Читать книгу Familiar Texas - Caroline Burnes - Страница 9

The tumbleweed blowing against the cemetery fence is so-o-o appropriate. If Oliver Stone decided to do a movie set in Hell, he’d locate here in Pecos, Texas, a place that looks like the ends of the earth. Hot, dry, and desolate don’t even begin to do it justice. The only thing worth looking at is Stephanie Chisholm, a woman with a lot of fortitude and grit, not to mention gams that could bring a guy to his knees. Look at her, standing with her shoulders squared and her jaw firm against the backdrop of funeral flowers and two open graves. Her dark curls are as wild and free as the Texas breeze. Even with grief in her eyes, she’s a magnificent woman. I’ve only known Stephanie for two days, but I know her well enough to know this is breaking her heart, but not her will. She’s come home to Texas to say goodbye to her uncle Albert and aunt Emily, the couple who raised her after her parents divorced—it seemed neither one wanted her. They were her real family, and now they’re dead.

Dead in a very suspicious manner, I might add.

Stephanie faxed me the coroner’s report—accidental death when a barn structure collapsed during a wind sheer. Right. I checked the Internet weather reports and Pecos, Texas, was the only town in the Southwest to suffer a wind sheer on May 26. Everywhere else in the region had perfect weather, except the one spot where the barn stood. Neighbors half a mile away didn’t notice any bad weather. No, this killer wind blew out of a perfectly clear sky and collapsed a barn that had been standing for fifty years. Yeah, a freak, killer wind. Stephanie is right. There’s something rotten in Texas.

Stephanie has come to the cemetery to pay her respects to her relatives, but I’m here to gather information. About fifty people are attending the gravesite rites. Some are obviously cowboys who worked for the McCammons. There’s one who looks like a young Rowdy Yates, lean and muscular and filled with that peculiar cowboy grace. He’s staring at Stephanie as if he’d never seen a woman, but she’s too busy controlling her emotions to notice him.

Beside the cowboys are a little cluster of city folk who don’t fit in at all. I look around and watch the mourners watching Stephanie. A few of the older attendees really seem upset at the deaths. There are some here, though, who arouse my suspicions. The way the McCammons died is one thing we’re looking into. The other is this new will that suddenly turned up. Stephanie has been completely disinherited. There is no mention of the McCammons’s plan to turn the ranch into a trust, something they’d often discussed with Stephanie.

Damn! Stephanie is crying. She isn’t making a sound, but huge tears are running down her flawless cheeks. Behind her sunglasses, her hazel eyes are filled with pain. Let me give her a little kitty nuzzle and a love bite. There, that made her smile. She’s pulling herself together, and just in time, too.

The minister is closing his service. So far, no one has spoken to Stephanie or offered a word of sympathy. The mourners are breaking up, and Stephanie is signaling me to join her at the Jeep we rented in Dallas. We’re not going to escape unscathed, though; here comes a blond woman with a determined stride.

THE SUN BROILED the back of Hank Dalton’s neck, and as soon as the prayer was over, he put his straw cowboy hat back on his dark curls, eager for the moment when he could remove the confining suit coat. Only his respect for Albert McCammon would have forced him into a black coat on a hot May day. Albert McCammon had been a genius with a herd of cows and some parched dirt. He’d spend many a hot day teaching Hank how to settle an injured cow or train a horse. And on those days, Albert had talked often of his niece, Stephanie Chisholm, a woman so beautiful the angels smiled in her presence and so smart she could accomplish anything she set her mind to.

Now, Hank found himself staring at the young woman, and she was even lovelier than Albert had described. He guessed her to be about thirty-five, a willowy five foot seven inches, with dark hair that looked like it was made for sensual moments spread across white sheets. For all of her beauty, she was struggling to hold back her tears. He liked the way she held herself straight, even though she had to know that everyone in town was talking about her, and the talk wasn’t pleasant.

He shifted so that he could get a better view of her and noticed the black cat that seemed to lurk around her legs. What kind of woman traveled with a cat? He had a dog, Biscuit, a blue heeler that was indispensable working the cattle. But a cat? He wondered what Albert’s heeler, Banjo, would think about a cat. What would become of Banjo? If Stephanie didn’t want the dog, Hank would take him. In fact, Hank would be perfectly willing to take the entire McCammon Ranch. That was heavy on his mind as he stood among the mourners and listened to the service that concluded Albert and Emily’s days on earth.

“I wouldn’t be mooning after Stephanie Chisholm,” Jackie Benton whispered in his ear.

Taken aback, Hank glanced at Jackie. The blonde was normally easygoing. Hank suddenly remembered the old gossip about how her husband, Johnny, had been dumped by Stephanie.

“What? Stephanie is a man eater?”

Jackie shook her head, her eyes dancing with amusement. “No, she’s just a city girl. She doesn’t have any use for the ranch life.”

“Is that so?” Hank felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe Stephanie would sell the McCammon Ranch to him. If she wasn’t interested in ranching, she’d have to do something with it. A ranch couldn’t just look after itself.

“Her life is martini lunches, cocktail galas and art gallery openings. She’d die here.”

“But she has a link to the land. This was where she grew up,” Hank said, thinking about the thirty thousand acres that comprised the ranch. The big benefit to the McCammon land was Twisty Creek. Last year, Hank had an abundant water supply in the form of Charity Branch. But land developers had put in a subdivision north of his place and diverted the branch so that now, he was having to pump water in for irrigation and his cattle.

“From what Johnny told me, Stephanie always wanted to live in a city. Even as a teenager she was mooning and dreaming about the excitement of New York. She has her own advertising agency in New York now, along with her Fifth Avenue penthouse. She makes a ton of money—look at her. Those are designer clothes, and I should know. Look how they fit her. She’s a dress designer’s delight.”

Hank couldn’t tell if Jackie was envious of Stephanie or admiring. He cleared his throat and turned his attention to the minister, who was getting ready to say the last prayer before Albert and Emily were returned to the earth.

“I will say Stephanie has spunk,” Jackie allowed. “Folks around town feel that she abandoned Albert and Emily. There was a betting pool going down at the café that she wouldn’t even show up for the funeral. I guess she proved them wrong.”

“I didn’t live here when she was still in town, but I spent a lot of time with Albert. All I ever heard from him about her was a lot of praise. She made him proud.”

“That’s right,” Jackie said. “I think I’ll go over and invite her to the house for the meal.”

STEPHANIE FOCUSED on the Jeep only twenty yards in front of her. If she could just make it, then she could close the door, drive away, and give in to the grief that threatened to overwhelm her. Uncle Albert and Aunt Emily were dead. She’d never see them again. She’d been away in New York when they needed her. The guilt and grief were so heavy Stephanie stumbled.

“Ms. Chisholm!”

She turned to face the blond woman barreling toward her. Stephanie took in her expensive black suit, the Italian heels and the hat with a veil which settled perfectly on short blond curls.

“Yes?” she said, knowing that she’d have to talk to people to find out what had really happened. But she’d never seen this woman before.

“Ms. Chisholm, I’m Jackie Benton, Johnny’s wife.”

Stephanie took an involuntary step back. She’d scanned the crowd and hadn’t seen Johnny Benton, the man she’d been engaged to marry more than a dozen years before. The man she’d all but left at the altar when she’d run away to New York.

“Thank you for coming to the funeral,” Stephanie said. “Did you know my aunt and uncle?”

“Oh, yes, very well. They were delightful people. They came over to the house quite often on the weekends. They both adored Johnny. They looked at him like a son, and I think Emily was worn-out with cooking for the hands by the weekend. She enjoyed a break where I could pamper her a little.”

Shame struck hard at Stephanie. This woman was a stranger, but she’d looked after Albert and Emily. “You were good to my aunt, thank you.”

“Johnny felt like the McCammons were his second parents. And they were easy to be good to. They were some fine folks. Everyone in town is still in shock about their passing.”

Stephanie started to say something about how they’d been murdered, but she felt the sharp claws of the cat digging into the top of her foot. Familiar was right. Now was the time for discretion, not bravado.

“Where is Johnny?” she asked.

“He’s in Austin on a business trip. He just couldn’t help it, otherwise he would have been here. Why don’t you come out to the house? Some of the church people brought food there…” She hesitated. “They didn’t know where else to bring the food. No one knew if you’d be home or not.”

As much as it hurt, Stephanie realized Jackie was right. She hadn’t kept in touch with a single person in town. Often not even her aunt and uncle. She’d been busy, focused on her career, forgetting that her relatives wouldn’t always be around for her convenience.

“Thanks, but I want to go out to the ranch.”

Jackie looked down at the ground. “That might not be a great idea.”

“I have a lot of good memories there. I’ll miss Uncle Albert and Aunt Em, but I’ll be fine.”

“It’s just that…” She looked up and smiled. “Call us if you need us. We’re only about five miles down the road.”

“Thank you,” Stephanie said as she got in the Jeep beside the panting cat.

STEPHANIE ALMOST RIPPED the door of the Jeep as she got out and stomped—as well as a girl could stomp in high heels—across the ditch to the For Sale sign that was prominently displayed at the gate of McCammon Ranch.

“Who in the world put this sign up?” she said aloud as she began to wrench the sign from the dry ground. “The will hasn’t even been probated. Nothing can be sold until that’s done.”

When the sign wouldn’t come up, Stephanie went back to the Jeep, got in and put it in Drive. In a moment there was the sound of splintering wood. She looked in the rearview mirror with satisfaction. The realty sign had been flattened. McCammon Ranch was not for sale. Not for any price, and certainly not until the will left by her aunt and uncle had been thoroughly examined. She glanced at the black cat in the passenger seat. He seemed to have a smirk of satisfaction on his face, too.

“The people responsible won’t get away with this,” she said aloud.

The cat turned a penetrating green gaze on her. “Meow.” He nodded once to show he agreed.

“Thank goodness I heard about your P.I. agency, Familiar. Hiring you to help me unsnarl this whole mess was one of the smartest things I’ve ever done,” she said as she turned the rental down the driveway. Her gaze was critical as she swept it over the graceful oaks that lined the driveway. The fences were good, the pastures as lush as they could be in a heat wave, but there were no cows. Not a single steer or heifer. No horses. Not even a dog. A creepy sensation slipped over Stephanie. Where was all the livestock? She’d talked to her uncle only a week before, and he’d told her the spring calves had arrived without a single loss. So where were they?

She drove slowly down the winding driveway. The old white farmhouse came into view, and Stephanie again fought back tears. She’d managed to hold herself together at the funeral service because she had no intention of giving the lot of Nosey Parkers the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Now, though, there was no one to see her but the black cat, and Familiar seemed to have a real streak of compassion.

As soon as she stopped the Jeep, the cat was clawing at the window to get out. She opened her door and he shot out by her feet. “Hey,” she called. “Don’t get lost.” But it was too late—the tip of his tail disappeared in the shrubbery by the front porch.

For a moment Stephanie indulged her memories. The last time she’d come home, nearly a year ago, Aunt Emily had met her at the door, the wonderful scent of baking apple pies wafting out on the breeze. Uncle Albert had come in from the barn, wiping his hands on an old towel so he could give her a hug without smudging her designer suit. She closed her eyes and relished the memory, determined to hold her aunt and uncle close to her in her heart if not in her arms.

“Ms. Chisholm?”

She whirled at the unexpected voice behind her.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Rodney Jenkins. I was your uncle’s chief wrangler. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am for your loss. I didn’t want to go to the funeral.” A frown crossed his face. “I was afraid I’d have to deck some of those folks.”

“Rodney, where are the cows?”

His frown deepened. “You don’t know?”

She shook her head, aware that she dreaded his answer.

“They were sold at auction yesterday. The whole herd. The man who bought them came and got them this morning.”

Stephanie felt as if she’d been gut-shot. “Every cow?”

“And the horses. They were sold as a lot. Even your uncle’s blue heeler. They took old Banjo.”

The sensation of disbelief was quickly replaced by sheer, unadulterated fury. “Who did this?”

“It wasn’t the fault of the men who came for the cows,” Rodney said, kicking the dirt with his cowboy boot. “It was Nate Peebles, a local lawyer, who ordered the cows sold. He’s the one put up the For Sale sign you flattened coming in.” He smiled. “Good work.”

“McCammon Ranch isn’t for sale. Not now. Not ever.” She was surprised at the passion of her words. Not so long ago she’d fled the ranch, terrified that she’d spend her days cooking three meals a day for hungry ranch hands and her nights birthing calves and tending to sick stock.

Rodney held out his hand. “I’ll shake on that, Ms. Chisholm. Now tell me what I can do to help.”

Stephanie was about to answer when she heard a long growl and a feline howl of outrage. “What in the world?” She started toward the house with Rodney at her heels.

The cry came again, this time louder. Stephanie began to run. She rounded the corner just in time to see the rattlesnake lunge at the black cat. Familiar did an amazing leap into the air that ended in a flip on top of a rocking chair on the porch. Stephanie focused on the snake. It was at least six feet long. It moved toward the chair, its focus on the cat.

“Damn, it’s a timber rattler,” Rodney said as he drew his pistol out of his holster. “How’d it get inside the screen on the porch?”

“That’s a very good question,” Stephanie said cautiously. The snake had coiled. The tip of its tail, with fourteen rattles, quivered in the air giving the famous warning that the snake was about to strike.

“Don’t move, Familiar.” Stephanie opened the door and moved slowly onto the porch. “I’m going to distract it, Rodney, and then you shoot it.”

“I might chip up the porch some.”

Stephanie shook her head. “Blow the porch up, I don’t care, just kill the snake.”

As soon as she moved toward the snake, Rodney shot. He caught the snake in the head, and Stephanie scooped Familiar into her arms. She headed to the front door, and to her surprise, it was already open. She pushed the door gently, aware that Familiar was tensing in her arms.

“Yarrr-rrr.” His fur was standing on end and he hissed into the open doorway, alerting her to the fact another snake—possibly more—was inside.

“Rodney, I think you’d better bring your gun,” she said, feeling the knot of fear that had lodged in her gut. Rattlesnakes were always a danger, but none were more dangerous than those trapped inside a house.

“Ms. Stephanie, you come on out of there. I sure wish Banjo was here. He’d know what to do. That dog would ride out with your uncle, and if he came across a snake, he’d snatch it right behind the head and shake it until he broke its neck.”

“I’ll be getting Banjo back. And the cows. And the horses.” The spur of anger helped her overcome her fear. She walked to the screen and put Familiar out on the grass. “No matter how much you want to help, you’d only be one swallow for a big rattler. Now stay outside. Rodney and I will kill it. You did your job by giving the warning.”

Rodney lifted his hat and scratched his forehead. “Ms. Stephanie, do you always talk to your cat like that?”

She laughed. “Familiar isn’t my cat. He belongs only to himself, but I do talk to him.”

“Well, I can’t speak to his intelligence, but he sure did good to warn us about the snakes.”

Stephanie didn’t push the issue. If Rodney agreed to work with her, he’d have plenty of opportunity to see how smart the highly-rated feline detective could be.

“How do you want to handle this?” she asked Rodney.

He reached into his boot and brought out another gun. “I assume you know how to use this?”

Stephanie felt the heft of the pistol in her hand. Her uncle had spent a lot of time teaching her to shoot—and not to shoot. He’d explained that timing was everything in using a weapon. She sighted down her arm. “I used to be a pretty good shot. I’m a little out of practice.”

“Just don’t tell the snake,” Rodney said, grinning. “Now let’s get ’im.”

They eased into the house, walking softly and listening. They’d made it only as far as the sunroom when she heard the warning rattle. The snake was under a chaise. Rodney signaled that he’d move the piece of furniture so she could shoot the snake.

Stephanie got down on one knee, sighting on the coils of the snake. She had to hit it clean, and in the head, preferably. She was in little danger, halfway across the room. Rodney was the one she had to protect.

“Ready?” he asked as he moved closer to the wicker chaise.

“Go.”

He grasped the chaise and lifted it high. As he stepped back, the snake lunged. Stephanie pulled the trigger. The snake fell, writhing on the floor, headless.

“Nice shooting,” Rodney said, putting the chaise across the room. “I’ll get a shovel and take care of this mess. It’s a good thing your aunt Em wasn’t around. She’d have both our hides for shooting into the wall like that.” He pointed to the bullet hole.

“Aunt Em would have shot the snake herself.” Stephanie smiled, but the pain of her loss was suddenly too much to bear. She felt the tears welling.

“Emily spoke of you all the time,” Rodney said, his own eyes growing moist. “She was as proud of you as a new cow with a calf. She had a bulletin board in the barn, and she’d cut clippings from the New York Times when you had advertising successes.”

Stephanie managed to gain control of her emotions. “Thank you, Rodney. But I should have been here, helping them.”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am, now I have to disagree. Your aunt said you were doing what you needed to do at the time. ’Course she always felt you’d come home to Pecos and run the ranch when you got the city out of your blood.”

“I just never thought I’d have to do it without them.”