The Cowboy (18 page)

“There’s been an accident,” Trace said, moderating the story for his mother’s ears. “Jesse Creed has been killed, apparently by some hunter’s stray bullet.”

“What about Mrs. Creed?” his mother inquired of Trace.

“She was wounded in the same incident, but she’s alive,” Trace said. “She’s in surgery right now.”

“That’s too bad,” his mother murmured. “When will we know whether she’s going to make it?”

“I have no idea,” Trace confessed.

His mother turned to his father. “And you want to go see how she is, Jackson?”

His father nodded.

Trace felt his heart constrict as he observed the carefully
neutral expression on his mother’s face. He felt the humiliation she refused to express and despised his father for it.

“I’ve advised Dad not to go to the hospital,” Owen interjected.

“Why not?” his mother asked.

Owen grimaced. “You know why not, Mother.”

“All right. Then I’ll go,” she said.

“What?” all three men said together.

“I’ll go,” his mother announced. “We’re neighbors. It’s only natural that we express our concern. I suppose I can buy Ren some flowers at the hospital.” She hesitated and said, “Assuming she survives the surgery.”

Trace watched his father’s face turn white. His mouth looked pinched, and his shoulders hunched forward, as though he were in pain. “You stay and take care of Dad,” Trace said to his mother. “I’ll go.”

He watched as his mother laid a solicitous hand over his father’s heart.

“Are you all right, Jackson? You’re not having another attack, are you?” she asked.

“Dammit, woman. Stop treating me like an invalid!” his father said, shoving her hand away. A startling streak of red paint appeared like a bleeding cut when her brush caught on his yoked white Western shirt.

This time, Trace found the wounded look in his mother’s eyes. He glanced at Owen, wondering if his younger brother felt any sympathy for their mother’s plight. But Owen’s face was stoic, his gray eyes unreadable. “I’ll call you from the hospital,” Trace said, as he headed for the door.

Owen lifted an eyebrow as he passed by. “They won’t want to see you, either.”

“I helped with the search,” Trace retorted. “That ought to count for something.”

“You’re a Blackthorne,” Owen said. “That counts for a helluva lot more.”

O
wen used his badge of office as an excuse to attend the interment of Jesse Creed in the small family cemetery at Three Oaks that was the final resting place of generations of Creeds. He was dressed in uniform, although his Texas Ranger uniform consisted of a Stetson, white shirt, tie, Wrangler pants, and boots. He also wore his badge, a Texas five-pointed star surrounded by a circle. His had been cut from a gold Mexican peso by a Blackthorne forebear who’d served in one of the Ranger regiments in Zachary Taylor’s army during the war against Mexico in 1846.

Supposedly, Owen was there to see if anyone showed up who might have wanted Jesse Creed dead badly enough to have murdered him in cold blood. He was actually there to see someone he expected to attend the ceremony. Owen was pretty sure the person who had most wanted Jesse Creed dead was his own father.

Blackjack had made no secret of how glad he was that his nemesis was being planted six feet underground. He hadn’t even waited for the funeral before he offered to purchase Three Oaks. And it was no secret—at least to his son, the Texas Ranger, hell, probably to the whole county—that Blackjack was, and maybe always had been, in love with Jesse’s wife.

Owen had heard Trace’s accusation of murder from the hallway. It was what had lured him into the library. But his father had seemed too surprised and upset that Lauren Creed had also been shot. If Blackjack had hired a hit man to kill Jesse Creed, there wouldn’t have been another victim, especially not Lauren Creed.

Maybe it had been a hunter after all.

Likely they would never know the truth for sure. The four executives from Houston that Callie Monroe had seen entering the north pasture had been questioned, but they’d brought along rifles big enough to hunt elephants—including a .300 Magnum Weatherby Mark V—which meant they’d probably been hunting deer out of season. But that was a problem for the Texas Parks and Wildlife folks.

It was possible some trespasser—some local teenager?—had been out hunting rabbits with a varmint rifle, and his shot had gone astray. But it was going to be difficult to identify the culprit, because the .223 caliber slug that had killed Jesse had been flattened and splintered by Lauren Creed’s shoulder bone. Ballistics on what was left of the bullet weren’t sufficient for use in identifying the gun used to shoot Jesse Creed.

After a preliminary investigation, the sheriff’s office had declared Jesse Creed’s death a hunting accident.

Owen stood at the edge of the crowd of mourners and looked for someone who might be grieving more than normal or acting strangely, anyone exhibiting remorse for the accidental act, whom he might question further. But all he found was a family devastated by tragedy and neighbors who were shocked and sympathetic.

He had done his duty before he turned to the real
reason he had come to the funeral. He needed to see the boy who’d been paralyzed all those years ago, wanted to discover for himself what had become of the reclusive figure. Owen hadn’t laid eyes on Sam Creed in more than ten years. He was stunned at what he found.

Owen had tried to imagine how Sam’s body might shrivel, confined in a wheelchair, without the use of his legs. His knees certainly appeared bony in the black trousers, but Sam’s broad shoulders were just as broad, his arms even more powerfully muscled, in the buttoned-up white, long-sleeved shirt that was flattened by the wind against his body. Lank brown hair hung two inches over his collar, and his mouth, cheeks, and chin were hidden behind an untrimmed, reddish-brown beard. He looked dissipated, unkempt, uncaring.

Owen’s gut twisted.
What a waste of a human being!

They had never been friends, but they’d been teammates, forced to practice together, and then to pull together to win football games throughout high school. They had roughhoused in the locker room, patted each other’s butt on the playing field, secretively drunk bottles of Pearl or Lone Star on the back of the school bus coming home from away games, punching each other and giggling behind their hands when they got drunk, to hide their reckless behavior from Coach Kuykendall.

Sam had been paralyzed; but Owen had never stopped suffering. Sometimes he could barely stand to look at himself in the mirror. He should have … If only he had … He consoled himself now, as he had all these years, with the knowledge that no matter how the incident had looked to others, it had been an accident.

His lips tilted up at one edge in bitter irony, as he
watched Jesse’s casket being lowered into the ground. The Creeds certainly were accident prone. He wondered again if a Blackthorne was as much responsible for Jesse’s “accident” as one was for Sam’s.

His gaze shifted back to the man in the wheelchair. He studied Sam, wishing he had the nerve to approach him, to speak the apology he had never been allowed to voice. But this wasn’t the time. Sam’s eyes were puffy and bloodshot. Had he been crying? His complexion, above the ragged beard, was sallow. He looked like he had a bad hangover.

Sam wavered in the wheelchair, and his sister Bayleigh—the pretty, auburn-haired sister who’d been away at veterinary school—steadied him. It would be no wonder if Sam had gotten drunk, Owen thought. The Creeds were in dire financial straits, and everybody knew it.

The latest estimate Owen had heard was that the family needed around five million dollars to pay the inheritance taxes on Jesse Creed’s estate. He didn’t know how accommodating the government was in cases like this. Had no idea whether the taxes could be paid in installments, and if so, how long the family had to come up with the first payment.

He’d heard they were planning to sell their Santa Gertrudis breeding stock, so their situation must be as desperate as gossip suggested. The roundup was set to follow the funeral by a matter of days.

His mind had been wandering, so he was disconcerted, when he focused on Sam again, to find Sam staring back at him. The virulent hatred in the other man’s eyes was an ugly thing to behold. Owen watched as Sam turned to
speak to his sister, then saw Bay’s gaze turn in his direction. She leaned close to her brother, listened, and shook her head. Sam continued talking, looking agitated, until Bay gripped her brother’s shoulder and nodded.

Owen steeled himself for the confrontation he suspected was coming. He almost put his hands on his hips, but realized how ridiculous that was. Bayleigh Creed was a slip of a girl, who didn’t even reach his shoulder. She wore her auburn hair in a ponytail, with a fringe of bangs that made her look like a teenager. How old was she? She was nearly done with vet school, so she had to be twenty-three, maybe twenty-four.

She wore a sleeveless black dress that followed her slight figure all the way to her knees and short, practical heels that didn’t sink into the sandy Texas soil. When she got closer, he could see she wasn’t wearing any makeup, and that her nose was dotted with freckles that added to the illusion of youth. It wasn’t until she raised her eyes to his that he saw the wariness of a woman who’d learned not to trust. Whatever youthful innocence she’d possessed was long gone.

He was arrested by the color of her eyes—the purple-blue of bluebonnets—and the frank evaluation she was making of him as she approached. He felt a sensual tug in his groin, the pull of male to shapely, attractive female, before he reminded himself who she was.

“My brother would like you to leave,” she announced as she stopped in front of him.

“I’m here on official business.”

“The sheriff’s office has already closed the investigation into my father’s ‘accidental’ death,” she said, making it clear with sarcasm that she didn’t agree with their
conclusion. “Are you here to suggest it wasn’t an accident?”

“I thought I might see who showed up today,” he said. As excuses went, it sounded lame.

“And did you find a murderer in our midst?” she asked.

“No,” he admitted.

“Then I’d appreciate it if you’d honor my brother’s request and leave.”

“Will you tell him I’m sorry?”

Owen was appalled at what he’d said. He saw the surprise in her eyes before they narrowed.

“You’re a few years late with an apology, if you’re referring to what happened on the football field.”

“It was an accident.” Why was he persisting? Why couldn’t he just let it go? “Why won’t anyone believe that?”

He felt her hand touch his forearm, then drop away. He sought her gaze and found her distressed blue eyes focused intently on his face.

“I can’t feel sorry for you, Mr. Blackthorne. All my sympathy has been used up on Sam.”

“He looks … He doesn’t look well,” Owen said, glancing at Sam.

She looked over her shoulder, and Owen knew she must have seen the scowl on Sam’s face, seen him gesture her back to his side. She turned her back on Sam and said, “There’s nothing you can do to make amends. Sam is stuck in that chair for the rest of his life. And you put him there.”

“I said I was sorry!” Owen didn’t know where the
anger had come from, but he could feel the adrenaline shooting through his veins.

“Prove it,” she said.

Owen frowned. “How would you suggest I do that?”

“Find the man who murdered my father.”

The frown became a scowl. “You know that’s an impossible request.”

“Why? Because your own father is the murderer?”

Owen was startled by the accusation. “My father didn’t do it.”

She shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t hold the gun. But I believe he’s responsible. Three weeks ago, your father threatened mine. Now he’s dead. Since my father’s death—which has dropped us in a financial hole we’ll have the devil of a time climbing out of—your father has made an offer to buy a ranch he’s coveted for as long as I’ve drawn breath.

“Your father tried in every way he could to bring my father to the brink of financial ruin without success. Have you, by the way, found the thieves who stole our quarter horses?”

“No,” Owen said in a low voice.

“When your father couldn’t force my father into selling any other way—and having been provoked and humiliated in public—your father put mine in his grave.”

Owen was at a loss for words. What she said made perfect sense. What she hadn’t mentioned was his father’s obvious infatuation—he wasn’t willing to call it love—for her mother, which was a motive all its own for murder.

“Well?” she challenged. “Do you still think your father’s innocent?”

“There’s no way to prove who shot your father,” Owen said. “The bullet that killed him—”

“Don’t go looking for the gun that killed my father,” she said. “Find the man who held the gun. He can tell you who hired him to kill my father.”

She was right. If someone had, in fact, been hired to murder her father. “I have no idea—”

She made a disgusted sound and shook her head, then spoke slowly and carefully, as though to an idiot. “It’s someone who works for your father. It shouldn’t be too hard to figure it out. Who’s been with him the longest? Who’d do whatever he was ordered to do, no questions asked? Who’d die before he’d betray your father to the authorities?”

“You should have been a cop,” Owen said with grudging admiration.

“I have to figure out where an animal’s hurting, even when it can’t tell me in words what the trouble is,” she answered. “I have to look for clues, search out evidence of what’s wrong. Surely you’ve learned as much in your job.”

He had. “There’s only one thing wrong with your theory.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“You’re assuming my father is the guilty party.”

“And you believe he’s innocent?”

“I do.”

She hesitated, then said, “Even though you’ve seen how he looks at my mother? Maybe it isn’t the land he’s wanted all along. Maybe it’s her.”

Owen drew in a sharp breath. So his father’s infatuation was no secret to the Creeds, either. Blackjack had
always wanted Three Oaks, but Owen believed his father had hopes that an alliance between his brother Trace and Callie Creed Monroe would resolve that issue. So acquiring Three Oaks didn’t seem like motivation enough for Blackjack to have Jesse killed.