Читать книгу Legally Binding - Ann Voss Peterson - Страница 12

Bart grimaced as the needle sank into the tender spot at the inside of his elbow. Once the needle was in place, Doc Swenson attached the vacuum tube, filling the vial with deep red blood. His blood. Blood that, if he was lucky, might still be spiked with Rohypnol or some other drug. “Damn.”

Lindsey Wellington leaned her sweet body close. The scent of roses tickled his nose. Her shiny chestnut hair draped over one shoulder and brushed his arm despite the clips securing it back from her face. “Does it hurt?”

“What, the possibility of being a victim of the date-rape drug? Damn straight it hurts. It hurts my sense of manhood.”

A smile teased the corners of her soft-looking lips. “I doubt your sense of manhood is that fragile.”

“Maybe not when you’re around. You’re ladylike enough to make even a gelding feel like a stud.”

That pretty pink color stained her cheeks again. God, she was a beautiful woman, delicate as a China doll with her clear blue eyes, porcelain skin and long, silky hair. But that wasn’t all. In addition to looks, Lindsey Wellington had intelligence to burn and a refined Boston accent that reminded him of the Kennedy family.

And she was his lawyer. Amazing.

With the possible exception of Paul Lambert and Don Church, he’d grown up with a healthy belief that lawyers were bloodsuckers at best, sharks at worst. But Lindsey Wellington had destroyed every preconceived notion in his head the moment he laid eyes on her.

It was a damn shame he hadn’t met her last week, last month. Before he had a murder charge hanging over his head. Maybe he wouldn’t have been at Hit ’Em Again last night. Maybe he would have been too busy trying to win her to be hanging out at the local watering hole. It was a twist of fate too cruel to be believed that he’d finally found a woman who set a spur in his side when he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Doc Swenson pulled the filled vial from the needle in his arm, capped it and attached an empty one in its place. More blood flowed.

“Are you planning to drain me dry, Doc?”

The crusty old coot peered at him over little reading glasses. “Word has it you’re the one draining people dry, Bart. The whole town is talking about what you did to your uncle Jeb.”

He should have known. He’d been arrested just this morning, but waiting for a bail hearing had taken much of the day. He shouldn’t be surprised that the news of his arrest for murdering Jeb had already swept through town. Gossip traveled fast in Mustang Valley. Especially gossip over something as juicy as family feuds and murder. Of course Doc would have learned about Jeb’s murder even without the gossip. Jeb’s body was probably waiting in the autopsy room this very minute for Mustang Valley’s only doctor and coroner to poke and prod. “I didn’t kill Jeb, Doc.”

Doc waved a hand, as if he hadn’t believed it from the beginning. But the sharpness in his old blue eyes suggested different. He nodded at Bart’s arm. “What do you want this blood for, anyway?”

“We want to have it tested for any kind of drug that might have altered Bart’s consciousness. We also need a urinalysis done for Rohypnol or any similar tranquilizer,” Lindsey explained.

Doc capped the second vial, pulled out the needle and snapped off the rubber tourniquet wrapping Bart’s biceps. Rummaging through stacks of supplies on the adjacent counter, he grabbed a plastic specimen cup. He held it out to Bart. “Fill this.”

Bart looked down at the cup and shifted his boots on the floor. Discussing bodily functions had never bothered him before. He was a cowboy born and bred, used to dealing with anything cattle or horses could come up with. But somehow with Lindsey looking on, his bodily functions took on an entirely different meaning. And focus. He forced himself to take the cup from Doc’s hand.

“So you think he got drugged up the night of Jeb’s murder?” Doc smiled stiffly at Lindsey, the old buzzard’s best shot at charm.

Lindsey ignored the doc’s question. “When can you have the results?”

Doc’s smile faded. “We don’t have a lab here. Got to send the sample out.”

Lindsey nodded and fished a card from her briefcase. She scrawled something on the back and handed it to the doc. “Here’s the lab I’d like it sent to. And on the back, I’ve written my home address. Have them send the results there and to my office. I want to make sure I see them as soon as they come in.”

Doc took the card. “Could take a few days, could take a few months, depending on how busy the lab is. Then there’s always the chance the drug won’t show up at all.”

“What do you mean? If it’s in his system, it should show up, right?”

Doc scowled down at Bart. “Boy, what time did you take those drugs last night?”

“I didn’t take drugs, Doc.”

“Well, what the hell is this good-looking lady asking me about then?”

“Someone might have put something in my beer last night when I wasn’t paying attention. A drug to make me black out.”

“More likely you just got a little too friendly with a whiskey bottle.”

Bart expelled a frustrated breath.

“What were you saying about the drugs not showing up in Bart’s system?” Lindsey asked.

The old man turned his attention back to Lindsey. “If too much time has passed since Bart took those drugs, they won’t show up on the screens.”

Lindsey worried her bottom lip between straight white teeth. “I thought it took twenty-four hours for the drug to clear.”

“That’s right. But Bart’s a big boy, so it might take a lot less.”

A weight descended on Bart’s chest. The clock on the wall of Doc’s little examination room read six o’clock. Twenty-one hours had already passed since his last memory of the saloon. If Doc was right about his size making the time shorter, they were cutting it close. Damn close.

He glanced at Lindsey and closed his fingers tighter around the plastic cup. “I’ll be right back.”

She nodded. Judging from the worry creases digging into that pretty forehead, she’d noticed the time as well. If the substance was no longer in his system, he couldn’t prove he was drugged. And if he couldn’t prove his amnesia was real, he wouldn’t have much of a defense, no matter how pretty and smart his lawyer was.

BART HELD THE DOOR of the Hit ’Em Again Saloon for Lindsey and followed her inside. The place was nearly empty except for a couple of regulars at the pool table, the cowboys and working men who filled the place nightly still hard at work this early in the evening. On the jukebox, Dale Watson belted out a real country song, the music echoing off the empty postage-stamp dance floor.

They crossed to the oak bar and bellied up. The smell of stale cigarette smoke warred with the bleach-like smell of bar sanitizer, but it was the soft scent of roses that held Bart’s attention. He leaned closer to Lindsey and took a deep breath.

“You don’t usually drink beer this early, Bart. Need a little hair of the dog that bit you?” Wade Lansing pushed through the swinging door leading back to the kitchen and took his usual spot behind the bar. Despite his flip statement, Bart could see the worry lining his friend’s face. Worry focused on him.

Bart glanced at Lindsey. “Lindsey, this is Wade Lansing, the owner of this fine establishment.”

“You mean beer joint,” Wade said.

“Beer joint with the best food west of the Mississippi,” Bart threw in.

Wade grinned. “Nice to see you again, Lindsey.” Wade cleared a couple of highball glasses from the bar, the gold band on his finger shining in the bar’s dim light.

“I thought you and Kelly were supposed to be on your honeymoon by now,” Bart said.

“I’m training a kid to take over this place while I’m gone. Don’t want to come back to find the till empty and the building burned to the ground.”

Lindsey nodded. “Kelly said the two of you are planning to go to Hawaii. Sounds wonderful.”

“We could go anywhere as far as I’m concerned. As long as Kelly is with me, I’m happy. I’m glad to hear you’re representing Bart here, Lindsey. It’ll keep me from worrying.” He zeroed in on Bart. The grin turning his lips faded. “The whole town is talking about you.”

“I didn’t kill Jeb, Wade.”

“I know that. But Hurley Zeller doesn’t share my opinion. He was in here as soon as I opened, asking questions.”

“Damn.” Bart grimaced. Hurley sure had a leg up on them. Bart still didn’t have a clue what had happened. He hoped Wade could give them some answers.

Lindsey set her briefcase on the bar, opened it and pulled out a pad of paper and pen. “We’d appreciate anything you can tell us about last night, Wade.”

“Like what you told Hurley,” Bart said.

“I didn’t tell that prick anything.”

Bart couldn’t keep the grin off his face. Wade might be happily married, but he still hadn’t shed his distrust for authority.

“What do you remember seeing?” Lindsey asked.

“I set up a few bottles of beer and served Bart up some chili. Then I had to duck out to change some big bills.” Wade grabbed a dirty glass and plunged it up and down on a dishwashing contraption made of spinning brushes located in a sink behind the bar. “When I got back, you were fall-down drunk, Bart. I figured you must have been doing some serious whiskey-drinking while I was gone. Though I’ve never known you to drink more than a few beers.”

Bart and Lindsey exchanged looks. Wade’s description jibed with their theory that Bart was drugged. Unfortunately, it could also be a description of a man who’d simply sucked down too much whiskey.

“Who served drinks while you were gone?” Lindsey asked.

“The kid I’m training to fill in for me.” Wade jotted something on a cocktail napkin and handed it to Lindsey before resuming glass-washing. “That’s his name and number. He has tonight off, but otherwise you can also find him here.”

“Thanks.” Lindsey stowed the napkin in her briefcase. “When did Bart leave and who did he leave with?”

Wade stopped the plunging motion and glanced up at Bart. “Blackout?”

Bart nodded.

Wade looked at Lindsey. “The place was hopping last night, but best I can remember, he left around midnight. I just assumed he rode back to the ranch with his foreman, Gary Tuttle, same way he came. I can ask around tonight, see if anyone saw different.” Wade dipped the glass in the sink full of sanitizer and set in on a mat to drip-dry. “Are you going to tell me what was going on last night, Bart? You aren’t one to drink till you black out.”

“We think Bart was drugged,” Lindsey supplied. “Maybe Rohypnol or something similar.”

Wade didn’t look surprised. “There’s something strange going on in Mustang Valley. First Andrew and now this.”

Bart couldn’t agree more. The revelation that Andrew McGovern had been murdered by Mustang Valley’s mayor had been a shock. And now Jeb. Two murders in two months. Not to mention the mayor’s fatal car accident. “The problem is, I don’t know if I can prove I was drugged. Hurley might have kept me tied up in jail too long for the tests to show the drug in my system.”

“What if you could find the bottles you were drinking out of?”

Lindsey leaned toward Wade. “You said the bar was busy last night. There must be hundreds of bottles. Can you really find the ones Bart drank out of?”

“My friend here has an annoying habit of peeling the label off every bottle of beer he drinks.” He glanced at his watch. “This place will be full of cowboys soon, so I don’t have time to look. But if you want to sort through the bottle bins out back, be my guest.”

“It’s worth a shot.” Lindsey looked to Bart. “Do you want to help me search through empty beer bottles?”

“I’ll sort through a thousand bottles if it will help prove I didn’t kill Jeb.”

“Then let’s get started.”

They slid off their bar stools and followed Wade through the prep kitchen and out Hit ’Em Again’s back door. Wade pointed toward a Dumpster in the narrow alley. On one side of it was a row of large trash cans. Wade nodded toward them. “Have at it.” Turning, he ducked back into the bar.

Bart glanced at Lindsey’s sharply pressed suit, gossamer stockings and polished nails. “I’ll do the searching.”

Lindsey set her briefcase on the ground and pushed up her sleeves. “It’ll go a lot faster if we both search.”

He held up a hand. “I insist. A lady like you shouldn’t be rummaging around in garbage.”

Lindsey flashed him a pointed grin. “You forget. I’m no lady, I’m a lawyer.”

Bart couldn’t keep a laugh from bubbling out. “All right, then. But as far as I’m concerned, you’re a lady. A real smart one.”

She looked away from him before he could see if she was blushing again and set to work picking through the brown-glass bottles.

Suddenly footsteps and voices rose above the clank of glass hitting glass. Bart turned just in time to see his cousin Kenny round the building and stride into the alley, his black felt Stetson slung low over his eyes. “I heard you were here. I should have known you’d be hiding in a back alley,” Kenny slurred, his voice rough with cigarettes and soggy with booze.

Bart hadn’t spoken to Uncle Jeb’s son in years. And he sure didn’t want to start tonight. But it looked like he had no choice. “What do you want?”

“I want to know why the hell you aren’t in jail.”

“I don’t want trouble, Kenny.”

“You can take a knife to an old drunk’s throat, but when it comes to fighting an able man, you don’t want trouble?”

A good-looking blonde walked into the alley and stopped a few steps behind Kenny. Frowning, she folded her arms across her ample chest, like she was turned off by the prospect of her boyfriend picking a fight. A smattering of other spectators who’d apparently followed Kenny’s bluster hung back in the shadows, content to watch from a distance.

Bart glanced at Lindsey. She watched Kenny the way a person eyed a car crash, repulsed but unable to look away. Bart shook his head. He didn’t want to get into a family brawl in front of her. Hell, he didn’t want her to know Kenny was family at all.

He pulled his gaze from Lindsey and focused on his cousin. Kenny had been an ornery cuss since the day he was born. But he’d also just lost his father—a father he despised, but his father, nonetheless. It was probably natural he’d want to blame Bart. Especially when the law was blaming Bart, too. “Listen, Kenny. I didn’t kill Jeb.”

“And you expect me to believe you?”

“I’m telling God’s honest truth.”

“The same truth your daddy told when he talked Grandad into leaving him most of the Four Aces Ranch?”

Bart almost groaned. It was still about the ranch. “When Grandad died, Jeb didn’t want any part of working the ranch. He never did. He just didn’t want my daddy to have it. Look what he’s done with the land Grandad gave him. Nothing.”

“He didn’t have it as easy as your daddy.”

“And why was that? Because he liked to drink more than he liked to work?” Bart tried to bite back the words, but it was too late. He’d had it with Kenny’s whining and excuses for his good-for-nothing daddy and himself.

Kenny balled his hands into fists and swaggered closer. “Maybe Jeb was a bastard and a drunk. Maybe he deserved what he got. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t get my fair share. Or are you planning to kill me too and take it all?”

Bart held up his hands, palms facing Kenny. “I didn’t kill Jeb, Kenny. And that’s all I’m going to say about it.”

Kenny stepped closer. The stench of cheap whiskey wafted on his breath. He jabbed a fist at Bart. The punch missed. “Gonna pull out your knife, Bart? Oh, that’s right. The police confiscated it after you used it to kill your own flesh and blood.”

Lindsey stepped forward. “How do you know about Bart’s knife?”

Kenny didn’t bother to give her a glance, as if she wasn’t important enough to answer.

Bart tried to keep a lid on his simmering temper. Getting into a fistfight with Kenny wouldn’t do anyone any good. “Go home and sleep it off, Kenny.”

“Won’t change anything. When I wake up, my old man will still be dead, and you’ll still be the one to blame.” He threw another punch. His fist plowed into Bart’s arm, connecting solidly this time.

Bart’s arm throbbed with the blow. His own hands clenched into fists. Grieving or not, one more hit and Kenny was history. “I wouldn’t do that again if I were you.”

“Or what? You going to sic your whore on me?” He leered at Lindsey and drew back his arm.

Bart didn’t wait for Kenny’s next punch to fall. His own fist was already flying.