Best Kept Secrets by Sandra Brown

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?"

Sixteen

It was no longer sleeting, but it was still very cold. Patches of thin ice crunched beneath Alex's boots as she carefully made her way from her parked car toward the practice track. The brilliant sunshine, which had not deigned to appear for the last several days, now blinded her. The sky was a vivid blue. Jets, looking no larger than pinpoints, trailed puffy lines that sometimes crisscrossed, matching the miles of white fencing on the Minton ranch that divided the compound into separate pens and paddocks.
The ground between the gravel road and the practice track was uneven. Tire tracks had worn permanent ruts in it over the years. It was muddy in spots where ice had already surrendered to the sun's rays.
Alex had dressed appropriately in old boots and jeans. Even though her hands were gloved in kid leather, she raised her fists to her mouth and blew on them for additional warmth. She took a pair of sunglasses out of her coat pocket and slid
them on to combat the sunlight. From behind their tinted lenses, she watched Reede. He was standing at the rail clock-big
the horses between the timing poles placed every sixteenth of a mile.
She held back a moment to study him unobserved. Instead of the leather bomber jacket, he had on a long, light-colored
duster. One boot was propped on the lowest rail of the fence, a stance that drew attention to his narrow buttocks and long
thighs.
The boot she could see was scuffed and well worn. His jeans were clean, but the hems were frayed, their denim threads bleached white. It occurred to her that the flies of all his jeans were similarly worn, and she was shocked to realize that she knew that.
His wrists were propped on the top fence rail, his hands dangling over the other side. He was wearing leather gloves, the same ones he'd had on when he'd pulled her against him the other night and held her while she cried. It was odd, and
deliciously disturbing, to reflect on how his hands had moved over her back with nothing except a terry-cloth robe separating them from her nakedness. A stopwatch lay in the palm of the hand that had cupped her head and pressed it against his chest.
He had on the cowboy hat she'd first seen him in, pulled down low over his brows. Dark blond hair brushed the collar of his coat. When he turned his head, she noticed that the angles of his profile were sharp and clear. There were no indecisive shapes, no subtle contours. When he breathed, a vapor formed around the lips that had kissed her damp hair after he'd told her about Celina's body.
"Let 'em go," he shouted to the practice riders. His voice was as masculine as all his features. Whether he was shouting
orders or making innuendos, it never failed to elicit a response low in her body.
As the horses came around--four, in all--then-hooves pounded and raised clumps of turf that a track conditioner had loosened earlier that morning. Flaring nostrils sent up billows of steam. When the riders slowed them to a walk, they were directed back toward the stables. Reede called out to one. "Ginger, how's he doing?"
"I've been holding him back. He's bouncy."
"Give him his head. He wants to run. Walk him around once, then let him go again."
"Okay."
The diminutive rider, who Alex hadn't initially realized was a young woman, tipped the bill of her cap with her quirt and nudged her splendid mount back onto the track.
"What's his name?"
Reede's head came around. He speared Alex with eyes shaded against the sun only by the brim of his hat and a natural squint that had left him with appealing crow's-feet at the outer corners of his eyes. "She's a girl."
"The horse?"
"Oh. The horse's name is Double Time."
Alex moved up beside him at the rail and rested her forearms on it. "Is he yours?"
"Yes."
"A winner?"
"He keeps me in pocket change."
Alex watched the rider crouched over the saddle. "She seems to know just what to do," she remarked. "That's a lot of horse for such a tiny person to handle."
"Ginger's one of the Mintons' best gallop boys--that's what they're called." He returned his attention to the horse and rider as they came around the track at a full-out gallop.
"Atta boy, atta boy," he whispered. "Comin' through like a pro." He whooped when Double Time streaked past them, a blur of well-coordinated muscle, agility, and immense strength.
"Good work," Reede told the rider when she brought the horse around.
"Better?"
"Several seconds better."
Reede had more encouraging words for the horse. He patted him affectionately and spoke in a language the animal seemed to understand. The stallion pranced off friskily, tail fanning, knowing that a rewarding breakfast was awaiting him in the stable for having performed so well for his owner.
"You seem to have a real rapport with him," Alex observed.
"I was there the day his sire covered the mare. I was there when he was foaled. They thought he was a dummy, and wanted to put him down."
"A what?"
"A dummy's a foal that was deprived of oxygen during the birthing." He shook his head as he watched the horse enter the stable. "I didn't think so. I was right. His lineage indicated he had every chance to be good, and he has been. Never a disappointment. Always runs his heart out, even when he's outclassed."
"You've got good reason to be proud of him."
"I guess."
Alex wasn't fooled by his pretended indifference. "Do they always run the horses full out like that?"
"No, they're breezing them today, seeing how they run against each other. Four days a week, they're galloped once or twice around the track. Comparable to a jog. Two days after breezing them, they're just walked."
He turned and headed toward a saddled horse that was tied to a fence post. "Where are you going?"
"Home." He mounted with the loose-limbed grace of a range cowboy.
"I need to talk to you," Alex cried in consternation.
He bent down and extended his hand. "Get on." From beneath the brim of his hat, green eyes challenged her. She pushed her sunglasses higher on the bridge of her nose and approached the horse with an outward show of confidence she didn't actually feel.
Clasping Reede's hand was the tough part. He hauled her up with very little effort, though it was left to her to get situated between his buttocks and the sloping back of the saddle.
That was disconcerting enough, but when he kneed the horse forward, Alex was thrown against his broad back. Out of necessity, her arms encircled his waist. She was careful to keep her hands well above his belt. Her mind wasn't as easy to control. It kept straying to his damned, well-worn fly.
"Warm enough?" he asked her over his shoulder.
"Yes," she lied.

She had thought his long white duster with the steep pleat in the back was all for show. She'd never seen one outside a Clint Eastwood western. Now, however, she realized the coat was designed to keep a rider's thighs warm.
"Who were you meeting in the bar last night?"
"That's my business, Reede. Why did you follow me?"
"That's my business."
Impasse. For the time being, she let it go. She had a file of questions she wanted to ask him, but it was difficult to keep her mind on her task when her open cleft kept bumping into his hips with each rocking motion of the horse. She blurted out the first question that came to mind. "How did you and my mother get to be such close friends?"
"We grew up together," he said dismissively. "It started out on the jungle gym on the school playground and evolved as we got older."
"It never became awkward?"
"Nope. We had no secrets from each other. We'd even played doctor a few times."
" 'I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours'?"
He grinned. "You must've played doctor, too."
Alex didn't rise to the bait, knowing that he was trying to sidetrack her. "I guess the two of you eventually grew out of that stage."
"We didn't play doctor anymore, no, but we talked about everything. No subject was taboo between Celina and me."
"Isn't that the kind of relationship a girl usually has with another girl?"
"Usually, but Celina didn't have many girlfriends. Most of the girls were jealous of her."
"Why?" Alex already knew the answer. She knew even before he shrugged, a move that rubbed his shoulder blade against her breast. Alex was hardly able to speak. She had to force herself to ask. "It was because of you, wasn't it? Her friendship with you?"
"Maybe. That, and the fact that she was by far the prettiest girl around. Most of the girls considered her a rival, not a friend. Hold on," he warned her before guiding the horse into a dry gully.
Inertia pushed her forward, closer to him. Instinctively, she hugged his torso tighter. He made a grunting sound. She asked, "What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"You sounded . . . uncomfortable."
"If you were a guy sitting astride a horse taking a steep incline and were being crammed against the pommel of the saddle so that your manhood pushed into your lap, you'd be uncomfortable, too."
"Oh."
"Jesus," he swore beneath his breath.
Until the ground leveled out, there was an awkward silence between them, broken only by the horse's clumping tread as he carefully picked his way over the rocky ground. To hide her embarrassment and keep the cold wind off her, Alex buried her face in the flannel-lined collar of his coat. Eventually, she said, "So, Mother came to you with all her problems."
"Yes. When she didn't, and I knew something was wrong, I went to her. One day she was absent from school. I got worried and went to her house during lunch break. Your grandmother was at work, so Celina was there alone. She'd been crying. I got scared and refused to leave until she told me what was wrong."
"What was the matter?"
"She got her period for the first time."
"Oh."
"From what I gathered, Mrs. Graham had made her feel ashamed of it. She'd told her all kinds of horror stories about Eve's curse--crap like that." There was disapproval in his voice. "Was she that way with you?"
Alex shook her head no, but didn't remove it from the protection of his collar. His neck was warm, and smelled like him. "Not that severe. Maybe Grandma had become more enlightened by the time I reached puberty." Until Reede reined in the horse and dismounted, Alex hadn't realized that they'd reached a small frame house. "What about Mother?"
"I consoled her and told her that it was normal, nothing to be ashamed of, that she had officially become a woman."
He looped the reins around a hitching post.
"Did it work?"
"I guess so. She stopped crying and--"
"And . . .?" Alex prodded him to continue, knowing that he had omitted the most important part of the story.
"Nothing. Swing your leg over." He reached up to help her down, taking her around the waist with sure, strong hands and lifting her to the ground.
"Something, Reede."
She clutched the sleeves of his coat. His lips were drawn into a thin, stubborn line. They looked chapped and consummately
masculine. She remembered looking at the newspaper picture of him kissing Celina when he crowned her homecoming
queen. As before, Alex's stomach swelled and receded like a wave far out in the gulf.
"You kissed her, didn't you?"
He made an uneasy movement with his shoulder. "I'd kissed her before."
"But that was the first real kiss, wasn't it?"
He released her and, crossing the shallow front porch, thrust open the door. "You can come in or not," he said over his shoulder, "it's up to you."
He disappeared through the door, leaving it open. Despondent but curious, Alex followed. The front door opened directly into the living room. Through an arched opening on her left, she could see a dining area and kitchen. A hallway on the opposite side presumably led into a bedroom, where she could hear him rummaging about. Absently, she closed the front door, removed her glasses and gloves, and looked around.
The house had the stamp of a bachelor. Furniture had been arranged for comfort and convenience, not with any decorative
flair. He'd set his hat on a table and tossed his coat and gloves onto a chair. Other surfaces were clear, but the bookshelves were cluttered, as though straightening up amounted to cramming anything lying around onto a shelf.
There were cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling that caught the sunlight as it poured in through the dusty Venetian blinds.
He caught her looking up at one of the cobwebs as he reappeared, carrying a pair of aviator sunglasses. "Lupe sends one of her nieces out here every few weeks. It's about that time." It was an explanation, but hardly an excuse or apology. "Want some coffee?"
"Please."
He went into the kitchen. Alex continued to walk around the room as she stamped circulation back into her frozen feet. Her attention was drawn to a tall trophy in one of the built-in bookshelves. "Most Valuable Player" was engraved on it in block letters, along with Reede's name and the date.
"Is this the right color?" He had moved up behind her.
When she turned he was holding a mug of coffee out to her. He had remembered to add milk.
"Fine, thanks." Inclining her head toward the trophy, she asked, "Your senior year, right?"
"Hmm."
"That's quite an honor."
"I guess so."
Alex noticed that he resorted to that catchall phrase when he wanted the conversation to end. He remained an enigma in all other respects. "You're not sure it was an honor?"
He dropped into an easy chair and thrust his feet out in front of him. "I felt then, and still feel, that I had a good team backing me up. The other nominated players were just as valuable as me."
"Junior?"
"He was one of them, yeah," he replied, instantly defensive.
"But you won the award and Junior didn't."
His eyes glared at hers. "Is that supposed to be significant?"
"I don't know. Is it?"

He gave a scoffing laugh. "Stop playing lawyer games with me and say what's on your mind."
"Okay." She leaned against the padded arm of the sofa and considered him carefully as she asked,' 'Did Junior resent your getting named most valuable player?"
"Ask him."
"Maybe I will. I'll also ask Angus if he minded."
"Angus couldn't have been prouder the night of the awards banquet."
"Except if his son had been named most valuable player instead of you."
Reede's expression turned stony. "You're full of shit, you know that?"
"I'm sure Angus was proud of you, glad for you, but you can't expect me to believe that he wouldn't have rather seen Junior get the trophy."
"Believe whatever you goddamn want to. It makes no difference to me." He emptied his coffee mug in three swallows, set it on the low coffee table in front of him, then stood up. "Ready?"
She set her coffee down, too, but she made no move to leave. "Why are you so touchy about this?"
' 'Not touchy, bored.'' He leaned down to put his face close to hers. "That trophy is a twenty-five-year-old, tarnished piece of junk that's good for nothing except to collect dust."
"Then, why have you kept it all these years?"
He plowed his fingers through his hair. "Look, it doesn't mean anything now."
"But it did then."
"Precious little. Not enough to get me an athletic scholarship, which I was counting on to go to college."
"What did you do?"
"I went anyway."
"How?"
"A loan."
"A government loan?"
"No, a private one," he answered evasively.
"Who lent you the money--Angus?"
"So? I paid back every friggin' cent of it."
"By working for him?"
"Until I left ME."
"Why'd you leave?"
"Because I'd paid him back and wanted to do something else."
"That was as soon as you got out of college?"
He shook his head. "The air force."
"You were in the air force?"
"Four years of officers' training during college, then active duty after graduation. For six years my ass belonged to Uncle
Sam. Two of those years were spent bombing gooks in Vietnam."
Alex hadn't known he'd been involved in the war, but she should have guessed. He'd been at draftable age during the height of it. "Did Junior serve, too?"
"Junior at war? Can you picture that?" he asked with a rough laugh. "No, he didn't go. Angus pulled some strings and got him into the reserves."
"Why not you, too?"
"I didn't want him to. I wanted to go into the air force."
"To learn to fly?"
"I already knew how to fly. I had my pilot's license before I had my driver's license."
She contemplated him for a moment. The information was coming too fast and furious to absorb. "You're just full of surprises this morning, aren't you? I didn't know you could fly."
"No reason you should, Counselor."
"Why aren't there any pictures of you in uniform?" she asked, indicating the bookcase.
"I hated what I was doing over there. No mementos of wartime, thanks." He backed away from her, picked up his hat, gloves, and coat, then went to the front door and ungraciously pulled it open.
Alex remained where she was. "You and Junior must have missed each other white you were serving your six years in the air force."
"What's that supposed to mean? Do you think we're queer for each other?"
"No," she said with diminishing patience. "I just meant that you're good friends who, up till that point, had spent a lot of time together."
He slammed the door closed and slung down his outerwear.
"By then we were used to being apart."
"You spent four years of college together," she pointed out.
"No, we didn't. We were attending Texas Tech at the same time, but since he was married--"
"Married?"
"Another surprise?" he asked tauntingly. "Didn't you know? Junior got married just a few weeks after we graduated from high school."
No, Alex hadn't known that. She hadn't realized that Junior's first marriage had come on the heels of high school graduation, and consequently, so soon after Celina's murder. The timing seemed strange.
"For a long while, then, you and Junior didn't see much of each other."
"That's right," was Reede's clipped response.
"Did my mother's death have anything to do with that?"
"Maybe. We didn't--couldn't talk about it."
"Why?"
"It was too damned hard. Why the hell do you think?"
"Why was it hard to be around Junior and talk about Celina's death?"
"Because we'd always been a trio. One of us was suddenly missing. It didn't feel right to be together."
Alex weighed the advisability of pressing him on this, but decided to take the plunge. "You were a trio, yes, but if it was ever odd man out, the odd man was Junior, not Celina. Right? You and she were an inseparable duo before you became an inseparable trio."

"You keep the hell out of my life," he ground out. "You don't know a damn thing about it, about me."
" There's no need for you to get mad, Reede."
"Oh, no? Why shouldn't I get mad? You want to resurrect the past, everything from my first real kiss to some ****ing football trophy that has about as much value as a pile of horse shit, but I'm not supposed to get mad."
"Most people enjoy reminiscing."
"I don't. I want to leave my past in the past."
"Because it's hurtful?"
"Some of it."
"Is it hurtful to remember the first time you kissed my mother for real?"
He strode toward the sofa and bridged her hips with his hands, keeping his arms stiff. His voice changed from a ranting pitch to pure silk. "That kiss sure as hell intrigues you, doesn't it, Counselor?"
He overwhelmed her. She could say nothing.
"Well, if you're so interested in how I kiss, maybe you should experience it firsthand."
He pushed his hands inside her coat and linked them together at the small of her back. Giving a swift yank, he pulled her to her feet. She caught herself against his chest, gasping soundlessly before he bent his head down low and covered her lips with his.
At first she was so stunned she didn't move. When she realized what was happening, she placed both her fists firmly against his chest. She tried to turn her head aside, but he trapped her jaw in one hand and held it still. His lips expertly
rubbed hers apart, then he thrust his tongue between them.
He kissed her thoroughly, sweeping her mouth with his tongue and making stabbing motions toward the back of her throat. His lips were chapped. She felt their roughness against hers as well as the thrilling contrast of their sleek lining. She might have uttered a small whimper of surprise and need. Her body might have become pliant enough to conform to his. He might have made a low, hungry, growling sound deep in his throat. Then again, she might have imagined it all.
But she didn't imagine the feathering sensation between her thighs, or the tingling in her breasts, or the heat spreading
through her middle like melting butter. She didn't mistake the rare and wonderful taste of his mouth, or the scent of wind and sunlight that clung to his hair and clothing. He raised his head and looked into her dazed eyes. His own mirrored her bewilderment. But the smile that lifted one corner of his mouth was sardonic. "Just so you don't feel cheated," he murmured.
He pecked a series of soft, quick kisses across her damp lips, then ran his tongue over them lightly and teasingly. He probed the corner of her lips with the tip of his tongue, and the suggestive caress caused a ribbon of sensation in her belly
to slowly uncurl.
Then he sealed his open mouth upon hers again. His tongue sank into it, as invasive as her response was involuntary. He
stroked her mouth with deeply satisfying leisure while his hands moved over her back, then up her sides to her breasts. He rubbed them softly with the heels of his hands, creating a hunger inside her for him to touch their crests. Instead, he slid his hands down to her bottom, cupped it, and tilted her hips forward against his. He matched the motions of his tongue with his hips, an ebb and flow that whetted her appetite for fulfillment and eroded her resistance.
Before she could submit to the delicious weakness stealing through her, he abruptly released her. His face still close, he
whispered, "Curious to know what I usually do next?"
Alex stepped back, mortified over how close she had come to total capitulation. She wiped his kiss off her lips with the back of her hand. He merely smirked. "No, I didn't think so."
He put on his sunglasses and hat, giving the brim a tug that pulled it low over his eyes. "From now on, Counselor, I suggest you save your cross-examination for the courtroom. It's much safer."


The Derrick Lounge was far worse than the Last Chance. Alex approached it from the south, so when she rounded the corner of the building and saw a battered, rusty, red pickup parked there, she breathed a sigh of relief. She'd already made up her mind that if the eyewitness wasn't there, she wasn't going to hang around waiting on him.
When she had left the Westerner Motel, she'd made certain she wasn't followed. She felt ridiculous playing such cat-and-mouse games, but she was willing to go to any lengths to speak to this man who claimed to be an eyewitness to her mother's murder. If this meeting produced nothing but a telephone prankster looking for new thrills, it would be the crowning touch to a perfectly horrible day. The longest horseback ride in history had been the one she'd made with Reede back to the practice track where she'd left her car. "Have a nice day," he had called mockingly after she slid from the saddle.
"Go to hell," had been her angry response. As he wheeled his horse around, she could hear him chuckling.
"Arrogant bastard," she whispered to herself now as she got out of her car and moved toward the pickup. She could see the driver sitting behind the steering wheel, and although she was glad he had shown up, she wondered how she would feel if he cited Reede as the man who had killed her mother.
It was a disquieting possibility.
She went around the hood of the truck, her shoes crunching noisily in the loose gravel. The Derrick Lounge hadn't spent any money on outdoor lighting, so it was dark at the side of the building. No other vehicles were parked nearby.
Alex entertained a moment's trepidation as she reached for the door handle. Forcibly quelling her uneasiness, she slid inside and pulled the door closed behind her.
Her eyewitness was an ugly little man. He had stark, Indian-like cheekbones with pockmarked craters scooped out beneath them. He was unkempt, and smelled like he didn't shower frequently. He was scrawny and wrinkled and grizzled.
He was also dead.

Seventeen


When it registered why he just sat there staring at her with a vacuous, unfocused, and somewhat surprised expression, Alex tried to scream, but nothing came out. Her mouth had turned to cotton. Reaching behind her, she tried to open the pickup door. It stubbornly resisted.
After frantically tugging on the handle, she gave it her shoulder. It swung open so suddenly that she almost fell out. In her scrambling haste to put distance between her and the bloody corpse, the toe of her shoe got caught in the gravel. She stumbled and fell, landing hard on the heels of her hands and scraping her knees.
She cried out in pain and fear and tried to stand. Plunging headlong into the darkness, she was suddenly blinded by a pair of headlights and petrified by the blasting of a horn.
Reflexively, she raised her hand to shield her eyes. Against the backdrop of brilliant light, she made out the outline of a man approaching her. Before she could run or utter a peep, he said, "You get around, don't you?"
"Reede!" she cried in a mix of relief and terror.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
He didn't sound at all sympathetic. That enraged her. "I could ask you the same question. That man," she said, pointing
a shaky finger toward the pickup, "is dead."
"Yeah, I know."
"You know?"


"His name is, uh, was Pasty Hickam. He's a ranch hand who used to work for Angus." He peered through the bug-splattered
windshield and shook his head. "Jesus, what a mess."
"Is that all you can say?"
He turned on her. "No, I could say that the only reason I'm not taking you in on suspicion of murder is because whoever phoned in the tip that Pasty was sitting in his pickup with his throat cut didn't mention that there was a broad with him."
"Somebody tipped you?"
"That's right. Any idea who?"
"I guess whoever knew I was coming here to meet him," she shouted. Then, when another thought struck her, she became still and quiet.' 'How'd you get here so fast, Reede?''
"You think I headed him off and put a knife to his throat?" he asked with an incredulous laugh.
"It's possible."
Holding her stare, he called for one of his deputies. Alex hadn't realized until then that there was someone with him. She became aware of a couple of things at once--the wail of an approaching siren, the appearance of curious customers, who were rushing out the door of the bar to see what the commotion was about.
"Escort her back to her motel," Reede curtly instructed the deputy. "See that she gets inside her room."
"Yes, sir."
"Keep an eye on her till daylight. Make sure she doesn't go anywhere."
Alex and the sheriff exchanged a hostile stare before she allowed the deputy to lead her back to her car.

'' Sheriff?'' The deputy tapped hesitantly on the door before daring to open it. The word around the office that morning was that Reede was in a bitch of a mood, and only partially because of Pasty Hickam's death the night before. Everybody was walking on eggshells.
"What is it?"
"I've got some papers for you to sign."
"Give them here." Reede eased up from his half-reclining position in the swivel chair and reached for the stack of official
documents and letters. He scrawled his signature where it was called for.
"How's Ruby Faye this morning?"
Pasty's lover had been found in her mobile home when the sheriff arrived there to question her, beaten to a pulp. Before
passing out, she named her cuckolded husband as the culprit.
"Lyle did almost as good a number on her as he did on Pasty. She's gonna have to stay in the hospital a week or so. The kids have been packed off to her mama's house."
Reede's expression turned even surlier. He had no tolerance for men who physically abused women, no matter what the
provocation. He had been on the receiving end of too many beatings from his old man to stomach domestic violence.
He passed the paperwork back to the clerk. "Any feedback on that APR?"
"No, sir. I'll let you know. And you told me to remind you that you're scheduled to testify in Judge Wallace's court this afternoon."
"Shit, I would've forgotten. Okay, thanks." The deputy gratefully withdrew, but Reede had mentally dismissed him from his mind even before the door clicked shut.
He couldn't hold a thought for longer than a few seconds this morning. The image of Alex left little room for any others.
Swearing liberally, he left his chair and moved to the window.
Outside, it was another sunny day. He was reminded of yesterday, when he'd pulled her up on that horse with him and the sunlight had turned her hair a deep, mahogany red.
That's what he must have been thinking about when he'd started shooting off his mouth about that stupid football trophy.
Why, for crissake, had he kept it all this time? Every time he looked at it his emotions were split right down the middle, the way they'd been the night he had received it. His elation had been dampened because Junior hadn't been named most
valuable player. Crazy as the notion was, he had wanted to apologize to Angus and Junior for winning the award. He'd
deserved it because he was the better athlete, but winning over Junior had tainted the prize.
Alex had figured all that out by herself. She was smart, all right. But she wasn't as tough as she pretended to be. She'd had the daylights scared out of her last night, and justifiably so. Pasty had never been a pretty sight, but dead, with blood congealing on his down jacket, he was even uglier.
Maybe it had been good for her to see that. Maybe she wouldn't be so eager to uncover secrets that were none of her concern. Maybe Pasty's grisly murder would scare her out of investigating Celina's. Maybe she'd leave Purcell and never come back.
That possibility should have cheered him. It didn't. It made him angrier with her and with himself. Kissing her yesterday had been a dumb move. He had let her provoke him. He'd lost his temper. He hadn't been in control of himself. The excuse relieved his conscience, just enough for him to live with what had happened. At the same time, however, it scared the hell out of him. Alex had pushed him over the edge of sound reason. Only one other person had ever been able to do that--Celina.
How had the clever little witch tricked him into mentioning that kiss, he wondered. He hadn't thought about it in years, but all of a sudden, it had been vivid in his mind. It had been a hot September day, he remembered, when he had gone to check on Celina after she had failed to report to school. The old window air-conditioning unit had labored to cool the stifling little house without much success. The air was hot and humid, instead of hot and dry.
Celina wasn't acting like herself. She had let him in, but had acted subdued, as though this first rite of passage into
womanhood had robbed her of girlish animation. Her eyes had been puffy from crying. He had been scared that something
was terribly wrong.

When she had told him about her period, he'd been so relieved he had wanted to laugh. He hadn't, though. Her bleak expression had quashed any levity. He had put his arms around her, held her tenderly, stroked her hair, and reassured her that it was something wonderful, not shameful. Seeking comfort, she had wrapped her arms around his waist and nuzzled her face against his collarbone. For a long time, they had just clung to each other, as they had so many times in the past when it seemed that the two of them were at odds with the rest of the world. But he felt a need to solemnize this occasion, to officially mark her departure from childhood.
He had kissed her cheek first. Tears had left it damp and salty. He kissed his way down. She caught her breath suddenly,
and held it, until he pressed his lips firmly upon hers. It was a fervent but chaste kiss.
He had kissed other girls using his tongue. The Gail sisters were already adept at French kissing, and had been eager to share their expertise with him. At least once a week he met the three of them in the abandoned VFW hall and took turns
kissing them, feeling their breasts, and slipping his hand into the elastic legs of their cotton panties to touch the hair between their thighs. They quarreled over which one got to undo his pants and fondle him first.
Those sweaty, sordid interludes made life with his father bearable. They were also the only secret he kept from Celina. What he did with the Gail sisters would probably embarrass her if she knew. It might also make her mad. Either way, it was better that she didn't know about the condemned VFW hall and what he did there.
But when he felt Celina's mouth beneath his, and heard that little catch in her throat, he had wanted to kiss her the correct way--the good and exciting and forbidden way. Unable to resist the temptation, his body had overruled his mind. He'd barely touched the seam of her lips with the tip of his tongue before he felt them separate. Heart pounding, blood boiling, he drew her closer and pushed his tongue into her mouth. When she didn't recoil, he moved it around. She clutched his waist. Her small, pointed breasts burned like brands against his chest.
God, he had thought he was going to die of pleasure. It was immense. The experience rocked the foundations of his adolescent soul. His body had vibrated with volcanic energy. He had wanted to go on kissing Celina Graham forever. But
when his penis became so engorged it pressed against her middle, he pushed her away and began babbling apologies.
Celina had stared at him for several seconds, wide-eyed and breathless, then threw herself against him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and told him that she was glad he had kissed her like that. She loved him. He loved her. They were
going to get married someday, and nothing was going to come between them, ever.
Now Reede, rubbing his eyes tiredly, returned to his desk and flopped down into the creaky chair. He had been furious with Alex for calling forth memories he had strived for years to keep at bay. It had been his intention to punish and insult her with that kiss.
But, dammit, he hadn't counted on her feeling so good against him--all fur coat and soft wool and warm skin. He hadn't expected her mouth to taste so goddamn sweet.That sweetness still lingered on his tongue. How could he have guessed that her breasts would be that full and soft?
He sure as hell hadn't bargained on his body becoming embarrassingly, instantly aroused for Celina's daughter. It was harder than he'd ever gotten for the Gail sisters--harder than he'd ever gotten period. Hell, he was still hard. That was just one reason why the impetuous embrace had left him feeling mad as hell at her and not much kinder toward himself. Alex Gaither, the woman he had kissed like crazy yesterday, had all but accused him of two murders, first Celina's, then Pasty's. Even if she couldn't make those allegations stick, she could still spoil all his plans for the future.
He was so close to realizing his dreams. He was about to be where he'd worked hard all his life to get. She could mess it up royally. She didn't even have to finger him. If she indicted any one of them, she would snatch his future away from him before he had fully grasped it. For that, he could easily choke her.
But when he thought about putting his hands on her again, it wasn't to choke her.

"They told me you were in."
"Did they also tell you that I'm due in court in a few minutes, and that between now and then I'm too busy to see anyone?"
Alex stepped into Reede's office and closed the door behind her. "They mentioned it."
"Where'd you get the idea that you're exempt?"
"I thought you'd want to question me about the man who got killed."
"You aren't really a suspect. You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time, something you have a bad habit of doing.'
"You don't think there's a connection between me and his murder?"
"No, but obviously you do." Propping his feet on the corner of his desk and stacking his hands behind his head, he said, "Let's hear it."
"I think you already know it. Pasty Hickam witnessed Celina's murder."
"How do you know?"
"He told me over the telephone."
"He was a legendary liar. Ask anybody."
"I believed him. He sounded nervous and terribly afraid. We made an appointment to meet at the Last Chance, but when he saw you following me, he got frightened off."
"So, that makes me Celina's killer?"
"Or someone who's covering up for the killer."
"Let me tell you what's wrong with your theory." He lowered his feet to the floor. "Angus fired Pasty the other day. He was on a revenge trip, something you should be able to relate to, Counselor. He made up some cock-and-bull story that you wanted to believe because so far, your investigation hasn't turned up one goddamn scrap of concrete evidence.
"You think the two murders are connected, right? Wrong," he said. "Think about it. Last night's killing doesn't match Celina's murder. The M.O.'s wrong. The guy who cut Pasty a new smile found out Pasty was humping his wife while he was working over at the potash plant near Carlsbad. We've got an APB out on him."
It sounded so plausible that Alex squirmed under his direct gaze. "Isn't it possible that this ranch hand witnessed my mother's murder? He kept quiet until now out of fear of retribution, or simply because no one ever conducted a thorough
investigation. Knowing what he did got him killed before he could identify the killer. That's what I choose to believe."
"Suit yourself. But waste your time on it, not mine."
Reede made to stand up, but she said, "That's not all."
Resigned, he sat back down.
Alex took an envelope out of her purse and handed it to him. "This came in the mail this morning. It was addressed to me at the motel."
Reede scanned the letter quickly and handed it back to her. She stared at him in amazement. "You don't seem very disturbed by it, Sheriff Lambert.''
"I've already read it."
"What? When?"
"Day before yesterday, if I'm remembering right."
"And you let them send it?"
"Why not? It's not obscene. I figure even the postmaster general would agree that it meets postal regulations. It's got the correct amount of postage on it. As far as I can tell, that letter isn't illegal, Counselor."
Alex wanted to reach across his desk and slap the gloating smile off his face. The impulse was so strong she had to curl her hand into a fist to keep from doing so.

"Did you read between the lines? The people who signed this, all--" she paused to count the signatures, "--all fourteen
of them, have threatened to ran me out of town."
"Surely not, Miss Gaither," he said, feigning shock.
"You're just being paranoid because you found Pasty. That letter simply underlines what I've been telling you all along. Angus and Junior Minton mean a lot to this town. So does that racetrack.
"You get somebody's attention quicker by kicking him in the bank account than you do by kicking him in the nuts. You've put some sizable investments in jeopardy. Did you expect folks to stand by and watch all then-dreams go down the tubes because of your vindictiveness?"
"I'm not being vindictive. I'm conducting a valid and long-overdue investigation into a severe miscarriage of justice."
"Spare me."
"The district attorney of Travis County sanctioned my investigation."
His eyes drifted over her insultingly as he drawled, "In exchange for what?"
"Oh, that's good. Very professional, Sheriff. When you run out of viable ammunition, you resort to throwing sexist rocks at my character."
With angry, jerky motions, she stuffed the letter back into the envelope and replaced it in her purse, snapping the catch
firmly.
''I don't have to explain my reasons to you. Just understand this," she enunciated. "I won't quit until I can draw some
satisfactory conclusions about my mother's murder."
"Well, I wouldn't worry about being mugged, if I were you," Reede told her with an air of boredom. "As I've explained, Pasty's killing had absolutely nothing to do with you. The people who signed that letter are pillars of the community--bankers, businessmen, professionals. They're hardly types who would accost you in a dark alley.
"Although," he went on, "I'd recommend that you stop cruising in hotbeds of trouble like you have the last two evenings. If you've just got to have it, there are a couple of fellas I could recommend."
She released a slow, contemptuous breath.' 'Do you dislike all professional women, or is it me in particular?"
"It's you in particular."
His bluntness was an affront. She was tempted to remind him that his kiss yesterday hadn't conveyed dislike, but she didn't. She didn't want to remind him of it. She hoped to forget it herself, pretend that it had never happened, but she
couldn't. It had left her feeling drastically and irrevocably altered.
No, she couldn't forget it. The best she could hope for was to learn to cope with the memory of it, and the addictive craving it had instigated.
His statement hurt her deeply. She heard herself asking, "Why don't you like me?"
"Because you're a meddler. I don't like people who meddle in other people's business."
"This is my business."
"How could it be? You were peeing in your diapers when Celina was killed," he shouted.
"I'm glad you brought that up. Since I was only two months old at the time, what was she doing out at the ranch that night?"
His stunned reaction to the question was swiftly covered.
"I forget. Look, I'm due--"
"I doubt you ever forget anything, Reede Lambert, much as you pretend that you do. What was she doing there? Please
tell me."
He stood up. So did Alex. "Junior had invited her for supper, that's all."
"Was it a special occasion?"
"Ask him."
"I'm asking you. What was the occasion? And don't tell me you don't remember."
"Maybe he felt sorry for her."
"Sorry? Why?"
"For being cooped up with a kid, not getting out. Her social life had gone to zilch. She was only eighteen, for crissake." He stepped around her and headed for the door. Alex wasn't ready to let it go at that. His answer was too pat. She caught his arm and forced him to face her. "Were you there at dinner that night?"
"Yeah, I was there." He jerked his arm free.
"The entire evening?"
"I left before dessert."
"Why?"
"I don't like cherry pie."
She groaned with frustration. "Answer me, Reede. Why did you leave?"
"I had a date."
"With whom? Does she still live here in town?"
"What the hell difference does it make?"
"She's your alibi. I'd like to talk to her."
"Forget it. I'll never drag her into this."
"You might have to, or plead the Fifth."
"Don't you ever give up?" he asked through bared teeth.
"Never. Did you return to the ranch that night?"
"No."
"Not at all?"
"No."
"Not even to sleep?"
"I told you, I had a date." He put his face close enough to hers that she could feel his breath against her lips. "And she was hot."
He gave a terse bob of his head to emphasize his point, then turned to leave. "I'm due in court. Close the door on your way out, will ya?"

Eighteen


"Miss Gaither?"
"Yes?"
Alex didn't feel like having company. Her latest altercation with Reede had left her drained. After last night, her nerves were shot. Neither Reede's glib explanation of the Hickam man's murder or any amount of her own sound reasoning had
convinced her that she wasn't in danger.
So, when someone knocked on her motel room door, she had approached it cautiously and looked through the peephole.
A strange, but evidently harmless couple, were on her threshold. She opened the door and looked at them expectantly.
Suddenly, the man stuck out his hand. Startled, Alex jumped back. "Reverend Fergus Plummet." Feeling foolish, Alex shook hands with him. "Did I frighten you? I'm dreadfully sorry. I didn't mean to."
The reverend's mannerisms were so deferential, his tone of voice so sympathetic, he hardly posed a threat. He had a slight build and was shorter than average, but held himself erect with almost military posture. His black suit was shiny in spots and inadequate for the season. He wore no overcoat and nothing to cover his wavy dark hair, which was fuller than current fashion dictated. In a community where almost every male from the age of twelve wore either a cowboy hat or bill cap, it looked odd to see a man without one.

"This is my wife, Wanda."
"Hello, Mrs. Plummet, Reverend."
Mrs. Plummet was a large woman, with a notable bosom that she'd tried to minimize by covering it with a drab olive cardigan sweater. Her hair was pulled back into a knot on the back of her head, which she kept meekly lowered. Her husband had referred to her with no more personal regard than he might give a lamppost.
"How'd you know my name?" Alex asked, curious about the couple.
"Everybody does," he replied with a brief smile. "There's talk going around town about you."
The minister had a Bible tucked under one arm. Alex couldn't imagine what a minister was doing at her door-- recruiting new members?
"I guess you're wondering why I'm here," he said, correctly reading her puzzled expression.
"Frankly, yes. Would you like to come in?"
They stepped into the room. Mrs. Plummet seemed ill at ease and unsure where to sit until her husband pointed her to a corner of the bed. He took the only chair. Alex sat down on the edge of the bed, but far enough away from Mrs. Plummet for both of them to be comfortable.
The preacher gazed about him. He seemed to be in no hurry to disclose the reason he was there. Finally, and with a trace of impatience, Alex asked, "Is there something I can do for you, Reverend Plummet?"
Closing his eyes, he raised his hand heavenward and evoked a blessing. "May heaven's rich blessings pour down on this beloved daughter of God," he intoned in a deep, vibrating voice.
He began to pray with loud earnestness. Alex had the wildest impulse to giggle. Merle Graham had seen to it that she was raised with traditional Protestant beliefs. They had attended church regularly. Though she had never embraced the fundamentalist dogma her grandmother adhered to, Alex's Christian faith was well cemented.

"Please, Reverend Plummet," she interrupted when his prayer extended into overtime, "I've had a very long day. Could we get to the point of your visit, please?"
He looked rather piqued over her interruption, but said with a mysterious air, "I can assist you with your investigation
of Minton Enterprises."
She was stunned. She had never expected him to be connected in any way to her investigation. She reminded herself,
however, to proceed with caution. She was, after all, extremely skeptical. What deep, dark secrets could this weird little man know about Celina, Reede Lambert, or the Mintons?
Ministers were privy to confidences, but experience had taught her that professional ethics usually prevented them from revealing any confessions. They strictly abided by the rules of privileged information, and only imparted it in life threatening situations.
It didn't seem likely that either Angus or Junior would bare his soul to a mousy little man like Plummet. Based wholly on outward appearance, he would have a minimal amount of influence with the Almighty. The thought of Reede Lambert confessing a sin was preposterous.
She responded with a professional detachment that Greg Harper would have been proud of: "Oh, really? How can you do that? Did you know my mother?"
"Unfortunately, no. But I can speed along your investigation just the same. We--my congregation of saints and I--believe
that you're on our side. And our side is God's side.''
"Th-thank you," she stammered, hoping that was the correct response.
Obviously, it was. It earned a soft amen from Mrs. Plummet, who had been silently praying all this time.
"Reverend Plummet," Alex said uncertainly, "I'm not sure you understand. I'm here at the behest of the district attorney's office to--"
"The Lord uses people as his holy instruments."
"--to investigate the murder of my mother, which occurred here in Purcell twenty-five years ago."

"God be praised . . . that this wrong . . . will soon be set right!" He shook his fists heavenward.
Alex was flabbergasted. She gave a nervous laugh. "Yes, well, I hope so, too. But I fail to see how my investigation concerns you and your ministry. Do you have inside knowledge of the crime?"
"Oh, that I did, Miss Gaither," Plummet wailed. "Oh, that I did, so that we could speed along God's work and punish the iniquitous."
"The iniquitous?"
"Sinners!" he shouted fervently. "Those who would corrupt this town and all the innocent children of God living here. They want to build Satan's playground, fill the precious veins of our children with narcotics, their sweet mouths with foul liquor, their fertile little minds with carnality."
From the corner of her eye, Alex glanced at Mrs. Plummet, who sat with her head bowed, her hands folded in her lap, her knees and ankles decorously pressed together, as though they had been glued that way.
"Are you referring to Purcell Downs?" Alex asked tentatively.
Just as she had feared, the very words opened up a wellspring of evangelical fervor. Prophecies came spewing out of the preacher's mouth like a fountain run amok. Alex endured a sermon on the evils of horserace gambling and all the ungodly elements that accompanied it. But when Plummet began to tout her as a missionary sent to Purcell to vanquish the sons of Satan, she felt compelled to bring the fiery sermon to a halt.
"Reverend Plummet, please." After several attempted interruptions, he stopped speaking and looked at her blankly. She licked her lips anxiously, not wanting to offend him, but wanting to make herself explicitly clear.
"I have absolutely nothing to do with whether or not Minton Enterprises is granted a gambling license. The fact is that they've already been approved by the racing commission. All that remains are the formalities."

"But the Mintons are under investigation for murder."
Choosing her words carefully, and omitting any direct reference to the Mintons, she said, "If enough evidence or probable cause is found as a result of my investigation, the case could be brought before the grand jury. It would be up to it to bring forth an indictment. In any instance, the parties involved are to be presumed innocent until proven guilty, in accordance with our Constitution."
She held up a hand to stave off his interruption. "Please, let me finish. Whatever happens regarding the proposed racetrack
after I conclude my investigation will be the responsibility of the racing commission. I will have nothing to do with its final decision on this or any other application for a gambling license.
"Actually, it's coincidental that the Mintons are personally involved with both issues simultaneously. I reopened my mother's murder case because, as a public prosecutor, I was dissatisfied with its resolution, and thought that it warranted
further investigation. I do not hold a personal grudge against this town, or anyone in it."
Plummet was squirming with the need to speak, so she let him. "You don't want to see gambling come to Purcell, do you? Aren't you against this device of the devil that snatches food from children's mouths, destroys marriages, and plunges the weak onto paths bound for hell and damnation?''
"My views on pari-mutuel betting--or anything else, for that matter--are none of your business, Reverend Plummet.''
Alex came to her feet. She was tired, and he was a wacko. She'd given him more time than he deserved. "I must ask you and Mrs. Plummet to leave now."
He wasn't an educated and eloquent churchman, who had researched the issue and drawn enlightened conclusions. There were well-founded arguments for both sides. But whether pari-mutuel gambling came to Purcell County or not, Alex had nothing to do with it.
"We're not giving up," Plummet said, following her to the door. "We're willing to make any sacrifice to see that God's will is carried out."
"God's will? If it's God's will that the Mintons be denied that gambling license, then nothing you do will help or hinder, right?"
He couldn't be trapped with logic. "God uses us to do his work. He's using you, though you might not know it yet."
His eyes smoldered with fanatical fire. It gave Alex goose bumps. "You are the answer to our prayers. Oh, yes, Miss Gaither, the answer to our prayers. Call on us. You've been anointed by God, and we're your humble and willing servants."
"I, uh, I'll keep that in mind. Goodbye."
Reverend Plummet's theology was warped. He gave her the creeps. She couldn't get her door closed behind him fast enough. As soon as she did, her telephone rang.

Nineteen

"How does dinner and dancing sound?" Junior Minton asked without preamble.
"Like a fairy tale."
"It's not. Just say yes."
"You're inviting me out for dinner and dancing?"
"It's the monthly fete at the Purcell Horse and Gun Club. Please say you'll go with me. Otherwise, it'll be boring as hell."
Alex laughed. "Junior, I doubt you're ever bored. Especially when there are women around. Do most of them fall for your b.s.?"

"Almost without exception. If you go with me tonight, it'll be unanimous."
"Tonight?"
"Sure, tonight. Did I fail to mention that? Sorry I couldn't give you more notice."
"You're actually serious?"
"Would I joke about something as important as the monthly get-together at the Horse and Gun Club?"
"Of course you wouldn't. Forgive my flippancy."
"All's forgiven if you'll go."
"I really can't. I'm exhausted. Last night--"
"Yeah, I heard about that. Jeez, that must've been awful, you finding Pasty Hickam that way. I want to help take your mind off it."
"I appreciate your consideration, but I can't go."
"I refuse to take no for an answer."
While talking, she had struggled out of her dress and was now standing in her slip and stockings, cradling the telephone
receiver between her shoulder and her ear while trying to pull on her robe. The housekeeper always turned off the heat after she cleaned the room. Every evening Alex had a frigid homecoming to dread.
She glanced toward the alcove where her clothes were hanging. "I really can't go, Junior."
"How come?"
"All my dressy clothes are in Austin. I don't have anything to wear."
"Surely a lady as articulate as you isn't resorting to that cliche?"
"It happens to be the truth."
"And the occasion calls for casual. Wear that leather skirt you had on the other day. It's a knockout."
Alex had finally managed to wriggle herself into the robe without dropping the phone. She sat down on the edge of the bed and snuggled deeper into the terry cloth. "I still have to say no."
"Why? I know it's rude to put you on the spot like this, but I'm not going to be gracious and let you bow out without giving me a valid reason."
"I just don't think it would be a good idea for us to socialize."
"Because you're hoping I'll soon be a resident of the Huntsville State Prison?"
"No!"
"Then, what?"
"I don't want to send you to prison, but you are a key suspect in a murder case."
"Alex, you've had time to form an opinion of me. Do you honestly believe that I could commit such a violent crime?"
She remembered how Reede had laughed at the notion of Junior going to war. He was lazy, unambitious, a philanderer.
Violent outbursts didn't fit into his image. "No, I don't," she replied softly. "But you're still a suspect. It wouldn't do for us to be seen fraternizing."
"I like that word," he snarled. "It sounds dirty, incestuous. And for your peace of mind, I do all my fraternizing privately. That is, except for a few times, when I was younger. Reede and I used to--"
"Please," she groaned, "I don't want to know."
"Okay, I'll spare you the lurid details, on one condition."
"What?"
"Say you'll go tonight. I'll pick you up at seven."
"I can't."
"Alex, Alex," he moaned dramatically, "look at it this way. During the course of the evening I'll have a drink or two, possibly more. I might start reminiscing, get maudlin, say something indiscreet. When I do, you'll be there to hear it. No telling what stunning confessions I might blurt out in my inebriation. Consider this evening one long interrogation. It's part of your job to wear down the defenses of your suspects, isn't it?
"You'd be shirking your duty if you didn't take advantage of every opportunity to rout out the truth. How can you selfishly languish in the luxury of the Westerner Motel while a suspect is shooting off his mouth over drinks at the Horse and Gun Club? Shame on you. You owe this to the taxpaying public who've footing the bill for this investigation. Do it for your country, Alex."
Again, she groaned dramatically. "If I consent to go, will you promise not to make any more speeches?"
"Seven o'clock."
She could hear the triumph in his voice.

The moment she entered the clubhouse, she was glad she had come. There was music and laughter. She caught snatches
of several conversations, none of which were centered around Celina Gaither's murder. That in itself was a refreshing
change. She looked forward to several hours of relaxation, and felt that the break had been earned.
Nevertheless, she rationalized being there. Not for a minute did she believe that Junior would make a public spectacle of
himself while under the influence. She wasn't likely to hear any startling confessions.
All the same, something beneficial might come out of the evening. The exclusivity of the Horse and Gun Club suggested that only Purcell's upper crust were members. Reede had told her that the people who had signed the letter she had received were local businessmen and professionals. It was conceivable that she would meet some of them tonight, and get a feel for the extent of their animosity.
More important, she would have an opportunity to mingle with locals, people who knew the Mintons and Reede well and might shed light on their characters. Junior had picked her up in his red Jaguar. He'd driven it with a lack of regard for the speed limit. His festive mood had been contagious. Whether she was acting in a professional capacity or not, it felt good to be standing beside the handsomest man in the room, with his hand riding lightly, but proprietorially, on the small of her back.
"The bar's this way," he said close to her ear, making himself heard over the music. They wended their way through the crowd.
The club wasn't glitzy. It didn't resemble the slick, neon nightclubs that were bursting out like new stars in the cities, catering to yuppies who flocked to them in BMWs and designer couture.
The Purcell Horse and Gun Club was quintessentially Texan. The bartender could have been sent over by Central Casting. He had a handlebar mustache, black bow tie and vest, and red satin garters on his sleeves. A pair of longhorns, which spanned six feet from polished tip to polished tip, were mounted above the ornately carved nineteenth-century bar.
The walls were adorned with pictures of racehorses, prizewinning bulls with testicles as large as punching bags, and landscapes where either yucca or bluebonnets abounded. In almost every instance the paintings featured an obligatory
windmill, looking lonesome and stark against the sun-streaked horizon. Alex was Texan enough to find it comfortable and endearing. She was sophisticated enough to recognize its gaucheness.
"White wine," she told the bartender, who was unabashedly giving her a once-over.
"Lucky son of a bitch," he muttered to Junior as he served them their drinks. The grin beneath the lavish mustache was
lecherous.
Junior saluted him with his scotch and water. "Ain't I just?" He propped his elbow on the bar and turned to face Alex, who was seated on the stool. "The music's a little too country and western for my taste, but if you want to dance, I'm game."
She shook her head. "Thanks, but no. I'd rather watch."
A few songs later, Junior leaned close and whispered, "Most of them learned to dance in a pasture. They still look like they're trying to avoid stepping in a pile of cow shit."
The wine had taken effect. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed. Feeling a pleasant buzz, she tossed her hair over her
shoulder and laughed.


"Come on," he said, placing his hand beneath her elbow and helping her off the stool. "Mother and Dad are at their table."
Alex moved with him along the perimeter of the dance floor to the cluster of tables set up for dining. Sarah Jo and Angus were seated at one. He was puffing on a cigar. Sarah Jo was idly waving the offensive smoke away from her face. Alex had been apprehensive about wearing the russet leather skirt and matching, leather-trimmed sweater, but she felt more comfortable in them than she would have wearing Sarah Jo's burgundy satin dress and looking out of place in a room where people were stamping out "Cotton-Eyed Joe," yelling "bullshit" in the appropriate places, and drinking beer straight from opaque amber bottles.
"Hello, Alex," Angus said around his cigar.
"Hello. Junior was hospitable enough to invite me," she said as she sat down in the chair Junior was holding out for her.
"I had to do some arm-twisting," he told his parents, taking the chair next to her. "She plays hard to get."
"Her mother certainly didn't."
Sarah Jo's cool, catty remark momentarily stifled the conversation. It served to counteract the potency of Alex's glass of wine. Her giddiness fizzled and went flat as day-old soda. She nodded toward Sarah Jo and said, "Hello, Mrs. Minton. You look lovely tonight."
Even though her dress was inappropriate, she did look lovely in it. Not vibrant, Alex thought. Sarah Jo could never look vivacious and animated. Her beauty had an ethereal quality, as though her visitation on earth was temporary and tenuous. She gave Alex one of her vague, secretive smiles and murmured a thank-you as she took a sip of wine.
"Heard you were the one who discovered Pasty's body."
"Dad, this is a party," Junior said. "Alex won't want to talk about something nasty like that."
"No, it's all right, Junior. I would have brought it up myself, sooner or later."
"I don't reckon it was coincidence that you met him at that honky-tonk and climbed into his pickup with him," Angus said, rolling the cigar from one corner of his lips to the other.
"No." She paraphrased for them her telephone conversations with Pasty.
"That cowboy was a liar, a fornicator, and, worse than all his other vices put together, he cheated at poker," Angus said with some vehemence. "In the last few years he'd gone plumb goofy and irresponsible. That's why I had to let him go. I figure you've got better sense than to put any stock in what he told you."
In the middle of his monologue, Angus signaled the waiter to bring another round of drinks. "Oh, sure, Pasty might've seen who went into that stable with Celina, but the one he saw was Gooney Bud."
Having said his piece, and giving Alex no opportunity to dispute it, he launched into a glowing review of a jockey from Ruidoso that he wanted to ride for them. Since the Mintons were her hosts, Alex graciously let the topic of Pasty Hickam die for the moment.
When they'd finished their drinks, Angus and Junior offered to go through the barbecue buffet for the ladies. Alex would just as soon have gone through the line herself. She found it difficult to make small talk with Sarah Jo, but after the men withdrew, she valiantly made an attempt.
"Have you been members of the club for a long time?"
"Angus was one of the charter members," Sarah Jo supplied distractedly. She kept her eyes on the couples doing the two-step in an eternal circle around the dance floor.
"He seems to have a finger in just about every pie in town," Alex remarked.
"Hmm, he likes to know everything that's going on."
"And be a part of it."
"Yes. He makes things happen and spreads himself thin."
She gave a delicate sigh. "Angus has this need to be well liked, you see. He's always politicking, as though it matters what other people think."

Alex folded her hands beneath her chin and propped her elbows on the table. "You don't believe it matters?"
"No." Her entrancement with the dancers ended. For the first time that evening, she looked directly at Alex. "Don't read too much into the way Junior treats you."
"Oh?"
"He flirts with every woman he meets."
Alex slowly lowered her hands to her lap. Anger roiled inside, but she managed to keep her voice low and level. "I resent your implication, Mrs. Minton."
Sarah Jo lifted one shoulder indifferently. "Both of my men are charming and they know it. Most women don't realize that their flirting is meaningless."
"I'm sure that's true of Angus, but I don't know about Junior. Three ex-wives might disagree with you about his flirting."
"They were all wrong for him."
"What about my mother? Would she have been wrong for him?"
Sarah Jo fixed her empty stare on Alex again. "Absolutely wrong. You're a lot like her, you know."
"Am I?"
"You enjoy causing dissonance. Your mother was never content to leave bothersome things alone. The only difference is that you're even better at making trouble and creating ill will than she was. You're direct to the point of being tactless, a trait I've always attributed to bad breeding." She lifted her eyes to someone who had moved up behind Alex.
"Good evening, Sarah Jo."
"Judge Wallace." A sweet smile broke across Sarah Jo's face. One would never guess she had had her stinger out seconds earlier. "Hello, Stacey."
Alex, her face hot with indignation over Sarah Jo's unwarranted criticism, turned around. Judge Joe Wallace was staring down at her with disapproval, as though her being there was a breach of the club's standards.
"Miss Gaither."

"Hello, Judge Wallace." The woman standing beside him looked at Alex with a censure that matched his, though for what reason, Alex couldn't guess. Obviously, Junior was the only friendly face she was going to find in this crowd. The judge gave the woman's arm a nudge and they moved toward another table. "Is that his wife?" Alex asked, following their progress.
"Good heavens, no," Sarah Jo said. "His daughter. Poor Stacey. Eternally dowdy."
Stacey Wallace was still staring at Alex with such malice that she was captivated by it. She didn't break her stare until Junior's knee bumped hers when he resumed his seat and set two plates of food on the table.
"I hope you like ribs and beans." His gaze followed the direction of hers. "Hey, Stacey." He winked at her and raised his hand in a friendly wave.
The woman's puckered mouth relaxed into a faltering smile. Blushing, she raised her hand to her neckline like a flustered girl and called back shyly, "Hi, Junior."
"Well?"
Though she was still curious about the judge and his chameleon daughter, Junior's one-word inquiry brought Alex's head around. "Sorry?"
"Do you like ribs and beans?"
"Watch me," she laughed, spreading the napkin over her lap.
She did unladylike damage to her plate of food, but her healthy appetite earned her a compliment from Angus. "Sarah Jo eats like a bird. Don't you like the ribs, honey?" he asked, looking into her plate, which had barely been disturbed.
"They're a little dry."
"Want me to order you something else?"
"No, thank you."
After they'd eaten, Angus took a fresh cigar from his pocket and lit it. Fanning out the match, he said, "Why don't you two dance?"
"Are you game?" Junior asked.

"Sure." Alex pushed back her chair and stood up. "But this kind of dancing isn't my forte, so nothing too fancy, please."
Junior drew her into his arms and, disobeying her request, executed a series of intricate turns and dips. "Very nice," he said, smiling down at her when they lapsed into a more sedate two-step. Using the arm he had placed around her waist, he pulled her tighter against him. "Very, very nice."
Alex let him hold her close because it felt good to have two strong arms around her. Her partner was handsome and charming and knew how to make a woman feel beautiful.
She was a victim of his charm, but knowing it was her safety net.
She could never actually fall for a glib charmer like Junior, but small doses of attention from one was fun temporarily, especially since every time she was around Reede, her confidence and ego took a beating.
"Is Reede a club member?" she asked casually.
"Are you kiddin'?"
"He hasn't been invited to join?"
"Oh, sure, as soon as he won sheriff the first time. It's just that he feels more at home in another crowd. He doesn't give a ****--excuse me--for society stuff." He stroked her back. "You seem more relaxed than when I picked you up. Having fun?"
"Yes, but you got me here under false pretenses," she accused. "You're a long way from becoming drunk and talkative."
His smile was unrepentant. "Ask me anything."
"Okay. Who's the man over there, the one with the white hair?" Junior identified him by name. Her instincts proved correct. His name had been among those at the bottom of her letter. "Introduce us when the band takes its next break."
"He's married."
She shot him a look. "My interest in him isn't romantic."
"Ah, good, good."
He did as she asked. The banker she had picked out of the crowd seemed disconcerted when Junior introduced her. As she shook hands with him, she said, "I received your letter, Mr. Longstreet."
Her straightforwardness surprised him, but he recovered admirably. "I see that you're taking it to heart." He slid a knowing glance toward Junior.
"Don't let my being here tonight with Junior fool you. I can appreciate what he, his father, and Mr. Lambert mean to Purcell and its economy, but that does not mean I'll suspend my investigation. It'll take more than a letter to scare me off."
Clearly irritated, Junior spoke to her out of the side of his mouth as he escorted her back onto the dance floor a few minutes later. "You could have warned me."
"About what?"
"That you are armed and dangerous. Longstreet's a big wheel who shouldn't be put on the defensive. What's all this about a letter, anyway?"
She explained, reciting as many of the names as she could recall. "I hoped to meet some of them here tonight."
He pulled a deep frown, regarding her with asperity. Eventually, however, he shrugged and fashioned a beguiling smile.
"And here I thought I'd swept you off your feet." Sighing in resignation, he added, "Well, I'd just as well help you out. Want to meet the rest of your adversaries?"
Trying to make it appear as casual as possible, Junior moved her through the crowd, introducing her to those there who had signed their names to that subtly threatening letter.
A half hour later they moved away from a couple who owned a chain of convenience stores throughout West Texas. They had invested heavily in Purcell Downs and were the most demonstratively hostile. By that time, though, word had gotten around who Junior's date was, so they'd been laying for her.
"There, that's everybody," he told her.
' 'Thank God,'' Alex whispered. "Are the knives still sticking out of my back?"

"You're not going to let that old biddy's rapier tongue get to you, are you? Look, she's a dried up old shrew who hales any woman who doesn't have a mustache as thick as hers."
Alex smiled in spite of herself. "She all but said, 'Be on the next stage leaving town ... or else.' "
He squeezed her arm. "Come on, let's dance again. It will take your mind off your troubles."
"I need to repair the damages," she said, slipping out of his grasp. "Excuse me."
"Okay. The little girls' room is thataway." He pointed down a narrow hallway.
There was no one in the powder room when she went in, but when she came out of the cubicle, the judge's daughter was standing in front of the dressing table, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She turned and faced Alex.
Alex smiled. "Hi."
"Hello."
Alex moved to the sink and washed her hands. "We haven't been formally introduced. I'm Alex Gaither." She plucked two coarse paper towels from the dispenser.
"Yes, I know."
Alex dropped the used towels into the wastepaper basket.
"You're Judge Wallace's daughter." She attempted to break the ice in an atmosphere that was glacial and getting colder by the second. The woman had dropped all vestiges of the shy, insecure maiden she had assumed when Junior had spoken to her. Her face was stony and uncompromisingly antagonistic.
"Stacey, wasn't it?"
"Yes. Stacey. But the last name isn't Wallace. It's Min-ton."
"Minton?"
"That's right. I am Junior's wife. His first wife."

Twenty


"I can see that's news to you," Stacey said, laughing humorlessly at Alex's dumbfounded expression.
''Yes,'' she replied in a hollow tone.' 'No one's mentioned that."

Stacey's composure, always intact, deserted her. Flattening a hand on her meager bosom, she cried out, "Do you have any idea the damage you're doing?"
"To whom?"
"To me," she shouted, pounding her chest. Immediately she dropped her hand and rolled her lips inward, as though mortified by her outburst. She closed her eyes momentarily. When she opened them, they were filled with animosity, but
she appeared to have regained control of herself.' 'For twenty-five years I've had to live down the generally held belief that
Junior Minton married me on the rebound from your mother.''

Alex didn't state the obvious, but guiltily lowered her eyes.

"I see that you hold to that belief, too."
"I'm sorry, Miss . . . Stacey. May I call you Stacey?"
"Of course," she replied stiffly.
"I'm sorry that my investigation has distressed you."
"How could it not? You're dredging up the past. By doing so, you're airing my dirty linen for all the town to see. Again."
"I had no idea who Junior's first wife was, or that she even lived in Purcell."

"Would it have mattered?"
"Probably not," Alex answered with rueful honesty. "I can't see that your marriage to Junior has any bearing on the case. It's a peripheral association that I can't help."
"What about my father?" Stacey asked, switching subjects.
"What about him?"
"This petty investigation of yours is going to cause him embarrassment. It already has."
"How so?"
"The fact that you're questioning his original ruling."
"I'm sorry. I can't help that, either."
"Can't--or won't?" Stacey held her arms straight at her sides and shuddered with revulsion. "I abhor people who trample on the reputations of others for their own personal gain."
"Is that what you think I'm doing?" Alex asked, taking umbrage. "Do you think I devised this investigation to advance my career?"
"Didn't you?"
"No," she answered, firmly shaking her head. "My mother was murdered in that stable. I don't believe that the man accused of it was capable of committing that crime. I want to know what really happened. I will know what happened. And I'll make the one responsible pay for making me an orphan."
"I was prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I see it's only revenge you want, after all."
"I want justice."
"No matter what it costs other people?"
"I've already apologized for any unhappiness it causes you."
Stacey made a scoffing sound. "You want to publicly crucify my father. Don't deny it," she snapped when Alex started to object. "No matter how much you deny it, you're leaving him open to ridicule. At the very least, you're accusing him of making a serious error in judgment."

To deny that would be a lie. "Yes, I believe he made a bad judgment in the case of Buddy Hicks."
"Daddy's got forty impeccable years on the bench that vouch for his wisdom and integrity."
"If my investigation is petty, as you call it, it won't affect his record, will it, Mrs. Minton? A lofty judge couldn't possibly be brought down by a lowly public prosecutor with nothing except spite and vengeance for ammunition. Evidence would be necessary to support my allegations."
"You don't have any."
"I believe I will before I'm finished. If your father's reputation suffers as a result ..." She drew a deep breath and raised a weary hand to her forehead. Her expression was earnest, her words heartfelt. "Stacey, I don't want to ruin your father's career or besmirch his tenure on the bench. I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings or cause any innocent bystander grief or embarrassment. I only want to see justice done."
"Justice," Stacey sneered, her eyes narrowing with malice.
"You've got no right to even speak the word. You're just like your mother--pretty, but shallow. Single-minded and selfish. Uncaring of other people's feelings. Unable to see beyond your own superficial desires."
"I take it you didn't like my mother very much," Alex remarked, her voice laced with sarcasm.
Stacey took her seriously. "I hated her."
"Why? Because Junior was in love with her?"
Alex reasoned that if Stacey were going to hit below the belt, she might as well, too. It worked. Stacey fell back a step and groped for the dressing table to support herself.
Reflexively, Alex extended a helping hand, but the judge's daughter recoiled from her touch.
"Stacey, I know that Junior married you only a few weeks after my mother was killed. You must realize how odd that strikes me."
"It might have seemed sudden, but we'd been dating for years."
That surprised Alex. "You had?"

"Yes. And for most of that time, we'd been lovers."
Stacey threw that piece of news at Alex like a dart, sharply and triumphantly. All it served, however, was to make Alex pity her more. She had the full picture now of a plain girl, hopelessly in love with the affable and handsome football hero, willing to sacrifice anything, including her pride, to have even scraps of his attention. She would do anything to keep him near her. "I see."
"I doubt it. Just like Junior, you're blind to the truth."
"What is the truth, Stacey?"
"That Celina was wrong for him. Like everybody else, she constantly compared him to Reede. Junior always came out in second place. I didn't care how he measured up to anybody. I loved him for what he was. Junior didn't want to believe it, but in spite of your father and you, Celina would have always loved Reede."
'' If she loved him so much, why did she marry my father?''
That question had been plaguing Alex for days.
"Celina and Reede had a falling out the spring of our junior year. As soon as school was out for the summer, she went to visit cousins in El Paso."
"That's where she met my father." Alex knew this much of the story from her grandmother. "He was going through boot camp at Port Bliss. Soon after they were married, he got shipped to Vietnam."
Stacey sneered, "And after he died, she wanted to take back up with Reede, but he wouldn't have her. That's when she kindled Junior's hopes. She knew he'd always wanted her, but he never would have pursued it, on account of Reede. It was disgraceful how she played up to Junior, involving him with her pregnancy. She might have toyed with the idea of marrying him, but it never would have happened as long as Reede Lambert drew breath.
"Your mother kept Junior dangling by a thread of hope. She made his life miserable. She would have gone on making him miserable if she had lived." The former Mrs. Minton drew a choppy breath that caused her shapeless chest to stagger as it rose and fell. "I was glad when Celina died."

A spark of suspicion leaped into Alex's eyes.' 'Where were you that night?"
"At home unpacking. I'd just returned from a week's vacation in Galveston."
Would she lie over something so easily checked? "You married Junior right away."
"That's right. He needed me. I knew that I was only a panacea for his grief, just like I'd always known when he made love to me that it was Celina he really wanted. But I didn't care if he used me. I wanted to be used. I cooked his meals, took care of his clothes, nurtured him in bed and out."
Her expression changed as she lapsed into a private reverie.
"I overlooked the first time he was unfaithful to me. I was crushed, naturally, but I could understand how easily it had happened. Whenever we went out, women flocked to him. What man could resist such a strong temptation? The affair didn't last long before he lost interest.'' She clasped her hands and studied them as she spoke softly. "Then there was another. And another. I would have tolerated all his lovers if only he'd stayed married to me.
"But he asked me for a divorce. At first I refused. He kept on and on, telling me that he hated hurting me with his affairs.
When I was left no option, I granted the divorce. It broke my heart, but I gave him what he wanted, knowing, knowing," she repeated with emphasis, "that no other woman would ever be as right for him as I was. I thought I'd die with the pain of loving him too well."
She shook herself out of the reflective mood and beaded on Alex. "And I still have to stand by and watch him move from woman to woman, all the time searching for what I can and want to give him. I had to watch him dance and flirt with you tonight. You! My God," she sobbed, tilting her face toward the ceiling and pressing her fist to her forehead, eyes squeezed shut. "You want to ruin him, and he still can't see beyond your pretty face and body."
She lowered her hand and glared at Alex. "You are poison, Miss Gaither. I feel the same way about you tonight as I did twenty-five years ago." Closing the distance between them and putting her narrow, angular face close to Alex's site hissed, "I wish you'd never been born."

Alex's attempts to compose herself after Stacey's departure had been in vain. Her face was pale and she was trembling as she walked out of the powder room.
"I was about to come in and get you." Junior was waiting for Alex in the hallway. At first he didn't notice her troubled expression. When he did, he was instantly concerned. "Alex? What's the matter?"
"I'd like to leave now."
"Are you sick? What's--"
"Please. We'll talk on the way."
Without further argument, Junior took her arm and steered her toward the cloakroom, where he asked the attendant for their coats. "Wait here." Alex watched him reenter the club, skirt the dance floor, and move to the table where they had eaten dinner. After a brief exchange with Angus and Sarah Jo, he returned in time to claim their coats.
He hustled her outside and into the red Jaguar. He waited until they were a good distance from the club and the car's heater was pumping warm air before he addressed her across the plush interior. "All right, what gives?"
"Why didn't you tell me that you were married to Stacey Wallace?"
He stared at her until it became a driving hazard, then turned his head and fixed his eyes on the road ahead. "You didn't ask."
"How glib."
She laid her head against the cold passenger window, feeling like she'd just sustained a beating with a chain and was due to enter the ring for round two. Just when she thought she had finished sorting through all the pieces of the various liaisons of Purcell, another intricate twist emerged.
"Is it important?" Junior asked.
"I don't know." She turned her shoulders toward him and rested the back of her head on the window. "You tell me. Is it?"
"No. The marriage lasted less than a year. We parted friends."
"You parted friends. She's still in love with you."
He winced. "That was one of our problems. Stacey's love is obsessive and possessive. She shackled me. I couldn't breathe. We--"
"Junior, you screwed around," she interrupted impatiently. "Spare me the banal explanations. I really don't care."
"Then why'd you bring it up?"
"Because she confronted me in the powder room and accused me of ruining her father's life with this investigation."
"For crissake, Alex, Joe Wallace is a big crybaby. Stacey mothers him. I don't doubt for a minute that he's whined and carried on about you something awful in front of her. It's a ploy to get her sympathy. They feed each other's neuroses. Don't worry about it."
Alex didn't like Junior Minton very much at that moment.
His cavalier attitude toward a woman's--any woman's-- love reduced him in Alex's eyes. She'd watched him tonight, doing just as Stacey had described, moving from woman to woman. The young and old, attractive and homely, married and unattached, all seemed to be fair game. He was charming with each, like a mall Easter bunny working the crowd, doling out treats to greedy children who didn't realize they'd be better off without them.
He seemed to take their fawning as his due. Alex had never found that kind of conceit commendable or appealing. Junior took for granted that he would elicit a response from every woman he spoke to. Ruling was an involuntary action to him, as natural as breathing. It would never occur to him that someone might misinterpret his intentions and suffer emotional pain.
Perhaps if she hadn't had the conversation with Stacey, Alex would have smiled indulgently, as all the other women and accepted his suaveness as part of his personality, instead, she now felt irritable toward him and wanted to know she couldn't be so blithely dismissed.
"It wasn't just the judge Stacey took issue with. She said I was stirring up memories of her marriage to you, airing her dirty linen. I get the impression that being your ex has been a real trial for her."
"That's not really my problem, is it?"
"Maybe it should be."
Her harsh backlash surprised him. "You sound mad at me. Why?"
"I don't know." The flare of her temper had been short and sweet. Now, she felt drained. "I'm sorry. Maybe it's just that I always pull for the underdog."
He reached across the car and covered her knee with his hand.' 'An admirable quality that hasn't escaped my notice.''
Alex picked up his hand and dropped it back onto the leather seat between them. "Uh-oh, I'm not off the hook yet."
She resisted his smile. "Why did you marry Stacey?"
"Is this really what you want to talk about?" He wheeled the car up to the breezeway of the Westerner Motel and shifted the gear into Park.
"Yes."
Frowning, he cut the engine and laid his arm along the seat, turning toward her. "It seemed like the thing to do at the time."
"You didn't love her."
"No shit."
"But you made love to her." He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Stacey told me that you'd been lovers for a long time before you got married."
"Not lovers, Alex. I took her out every now and then."
"How often?"
"You want it plain?"
"Shoot."
"I called on Stacey whenever I got horny and the Gail sisters were busy, or had their periods, or--"

"The who?"
"The Gail sisters. Another story." He waved off the questions he could see rising in her mind.
"I've got all night." She settled more comfortably against her door.
"Doesn't anything escape you?"
"Very little. What about these sisters?"
"There were three of them--triplets, in fact. All named Gail."
"That stands to reason."
"No, it wasn't their last name. Their names were Wanda Gail, Nora Gail, and Peggy Gail."
"Is this a joke?"
He drew an x across his chest. "Cross my heart. Reede had already initiated them, so to speak, before I arrived on the scene. He introduced me to them." He snickered, as though recalling a particularly sordid incident of his youth.
"In short, the Gail sisters put out. They liked putting out. Every guy in Purcell High School must of had them at least once."
"Okay, I get the picture. But when they were unavailable you called on Stacey Wallace, because she put out, too."
He looked at her levelly. "I've never coerced a woman. She was willing, Alex."
"Only for you."
He shrugged an admission.
"And you took advantage of that."
"Name me one guy who wouldn't."
"You've got a point," she said dryly. "I would venture to say that you're the only man Stacey's ever been with."
He had the grace to look a little ashamed. "Yeah, I'd say so, too."
"I felt sorry for her tonight, Junior. She was hateful to me, but I couldn't help but feel sorry for her."
"I never understood why she latched onto me, but she shadowed me from the day I enrolled into Purcell High School. She was a brainy kid, you know. Always the teachers' favorite because she was so conscientious and never got into trouble." He chuckled. "They'd never believe what she was willing to do in the back seat of my Chevy."
Alex gazed distractedly into space, not really listening.
"Stacey despised Celina."
"She was jealous of her."
"Mainly because when you made love to Stacey, she knew it was my mother you were wishing for."
"Jesus," he swore softly, his smile collapsing.
"That's what she said. Is that true?"
"Celina was always with Reede. That's just the way it was. It was a fact of life."
"But you did want her, even though she belonged to your best friend?"
After a lengthy pause, he admitted, "I'd be lying if I said otherwise."
Very softly, Alex said, "Stacey told me something else. It was an offhanded comment, not a revelation. She said it as though it was common knowledge--something I should already know."
"What?"
"That you wanted to marry my mother." She refocused on him and asked huskily, "Did you?"
He averted his head for a second, then said, "Yes."
"Before or after she got married and had me?"
"Both." When he saw her apparent confusion, he said, "I don't think a man could look at Celina and not want her for his own. She was beautiful and funny and had this way of making you think you were special to her. She had ..."
He groped for the adequate word. "Something," he said, closing his fist around the elusive noun, "something that made you want to possess her."
"Did you ever possess her?"
"Physically?"
"Did you ever sleep with my mother?"
His expression was baldly honest and terribly sad. "No, Alex. Never."

"Did you ever try? Would she have?"
"I don't think so. I never tried. At least, not very hard."
"Why not, if you wanted her so much?"
"Because Reede would have killed us."
Stunned, she gazed at him. "Do you really think so?"
He shrugged as his disarming smile moved into place.
"Figure of speech."
Alex wasn't so sure. It had sounded literal when he said it.
He scooted along the seat of his Jaguar until they were sitting very close. He slid his fingers up through her hair, laid his thumb along her neck and stroked it lightly.
"That's sure a dreary subject. Let's change it," he whispered, brushing an airy kiss across her mouth. "How about leaving the past for a while and thinking about the present?"
His eyes wandered over her face while his fingertips touched each feature. "I want to sleep with you, Alex."
For a moment, she was too stunned to speak. "You're not serious?"
"Wanna bet?"
He kissed her in earnest then. At least, he tried to. Tilting his head, he rested his lips upon hers, pressed, tested, pressed
harder. When she didn't respond, he pulled back and gave her a puzzled look.
"No?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"You know without my telling you. It would be crazy. Wrong."
"I've done crazier things." He lowered his hand to the front of her sweater and fingered a patch of soft suede.
"Wronger things, too."
"Well, I haven't."
"We'd be good together, Alex."
"We'll never know."
He ran his thumb along her lower lip, tracking its slow progress with his eyes. "Never say never." He bent his head and kissed her again--affectionately, not passionately--then returned to the driver's side of the car and got out. At the door, he gave her a chaste good-night kiss, but his expression was indulgent and amused. Alex knew he thought she was just being coy and that wearing her down was only a matter of time.
She was so befuddled by his come-on that it was several minutes before she noticed that the red message light on her telephone was blinking. She called the motel's front desk, retrieved her message, and called the specified number. Even
before the doctor got on the line, she knew what he would say. Nevertheless, his words shocked her.
"Miss Gaither, I'm terribly sorry. Mrs. Graham passed away earlier this evening without ever regaining consciousness."

Twenty-one

Alex knocked and waited until Reede called out, "Come in," before entering his office. "Good morning. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."
She sat down in the chair in front of his desk. Without asking, he poured her a cup of coffee to her liking and placed it in front of her. She thanked him with a nod.
"I'm sorry about your grandmother, Alex," he said as he resumed his seat in the creaky swivel chair.
"Thank you."
Alex had been away for a week, handling the details of her grandmother's funeral. Only Alex, a handful of former coworkers, and a few of the nursing home patients had attended the chapel service. After the burial, Alex had begun the unwelcome chore of clearing out her grandmother's room at the nursing home. The staff had been kind, but there was a waiting list, so they had needed the room emptied immediately.
It had been an emotionally stressful week. As she had sat staring at the modest casket, while organ music played softly in the background, she had felt an overwhelming sense of defeat. She had failed to fulfill the promise she had made to herself and to her grandmother: She hadn't produced Celina's murderer in time.
More defeating than that, she had failed to win her grandmother's absolution and love. That had been her last chance; she wouldn't have another.
She had given serious consideration to throwing in the towel, telling Greg that he'd been right, and that she should have taken his advice from the beginning. He would enjoy seeing her humility, and he would immediately assign her another case.
That would have been the easier course. She would never have to enter the city limits of Purcell again, or cope with the hostility that flew at her like missiles from everyone she met, or look into the face of this man, who generated myriad ambiguous feelings inside her.
From a legal viewpoint, she still had a case too weak to stand up in court. But from a personal perspective, she couldn't quit. She had become intrigued by the men who had loved her mother. She had to know which one of them had killed her, and whether or not she was responsible for her mother's murder. She would either have to deny her guilt, or learn to live with it, but she couldn't let it go forever unresolved.
So, she had returned to Purcell. She was staring into the pair of green eyes that had haunted her thoughts for a week, and they were as compelling and disturbing as she remembered.
"I wasn't sure you'd be back," he told her bluntly.
"You should have been. I told you I wouldn't give up."
"Yeah, I remember," he said grimly. "How was the dance the other night?"
His question came out of the blue and evoked a knee-jerk response. "How did you know I went?"
"Word gets around."
"Junior told you."
"No."
"I can hardly stand the suspense," Alex said. "How did you find out I went to the Horse and Gun Club?"
"One of my deputies clocked Junior doing eighty-one that night out on the highway. Around eleven o'clock, he said. He saw you in the car with him." He was no longer looking at her, but studying the toes of his boots. "You sure were in a hell of a hurry to get back to your motel."
"I was ready to leave the club, that's all. I wasn't feeling well."
"The barbecue didn't sit well with you? Or was it the people? Some of them make me sick to my stomach, too."
"It wasn't the food or the people. It was, well, one person: Stacey Wallace . . . Minton." Alex closely watched for his reaction. His face remained impassive. "Why didn't anyone tell me that Stacey had been married to Junior?"
"You didn't ask."
Miraculously, she was able to hold her temper in check.
"Didn't it occur to anybody that their hasty marriage might be significant?"
"It wasn't."
''I reserve the right to decide the significance of it myself.''
"Be my guest. Do you think it's significant?"
"Yes, I do. The timing of Junior's first marriage always struck me as strange. It's even stranger that the bride turned out to be the judge's daughter."
"That's not strange at all."
"Coincidental, certainly."
"Not even that. Stacey Wallace had been in love, or lust, with Junior since the day she first laid eyes on him. Everybody knew it, including Junior. She certainly made no secret of her devotion. When Celina died, Stacey saw her chance and seized it."
"Stacey didn't strike me as an opportunist."
"Grow up, Alex. We're all opportunists when we want something bad enough. She loved the guy," he pointed out impatiently.' 'He was sick over Celina's death. I guess Stacey figured her love could make his hurt go away, that it would be enough."
"It wasn't."
"Obviously. She couldn't make Junior love her back. She sure as hell couldn't weld his zippers shut." Vexed, he gnawed on the corner of his lip. "Who spilled the beans about this? Junior?"
"Stacey herself. She confronted me in the powder room and accused me of upsetting her life by reopening this case.''
"Gutsy lady," he said, nodding approval. "I always liked her."
"Oh, really? Did you sleep with her, too? Or did the Gail sisters keep you satiated?"
"The Gail sisters, huh?" He barked a short laugh. "I know Stacey didn't talk to you about Purcell's notorious triplets."
"Junior filled in the gaps."
"Must have been quite an evening."
''Most revealing.''
"Oh, yeah?" he drawled. "What'd you reveal?"
She ignored this well-placed insinuation. "Reede, what was the rush? Junior wasn't in love with Stacey. For the sake of argument, let's say he talked himself into marrying her. Why did they marry when they did?"
"Maybe she wanted to be a June bride."
"Don't make fun of me!" She shot out of her chair and moved to the window.
He whistled low and long. "Boy, are you ever in a rotten mood."
"I just buried my only living relative, remember?" she flared.

He cursed beneath his breath and raked his fingers through his hair. "For a minute there, I did forget. Look, Alex, I'm sorry. I remember how bad I felt when I buried my old man.''
She turned to face him, but he was staring at nothing.
"Angus and Junior were the only ones out of the whole goddamn town who came to the funeral. We didn't even hold it in a church or the funeral home, just at the grave site. Angus went back to work. Junior returned to school so he wouldn't miss a biology test. I went home.
"Not long after lunch, Celina came to my house. She had skipped school just to come and be with me. She knew I'd feel low, even though I hated the son of a bitch while he was alive. We lay down together on my bed and stayed there until it got dark. She knew if she didn't go home, her mother I would get worried. She cried for me because I couldn't." When he stopped speaking, there was a ponderous silence in the room. Alex was still standing by the window, motionless and transfixed by his story. Her chest hurt with heartache for the lonely young man he'd been.
"Was that the first time you made love to Celina?"
He looked straight at her, got out of his chair, and approached her. "Since you broached the subject of love lives, how's yours?"
The tension snapped, as did her temper. "Why don't you stop beating around the bush and come right out and ask?"
"Okay," he sneered. "Has Junior made it into your pants yet?"
"You bastard."
"Has he?"
"No!"
"I'll bet he's tried. He always tries." His laugh was deep and stirring. "Bingo." He raised his hand and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "You're blushing, Counselor."
She swatted his hand aside. "Go to hell."
She was furious with herself for blushing like a schoolgirl in front of him. It was none of his business who she slept with. What bothered her most, however, was that he didn't seem to care. If she had to describe that glint in his eyes she would call it amusement, possibly contempt, but certainly not jealousy.
To retaliate, she asked suddenly, "What did you and Celina quarrel about?"
"Celina and I? When?"
"The spring of your junior year. Why did she go to El Paso for the summer and start dating my father?"
"Maybe she needed a change of scenery," he said flippantly.
"Did you know how much your best friend loved her?"
His goading grin vanished. "Did Junior tell you that?"
"I knew before he told me. Did you know, at the time, that he loved her?"
He rolled his shoulders forward in a semblance of a shrug.
"Nearly every guy in school--"
"I'm not talking about infatuation with a popular girl, Reede." She grabbed his shirtsleeve to show just how important this was to her. ' 'Did you know how Junior felt about her?"
"What if I did?"
"He said you would have killed him if he'd tried anything with her. He said you would have killed them both if they had betrayed you."
"A figure of speech."
"That's what Junior said, too, but I don't think so," she said evenly. "There were a lot of passions stirring. Your relationships with each other were overlapping and complex."
"Whose relationships?"
"You and my mother loved each other, but you both loved Junior, too. Wasn't it a love triangle in the strictest sense of the word?"
"What the hell are you talking about? Do you think Junior and I are a couple of queers?"
Unexpectedly, he grabbed her hand and flattened it against his fly. "Feel that, baby? It's been hard more than it's been soft, but it's never been hard for a fag."
Stunned and shaken, she pried her hand away, subconsciously rubbing the palm of it against her thigh, as though it had been branded. "You have a redneck mentality, Sheriff Lambert," she said, supremely agitated. "I think you and Junior love each other the way Indian blood brothers do. But you're competitive, too."
"I don't compete with Junior."
"Maybe not consciously, but other people have pitted you against each other. And guess which one of you always came out on top? You. That bothered you. It still does."
"Is this more of your psychological bullshit?"
"It's not just my opinion. Stacey mentioned it the other night, and not at my prompting. She said people always compared the two of you, and that Junior always came in second."
"I can't help what people think."
"Your competitiveness came to a head over Celina, didn't it?"
"Why ask me? You've got all the answers."
"You had the edge there, too. Junior wanted to be Celina's lover, but you actually were."
A long silence followed. Reede regarded her with the concentration of a hunter who finally has his quarry in the cross hairs. The sunlight streaming through the blinds glinted in his eyes, on his hair, on his eyebrows, which were slanted dangerously.
Very quietly, he said, "Good try, Alex, but I'm not admitting anything."
He tried to move away then, but she caught his arms. "Well, weren't you her lover? What difference does it make if you say so now?"
"Because I never kiss and tell." His eyes slid down to her pulsing throat, then back up. "And you should be damned glad I don't."
Want surged through her, as warm and golden as the morning sunlight. She craved to feel his hard lips on hers again, the rough, powerful mastery of his tongue inside her mouth. She became dewy with desire and tearful with remorse for what she desperately wanted and couldn't have.
Eyes locked, neither realized that they were being observed from across the street. The sun was as good as a spotlight on them.
Willing herself out of the dubious present and into the disturbing past, she said, "Junior told me that you and Celina were more than just childhood sweethearts." It was a bluff, but she gambled on it working. "He told me everything about your relationship with her, so it really doesn't matter whether you admit it or not. When did you and she first . . .'" you know?"
"****?"
The vulgarity, spoken in a low, thrumming rasp, sent shafts of heat through her. Never had that word sounded erotic to her before. She swallowed and made an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment.
Suddenly, he hooked his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her against him, placing her face directly beneath his. His eyes bore into hers.
"Junior didn't tell you shit, Counselor," he whispered.
"Don't try your fancy, courtroom-lawyer bluffs on me. I've got eighteen years on you, and I was born smart. The tricks I've got up my sleeve, you've never even heard about. I'm damn sure not ignorant enough to fall for yours."
His fist clenched tighter around the handful of her hair he was holding. His breath felt hotter and came faster against her face. "Don't ever try to come between Junior and me again, you hear? Fight us both or **** us both, but don't tamper with something outside your understanding."
His eyes narrowed with sinister intensity. "Your mama had a bad habit of playing both ends against the middle, Alex. Somebody got a bellyful of it and killed her before she learned her lesson. You'd do well to learn it before something like
that happens to you."


The morning was a washout in terms of discovering new clues. Nothing diverted her mind from the disturbing conversation
she had had with Reede. If a deputy hadn't knocked on the office door and interrupted them, she didn't know whether she would have clawed at Reede's eyes or yielded to her stronger urge to press her body close to his and kiss him.
At noon she stopped trying to concentrate and crossed the street to have lunch at the B & B Cafe. Like most people who worked downtown, that had become her habit. No longer were conversations suspended when she went in. Every now and then she even merited a greeting from Pete if he wasn't too busy in the kitchen.
She dawdled over her meal as long as possible, scooting the yellow ceramic armadillo ashtray back and forth across her table and leafing through Pete's printed brochure on the proper way to prepare rattlesnake.
She was killing time, loath to return to the dingy little office in the basement of the courthouse and stare into space, recounting unsettling thoughts and reviewing hypotheses that seemed more farfetched by the hour. But one thought kept
haunting her. Was there any connection between Celina's death and Junior's hasty marriage to Stacey Wallace?
Her mind was steeped in speculation when she left the cafe. Ducking her head against the cold wind, she walked toward the corner. The traffic light, one of the few downtown, changed just as she reached the corner. She was about to step off the cracked and buckled concrete curb when her arm was caught from behind.
"Reverend Plummet," she stated in surprise. Subsequent events had quickly dismissed him and his timid wife from her mind.
"Miss Gaither," he said in a censorious tone, "I saw you with the sheriff this morning." He could have tacked on any number of deadly sins to account for the accusation smoldering in his deep-set eyes. "You've disappointed me."

"I fail to see--"
"Furthermore," he interrupted with the rolling intonation of a sidewalk evangelist, "you've disappointed the Almighty."
His eyes rounded largely, then closed to mere slits.
"I warn you, the Lord will not tolerate being mocked."
She nervously moistened her lips and glanced around, hoping to see some avenue of escape, though she didn't know what form it might take. "I haven't meant to offend you or God," she said, feeling foolish for even making such a statement.
"You haven't locked the iniquitous behind bars yet."
"I haven't found any reason to. My investigation isn't complete. And just to set the record straight, Reverend Plummet, I didn't come here to lock anybody behind bars."
"You're being too soft on the ungodly."
"If by that you mean that I've approached this investigation impartially, then yes, I have."
"I saw you this morning fraternizing with that son of the devil."
His maniacal eyes were arresting, if repellent. She caught herself staring into them. "You mean Reede?"
He made a hissing sound, as though the very name conjured up an evil spirit that must be warded off. "Don't be taken in by his wily devices."
"I assure you, I'm not."
He came a step closer. "The devil knows where women are weak. He uses their soft, vulnerable bodies as channels for his evil powers. They're tainted, and must be cleansed by a regular outpouring of blood."
He isn't only nutty, he's sick, Alex thought in horror.
He slapped his hand upon his Bible, causing Alex to jump. Raising his index finger into the air, he shouted, "Resist all temptation, daughter! I command every lascivious impulse to desert your heart and mind and body. Now," he bellowed.
He slumped, as though the exorcism had totally drained him of energy. Alex stood transfixed by disbelief. Coming to her senses, she glanced around uneasily, hoping that no one had witnessed this madness and her unwitting involvement in it.
"As far as I know, I have no lascivious impulses. Now, I must go. I'm late." She stepped off the curb despite the fact that the traffic light was flashing instructions not to walk.
"God is counting on you. He's impatient. If you betray his trust--"
"Yes, well, I'll try harder. Goodbye."
He lunged off the curb and grabbed her by the shoulders.
"God bless you, daughter. God bless you and your holy mission." Clasping her hand, he pressed a cheaply printed pamphlet into it.
"Thank you."
Alex worked her hand free and jogged across the street, quickly putting two lanes of traffic between her and the preacher. She trotted up the steps and barreled through the courthouse doors.
Glancing over her shoulder to see if Plummet had followed her, she ran right into Reede.
He caught her against his chest. "What the hell's the matter with you? Where have you been?"
She wanted to lean against him, feel his protective strength, until her heart stopped racing, but didn't allow herself the luxury. "Nowhere. I mean, I went out. To lunch. At the, uh, the B & B. I walked."
He studied her, taking in her windblown hair and ruddy cheeks. "What's that?" He nodded down at the pamphlet she was clutching in her white-knuckled hand.
''Nothing.'' She tried to stuff it into the pocket of her coat.
Reede snatched it out of her hand. He scanned the cover, flipped it open, and read the message heralding doomsday.
"You into this?"
"Of course not. A sidewalk preacher handed it to me. You really should devote some attention to clearing the panhandlers
off your city's streets, Sheriff," she said haughtily.
"They're a nuisance."
She stepped around him and continued downstairs.

Twenty-two


Nora Gail sat up and retrieved the filmy garment she'd worn into the room.

"Thanks," Reede said to her.

She gave him a reproving glance over her milky-white shoulder. Drolly she replied, "How romantic." After shoving her arms through the ruffled sleeves of the peignoir, she left the bed and moved toward the door. "I've got to go check on things, but I'll be back, and we can talk." Patting her beehive hairdo, she left the room.

Reede watched her go. Her body was compact now, but in a few years it would go to fat. The large breasts would sag. Her
oversized nipples would look grotesque without any muscle tone supporting them. Her smooth, slightly convex belly would become spongy. Her thighs and ass would dimple.

Even though they were friends, he hated her at the moment. He hated himself more. He hated the physical necessity that
propelled him through this travesty of intimacy with a woman.

They rutted, probably more mindlessly and heartlessly than some species of animals. The release should have been cleansing and cathartic. It should have felt great. It didn't. It rarely did anymore, certainly not recently.

"Shit," he muttered. He would probably go on sleeping with her through their old age. It was convenient and uncomplicated.
Each knew what the other was able to give and demanded nothing more. As far as Reede was concerned, passion was based on need, not desire, and sure as hell not on love.
He got off. So did she. She had often told him he was one of the few men who could make her come. He wasn't particularly
flattered because that might be, and probably was, a lie.
Disgusted, he threw his legs over the side of the bed. There was a pack of cigarettes on the bedside table, courtesy of the
house. The carefully rolled joints you had to pay for. He lit one of the cigarettes, something he rarely did anymore, and drew the tobacco deep into his lungs. He missed the postcoital cigarettes more than any others, maybe because the tobacco punished and polluted the body that continually betrayed him with a healthy sex drive.
He poured himself a drink from the bottle on the nightstand--that would be added to his bill, even if he did **** the madam herself--and tossed it down in one swallow. Rebeling, his esophagus contracted. His eyes teared. The whiskey spread a slow, languid heat through his belly and groin. He began to feel marginally better.
He lay back down and stared at the ceiling, wishing he could sleep, but welcoming this coveted time of relaxation when he wasn't called on to speak, move, or think. His eyes closed. An image of a face, bathed in sunlight and wreathed by loose, dark-auburn hair, was projected on the backs of his eyelids. His cock, which should have been limp with exhaustion, swelled and stretched with more pleasure than it had felt earlier tonight.
Reede didn't whisk the image away, as he usually did.
This time he let it stay, evolve. The fantasy was welcomed and indulged. He watched her blue eyes blink with surprise at her own eroticism, watched her tongue nervously flick over her lower lip. He felt her against him, her heart beating in time with his, her hair tangled in his fingers. He tasted her mouth again, felt her tongue shyly flirting with his.
He didn't realize that he made a low moan or that his penis twitched reflexively. A drop of moisture pearled the tip. Yearning pressed down on him suffocatingly.
"Reede!"
The door to the room was flung open and the madam rushed back in, no longer looking cool and elegant.
"Reede," she repeated breathlessly.
"What the hell?" He swung his feet to the floor again and stood up in one economical motion. He didn't think to be embarrassed by his evident arousal. Something was desperately wrong.
As long as he'd known her, he'd never seen her rattled, but now, her eyes were wide with alarm. He was stepping into his briefs before she even started speaking.
"They just called."
"Who?"
"Your office. There's an emergency."
"Where?" Already standing in jeans and an unbuttoned shirt, he crammed his feet into his boots.
"The ranch."
He froze and swiveled his head toward her. "The Minton ranch?" She nodded. "What kind of emergency?"
"The deputy didn't say. Swear to God he didn't," she added hurriedly when she could see that Reede was about to question that.
"Personal or professional emergency?"
"I don't know, Reede. I got the impression that it's a combination of both. He just said you're wanted out there pronto. Is there anything I can do?"
"Call back and tell them I'm on my way." Grabbing his coat and hat, he pushed her aside and ran into the hallway.
"Thanks."
"Let me know what happened," she called down to him, leaning over the banister, watching his hasty descent.
"When I can." Seconds later he slammed the door behind him, leaped over the porch rail, and hit the ground running.

Alex was in a deep slumber, which was why she didn't associate the knocking on her door with reality. Subconsciously, she thought the racket was an extension of her dream. A voice finally roused her.
"Get up and open the door."
Groggily, she sat up and reached for the switch to the bedside lamp, which always seemed to elude her. When the lamp came on, she blinked against the sudden light.
"Alex, dammit! Get op!"
The door was vibrating with each fall of his fist. "Reede?" she croaked.
"If you're not up in ten seconds ..."
She checked the digital clock on the nightstand. It was almost two in the morning. The sheriff was either drunk or crazy. Either way, she wasn't about to open her door to him in his present frame of mind. "What do you want?"
Alex couldn't account for the change in the sound of the thumping until the wood began to splinter, then shatter. Reede kicked the door open and let himself in.
"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" she shouted, gathering the covers against her as she sat bolt upright.
"Coming to get you."
He grabbed her, covers and all, plucked her off the bed and stood her on her feet, then ripped the covers away from her grasping hands. She stood shivering in front of him, wearing only panties and a T-shirt, her usual sleeping en semble. It would be difficult to say which of them was the more furious or riveted.
Alex recovered her voice first: "I hope you have a damn good reason for kicking in my door, Sheriff."
"I do." He crossed to the dresser, yanked open a drawer, and began riffling through articles of clothing.
"I'd like to hear it."
"You will." Another drawer fell victim to his searching hands. She moved beside him and pushed the drawer shut with her hip, almost slamming it on his fingers.
"What are you looking for?"
"Clothes. Unless you'd rather go out like that."
He gestured down toward the panties with their high, French-cut legs. The spot where the sheer lace panel tapered between her thighs seemed to capture his attention for several tense seconds before he dragged his eyes toward the alcove where her clothes were hanging. "Where are your jeans?" he asked, his voice thick.
"I'm not going anywhere. Do you know what time it is?"
He jerked the jeans off the hanger. It rocked on the rod, then fell unheeded to the floor. "Yes." None too gently, he tossed the jeans at her.' 'Put those on. These, too." He threw her casual boots at her feet, then faced her, hands on hips, looking mean. "Well? Want me to do it for you?"
She couldn't imagine what she had done to provoke him.
It was obvious, however, that he was livid over something. If he wanted to play out this caveman game, let him. She would go along, but she wouldn't do it graciously. Turning her back on him, she stepped into her jeans and wiggled them over her hips. She took a pair of socks from one of the ravaged bureau drawers, shook them out, then pulled them on. The boots came next. Finally, she turned and glared up at him.
"There, I'm dressed. Now, are you going to tell me what this is all about?"
"On the way."
He yanked a sweater from a hanger and moved toward her as he gathered the material up to the turtleneck. He pulled it over her head, then shoved her arms into the sleeves and tugged the hem to her hips. The narrow neck had trapped her
hair. He lifted it out. Instead of withdrawing his hands, he closed his fingers tightly around her scalp, then roughly tilted her head up and back. He was shaking with rage.
"I ought to break your neck."
He didn't. He kissed her--hard.
His lips crushed hers, bruised them against her teeth. He thrust his tongue inside her mouth with no semblance of tenderness. It was an angry kiss, spawned by angry passion. It ended abruptly. Her coat was lying across a chair. He tossed it at her. "Here."
Alex was too shaken to think of arguing. She put it on.
He pushed her over the threshold. "What about the door?" she asked inanely.
"I'll send someone to fix it."
"At this time of night?"
"Forget the goddamn door," he roared. Cupping her bottom in his palm, he boosted her up into the cab of the Blazer, which he'd kept running. The light bar across the roof of it was flashing a tricolor code of emergency,
"How long before I get an explanation?" she asked as the Blazer careened onto the highway. Her seat belt did little good. She was thrown against him, and had to clutch his thigh to keep from being pitched into the floorboard. "For heaven's sake, Reede, tell me what's happened."
"The Minton ranch has been set afire."

Twenty-three



"Set afire?" she repeated in a thready voice.
"Drop the innocent act, will ya?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
He banged his fist on the steering wheel. "How could you sleep through it?"
She stared at him, aghast. "Are you suggesting that I had something to do with it?"
Reede turned his attention back to the road. His face was taut and rigid in the greenish light emanating from the dashboard.
The police radio discharged its scratchy static. The transmissions were loud and intrusive. There was no other traffic on the highway, so the siren wasn't necessary, but the lights overhead continued to whirl and flash, making Alex feel like she was caught in a weird kaleidoscope.
"I think you had a lot to do with it, you and your close friend and associate." Her bewilderment only seemed to infuriate him more. "Reverend Fergus Plummet," he shouted.
"The preacher's a good friend of yours, isn't he?"
"Plummet?"
" 'Plummet?' " he mimicked nastily. "When did the two of you cook up this idea, the evening he paid a visit to your motel room, or the other day, on the sidewalk in front of the B & B Cafe"?"

She took a series of quick, shallow breaths. "How'd you know?"
"I know, okay? Who called who first?"
"He and his wife showed up at my room. I'd never heard of him before that. The man's a maniac."
"That didn't stop you from enlisting him to your cause."
"I did no such thing."
Swearing beneath his breath, he pulled the transmitter of his radio toward his mouth and notified one of his deputies at the scene that he was only minutes away.
"Ten-four, Reede. When you get here, go to barn number two."
"How come?"
"Don't know. Somebody said to tell you that."
"Ten-four. I'm at the gate now."
They turned off the highway and took the private road.
Alex's stomach turned over when she saw a column of smoke rising from one of the horse barns. Flames were no longer
visible, but the roof and those of the adjacent buildings were still being doused with fire hoses. Firemen, wearing slickers
and rubber boots, were frantically trying to contain the fire.
"They got to it before it did too much damage," Reede informed her harshly.

Emergency vehicles were parked near the smoking stable and in front of the house. Nearly every downstairs window had been broken out. All exterior walls had dire warnings of Armageddon spray-painted on them.
"There were three carloads of them. Apparently they circled the premises several times, throwing rocks through the windows, but only after they'd done their real dirty work. You can see how well K-Mart did tonight in the spray-paint department." His lip curled snidely. "They dumped shit into the drinking troughs. Fine class of friends you've got there, Counselor."
"Was anybody hurt?" It was a horrendous scene. She was unable to draw sufficient air into her lungs.
"One of the gallop boys." Alex turned toward him for elaboration. "He heard the racket, rushed outside the bunkhouse, stumbled, fell and broke his arm."
Barn number two was the one with the smoldering roof.
Reede braked the Blazer in front and left her sitting in the truck when he went inside. Alex, feeling like each limb weighed a thousand pounds, shoved open the door and followed him through the wide doors, shouldering her way through the scurrying firemen.
"What's the matter?" she heard Reede demand as he jogged down the center aisle of the stable.
A horse was screaming, obviously in pain. It was the most hideous sound Alex had ever heard. Reede picked up speed.
The Mintons were gathered in a somber, pajama-clad huddle outside one of the stalls. Sarah Jo was weeping copiously Angus was fervently, but ineffectually, patting her back. Junior was holding her hand and using his other to cover a yawn. Reede pushed them aside, but drew up short at the entrance to the stall.
"Jesus Christ." He cursed a stream of blue words, then let out a tortured roar that caused Alex to shrink back into the shadows.
A pot-bellied, bespectacled man stepped into Alex's line of vision. By all appearances, he'd come straight from his bed. His corduroy jacket had been pulled on over a pair of pajamas. Laying a hand on Reede's arm, he shook his balding head gravely. "There's nothing I can do for him, Reede. We'll have to put him down."
Reede stared at the man blankly, wordlessly. His chest rose and fell as though he were about to heave up his supper. Sarah Jo's sobs increased. She covered her face with her hands. "Mother, please let me take you back to the house."
Junior placed his arm around her waist and turned her away.
Angus's arm dropped to his side. Mother and son moved slowly down the center aisle.
They were almost even with Alex before they noticed her.
The instant Sarah Jo saw her, she released a high, keening sound and pointed an accusing finger. "You. You did this to us."
Alex recoiled. "I--"
"It's your fault, you meddlesome, spiteful little bitch!"
"Mother," Junior said, not in chastisement, but commiseration.
Spent by her outburst, Sarah Jo collapsed against him. He gave Alex a penetrating look, but it seemed more puzzled than accusatory. Without speaking again, he moved on with Sarah Jo, whose head was now bent in misery against her son's chest.
"What happened, Ely?" Reede asked, seemingly unaware of the other drama.
"A falling beam must've landed square on him. He went down hard and broke his shoulder," the man called Ely said quietly. Apparently, he was a veterinarian.
"Give him some painkiller, for crissake."
"I already have. It's strong, but it can't anesthetize this."
He gazed down at the suffering animal. "His femur's busted, too. I can only guess at his internal injuries. Even if I could
patch him up, he'd likely be sickly from now on, and no use to you as a stud."
They stood silent a moment, listening to the pitiful sounds coming from the animal. At last Angus said, "Thank you, Ely. We know you've done all you could."
"I'm sorry, Angus, Reede," the vet said, meaning it.

"Y'all go on outta here. I need to make a quick trip to the office and get the drug, then I'll come back and give him the injection."
"No." The word came hoarsely from Reede's lips. "I'll do it."
"You oughtn't to do that, Reede. The injection is--"
"I can't let him wait that long."
"It won't take me ten minutes."
"I said, I'll do it," Reede shouted impatiently.
Angus intervened, clapping the well-meaning vet hard on the shoulder to stem any further arguments. "Go on home, Ely. Sorry to have dragged you out for this."
"I'm damned sorry. I've been treating Double Time since he was foaled."
Alex's hand flew up to cover her mouth. Double Time was Reede's adored racehorse. The vet left by another door. He didn't see Alex.
Firemen shouted back and forth to each other outside. Other horses snorted fearfully, and restlessly tramped the floors of
their stalls. Those sounds seemed distant and detached from the tense silence in that one single stall.
"Reede, you gonna be all right, boy?"
"Yes. Go see to Sarah Jo. I'll take care of this."
The older man looked ready to argue, but finally turned away. He gave Alex a hard, pointed look as he passed her, but said nothing before stamping out.
She wanted to cry as she watched Reede kneel in the hay.
He rubbed the injured horse's muzzle. "You were good-- the best," he whispered softly. "You gave it all you had, and then some." The animal nickered in what sounded like a plea.
Reede slowly came to his feet and reached for the pistol in his holster. He took it out, checked the chamber, and pointed it down at the racehorse.
"No!" Alex rushed out of the shadows and grabbed his arm. "Reede, no, don't. Let someone else."
She had seen hardened criminals, after being sentenced to death, turn on their prosecutors, the judge, the jury, and vituperatively swear vengeance, even if from beyond the grave.
But she had never seen such deadly intent on a face as when Reede looked down at her. His eyes were glazed with tears and hatred. With uncanny speed, he encircled her waist and drew her backward against his chest. She struggled. He cursed and increased the pressure of his arm across her midriff.
He took her right hand in his left and forcibly wrapped her reluctant fingers around the pistol, so that she was actually holding it when he aimed the barrel between the horse's eyes and pulled the trigger.
"No!"
She screamed the instant the pistol went off in her hand.
The deadly sound seemed to ricochet off the stone walls of the stable and reverberate forever. Horses whinnied and tramped in fear. Someone outside shouted, and several of the firemen scrambled through the door to see what the shot
meant.
Reede shoved Alex away from him. His voice crackling with rage, he said, "You should have done it clean like that in the first place, and spared him the agony."

"The fire's completely put out, Mr. Minton," the fire chief reported. "We checked all the wiring, insulation, everything in the roof. All the damage was superficial." He clicked his lips against his gums. "Damn shame about Reede Lambert's Thoroughbred, though."
"Thank you for all you've done. I've always said our fire department is the finest in West Texas."
Some of Angus's heartiness had been restored, though his features were heavy with fatigue. He was putting up a good front, as though he was determined not to let this be a setback.
Alex could only admire his stamina and optimism.
He was sitting at the kitchen table with Junior, looking like he might have been wrapping up an all-night poker game, instead of holding a wake for a destroyed racehorse and his vandalized property.
"Guess we'll be taking off, then." The fireman picked up his hard hat and moved toward the back door. "Someone will be out tomorrow to look for clues. It's a definite arson.''
"We'll cooperate any way we can. I'm just glad you responded so quickly and kept the fire from spreading."
"So long." As the fireman went through the back door, he met Reede coming in. Reede ignored Alex, who was standing self-consciously against the wall, and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot Lupe had brewed.
"The troughs are pure again. The horses won't be poisoned by their own excrement," he said emotionlessly. "We got all the windows boarded up so you won't freeze tonight.
There's still a lot of cleanup to do."
"Well," Angus sighed, coming to his feet, "we can't start on that till daylight, so I'm going up to bed. Thanks, Reede. You went above and beyond your duties as sheriff."
Reede bobbed his head in quick acknowledgment. "How's Sarah Jo?"
"Junior made her take a tranquilizer."
"She's sleeping now." Junior stood up also. "Would you like me to drive you back to town now, Alex? You've got no business being out here at this time of night."
"I wanted her to see her handiwork," Reede said.
"I had nothing to do with it!" she cried.
"Maybe not directly," Angus said sternly, "but this damn fool investigation of yours put things in motion. We've been fighting that loud-mouthed hellfire-and-damnation preacher for years. He was just looking for an excuse to pull a malicious
stunt like this. You handed him a golden opportunity."
"I'm sorry if you see it that way, Angus."
The air was thick with tension. No one moved. Even the housekeeper stopped washing empty coffee cups. Finally, Junior stepped forward and took her arm. "Come on. It's getting late."
"I'll take her back," Reede said curtly.

"I don't mind."
"I'm going anyway."
"You'll just harp on what happened here."
"What the hell do you care what I say to her?"
"All right then, you take her home," Junior said testily.
"You're the one who brought her, aren't you?" With that, he turned and left the room.
"'Night, Reede, Alex." An unsmiling Angus followed his son out.
Reede tossed the dregs of his coffee into the sink. "Come on," he ordered her.
Retrieving her coat, she went outside with him and dejectedly climbed into his truck. She wanted to say something to break the dreadful silence, but couldn't bring herself to utter a single word. Reede seemed disinclined to converse. His eyes remained resolutely on the center stripe of the highway.
Finally, the growing knot of anxiety in her chest got to be too much and she blurted out, "I had nothing to do with what happened tonight."
He merely turned his head and looked at her, his expression one of patent disbelief.
"I think Junior believes me," she cried defensively.
"What the hell does he know? You've dazzled him. He took one look into those baby blues of yours and sank like a rock. He's up to his ass in sentimental bullshit about you being Celina's daughter. He remembers how he used to dote on you and wants to do it again--only in an entirely different way. The toy he wants to give you to play with now doesn't rattle."
"You're disgusting."
"It must have given you a thrill to see us coming close to blows over you."
She ground her teeth. "Think what you want to about my designs on Junior and his on me, but I won't have you thinking I was responsible for the damage done to his ranch tonight."
"You were responsible. You incited Plummet."

"Not intentionally. Plummet got it into his head that I was an answer to his prayers--that God sent me to purge Purcell of sinners, the Mintons, anyone connected to or a proponent of pari-mutuel gambling."
"He's crazier than I thought."
She rubbed her upper arms as though recollections of Plummet gave her chills. "You don't know the half of it. He says God is angry because I haven't locked all of you away. He accused me of fraternizing with the devil, meaning you."
She refrained from telling him the sexual parallels Plummet had drawn.
Reede parked in front of her motel room. The door was still in shambles and standing ajar. "I thought you said you'd take care of that."
"Prop a chair under the doorknob till morning. You'll be all right."
He didn't turn off the Blazer's engine, but let it idle. The police radio crackled with its monotonous static, but there were no
transmissions now. The noise was grating on her nerves.
"I'm sorry about Double Time, Reede. I know how attached to him you were."
His leather jacket made a squeaking sound against the upholstery when he shrugged indifferently. "He was insured."
Alex uttered a small cry of anguish and anger. He wouldn't let her apologize. He wouldn't let her feel sad or sorry because he wouldn't allow himself those emotions. She had witnessed the heartache he had suffered seconds before he put a bullet
through the horse's brain. She had heard it when he talked about his father's pathetic funeral.
And that's what Reede couldn't forgive. More than once he had let down his guard and revealed to her that he was a feeling human being after all.
She balled her fists, pressed her wrists together, and thrust them across the console toward him. He looked at her with a dark, questioning frown. "What does that signify?"

"Handcuff me," she said. "Haul me in. Arrest me. Charge me with the crime. You said I was responsible."
"You are," he ground out, his previous rage returning.
"Angus was right. If you hadn't come here and started snooping around, none of this would have happened."
"I refuse to take the blame for what happened tonight, Reede. It was the act of an unbalanced man and his misled followers. If my investigation hadn't been their catalyst, something else would have been. I've apologized for the horse. What more do you want from me?"
He gave her a sharp look. She withdrew her hands, snatching them back as though they'd been placed too close to the maws of some terrible beast, and she had realized it in the nick of time.
Inside her mouth was the taste of his kiss--whiskey-and tobacco-flavored. As though it were happening again, she felt the swirling search of his tongue, the possessive pressure of his fingers on her scalp, the solid presence of his thighs against
hers.
"You'd better go inside, Counselor." His voice was quiet and husky.
He dropped the truck's transmission into reverse. Alex took his advice and got out.

Twenty-four



Alex groped for the ringing telephone. She answered it on the fifth ring and said groggily, "Hello?"
"Miss Gaither? I didn't wake you, did I? If so, I'm terribly sorry."


Alex shoved hair out of her eyes, licked her dry lips, blinked puffy eyes into focus, and struggled into a sitting position. "No, I was just, uh, doing some, uh, stuff." The nightstand clock said ten o'clock. She'd had no idea she was sleeping that late, but then, it had been almost dawn before she'd gone to bed. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure--"
"Sarah Jo Minton."
She couldn't hold back her exclamation of surprise. She could name at least a hundred people who might call her before Sarah Jo Minton would. "Are you ... is everything all right?"
"I'm feeling well, but terribly ashamed for the horrible things I said to you last night."
The confession, spoken so contritely, shocked Alex. "You were understandably upset."
"Would you care to have tea with me this afternoon?"
Maybe she was still asleep, after all, and this was a dream. Nowadays, people said, "Let's do lunch," or "How 'bout a beer?" or "Let's get together for a drink." No one ever said, "Would you care to have tea?"
"That . . . that sounds nice."
"Good. Three o'clock."
"Where?"
"Why, here at the ranch, of course. I'll look forward to seeing you then, Miss Gaither. Goodbye."
Alex stared at the receiver for several seconds before slowly hanging it up. What in the world had prompted Sarah Jo Minton to invite her to tea?

Dr. Ely Collins's office was probably the most cluttered room Alex had ever been in. It was clean but disorganized, and as unpretentious as the veterinarian.
"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Dr. Collins.'
"No trouble. I was free this afternoon. Come on in. Sit down." He removed a stack of trade journals from the seat of the straight, wooden chair, making it available for Alex.
He sat behind a desk cluttered with mountains of paperwork.

"I wasn't all that surprised to hear from you," he remarked candidly.
"Why?"
"Pat Chastain called and said you'd probably get around to asking me some questions."
"I thought he was out of town."
' 'This was a couple of weeks ago, right after you got here.''
"I see."
Alex had decided to utilize the hours before her appointment with Sarah Jo by questioning the veterinarian. When she'd phoned, he had readily agreed to see her.
"Are you familiar with the murder of Celina Gaither?" she began, intentionally playing down her personal involvement.
"Sure am. She was a sweet girl. Everybody was sick about it."
"Thank you. It was your father who attended the foaling at the Minton ranch earlier that day, wasn't it?"
"That's right. I took over his practice after he died."
"I'd like some background information. Do you work exclusively for the Mintons?"
"No, I'm not a resident vet. I have a practice. However, I must be honest and tell you that the Mintons give me so much business I could almost work for them exclusively. I'm out there nearly every day."
"It was the same with your father?"
"Yes, but if you're suggesting that I wouldn't rat on the Mintons at the risk of cutting off my meal ticket, you're wrong."
"I didn't mean to imply that."
"This is horse and cattle country. I have to turn down more business than I can accept. I'm an honest man. So was my
daddy."
Alex apologized to him a second time, although it had crossed her mind that he might be reluctant to divulge information
that would tend to incriminate his well-paying clients.
"Did your father talk to you about Celina's murder?"

"He cried like a baby when he heard that she'd been killed with one of his instruments."
"Dr. Collins positively identified the murder weapon as his scalpel?"
"There was never any question. Mama had given him that set of sterling silver instruments for their twenty-fifth wedding
anniversary. They had his initials engraved on the handles. That scalpel was his, all right. What he couldn't get over is that he'd been careless enough to lose it."
Alex scooted to the edge of her chair. "It would be unlike him to be careless with that scalpel if it was an engraved gift from his wife, wouldn't it?"
He scratched his cheek. "Daddy treasured those things-- kept them in a velvet-lined box. I never could figure out how that scalpel fell out of his bag, except that the mare had everyone's attention that day. In all the commotion, I guess it just got jostled out."
"You were there?"
"I figured you already knew that. I'd gone along to observe and assist if Daddy needed me. 'Course, Reede was there, too. He had helped in other births."
"Reede was there?"
"All day."
' 'Did your father ever leave him alone with his black bag?''
Ely Collins gnawed the inside of his cheek. She could tell he didn't want to answer. "Daddy could have and wouldn't have given it a second thought," he said finally, "but don't get the notion I'm accusing Reede."
"No, of course not. Who else was in the stable that day?"
"Well, now, let's see." He tugged on his lower lip while he thought back. "Just about everybody, at one time or another--Angus, Junior, Reede, all the stable hands and gallop boys."
"Pasty Hickam."
"Sure. Everybody at the ranch was pulling for that mare. Even Stacey Wallace stopped by. As I recall, she'd just gotten
back from a trip to the coast."

Everything inside Alex went still. She worked hard at keeping her expression impassive. "Did she stay long?"
"Who, Stacey? No. Said she had to go home and unpack."
"What about Gooney Bud? Was he around?"
"He meandered everywhere. I don't remember seeing him, but that doesn't mean he wasn't there."
"If you didn't see him, weren't you surprised when he turned up with the scalpel covered with Celina's blood?"
"Not really. Daddy hadn't noticed it was missing until they found it on Gooney Bud. We believed what they said--that it had fallen out of Daddy's bag, that Gooney Bud had seen it, picked it up, and killed your mother with it."
"But it's conceivable that someone, in the midst of all the confusion and concern for the mare and her foal, sneaked it out of your father's bag."
"Conceivable, sure."
He admitted it with reluctance because it implicated the men he worked for. Alex remembered how concerned he'd been the night before, over Reede's racehorse. Ely Collins was a friend to all three suspects. Alex had forced him to divide his loyalties between his own integrity and the men who made hand-tooled Lucchese boots affordable. The task was unpalatable, but necessary.
She stood up to leave and extended the doctor her hand.
He shook it, and she said good-bye. "Oh, one more thing, Dr. Collins. Would you mind if I looked at the scalpel?"
He was taken aback. "I wouldn't mind at all, if I had it."
"You don't?"
"No."
"Your mother?"
"She never got it back."
"Even after Gooney Bud was incarcerated?"
"She and Daddy didn't press too hard to get it back because of what had happened with it."
"You mean, it's still floating around somewhere?"
"I don't know what happened to it."

The Minton ranch was a beehive of activity. Cleanup crews were sorting through debris and hauling it away. Fire in-were
picking through the charred lumber and insulation, searching for clues into the origin of the fire.
Around the house, a sandblasting crew was erasing the apocalyptic messages spray-painted on the stone walls. The window openings were being measured for replacement glass.
Reede was in the thick of it, serving in several capacities at once. He was unshaven and unclean; he looked like he'd personally sifted through soot and ash searching for clues. His shirttail was out and unbuttoned; the sleeves had been rolled
up. He was hatless, but was wearing leather work gloves.
He spotted Alex as she alighted from her car, but before he could speak, he was summoned by a fire inspector. "You might want to take a look at this, Sheriff."
Reede made an about-face and walked toward barn number two. Alex followed him. "A rock? What the hell does a rock have to do with the fire?" Reede was asking when she approached.
The fireman scratched his head through his Houston Astros baseball cap. "Looks to me like the fire was an accident. What I mean is, whoever done all this was using something, like a slingshot to knock out the windows and such."
"Like David going up against Goliath," Alex murmured.
Reede's lips narrowed as he nodded in agreement.
The fireman said, "My guess is that this-here rock went flying, landed in one of the vents on the roof of the stable, and shorted out some of the wiring. That's what caused your fire.''
"You don't think it was deliberately set?"
The investigator frowned. "Naw, I can't rightly say it looks that way. If I was gonna start a fire, I'd've pitched a Molotov
cocktail or shot a flaming arrow." His frown reversed itself into a silly grin. "I wouldn't've throwed no rock."
Reede bounced the heavy rock in his palm. "Thanks.''
After the fireman ambled away, Reede said to Alex, "So much for holding Plummet on an arson charge."

Because the day was unseasonably warm, Reede smelted salty and sweaty, but it wasn't an offensive odor. In fact, she liked it. His dense chest hair fanned out over the upper part of his torso and funneled to a narrow line that disappeared
into his belt. Up close she could see that perspiration had made it damp and curly. It whorled over the muscles and around his nipples, which the cooling breeze had drawn erect.
Noticing that made her warm inside. She raised her eyes to his face. A bead of sweat trickled from beneath his loose, windblown hair and ran into his eyebrow. She curbed the temptation to catch it on her fingertip. His day-old beard went well with the grime and sweat on his face.
It was an effort for her to keep her mind on business.
"Have you arrested Plummet?"
"We tried," he said. "He's vanished."
"His family?"
"They're all at home, looking guilty as hell, but playing dumb about the preacher's whereabouts. I'm not worried about it. He won't go far. We'll run down the roster of his congregation. Somebody's hiding him. He'll surface sooner or later."
"When he does, I'd like to be there when you question him."
He tossed the rock to the ground. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to have tea with Sarah Jo." In response to his incredulous expression, she said, "Her idea, not mine."
"Well, have fun," he said sardonically. He turned his back on her and sauntered toward the barn.
Angus was standing on the porch of the house, feet widespread, overseeing the activity. As she approached, she tried not to let her apprehension show. She wasn't certain how she would be received.
"You're right on time," he said.
So, he knew she was expected. "Hello, Angus."
"Punctuality is a virtue. So's having guts. You've got 'em, little lady." He nodded his approval. "It took guts for you show your face around here today." He appraised her squinted eyes. "In that respect, you're a lot like your mama. She was no shrinking violet."
"No?"
He chuckled. "I saw her hold her own with those two hellions--Reede and Junior--many a time."
His chuckles faded into silent smiles of fond remembrance as he contemplated the horizon. "If she'd lived, she'd've become quite a woman." His eyes came back to Alex.
"She'd've been like you, I guess. If I'd ever had a daughter, I'd have wanted her to be like you."
Discomfited by the unexpected statement, she said, "I apologize for being even remotely connected to this, Angus."
She made a sweeping gesture that encompassed all the damage.
"I hope Reede finds whoever did it. I hope they're prosecuted and convicted."
"Yeah, so do I. Most of it I can overlook." He glanced down at the broken window glass on the porch.' 'But that was a terrible waste of good horseflesh. I hate like hell that Reede I lost him. He took pride in saving up enough to buy him.''
"He seemed extremely upset," Alex said, turning to watch as Reede went to his truck and spoke into the radio transmitter.
"More like enraged. He's as jealous as a mama bear when it comes to anything that belongs to him. It's understandable, I guess, considering how he grew up. Didn't have a pot to piss in, not even anybody to look out for him. Lived on hand me-downs and handouts. Once you've been a scavenger in aider to survive, I reckon it's a tough habit to break. He's mean and testy 'cause at times his life depended on it."
Junior breezed through the front door then, beaming his famous smile. He was in an inappropriately jovial mood. Unlike Reede and Angus, his clothes were spotless. If he'd ever broken a sweat, one couldn't tell it by looking at him now.
After greeting Alex warmly, he said, "Y'all wouldn't believe the telephone conversation I just had. One of the owners called to check on her mare mat's in foal. Bad news travels fast in racehorse circles," he informed Alex.

"Anyway, she had this high, falsetto voice and was saying, 'My poor baby must have been scared out of her wits.' I reassured her that the mare was in another barn, but she kept me on the phone for half an hour, making me swear that her baby and her baby's baby were okay."
He had imitated the woman's warbling, soprano voice.
Angus and Alex were laughing. Suddenly, from the corner of her eye, Alex caught Reede watching them. He was standing
perfectly still, and, though it was too far away to tell, she was certain he didn't like what he saw. His resentment seemed to ride the airwaves until they struck her with near-palpable force.
"I'd better go inside or I'll be late for tea," she told the men.
Junior laid a hand on her shoulder. "Mother wants to make amends for her outburst last night. She was tickled pink when you accepted her invitation. She's looking forward to seeing you."

Twenty-five



Lupe took her coat and led her upstairs. The maid paused outside a door and gave it a soft tap.
"Come in."
Lupe swung the door open, but didn't go in. Taking that as her cue, Alex stepped across the threshold into a room that could have been a movie set. Her remark was spontaneous and genuine. "What a beautiful room!"
"Thank you. I like it." Sarah Jo looked beyond Alex's shoulder. "Close the door, please, Lupe. You know I can't stand that draft, and the racket those workers are making is deplorable. Bring up the tea tray right away."
"Yes, ma'am." The housekeeper withdrew, leaving them

Alex stood near the door, feeling self-conscious in her low-suede boots and long wool skirt. There was nothing wrong with her totally black ensemble, but it seemed glaringly modern and out of place in this ultrafeminine Victorian room, which smelled like a perfumery.
Her hostess looked as right in the setting as a whirling ballerina in a musical jewelry box. The ruffles along the neckline of her white blouse were duplicated around her slender wrists. She was wearing a soft beige skirt that fanned out around her where she sat on a robin's egg-blue damask divan near the window. The afternoon sunlight created a halo around her hair.
"Come in and sit down." She motioned toward a dainty chair near her.
Usually poised, Alex felt gauche as she crossed the carpeted floor. "Thank you for inviting me. This was a very good idea."
"It was mandatory that I apologize as soon as possible for what I said to you last night."
"Never mind. It's forgotten." Junior and Angus seemed to have forgiven her for the unwitting role she had played in the act of vandalism. In return, she could be forgiving toward Sarah Jo.
Curious, she took in her surroundings. "This truly is a lovely room. Did you decorate it yourself?"
Sarah Jo offered a laugh as frail as the hand she raised to her throat to fiddle with the ruffles. "My, yes. I wouldn't let one of those dreadful decorators inside my house. Actually, I copied my room back home item by item, as closely as I could. Angus says it's too fussy."
Alex searched discreetly for something masculine, a shred of evidence that a man had been inside the room. There was none. As though reading her mind, Sarah Jo said, "He keeps his things in another room, through there." Alex followed the direction of her gaze to a closed door.
"Come in, Lupe," Sarah Jo said at the housekeeper's soft knock. "Here's our tea."
While Lupe was arranging the silver service on the tea table, Alex asked conversationally, "You mentioned home, Mrs. Minton. Kentucky, right?"
"Yes, horse country. Hunt country. I loved it so."
Her wistful gaze drifted toward the window. The panorama didn't offer much to please the eyes, just miles of dun-colored
earth, until it blurred into the horizon. They watched a tumbleweed roll across the stone patio and land in the swimming
pool. The landscaping around it was as dead and brown as a cotton field after harvest.
"It's so barren here. I miss the green. Of course, we have acres of irrigated pasture for the horses, but somehow, it's not the same." Her head came back around slowly and she thanked the maid with a nod. Lupe withdrew. "How do you take your tea?"
"Lemon and sugar, please. One lump."
Sarah Jo practiced the ritual that Alex thought had died two generations ago. She did it meticulously. Her pale, translucent
hands moved fluidly. Alex realized then why the custom had died in contemporary America. No one would have the time.
"Sandwich? Cucumber and cream cheese."
"Then, by all means," Alex replied with a smile.
Sarah Jo also added two tea cakes to the small plate before passing it to Alex, who had spread a lacy napkin over her lap. "Thank you."
She sipped her tea and pronounced it perfect. The sandwich was only a sliver of crust-trimmed bread, but the filling was
cool and creamy. She hoped her stomach wouldn't make a rude noise when it greedily devoured the inadequate portion.
She had slept through breakfast; it had seemed superfluous to eat lunch so soon before teatime.
Starting on one of the tea cakes, she asked, "Have you returned to Kentucky often for visits?"

Her hostess prepared her own tea and stirred it idly.' 'Only for my parents' funerals."
"I didn't mean to bring up a sad topic."
"I have no family left, except for Angus and Junior. Anyone with character learns to live with losses." She replaced cup and saucer on the table so carefully that the china didn't even clink. Keeping her head lowered, she looked up Alex from beneath her brows. "Only you haven't, have you?"
Alex returned the uneaten half of the sugar cookie to her plate, knowing intuitively that they had reached the reason behind this invitation to tea. "Haven't what?"
'You haven't learned that it's best to let the dead remain dead."
The lines of battle had been drawn. Alex returned all the tea implements to the silver tray, even the spider-webby napkin
from her lap. "Are you referring to my mother?"
' 'Precisely. This investigation of yours has upset my entire household, Miss Gaither."
"I apologize for the inconvenience. The circumstances make it unavoidable."
"Thugs vandalized my property, threatening the health and life of every horse we own or board, thereby our livelihood."
"That was an unfortunate incident. I can't tell you how truly sorry I am for it," Alex said, appealing to the woman to understand.' `I had nothing to do with it. You must believe that."
Sarah Jo drew a deep breath. The ruffles around her neck quivered with suppressed indignation and dislike. Her hostility was so palpable that Alex wondered again what possible reason she had had for inviting her here. The need to apologize had been a ruse. Apparently, Sarah Jo wanted to vent a long-harbored grudge.
"How much do you know about your mother and her relationships with Junior and Reede Lambert?"
"Only what my grandmother told me, coupled with what I've gathered since talking to people here in Purcell."

"They were like a unit," she said, lapsing into a faint, reflective voice, and Alex realized that she had slipped into her own private world. "A little club unto themselves. You rarely saw one without seeing the other two."
"I've noticed that in candid shots in their high school yearbooks. There are lots of pictures of the three of them."
Alex had pored over the photographs on those glossy pages, looking for clues, anything, that might benefit her investigation.
"I didn't want Junior to get so deeply involved with them,'' Sarah Jo was saying. "Reede was a hoodlum, the son of the town drunk, of all things. And your mother . . . well, there were many reasons why I didn't want him to become attached
to her."
"Name one."
"Mainly because of how it was between her and Reede. I knew Junior would always be her second choice. It galled me that she could even exercise a choice. She wasn't worthy of the right to choose," she said bitterly.
"But Junior adored her, no matter what I said. Just as I feared, he fell in love with her." Suddenly, her eyes focused sharply on her guest. "And I have a sick feeling that he'll fall in love with you, too."
"You're wrong."
"Oh, I'm sure you'll see to it that he does. Reede, too, probably. That would round out the triangle again, wouldn't it? Don't you want to pit them against each other, like she did?"
"No!"
Sarah Jo's eyes narrowed with malice. "Your mother was a tramp."
Up to this point, Alex had carefully controlled her tongue.
But since her hostess was maligning her late mother, she dismissed her manners. "I take exception to that slanderous
remark, Mrs. Minton."
Sarah Jo gave a negligent wave of her hand. "No matter. It's the truth. I knew she was common and coarse the first I met her. Oh, she was pretty, in a lush, flamboyant way. Much like you."
Her eyes moved over Alex critically. Alex was tempted to get up and walk out. The only thing that kept her sitting in that spindly chair was the hope that Sarah Jo would inadvertently impart some scrap of valuable information.
"Your mother laughed too loud, played too hard, loved too well. Emotions were to her what a bottle of liquor is to a drunkard. She overindulged, and had no control over exhibitingher feelings."
"She sounds very honest," Alex said with pride. "The world might be better off if people openly expressed what they were feeling." Her words fell on deaf ears.
"Whatever a man needed or wanted her to be at the moment," Sarah Jo continued, "she was. Celina was an unconscionable flirt. Every man she met fell in love with her. She made certain of it. She would do anything to guarantee it."
Enough was enough. "I won't let you disparage a woman who's not around to defend herself. It's ugly and cruel of you, Mrs. Minton." The room, which had been as fresh as a greenhouse when she had come in, now seemed suffocating.
She had to get out. "I'm leaving."
"Not yet." Sarah Jo stood up when Alex did. "Celina loved Reede as much as she was capable of loving anyone except herself."
"What concern was that of yours?"
"Because she wanted Junior, too, and she let him know it. Your grandmother, that stupid woman, was giddy over the idea of a match between our children. As if I'd let Junior marry Celina," she sneered. "Merle Graham even called me once and suggested that we, as future in-laws, get together and become better acquainted. God, I would have sooner died! She was a telephone operator," she said, laughing scornfully.
''There was never any chance of Celina Graham becoming my daughter-in-law. I made that quite clear to your grandmother and to Junior. He moped and whined over that girl until I wanted to scream.'' She raised her small fists, as though she still might do so. "Why couldn't he see her for what she was--a selfish, manipulative little bitch? And now you."
She stepped around the small tea table to confront Alex.
Alex was taller, but Sarah Jo had years of cultivated anger to make her strong. Her delicate body was trembling with wrath.
"Lately, all he can talk about is you, just like it used to be with Celina."
"I have not led Junior on, Mrs. Minton. There could never be a romantic entanglement between us. We could be friends, maybe, once this investigation is resolved."
"Don't you see," Sarah Jo cried, "that's exactly how it was with her? She abused his friendship because he was clinging to the vain hope that it would develop into something deeper. All he is to you is a suspect in a murder case. You'll use him, just like your mother did."
"That simply isn't true."
Sarah Jo swayed, as though about to swoon. "Why did you have to come here?"
"I want to know why my mother was murdered."
"You're the reason!" she said, pointing a finger straight at Alex's heart. "Celina's illegitimate baby."
Alex fell back a step, sucking in a sharp, painful breath.
"What did you say?" she gasped.
Sarah Jo composed herself. The suffusion of color in her face receded and it returned to its normal porcelain hue. ''You were illegitimate."
"That's a lie," Alex denied breathlessly. "My mother was married to Al Gaither. I've seen the marriage license. Grandma Graham saved it."
"They were married, but not until after she came back from El Paso and discovered she was pregnant."
"You're a liar!" Alex gripped the back of the chair. "Why are you lying to me?"
"It's not a lie. The reason I'm telling you should be clear. I'm trying to protect my family from your vengeful destruction.
Being the richest woman in this horrid, ugly little town is the only thing that makes it tolerable. I like being married to the most influential man in the county. I won't let you destroy everything Angus has created for me. I won't let you cause dissent in my family. Celina did. This time, I won't allow it."
"Ladies, ladies." Junior came into the room, laughing indulgently. "What is all the shouting about? See a spider?"
His manner changed drastically when he sensed the seething animosity between them. It was sulfuric, as real as the ozone in the air after lightning has struck nearby. "Mother? Alex? What's wrong?"
Alex stared at Sarah Jo, whose face was as serene and complacent as a cameo. Alex spun toward the door, sending the small chair toppling over. She rushed from the room and clambered down the stairs.
Junior gave his mother a searching look. She turned her back on him and returned to the divan, picked up her teacup, and took a sip.
Junior raced down the stairs after Alex and caught up with her at the front door, where she was unsuccessfully trying to work her arms into the sleeves of her coat.
He grabbed her upper arms. "What the hell is going on?"
Alex averted her head so he wouldn't see her tears. She tried to disengage his hands. "Nothing."
"You hardly look like you've been to a tea party."
"Tea? Ha!" Alex said, tossing back her head. "She didn't invite me out here to drink tea." She sniffed and batted her eyes in an effort to keep the tears from falling. "I guess I should thank her for telling me."
"Telling you what?"
"That I was a biological accident." Junior's face went blank with shock. "It's true, then, isn't it?" Junior's hands fell away from her arms and he tried to turn away. Reversing their positions, Alex gripped his arm and forced him back around. "Isn't it?" Her tears finally overflowed her eyelids.
"Say something, Junior!"
He looked uncomfortable with admitting the truth. It was Alex who verbally pieced together the scenario.
"Celina came back from El Paso. She'd had her fling with a soldier and was ready to reconcile with Reede. They probably
would have, too, if it hadn't been for me, right?" She covered her face with her hands. "Oh, God, no wonder he hates me so much."
Junior pulled her hands away from her face and looked at her with sincere blue eyes. "Reede doesn't hate you, Alex. None of us did then, or do now."
She laughed shortly, bitterly. "I'll bet Albert Gaither hated the very thought of me. He was forced to get married." Her eyes went round, and she spoke in a rapid, short-winded, staccato voice. "This explains so much. So much. Why Grandma Graham was strict about my dating--who I went with, what time I got home, where I'd been.
"I resented her for being so inflexible because I'd never given her any reason to mistrust me. I guess her overprotectiveness was justified, wasn't it?" Her voice rose to a near-hysterical pitch. "Her daughter got knocked up, and twenty-five years ago, that was still a definite sin."
"Alex, stop this."
"That explains why Grandma never really loved me. I ruined Celina's life, and she never forgave me for it. Celina couldn't have Reede, couldn't have you, couldn't have a future. And all because of me. Oh God!"
The curse, or prayer, was cried in a wailing voice. Alex turned away from him and yanked the door open. She ran across the porch and down the steps toward her car.
"Alex!" He started after her.
"What the hell's going on?" Angus demanded as Alex rushed past him toward her car.
"Leave her alone, you two." Sarah Jo was standing at the top of the stairs, where she had watched and overheard everything.

Junior spun around. "Mother, how could you? How could you hurt Alex that way?"
"I didn't tell her to hurt her."
'What'd you tell her?" Angus asked. He filled up the open doorway, baffled and impatient because no one was answering
his questions.
"Of course it hurt her," Junior said. "You knew it would. Why tell her at all?"
'Because she needed to know. The only one who can hurt Alex is Alex herself. She's chasing an illusion. The mother she's looking for didn't exist in Celina Gaither. Merle filled her head with a lot of nonsense about how wonderful Celina was. She forgot to tell the girl how devious her mother was. It was time Alex found out."
"Shit!" Angus cursed. "Will somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?"

Twenty-six



Angus quietly closed the bedroom door behind him as he came in. Sarah Jo, propped against the pillows on their bed, laid her book aside and peered at him over the rims of the glasses that were perched on the tip of her nose. "Coming to bed so early?"
She looked about as harmful as a butterfly, but Angus knew that her frail appearance camouflaged an iron will. If she ever
gave ground it was out of indifference, not defeat. "I want to talk to you."
"About what?"
"About what happened this afternoon.'

She pressed her fingers to her temples. "It gave me quite a headache. That's why I didn't come down to dinner."
"Taken anything?"
"Yes. It's better now."
They had repeated this same exchange regarding her headaches nearly every day of their marriage.
"Don't sit on the bedspread," she scolded as he lowered himself to the edge of the bed. He waited until she had folded back the quilted satin spread, then sat down close to her hip.
"My, you look so downcast tonight, Angus," she said with concern.' 'What's the matter? Not more maniacs on our property,
I hope."
"No."
"Thank God the only horse that was injured belonged to Reede."
Angus let that pass without comment. Sarah Jo resented Reede, and Angus knew why. Her feelings toward him would never change, so berating her for the uncharitable remark would serve no purpose.
What he had come to discuss was a delicate subject. He took a moment to choose his words carefully. "Sarah Jo, about this afternoon--"
"I was quite upset by it," she said, drawing her lips into a pretty frown.
"You were upset?" Angus forcibly tamped down his impatience. He needed to hear her side of the story before jumping to conclusions. "What about Alex's feelings?"
"She was upset, too, naturally. Wouldn't you be if you'd found out you were a bastard?"
"No," he said with a gruff, humorless laugh. "Wouldn't surprise me if I was. I never checked to see if my parents had a marriage license, and it wouldn't have mattered to me if they didn't.'' His brows drew together. "But I'm an ornery old cuss, and Alex is a sensitive young woman."
"I felt that she was strong enough to take it."
"Obviously, she wasn't. She ran past me without even seeing me. She was practically in hysterics when she left."

Sarah Jo's smile crumpled. "Are you blaming me for telling her? Do you think it was wrong?"
When she looked up at him with that apprehensive, little-lost-girl look, his heart melted. It always had. Angus took her hand. He could have crushed it like a flower between his rough palms, but he had learned over the years not to exert too much pressure when he caressed her.
"I'm not blaming you for telling her, honey. I'm just questioning the wisdom of it. I wish you had discussed it with Junior and me before you did. It was something she could have gone throughout her life not knowing."
"I disagree," Sarah Jo argued petulantly.
' 'What difference does it make now if her mama and daddy weren't married until after she was in the oven? Hell, that's so commonplace now it's not even considered a sin anymore."
"It makes a difference in the way she views Celina. Up until now, she's had her on a pedestal."
"So what?"
"Celina hardly deserves a pedestal," Sarah Jo snapped.
"I thought it was time everybody stopped pussyfooting around with Alex and set her straight about her mother."
"Why?"
"Why? Because she's trying to ruin us, that's why. I decided to stop catering to her and to fight back. I used the only ammunition I had." As usual, during scenes like this, Sarah Jo became overwrought. "I was only trying to protect you and Junior."
Actually, Angus thought, it had taken a tremendous amount of courage for Sarah Jo to confront a self-assured woman like
Alex. He still thought Sarah Jo could have refrained from telling Alex about her folks, but her motive had been unselfish.
She'd been protecting her family. Her valiant effort deserved better than his criticism. He leaned down and kissed her forehead.
"I appreciate your fighting spirit, but none of us needs your protection, honey." He laughed at the thought. "How could a little thing like you protect one of us big, strapping boys? I've got plenty of money and plenty of know-how to handle any little problem that crops up. A redhead that only stands five feet six inches tall is hardly worth a second's worry."
"If you could resurrect that odious Pasty Hickam, I'm sure he would disagree," she said. "Look what happened to him. Unlike you and Junior, and obviously, every other man, I'm immune to the girl's charms." Her voice developed an edge of desperation. "Angus, can't you see it? Junior is falling in love with her."
"I fail to see why that's so god-awful," he said with a beaming smile.
"It would be a disaster," Sarah Jo cried softly. "Her mother broke his heart. Don't you care about that?"
Frowning, Angus reminded her, "That was a long time ago. And Alex isn't like her mother."
"I'm not so sure." Sarah Jo stared into space.
"Alex isn't fickle and flighty like Celina was," he said.
"She's a tad too bossy, but maybe Junior needs that. He walked all over his other wives, and they laid down and let him do it. Maybe he needs a wife who'll tell him what's what."
"Where is he, by the way? Is he still angry with me?" she asked anxiously.
"He was upset, but he'll get over it, like he always does. He said he was going out to get drunk."
They laughed together. Sarah Jo was the first to turn serious again. "I hope he'll drive safely."
"He, uh, will probably be spending the night out."
"Oh?"
"Wouldn't surprise me," Angus said. "Alex needs some time to sort herself out. Junior might be carrying a torch, but he's not dead from the waist down. He'll find a woman who'll give him the comfort he needs tonight."
His gaze lowered to his wife's decolletage, which was smooth and luminescent with the body powder she had used after her bath. "He's got a man's appetites, just like his daddy."
"Oh, Angus," she sighed wearily, as his hand waded through layers of lace in search of her breast.
"I could use some comforting myself."
"You men! Is that all you ever think about? You make me--"
"You make me horny."
"Don't use that kind of language. It's crude. And I don't want to do this tonight. My headache's coming back."
His kiss cut off any further objections. She submitted, as he knew she would. She always put up token resistance, but she never refused him. From the cradle, she had been coached to accept her marital duties, just as she had to properly serve tea.
That she responded to him out of a sense of obligation rather than passion didn't stop him from wanting her; it might even have enhanced his desire. Angus enjoyed a challenge. He undressed quickly and lowered himself on top of her. He fumbled with the buttons on her gown and finally managed, with no assistance from her, to get it open. Her breasts were as pert and shapely as they had been on their wedding night, when he had first beheld and touched them.
He kissed them now with polite restraint. Her nipples were small. His stroking tongue was rarely successful in coaxing them erect. He doubted she knew they were supposed to get erect, unless some of those novels she read were more sexually
explicit than he suspected.
She winced slightly when he entered her. He pretended not to see her grimace. He tried not to sweat or make a sound or do anything that she would consider nasty and unpleasant. He saved all his raunchiness for the widow lady he supported in the neighboring county. She didn't mind his crude language. In fact, she hooted with laughter over some of his more colorful expressions.
She was as lusty a lover as he. She had large, dark, milky-tasting nipples that she would let him diddle with for hours if he wanted to. She even went down on him and let him go down on her. Each time he mounted her, her round thighs gripped his ass like a vise. She was a noisy comer, and the only woman he'd ever met who could laugh in downright joy while she was screwing.
They'd been together for over twenty years. She never asked for more of a commitment; she didn't expect one. They had a damn good time together, and he didn't know what he would do without her in his life, but he didn't love her.
He loved Sarah Jo. Or, at least, he loved what she was: dainty and pure and refined and beautiful. He loved her as an art collector would love a sculpture of priceless alabaster that was to be touched only on special occasions, and then with the utmost care.
Because she demanded it, he always wore a condom, and when he was done, he removed it carefully so her silk sheets wouldn't get soiled. While he was doing so tonight, he watched Sarah Jo fold down the hem of her nightgown, re-button the buttons, and straighten the covers.
Angus got back in bed, kissed her cheek, and put his arms around her. He loved holding her tiny body against his, loved touching her smooth, fragrant skin. He wanted to cherish her.
To his disappointment, she removed his arm and said, "Go on to sleep now, Angus. I want to finish this chapter."
She reopened her novel, which was no doubt as dry and lifeless as her lovemaking. Angus was ashamed of the disloyal thought as he rolled to his other side, away from the light of her reading lamp.
It never occurred to him to be ashamed of making the thirty-mile trip to his mistress's house, which he planned to do tomorrow night.

Stacey dropped the ceramic mug. It crashed and broke on the tile kitchen floor. "Good Lord," she breathed, clutching together the lapels of her velour robe.
"Stacey, it's me."
The first knock on the back door had startled her so badly the mug had slipped from her hand. The voice speaking her name did nothing to restore her heart to its proper beat. For several moments she stood staring at the door, then rushed
across the kitchen and pushed back the stiff, starched curtain.
"Junior?!"
She didn't have sufficient air to say his name aloud. Her lips formed it soundlessly. Fumbling with the lock, she hastily unlatched the door and pulled it open, as though afraid he would vanish before she could do it.
"Hi." His smile was uncomplicated and open, as if he knocked on her back door every night about this time. "Did I hear something break?"
She reached up to touch his face and reassure herself he was really there, then shyly dropped her hand. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you."
She glanced past him, searching her backyard for a plausible reason for her ex-husband to be standing on the steps.
He laughed. "I've come alone. I just didn't want to ring the bell, in case the judge had already gone to bed."
"He has. He ... uh, come in." Remembering her manners, she moved aside. Junior stepped in. They stood facing each other in the harsh kitchen light, which wasn't very flattering to Stacy, who had already cleaned her face and prepared for bed.
She had fantasized about him coming to her one night, but now that it had happened, she was immobilized and rendered
mute by disbelief. Myriad professions of love and devotion rushed through her mind, but she knew he wouldn't welcome
hearing them. She resorted to safe subjects.
"Dad went to bed early. His stomach was upset. I made him some warm milk. I decided to make cocoa out of what I had left over.'' Unable to take her eyes off him, she gestured nervously toward the stove, where the milk was about to scorch in the pan.
Junior went to the range and turned off the burner.' 'Cocoa, huh? Your cocoa? There's none better. Got enough for two cups?"
"Of ... of course. You mean you're staying?"
"For a while. If you'll have me."
"Yes," she said with a rash of air. "Yes."
Usually adept in the kitchen, Stacey clumsily prepared two cups of cocoa. She couldn't imagine why he'd chosen tonight to come see her. She didn't care. It was enough that he was here.
When she handed him his cocoa, he smiled disarmingly and asked, "Do you have any spirits in the house?"
He followed her into the living room, where several bottles of liquor were stored in a cabinet, to be taken out only on the most special occasions.
"This isn't your first drink of the night, is it?" she asked as she tilted the spout of the brandy bottle against his mug of chocolate.
"No, it isn't." Lowering his voice, he whispered, "I smoked a joint, too."
Her lips pursed with stern disapproval. "You know how I feel about dope, Junior."
"Marijuana isn't dope."
"It is so."
"Ah, Stacey," he whined, bending down to kiss her ear. "An ex-wife has no right to scold."
The touch of his lips made her insides flutter. Her censure melted as quickly as ice cream in August. "I didn't mean to scold. I just wondered why, after all this time, you came to me tonight."
"I wanted to." She knew that to Junior's mind, that was reason enough. He sprawled on the sofa and pulled her down beside him. "No, leave the lamp off," he told her when she reached for the switch. "Let's just sit here and drink our cocoa together."
"I heard about the trouble out at the ranch," she said after a quiet moment.
"It's all cleaned up now. Can't tell it ever happened. It could have been a lot worse."
She touched him hesitantly. "You could have been hurt."
He set his empty cup on the coffee table and sighed.
"You're still concerned for my safety?"

"Always."
"No one's ever been as sweet to me as you, Stacey. I've missed you.'' He reached for her hand and pressed it between his.
"You look worn out and troubled."
"lam."
"Over the vandalism?"
"No." He slumped deeper into the cushions of the couch and rested his head on the back of it. "This mess we're in about Celina's murder. It's depressing as hell." He tilted his head until it was lying on her shoulder. "Hmm, you smell good. It's a smell I've missed. So clean." He nuzzled her neck.
"What bothers you so much about this investigation?"
"Nothing specific. It's Alex. She and Mother had a row today. Mother let it slip that Celina got knocked up and had to get married to her soldier. It wasn't a pretty scene."
His arm slid around her waist. Automatically, Stacey lifted her hand to cradle his cheek and pressed his head against her
breasts.
"I lied to her," she confessed in a small voice. "A lie of omission."
Junior mumbled with disinterest.
"I never told her I was in the barn the day Celina was killed."
"How come you did that?"
"I didn't want her hounding me with questions. I hate her for causing you trouble again, Junior."
"Alex can't help it. It's not her fault."
It was a familiar refrain, one that set Stacey's teeth on edge. Junior had often said the same thing about Celina. No matter how shabbily she treated him, he had never spoken a harsh, critical word against her.
"I hate this girl of Celina's as much as I did her," Stacey whispered.
The alcohol and strong Mexican grass had dulled Junior's thinking. "Never mind all that now. This feels good, doesn't it?" he murmured as his lips followed his hand inside her robe to her breast. His damp tongue glanced her nipple. ' 'You always liked for me to do that."
"I still do."
"Really? And this? Do you still like this?" he asked, sucking her nipple into his mouth and pushing his hand into the furry, damp warmth between her thighs.
She groaned his name.
"I'll understand if you don't want me to." He pulled away slightly.
"No," she said quickly, guiding his head back down and clenching her thighs closed around his hand. "I do want you to. Please."
"Stacey, Stacey, your tender loving care is just what I need tonight. I could always count on you to make me feel better."
He raised his head from her breast and gave her mouth a long, slow, thorough kiss. "Remember what always made me feel
better than anything?'' he asked, his lips resting on hers.
"Yes." She looked up at him solemnly. He smiled as beatifically as an angel. When he looked at her that way, she couldn't deny him anything--not when they were teenagers, not when they were married, not now, not ever.
Stacey Wallace Minton, the judge's proper, straitlaced daughter, immediately dropped to her knees in front of him, hastily opened his fly, and took him into her hungry mouth.

"Miz Gaither, ma'am? Miz Gaither? You in there?"
Alex had been dozing. Roused by the knocking on her door, which had been repaired, she woke up to find that she was sprawled on top of the bedspread, stiff and cold. Her eyes were swollen from crying.
"What do you want?" Her voice amounted to little more than a croak. "Go away."
"Is your phone off the hook, ma'am?"
"Damn." She swung her feet to the side of the bed. Her clothes were wrinkled and bunched around her. She shook them back into place as she walked to the window and pulled aside the drape. The motel's night clerk was standing at the door.

"I took the phone off the hook so I wouldn't be disturbed,'' she told him through the window.
He peered in at her, obviously glad to see that she was still alive. "Sorry to bother you then, ma'am, but there's this guy trying to get in touch with you. He's been arguin' with me, saying you couldn't be talking on your phone for this long.''
"What guy?"
"Happer or Harris or something,'' he mumbled, consulting the slip of paper he'd brought with him. He held it closer to the light over her door. "Can't quite make out my writin' here . . . spellin' ain't so good."
"Harper? Greg Harper?"
"I reckon that's it, yes, ma'am."
Alex dropped the drape back into place, slid the chain lock free, and opened the door. "Did he say what he wanted?"
"Sure did. Said for me to tell you that you was to be in Austin tomorrow morning for a ten o'clock meeting."
Alex stared at the clerk, stupefied. "You must have gotten the message wrong. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning?"
"That's what he said, and I didn't git it wrong, 'cause I wrote it down right here." He showed her the slip of paper with the message scrawled in pencil. "The man's been callin' you all afternoon and was p.o.'d 'cause he couldn't git you. Finally, he said he was goin' out for the evenin' and for me to come to your room and hand-deliver the message, which I done. So, good night."
"Wait!"
"Look, I'm s'posed to be tending the switchboard."
"Did he say what kind of meeting this was, why it was so urgent?"
"Naw, only that you're s'posed to be there."
He stood mere expectantly. With mumbled thanks, she pressed a dollar bill into his hand, and he loped off in the direction of the lobby.
Thoughtfully, Alex closed her door and reread the message.
It made no sense. It wasn't like Greg to be so cryptic. It wasn't like him to call meetings that were virtually impossible to make, either.
When the bafflement began to wear off, the enormity of her dilemma set in. She had to be in Austin by ten o'clock in the morning. It was already dark. If she left now, she would have to drive most of the night, and would arrive in Austin in the wee hours.
If she waited until morning, she would have to leave dreadfully early and then be on a deadline to get there in time. Either choice was wretched, and she wasn't mentally or emotionally fit to make a decision.
Then, an idea occurred to her. Before she could talk herself out of it, she placed a telephone call.
"Sheriffs department."
"Sheriff Lambert, please."
"He's not here. Can anybody else help?"
"No, thank you. I need to speak with him personally."
"Excuse me, ma'am, but is this Ms. Gaither?"
"Yes, it is."
"Where are you?"
"In my motel room. Why?"
"That's where Reede's headed. He should be there by now." Then he paused and asked, "Say, are you all right?"
"Of course I'm all right. I think I hear the sheriff pulling up now. Thank you." Alex hung up and moved to the window in time to see Reede get out of his truck and rush toward her door.
She flung it open. He drew up abruptly, almost losing his balance. "Please don't kick it in again."
"Don't be cute with me," he said, glowering darkly.
"What the hell is going on?"
"Nothing."
"Like hell." He gestured toward the bedside telephone. Its innocence seemed to provoke him further. He pointed toward it accusingly. "I've been calling for hours, and all I got is a busy signal."
"I took it off the hook. What was so important?"


"I heard what happened this afternoon between you and Sarah Jo."
Her shoulders dropped dejectedly and she released a long breath. She had almost forgotten about that in her perplexity
over Greg's summons.
She had never checked the date on her parents' marriage license. It wouldn't necessarily be conclusive, anyway. As an attorney, she knew that dates, even on so-called legal documents, could be falsified. The way everyone had reacted to Sarah Jo's revelation, she knew it was true. She had been conceived illegitimately.
"You should have been there, Sheriff. I made a spectacle of myself. You would have been thoroughly entertained."
Her flippancy didn't improve his mood. "Why'd you take your phone off the hook?"
"To get some rest. What did you think, that I took an overdose of sleeping pills or gave my wrists a close shave?"
He gave the sarcastic question credence. "Maybe."
"Then, you don't know me very well," she told him angrily. "I don't give in that easily. And I'm not ashamed that my parents had to get married."
"I didn't say you were or that you should be."
"That was their mistake. It has nothing to do with me as a person, okay?"
"Okay."
"So stop thinking . . . Oh, hell, I don't care what you're thinking," she said, rubbing her temples. She was more annoyed
with herself than with him. Lashing out was only an indication of how upset she really was.' 'I need your help, Reede.''
"What kind of help?"
"Can you fly me to Austin?"
The request took him by surprise. He pulled himself upright from where he had complacently slouched against the framework of the recently repaired doorway.
"Fly you to Austin? Why?"
"Business with Greg Harper. I need to be there at ten o'clock in the morning for a meeting."

Twenty-seven


They were in the air less than an hour later, on a southeasterly course toward the state capital. Alex had used a quarter of
that hour to get herself looking human again. She had washed her face in cold water, applied fresh makeup, brushed her
hair, and changed into a pair of wool slacks and a sweater. Whatever she wore to the meeting in the morning could come
out of her closet at home.

On the way to Purcell's municipal airfield, Reede stopped at a hamburger joint and picked up the order he'd phoned ahead for. There was a single-engine Cessna waiting for them on the tarmac when they arrived at the landing strip. The sheriff knew how to pull strings.

Purcell was no more than a patch of glittering light on the black carpet beneath them before she thought to ask, "Does this plane belong to you?"

"Minton Enterprises. Angus gave me permission to use it. Pass me one of those cheeseburgers."

She devoured almost half of hers--Sarah Jo's cucumber sandwich hadn't gone far--before she came up for air. "When did you learn to fly?"

Reede munched a french fry. "I was about eight."

"Eight!"

"I had salvaged an old beat-up bike from a junkyard and repaired it well enough to get around on. I pedaled out to the
airfield every chance I got."
"It must be three miles from town," she exclaimed.
"I didn't care. I'd have gone twice that far. The planes intrigued me. The old guy who ran the place was as testy as a rattlesnake, a real loner, but he kept a strawberry soda pop waiting for me in his ancient icebox. I guess I pestered the snot out of him, but he didn't seem to mind all my questions. One day, he looked over at me and said, 'I gotta check out
this plane. Wanna go along for the ride?' I nearly peed my pants."
Reede probably didn't realize that he was smiling over the happy memory. Alex remained silent so he wouldn't be reminded that she was there. She enjoyed his smile. It attractively emphasized the fine lines at the outer corners of his
eyes and those around his mouth.
"God, it was great," he said, as though he could feel the surge of pleasure again. "I hadn't discovered sex yet, so flying was the best thing that had happened to me. From up there, everything looked so peaceful, so clean."
An escape from the awful realities of his childhood, Alex thought compassionately. She wanted to touch him, but didn't dare. She was about to venture down a rocky, hazardous path. One wrong word or turn of phrase would spell doom, so she felt her way carefully.
Quietly, she asked, "Reede, why didn't you tell me that my mother was pregnant when she came back from El Paso?"
"Because it doesn't make any difference."
"Not now, but it did twenty-five years ago. She didn't want to marry my father. She had to."
' 'Now that you know, what does it change? Not a goddamn thing."
"Perhaps," she replied uncertainly. After another brief silence, she said, "I was the quarrel, wasn't I?"
He looked at her sharply. "What?"

Letting her head fall back on the headrest, she sighed. "I wondered why the two of you didn't kiss and make up when she got back that summer. Knowing how much and how long you had cared for each other, I wondered what could possibly
keep you apart after a silly lovers' spat. Now, I know. It wasn't silly. It was more than a spat. It was me. I kept you apart. I was the quarrel."
"It wasn't you."
"It was."
Grandma Graham had said it was her fault that Celina had been killed. Everything Alex uncovered was bearing that out. Had Celina, by having another man's child, driven her passionate, jealous, possessive lover to kill her?
"Reede, did you murder my mother because of me?"
"Damn," he swore viciously. "I could strangle Sarah Jo for telling you about that. My quarrel with Celina wasn't over you--not originally, anyway."
"Then, what?"
"Sex!" Swiveling his head around, he glared at her.
"Okay?"
"Sex?"
"Yeah, sex."
"You were pressuring her to and she wouldn't?"
His jaw tensed. ' 'It was the other way around, Counselor.''
"What?" Alex exclaimed. "You expect me to believe--"
"I don't give a rat's ass what you believe. It's the truth. Celina wanted to get a head start on our future, and I wouldn't."
"Next, you're going to tell me that you had an unselfish, noble reason," Alex said, tongue-in-cheek. "Right?"
"My own parents," he said without inflection. "My old man got my mother pregnant when she was barely fifteen. They had to get married. Look how great that turned out. I wouldn't take a chance on the same thing happening to Celina and me."
Alex's heart was thudding with gladness, disbelief and emotions that were too complex to examine. "You mean that you never--"
"No. We never."
She believed him. There was no mendacity in his expression, only bitterness, and perhaps a trace of regret. "Hadn't you heard of birth control?"
"I used rubbers with other girls, but--"
"So there were others?"
"I'm not a monk, for crissake. The Gail sisters," he said with a shrug, "lots of others. There were always willing girls available."
"Especially to you." He shot her a hard look. "Why weren't you concerned that you'd impregnate one of them?"
"They all slept around. I would be one of many."
"But Celina would have slept only with you."
"That's right."
"Until she went to El Paso and met Al Gaither," Alex mused out loud. "He was just a means to make you jealous, wasn't he?" On a humorless laugh, she added, "She overshot her mark and manufactured me."
They lapsed into silence. Alex didn't even notice. She was lost in her turbulent thoughts about her mother, Reede, and their unconsummated love affair.

"It's really beautiful up here at night, isn't it?" she said dreamily, unaware that almost half an hour had passed since they had last spoke.
"I thought you'd fallen asleep."
"No." She watched a bank of clouds drift between them and the moon. "Did you ever take my mother flying?"
"A few times."
"At night?"
He hesitated. ' 'Once.''
"Did she like it?"
"She was scared, as I recall."
"They gave her hell, didn't they?"
"Who?"
"Everybody. When word got out that Celina Graham was pregnant, I'll bet the gossip spread like wildfire."
"You know how it is in a small town."
"I kept her from graduating high school."

"Look, Alex, you didn't keep her from doing anything," he argued angrily. "All right, she made a mistake. She got too hot with a soldier boy, or he took advantage of her. However the hell it happened, it happened."
With the edge of his hand, he chopped the air between them in a gesture of finality. "You didn't have anything to do with the act or the consequences of it. You said so yourself, just a few hours ago. Remember?"
"I'm not condemning my mother or stigmatizing myself, Reede. I feel sorry for her. She couldn't attend school, even though she was legally married."
Alex wrapped her arms around her sides, giving herself a huge hug. "I think she was a very special lady. She could have given me up for adoption, but she didn't. Even after my father was killed, she kept me with her. She loved me and was willing to make tremendous sacrifices for me.
"She had the courage to carry me in a town where everybody was talking about her. Don't bother denying it. I know they did. She was popular; she fell from grace. Anyone harboring malice toward her was delighted. That's human nature."
"If they were, they didn't dare show it."
"Because you were still her knight, weren't you?"
"Junior and me."
"You closed ranks around her."
"I guess you could put it like that."
"Your friendship probably meant more to her then than at any other time." He gave a noncommittal lift of his shoulders.
She studied his profile for a moment. The rocky path had led her to the cliff, and she was about to take the plunge.
"Reede, if Celina hadn't died, would you have gotten married?"
"No."
He answered without a second's hesitation. Alex was surprised.
She didn't quite believe him. "Why not?"
"Lots of reasons, but essentially, because of Junior."

She hadn't expected that. "What about him?"
"While Celina was pregnant, they became very close. He just about had her talked into marrying him when she . . .died."
"Do you think she would have, eventually?"
"I don't know." He slid Alex a sardonic glance. "Junior's quite a ladies' man. He can be very persuasive."
"Look, Reede, I told Sarah Jo, now I'm telling you, that--"
"Shh! They're passing us off to Austin radar." He spoke into the headset. When the formalities had been dispensed with, he coaxed someone in the airport tower to arrange a rental car for him. By the time he had gone through that procedure, they were approaching the lighted runway.
"Buckled up?"
"Yes."
He executed a flawless landing. Alex thought later that she must have been in a daze, because she barely remembered
getting from the plane to the rented car. Without having to concentrate, she gave Reede directions to her condo.
It was located in a fashionable, yuppie neighborhood where Evian was the drink of preference, every kitchen had a wok, and membership in a health club was as mandatory as a driver's license.
A line of thunderstorms hadn't hampered their flight, but had moved in over the city by the time they reached her street. Raindrops began to splatter the windshield. Thunder rumbled.
"The one with all the newspapers scattered in the yard," Alex told him.
"You're a public prosecutor. Don't you know better than to advertise to thieves that you're out of town? Or is that your way of drumming up business?"
"I forgot to stop delivery."
He pulled to the curb, but he didn't turn off the motor.
Several days ago, Alex would have been jubilant at the thought of returning home, just for a temporary respite from the Westerner Motel, but as she looked at the front door now, she felt no enthusiasm for going inside. The tears that clouded
her vision weren't tears of joy.
"I've been gone for almost three weeks."
"Then I'd better Walk up with you." He turned off the ignition and got out, impervious to the rain. He walked with her up the sidewalk, picking up the outdated newspapers as he went. He tossed them into a corner of her covered porch as she unlocked the door. "Don't forget to throw those papers away tomorrow," he said.
"No, I won't." She reached inside and cut off her alarm system, which had begun to hum the moment she opened the door. "I guess that means it's safe inside."
"Do you want to meet at the airport tomorrow, or what?"
"Uh . . ." She couldn't think beyond him driving away, leaving her alone in her condo. "I hadn't thought about it."
"I'll drop by the D.A.'s office around noon and ask for you. How's that?"
"Fine. I should be finished by then."
"Okay, see ya." He turned to leave.
"Reede." Instinctively she reached for him, but when he turned, she pulled her hand back. "Would you like some coffee before you go?"
"No, thanks."
"Where are you going now?"
"I won't know till I get there."
"What did you have in mind?"
"Messing around."
"Oh, well ..."
"You'd better get inside."
"I haven't paid you yet."
"For what?"
"The plane, your time."
"No charge."
"I insist."
He cursed. "The one thing I'm not going to argue with you about is money. Got that? Now, good night."

He turned and took two long strides before she called his name again. When he came back around, his eyes bore into hers. "I don't want to be alone tonight," she admitted in a rush. Even with all the crying she'd done that afternoon, her
supply of tears hadn't been exhausted. They began to roll down her cheeks as steadily as the rainfall. "Please don't go, Reede. Stay with me."
He moved back beneath the overhang, but his hair and shoulders were already damp. Placing his hands on his hips, he demanded, "Why?"
"I just told you why."
"You've got to have a better reason than that, or you wouldn't have asked."
"All right," she shouted up at him, "I feel like crap. Is that reason enough?"
"No."
"I'm hurting for what my mother must have suffered for my sake," she said, making a swipe at her leaking eyes.
"I'm no doctor."
"I need to be held."
"Sorry. I've got other plans."
"Don't you care that I'm appealing to you for help?"
"Not really."
She hated him for making her beg. Nevertheless, she threw down the last vestiges of her pride and said, "My Grandma
Graham died resenting me for ruining Celina's life. She wanted her to marry Junior, and blamed my untimely birth when that didn't happen. Now, dammit," she said, "I need to know that you don't despise me, too.
"Can you imagine how terrible I feel, knowing that I'm the reason my mother married another man when she loved you? If it hadn't been for me, you could have married her, had children, loved each other for the rest of your lives. Reede, please stay with me tonight."
He closed the distance between them, backed her into the wall, and gave her a hard shake. "You want me to hold you and tell you that everything is okay, and that the sun will come out tomorrow and things will look better?"
"Yes!"
' 'Well, for your information, Counselor, I don't do bedtime stories. When I spend the night with a woman, it's not because I want to comfort her if she's hurting, or cheer her up if she's sad." He took a step closer. His eyes narrowed until they were mere slits. "And it's for damn sure not because I want to play daddy."

Twenty-eight




Gregory Harper, district attorney of Travis County, Texas, was clearly furious. He was on his third cigarette in five minutes. His anger was directed toward his assistant, who was seated on the other side of his desk, looking like she'd been socked hard in both eyes.
"Who've you been sleeping with, Dracula? You look like you've been sucked dry," Greg remarked with characteristic
abrasiveness.
"Could we stick to one crushing blow at a time, please? Don't confuse the issue."
"Crushing blow? Oh, you mean the part where I told you that your investigation is over and done with and you're to return to Austin pronto, posthaste, lickety-split, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars, haul ass?"
"Yes, that crushing blow." Alex flattened her hands on the edge of his desk. "Greg, you can't ask me to drop it now."
"I'm not asking--I'm telling." He left his swivel chair and moved to the window. "What the **** have you been doing out there, Alex? The governor called me yesterday, and he was pissed. I mean pissed."

"He's always pissed at you."
"That's beside the point."
"Hardly. Greg, everything you do is politically motivated. Don't pretend it isn't. I don't blame you for it, but don't play Mr. Clean with me just because your hand got slapped."
"The governor thinks his racing commission can do no wrong. To admit that the commission made a mistake in selecting Minton Enterprises for a license is tantamount to the governor admitting that he made an error in judgment, too."
"Minton Enterprises is above reproach, as far as the horse-racing business goes."
"Oh, I see. The only hitch is that you suspect one of the Mintons is a murderer, or if not them, a peace officer. Gee, for a minute there, I thought we had a problem."
"You don't have to get sarcastic."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "To hear the governor yesterday, Angus Minton is a cross between the tooth fairy and Buffalo Bill Cody."
Alex smiled at the analogy, which was uncannily accurate.
"That's a fair assessment, but that doesn't mean he's incapable of killing someone."
"What happened to his barn the other night?"
"How'd you know about that?"
"Just tell me what happened."
Reluctantly, she told him about Fergus Plummet and the vandalism done to the Minton ranch. When she was finished, Greg ran a hand down his face. "You've upset a real big apple cart, full of shiny, bright apples." He selected another cigarette and spoke around it. It bobbed up and down with each word, making lighting it difficult. "I didn't like this case to start with."
"You loved it." Alex's nerves were already frayed, so it annoyed her even more that he was shifting all the blame to her. "You thought it might embarrass the governor, and you relished that thought."
He braced his arms on his desk and leaned over it. "You said you were going out there to reopen your mother's murder case. I didn't know you were going to get a loony preacher whipped into a frenzy, a man's barn nearly burned down, a
valuable racehorse shot in the head, and offend a respected judge, who has a reputation as spotless as God's."
"Wallace?"
"Wallace. Apparently, he called our esteemed governor and complained about your unprofessional conduct, your handling
of the case, and your unfounded accusations." He sucked smoke into his lungs and blew it out in a gust. "Shall I go on?"
"Please," she said wearily, knowing he would anyway.
"Okay. Chastain's scared shitless of Wallace."
"Chastain's scared shitless of his own shadow. He won't even return my calls."
"He's disclaimed you, washed his hands cleaner of you than Ivory soap could have done. He says you've been seen partying with your suspects."
" 'Partying'? I've seen them on a few social occasions.'
"Dangerous business, Alex. We've got three gentlemen suspects and one lady prosecutor whose association with each goes way back. It's all as murky as file" gumbo."
She tried not to squirm under his incisive stare. "New tack." Standing, she circled her chair. "This is an unsolved murder case. The investigation is viable, no matter who conducts it."
"Okay," he said complacently, folding his hands behind his head and leaning his chair back, "I'll play. What have you got? No body to dig up. No murder weapon. No--"
"It was lifted out of the vet's bag."
"What?"
"The murder weapon." She told him what Dr. Ely Collins had told her. "The scalpel was never returned to the elder Dr. Collins. I've been meaning to check the evidence room on the outside chance that it's still there, but I doubt that it is."
"So do I. The bottom line is that you've still got no weapon. Has an eyewitness come forward?"

She sighed. "During this telephone call, did the governor Mention a ranch hand named Pasty Hickam?"
' "So, it's true."
"It's true. And please don't insult me by trying to trap me like that again. I was going to tell you."
"When? When were you going to slip it into the conversation that a representative of this office got involved with a cowboy who turned up dead?"
"Care to hear my side of it?" She told him about Pasty.
He was frowning more man ever when she finished. "If you're right, not only is it stupid and politically imprudent to continue this investigation, it's dangerous. I don't suppose anyone's confessed."
She made a face at him. "No. But one of them killed Celina, and probably Hickam."
Cursing, he mashed out his cigarette. "Let's stick to one murder at a time. If you had to arrest one of them tomorrow for killing your mother, who would it be?"
"I'm not sure."
"Why would the old man have iced her?"
"Angus is cantankerous and shrewd. He wields a lot of power, and definitely enjoys being the boss."
"You're smiling."
"He's extremely likable, I'll admit." She kept Angus's comment about having a daughter like her to herself. "He's inordinately rough on Junior. But, a slasher?" she asked rhetorically, shaking her head. "I don't think so. It's not his style. Besides, Angus didn't have a motive."
"What about Junior?"
"There's a possibility there. He's glib and very charming. I'm sure that everything he tells me is the truth, he just doesn't
tell me everything. I know he loved Celina. He wanted to marry her after my father was killed. Maybe she said no one too many times."
"Conjecture and more conjecture. So, that leaves Lambert. What about him?"
Alex lowered her head and stared at her bloodless fingers.
"He's the most likely suspect, I believe."

Greg's chair sprang forward. "What makes you say that?"
"Motive and opportunity. He might have felt his best friend was displacing him and killed her to prevent it."
"Pretty viable motive. What about opportunity?"
"He was at the ranch that night, but he left."
"Are you sure? Has he got an alibi?"
"He says he was with a woman."
"Do you believe him?"
She gave a short, bitter laugh. "Oh, yes. I can believe that. Neither he nor Junior has a problem with women."
"Except your mother."
"Yes," she conceded quietly.
"What has Lambert's alibi got to say?"
"Nothing. He won't tell me her name. If she exists, she's probably still around. Otherwise, what difference would it make? I'll work on tracking her down when I get back."
"Who says you're going back?"
Up till now, Alex had been pacing. Returning to her chair, she appealed to him. "I've got to go back, Greg. I can't leave it up in the air like this. I don't care if the murderer is the governor himself, I've got to see it through to the finish."
He nodded toward the telephone on his desk. "He's going to call me this afternoon and ask me if you're off the case. He expects me to say yes."
"Even if that would mean leaving a murder unsolved?"
"Judge Wallace convinced him that you've got a bee up your ass and that this is a personal vendetta."
"Well, he's wrong."
"I don't think so."
Her heart stopped beating. "You think that, too?"
"Yep, I do." He spoke softly, more like a friend than a boss. "Call it quits, Alex, while we're all still speaking to each other, and before I get my tail in a real crack with the governor."
"You gave me thirty days."
"Which I can rescind."
"I've got just a little more than a week left."


"You can do a lot of damage in that amount of time."
"I could also get to the truth."
He looked skeptical. "That's a long shot. I've got cases here that need your expert touch."
"I'll pay my own expenses," she said. "Consider this my vacation."
"In that case, I couldn't sanction anything you did out there. You'd no longer have the protection of this office."
"Okay, fine."
He shook his head stubbornly. "I wouldn't let you do that, any more than I'd let. my teenage daughter go on a date without a rubber in her purse."
"Greg, please."
"Jesus, you're a stubborn broad." He withdrew a cigarette from the pack, but didn't light it. "You know the one thing that intrigues me about this case? The judge. If he turned out to be as crooked as a dog's hind leg, it'd really get our governor's goat."
"You're mixing metaphors."
"What have you got on him?"
"Nothing more solid than dislike. He's a persnickety little man, nervous and shifty-eyed." She thought a moment.
"There is something that struck me as odd, though."
"Well?" he asked, sitting forward.
"Stacey, his daughter, married Junior Minton weeks after Celina's death."
"Unless they're brother and sister, that wasn't illegal."
She shot him a sharp look. "Stacey's not ... well, not Junior's type, you know? She still loves him." She recounted the incident in the powder room at the Horse and Gun Club.
"Junior's very attractive. Stacey isn't the kind of woman he would marry."
"Maybe she's got a golden pussy."
"I'll admit, I never thought of that," Alex said dryly. "He didn't have to marry her to sleep with her. So why did he, unless there was a very good reason? In addition to that, Stacey lied to me. She said she was home unpacking after a trip to Galveston, but failed to mention she'd been in the stable that day."
Greg gnawed on his lower lip, then poked the cigarette in his mouth and flicked the lighter at it. "It's still too weak, Alex." He exhaled. "I've got to go with my gut instincts and call you off."
They stared at each other a moment, then she calmly opened her handbag and withdrew two plain white envelopes.
She pushed them toward him. "What's this?"
"My letter of resignation, and a letter of intent to file a civil suit against the Mintons and Reede Lambert."
He almost swallowed his cigarette. "What? You can't."
"I can. I will. There's enough evidence to bring a civil suit against them for the murder of my mother. I'll sue them for so much money in damages that opening a racetrack will be out of the question. Reede Lambert's career will be shot to hell, too. They won't go to jail, but they'll be ruined."
"you win."
"It won't matter if I do or not. In a civil suit, they can't plead the Fifth to avoid incrimination. No matter what they say, everyone will presume they're lying. The racing commission would have no choice but to reverse its decision and revoke the gambling license."
"So, what this all boils down to is money?" he cried. "Is that what you've been after all along?"
Her pale cheeks sprouted dots of color. "It's beneath even you to say something like that to me. I demand your apology."
Greg muttered a string of oaths. "Okay, I'm sorry. But, you mean this, don't you?"
"Yes, I do."
He deliberated for a full minute longer before grumbling, "I ought to have my head examined." Pointing a stern finger at her, he said, "Stay the hell out of trouble. Make sure you've loaded both barrels before you go after somebody, particularly Wallace. If you screw up and I get my ass chewed on, I'll claim you were a naughty girl and that I had nothing to do with your actions. And, your original deadline sticks. Got that?"
"Got it," she said, coming to her feet. "You'll be hearing from me as soon as I know something."
"Alex?" She was already at the door. When she looked back at him, he asked, "What's going on with you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Any reason in particular why you look like the ghost of Christmas, dead and buried?"
"I'm just tired."
He didn't believe her, but he let it go. After she'd left, he reached for the two envelopes she'd shoved across his desk.
He ripped open the first, then, more hastily, the second. Greg Harper practically hurdled his desk and lunged for the door of his office. "Alex, you bitch!" he roared down the empty corridor.
"She just left," his startled secretary informed him. "With a man."
"Who?"
"A cowboy in a fur-trimmed leather jacket."
Greg returned to his desk, wadded the two empty envelopes into balls, and shot them at the wastebasket.

It was close to sundown when Reede wheeled his Blazer into the parking lot of the Westerner Motel.
"Just drop me at the lobby, please," Alex told him. "I need to check for messages."
Reede did as she asked without comment. They'd had very little to say to each other since their awkward reunion outside
the D.A.'s office. The flight home had been uneventful. Alex had dozed most of the way.
Reede had passed the time watching Alex doze.
No less than a thousand times during the night, he'd almost gone back to her condo. Looking at the crescent-shaped circles
beneath her eyes while she slept, he didn't know how he could have walked away from her. She had needed someone with her last night. He'd been the only one available.

But no one had ever presented him a prize for being a good Boy Scout. If he had stayed, he couldn't have kept his hands,
or his mouth, or his cock, away from her. That's why he had left. Their needs hadn't been compatible. Now, she was hesitating, half in, half out of the truck.
"Well, thank you."
"You're welcome."
"Are you sure you won't let me pay you?"
He didn't honor that with an answer. Instead, he asked a question of his own. "What was the big powwow about?"
"A case I was working on before I left. The other prosecutor needed some facts cleared up."
"And they couldn't be cleared up over the phone?"
"It was complicated."
He knew she was lying, but saw no reason to pursue it.
"So long."
She stepped to the ground and, pulling the strap of her heavy bag onto her shoulder, went into the motel lobby, where the clerk greeted her and handed her a stack of messages.
Reede backed up and turned the truck around. He was about to pull out when he noticed that Alex had slowed down to read one of the messages. Her face had grown even paler than it already was. He shoved the transmission into Park and got out.
"What's that?"
She squinted up at him, then hastily refolded the letter and stuffed it back into the envelope. "My mail."
"Let me see it."
"You want to see my mail?"
He snapped his fingers rapidly three times and opened his palm. Her exasperation was plain when she slapped the envelope into his hand. It didn't take him long to read the letter.
It was short and to the point. Tawny brows merged over the bridge of his nose as he frowned. " 'An abomination unto God'?"
"That's what he's calling me."
"Plummet, no doubt. Mind if I keep this?"

"No," Alex said shakily. "I've memorized it."
"Be sure to keep your door locked."
"You're not taking his threat seriously, are you?"
He wanted to shake her, hard. She was either stupid or naive, and either one could get her hurt. "Damn right, I am," he said. "And so should you. If he makes any attempt to contact you, call me. Understand?"
She looked ready to argue, but eventually nodded her head. Her exhaustion was evident. She seemed on the verge of
collapsing in the parking lot. Reede knew he could take partial credit for that, but instead of making him feel smug, it made
him feel terrible.
Closing his mind to it, he returned to his truck. He didn't drive away from the motel, however, until Alex was locked safely inside her room.

Twenty-nine
 
 
 
Reede turned his head when the corrugated tin door of the hangar crashed open. The sinking sun was behind her, so Alex's face was in shadow, but he didn't need to see her expression to know that she was furious. She looked as tense as a pulled hamstring. The vivid light shining through her hair made it appear to crackle like flame.
He calmly finished washing his hands at the industrial metal sink, rinsed them, and reached for a paper towel from the wall dispenser.
"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" he asked pleasantly.
"You're a liar, probably a cheat, possibly a murderer."

"That's been your opinion of me from the beginning. Tell me something I don't already know."
He dropped down onto a stool and hooked the heels of his boots on the lowest rung. Mindlessly, his hands slid up and down the tops of his thighs. He'd never wanted to touch a woman so badly in his life.
She advanced on him militantly, a package of quivering energy. She looked soft, but so goddamn alive and vibrant that he could almost feel her skin against his palms. He wanted to clutch her hair while crushing her smart mouth with nonstop kisses.
She was wearing the fur coat that never failed to elicit an erotic curl deep in his groin. Her tight jeans gloved thighs that he could think of better uses for than supporting a woman obviously on the brink of exploding with rage.
When they were but inches apart, she shook a paper in his face. He recognized the letter she'd received from the concerned citizens soon after her arrival in Purcell. The shit was about to hit the fan, all right. He'd been waiting for it. This showdown had been due to happen the minute she figured it out.
"I knew something didn't jive with this," she said through clenched teeth, "but today as I was poring over the material I have, looking for clues, I finally realized what was out of sync."
Pretending that he didn't smell her tantalizing fragrance, which made him crazy, he folded his arms over his middle.
"Well?"
"There is one more business cited in the letter than there are signatures at the bottom. Moe Blakely Airfield," she said, stabbing her finger repeatedly at the typed paragraph. "But Moe Blakely didn't sign it."
"That would have been tough to do, since he died about seven years ago."
"Moe Blakely was the old man you told me about, wasn't he? The one who taught you to fly and treated you to strawberry soda pops."

"You're batting a thousand, so far."
"You own this airfield, Mr. Lambert."
"Right down to the tumbleweeds and tarantulas. Moe willed it to me. Surprised?"
"Flabbergasted."
"Most folks around here were. Pissed off some of them, too--the ones who would have liked to get their hands on fee property. That was when they were poking holes in the ground, drilling for oil under every rock."
"We discussed this letter at length," she grated. "You said you'd already seen it, but you failed to mention that your business was listed."
"The people who drafted the letter didn't consult me first. If they had, I would have told them to leave me out of it."
"Why? Your sentiments match theirs perfectly."
"That's right, they do, but I don't make veiled threats. I told you to your face to get your ass back to Austin. Besides, I'm not a joiner, never have been. Group projects aren't my thing."
"That still doesn't explain why you didn't tell me that the airfield was yours, when you've had so many opportunities to do so."
"I didn't because I knew you'd blow it all out of proportion."
She drew herself up. "I am not blowing it out of proportion. You own this airfield free and clear, and you've got big plans for expansion and improvement."
He came off the stool slowly and loomed above her, no longer amused. His eyes were icy. "How do you know about that?"
"I did my homework this afternoon. Representing myself as your secretary, I called three commuter airlines and asked about the status of our application for service. If they had never heard of you, I would have known my hunch was wrong."
She gave a dry laugh. "They'd heard of you, all right. They were very anxious to extend their congratulations to you for ME being guaranteed the racing license. All three are excited about your charter service ideas and are currently preparing proposals. They'll be in touch as soon as their market research is completed. By the way, you owe me ten dollars in long-distance charges."
He grabbed her arm. "You had no right to meddle into my business affairs. This hasn't got a goddamn thing to do with your murder case."
"I have every right to conduct this investigation as I see fit."
"Just because I own an airfield that will prosper if that racetrack is built, doesn't mean that I took a scalpel to Celina."
"It might mean that you're protecting whoever did," she shouted.
"Who? Angus? Junior? That's crap and you know it."
She wrested her arm out of his grip. "You've hampered this investigation every step of the way. You've got a badge, so that's supposed to make you an officer of the law. Ha! Now that's crap!
"You don't want me to discover the killer, whoever he is, because any indictment would mean bye-bye racetrack and the end of your money-making schemes. No wonder your loyalty to the Mintons is so steadfast," she said scornfully.
"It has nothing to do with friendship or compensation for past favors. You're selfishly protecting your financial interests."
Her breasts quivered beneath her sweater when she pulled in an uneven breath and added, "I might just as well tell you, I think you're it."
"What, the murderer?" His voice was sibilant and sinister.
He backed her against the fuselage of the airplane he'd been tinkering with before she had arrived.
"Yes. I think you killed her. I think I know why."
"I'm all ears."
"You loved Celina to distraction, but she betrayed your love. I was a constant reminder of her betrayal, even before I was born. You couldn't forgive and forget, but Junior could. He welcomed the chance to take your place. He began to court her, and his efforts were effective.
"When you noticed that she was falling in love with him, you just couldn't stand losing her to your best friend and chief competitor, so you killed her. If you couldn't have her, then, by God, nobody, especially Junior, was going to."
He let one eyelid sink into a slow, congratulatory wink.
"Very good, Counselor. But you got a big, fat problem with that pile of tripe.'' He took a step closer and lowered his face nearer hers. "You can't prove it, not a frigging bit of it. It's all conjecture. You've got nothing on me, nothing on anybody. So, why don't you just make life easier on all of us and give it up?"
"Because I can't."
He heard the desperation behind her words and knew that he was more than halfway to breaking her.
''Why can't you?'' he taunted.
"Because I want to punish whoever killed her."
"Uh-uh," he said, shaking his head. "You're not doing this for Celina. You're doing it for yourself."
"I am not!"
"Your granny built Celina up to be larger than life in your eyes, and you can't forgive yourself for coming along at the wrong time in her life and messing it up."
"Now who's talking psychological bullshit?" she asked angrily. "I know enough about you to know that you're selfish, Reede Lambert. The idea of another man touching what you considered your personal property would be intolerable to you."
Her expression was triumphant and challenging. "What did you find the hardest to forgive, Reede? That Celina went to bed with another man? Or couldn't you forgive yourself for not taking her when you had the chance?"
"Why are you so hung up on who I did or didn't take!" He nudged her body with his, then inclined forward until they were touching middle to middle. "I warned you once to keep your curiosity at bay," he whispered. "Isn't that what you've been doing with Junior, satisfying your curiosity about why your mama found him so appealing?" He took perverse pleasure in watching the color drain from her face.
"No," she denied hoarsely.
"I think it is."
"You're sick."
"Not me, baby." His breath trailed across her lips.
"You're the one who's curious."
He bent his head and kissed her. She stubbornly resisted the pressure of his mouth, but he finally succeeded in maneuvering her lips apart. His tongue raked her teeth and the inner linings of her lips.
She opened to him. He felt the breath leave her body on a ragged sigh. It was moist and warm and sweet inside his mouth. His erection stretched, pushing painfully against his fly, against hers. He reached inside her coat and covered her breast with his hand. Beneath his revolving thumb her nipple
hardened, and when he swept it lightly, a low moan rose out of her throat.
He raised his head and looked down into her face. Her head was resting against the body of the airplane, her throat arched and exposed. She was breathing hard. Her chest rose and fell swiftly. He could feel her heart, like a small, wild, frightened creature that had become trapped in his palm. Her lips were slightly parted, wet and glistening. Her eyes were closed. Slowly, they came open. They looked at each other with wariness and confusion.
Oh Jesus, was Reede's last coherent thought. His mouth lowered to hers again, hungrier, but much more temperate. He pressed his tongue into her mouth, giving, not taking. He fondled her breast with more finesse. Eventually losing patience with her clothing, he dropped his hand to her waist. Her sweater was pushed up, the cup of her bra was pushed down, and her warm, soft flesh filled his hand. Reflexively, she arched her back, plumping her breast against his callused fingers and palm. He kneaded it and continued to agitate its tight, feverish center with the pad of his thumb.
Kissing her as though this was his first kiss ever, or the last one he would ever be granted, he worked her legs apart with his knee and angled his hips toward her cleft. From the edge of his mind it registered that she made a helpless little sound and lifted her arms to encircle his neck, but he could focus on nothing except her mouth, his invasion of it, and how damn much he wanted to be buried snugly inside her.
His free hand slid over her butt, down the back of her thigh, and caught her behind the knee. He lifted it, propped it on his hip, and made a grinding motion against her. He fit his rigid body into the notch of her thighs and stroked her there until the tempo escalated to a breathless pace. She spoke his name on a sudden, catchy little breath that fanned his passions hotter.
Several seconds later, he heard his name again, coming to him dimly and from afar. Vaguely, he wondered how she had managed to speak when her tongue was so actively engaged with his.
He heard his name called again and realized that it wasn't Alex's voice.
"Reede? Where are you, boy?"
His head snapped up. Alex blinked her eyes back into focus. He hastily withdrew his hand from inside her sweater.
She yanked her coat closed.
"In here." His voice sounded like he'd recently gargled nails.
Angus stepped through the door Alex had left open.
Reede noticed that the sun had set.

Thirty
 
 
To her credit, Alex recovered remarkably well, Angus thought. Except for the dazed expression in her eyes and her slightly swollen lips, she seemed perfectly composed.
"Hello, Angus," she said.
"Hi, Alex. Get things straightened out in Austin?"
"Yes. Thank you for lending me your airplane."
"Don't mention it."
"I, uh, was just on my way out." To Reede she said, "I'll get back to you about this later." She left in a hurry. Reede picked up a wrench and stuck his head into the exposed engine of the small aircraft.
"What's she up to now?" Angus asked as he lowered himself onto the stool Reede had occupied earlier.
"She discovered that I own this place. I never kept it a secret, but I never advertised it, either. She figures I'd have a lot to lose if she takes this case to a grand jury, whether I'm the killer or not."
"She's right," the older man observed. Reede merely shrugged, tossed the wrench on a worktable and closed the motor casing. "Ely told me she came to his office asking questions about his daddy's scalpel and the day of the murder."
"The scalpel, huh?"
"Yeah. Know anything about that?"
"Hell, no, do you?"
 
"Hell, no."
Reede went to a cabinet where he kept a supply of liquor and beer. He poured himself a hefty shot of Jack Daniels and tossed it down. He tilted the bottle toward Angus. "Want one?"
"Sure, thanks." As he sipped the whiskey, he watched Reede slam back another one.
Catching Angus's curious stare, he said, "It's been that kind of day."
"Alex?"
Reede ran his hands through his hair like a man plagued by demons. "Yeah. Damn, she's tenacious."
"There's no telling what kind of crap Merle Graham filled her head with."
"No wonder she's vengeful." He blew out a breath of extreme agitation. "If ME doesn't get that racetrack, all my future plans will be affected."
"It's that important to you, huh?"
"What did you think, that I want to be a ****ing sheriff for the rest of my life?"
"You worry too much, boy!" Angus said heartily. "We'll get it, and your future looks nothing but sunny. That's what I came out here to talk about."
Reede regarded him curiously. "My future?"
Angus finished his whiskey in one hefty swallow and crushed the paper cup in his fist. He pushed his cowboy hat back further on his head and looked up at Reede, smiling devilishly.
"I want you to come back and be an active part of Minton Enterprises again."
For a moment, Reede was rendered speechless by shock. He fell back a step, laughed, and said, "Are you shittin' me?"
"Nope." Angus raised a callused hand. "Before you say anything, hear me out."
He had already outlined in his mind what he was going to say. After receiving disturbing calls from two worried members of the racing commission who had read about Alex's investigation in the Austin newspaper, he'd decided he'd better get more aggressive about putting a stop to it.
This thing wasn't going to blow over, like he'd originally hoped.
The long-distance conversations had ended on an optimistic note. He'd pooh-poohed Alex's allegations, told them a few dirty jokes, and had them laughing by the time they hung up. He wasn't gravely concerned yet, but he definitely saw the need for ME to present a solid front. Having Reede as an integral part of the corporation again would be a positive step in that direction.
Now, his rehearsed words flowed smoothly. "You know almost as much as I do about racehorses, and more than Junior ever took the time or effort to learn. You'd come back into the company as an executive. I'd divide responsibilities equally between you and Junior, though you'd have different functions.
"I know how much this airfield means to you. You've got a sentimental attachment to it, but you also see its moneymaking potential. So do I. I'd incorporate it into ME. The corporation could afford to finance the rebuilding and expansion you want to do. We'd also have a lot more clout with the airlines."
His smile broadened. "Shit, I'd even throw in a few shares of ME stock as incentive. You can't pass up a deal like that, boy."
He was disappointed in Reede's reaction, which he had hoped would be astonishment tinged with pleasure. Instead, it appeared to be astonishment tinged with suspicion.
"What brought this on?"
A picture of equanimity, Angus said, "You belong with us--always have. I'm in a position to get things moving for you. You'd be foolish not to take advantage of my offer."
"I'm not a boy who still needs your charity, Angus."
"I never considered you a charity case."
"I know that," Reede said evenly, "but no matter how we dress it up with fancy words, that's what I was." He peered deeply into the older man's eyes. "Don't think I'm not grateful for everything you've done for me."
' 'I never asked you for gratitude. You always did an honest day's work for anything I sent your way."
"I wouldn't have had any advantages at all if it hadn't been for you." He paused before going on. "But I paid you back, several times over, I think. When I left your company, I did it because I needed independence. I still do, Angus."
Angus was perturbed, and made no secret of it. "You wanna be begged, is that it? Okay." He took a deep breath.
"I'm getting close to retirement age. Some would consider me past it. The business needs your leadership qualities to survive." He spread his hands wide. "There. Does that satisfy your confounded ego?"
"I don't need to be stroked, Angus, and you damn well know it. I'm thinking about somebody else's ego."
"Junior's?"
"Junior's. Have you told him about this?"
"No. I didn't see any reason to, until ..."
"Until there was nothing he could do about it."
Angus's silence was as good as an admission.
Reede began to pace. "Junior is your heir, Angus, not me. He's the one you should be grooming to take over. He needs to be ready when the time comes."
Angus paced, too, while he collected his thoughts. "You're afraid Junior won't get ready as long as you're around to do everything for him and cover his tracks when he messes up."
"Angus, I don't mean--"
"It's all right," he said, raising his hand to ward off Reede's objections. "I'm his daddy. You're his best friend. We should be able to discuss him freely without wading through bullshit. Junior isn't as strong as you."
Reede looked away. Hearing the truth warmed him inside.
He knew how difficult it was for Angus to say it.
"I always wanted Junior to be more like you--aggressive, assertive, ambitious--but. ..." Angus gave an eloquent shrug. "He needs you, Reede. Hell, so do I. I didn't bust my balls all these years to see everything I've built up fall down around me. I've got my pride, but I'm a practical businessman. I face facts, bad as they sometimes are. One of those facts is that you're competent, and Junior isn't."
"That's my point, Angus. He can be. Force his hand. Delegate him more responsibility."
"And when he ****s up, you know what'll happen? I'll lose my temper, start yelling at him. He'll sulk and run to his mama, who'll mollycoddle him."
"Maybe at first, but not for long. Junior'll start yelling back one of these days. He'll figure out that the only way to deal with you is to give you tit for tat. I did."
"Is that what you're doing now, getting back at me for some slight I'm not even aware of?"
"Hell, no," Reede answered crossly. "Since when have I ever been afraid to tell you off, or anybody else, if something wasn't to my liking?"
"All right, I'll tell you since when," Angus snapped.
"Since Celina was killed. That changed everything, didn't it?" He moved closer to Reede. "I don't think any of us has had an honest conversation with the other since that morning. The thing I always feared most was that she'd come between you and Junior." He laughed with rancor. "She did anyway. Even dead, she put a blight on the friendship."
"Celina has nothing to do with my decision to say no. I want to feel that what's mine is mine. Completely. Not a part of your conglomerate."
"So, it's strictly economics?"
"That's right."
The wheels of Angus's brain were whirring with fresh arguments. "What if I decided to build an airfield of my own?"
"Then we'd be competitors," Reede replied, unruffled.
"But there's not enough business to support two, and both of us would lose."
"But I can afford to. You can't."

"You wouldn't get any satisfaction from bankrupting me, Angus."
Angus relented and snorted a laugh. "You're right. Hell, boy, you're like family."
"Like family, but not. Junior is your son, not me."
"You're turning down this opportunity on account of him, aren't you?" It was a shrewd guess and, he saw by Reede's reaction, a correct one.
Reede gave his wristwatch a needless glance. "Look, I've got to run.''
"Reede," Angus said, grabbing his arm. "You reckon Junior'll ever realize just how good a friend you are to him?"
Reede tried to sound jocular. "Let's not tell him. He's conceited enough as it is."
Angus smelled defeat, and it was obnoxious to him. "I can't let you do it, boy."
"You've got no choice."
"I won't let you say no. I'll keep after you," he promised, his crafty blue eyes gleaming.
"You're not shook up because you'll miss me. You're shook up because you aren't getting your way."
"Not this time, Reede. I need you. Junior needs you. So does ME."
"Why now? After all these years, why does ME's future rely on me coming back?" Reede's features sharpened with realization. "You're scared."
"Scared?" Angus repeated with affected surprise. "Of what? Of whom?"
"Of Alex. You're scared that she might pluck the candy apple right out of your hand. You're trying to pack all the power you can behind you."
"Wouldn't we all be stronger against her if we stood together?"
"We are standing together."
"Are we?" Angus fired.
"You've got my loyalty, Angus, just like I've got yours."
Angus stepped closer to Reede. "I damn sure hope so. But I recall the look on your face when I walked through that door a while ago," he whispered. "You looked like you'd been walloped in the nuts, boy. And she looked all rosy and wet around the mouth."
Reede said nothing. Angus hadn't expected him to. He would have considered a babbling denial or an apology a weakness. Reede's strength was one reason he'd always admired him.
Angus relaxed his tension. "I like the girl, myself. She's saucy, and cute as a button. But she's too smart for her own good." He pointed a stern finger at Reede. "See that you don't get your cock up so high you can't look around it at what she's trying to do. She wants to bring us to our knees, make us atone for Celina's murder.
"Can you afford to lose everything you've worked for? I can't. Furthermore, I won't." Ending the discussion on that grim promise, he stamped out of the hangar.
 
"Where's my boy?" he stormily demanded of the bartender, almost an hour after leaving Reede. During that time, he'd been making the rounds of Junior's haunts.
"In the back," the bartender answered, indicating the closed door at the back of the tavern.
It was a shabby watering hole, but it had the largest poker pot in town. At any time of day or night, a game was in progress in the back room. Angus shoved open the door, nearly knocking over a cocktail waitress carrying a tray of empty long-necks on her shoulder. He plowed through the cloud of tobacco smoke toward the overhead beam that spotlighted the round poker table.
"I need to talk to Junior," he bellowed.
Junior, a cigar anchored in one corner of his mouth, smiled up at his father. "Can't it wait till we finish this hand? I've got five hundred riding on it, and I'm feeling lucky."
"Your ass is riding on what I've got to tell you, and your luck just ran out."
The other players, most of whom worked for Angus in one capacity or another, quickly swept up their stakes and scuttled out. As soon as the last one cleared the door, Angus banged it shut.
"What the hell's going on?" Junior asked.
"I'll tell you what's going on. Your friend Reede is about to get the best of you again, while you're here in the back room of this dump pissing your life away."
Junior meekly extinguished his cigar. "I don't know what you're talking about."
" 'Cause you've got your head up your ass, instead of on your business, where it belongs."
By an act of will, Angus calmed himself. If he hollered, Junior would only pout. Yelling never got him anywhere.
But it was tough to keep his disappointment and anger from showing.
"Alex was at the airfield this afternoon with Reede."
"So?"
"So, if I'd gotten there ten seconds later, I'd've caught them screwing against the side of an airplane!" he roared, forgetting his resolution to restrain his temper.
Junior bolted from his chair. "The hell you say!"
"I know when animals are in heat, boy. I make part of my living breeding them, remember? I can smell when they want each other," he declared, touching the end of his nose.
"He was doing what you should have been, instead of gambling away money you didn't even earn."
Junior flinched. Defensively, he said, "Last I heard, Alex was out of town."
"Well, she's back."
"All right, I'll call her tonight."
"Do better than that. Make a date, see her."
"Okay."
"I mean it!"
"I said, okay!" Junior shouted.
"And something else, just so you'll hear it from me first. I've asked Reede to rejoin ME."
"Huh?"

"You heard me."
"What . . . what'd he say?"
"He said no, but I'm not taking that as final." Angus walked toward his son until they were nose to nose. "I'll tell you something else. I haven't decided who'll be working for whom if he takes the job."
Junior's eyes reflected his pain and anger.
Angus poked him hard in the chest. "You'd better get busy and do what I told you to do, or one of two things could happen. Either Reede'll be sitting at your desk, assigning you jobs like cleaning out the stables, or all of us will be making license plates in the Huntsville prison. Either way, you won't have afternoons to while away playing poker."
Angus stepped back and gave the edge of the table a vicious kick with the pointed toe of his lizard boot. It toppled over, sending cards, poker chips, ashtrays, and bottles of beer crashing to the floor.
Then he marched out, leaving Junior to clean up the mess.