Читать книгу Cowboy Incognito - Alice Sharpe - Страница 9
ОглавлениеDespite his throbbing head, he fell into a black-and-white world of disjointed collages. It was a relief when a noise shook him out of the nothingness of his dreamworld. Even as he gingerly rubbed his eyes, he recognized the sound the door made when it opened and closed.
He looked up, expecting to see the cop who had asked him questions earlier or one of the doctors or nurses who were taking care of him. He did not expect to find himself staring into the velvety-brown eyes of a small woman wearing a formfitting black dress that revealed creamy smooth shoulders and a modest hint of cleavage.
He lifted his gaze back to the oval perfection of her face and hoped that he and she were longtime lovers, that she would run to him, throw her arms around him and whisper his name in his ear before planting her succulent red lips right on his. He wanted a name. He wanted an identity. He wanted his past, and maybe she was the key. If so, she made a heck of a sexy key and he was prepared to earn his memory back one succulent kiss at a time.
Her response to his gaze was a nervous twitch of her lips. He tried a reassuring smile, but that stretched the three stitches in his left cheek and he grimaced.
The woman did not look as though she loved him. Hell, she didn’t even look as though she knew him.
“You must be Kinsey Frost,” he said.
Now she just looked spooked. Her eyes grew wide. “Do you know me?”
“I don’t even know me,” he admitted. He nodded toward the cop standing behind her. “Detective Woods told me they found the name Kinsey Frost on a piece of paper. I just assumed you’re her.”
Some of the uneasiness fled from her face. “Oh, I see.”
“I’m hoping you have answers for me,” he added.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Today is the first time I ever saw you. I’m sure of it.” She narrowed her eyes as she looked him over and nodded. “You were walking ahead of me down the sidewalk and you caught my attention because of your hat. But I don’t know you.”
His hand flew to his head. “I was wearing a hat?” He directed his gaze to Woods. “Where is it?”
“It fell off when you tumbled into the street. A car going the other way nailed it.”
“What kind of hat?” he asked.
Kinsey supplied the answer. “A tan Stetson. It looked kind of new and very nice.”
He glanced down at his hands. He’d already noticed calluses and deeply tanned skin, along with old scars, on his knuckles. “Workingman hands,” he said softly. Not the hands of a teacher or a doctor. The hands of a man who got down and dirty on occasion, and instinctively, he knew at least that much about himself. He looked up at Woods. “And I was wearing cowboy boots. That’s what the nurse said.”
“That’s right,” Detective Woods concurred. “Plus, you don’t sound like you’re from around here. In fact, you don’t have much of an accent at all. We’re checking hotels to see if any of their customers are unaccounted for, but it’s questionable anything will come of it. There are thousands of rooms in this city. It’s unlikely anyone has missed you yet, unless you didn’t show up for an appointment or something. The big question is why you were carrying Ms. Frost’s name. What’s the link between you two?”
“I hope that’s a rhetorical question and you aren’t expecting an answer from me,” he said. He looked at Kinsey again. “It’s up to you.”
Her hand brushed his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t imagine why you were carrying my name.”
“In addition to working at the gallery, you’re also an artist yourself, aren’t you?” Woods asked.
She turned to look at him. “Yes.”
“Could he have gotten your name from a third party in relation to your work?”
“I guess so. I’ve done several portraits for people in New Orleans since I moved here a couple of years ago.” She glanced back at him with a question in her eyes. “Maybe one of them gave you my name and you were trying to find the gallery to talk to me.”
“He was walking away from, not headed to, the gallery,” the detective pointed out with a frown.
“People sometimes have a hard time finding the place. It’s very narrow. Maybe he walked right past it.”
“We’ll question people on that street as time and manpower allow,” the detective said. “Including Marc Costello. But as you know, it’s a long one with several businesses and homes farther along...it’s going to take a while. I’d appreciate it if you would also make a list of the people you did work for so we can ask them if they might have given your name to the...victim.” The detective shook his head as he looked at the bed. “Sorry, I’m not sure what to call you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
The detective scanned his notebook briefly before directing a comment to Kinsey. “When I questioned you right after the incident, you said he was walking with determination, that he appeared preoccupied.”
Kinsey nodded thoughtfully.
“That doesn’t sound like he was searching for something to me.”
“I guess it doesn’t,” Kinsey agreed.
The detective opened a small manila envelope he pulled from a jacket pocket and shook out a set of keys.
“Those are the keys you showed me earlier,” he said. “The ones they found in my pocket.”
“Yes,” Woods said. “I wanted you to hold them, look at them, see if they jog a memory.” He pointed at the fob, a small disk decorated with a red tractor and the words Red Hot, St. George, Utah. “We checked on that, by the way.”
“It sounds like a strip club,” he said.
The detective laughed. “Yeah, that’s what we thought, too. What it really is, though, is a nickname for a small tractor. We found the dealership that carries it, name of Travers’s Tractors. They’re not missing anyone, but we did fax the police there your photo. They showed it to the staff at the dealership...didn’t get any hits, but a couple of people are on vacation, so they’ll try again in a few days. They also have a couple of other stores in their chain and they said they’d ask around and get back to me, but we’re also contacting them. Keep in mind that sooner or later someone will wonder what happened to you and report it to the police.” His phone rang and he stepped away from the bed to answer it.
Kinsey gestured at all the machines. “Are your other injuries serious?”
“Not as bad as they could have been,” he replied, glancing at each key in turn.
“Were you out long?”
“I woke up in the ambulance.”
“And you didn’t know who you were? That must have been terrifying.”
He ran his fingers over the tractor logo and shook his head before meeting her velvety gaze again. “It wasn’t like that. What I was aware of was that I didn’t know where I was or what had happened to me. There was an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose and my head hurt. I felt confused. I guess there are just certain instances when you decide to wait it out and see what happens. I mean, I could hear the siren, there was a guy sitting next to me who smiled and I was obviously being cared for. That was enough. At first.”
“So you have a concussion?”
“And apparently a hard head, too. There’s bruising and scrapes, a few stitches, stuff like that, but no broken bones, just this fog where my brain used to be. Thank goodness the taxi didn’t hit me or the child I had in my arms.”
“The child you saved,” Kinsey said.
He smiled, ignoring the stress on the stitches. He liked the way her voice softened as she spoke, the look in her eyes as she met his gaze. “Anyway, the doctors said I was lucky.” He paused for a second. Truth was, he didn’t feel real lucky right that moment. He’d gladly exchange a broken arm for the return of his memory. “Thanks for trying to help,” he added. His gaze followed a few strands of dark hair that had pulled loose from the pins atop her head and trailed down along her cheeks, brushing her collarbone, framing her face. She looked as if she’d stepped out of a dream, and he had another gut feeling about himself. He was a sucker for brunettes with red lips. “You were at a party or something, right?”
Her smile lit up her eyes. “The dress gave it away, huh?”
“More or less.”
“We were hosting an opening show for a local artist at the gallery,” she said. After a slight pause, she added, “I wish I knew what to call you. John Doe seems kind of impersonal.”
“You’re artistic,” he said. “Give me a name, something that you think fits.”
She narrowed her eyes as she studied his features. Then she smiled. “My father died before I was born, but my mother told me that he read constantly and what he liked best were Westerns. She said his favorite author was a guy named Zane Grey. How about we call you Zane?”
“Zane,” he murmured. “I like it. Okay, thanks.”
She nodded as the detective returned. It was obvious he’d overheard some of their conversation when he raised his eyebrows and said, “Zane?”
“My new alias.”
“It fits you,” the detective said. “Well, Zane, we’ve found the bike the fake courier used abandoned in a hallway of an old building due for demolition. I’m going to go check it out. The doctors want to keep you here for several days.”
“Who’s going to pay for that?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I don’t think I can handle being cooped up in this place for long,” Zane admitted. “I think I may be an outdoor type of guy.”
Woods narrowed his eyes. “Try to remember that someone took a huge risk today to steal your wallet and probably a cell phone. He pushed you into traffic in front of a crowd of onlookers. It could have just as easily wound up with him in the street as it did you and the child. That underscores this person’s recklessness.”
“I wonder what was worth such a risk,” Zane mused.
“We may never know.”
“Did the video help you identify the man who attacked Zane?” Kinsey asked.
The detective shook his head. “He never turned around and looked at anyone.” He glanced at Zane again. “Listen, you’re safe here. And if you remember anything at all, call me. I left my card on the table by your phone.”
Zane had been holding the keys, turning them over and over in his fingers. The detective nodded at them. “Are they bringing back any memories?”
“No,” Zane admitted. “Afraid not.” He started to hand them back, but the detective held up a hand. “No, that’s okay. We made copies, you hold on to those. The doctor said something familiar might jog your memory, and those keys are about all we can offer. That and what’s left of your clothes in the cabinet over there.”
“The keys are easier to hold,” Zane said.
“Exactly.” Woods nodded his goodbye to Kinsey and hurried from the room.
Kinsey took a deep breath. “I guess I’d better go, too. It was nice to meet you, Zane.”
“Do you have to leave?” he asked. Then he smiled. “Of course you do. You have to get back to work.”
“I could stay for a few minutes,” she told him.
A panicky knot in his gut followed a moment of pleasure. What in the world did they have to say to each other? He couldn’t talk about himself, he couldn’t talk about places he’d visited or things he’d seen because he didn’t know, he wasn’t sure.
She leaned one hip against the bed and looked at him expectantly.
“So, you noticed me because of my hat,” he said when no other topic sprang to mind.
That’s right,” she said.
“But we didn’t exchange a word?”
“Not one.”
“Did I notice you?”
She looked almost embarrassed. “Kind of. I mean, our eyes did meet one time and you smiled at me.”
“I bet I did,” he said.
“And then everything started to happen.”
“Yeah, the detective told me. Listen, be honest,” he added, straightening up and trying to appear dignified. He was finding out that hospital beds weren’t designed to make a man look virile and strong, and for some reason, that’s how he wanted to look for her. “Did I appear to be a cowboy, you know, a real wrangler type, or did I look like someone who wanted to be a cowboy?”
“You mean, did you look like the real deal or a poser?”
“Exactly,” he said, nodding.
She thought for a second. Even doing nothing but thinking looked good on her and it gave him a chance to admire the sweet curve of her lips and the shape of her earlobe.
“Well?” he prompted.
“This is just an impression, you understand. Your clothes looked expensive and new, but you wore them like you’d been born in them. To me, you looked like a guy who was on a mission.”
He thought about that for a minute. “Do I look like the kind of guy who asks you to paint his portrait?”
“Not really, though everyone is different. Anyway, maybe it’s not your own portrait you wanted painted. Maybe it was someone in your family. Your wife or your kids.”
He held up his left hand. “No ring, no white line where one has been.”
“Lots of hardworking guys don’t wear rings,” she told him. “Maybe you work with big equipment, like at a mill or something. And if you have a wife, she must be wondering where you are.”
“One would hope,” he said, and they stared at each other for a few seconds, the silence broken when the door opened and a petite blonde nurse bustled into the room.
“Time for our meds,” she chirped.
Kinsey straightened up. “I’d better go,” she said.
Zane heard a note of relief in her voice. How could he blame her? He caught her hand and squeezed it. “Thanks again, Kinsey.”
She stared at their linked hands for a second before raising her gaze to his face. “When your memory returns, let me know, okay?” She took a pen from her purse and scrawled her phone number on the back of the detective’s card.
“If you’re in this neck of the woods tomorrow, drop in and say hi,” he told her as she handed him the card. “For all intents and purposes, you’re the only friend I have.” He winced and shook his head. “Did that sound pathetic enough?”
“You’re going to be fine,” she told him, her dark eyes soft, her voice barely a whisper.
The nurse handed Zane a small paper sleeve with a pill nestled inside. She picked up his water glass, shook it until the ice inside rattled. “I’ll go get you more water. Back in a sec.” As the door closed behind her, Kinsey spared Zane one last smile and then she was gone, too.
He laid his head back against the pillow and studied the pill. He hoped this was the one that would help him sleep and he welcomed the prospect. Maybe tomorrow he’d wake up a new man...or rather the man he used to be.
But before he took that pill, he was determined to get on his feet and walk. Something inside urged him to remain strong and vigilant. He hoped the nurse didn’t give him any flak.
* * *
AS KINSEY WALKED to the parking garage, she dug her cell phone from her purse. She’d silenced it when she arrived at the hospital and now she turned the sound back on.
As expected, there were several calls from Marc. Not expected were the three from her mother. Marc’s messages were all the same: come back to the gallery! Her mother left no messages. And there wasn’t one from Ryan, either, who always called when he got into town. The absence of that call coupled with his earlier questions made Kinsey nervous, but why? There was probably a harmless explanation, and she intended on finding out what it was. She called Ryan’s cell number and left a message when the phone switched immediately to voice mail.
By now the show at the gallery was over. The crew engaged to clean up after the gala would be hard at work. Kinsey called her boss, half wondering if he’d fire her on the spot.
“It all turned out okay,” Marc said. In the background, Kinsey heard voices and the tinkling of glass. It sounded as if Marc had gone out to eat after the show. “We sold eight of her paintings. Everyone loved her once she lightened up.”
“I’m sorry I had to leave,” Kinsey said as she unlocked her car door.
“Couldn’t be helped,” Marc said. His voice was muffled, as though he had covered the phone to speak to someone else, and she waited a second or two before he got back to her. “Listen, it’s time to order and I’m starving. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Food. When had she last eaten, lunchtime? Her stomach growled.
She contemplated calling her mother and decided against it. There was one phone in the old house. Her mother was and always had been something of a night owl, but the man she took care of would be asleep by now and Kinsey didn’t want to wake him.
Those three calls were worrisome, though. Had Ryan somehow found out where she lived and, heaven forbid, had he visited her?
That would not do. If there was one thing Kinsey knew, it was her mom didn’t like strangers. Frances Frost was obligated now to Mr. Dodge, but the poor old guy couldn’t live forever. Sooner or later, she’d be free to wander off again and perhaps if pushed, would do so sooner rather than later.
Three calls meant something had gotten to her. Kinsey knew she’d never be able to sleep if she didn’t see her mom in the flesh and make sure everything was okay. At the last second, she stopped at the small grocery located about midway between the Dodge house and the art gallery to pick up something—anything—to eat. She was met at the door by the Chinese owner, Henry Lee, who was getting ready to turn the open sign to closed.
“Can I grab something really quick?” she asked. “I’m famished.”
“Sure,” he said, allowing her to enter though turning the sign to discourage further patrons.
Kinsey grabbed a premade po’boy sandwich and a bottle of iced tea. A basket on the counter held bananas and apples and she added one of each.
“I heard the show was a good one,” Mr. Lee said as he totaled her purchases.
“I didn’t get to attend much of it,” Kinsey admitted as she handed over a twenty-dollar bill. “You heard about the accident down the street?”
“I heard one of those courier guys went berserk and drove into a crowd of people,” Mr. Lee said as he counted out Kinsey’s change. “I can’t tell you how many times one has come close to clipping me.”
Kinsey gave Mr. Lee an abbreviated rundown of what had really happened, causing the man’s faint eyebrows to arch in surprise. But then his forehead wrinkled. “Did you say the victim wore a cowboy hat?”
“Yes, a tan Stetson. Why?”
Mr. Lee swore under his breath. “I knew there was something I wanted to tell you. A man was in the store earlier today. A cowboy. I swear, he stood right where you are asking questions about someone named Smith. Mary Smith. I think that was the name. Maybe it was Sherry. Anyway, I told him I didn’t know anyone by that name. Then he asked about Mr. Dodge’s housekeeper.”
“By name?”
“No. He called her a housekeeper.”
“What did you tell him?” Kinsey asked, trying to remain unflappable. She wasn’t sure Henry Lee knew she was even related to the Dodge housekeeper.
“I didn’t tell him anything. You have to understand that back in the day, Bill Dodge used his money to do a lot of good in this neighborhood for people like me. You’d have a hard time meeting a kinder man, and I wouldn’t send trouble his way for anything. He deserves to live out his life in peace, and as far as I’m concerned, that housekeeper of his allows that to happen. Without her to shoo people away, that worthless nephew of his would walk off with half the house. Anyway, the cowboy guy asked a couple of questions. He was holding up the line in back of him and people were getting restless. He asked about other contacts he could talk to. I recalled seeing you and the housekeeper chatting with each other one day—it’s the only time I ever saw that woman talk to anyone in here—so I wrote your name on a piece of paper and said you might know something. Frankly, I was trying to get rid of him. He got busy on his cell phone, I suppose looking you up, then he left. That’s it.”
“Did you indicate my connection to the gallery?”
“No. I just gave him your name and told him to phone you. You have to understand, it was really crowded in here. I didn’t have time to be answering questions, especially when the Gastner sisters started arguing about which one of them got the last box of beignet mix. Half my customers walked out. I completely forgot about the man until right now.”
“Did he mention any facts about himself? You know, like where he was from or his name, anything at all?”
“No. I don’t think so. I was kind of distracted.”
“You need to tell the police about this,” Kinsey said. “Ask to speak to Detective Woods.”
“I will.”
“It could be important,” she added. At least she wouldn’t have to make a list of her former clients now that this issue would be cleared up. “But maybe you could leave Mr. Dodge and his housekeeper out of it.”
“Gotcha,” he said with a nod. “I was going to do that anyway because I don’t want to trouble Bill.”
She left a few minutes later, her head swimming with all that had happened today and what it could possibly mean. Back in her car, she unwrapped the po’boy and took a bite. Was it possible Zane and Ryan were somehow connected, or was it coincidence that two men had asked questions about her mom on the same day and that one wasn’t responding to her calls and the other had come close to being killed?
Surely Ryan would realize Marc would report his questions to Kinsey. She was tempted to think it was out of character for Ryan to go behind her back, but truth be known, she wasn’t sure exactly what kind of character he had. He’d come on pretty strong, but now that she really thought of it, he hadn’t shared much about himself. She knew he was working on a levee project, but she didn’t know which one.
Seamlessly, she shifted gears to think about the man she’d given the name Zane, but for a second, she couldn’t get past his blue eyes. Paul Newman eyes, with the same frank evaluation going on behind them. It was pretty obvious now that he hadn’t wanted Kinsey to paint his portrait because he hadn’t asked Mr. Lee directly about her.
On the other hand, she knew just how she’d like to capture him if she did have the opportunity. The sexy twinkle of his eyes, the slight cleft in his chin, his cheekbones and lips. She’d pose him straight on, his rock-hard torso and broad shoulders encased in a trim T-shirt to reveal his muscular arms, head slightly bent forward, thinking about horses or tractors or engines or whatever it was a guy like him thought about when he contemplated life.
Like his wife? Like his girlfriend of thirteen years? How about his six kids?
Hey, this was a fantasy. She could give him any life she wanted because it was doubtful she’d ever see him again.
In fairness to both of them, he’d also exhibited traces of humor that appealed to her, and she hadn’t missed the speculative nature of his perusal of her. She knew he was brave and selfless because of the lightning-fast way he’d stepped in to save the little girl, and she knew he was resilient because of how quickly he was attempting to put this behind him and move on. How horrible it must be for a man of action to be frozen in one place and in one moment. It must be like walking out of a warm, cozy room into a blizzard and having the door slam and lock behind you.
Bill Dodge’s house was an old Victorian painted a ghastly purple that Kinsey imagined had actually improved as the sun faded the color and the trees matured and concealed the full impact of all that paint. The roofs were steep and Kinsey knew the top floor and attic were seldom used anymore. At eighty years and ailing, Mr. Dodge was too feeble to climb the stairs and slept in a downstairs room that had once been his den. Her mother slept in the housekeeper’s room located behind the kitchen. The arrangement seemed to work for both of them.
Kinsey climbed the stairs onto what had once been a beautiful wraparound deck, screened in for summer sleeping when the house was too hot. The screens were torn now and the deck was wobbly. The neighborhood was still good, and while this house had probably once upon a time been a showpiece, now it was like the poor, shabby relation. In some ways, the house reminded Kinsey of an elegant woman who slept on a park bench—still lovely, but rumpled, worn, tired.
At least there was a slight breeze blowing now, making the air bearable. Kinsey wished she’d gone home first to change out of her cocktail dress into shorts because she’d known the downstairs of this house could get stifling. Hopefully, she’d be out of here and on her way home in a few minutes. The day seemed to have lasted a week and she was tired.
Before she announced her presence, she took a deep breath. Dealing with her mom was never easy, and doing so when something had prompted her to call three times suggested trouble.
As Kinsey raised her hand to knock, the door flew open.
