Knight in a White Stetson (9 page)

Henry gave a derisive little chuckle into his beer can. “You couldn’t protect me at all. The explosion nearly killed that old woman in my condo complex.”

“Did kill her,” Pete corrected, not meeting his friend’s eyes. “She died a month or so ago. Never regained consciousness.”

“Hell.”

“Look, that was an anomaly. You’re perfectly safe now. We set up a better sweeper.”

“You catch the bomber?”

“Well, no.”

“Then screw you.”

Pete looked briefly amused. “I’ve never heard you use this type of language before. Life in the saddle must be making a man of you or something.”

“Or something,” Henry answered. He allowed his thoughts to return fleetingly to Calla in her nightgown, stretching her brown toes over her brother’s horse. He’d certainly been feeling every manly impulse there ever was, lately. “How did you find me?”

“It wasn’t difficult. We lost you in Reno for a while. Frank was very pissed.” Pete smiled. “He and Campbell had a row in his office you could hear all the way out into the parking lot.” Pete tipped beer into his mouth. “Campbell’s people picked you back up in Boise. What’s the matter with you? You’ve been easier to tail than a kindergartner. We picked up the credit cards and the DMV switch the day after you made them.”

“I’m trying to avoid reporters, not spies, Pete. I’m not playing this game anymore. Frankly, I don’t care what you guys do.”

“You should.”

“I’m out, Pete. And I’m staying out. I want my life back.”

“When did you ever have a life? As far as I can tell, until that debacle of a marriage, you were locked in a laboratory from the time you were fourteen. It was one of the reasons we picked you. Lab geeks are always so easy to recruit. Look—” Pete sighed wearily “—they want the formula. We want the formula. About ten of the biggest bastards on this planet want the formula. How long do you think you’re going to be safe up here playing Roy Rogers?”

“This is open country. Quiet.” He grinned. “I’ve been listening to you tear around for the past two hours. I’m as safe here as anywhere. Certainly safer than in L.A., where mad bombers can get into my condo complex and kill innocent old women.” Henry took another pull on his beer, trying to wash the bitter taste from his mouth. He hadn’t known the old woman, hadn’t known any of his neighbors, but her death weighed heavily on him, made him sick.

The men were silent for several minutes. It was deep twilight, and Henry heard a yipping duet of coyotes in the valley beyond.

“What about the woman?”

Henry stiffened. “What woman?”

“The one with the pretty hair and the big…” Pete cupped his hands in front of him as a description, then took a notepad from the pocket of his Ralph Lauren denim shirt. “Calla Lily McFadden Bishop. Cute name. Owner and manager of Hot Sulphur Lake Ranch.”

Henry deliberately slowed his breathing and spoke in a casual tone. “What about her? I just work for her. She’s nothing.”

“Yeah? Well, since you’re all the way up here with your rifle and your extraordinary hearing, and she’s down there with three elderly relatives and wimpy excuse for a boyfriend, my professional opinion is that she is not so safe as you are.”

Henry narrowed his eyes in the fading light. “Is that a threat, Pete?”

“Certainly not. I do not threaten innocent young ladies. I’m just saying that if somebody wants you bad enough, he’ll stop at nothing to get you.”

“Including you?”

“You, pal—” Pete drained the can of beer and crumpled it under his shiny new boot “—know the answer to that better than anybody.”

Chapter 10

«
^
»

T
wo hangovers in two weeks. Her life was getting out of hand.

She didn’t want to open her eyes. Pain was waiting. It promised itself to her already, pounding on her skull; a miner looking for the big vein.

She lifted her lids slightly and groaned. Tequila. How much tequila had she had? She should have forced herself to throw up last night when she wanted to. But she hadn’t seemed to be able to lift herself out of bed, so she waited out the spinning nausea until unconsciousness overtook her.

It was light outside her bedroom window. Ten o’clock. At least. Lester was going to have a field day. She dragged herself out of bed and steadied herself on her bedpost for a minute. Maybe she’d just throw up right now.

She stumbled to the bathroom, the miner pounding relentlessly on the inside of her skull with a fierce little hammer, and grabbed her toothbrush. The taste in her mouth was dirt and rubber. Like she’d been sucking on a tractor tire, she thought as she coated the toothbrush with paste. She tried to brush her teeth and keep her head perfectly still at the same time.

How does Lester do this?

She spit, rinsed her mouth several times and peered into the mirror at her face.

“God, what did you do to yourself, Calla?” she asked aloud. She tugged at the skin covering her cheekbones. Her eyes were bloodshot and tired-looking, and her face was the color of ragweed. She sent a silent prayer to the tequila gods that everyone would already be out of the house when she went downstairs. She was sure she couldn’t explain this.

She noticed her nightgown. She couldn’t remember putting it on. She knew Clark drove from the bar to … somewhere. Where had they gone? Dinner, she vaguely recalled. Then home obviously. Had Clark gently undressed her and put her in this nightgown? It would be a lovely thing if he had. A positive sign. She wished she could remember it.

“No more Jose Cuervo for you,
señorita,”
she said to the mirror.

She dressed gingerly and took the steep stairs to the kitchen one at a time. A pot of coffee and three curious people waited for her.

“Morning,” she mumbled, and headed to the cupboard for a cup.

“Morning,” they chorused at the top of their lungs. Or so it seemed.

“Oh, Lord, not so loud,” she whispered, gripping the counter with one hand. With the other she took a cup down and filled it with thick, black coffee.

“Big night last night?” her father asked.

“You could say that.” She sat heavily in a kitchen chair, careful not to meet Lester’s twinkling eyes.

Helen pushed a plate of scrambled eggs and biscuits in front of her. Calla groaned.

“No. I can’t. Take ‘em away.”

“You eat ‘em.”

“No. Please. I’m going to throw up.”

Helen scooted the plate away. “Don’t you throw up in my kitchen, young lady.”

Lester was chuckling. If she’d had the strength, she’d have knocked him flat.

“Hung over, Calla?”

“Pot calling the kettle black, Lester?”

“Calla.”

“Oh, everyone just leave me alone to die in peace, will you? I can’t take any of you this morning.” Calla tried to glare at her family, but found she couldn’t squint without causing a shooting pain to pierce her temples. She gave up and shut her eyes altogether. “Why the hell aren’t you at work, Lester?”

“I been at work all morning while you’ve been sleeping it off, Miss Smarty.”

“Well, a thousand more times, and we’ll be even then,” Calla said, taking a gulp of hot coffee. “Just out of curiosity, how did I get home last night?”

“Clark called.” Helen’s tone was unreadable. She was scooping the eggs and toast into the dog dishes on the counter. “Jackson went to fetch you at his motel. Clark said he didn’t want to drive all the way out.”

“Oh.” No positive sign, then. Helen must have got her into her nightgown. “But I see the truck in the driveway. How did it get here?”

“Lester and I picked it up at the Oasis. You left the keys in it, darlin’,” her father said gently.

“Sorry. I had a lot on my mind.” She took another sip of coffee and tried to focus her attention on something. It wasn’t wise, she knew, but she chose Lester. “It’s only the middle of the morning. What’re you doing in here now? Taking a coffee break?”

There was a heavy silence in the kitchen. Calla registered it even through her hangover haze.

“Lester?”

He didn’t speak. The twinkle was gone and he looked … sheepish.

“What’s going on?”

Another long silence. “Dad? Helen?”

No answer.

“What? What is it? Dupree? Did Dupree call? Dammit!”

“Dupree?” Jackson glanced up, puzzled. “No, Dupree didn’t call. Why? Was he supposed to?”

“No, never mind. What then?”

The three older people didn’t meet her eyes, but she saw them exchange little glances between them. This generation was going to be the death of her.

“What? What?” She felt a little rush of panic. Henry? Was Henry gone, or hurt? “Tell me.”

“We’re getting married,” Helen said finally.

Calla blinked. “Um, I must still be feeling the effects of the margaritas. I beg your pardon?”

Lester cleared his throat. “I’ve asked Miz Helen to be my wife,” he said with profound seriousness. He peered up at his intended with puppy-soft eyes. Calla felt another wave of nausea. “And she has accepted.”

“What?”

“Now, Calla…” her father began.

“Lester Smiley, you are fired. You got ten minutes to pack your bag and get the hell off my land.”

“Calla!” Helen said, puffing like a sage grouse. “You say you’re sorry to Lester.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Calla stood up. She was rocked by the splitting pain in her head. “Are you all just completely out of your minds?” She looked at Helen. “You are going to marry this … this … boozing old man?”

“Look who’s talking,” Lester said.

“You are
fired.
Get
out!”

She started for the door, grabbing the boots that were neatly coupled there. “I’m going up to camp to check on my rider. I want you out by the time I get back, Lester.”

She vaguely registered her father’s surprise and Lester’s indignation. She didn’t care. She fled down the steps and wrenched open the door of her pickup and climbed in.

No keys.
Damn.
Nothing like a dramatic exit spoiled.

She sat in the truck for several minutes, fuming.

Man, her life was getting complicated.

Calla opened the door of the pickup and started toward the house. She caught the scurried movement of three figures as they left the window. When she reached the house and opened the door to the kitchen, they looked up at her from the kitchen table with studied innocence.

“I forgot my keys.”

No one spoke.

“You’re not fired, Lester.”

He humphed. “I never thought I was.”

“God.” Calla rolled her eyes. “Aunt Helen, I have to say I thought you were smarter than this.”

“Oh, honey. Some day you’ll understand.” Her aunt hugged her tightly. Her sixty-eight-year-old face beamed like a schoolgirl’s. “You’ll find someone and fall in love and you’ll just understand everything.”

She
had
found someone. She was getting married, too, she reminded herself.

“I suppose I should congratulate you.”

Helen giggled, then smiled widely. A schoolgirl. “I suppose you should.”

“Congratulations.” She couldn’t help but grin in the face of all that gleaming elation. “Stop smiling like that. You’ll hurt your face.” She turned to Lester and stuck out a hand. He shook it solemnly.

“Congratulations, you old coot. If I ever see you at the Last Chance again, I’ll string you up.”

She looked at the three of them standing in a semicircle around her. They looked silly with contentment. Her stomach twisted a little.

She’d got engaged last night, as well. Why didn’t she look that happy? Why didn’t she feel that happy?

“When’s the big day?”

“Sunday, here at the place.” Helen bubbled. “We went into Pierre yesterday and got the license. Pastor Kay is going to do the honors.” She linked her arm happily in Lester’s. He squeezed her hand.

“Well, great. Do you have a dress?”

Helen exchanged a passionate glance with her hairy-eared fiancé. “Lester bought me one.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Calla, dear, will you be my maid of honor?”

“Oh, Aunt Helen, of course. I’m honored.” She turned to glance at Lester. “Why, Lester, that kind of puts you in a bad position. Since we all know well and good I’m the only friend you have in the world, I guess you’ll have to go without a witness, won’t you?”

“Your dad’s standing up for me, smart-ass.”

Calla looked over at her father. He was smiling at her curiously.

“What’s going on, sugarplum?”

“Dad,” Calla said wearily as she pulled the truck keys from the hook in the wall, “you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

* * *

There was a strange vehicle in camp. A Bureau of Land Management toady, no doubt, Calla surmised. They always sent someone up to check on her summer riders. To make sure Calla remembered to tell her employees about the grazing schedule. As if she could forget.

Henry wasn’t in camp. His palomino was in the corral, munching contentedly on a flake of hay, but the bay, Lucky, was gone. Well, she didn’t know what else she should have expected. When you don’t get up until the day is half gone, you’re bound to miss speaking to your employees before they leave for work. Except in Lester’s case. She shook her head. She shouldn’t make disparaging remarks about Lester anymore, she reminded herself. In three days’ time, he was going to be her uncle. Uncle Lester. The idea made her laugh out loud.

“That’s a pretty sound for a man to hear all the way out here in the wilderness.”

She whirled at the sound of the strange voice. A man in a three-hundred-dollar dude outfit stood looking at her, a cup of coffee in his hands.

“Oh, hello,” she said, wary. “Who are you?” And what the hell are you doing in my cow camp?

“Peter Fish. My friends call me Pete. You must be Calla Bishop. Pleased to meet you.” He offered her his hand.

“Where’s Henry?”

“Henry? Oh, he took off before the sun. Said last night he was going to … um … Little Sheep Flats? Is that right? Yes, Little Sheep Flats to check on a cow he saw yesterday. He said it … uh … what? Something important. She didn’t have her calf with her and he needed to check it out.”

Calla took a step back. Henry must have a rifle in camp. It came with the outfit she sent up to Two Creek every summer. She hoped he didn’t have it on his saddle.

“What are you doing here?” Calla asked, buying herself a little time.

“I stopped in to see … Henry … last night and we talked until late. He kindly offered me the extra cot. He didn’t think I’d make it out in the dark.”

“You probably wouldn’t have.” She assessed his smooth hands and the expensive, well-pressed clothes. He obviously hadn’t slept in them. Definitely not a cowboy. It got cold in the mountains at night, even in the summer. Cowboys without a good pair of long-handles would sleep in their clothes. “You’re not from around here.” It was a statement, not a question.

The man laughed. “I thought I blended, but obviously I don’t. Your Henry said the same thing.”

“He’s not my Henry.”

The man waved his hand nonchalantly. “Whatever. Care for coffee? I made it myself, so beware.”

“No. Yes, okay. Coffee’s good. I’ll get a cup.” She ducked behind her into the tent. The rifle. Where was it?

“I think he took it with him,” Peter Fish called casually.

Calla grimaced. She grabbed a tin cup from the mess pack and stepped back into the sunshine.

“Took what?”

“The rifle. You’ll have to get the one in the gun rack in your pickup if you want to shoot me.”

Calla kept her tone casual. “You read minds, Mr. Fish?”

“Please. Don’t call me Mr. Fish. It makes me sound like a cartoon character. Call me Pete.” He took her cup, filled it from the pot that was simmering on the propane camp stove, and handed it back, handle first.

“Okay, Pete, why don’t you tell me who you really are, and I’ll forget about the rifle.”

“I’m a friend of Henry’s from California. I take it he never mentioned me?”

“He doesn’t talk a lot.”

“Strong and silent, huh?”

“Yeah. You were saying?”

“That’s it. We’re friends. We used to work together.”

“Are you a chemist?”

“A security consultant.” He took a noisy slurp of hot coffee. “I worked for the lab where Henry worked. He told you he was a chemist?”