Texas Tall (2 page)

The dispatcher had warned him against touching anything. But Will had taken the liberty of dragging an old blanket out of the truck's backseat and laying it over the dead man's corpse. If he'd just contaminated the evidence, too bad. He didn't need Erin seeing the body, or Tori, either.

He'd thought about phoning Beau, or even Sky, at the ranch, then changed his mind. His brothers had enough on their plates without his adding to the pile. This was his own mess. He would clean it up by himself.

But one question continued to chew on him. If the bastard he'd killed wasn't the robber, who the devil was he?

The headlights were coming closer—a low vehicle going like a bat out of hell. That would be Tori, all right. The truck's hazard lights were blinking. She should be able to see them. But just to make sure, he turned on the flashlight and waved it. Seconds later, the station wagon screeched to a gravel-spitting halt behind the truck.

Tori piled out of the driver's side. Under her open canvas coat, Will could see that she was dressed to kill—tight black dress, dangling earrings, honey-blond hair flowing loose, the way he'd always liked it. And she was wearing those high heels that made her long legs look extra sexy.

But he couldn't let that get to him now. What mattered was that she'd come as soon as she could.

“What's going on? Where's Erin?” Her gaze surveyed the tilted truck. At least, from the driver's side of the cab, she couldn't see the body.

“We hit something and punctured a tire. Erin can tell you more in the car.” He opened the driver's-side door of the truck and swung his daughter to the ground. “Just get her out of here, Tori. You can take her to the ranch or home with you. I want her gone by the time the sheriff gets here.”

“I'll take her home.” Tori caught sight of the motorcycle parked ahead of the truck. “Whose bike is that? Why's the sheriff coming?”

“I'd just gotten out of the truck when that motorcycle pulled up. The man had a pistol and a knife. I had to shoot him.”

“Thank God you had a gun.” Wide-eyed, Tori clutched her daughter close. After taking a moment to compose herself, she spoke. “Are you in trouble, Will? Do you need me to stay as your lawyer?”

“I'll be fine. There's no way it could've been anything but self-defense.” Will glanced down the road and saw the flicker of approaching red lights. “Just take Erin and go. She doesn't need to be part of this. I'll call you later.”

Tori needed no more urging. She raced with Erin to her car, backed away from the truck and turned for home. Will stood watching her taillights as she drove past the oncoming sheriff 's vehicle and the ambulance. No one tried to stop her.

Moments later, Blanco County sheriff Abner Sweeney pulled up in his tan SUV. A deputy rode beside him in the passenger seat. The ambulance parked behind him.

Sweeney, a short, pugnacious redhead whose manner had become even cockier since winning the recent election, climbed out of the vehicle. Trailed by his deputy, he stalked up to where Will stood.

“So where's the body, Tyler?” he demanded.

“Around there.” Will nodded to the other side of the truck. “I covered him out of common decency, but I didn't touch anything else. I admit to shooting the man, but I fired in self-defense.”

“How can I be sure of that?” Sweeny's chin jutted as he glowered up at Will's imposing height. His hand rested on the butt of his pistol.

“You'll see his gun on the ground and the knife still in his right hand,” Will said. “And you won't find my prints on anything.”

“Did you check his pulse to make sure he was dead?”

“Didn't have to. A thirty-eight blows a mighty big hole, especially at close range. And I know
dead
when I see it.”

Two more deputies had come out of the ambulance with an evidence kit, a stretcher, and a folded body bag. After donning latex gloves, they peeled back the blanket to reveal the dead man sprawled in the headlights of Will's truck. His helmet was still in place. Blood from an ugly chest wound had soaked the shirt beneath his leather jacket. One deputy began taking photos of the scene with a small camera, the flash making little bursts of light. Another checked the motorcycle, pulling a packet of white powder from one of the panniers.

Sheriff Sweeney frowned at the body, then turned back to Will. “He's deceased, all right. Suppose you tell me what happened.”

Will related the story to the best of his recollection. He hadn't wanted to mention that Erin was with him, but realized that it might come to light later. Better to come clean now than be caught in a lie.

“So your daughter was a witness. Where is she?” Sweeney demanded.

“I called her mother to come get her. And she wasn't really a witness. I ordered her down on the floor when the bastard showed up. She didn't see anything.”

“So why would you send her away? Is there some reason you don't want me to question her?” The sheriff 's eyes narrowed, as if he suspected some dark, hidden secret.

“You have children, Sweeney. Would you put your young daughter through something like this? If you need to talk to Erin, you can do it tomorrow—with her mother present.”

“I'll do that.” Sweeny ruminated a moment, maybe remembering that Tori was a lawyer. Abruptly he changed his tack. “You say you'd gotten out to change a flat tire. So what were you doing with a gun?”

The little man seemed determined to prove some kind of wrongdoing. Will's nerves were screaming, but he forced himself to answer calmly. “I already told you. I'd hit something on the road, and I took the gun because I thought it might be an animal. It wasn't, but when the motorcyclist showed up with weapons, I used that gun to protect my daughter.”

“And you thought the man was the robber we were after?”

“Yes, until I called the dispatcher. By then, he was already dead.”

“Did you look at his face? Maybe raise that visor on his helmet?”

“I told you, I knew better than to touch him.”

“Then what do you say we have a look? Maybe somebody here will recognize him.” Sweeny turned toward the dead man. By now, the deputies were gathering up the evidence, preparing to bag the body and lift it onto the stretcher. One of them had already taken Will's .38.

The sheriff wasn't wearing gloves. He motioned for one of the deputies to remove the helmet.

As the visor came up and the helmet was lifted free, Will's pulse lurched. He exhaled, his breath whistling through his teeth.

The sheriff 's shoulders sagged as if he'd been gut kicked. “God and Jesus,” he muttered.

There could be no mistaking the swarthy features and the shaved head with its black Maori tattoos. The man Will had shot dead was Nick Tomescu, the brother of Stella Rawlins, who owned the Blue Coyote.

CHAPTER 2

S
lumped on a stool in the darkened bar, Stella Rawlins crushed the butt of her last Marlboro in the overflowing ashtray. Her head ached, and her feet throbbed in their cherry-red high-heeled cowgirl boots. Beneath the black silk blouse she wore, her 38DD bra had chafed a raw line around her ribs. It was well after midnight and the Blue Coyote had been closed for an hour. But she didn't want to leave until her brother Nick showed up—and he was seriously overdue.

Worry chewed at her. What if something had gone wrong? What if he'd screwed up and gotten himself arrested?

True, Nicky wasn't the smartest rooster in the coop. But even he should've been able to carry out the simple errand she'd sent him on—drive to the spot where the road cut off to the burned-out Prescott place, look for a dark blue pickup truck, give the driver the package, take the money, and bring it back to her at the bar. It was a no-brainer. So what could've happened to him?

She ran a nervous hand through her dyed red hair. If something had gone wrong, Stella knew she'd blame herself. She'd looked after her younger half brother since he was a toddler. While their pretty, alcoholic mother had flitted from man to man, Stella had always been there for him. Last year, when he'd fled New Jersey after informing on the Romanian mob to beat a drug charge, she'd given him shelter here in Blanco Springs and hired him as her bartender and bouncer. Surprisingly, he'd been good at his job.

Maybe she shouldn't have risked him tonight. Nicky had never been quite right in the head. Behind his tough biker façade was a shy, almost childlike man, who became flustered if things didn't go as expected. She didn't dare trust him with anything more complicated than running a few drugs, maybe not even that.

What she needed was a new ally who could think on his feet, somebody she could count on to follow her orders while she kept her own hands clean. But such people tended not to last. Former sheriff Hoyt Axelrod, Slade Haskell, and Sky Fletcher's young cousin, Lute, were all dead, tripped up by their own failings. The last and smartest candidate for the job, Lute's sister, Marie, had betrayed her, killed the hit man Stella had hired to take her out, and vanished without a trace.
Good riddance,
Stella thought. Still, it made her nervous, knowing the woman was out there somewhere, itching for revenge.

Finding the right person would take time. And right now, Nicky, her only living kin, was all she had.

A light rap on the bar's front door broke into her musings. For a split second she hoped it might be Nicky. But she would've heard his bike as he rode up, and he would've come in the back. This was somebody else.

“We're closed,” she shouted, not bothering to get up.

“Stella, it's Abner.” The familiar, nasal voice came through the thin wooden door. “I saw your car outside. Let me in, I need to talk to you.”

Stella got up to unlock the door. The sheriff was a friend. They'd done each other a few favors, but she didn't own him like she'd owned Hoyt Axelrod. Abner valued his job too much to break the law by taking bribes. And, although Stella hadn't lost her powers of seduction, Abner was faithful to his wife, a dumpy woman who seemed to be perpetually pregnant.

Still, if he'd arrested her brother tonight, chances were she could talk him into letting Nicky off.

Wincing with each step, she made her way to the door and opened it. Abner plodded into the bar, moving as if his feet were weighted with cement. At the table nearest the door, he stopped and pulled out a chair. “Sit down,” he said. “Trust me, you don't want to hear this standing up.”

Stella closed the door and took a seat. Talons of cold dread clutched her heart. Even before she heard the news, Abner's grave expression intimated what it would be. But when the words came, she still wasn't prepared to hear them.

“Your brother's dead, Stella,” he said. “We got the call about eleven-thirty and found his body, along with his bike, about ten miles up the north road.”

She went cold. Nicky was the one person on this miserable earth she truly cared about. She tried to tell herself that Abner's news was a mistake. But she knew better. Now the only thing she could do was extricate herself from the mess. Even as grief and shock slammed her, Stella's survival instincts kicked in. As far as the law was concerned, she knew nothing about her brother's activities.

She forced herself to respond. “The north road? But what was Nicky doing out there, so late at night?”

“We found a packet of cocaine on the bike,” Abner said. “I'm guessing he was on his way to make a drug deal.”

“Oh, Lord, no!” Stella shook her head in mock disbelief. “I warned him to stay away from dealing drugs. If only he'd listened to me, he could still be alive.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Do you know how it happened?”

She waited for Abner to collect his thoughts. Maybe the drug deal had gone bad and the customer had pulled a gun. Or maybe Nicky's bike had been hit by some fool drunken cowboy. However Nicky had died, she'd have to face the truth and deal with it. “Tell me,” she said.

“He was shot,” Abner said. “A thirty-eight bullet through the heart at close range. At least you can go forward knowing he didn't suffer.”

Stella's jaw tightened, holding back a cry of rage. Whoever had pulled that trigger was going to pay. “Who did it?” she demanded. “Who murdered my brother?”

“It was Will Tyler.”

“Will Tyler.”
Stella uttered the name like a curse. Of all the families in Blanco County, she hated the Tylers most. It was as if they held themselves above ordinary people, like damned royalty. And now, she had even more reason to hate them. The head of the clan had murdered her darling Nicky.

“Tyler claimed it was self-defense,” the sheriff said. “According to him, his pickup blew a tire. While he was outside the truck, the motorcycle came up the road and pulled off. The rider had a helmet on, visor down, and he was packing a pistol. Tyler assumed he was the biker who'd robbed the convenience store. He drew his thirty-eight and ordered the man to drop his gun. Your brother did, but then he pulled a knife. That was when Tyler shot him. He swore he didn't know it was Nick, not till we showed up and took the helmet off.”

“But Tyler did admit to shooting Nicky.”

Abner nodded. “No doubt about that.”

“And you believe his story?” Stella felt the anger boiling up in her. She glared at the sheriff, her eyes narrowing to catlike slits.

“No reason not to. Nick's gun was on the ground. The knife was still in his hand. And Tyler said he'd had his little girl in the truck. Protecting her would've made his trigger finger extra jumpy.”

“So you haven't arrested him?”

“He hasn't been charged. There'll be an inquest. But unless some new bit of evidence turns up—”

“I see.” Stella could imagine, now, what had happened. Nicky had been told to look for a dark blue pickup. On the way he'd spotted Will Tyler's dark vehicle with a flat tire and assumed it was his buyer. He'd stopped to make contact, and Tyler had drawn his pistol. When poor Nicky panicked, Tyler had killed him.

And the Tylers, every last one of them, were going to pay.

Stella's hand flashed across the table and seized the sheriff's wrist. Her red-lacquered nails dug into his flesh.

“Listen to me, Abner,” she hissed. “I know you want to keep your job. You may not have broken the law, but you've skated the edge a few times, and I know enough to hurt you. I want Will Tyler prosecuted, hear? If you can't find a reason to bring him in, invent one. Plant evidence if you have to—whatever it takes. The bastard murdered my brother. He's going to pay—in blood!”

* * *

It was barely dawn when Will gave up on sleep. Gritty-eyed and restless, he dragged on his clothes, started the coffeemaker in the kitchen, and wandered out onto the front porch of the rambling stone ranch house. It was still dark, the air chilly, the clouds tinged with pewter above the rolling prairie to the east. The high escarpment, which backed the ranch on the west, lay deep in shadow, its craggy buttes and turrets still awaiting the first touch of light.

The windmill next to the barn creaked as it turned in the faint breeze. There was no other sound at this hour, not even the chorus of birdcalls that would signal the start of a new day. Everything was quiet.
Too damned quiet,
Will thought. He wanted to shatter the silence with the foulest curses his mouth could form. But it wouldn't help him feel any better. And it sure as hell wouldn't change what had happened last night.

His black pickup was parked next to the porch, where he'd left it, with the ruined tire in the bed and the spare on the right front wheel. By the time he'd finished being fingerprinted, checked for gunshot residue, and grilled by Abner Sweeney, it had been almost midnight. After the lawmen had left, he'd changed the tire and driven home to a silent house, with nobody awake to meet him.

Drawn by the smell of fresh coffee, he returned to the kitchen, poured himself a cup, and took it back outside. As he stood at the porch rail, sipping and trying to focus his thoughts, a voice from behind startled him.

“Say, Will, that coffee smells mighty good. I could use a cup, myself.”

Jasper Platt, the Rimrock's retired foreman, had come up onto the porch in Will's absence. He sat in one of the chairs, with the ranch's black-and-white Border collie at his feet. White-haired now, and too arthritic to ride, Jasper shared a duplex with horse boss, Sky Fletcher, behind the main house.

“Sure.” Will strode back into the house and was back a moment later with a second cup of steaming black coffee.

“Thanks.” Jasper reached for the cup, blew away the steam, and took a careful sip. “Heard you come in last night. You got in mighty late. Did you find yourself a lady friend in town?”

“Lord, I wish I had.” Will pulled up another chair and sat next to the old man. Maybe talking things out would make him feel better. “I drove into Blanco to pick up Erin,” he said.

“Mighty late for that little gal to be out. Is she here?”

“No, she's with Tori. Something . . . happened on the way back.”

Jasper glanced off the side of the porch, which was high enough to give him a view into the truck bed. “Judgin' from the shape of that tire, what happened was bad,” he observed.

“The tire was the least of it.” Will drew a painful breath. “I had to shoot a man last night, Jasper. I killed him.”

The old man listened, frowning and nodding, as Will related the night's events. “So who the hell was it?” he asked as Will neared the end of the story.

“Somebody I would never have shot if I'd known who he was. It was Stella Rawlins's brother, Nick.”

“The dude with the tattooed head? Lord almighty!” Jasper swore. “I wouldn't want to be you when Stella hears about that. The woman will be out for your blood.”

Will gave him a grim nod. “There's that. And then there's my conscience. What if I killed an innocent man, Jasper? I've seen Nick in town. The man looked mean enough, but I always had the feeling he was scared of his own shadow. If I'd known it was him, I'd have figured the knife was a bluff and talked him into putting it down. Damn it, I can't say I ever wanted to find out how it felt to take a human life.”

“You had Erin in the truck. You'd have done anything to keep her safe.” Jasper scratched the dog's ears. “I never killed a body myself, but I was along when your dad shot a couple of rustlers that were makin' off with his cows. Bull was a dead shot. Plugged 'em both, right out of the saddle and left 'em in the dust.”

“And knowing my father, I'm sure he wouldn't have batted an eye over it,” Will said. “All my life I wanted to be just like him. As a kid I learned to walk like him, talk like him. Later on, I made the decisions I thought he'd make. But I could never be half as tough. I don't think any man could be as tough as Bull Tyler was.”

“It wasn't like Bull to mention it, but he was always proud of you,” Jasper said. “He would've been proud of you last night, doin' what it took to protect your little girl. You didn't ask my advice, but I'll offer it, anyway. You did what you had to. So put this ugly business behind you and move on.”

Will set his cup on the porch, rose, and walked to the rail. The Rimrock was stirring to life, the aromas of coffee and bacon wafting from the bunkhouse kitchen. Soon the hands would be setting out for morning chores. Sky Fletcher's steel-blue pickup was already parked outside the horse barn. These days he was spending most of his nights in Blanco with his fiancée, Lauren Prescott. But Sky, Bull's secret son by a Comanche woman, could always be counted on to show up early for work.

In some ways—all the good ways—Sky was almost as much like Bull as Will was. But Will's younger brother, Beau, was cut from a different bolt of cloth. His clashes with Bull had driven him away from the ranch for eleven years. Now, as foreman, he was perpetually butting heads with his brother. Some things, Will mused, never changed.

By now, the blinding edge of the sun had risen above the eastern horizon. The yellowed grasslands glimmered with early frost that would melt away as the day warmed. A raven rose from a tall cedar, flapped its wings and soared into the dawn.

A quarter mile to the southeast, four red brick bungalows, built to house the married hands and their families, were set back from the road in a neat line. Beau, with his pregnant bride, Natalie, had moved into one of them while they waited for their new home to be finished. The newlyweds could've easily stayed in the ranch house with Will. There was plenty of room, and Will would have welcomed them. But someone had warned Natalie that moving into the big house would be a sure way to doom their marriage.