Texas Tall (7 page)

But even that would be better than
not
being found.

Teeth chattering, she pulled her coat tighter. If she'd accepted Drew's polite proposition, the evening would have ended very differently. Maybe she'd been wrong to refuse. She liked Drew a lot, and he was great husband material—good-looking, kind, stable, and great with children. She knew several attractive women in town who'd likely jump at the chance to sleep with him. Was she a fool to risk losing a man who could give her a happy life because she wasn't ready to do the same?

A layer of ice had formed on the outside of the truck. Tori could no longer see through the windows. If Will had missed her phone call, nobody would be looking for her. She could be here all night.

How much cold could a body stand before hypothermia set in? she wondered. Was it possible to freeze inside a closed vehicle like this one?

Drained by cold and fatigue, she yawned. What she wouldn't give right now for a warm bed—with or without Drew Middleton in it. Drew wouldn't have had much luck tonight. All she'd want to do was sleep.

Tori's eyelids were drooping. Her head sagged, then jerked up again. She mustn't sleep. She needed to stay alert, to move, to stay warm. But she was so tired, too tired to keep herself from drifting. She slumped over the steering wheel.

She jerked awake with a startled gasp. Something—or someone—was banging hard on the outside of the truck. Ice shattered as the heavy hammer broke through, splintering the safety glass on the side window. Through the fog in her mind, a voice, hoarse with strain, shouted her name.
Will's voice.

Seconds later, he'd freed the door and yanked it open. In the glare of headlights, he looked like a wild man, red-eyed and unshaven, his woolen cap askew on his head, his coat crusted with ice. As she stirred and sat up, he lowered his arms and, for a moment, simply stared at her.

“What the hell, Tori?” he said.

Tori didn't even try to respond. She tried to climb down from the driver's seat, but her cramped legs buckled beneath her. She fell out of the truck into his arms. He was cold, his bare hands icy, his stubbled chin rough against her forehead. His arms held her painfully tight, their strength almost crushing her.

“Fool woman!” he muttered. “Come on!”

Scooping her up, he carried her to his pickup, which was parked on the asphalt road with its lights on. The engine was idling. She could feel the heater's blessed warmth as he shoved her onto the seat. “Erin's suitcase . . .” she muttered. “My purse. Get them.”

Slamming the door, he vanished down the slope, into the dark. In a moment he was back, climbing into the driver's seat and tossing her things, along with the hammer, into the space behind. From somewhere, he pulled out a moth-eaten blanket and thrust it toward her. It was dusty and smelled like the dog, but it was warm. Tori laid it over her legs as he geared down. The truck roared up the road. Within a quarter mile was a farm gate with a wide, level area to turn around. Only when they were headed back toward the ranch did he speak again.

“Damn it, Tori, you could've died out there! You missed the turnoff to the ranch lane by a couple of miles. What were you thinking?”

“I couldn't see. I was lost.”

“At least you could've let somebody know you were on your way—even Erin or Bernice.”

“It was late.”

“Then maybe you should've waited till morning. Three hundred head of cattle to worry about, and I spend half the night chasing all over creation after one mule-headed woman! Do you know how long it took me to find you?”

“Stop browbeating me, Will. We aren't married anymore.”

“Then why didn't you call your fancy new boyfriend to come and find you?”

“Right about now, I'm asking myself the same question.” Tori glanced sideways at his angry profile, square jaw set, strong hands clamped on the steering wheel. Will would always be Will—stubborn, hard-charging, and determined to be right. He was the most maddening man she'd ever known. Yet, when she'd found herself in danger, he was the one she'd called.

He drove in brooding silence now, turning the truck up the long gravel lane to the house.
Sad,
Tori thought,
how things can change.
Fourteen years ago, when she became Will's bride, she thought she'd found heaven on earth. What a naïve child she'd been. She hadn't stood a chance against Bull's domination, Will's duty to the ranch, and, finally, his senseless jealousy over an older man's attentions—a man she could barely abide. That jealousy had struck the final blow to their crumbling marriage.

But all those things were in the past. Now it was only their daughter who kept them tied into some semblance of a family.

“How's Erin?” she asked as he pulled up to the house.

“Fine. She was asleep when I left.”

“I saw Stella Rawlins tonight, in the Blue Coyote,” Tori said. “The way she looked at me—it gave me the shivers. I realized then that Erin needed to be here with you, out of harm's way.”

He reached behind the seat to get Erin's suitcase and hand Tori her purse. “I don't want you messing with the woman. Don't even go into that bar.”

“I was safe enough. Drew and I stopped by there for a beer. We didn't stay long.”

Tori's legs were still unsteady, the ground slick with ice. She gripped Will's arm as he helped her up the steps, across the porch, and into the dark entryway of the house. He was like a rock beside her, solid and cold.

Releasing her, he closed the door behind them. “Can
Drew—
” He spoke the name contemptuously. “Can he protect you? Does he carry a gun?”

“I don't know. I never thought to ask.”

“Well,
you're
going to carry one, at least till this nasty business is over. I have a nine-millimeter Kel-Tec that's small enough to fit in your purse, but mean enough to blow a hole in anybody who threatens you. I'll get it for you in the morning.” He set Erin's suitcase on the floor, shed his coat, then tossed it over the rack in the hall. “Who knows, maybe
Drew
could use some protecting, too. According to Erin, he's a mild-mannered type.”

Something in Tori snapped. With a sharp intake of breath, she spun to face him. “How . . . dare . . . you?” She kept her voice low, but every word was charged with fury. “How dare you discuss my personal life with our daughter? What I do is none of your business, Will Tyler!”

“Anything that affects Erin is my business. And that includes the men you bring into her life.”

His arrogance shoved Tori over the brink. Her hand flashed upward. He made no move to stop her as she slapped the side of his face—so hard that the sound of it cracked like a pistol shot in the room. The impact stung her palm and hurt her wrist. Pain brought tears to her eyes.

Will stood like stone. Only his eyes reacted to her blow, narrowing, darkening. Then his hands moved up to rest on her shoulders, their weight anchoring her in place. His gaze drilled into hers.

“Damn it to hell, woman, I should've left you in that truck to freeze!” he muttered.

In a swift, sure movement, he bent and captured her mouth with his.

Will's crushing kiss went through Tori like a lightning bolt—a flash of heat that melded all the hurt, all the anger, all the loneliness of the past eight years, into one burning rush of need. For the space of a heartbeat, she resisted. Then, with a whimper, her lips parted. Her body softened against his hard planes. Her fingers raked his thick, damp hair, pulling him down to deepen the kiss. He groaned, his hands sliding down over her curves in an act of pure possession, pulling her in closer.

“We . . . mustn't do this . . .” Tori's faint murmur of protest vanished into darkness as if the words had never been spoken. She was shivering with cold. So was he. They clung together, craving warmth, craving intimacy, both of them aware they were careening toward disaster, and knowing that they'd already gone too far to stop.

He swept her down the hall, pausing for the barest instant at Erin's door to make sure their daughter was asleep. Then, in the next moment, they were in his room, ripping off clothes, leaving garments where they fell on the rug, before they tumbled, naked and shivering, into each other's arms and into his bed.

“You're cold.” He reached for the down comforter and pulled it over them.

“So are you.” She ran her hands over his big, rugged body, remembering every line and hollow, every nick and scar. Only one scar was new—the short, deep gash along his outer thigh where he'd been bitten by a huge rattler last spring and nearly died. That was part of him now, and part of her memory.

Even the way his erection curved slightly to the left was as she remembered, as was the low growl, from deep in his throat, as he mounted between her willing legs and pushed deep, filling the dark, needing place inside her like a man coming home after a long time gone. No foreplay was needed. She'd been ready for him from the moment of that first soul-shattering kiss.

They made love like two dance partners, separated by years, who still recalled the steps. But the music had changed to a throbbing, hunger-driven beat, pounding in its urgency, savage in its demands. Tori stifled a cry against his shoulder as she climaxed, clenching around him in spasms that rocked her to the core. An instant later, he moaned and shuddered, filling her with the warm flood of his release.

For a moment he lay still, his breath easing out in a long exhalation. Then he moved off her, rolled over, and, without a word, sank into exhausted sleep.

That, too, was very much as Tori remembered. Some things never changed.

She slid out of bed and pattered into the bathroom. Will's old flannel robe hung on a hook behind the door. Tori wrapped it around her and walked back to stand beside the bed, gazing down at the man who lay sprawled in sleep like a tired child. Overcome by tenderness and dismay, she shook her head.

Heaven save her, what had she done?

CHAPTER 7

W
ill woke to silence at 4:15 a.m. Tori was gone from his bedroom, along with her clothes. No surprise there. She probably hadn't wanted to face waking up next to him. And she definitely wouldn't have wanted Erin to discover her in his bed.

He'd needed her last night. Something told him she'd needed him, too—for the first time in eight long years. But he'd be a fool to think their wild encounter had been anything more than a one-night stand. Knowing Tori, he believed she was already beating herself up with regrets. Unless he missed his guess, today would be back to business as usual, with both of them pretending nothing had happened.

Put it aside,
he told himself. Right now, he had more urgent concerns than his ex-wife. The morning stillness told him the norther had passed, leaving bitter cold in its wake. There was nothing to do but get up and deal with the damage.

He rolled out of bed and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. There were probably lines down between here and Blanco, which meant no heat, no coffee, even, till the power crews got out this way. There was nothing to do but get dressed in the dark, go outside, and face the dawn.

He pulled on layers of clothing—thermal underwear, a wool shirt, and a down vest to wear under his coat. Thick wool socks went under his winter boots. In the living room he took a moment to light the fire that was already laid in the fireplace and check the wood box for more logs and kindling. That done, he added his coat, his thick wool cap, and his leather gloves.

He was about to step outside when Tori walked in from the hall. She was wrapped in Will's old flannel robe, her hair tousled from sleep. The memory of her ripe mouth and eager body rose in his mind. He forced it away.

“It's early,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

“That's what I'm about to find out. You might as well get some sleep while the place warms up.” He turned to go, but her voice stopped him.

“Will, about last night. We need to forget it ever happened.”

He'd expected this from her. Still, it stung. “It's already forgotten,” he said. “And don't worry, I'm not going to say anything to your new boyfriend.”

Before she could respond, he walked out the door and closed it behind him. On the porch what met his eyes confirmed his worst fears.

In the east the sky was paling to gray. The grim dawn cast enough light to reveal the ice-glazed nightmare the storm had left behind. Frozen sleet coated the roads and buildings. Its weight had bowed the willows to the ground and broken branches off the tall cottonwoods. Worst of all, Will knew from experience, the frozen pastureland would offer no forage for the cold, hungry cattle.

The bunkhouse was already stirring. No lights there, either, but smoke was curling from the chimney. All hands would be needed to get hay to the pastures, to de-ice and refill the watering tanks, and aid the distressed cattle. Will could see where Sky had parked his truck with the headlights on in the open doorway of the long barn. Once he'd made sure the horses were all right, he would join the crews in the pastures.

Beau's Jeep was coming down from the east pasture, its familiar headlights bouncing along the rough road. Will watched as it came nearer, apprehension a dark coil in the pit of his stomach. The news would be bad, his instincts told him—as if any news this morning could be good. He braced his emotions as the Jeep rounded the last curve and rocketed into the yard.

Beau braked the jeep to a halt and climbed out. Red-eyed and unshaven, he looked as if he'd barely slept. Will came down the icy steps to meet him. “Bad?” he asked, meeting his brother's eyes.

Beau nodded, his mouth pressed into a tight line. When he spoke, his voice cracked like an old man's. “More than bad. Lightning strike. I counted seventeen dead around the burnt spot in the pasture. Hope to God there aren't more, but we won't know for sure till the sun's up.”

Will's knees had gone weak. He braced a supporting hand on the Jeep's warm hood. “Damn,” he muttered. “That's all we need to push us over the edge.”

Behind him, the front door opened and closed. Tori had come out onto the front porch. Her gaze took in the frozen landscape and the stricken faces of the two men at the bottom of the steps. “What is it?” she asked. “What's happened?”

Beau gave her the news. She'd been a ranch wife long enough to know what it meant. No dramatics, just bear up and move on. She shook her head. “I'm sorry. If there's anything I can do—”

“Just make sure Erin's all right, and keep her inside today.” Squaring his shoulders, Will turned back to Beau. “Let's get the men together. We've got a herd to save.”

The two brothers climbed into Beau's jeep Jeep and headed toward the bunkhouse, tires crunching on the icy ground.

* * *

Heartsick, Tori watched them go. The death of that many prime cattle would mean disaster for the future of the ranch. The cows and heifers, many of them pregnant, were the backbone of next year's herd, the spring calves a promise of profit next fall. And the two pedigreed Hereford stud bulls, if either was lost, would cost a small fortune to replace.

Will was tough, like his father. He hid his emotions behind a stoic mask. But Tori knew he was devastated. Last night's losses, coupled with the summer's drought and fire, would put the ranch's survival in serious peril. Couple that with the legal charges hanging over him, and Will would be staggering under his invisible burdens.

Until the moment she'd stepped outside this morning, Tori had been preoccupied with what had happened last night in Will's bed. How could she have dropped her guard that way? What, if anything, would Will expect going forward? And how would it affect her growing relationship with Drew?

Now, compared to the morning's disaster, last night was no more than a pebble in her shoe, to be cast aside and forgotten. Like the storm had done, it had come and gone. There was nothing to do but put it behind her and move on.

But Will's hidden anguish tore at her heart. There was nothing she could do about the problems with the ranch. But as his lawyer it was up to her to see that he didn't pay for killing Nikolas Tomescu. Whatever it took, she couldn't let him down. She would question Erin, question Abner and his deputies, inspect the crime scene, scour every legal book she could find for a precedent. She would fight for Will's innocence with everything she had. He had killed in defense of their daughter, and she wouldn't give up until he was cleared of all blame.

* * *

Ralph Jackson slumped on a barstool in the Blue Coyote, so tired he could barely drink the free Tecate that Stella had shoved in front of him. At ten on a Thursday night, most of the customers had cleared out. The others would soon be gone, too. Nobody was paying any heed to the scruffy cowhand hunched over his beer.

“Cowboy, you look like you just got drug through a manure pit behind a mule.” Stella studied him across the bar. Her silk blouse was so tight over her ample bosom that Ralph could see the outline of her nipples. He averted his gaze, reminding himself that the woman was old enough to be his mother.

“Been workin' my ass off all week for those damn Tylers,” Ralph said. “Diggin' trenches with the backhoe and shovin' in those stinkin' dead cows. Hell, I oughta get double pay for a dirty job like that.”

“But you don't, do you?” Stella clucked sympathetically. “How many cattle did they lose?”

“Nigh onto twenty, most of 'em hit by lightning. And I was on the crew that got to bury 'em.”

“Poor boy.”

For some reason she looked pleased.
But that's natural,
she thought, remembering that Will Tyler had gunned down her brother.

A week had passed since the storm. Now, as was typical for Texas, the weather was warming again, and the ice had melted. The work of keeping the cattle fed had eased off some. But taking care of cows was dirty work. When he tried to get close to Vonda, she complained that he smelled like a corral. And there was always the money, which never seemed to be enough.

“How's your wife?” Stella asked.

Ralph sighed. “Vonda's mad at me again. She wants to go to the beauty shop in town and get herself some of them fake fingernails. When I told her we didn't have the money, she threw a hissy fit. Locked me out of the bedroom and told me not to come back till I had it.”

“Does she know you've been working for me?”

“Yeah. She's all for it, as long as I'm bringin' in extra cash.” He looked up at her. “So, have you got any cleanin' up or fixin' to do around here? I don't need much, just enough for Vonda's nails.”

“Couldn't her family give you any help? I'd think her father's sheriff job would pay well enough.”

“Hell no!” Ralph's fist clenched around the cold can. “Vonda's folks kicked her out when she got pregnant. They won't have nothin' to do with us. I know Abner Sweeney was voted sheriff, but not by me. I can't stand the little turd.”

Stella ran a towel over a damp spot on the bar. The last customer had left. Now Ralph was alone with her. “The work around here's pretty well been done,” she said. “But how'd you like to make two hundred dollars?”

“I'd like that a lot.” Ralph was already counting the money in his head. He'd give Vonda fifty for the beauty shop and keep the rest for himself. He'd been wanting a new pair of boots, but if he bought them, Vonda would know he'd kept money back. Maybe he could just save it up for something big later on, like a new four-wheel ATV or the down payment on a better truck. “What do I have to do for that?” he asked.

“Not much. Just deliver a package, collect the cash from the customer, and bring it back to me.”

Ralph wasn't too dumb to figure out what would be in the package. But as long as he didn't know for sure, and as long as nobody got hurt, what was the harm in it? “Sure,” he said. “No problem.”

“Fine. Come into the back office. I'll give you some directions—and a few rules. We'll see how this goes.”

Ralph followed her, noticing how she limped, as if her red high-heeled boots were hurting her feet. He remembered how a friend of his, Lute Fletcher, had done some work for Stella. Lute had become greedy, gotten in too deep, and ended up dead. But Ralph wasn't like Lute. He knew the limits. Just a little job here and there, when he needed spare cash. That's all he'd do. He could walk away anytime he wanted.

* * *

Clay Drummond didn't bother to get up when the sheriff walked into his office. He had scant respect for the annoying little man whose visits always left him in a bad mood. And this morning, Clay was in a bad mood already. Stella had just given him another of her so-called reminder calls, hinting at what could happen if he failed to put Will Tyler away for shooting her brother. Now, as if the day could only get worse, here was Abner in his face.

“You got the notice about the inquest, right?” Abner took a seat opposite Clay's desk.

“I did,” Clay said. “It'll be just you, me, the judge, the coroner, and any witnesses we want to call in.”

“What about Tori?”

“She can be there if she wants, but only to listen. And Will won't be there at all. The inquest isn't a trial. Its purpose is to examine the evidence and, based on that, determine whether a suspect should be charged and tried. You'll be a witness, of course, and maybe one or two of your deputies.”

Abner quite possibly knew all this, Clay thought. But he enjoyed treating the little man as if he were an ignorant bumpkin.

“What about the little girl?” Abner asked. “She saw the whole thing.”

“I spoke with Tori on the phone. She doesn't want her daughter put through having to testify. We agreed that, for now, the interview you taped will be enough.”

“Well, I want you to know, Drummond, that I plan to do my job. And I expect you to do yours. Those Tylers have always thought themselves a cut above everybody else. It does a body good to see one of 'em go down and face justice like us ordinary folks.” Abner took a tissue from a box on the desk and blew his nose. “Do you think we can get Will for murder?”

Abner was like an attack dog straining at the leash. Earlier, Clay had wondered whether Stella was pulling the sheriff's strings, as well as his own. Now he was convinced of it.

“Murder?” Clay shook his head. “Not likely. We'd have to prove malice, and there's no evidence of that. The inquest will be looking at self-defense versus manslaughter, which carries a sentence of two to twenty years in Texas.”

Abner smirked. “Even the minimum would take Will Tyler down a peg. What've we got to prove?”

Clay leaned back in his chair. “Tomescu had already surrendered his gun when Will shot him. As I see it, the case hinges on the knife, and whether a reasonable man would see it as a threat. If so, that would argue for self-defense.”

“It wasn't much of a knife,” Abner said. “Just a little switchblade. Even if Tomescu had thrown it, it wouldn't have done much damage.”

“But throwing it could've wounded Will or maybe distracted him long enough for Tomescu to grab his gun back and use it. That's what the defense will argue if this goes to trial. Like I say, it's a fine line.”

Abner's face lit. “What if Tomescu hadn't tried to throw the knife at all? What if Will put it in his hand
after
the man was shot dead?”

“Wouldn't the knife have Will's prints on it if he'd done that?”

“Not if he'd wiped it clean and used a handkerchief or something to put it in the dead man's hand.”