comment, pulled on his gloves and replaced his hat. "You've had a jolt. Are you going to be okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
Her blue eyes were filled with tears and her mouth trembled slightly. She clasped her hands at her waist, as though forcibly
holding herself together. That's when he had wanted to put his arms around her and hold her close, wet hair, damp towel,
bathrobe, bare toes, and all. That's when he had moved forward and, before he even realized what he was doing, forcibly pulled her arms out to her sides. She had resisted, as though wanting to cover a bleeding wound.
Before she reconstructed that barrier, he slid his arms around her and pulled her against him. She was dewy and warm and fragrant, fragile in her grief. She seemed to wilt against him. Her arms dangled listlessly at her sides.

"Oh, God, please don't make me go through this," she had whispered, and he had felt her breasts tremble. She rolled her head toward him, until her face was making an impression on his chest and he could feel her tears through his clothes.
He had angled his head to secure hers against him. The towel wrapping her hair unwound and fell to the floor. Her hair was damp and fragrant against his face. He told himself now that he hadn't kissed it, but he knew his lips had brushed her hair and then her temple, and rested there.
At that point, a severe case of lust had seized him, and it had been so powerful it was a wonder to him now that he hadn't acted on it. Instead he had left, feeling like crap for having to tell her something like that and then slinking out like a snake. Staying with her had been out of the question. His desire to hold her hadn't been nobly inspired, and he didn't try to kid himself into believing it was. He'd wanted gratification. He had wanted to cover that hurting, courageous smile with hot, hard kisses.
He swore to his dashboard now as he drove the Blazer down the highway, heading in the opposite direction from home. Sleet froze on the windshield before the wipers could whisk it off. He was driving too fast for the weather conditions--the pavement was like an ice rink--but he kept going.
He was too old for this. What the hell was he doing entertaining sexual fantasies? He hadn't consciously done that since he and Junior had jerked off while drooling over centerfolds. Yet, at no time in recent memory had his fantasies been so vivid.
Completely forgetting who Alex was, he had envisioned his hands parting that white bathrobe and finding underneath it smooth, ivory flesh; hard, pink nipples; soft, auburn hair. Her thighs would be soft, and between them she would be creamy.
Cursing, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. She wasn't just any woman who happened to be eighteen years younger than himself. She was Celina's daughter, and he was old enough to be her daddy, for crissake. He wasn't, but he
could have been. He very well could have been. Knowing that made his stomach feel a little queasy, but it did nothing to decrease the thick hard-on now testing the durability of his fly.
He wheeled the truck into the deserted parking lot, cut the engine, and bounded up the steps to the door. He tried it, and when he discovered it was locked, pounded on it with his gloved fists.
Eventually, the door was opened by a woman as broad-breasted as a pigeon. She was wearing a long, white satin peignoir that might have looked bridal had there not been a black cigarette anchored in the corner of her lips. In her arms she was holding an apricot-colored cat. She was stroking his luxurious fur with an idle hand. Woman and cat glared at Reede.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded.
"Why do most men come here, Nora Gail?" Rudely, he brushed past her and went inside. If he'd been anybody else, he would have been shot right between the eyes with the pistol she kept hidden in the gaiter belt she always wore.
"Obviously, you haven't noticed. Business was so slow tonight, we closed early."
"Since when has that mattered to you and me?"
"Since you started taking advantage. Like now."
"Don't give me any lip tonight." He was already at the top of the stairs, heading toward her private room. "I don't want conversation. I don't want to be entertained. I just want to be screwed, okay?"
Propping her fist on a generous and shapely hip, the madam's voice dripped sarcasm as she called up to him, "Do I have time to put the cat out first?"

Alex was unable to sleep, so she was awake when the telephone rang. It still alarmed her because of the hour. Instead of turning on the nightstand lamp, she groped in the darkness for the receiver and brought it to her ear. "Hello," she croaked, her voice hoarse from crying earlier. "Hello," she repeated.
"Hidy, Miz Gaither."
Her heart raced with excitement, but she said crossly, "You again? I hope you're ready to talk, since you woke me from a sound sleep." She'd learned from Greg that reluctant witnesses were often more prone to talk when you diminished the importance of what they might have to say.
"Don't go gettin' hoity-toity with me, little lady. I know sumpthin' you want to know. Bad."
"Such as?"
"Such as who did in yore mama."
Alex concentrated on regulating her breathing. "I think you're bluffing."
"I ain't."
"Then, tell me. Who was it?"
"You think I'm stupid, lady? You think Lambert ain't bugged yore telephone?''
"You've seen too many movies.'' All the same, she looked suspiciously at the receiver she held in her hand.
"You know where the Last Chance is?"
"I'll find it."
"Tomorrow evenin'." He specified a time.
"How'll I know you?"
"I'll know you."
Before she could say anything else, he hung up. Alex sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, staring into the darkness.
She recalled Reede's warning about getting hurt. Her imaginative mind conjured up all the horrible things that could happen to a woman alone. By the time she lay back down, her palms were sweating and sleep was even more elusive.

Thirteen


"You'll never guess what she's up to now."

Purcell County's sheriff lifted the steaming coffee mug to his lips, blew into it, and sipped. It scorched his tongue. He didn't care. He needed a fix of caffeine in the worst way.

' 'Who are we talking about?'' he asked the deputy who was standing in the doorway of his private office, wearing a goofy
grin that annoyed the hell out of him. He didn't like guessing games, and he was especially in no mood for one this morning.

The deputy jerked his head in the direction of the other side of the building. "Our resident prosecutor with the baby blues, perky tits, and the legs that go on forever." He kissed the air with a noisy, juicy smack of his lips.

Reede slowly lowered his feet from the corner of his desk. His eyes glittered with a frigid light. "Are you referring to Miss Gaither?"

The deputy didn't have an overabundance of gray matter, but he knew when he'd gone too far. "Uh, yeah. I mean, yes, sir."

"Well?" Reede demanded darkly.

"That funeral parlor man, Mr. Davis, well, sir, he just called, raisin' Cain on account of her. She's over there now going through his files and all."

"What?"
"Yes, sir, that's what he said, Sheriff Lambert. He's good and pissed off because--"
"Call him back and tell him I'm on my way." Reede was already reaching for his coat. If the deputy hadn't sidestepped
quickly, he'd have been ran down as Reede rushed through the door. He was impervious to the inclement weather that had kept schools and most businesses closed. They could handle snow, but an inch-thick sheet of ice covering everything was another matter. Unfortunately, the sheriffs office never closed.
Mr. Davis met him at the door, anxiously wringing his hands. "I've been in business for over thirty years and nothing like this--nothing, Sheriff Lambert--has ever happened to me before. I've had caskets disappear. I've been robbed. I even had--"
"Where is she?" Reede barked, cutting short the funeral director's litany.
The man pointed. Reede stamped toward the closed door and wrenched it open. Alex, seated behind a desk, looked up
expectantly. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Good morning, Sheriff."
"Answer my question." Reede slammed the door and strode into the room. "I've got a hysterical undertaker on my hands because of you, lady. How'd you get here, anyway?"
"I drove."
"You can't drive in this."
"I did."
"What is all this?" With an angry swipe of his hand, he indicated the files strewn across the desk.
"Mr. Davis's records for the year my mother was killed. He gave me permission to sort through them."
"You coerced him."
"I did no such thing."
"Intimidated him, then. Did he ask to see your search warrant?"
"No."
"Do you have one?"
"No. But I can get one."
"Not without probable cause."
"I want proof positive that Celina Gaither's body is not interred in that grave at the cemetery."
"Why didn't you do something sensible, like get a shovel and start digging?"
That silenced her. It took her a moment to recover. At last she said, "You're in a surly mood this morning. Rough night?"
"Yeah. I got laid, but it wasn't very good."
Her eyes dropped to the littered table. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."
"What, that I got laid?"
She gazed back up at him. "No, that it wasn't very good."
They shared a lengthy stare. His face looked as rugged and craggy as a mountain range, but it was one of the most appealing she'd ever encountered. Whenever they were together, she was involuntarily aware of him, of his body, of the way she was drawn to him. She knew her attraction was unethical and reckless, from a professional standpoint, and compromising, from a personal one.
He'd belonged to her mother first. Yet, too often she wanted to touch him or to be touched by him. Last night she'd wanted him to hold her longer while she cried. Thankfully, he'd had better sense and had left.
Who had he gone to? Alex wondered. Where and when had the unsatisfactory lovemaking taken place? Had it been before or after he'd come to her motel room? Why hadn't it been any good?
Several moments elapsed before she lowered her head and resumed sorting through the files.
Not one to be ignored, he reached across the table and placed his hand beneath her chin, jerking it toward him. "I told you that Celina was cremated.''
She jumped to her feet. "After you and Judge Wallace put your heads together and discussed it. That seems a little
convenient to me."
"You enjoy imagining things."
''Why didn't Junior mention that Celina had been cremated when he saw me in the cemetery? I'm thinking that maybe she is buried there. That's why I'm going through all these files."
"Why would I lie about it?"
"To keep me from having the body exhumed."
"Again, why? What difference would that make to me?"
"Life imprisonment," she said tightly, "if the forensic report implicated you as her murderer."
"Ah . . ." At a loss for a word foul enough, he slammed his fist into his opposite palm and ground it against the tough flesh. "Is this what they teach you in law school--to start grasping at straws when all else fails?"
"Exactly."
He planted his hands firmly on the desk and leaned far across it. "You're not a lawyer, you're a witch hunter."
That stung because Alex did feel like one. This search had a vigilante desperation to it that left a bad taste in her mouth.
She sat back down and laid her hands on top of the open files.
Turning her head away, she stared out at the winter landscape. The naked branches of the sycamore trees on the lawn
were encased in tubes of ice. Sleet pellets made tiny pinging sounds against the windowpanes. The sky and everything below it were a dead, dismal gray. Lines of distinction were imprecise. The world was monochromatic--without light and
shadows. Some things, however, were black and white. Chief among them was the law.
"That might be true if there hadn't been a crime, Reede," she said, bringing her head back around. "But there was. Somebody went into that stable and stabbed my mother."
"With a scalpel. Right," he said scoffingly. "Can you envision Angus, Junior or me wielding a surgical instrument? Why not kill her with our bare hands? Strangle her?"
"Because you're all too clever. One of you made it to look like a mentally unbalanced man had done it." She splayed her hand upon her chest and asked earnestly, "In my place, wouldn't you want to know who that someone was and why he did it? You loved Celina. If you didn't kill her--"
"I didn't."
"Then, don't you want to know who did? Or are you afraid that her killer will turn out to be somebody else you love?"
"No, I don't want to know," he said emphatically. "And until you obtain a search warrant--"
"Miss Gaither?" Mr. Davis interrupted, entering the room.
"Is this what you're looking for? I found it in a file cabinet in my storeroom." He handed her a folder, then scuttled out
under Reede's baleful stare.
Alex read the name typed across the top of the file. She glanced at Reede, then eagerly opened the cover. After scanning
the first of several forms, she sank into her chair and reported huskily, "It says here that her body was cremated."
Her heart feeling like lead, she closed the folder and rhetorically asked,' 'Why didn't my grandmother ever mention that?''
"She probably didn't think it was significant."
"She saved everything, Celina's clothes, her things. Why wouldn't she have taken the ashes?"
Suddenly, she leaned forward, rested her elbows on the table, and supported her head with both hands. Her stomach
churned mutinously. Fresh tears were building behind her lids, making them sting. "God, this is morbid, but I've got to know. I've got to."
After taking a few deep breaths, she reopened the file and began to flip through the various forms. Reading one, she sucked in her breath sharply.
"What is it?"
She lifted the sheet out of the folder and handed it to Reede.
"This is a receipt for all of mother's funeral expenses, including the cremation."
"So?"
"Look at the signature."
"Angus Minton," he read softly, thoughtfully.
"You didn't know?" He shook his head. "It appears that Angus paid for everything, and wanted to keep it a secret from everybody." Alex drew a shuddering breath and gazed at Reede inquisitively. "I wonder why."

Across town, Stacey Wallace entered the room that served as her father's office away from the courthouse. He was bent
over the desk, poring through a legal tome. "Judge," she chided him affectionately, "as long as you're taking the day off, you should really take it off."
"It's not an official day off," he grumbled, giving the wintry view through the window a disgusted glance. "I've needed to catch up on some reading. Today's the perfect day for it, since I can't get to the courthouse."
"You've been working too hard and worrying too much."
"You're not telling me anything that my ulcer hasn't already."
Stacey sensed that he was extremely upset. "What's wrong?"
"It's that Gaither girl."
"Celina's daughter? She's still pestering you?"
"She came to my office yesterday wanting a court order to have the body exhumed."
"My God!" Stacey exclaimed in a disbelieving whisper. She raised a pale hand to the base of her throat. "The woman
sounds like a fiend."
"Fiendish or not, I had to deny the request."
"Good for you."
He shook his head. "I had no choice. The body had been cremated."
Stacey pondered that. "Seems like I remember that now. How'd she take that news?"
"I don't know. Reede delivered it."
"Reede?"
"I called him last night. He volunteered. I would guess she didn't take it well."
"Do Angus and Junior know about this?"
"I'm sure they do by now. Reede would have told them."
"Probably," Stacey murmured. For a moment she was quiet. Then she roused herself and asked, "Can I bring you anything?"
"Not so soon after breakfast, thanks."
"Some hot tea?"
"Not now."
"Cocoa? Why don't you let me--"
"Stacey, I said, no thanks." He spoke with more impatience than he intended.
"I'm sorry I bothered you," she said dejectedly. "If you need me, I'll be upstairs."
The judge gave her an absentminded nod and dipped back into the leather-bound legal volume. Stacey quietly closed the study door. Her hand listlessly trailed the banister rail as she went upstairs to her bedroom. She didn't feel well. Her abdomen was swollen and achy. She'd started her period that morning. The mid-forties seemed a ludicrous time to be suffering cramps like a teenager, although Stacey supposed she should welcome these monthly fluxes. They were her only reminders that she was a woman. No children came to her asking for lunch money or help with homework. No husband demanded to know what she had cooked for dinner, or if she'd picked up his cleaning, or if he could expect sex that night.
Daily she lamented not having all that glorious chaos in her life. As regularly as some people said prayers, Stacey enumerated to God the amenities of life that he had denied her. She longed for the racket of children running through the house. She yearned to have a husband reach for her in the night, to nuzzle her breasts and satisfy her hungering, restless body.
Like a priest who takes up self-flagellation, she went to her bureau, opened the third drawer, and took out the photograph
album with the embossed white leather cover. She opened it with reverence. One by one, she fondled the precious mementos--a yellowed newspaper clipping with her picture, a small square paper napkin with silver letters spelling out two names in one corner, a crumbling rose.

She leafed through the plastic binders, gazing at the photographs pressed between them. The people posing for the pictures in front of the altar had changed very little over the years. After nearly an hour of masochistic reverie, Stacey closed the album and replaced it in its sacred drawer. Stepping out of her shoes so as not to spoil the comforter on her bed, she lay down and drew her pillow against her chest, snuggling it against her curved body like a lover. Hot, salty tears leaked from her eyes. She whispered a name, urgently and repeatedly. She ground the heel of her hand over her lower body to relieve the pain of emptiness inside her womb, which had been a receptacle for his body, but never his love.

Fourteen

"Hey, what the hell, you two?" Junior exclaimed, dividing his puzzled glance between Alex and Reede. Then, buffeted by a gust of wind, he moved out of the doorway and urged them inside. "Come in. I couldn't imagine who'd come calling on a day like this. Reede, you ought to have your head examined for dragging Alex all the way out here."
He was wearing an ancient pair of jeans with the knees worn through, a cotton sweater, and thick white socks. It looked like he hadn't been up very long. In one hand he was holding a steaming mug of coffee; in the other, a trashy paperback novel. His hair was appealingly mussed. Stubble shadowed the lower half of his face. Having recovered from the surprise of finding them on his doorstep, he smiled down at Alex. She thought he looked terrific and figured that most of the women in the world would agree with her. He looked lazy and rich, sexy and rumpled, comfortable and cushy. He invited snuggling, and his slow smile suggested that's what he'd been doing when they had interrupted.
"I didn't drag her out here," Reede said touchily. "It was the other way around."
"I was willing to come alone," Alex snapped.
"Well, I wasn't willing to let you become a highway statistic in my county," he shouted. Turning to Junior, who was bemusedly taking in their heated exchange, Reede said, "To make a long story short, I drove her out here because she was determined to come and I was afraid she'd kill herself --or worse, somebody else--on these roads. So, here we are."
"Well, I'm damned glad you're here," Junior said. "I had resigned myself to spending a boring day here alone. I've got a great fire going in the living room, and all the makings for hot toddies. Follow me." He set off, but turned and added, "Oops, Reede, you know how Mother is about having the floors tracked up. Better take your boots off."
"**** that. Is Lupe in the kitchen? I'm gonna try and sweet-talk her out of some breakfast." Giving no regard to Sarah Jo's floors, he tramped toward the back of the house as though he still lived there.
Alex watched him disappear through a doorway. "Did he say sweet talk!" she asked caustically.
"Oh, he's in a sunny mood today," Junior remarked negligently.
"You ought to see him when he's really pissed. Leave Reede to Lupe. She knows how he likes his eggs. He'll feel better once he eats."
Alex let him help her off with her coat. "I hope this isn't too much of an intrusion."
"Hell, no. I wasn't kidding when I said I'm glad you're here." He threw his arm across her shoulders. "Let's--"
"Actually," Alex said, shrugging off his arm, "this isn't a social call."
"Business, huh?"
"Yes, and extremely important. Is Angus here?"
"He's in his den." His smile was still in place, but it had stiffened.
"Is he busy?"
"I don't think so. Come on, I'll take you back."
"I hate to tear you away from your novel."
He glanced dubiously at the torrid cover. "Doesn't matter. It was getting monotonous."
"What's it about?"
' 'A legendary cock's sojourn through most of the bedrooms in Hollywood, both male and female."
"Oh, really?" Alex inquired, feigning interest. "Can I borrow it when you're finished?"
"Shame on you," he exclaimed. "I'd be corrupting the morals of a minor, wouldn't I?"
"You're not that much older than I am."
"Compared to Reede and me, you're a baby," he told her as he opened the door to the den. "Dad, we've got company."
Angus glanced up from his newspaper. In the span of several seconds his face registered surprise, irritation, then a smile.
"Hello, Angus. I hate to disturb you on a sleep-in morning like today."
"No problem. There's not much going on. We can't exercise racehorses outdoors when the ground's frozen." He left his red leather recliner and crossed the room to welcome her. "You're a bright spot on a gloomy day, that's for damn sure, hey, Junior?"
"I've already told her as much."
"But as I've told Junior," she hastened to say, "this isn't a social visit."
"Oh? Sit down, sit down." Angus waved her toward a tufted leather love seat.
"I'll just--"

"No, Junior, I'd like for you to stay," Alex said beforehe could withdraw. "This concerns all of us."
"Okay, shoot." Junior straddled the overstuffed arm of the love seat as though it were a saddle.
"I spoke to Judge Wallace again yesterday." Alex thought she saw both men tense, but it was so fleeting, she could have imagined it.
"Any particular reason why?" Angus asked.
"I wanted to have my mother's body exhumed."
There was no mistaking their reaction this time. "Jesus, girl, why in hell would you want to do something like that?" Angus shuddered.
"Alex." Junior reached for her hand, laid it on his thigh, and massaged the back of it. "Isn't this getting a little out of hand? That's . . . that's gruesome."
"The case is gruesome," she reminded him as she eased her hand off his thigh. "Anyway, as I'm sure you know, what I asked for is impossible. My mother's body was cremated."
"That's right," Angus said.
"Why?" Her eyes were bright and intensely blue in the dim room. They reflected the fire burning in the fireplace, making them appear accusatory.
Angus resettled in his chair and hunched his shoulders defensively. "It seemed the best way to handle things."
"I fail to see how."
"Your grandmother planned to leave town with you as soon as everything was tidied up. She made no secret of it. So I decided to have Celina's body cremated, thinking that Merle might want to take the, uh, remains with her."
"You decided? By what right, Angus? Under whose authority? Why was it left to you to decide what would happen to Celina's body?"
His brows beetled with displeasure. "You think I had her body cremated to destroy evidence, is that it?"
"I don't know!" she exclaimed, rising from the love seat. She moved to the window and stared out at the empty paddocks. Lights shone through the doors of various stables, where horses were being groomed, fed, and exercised. She had thoroughly researched Minton Enterprises. Angus had millions invested in this facility. Was he reticent because he had so much to lose if she won an indictment, or because he was guilty, or both?
Eventually, she turned to face the men. "You've got to admit, in retrospect, that it seems an odd thing for you to have done."
"I only wanted to relieve Merle Graham of that responsibility. I felt I should because her daughter had been killed on my property. Merle was out of her mind with grief and had you to take care of. If what I did seems suspicious now, that's just too damn bad, young lady. I'd make the same decision if I had to do it again today."
"I'm sure Grandma Graham appreciated what you did. It was an unselfish thing to do."
Shrewdly, Angus looked at her and said, "But you wish you could believe it was entirely unselfish."
She looked him straight in the eye. "Yes, I do."
"I respect your honesty."
For a moment there was no sound in the room other man the friendly, crackling noise of burning firewood. Alex broke the awkward silence. "I wonder why Grandma didn't take the remains."
''I wondered about that myself when I offered them to her. I think it was because she couldn't face the fact that Celina was dead. An urn of ashes was tangible proof of something she couldn't accept."
Knowing how obsessed her grandmother had been with Celina's life, his explanation was feasible. Besides, unless Merle came out of her coma and Alex posed the question to her, she had no alternative but to accept as truth what Angus told her.
He was absently massaging his big toe through his sock.
"I couldn't see storing her ashes in a mausoleum. I never could stand vaults and tombs. Goddamn spooky things. The very thought of them gives me the creeps. Went to New Orleans once. All those cement graves sitting on top of the ground . . . ugh."
He shook his head in repugnance. "I'm not afraid of dying, but when I go, I want to become part of the living again. Dust to dust. That's the natural cycle.
"So it seemed fitting to buy a cemetery plot and have Celina's ashes buried in the soil she grew up on. Guess you figure I'm a crazy old man, Alex, but that's how I felt about it then, and that's how I feel about it now. I didn't tell anybody because I was embarrassed. It was so sentimental, you see."
"Why not just scatter the ashes somewhere?"
He pulled on his earlobe as he pondered the question. "I thought about it, but I reckoned you might turn up one day and want to see where your mama was laid."
Alex felt her spirit slump, along with her posture. Lowering her head, she studied the toes of her suede boots, which were
still damp from walking through the sleet. "I guess you think I'm a ghoul for wanting to open her grave. Reede did."
Angus made a dismissive gesture. "Reede's trigger-happy when it comes to forming opinions. Sometimes he's wrong."
She drew a shaky breath. "This time he is. Believe me, it wasn't an easy thing to even consider, much less ask for. I just thought that an extensive forensic investigation might shed some light ..."
Her voice trailed off. She lacked the will and conviction to continue. Yesterday she had thought that an exhumation might provide the physical evidence she needed. As it had turned out, she was no closer to learning the truth, and all she had to show for her efforts was the traumatic upheaval she'd put herself and everyone else through.
Angus's explanation sounded so damned plausible and guileless. Paying all the funeral expenses, making all the arrangements, had been an act of charity to alleviate her grandmother's grim responsibility and financial burden. Alex earnestly wanted to believe that. As Celina's daughter, it made her feel good inside. As a prosecutor, however, it left her empty-handed and frustrated and more suspicious than ever that something had been swept under the rug.
"You ready to go back to town, or what?"
Reede was standing in the doorway with his shoulder propped against the frame, insolently maneuvering a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. He might have eaten breakfast, but his tone of voice let her know that his foul disposition remained intact.
"Yes, I'm ready, if you'd be so kind as to drive me."
"Good. The sooner I get back to work, the better. Somebody's got to ride herd on the crazy sons of bitches out driving in this."
"As long as you're out here, why don't you spend the day by the fireplace?" Junior suggested to Alex. "We could pop popcorn. Celina used to love that. Maybe we could talk Lupe out of a batch of pralines. I could drive you back later when
the roads have cleared."
"It sounds wonderful, Junior, thank you, but I've got work to do."
He wheedled charmingly, but she remained adamant. The Mintons walked her and Reede to the door. She didn't see Sarah Jo. If she were even aware that she had guests in the house, she made no effort to present herself.
Angus looped Alex's arm through his as they made their way down the hall. He spoke softly. "I know this is difficult for you, girl."
"Yes, it is."
"Heard anything about your grandma?"
"I phone the nursing home every day, but there's been no change."
"Well, holler if you need anything, you hear?"
Alex gazed at him with genuine puzzlement. "Angus, why are you being so nice to me?"
"Because of your mama, because I like you, and mainly, because we've got nothing to hide."
When he smiled at her, Alex realized that it was easy to see where Junior had come by his charm. He and Reede were engaged in their own conversation. Alex overheard Reede say, "Ran into one of your old girlfriends last night at the Last Chance."
Her ears picked up at the mention of the tavern where she had an appointment later that day.
"Oh, yeah?" Junior was saying. "Who was that?"
"Gloria something. Forgot her married name. Curly black hair, dark eyes, big tits."
"Gloria Tolbert. How'd she look?"
"Horny."
Junior gave a dirty and masculine laugh. "That's Gloria. Takes a strong man to keep her satisfied."
"You ought to know," Reede said drolly.
"Well, what happened last night, you lucky bastard? Did you leave a contented smile on Gloria's pretty face?"
"You know I never discuss my love life."
"That's just one of your traits that irritates the hell out of me."
Alex turned around in time to see Junior playfully sock Reede in the gut. His fist bounced back like he'd struck a drum.
"Is that the best you can do, old man?" Reede taunted.
"Admit it, Minton, you're losing it."
"Like hell I am." Junior took a swipe at Reede's head.
The blow was dodged just in time. Reede tried to catch Junior behind the knee with his boot. They fell against the hall table,
almost toppling a ceramic vase.
"Okay, boys, cut it out before you break something,"
Angus said indulgently, speaking to them as though they were still in grade school.
Alex and Reede pulled on their coats and he opened the door. The frigid wind swirled inside. Junior said, "Sure you can't stay here where it's cozy?"
"I'm afraid not," Alex replied.
"Shoot. Well, good-bye then." He pressed her hand between his and kissed her cheek.
Father and son watched as Reede assisted Alex over the icy stone walkway to where his Blazer was parked. He helped her up into the truck, then went around to the driver's side god vaulted in.
"Brrr," Junior said, shutting the door. "Ready for a hot toddy, Dad?"
"Not yet," Angus answered with a scowl. "It's too early in the day to be drinking hard liquor."
"Since when have you taken into consideration the time of day when you wanted a drink?"
"Get in here. I want to talk to you." Limping to favor his toe, he led his son back into his den. "Stoke up that fire, will ya?"
When the flames were licking fresh logs, Junior faced his father. "What is it? Not business, I hope. I'm taking an official day off," he said around a yawn, stretching like a sleek cat.
"Alex Gaither."
Junior pulled down his arms and frowned. "She was all fired up about that burial business when she came in, wasn't she? But you brought her around."
"I only told her the truth."
"You made it sound as convincing as a good lie."
"Will you be serious for once?" Angus barked.
Junior looked baffled. "I thought I was."
"You listen to me," Angus said sternly, aiming a finger at his son. "Only a damn fool would laugh off her determination to get to the bottom of this thing. Even if she is a good-looking woman, she means business. She looks soft, but she isn't. She's tough as boot leather when it comes to this murder case."
"I'm aware of that," Junior said sulkily.
"Ask Joe Wallace if you don't believe it."
"I do. I just find it hard to take her seriously when she looks as good as she does."
"You do, huh? Well, I don't see you doing anything about that, either."
"I asked her out here for drinks, and she came."
"What have you done since then?"
"What do you want me to do? Court her like some snot-nosed kid? Go the flowers and chocolates route?"
"Yes, goddammit!"
"She'd never fall for that," Junior snorted, "even if I could do it with a straight face."
"You listen to me, boy. You've got life good. You drive a new Jag every year, wear a big, diamond-studded Rolex, go skiing, deep-sea fishing, and to the horseraces whenever you feel like it, and you gamble big. But if this little lady has her way, she'll bust us. Yeah," he said, reading his son's frown correctly, "you might have to go out and get a job for once in your life."
Angus reined in his temper and continued in a more conciliatory tone. "She hasn't got a prayer of turning up any
evidence. I think she knows that. She's throwing darts into the dark and hoping to hit one of us in the ass. Sooner or later, hopefully, her arm'll get tired."
Junior chewed on his lip and said glumly, "She probably wants a court trial as much as we want a racetrack. That'd be a real coup for her. It'd launch her career."
"Damn," Angus grumbled. "You know how I feel about that. I don't like all this career bullshit. Women don't belong in courtrooms."
"Where would you keep them? In bedrooms?"
"Nothing wrong with that."
Junior laughed shortly. "You won't get an argument from me, but I imagine you would from millions of working women."
"Alex might not be working for long. It wouldn't surprise me if her career was riding on the outcome of this investigation."
"How do you mean?"
"I know all about Greg Harper. He's ambitious, sees himself in the attorney general's seat. He likes his people to win
convictions. Now, if I've got him figured right, he's letting Alex do this because he smells blood, our blood. If we got our tails in a crack over this murder business, he'd get his in the headlines and gloat every step of the way because there's no love lost between him and the governor. The governor's nose would be rubbed in shit and so would the racing commission's.
"On the other hand, if Alex fails to smoke out any skeletons in our closet, Harper'll have to eat crow. Rather than do that,
he'll boot Alex out. And we'll be there with open arms to catch her when she falls," he said, jabbing the air for emphasis.
"I see you've got it all worked out," Junior remarked dryly.
Angus made a grunting sound. "Damn right I do. One of us better be concentrating on more than the fine way she fills out a sweater."
"I thought that's what you wanted me to do."
"You gotta do more than gawk and lust from afar. A love affair would be the best thing that could happen to Alex."
"How do you know she's not involved in one?"
"Because unlike you, I don't leave things to chance. I made it my business to find out. I've had her checked out."
"You cagey old bastard," Junior whispered with grudging admiration.
''Humph. You gotta know what cards the other guy's holding, son, or it does you no good to have a winning hand."
While the fire in the grate popped cheerfully, Junior contemplated all that Angus had said. Then, focusing a narrow gaze on his father, he asked, "Where would you have this love affair lead? To marriage?"
Angus slapped Junior's knee and chortled. "Would that be so bad?"
"Would you approve?"
"Why not?"
Junior wasn't sharing the laugh. He moved to the fire, away from his father's touch and conniving smile. Absently, he poked at the burning logs.
"I'm surprised," he said softly. "You didn't think Celina would make a suitable wife for me. I remember the ruckus you raised when I told you I wanted to marry her."
"You were eighteen then, boy!" Angus shouted. "Celina was a widow with a baby."
"Yes. Alex. And look how fine she turned out. She could have been my stepdaughter."
Angus's brows drew together over the bridge of his nose. They were a dependable gauge of his temper. The steeper the vee, the angrier he was. "There were other considerations."
Junior spun around. "Like what?"
"That was twenty-five years ago, another time, another person. Alex isn't her mother. She's got more beauty, and a hell of a lot more brains. If you were half the man you're supposed to be--if, for once, you'd think with your head instead of your pecker--you'd see how valuable it'd be to have her standing by your side."
Junior blushed with anger. "I can see all that. I just wanted to make damn certain before I started a courtship that you would approve of it this time. Whether you want to believe it or not, I loved Celina. And if I start romancing Alex, I might just fall in love with her, too. For real. Not for you, not for the corporation, but for myself."
He stamped toward the door. Angus called his name sharply. Out of habit, Junior stopped and turned around.
"You resent this lecture, don't you, boy?"
"Yes," he stormed. "I'm a grown man, not a boy. I don't need your coaching. I know how to handle Alex, or any other
woman you can name."
"Oh, you do?" Angus asked silkily.
"Yeah, I do."
"Then why did Alex leave you today and go off with Reede?"

Upstairs, Sarah Jo eavesdropped on the raging conversation. When Junior slunk into the living room and she heard the clatter of glassware, she silently closed the door to her sanctum and leaned back against it. Her chest rose and fell with a heavy, despairing sigh.
It was happening again. There seemed to be no escaping this nightmare. Junior was going to have his heart broken again, this time by Celina's daughter because she would come between Junior and his father and his best friend. History was repeating itself. The house was in an uproar, and all because of that girl.
Sarah Jo knew she wouldn't be able to stand it. No, she was quite sure she wouldn't. The first time, she had failed to protect Junior from heartache. She wouldn't be able to protect him this time, either.
And that broke her heart.

Fifteen



She'd had every opportunity to be mugged, raped, or murdered, or any combination thereof, in the Last Chance. Not to mention the chances she'd taken on the roads there and back. Luckily, she had left unscathed, except for her riled temper.
Entering her motel room, Alex slung her handbag and coat in the chair, furious with herself for chasing after what was
obviously a red herring. Greg Harper would have a field day if he ever found out she'd been so gullible.
That afternoon, she had called him. He wasn't impressed with her findings so far, and made another pitch for her to return to Austin and reconcile herself to the past. She had held him to the time he'd allotted her.
His disfavor with her lack of results was one reason she had put so much stock in her clandestine meeting tonight. Greg would feel different if she could produce an eyewitness to the murder.
She should have known the instant she pulled into the parking lot of the bar that it didn't hold much promise. Three bulbs were missing from the Texas lone star that blinked off and on above the door. She had hesitated to even go inside the place.
Every head in the room had turned. The men were a rough bunch. They were drawn to her like coyotes to fresh meat. The women looked even rougher, and glowered at her with the blatant unfriendliness of potential rivals. She was tempted to turn and run, but remembering what had taken her there, she walked boldly to the bar.
"White wine, please."
That generated a snicker from everybody within hearing distance. Taking her glass with her, she moved to a booth and slid into the bench that would afford her the best view of the room. Sipping self-consciously, she let her gaze move from one face to another, trying to ascertain which belonged to the voice on the telephone.
Then, to her horror, she realized that some of the men took her close scrutiny of them as encouragement. From then on,
she confined her stares to the bottom of her wine glass, wishing that her informant would hurry up and join her and end
the suspense. On the other hand, she dreaded meeting him. If he were among this crowd, she didn't think he'd be someone
she would enjoy getting to know.
Billiard balls clacked and clattered. She got an overdose of George Strait and Waylon Jennings. She inhaled clouds of smoke, even though she wasn't smoking. And still she sat alone.
Finally, a man who had been seated at the bar when she had come in slid off his stool and moved in the general direction of her booth. He took his own sweet time, stopping at the jukebox to make his selections and pausing beside the pool table to heckle one of the players about a bad shot.
His wandering seemed aimless and casual, but his gaze kept drifting toward her. Her midsection tightened. Instinctively, she knew that his final destination would be her booth. It was. He propped his hip against the back of the padded bench across the table from her and smiled down as he tilted a long-neck beer bottle to his lips. "You waitin' for somebody?"
His voice sounded different, but then, both times he'd called her, he'd been whispering. "You know I am," she replied in a cold undertone. "Why'd you take so long to come over?"
"I was building up my courage," he said, slurping another draft of beer. "Now that I'm here, wanna dance?"
"Dance?"
"Yeah, dance. You know, a one an' a two." He used the spout of his beer bottle to push up the brim of his cowboy hat. His eyes slithered over her.
Her reaction was negative and chilling. "I thought you wanted to talk."
He seemed momentarily nonplussed, then gave her a slow, sly grin. "We can talk all you want to, honey." He set his bottle of beer on the table and extended his hand down to her. "My truck's right outside."
He was just a cowboy on the make! Alex didn't know whether to laugh or scream. Hastily gathering up her things, she headed for the door. "Hey, wait a minute. Where're you goin'?"
She left him and everybody else at the Last Chance wondering.
Now, pacing the worn carpet of her motel room, she berated herself for being such a fool. She wouldn't put it past Reede or one of the Mintons to pay an out-of-work cowboy a few bucks to call her and deliberately throw her off track.
She was still stewing several minutes later when her telephone rang. She yanked it up. "Hello."
"Do you think I'm crazy?" the familiar voice wheezed.
"Where were you?" she shouted. "I waited in that sleazy joint for almost an hour."
"Was the sheriff there the whole time?"
"What are you talking about? Reede wasn't there."
"Look, lady, I know what I seen. I got there just as you was goin' inside. Reede Lambert was tailin' you. Oh, he cruised on past, but made a U-turn down the road a piece. I didn't even stop. It wouldn't do at all for Lambert to see us talkin' together."
"Reede was following me?"
"Damn right. I didn't count on no law, especially Lambert, breathin' down my neck when I called you. He's thicker'n thieves with the Mintons. I've a good mind to call off this whole goddamn thing."
"No, no," Alex said quickly. "I didn't know Reede was anywhere around. We'll meet someplace else. Next time, I'll be certain he's not trailing me."
"Well . . ."
"On the other hand, if what you've got to tell me isn't all that important . . ."
"I seen who done it, lady."
"Then where can we meet? And when?"
He named another bar, which sounded even more disreputable than the Last Chance. "Don't go inside this time. There'll be a red pickup parked on the north side of the building. I'll be in it."
"I'll be there, Mr.-- Uh, can't you at least tell me your name?"
"Nope."
He hung up. Alex cursed. She bounced off the bed and went to the window, throwing open the drapes with the flourish of the bullfighter in the terrible artwork.
Feeling foolish, she saw that the only car near her room was her own. The familiar black-and-white Blazer was nowhere
to be seen. She closed the drapes, went back to the phone, and angrily punched out another number. She was so furious at Reede for scaring off an eyewitness, she was shaking.
"Sheriffs office."
"I want to speak to Sheriff Lambert."

"He's already left for the day," she was informed. "Is it an emergency?"
"Do you know where he is?"
"At home, I reckon."
"What's that number, please?"
"We aren't s'pposed to give it out."
"This is Ms. Gaither. I must speak with Sheriff Lambert tonight. It's very important. If necessary, I could track him through the Mintons, but I hate to disturb them."
Dropping important names worked miracles. She was given the telephone number without further delay. She intended to put an immediate halt to the sheriffs sneaky surveillance. Her resolve vanished when a feminine contralto voice answered
his telephone.
"It's a woman, asking for you." Nora Gail extended the telephone receiver to Reede. Her pencil-perfect eyebrows formed an inquisitive arch. He had been adding logs to the fireplace across the room. He brushed his hands on the seat of his jeans and pretended not to see the inquiry in her expression as he took the receiver from her.
"Yeah? This is Lambert."
"This is Alex."
He turned his back on his guest. "What do you want?"
"I want to know why you were following me tonight."
"How do you know I was?"
"I ... I saw you."
"No, you didn't. What the hell were you doing in that honky-tonk?"
"Having a drink."
"And you picked the Last Chance?" he asked scoffingly.
"Baby, you hardly look like its typical barfly. That place is reserved for shit kickers and roughnecks looking for fun with dissatisfied housewives. So either you went there to get laid, or to keep a secret appointment. Which was it?"
"I was there on official business."
"So, it was to meet somebody. Who? You'd be wise to tell me, Alex, because whoever it was got scared off when he saw me."
"You admit that you were trailing me?" Reede remained stubbornly silent. "That's just one of many topics we'll address
first thing in the morning."
"Sorry. Tomorrow's my day off."
"It's important."
"That's your opinion."
"Where will you be?"
"I said no, Counselor."
"You don't have a choice."
"The hell I don't. I'm off duty tomorrow."
"Well, I'm not."
He cursed and blew out an exasperated breath, making certain she heard both. "If the ground's thawed out, I'll be at the Minions' practice track."
"I'll find you."
Without another word, he dropped the receiver back into the cradle. He'd trapped her and he knew it. He'd heard her breathing falter when he'd asked how she'd known he had followed her. Whoever she had planned on meeting had chickened out. Who? Junior? It was disturbing how much he disliked that idea.
"Who was that?" Nora Gail asked, adjusting the lush white mink coat around her shoulders. Her beaded sweater had a low neckline. She amply filled it ... and then some. In the cleft of her breasts nestled an opal as big around as a silver dollar. The gold chain suspending it in that magnificent setting was half an inch wide and studded with small, brilliant diamonds. She took a black cigarette out of an eighteen-carat gold box. Reede picked up her matching lighter and held it to the tip of the cigarette. She curved her hand around his. The rings on her plump, pampered hand glittered. "Thank you, sugar."
"Don't mention it." He tossed the lighter back onto the kitchen table and returned to his chair across from her.

"That was Celina's girl, wasn't it?"
"What if it was?"
"Ah." She pulled her lips into a ruby pucker and blew a stream of smoke toward his ceiling. "Her ears must have been burning." Tilting her hand downward, she pointed with her cigarette at the letter lying on the table. "What do you think about it?"
Reede picked up the letter and reread it, though its message had been crystal clear the first time. It urged Alexandra
Gaither to cease and desist in her investigation. The letter strongly suggested that she suspend all efforts to prosecute Angus Minton, Junior Minton, and Reede Lambert on any criminal charges.
The character of each man mentioned was given a glowing review by the undersigned, who were a group of concerned citizens--among them, his guest. They were concerned not only for their esteemed colleagues who found themselves in this unfortunate circumstance, but also for themselves and their business interests, should the racetrack license be revoked in light of Ms. Gaither's unfounded investigation. In summation, the letter admonished her to retreat immediately
and let them get down to the business of profiting well off the increased revenue a racetrack would mean to their community.
After reading the letter a second time, Reede refolded it and stuffed it into the unsealed envelope. It had been addressed
to Alex in care of the Westerner Motel. He didn't comment on the contents. Instead, he asked, "Did you instigate it?"
"I bounced the idea off a few of the others."
"It sounds like one of your brainstorms."
"I'm a careful businesswoman. You know that. The others thought it was a good idea and took it from there. We all approved the final draft. I suggested that we get your input before we mail it to her."
"Why's that?"
"You've spent more time with her than anybody else in town. We thought you might guess what her reaction will be."
He studied her impassive features for a long moment. She was as sly as a fox. She hadn't gotten as rich as she was by being dumb or careless. Reede liked her, always had. He slept with her on a regular basis to their mutual satisfaction. But he didn't trust her.
Feeding someone like her too much information would not only be unethical, it would be just plain stupid. He had enough
street smarts to know better, and it would take more than an extended viewing of her spectacular cleavage to loosen his
tongue.
"Your guess is as good as mine how she'll react," he said noncommittally. "She probably won't react at all."
"Meaning?"
' 'Meaning, I doubt she'll pack her bags and head for Austin the minute she reads this."
"Courageous, is she?"
Reede shrugged.
"Stubborn?"
He gave a sardonic smile. "You could said that, yeah. She's damned stubborn."
"I'm curious about this girl."
"Why?"
"Because you frown every time her name comes up." She sent another stream of acrid smoke ceilingward as she regarded
him closely. "You're frowning now, sugar."
"Habit."
"Does she look like her mother?"
"Not much," he said shortly. "There's a resemblance, that's all."
Her smile was slow, feline, crafty. "She bothers you, doesn't she?"
"Hell, yes, she bothers me," he shouted. "She's trying to send me to prison. Wouldn't that bother you?"
"Only if I was guilty."

Reede clenched his teeth. "All right, I've read your letter and given you my opinion. Why don't you haul your ass out of my house?"
Unperturbed by his anger, she leisurely ground out her cigarette in his tin ashtray and pulled her fur coat around her as she stood up. She gathered up her cigarettes, lighter, and the envelope addressed to Alex, and replaced them in her handbag. "I know from experience, Mr. Reede Lambert, that you think my ass is quite something."
Reede's temper abated. Laughing with chagrin, he squeezed a handful of fanny through her clothing and snarled, "You're right. It is."
"Friends?"
"Friends."
As they stood facing each other, she smoothed her hand down his belly and cupped his sex. It was full and firm, but unaroused. "It's a cold night, Reede," she said in a sultry voice. "Want me to stay?"
He shook his head. "We agreed a long time ago that in order to remain friends, I'd come to you to get laid."
She drew a pretty frown. "Why'd we agree to that?"
"Because I'm the sheriff and you run a whorehouse."
Her laugh was guttural and sexy. "Goddamn right, I do. The best and most profitable one in the state. Anyway, I see I took good care of you the other night." She'd been massaging him through his jeans, with no results.
"Yeah, thanks."
Smiling, the madam dropped her hand and moved toward the door. She addressed him over her shoulder. "What was the urgency? I don't recall seeing you in such a dither since you heard about a certain soldier boy in El Paso, name of Gaither."
Reede's eyes turned a darker, more menacing green. "No urgency. Just horny."
She smiled her knowing smile and patted his stubbled cheek. "You'll have to lie better than that, Reede, honey, to put one over on me. I've known you too long and too well." Her voice drifted back to him as she stepped into the darkness beyond his door. "Don't be a stranger, sugar, you hear?"