Читать книгу Cowboy Swagger - Joanna Wayne - Страница 8

Dylan dried the plate and put it away. The dishes were old, probably the same ones they’d eaten off of when he was a kid. Still, they were as unfamiliar to him as the man standing next to him.

Troy Ledger was tall and gaunt with slight bags under his tortured eyes and wrinkles that dug deep furrows across his brow. His nails were chewed down to his flesh, and a jagged scar ran along his right cheek and down to his breastbone. His forearms were muscled. He’d likely be a tough contender in a fight.

Fifty-five years old but he looked like a man who’d lived through hell. He acted only half alive, as if he’d been reduced to going through the motions, except that twice that afternoon he’d seemed to be in the grip of a mood so intense he could barely control it. One of those times, he’d clutched the glass he was holding so tightly that it shattered in his hand.

Dylan would have liked to ask what he was thinking at that moment, but his dad had set the rules of engagement from the moment he’d walked into the house. They’d shared a quick handshake and greeting, and then his dad had withdrawn so deeply into himself, Dylan might as well have been invisible.

They’d spoken briefly since then—about the steaks Dylan had grilled for their dinner, about the price of beef these days, about the weather. The closest they’d come to anything personal was when the formidable Troy Ledger had asked Dylan if he was married. He’d said no. His dad had only nodded. Who in hell knew what that meant?

His brothers had been right. Coming here was a mistake. But now that he was here, he’d stick it out at least a few more days. No reason to hurry off. No one was waiting for him anywhere.

“What are you going to do about the ranch?” Dylan asked when the dishes were all put away.

“Raise cattle, same as other ranchers.”

“Cattle cost money.”

He was pretty sure his dad didn’t have any. They were never rich, and the little Troy had would have been swallowed up by lawyers’ fees and taxes on the ranch.

Dylan had learned that much from his father’s attorney who’d handled the estate—the estate consisting of the ranch and this old house. The attorney had contacted Dylan and his brothers when their father’s release had become imminent and suggested they welcome him home. Dylan had been the only one who’d accepted the proposal. At his father’s request, the attorney had mailed Dylan a key to the house.

The family of Dylan’s mother was in much better financial shape. His and his brothers’ inheritance from their grandparents had gone into a trust fund that had put them all through college.

Uncle Phil had been upset when Dylan decided to go into the army after graduation instead of joining his uncle’s extremely successful advertising firm. Dylan had wanted to do something for his country and he’d needed adventure. The army had offered both.

Troy stuffed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “Able Drake’s backing me for a start-up herd.”

“Do I know him?”

“Not likely. Lives up in Dallas now, but he’s from these parts.”

Dylan couldn’t help but wonder if Able was someone Troy had met in prison. As far as he knew, no one on his mother’s side of the family had ever mentioned the man, but then they hadn’t even spoken his father’s name in years. They were all convinced he’d killed their beloved Helene.

Dylan had acted as if he believed it, too. But he hadn’t. The father who lived in his dreams and imagination could never have killed his mother.

“Is Able the one who readied the house for you?” Dylan asked.

“He had it done.” His father looked around as if noticing the place for the first time. “Not much of a house, is it?”

“Structure’s okay,” Dylan said. It was the only positive thing he could think of.

“Used to look better,” his dad said. “Back when …” He stopped midsentence, looking as if pain was digging into his ruddy flesh like sharp nails.

“Yeah,” Dylan agreed. “It used to be better.”

His dad rubbed the old scar. “I’m beat. Think I’ll head on off to bed.”

And avoid any more feeble attempts at conversation with the son he hadn’t seen since the day he’d been convicted. All the boys had been there that day to say goodbye, against their grandparents’ will.

Dylan tried to muster up a bit of resentment for his father’s eagerness to escape his company. It didn’t come. Truth was, he wasn’t up to talking tonight, either. The chasm that separated them after years of zero communication was too deep and wide to be bridged by a steak and a few attempts at meaningless small talk.

“I’ll take the back bedroom,” his dad said.

Not the big bedroom he’d shared with Dylan’s mom, though Dylan had spotted him standing at that door earlier, staring into the room, his muscles strained and his expression as pained as if he’d been kicked in the gut by an angry bull.

Dylan sure as hell wasn’t sleeping there, either. “I’ll take my old bedroom. I checked earlier and it looks like all the beds have new sheets on them.”

“Guess the old ones would have rotted by now.”

Troy walked away, leaving Dylan standing alone in the kitchen. Memories gathered around him like a suffocating fog. His mom stirring big pots of stews and soups at the range. Her singing while she worked. Trays of fresh-baked cookies cooling on the counter. Her long hair flying when she’d grab him and dance about the kitchen. Her fragrance when she’d pull him into a hug. Her arms around him when he’d had a nightmare.

Returning footfalls in the hallway yanked him from the bittersweet reveries. He swallowed hard and turned to see his dad’s tall, lean body filling the open doorway.

“Thanks for being here, Dylan.”

The words were husky, as if they’d been pushed through a scratchy throat. His dad’s eyes looked moist. Dylan’s started to burn.

“Sure thing,” Dylan said. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

He turned away as his dad’s retreating footsteps echoed down the hallway. The connection had been brief, but it had been there. It was a start.

Dylan searched the cupboard for a real drink, something strong enough to fight off the memories and regrets. He found a bottle of whiskey. Not his brand but now was not the time to be choosy.

He poured a couple of fingers of the amber liquid into a glass, swirled it around and then sipped it, welcoming the burn that trailed down his dry throat. He pushed through the back door and into the gray of twilight. Too restless to sit, he finished the drink, left the glass on the back steps and walked to his truck.

He’d be back, but right now he had to get out of here before the ghosts from his past made the woman in white who appeared for the superstitious think she was living in a freakin’ mausoleum.

COLLETTE RAISED THE CAMERA and framed the image of the bride dancing with her preadolescent nephew, an adorable red-haired lad who was stepping all over the hem of her gorgeous gown. The bride, Isabelle Smith, barely twenty-one herself, showed no sign of irritation.

This was her day, and the glow of love emanated from her like stardust. The only bad thing about stardust was that it had such a limited shelf life.

Not that Collette had anything against marriage. She might even take the plunge one day—just not any day soon. She liked her independence and had never met a man who’d tempted her to become a “we” instead of a “me.” But she had to admit, the bride did look ravishing and blissfully in love.

Collette had known Isabelle and her whole family for years. They went to the same church that Collette had grown up in, and Isabelle’s father had helped Collette raise a prize-winning pig back in her 4-H days. Her own father had been too busy enforcing the law and making inane rules for her and her mother to follow.

She also knew the groom and his family. Carl Knight’s dad owned the local hardware and feed store. His mother taught at the new consolidated high school. Carl was in the Marines and had worn full-dress uniform for the ceremony. He’d be shipping off for Afghanistan soon.

Even as she’d taken pictures of the couple exchanging the vows, Collette had prayed he’d return safely. She suspected many of the guests were doing the same.

She moved to another corner of the dance floor that had been set up beneath the white tent. The country band switched from a lively two-step to a romantic ballad, and Isabelle’s grandparents joined the group on the dance floor. Collette couldn’t help but smile as she got a couple of great shots of them snuggled in each other’s arms and swaying to the music.

Setting her camera on a nearby table, she checked her watch. The reception would start winding down soon, but she was sure that she had enough formal and candid shots to satisfy the bride and her family. At least she would once she captured the newlyweds leaving for their honeymoon.

“Care to dance?”

She spun around at the unfamiliar voice.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t,” she lied. “I just didn’t know anyone was behind me.” Stupid response considering they were beneath a rather crowded tent. She hated that the recent phone calls had made her so apprehensive that she sometimes jumped at her own shadow.

“I’m Brady Collins, friend of the groom.”

He extended his hand. A nice hand, she had to admit, attached to a slim blond guy with cobalt-blue eyes and an enticing smile. There was no spark when his hand wrapped around hers. Obviously, he was no Dylan Ledger.

“I’m Collette McGuire, the photographer.”

“I noticed. You’ve been doing a heck of a job, but I’m sure the happy couple would forgive your abandoning your post for one dance.”

“The offer is tempting, but not in my contract.”

“Ah, the prettiest woman at the reception would have to be a woman of principle.”

“Thanks,” she said, “though we both know the prettiest woman at the wedding tonight is unquestionably Isabelle.”

“Only because she has the unfair advantage of the wedding glow.”

Carl picked that moment to rescue his bride from the awkwardly energetic nephew. Collette reached for her camera. “Your friend Carl looks pretty happy himself. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really do have to get back to work.”

“Can’t blame a guy for asking.”

She didn’t, but even if she hadn’t been working, she wasn’t really interested in meeting anyone tonight. Working the wedding had helped, but the stalker’s call this afternoon had left her more nervous than usual. Not only that, but try as she might, she hadn’t been able to fully shake Dylan from her mind.

She doubted he’d call, but instead of turning her cell phone off completely as she usually did when working an affair, she’d left it on vibrate tonight. There was no rational explanation for how he’d affected her. All she knew was that she wanted to see and talk to him again.

She took a few more pictures and then stepped outside the tent, walking a few yards away for a breath of fresh air. Silvery strings of moonlight filtered through the trees, and the music that had been loud and vibrating inside the tent was softly romantic in the background.

She took out her phone and called her house, not that she had any doubts Eleanor had made herself at home once Collette had left for the wedding. Eleanor was outgoing and resourceful, no doubt part of the reason for her success as a freelance investigative reporter. And they had been friends since their first year at the University of Texas.

The phone rang until the answering machine picked up. Disappointment swelled. Eleanor must have decided to drive back to Austin instead of spending the night after all.

Ordinarily, Collette was fine going home at night to an empty house. Her stalker had infiltrated those feelings of safety, replacing them with irritating spurts of apprehension. If the calls kept up, she was going to have to break down and buy a gun or maybe get a dog. A big, ferocious-looking dog who’d bark like crazy if anyone came sneaking around the house she rented from the Callisters. Maybe she’d get both.

Mustang Run was a peaceful town, but it hadn’t totally escaped violence. She’d been reminded of that quite vividly while taking pictures inside the Ledger home today.

She wondered if a dog or a gun would have saved Dylan’s mother. Not likely if Troy Ledger was actually guilty of killing her.

Thoughts of Dylan crowded into Collette’s mind. She did her best to push them aside. She didn’t need a guy with a tortured soul in her life. But impulsively she slipped her hand into her pocket and let it slide across the leather case that held her cell phone.

The phone remained still and silent.

DYLAN TIPPED THE BOTTLE of cold beer to his lips and took a long swig. Mack’s Haven was exactly how he would have pictured a typical small-town Texas bar. Smoky. Loud. Friendly. A down-home kind of place. A worn wooden sign pronounced, “No Dancing on the bar with your spurs on.”

Smoky and loud didn’t bother Dylan. Nor did the sign, since he not only didn’t own a pair of spurs, he had no plans for dancing on the bar. Neither was anyone else at the present time, though the cozy dance floor was crowded.

The friendly part of the equation was the drawback. Far too many of the patrons had felt it their duty to introduce themselves and make the stranger welcome.

Dylan probably came across as antisocial, but explaining who he was would have led to questions he couldn’t answer about his return to Mustang Run. So far he’d managed to give only a first name and resist the invitations to dance by a couple of affable young women. Another beer and he might not be so inclined.

He hadn’t planned to end up here tonight, but when the musky memories from the day his mother had been killed began to pound inside his skull, he’d spotted the bar and seen it as a temporary escape.

The buxom blonde waitress in a seductive cotton T-shirt and a pair of denim shorts returned to his table. “Want another of the same?”

“Better not.” He pulled out his wallet. “What do I owe you?”

“Two beers—ten dollars and eighty cents.”

He gave her a ten and a five.

“Thanks.” She took the money but didn’t walk away as he stood to leave.

“Are you new to the area or just passing through?”

“Most likely passing through. You take care,” he said and walked away before she followed up with another question.

He climbed in his truck, revved the engine and started back to the ranch, slowing as he passed the house he’d already identified as the one in which Collette McGuire lived. Lights were on. She was still up, though not necessarily alone.

Still, she had said stop by anytime.

He pulled in the driveway and kept his truck running. There was no sign of Collette’s Jeep, but she could have parked it in the garage.

He wondered what the hell he was thinking driving up to somebody’s house this time of the night. Not to mention that he’d be opening himself up to a barrage of intrusive questions.

He should turn the truck around right now before Collette spotted him. But the dread of going back to the ranch tonight got all mixed up with the crazy desire to see Collette again. She’d been easy to talk to, almost like running into an old friend in the midst of an enemy camp.

He shut off the car and, just as he killed the lights, he caught a glimpse of movement behind the house. It could have been a large dog or possibly a deer, but it had sure looked like a person. He turned the headlights on again, but whatever it was had disappeared into the trees and shadows.

An owl hooted in the distance as he got out of the truck and walked the uneven concrete path to the steps. Light from inside the house gave a soft glow to the wide porch.

Pots of blooming flowers lined the three steps. A swing half-filled with colorful pillows hung at one end of the porch. Two white rocking chairs and more potted plants lined the other side.

The house looked as if it should belong to a family, not a feisty, single professional like Collette. He hesitated before he knocked, listening for voices. The house was silent. He rang the doorbell and waited. No response. Either she wasn’t home or didn’t want to see him.

Still, he couldn’t quite dismiss the figure he’d thought he’d seen running from the house. That left him with an uneasy feeling, and he’d learned it was always best to trust his instincts for danger. One of his commanding officers had claimed that Dylan sniffed out trouble the way a bomb dog trailed the scent of explosives.

His muscles tensed and he hammered his fist against the door. “Collette? Are you in there?”

He called her name again as he turned the knob and the door swung open. He stepped inside. The foyer opened into a dimly lit living room. The illumination came from a lamp and a cluster of candles resting in a copper dish. Magazines were scattered about the sofa, and a glass of wine sat on the coffee table. Nothing was amiss.

“Collette?” he called again. “It’s Dylan Ledger. Are you here?”

His call went unanswered.

Lights were on in the back of the house, but all was quiet. He started down the hall. And then he saw the blood. Just a trickle, creeping past an open doorway ahead of him. Curses and panic rattled his skull as he followed the crimson trail into the kitchen.

And to the body lying face down in the middle of the floor.