The Cowboy's Surrender (3 page)

Dallas knew she was being sarcastic, but the low timbre of her voice beckoned him against his will. Taking a step forward, he closed the distance between them. He towered above her, looking down into the velvety depths of her brown eyes.

Gillian's breath hitched and her eyes widened. He saw fear, but there was something else, too.

That something else flickering in Gillian's eyes intrigued him. He wasn't the only one affected by their closeness. The lady put on a good show of resistance, but he wondered . . . Hell, he shouldn't be wondering anything. He knew better than to mess with her kind. Besides, she was married.

Gillian stepped around him toward the phone on the desk. She lifted her chin another notch and cleared her throat. "I'll call the drilling site. I'm sure someone will be happy to assist me. I tried to call earlier, but I couldn't get a signal for my cell phone. Good bye, Mr. McCade."

Dallas gave her a long look. She stared right back. Straightening his Stetson, he headed for the door. "Good bye, Mrs. Bankston."
And good riddance
. He didn't need her. He didn't want her. She was the enemy in more ways than one, and he'd better never let himself forget it.

CHAPTER TWO

Gillian grabbed the hard hat from the corner of her desk, then hurried to the drilling platform. There wasn't much time between shifts, and Harold Johnston wanted to show her something. Something important.

She had been on the job for two weeks and was no closer to knowing what was holding up the progress of the drilling than when she had arrived. Going over the daily logs Raymond had painstakingly kept, Gillian learned there had been more than the usual number of mishaps and setbacks associated with a project this size.

At first it was small things, like misplaced tools and disconnected wires. Six months ago, someone had dropped ball bearings down the casing. Drilling had to be stopped while they were removed. Valuable time was lost to repairs. A month later, old broken drill bits had been thrown down the hole. Again time was lost. And time was money.

From what she had read, Gillian guessed someone was trying to sabotage the drilling. Dallas McCade came immediately to mind. His attitude and abruptness toward her clearly indicated his displeasure about the drilling on his land.

Except the accounts in the logbook pointed to an inside job. Why would someone working for Copper River Oil want to disrupt the drilling? They were working on a timetable with a definite end in sight. The lease was due to expire by the end of the year. If no oil was tapped, Copper River would lose money. Why would an employee want to wreak havoc on the project?

Maybe Dallas McCade had bribed someone.
He knew only qualified personnel had access to the drilling platform. The site was manned twenty-four hours a day. The roughnecks worked two twelve-hour shifts. There was no way an outsider could sneak near enough to do damage and not get caught.

Gillian stepped out of the air-conditioned office trailer, placing the hard hat on her head. The sudden heat made her gasp for breath. Even though it was close to six in the evening, it was still hot. She felt trickles of sweat forming under the hard hat. She also felt something else.

A familiar tingling sensation pricked the hairs on the back of her neck. Slowly, she turned her head toward the rocky overhang west of the drilling site. Lifting her hand to shade her eyes, she saw a lone figure standing on the ridge. The features weren't clear from this distance, yet the black Stetson and arrogant stance were unmistakable. Dallas McCade.

Gillian lowered her hand and headed toward the platform. Every evening, for the past fourteen days, the formidable cowboy had stood there on the ridge. Watching. Always in the same spot. Sometimes with binoculars, sometimes not. But always watching.

Harold Johnston waited on the platform, a frown between his gray brows. He was inspecting a length of pipe joints ready to go down the hole.

"What's wrong?" Gillian asked, coming to stand beside him, looking at the pipe joints.

"I'm hoping it's nothing," Harold said, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his damp forehead. "Looks like it could be trouble. Then again, maybe not." He folded the handkerchief and placed it back in his pocket.

"This isn't what I wanted to show you," he said. "Let's walk over to the mud tanks. Something mighty peculiar is going on. Been a tool-pusher, going on twenty-five years now, and I've never seen such suspicious things happening on one job. Can't make heads nor tails of any of it."

Gillian had to run to catch up with the long-legged supervisor. Harold was in his mid-fifties, with gray hair, a silver mustache, and blue eyes that held just a suspicion of a twinkle. Those eyes were deceptive, though; when Harold Johnston barked orders, everyone jumped to obey.

"Do you think someone is deliberately undermining this project?" she asked, voicing her concern for the first time.

Harold stopped in his tracks and looked down at her. He stroked his mustache, his brows gathering in a frown again. "It sure looks that way, don't it, Mrs. Bankston?" He continued toward the mud tanks.

"But why?" Gillian asked, running again to keep up.

"Don't know. And when you see what I found this morning--Hell, I don't like this one damned bit."

He slowed his pace when they came to the mud tanks, walking purposefully to the big mud-mixing hopper. No one was in the immediate vicinity, the men still milling around as the shift change took place.

Gillian came up beside Harold as he stooped to pick up a bag of barite. He lifted it to the workbench near the hopper.

"Take a look at this and tell me what you think?" he said, stepping back.

Gillian peered inside the paper bag. It had been ripped open, the string hanging from one end, the top gaping wide. The powder gleamed brightly even in the shadow of the derrick. Gillian looked closer. Something about the whiteness appeared odd.

She glanced sideways at Harold. "Surely, it's not--?"

"Go ahead, taste it," he said.

Licking the tip of her index finger, Gillian touched the white powder. Rubbing the substance between her thumb and finger, the grains quickly dissolved. She hesitated only a second before tasting the sample.

"Oh, my God," she groaned. "How much of this sugar was poured in the hopper? And how long will it be before . . .?"

She couldn't finish the sentence. Gillian stared at the bag of sugar, a sick sinking sensation settling in the pit of her stomach. If sugar was mixed with the mud, it wouldn't gel correctly and could cause considerable damage. When mud was pumped into the hole, the clay mixture wouldn't be able to form the wall-cake that lined and stabilized the hole. Without the thin strong lining, the hole would cave in. It was a dangerous situation.

Harold shook his head. "None of it was poured in. Ben Dawson was on duty and he's one of the best. You'd think something like this would go undetected, but it didn't. Ben's always on his toes. He thought the barite looked funny. Too shiny. Barite is a dull whitish gray. He tasted it, just like you did. Then he started ripping sacks like crazy. He only found nine more with sugar. The bags had been emptied, filled, and restiched."

Gillian squatted on her haunches and inspected the bags on the ground near the hopper. "Who was responsible for bringing in this shipment of barite?"

Harold pushed back his hard hat, scratching his forehead. "Well, now, that's what I've been thinking and figuring all day long. The shipments come once a month, usually during the day shift. I looked up the records to see who was working that day. I've narrowed it down to two, possibly three, men."

Gillian couldn't believe this was happening. Looking closely at the bags of sugar, she could see where they'd been resewn with a fine black thread. The untampered bags of barite were sewn with coarse black twine.

"Who?" she asked.

"Jed Carmichael and Tom Raney worked the mud tanks that day."

Something in his voice caused Gillian to glance up at him. Slowly, she stood. "You don't think it was either of them, do you? Who's the third man?"

Harold stroked his mustache. "Allen Dunbar."

"Allen?" Gillian frowned. He was the last person she would have suspected. He was a middle-aged man with quiet manners and a shy reserve.

Gillian looked around. The evening shift was moving in. "Let's go back to my office. We can't talk here."

They walked in silence, breaking it only to call greetings to some of the roughnecks and derrick hands starting the new shift.

Before she opened the door to the office trailer, Gillian glanced toward the rocky crag. There was no sign of Dallas McCade. Pushing the rancher from her mind, she opened the door and walked in. The cool blast from the air-conditioned office offered immediate relief from the hot summer sun.

"So, why do you think it's Allen?" she asked, removing her hard hat and sitting behind her desk.

Harold sat opposite, setting his hat on his lap and running his fingers through his gray hair. A frown settled deeply between his silver brows. "You asked me if someone was deliberately undermining this project. I've been here from day one, and from all the evidence and all that's gone wrong, I'd have to be a fool to think otherwise."

"But why? And why Allen Dunbar?" Gillian tapped the end of her pencil on her desk. None of this made any sense.

"Well, I'm not saying it's Dunbar for sure," Harold said. "Every man is innocent until proven guilty. But Dunbar has been on duty, or nearby, every time something's gone wrong."

Gillian stopped tapping her pencil. "That's not enough to prove Allen did anything. There must be something else. And besides, what possible motive could he have for doing all those things?"

"Money can motivate and tempt most anybody."

"Whose money?" She asked the question even though she knew what his answer would be.

Harold stroked his mustache slowly. "I looked up Dunbar's employment record, as well as the others. He used to work on the Diamondback Ranch. He was foreman for ten years, before signing on here as a derrick hand. Mighty coincidental, ain't it?"

"So, you think Dallas McCade is behind all of this?"

"Who else could it be?" he asked. "He's the only one with a motive that I can think of."

Gillian sighed. "I've thought of that possibility, too. Keep an eye on Allen and those other two. So far, most of the 'accidents' have only caused a couple of days delay in drilling. But this last one could have cost lives as well as shut down the operation."

Harold nodded. "I'm going to keep watch all right. Ben Dawson will, too. You can bet on that. The less people who know about this the better. If the guilty party thinks the sugar was added to the mud, and no one the wiser, he'll probably sit back and wait for the results. We should have a quiet spell for at least a week or two."

"And then?" Gillian asked.

"Who knows? Time's running short. Won't be long until we know whether we're going to strike oil. It all depends on how badly someone wants to shut us down."

He stood, settling his hard hat in the crook of his arm. "I'm going to town to grab a bite to eat. Want to come along?"

"I don't know. They say three's a crowd." Gillian smiled when the older man's cheeks turned red.

"What do you mean by that?" Harold asked, frowning mightily.

"I mean, Sarah Sue's face always lights up when you walk into her cafe." Gillian couldn't help teasing him.

"Hell, I can't help that, now can I? A man's got to eat. Besides, it's the only place in town," he said, the twinkle in his eye more pronounced than ever.

"I don't think the food is the only reason you eat there every night," she said.

"Maybe so, maybe no. It's really none of your business, boss lady," he said with a grin.

Gillian grinned back. She enjoyed the friendly give and take between the older man and herself. "I'm not sure. Maybe I shouldn't tag along."

"Nonsense," he said. "Sarah likes you, too."

"From what I've seen, she's friendly to all of her customers," Gillian said. "Yet somehow her eyes don't shine as brightly when she's taking my order."

"You coming, or not?" He held the door open, ignoring that last gibe.

She laughed and shook her head. "Go on. I'll catch up in a little bit."

"Better not wait too long. It's Wednesday, and it'll be crowded. Chicken-fried steak night, you know. I'll save you a seat." The door slammed behind him.

Gillian straightened the papers on her desk, filing some reports, stacking others to be read later in the week.

She couldn't believe someone was trying to shut down the drilling operation. In her wildest dreams, she never thought she would be investigating criminal action on a project. It was definitely not in her job description.

Was Dallas McCade really behind all of it? Gillian closed her eyes and thought about her one encounter with the cowboy. Her body instantly responded to the image of his muscular body, the intensity in his eyes when he'd looked at her. She hadn't been near him since that day, but awareness crept over her every time she saw him standing on the ridge.