Cowboy Fever (27 page)

A bar of light slipping through the blinds woke Teague early. Stretching, he stepped over to the window, peering out to check the weather. “Shit,” he said.

“Good morning,” Jodi said. “Nice.”

“Sorry. Do you have a session this morning or something?”

“No. All I have to do today is give that speech to the Girl Scouts this afternoon.”

“Well, you've got a volunteer.”

“Don't tell me.”

“Okay, I won't. But she's almost to the door.” He squinted. “Man, she looks like hell.”

Jodi sighed and tossed off the covers. Slipping her toes into her slippers, she finger-combed her hair, then stood and shrugged into her robe.

“Coming,” she called as a knock sounded on the door.

Teague hustled into his jeans. “I'll get it.”

He ran for the door and swung it open to stare open-mouthed at Courtney. She was hardly rocking the Barbie vibe today. Her hair was disheveled, falling around her face in limp strands, and her eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. Her fringed shirt was half untucked, and her hands were shaking. She looked like a refugee who'd just spent a night running through the woods pursued by baying hounds.

“Teague?” She worked her mouth as if she could barely manage to form words. “Teague, I need help. They won't let me in the house, and I want my music box. My daddy gave it to me, and…” She made a faint mewling noise and buried her face in her hands.

“Come on in.” Jodi stepped up behind him and took the girl's elbow, urging her into the kitchen. “Come on. I'll make you coffee.”

“I don't want coffee.” Courtney plopped down into a chair and wiped her eyes with one hand. “I want my music box. It's mine, and they won't give it to me. I
need
it. I…”

“
Who
won't give it to you?” Teague asked.

“The police.”

“The police?”

Courtney sniffed and nodded. “They won't let me in.”

“The police are at your house?” Teague felt the world drop out from under his feet. Had Skelton been hurt worse than he thought? Or had the guy called the police himself? If he'd called the cops on Teague, why hadn't they shown up yet?

“Why are the police there?” Jodi looked almost as pale as Teague felt.

“It's my dad,” Courtney said. “He's
dead
.”

“
What?”
Teague, dizzy and sick, stumbled backward, pushing Courtney away. “It was an accident. I didn't mean…”

“He shot himself,” Courtney blubbered. “It was terrible. I found him in his study. There was blood everywhere, and his face…”

“
What?
” Teague had seen the first shot hit the wall. Had Skelton turned the gun on himself next?

“His face…” Courtney flailed her arms helplessly.

“Breathe.” Jodi put her arms around Courtney. “Take it easy. Did you tell the sheriff?”

“No,” Courtney said, leaning into her. “But I screamed, and my stepmother came, and she called 911. But I need my music box, because I—I was working on something and I put it—well, and it's in my room.” She stretched her mouth and let out a sob. “I wasn't done, but I went down there and he had the gun, and… and they won't give me my music box.” She sucked in a long, shuddering breath. “They said I should wait, but I couldn't stay there. I couldn't stand to be in the house. I've been just driving around for like, an hour. I didn't know what to do. I don't want to go home where—where it happened.”

The girl probably shouldn't have been driving. It was like she was delirious or something—and no wonder. Seeing your own father dead like that—well, it had to be trauma beyond anything Teague could imagine.

“Shhh.” Jodi stroked Courtney's hair as if she was a child. “Shhh. We'll get your music box, okay? You need to calm down. Just calm down. I know it's hard.”

“Thank you.” Courtney shrugged her off and backed away, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her shirt. “I can't believe he's really dead. I didn't think—I didn't think it would be like this.”

“It's not your fault,” Jodi said. “Look, do you want me to take you home? Your stepmother…”

“No! I don't want to see her.” Courtney clenched her fists. “I want my music box.”

Jodi glanced over her shoulder, giving Teague a helpless look.

“I'll go get it,” he said.

Jodi frowned. “Teague, you can't go back there.”

He held a cautionary finger to his lips and nodded toward Courtney. “I think it's best if I do.”

“Thank you.” Courtney sniffed. “I just—can you believe he killed himself?”

Teague bit his lip and nodded. Of course he believed it. He just hoped everyone else did—because apparently he'd been the last person to see Skelton alive.

The Skelton house seemed eerily quiet as Teague turned into the drive. Muddy tire tracks criss-crossing the blacktop were the only sign of what had happened. The blackened silhouette of the barn loomed beyond the house, the trees and fences around it strung with yellow crime-scene tape that fluttered in the faint breeze. There was no tape on the house's front door. Teague breathed a sigh of relief. Skelton's death must have been an obvious suicide.

He stepped up onto the porch, his boots resounding in the eerie silence. The place looked like a cross between Tara and Monticello, with a touch of Graceland tossed in via marble and gilt accents that glittered in the sun. The expensive shrubbery stood out green and lush against the sun-bleached backdrop of native sage that surrounded the sprinkler-fed lawn area.

Rapping on the door, he waited a moment, then walked over and peered through the lace-curtained window.

“Hello?”

Behind him, a bird piped out a hesitant trill, but there was no sound from the house.

“Mrs. Skelton?”

As he turned back toward the door, it swung open to reveal a dark-haired woman, Hispanic and slightly older than Courtney. She had the blowzy, boobalicious look of a stripper past her prime.

Skelton's wife, Teague guessed.

Her hair was tangled, and the generous coat of mascara that spidered her lashes was smudged into a bandit's mask around her eyes. She was wearing a thin cotton tank top that was almost as indecent as the nightgown Jodi had been wearing the night the polo players had come to call. It was sloppily tucked into a pair of tight pink sweatpants that revealed every cellulite dimple. Her unfettered breasts strained at the nearly transparent fabric of her top, and Teague kept his eyes fixed firmly on her face.

“Hello,” he said. “I'm, ah, I'm Teague Treadwell. A friend of your daughter's. Stepdaughter's, I mean.” He shuffled his feet and looked down at the ground so she wouldn't think he was looking at her breasts.

The woman shrugged, staring at him with cold eyes.

“I'm, ah, sorry for your loss,” Teague said. “I came to get Courtney's music box. She's staying with my girlfriend, and she seems fixated on it for some reason.”

“What, that ballerina thing? Why would she want that?” Her voice was harsh and grating, with definite cigarette and whiskey undertones and a faint Spanish accent.

“I don't know. I'm not sure she's being rational. But I'm trying to help.”

“Well, aren't you the knight in shining armor.” The woman's eyes were flat and hard as a snake's. Maybe she was in shock. He took a step back.

“Never mind. Don't worry about it. Sorry to bother you.”

“No, I'll get it.” She sighed and shrugged one shoulder in a motion that made a spaghetti strap slide off her shoulder, exposing a long swath of flesh and even more cleavage. She shoved it back into place. “Excuse me,” she said. “I can't seem to grasp the fact that my husband…” She clenched one hand into a fist and brought it to her mouth. “I'm trying to grieve, but I… excuse me.”

She turned and walked into the house before Teague could respond. He glanced nervously up toward the dome that enclosed the two-story cathedral ceiling of the entryway. A balcony with an ornate carved wood railing ran around three sides of the room, and he saw her hurry down the length of it. Several doors lined the wall opposite the railing; one of them opened as she passed and a head poked out.

A man's head. With tousled dark hair.

Teague froze. It was one of the Argentine horsemen—the one who'd been after Jodi. What was his name?

Gustaldo.

What the hell was he doing in the house?

The polo player muttered something in Spanish to Skelton's wife and she replied, then bustled past. As she departed, the man stepped out of the doorway and said something else to her.

He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of the tight breeches the polo players wore.

“Hey,” Teague said without thinking.

The player whirled, fixed his gaze on Teague for half a second, then dodged back into the room and slammed the door.

Teague sucked in a quick breath. Skelton's wife sure had a strange way of grieving.

Maybe her husband hadn't taken his own life. Maybe he'd been murdered.

The wife looked like she might be from South America too, like the polo players. Maybe they'd cooked up some plot between them—she'd seduce the guy, marry him, and then the polo player would off him and they'd collect the inheritance. What other explanation could there be for his presence in the house?

Poor Courtney. No wonder she hated the woman. She probably knew something wasn't right.

The woman passed above him again, then trotted down the stairs, bare feet flashing quickly from under her robe.

“I can't find it,” she said, spreading her hands. The gesture tightened the fabric over her breasts and Teague turned away.

“Uh, never mind.” He stepped back and nearly stumbled over the doorsill. “I'll just—I'll just go.”

Feeling his face heat with a blush, he hightailed it down the steps and headed for the truck.

The sheriff needed to know what was going on here. And once Teague told him that, he'd have to reveal his own part in Skelton's last hours. He couldn't just tell part of the story, and besides, he was a lousy liar.

He'd barely opened the truck door before a scraping noise and a shout from the house made him turn. Gustaldo was standing at an open window on the far side of the house, still shirtless. As Teague watched, he lofted something into the air. Instinctively, Teague ducked. The object hit the ground and flew apart as the polo player dodged back inside with what sounded like a Spanish curse and slammed the window.

Teague stepped out from behind the truck and surveyed the wreckage. A wooden panel. Another, and another. A porcelain ballerina, now headless. Several metal cylinders with spokes, and a delicate crank with a wooden handle. It was the music box. Or at least, it had been. The thing was just about destroyed. He cursed his irrational paranoia. What had he thought—that Gustaldo was throwing a bomb? He should have caught the damn thing. Courtney would be broken-hearted.

Making his way carefully over the gravel, he started picking up the pieces—the ballerina's head, another mechanical cylinder, a row of metal tongues that must have provided the tinkling soundtrack for the ballerina's dance. There were two crinkled sheets of paper, too, resting against the truck's front tire.

Gathering the pieces together, he laid them in the front seat of the truck and cranked the engine. He'd take it home and see if he could put it back together. It was the least he could do. Courtney had problems enough. He had to help somehow.

But first he needed to visit the sheriff. Someone needed to tell him about Gustaldo and Skelton's wife.

The door to the old jail creaked open as Teague stepped inside. Cissy looked up from the receptionist's desk as he entered.

“Sheriff here?”

“He's in the back.” Cissy set a tattered paperback upside-down on the desk and leaned forward. “So what do you think of Skelton's suicide? You were dating that daughter of his for a while, right?”

Cissy was back to her old self, applying all the investigative savvy of a CSI tech to the ferreting out and confirmation of every shred of scandal that came her way.

“I heard she's kind of crazy,” she continued. “That true?”

“No.” Teague was in no mood to chat. “We never dated, either. That was a figment of her imagination.”

“I wondered,” Cissy said. “She isn't exactly your type.”

“You got that right.”

“The sheriff's in his office,” she said. She straightened in her chair and smoothed her dark hair, pushing it behind her ears, then gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “You can go on in.”

Teague strode down a paneled hallway lined with plaques from various service organizations. He rapped softly on a door that bore a faux brass plate with Woodell's name on it.

“Come in.”

Teague stepped inside and found himself standing in front of the sheriff's desk. It was like a flashback to his adolescence. How many times had he stood in front of this desk, getting lambasted up one side and down the other for his latest escapade?

“What's up, Teague?” The sheriff tilted back in his chair so the harsh fluorescent light fell on his face, and Teague suddenly realized how much older the man had grown.

“I was over at the Skelton place. Miss Skelton asked me to pick up something her father had given her. A music box.” Teague didn't know why he used the formal title for Courtney. Something about the sheriff made him go all stiff and officious, even after all these years. It was like hanging out with your old drill sergeant.

“You get it?”

Teague nodded.

“Don't know why she wanted it so bad,” the sheriff said. “She was like a crazy woman, carrying on about it. Funny what folks fixate on when things go wrong.”

“I got it from her stepmother,” Teague said. “Skelton's wife. Widow. Whatever.”

The sheriff nodded and cocked his head. “Okay. You came to tell me that?”

“No. I came to tell you a couple things. First of all, one of the polo players was in the house. Guy named Gustaldo, or something like that. There's something going on between him and the wife.”

“Really.” The sheriff tilted his hands forward and folded his arms on the desktop. “What kind of something?”

“She was wearing—well, she wasn't wearing much, and he was shirtless,” Teague said. “I think I interrupted something.”

“That's her brother,” Woodell said. “He came in to calm her down.”

“Oh. Well, maybe not, then.” Teague paused. “You sure Skelton took his own life?”

“Pretty sure.” The sheriff picked up a pencil and fiddled it between his fingers. “But there are some unanswered questions.”

Teague sank into a side chair that faced the desk. “I might be able to answer some of those.”

The sheriff gave him a hard-eyed stare. “Don't tell me you're involved in this somehow.”

“I was there yesterday,” Teague said. “I went to see him about Troy.”

“Why?”

Teague shrugged. “I thought maybe I could talk him into dropping the charges.”

“And how did you intend to do that?”

“I intended to use my elocutionary skills, but it didn't work out that way.” Teague took a deep breath. “I didn't go there to hit him, I swear. I was just going to talk to him, but I—I lost control.”

The sheriff eyed him sharply. “So you did hit him?”

“No, I threw him against the wall. Well, against the window, actually.” He looked down at the toe of his shoes. “Couldn't seem to stop myself.”

Woodell sighed. “You'd better tell me about it.”

Teague relayed the whole encounter, from the time he entered the room to the gunshot. “I didn't stick around after that.”

The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “You telling the truth, son?”

Teague raised a hand in the air. “I swear. He was fine when I left. Pretty upset, pretty angry, but fine. He must have realized I was going to turn him in. I guess he couldn't take the shame, so he turned the gun on himself.”

Woodell narrowed his eyes and the room suddenly seemed hot and airless.

“I figured you'd probably find the head wound from when I—you know.” He pantomimed shoving Skelton into the window. “I didn't want you to have to chase after some mystery.”

“Head wound, hell. We could barely find the head.”

“That bad?”

“That bad.”

Teague jiggled his knee nervously, trying not to think about what that meant. Courtney had found her father, and it sounded like the scene was pretty bad. He'd better get that music box to her. It was the least he could do.

Although it might not be possible. He was probably under arrest.

Teague ran his fingers through his hair. He wished he had his hat. He needed it in his hands, something to fool with. You never realized how strong a nervous habit was until you couldn't do it. He stroked his fingers through his hair again.

“You got something more to say?” the sheriff finally asked.

Teague took a deep breath. “When I saw what I'd done—when I shoved him and he hit the window—I saw my reflection in the glass. Thought for a minute it was my dad standing out there, and when I realized it was me it scared the hell out of me. I looked so much like him, I…”

The sheriff waved a dismissive hand. “You're not your dad, Teague. Get that out of your head.”

“I sure acted like him. Just picked the guy up and—you know.” He pantomimed tossing Skelton into the window.

“What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking he was going to try and put Troy in jail, and then I couldn't stand looking at him anymore. I just shoved him away, but I was a little rougher than I meant to be.”

“Hell, Teague, there wasn't anybody in town wouldn't have done the same thing or worse.” He scooted forward and rested his forearms on the desk while he stared at Teague with his droopy basset hound eyes. “Cissy told me you put the fear of God into her ex the other day out there at the trailer,” the sheriff said.

Teague nodded, but he wondered what that had to do with anything.

“She said you took care of it just right. Scared him, didn't go Treadwell or anything.”

“Go Treadwell?”

The sheriff managed a grim smile. “It's the local expression for going postal. Used to be pretty accurate when your dad was alive.”

“Still pretty accurate, apparently. I sure went Treadwell on Skelton.”

“Not really. Your dad never needed a reason, and you had a good one. Plus, according to Cissy, you showed a lot of restraint with Cal.”

“I tried.”

“Couldn't have been easy.” Woodell looked down and shifted a pencil from one side of his desk to the other, as if the arrangement of his office supplies was the most important thing in the world. “Surprised you didn't have a flashback or something.”

“I more or less did,” Teague said.

“Son, when you saw your father in the window, he was outside looking in. Probably wishing he was half the man you are.”

Teague's chest swelled and an ache filled his throat. “Thank you, sir. You had a lot to do with that.”

The sheriff sat back and gave him a faint smile. “Get out of here. I'll talk to you later if I have any questions.”

“I can go?”

“I don't see why not. I appreciate you coming to me with this.” The sheriff waved him away. “I might have some questions for you later, so don't leave town.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Teague let himself out and stood a moment in the hallway, raking his fingers through his hair, then quickly wiping his eyes before he headed out to the lobby and the eagle-eyed Cissy. It was pathetic, but the sheriff's words had touched him deeply. The man had been more of a father to him than his own dad—not that that was saying much. He'd pretty much only been around when Teague had screwed up, but at least he'd tried to help.

And now he saw Teague as a good man, nothing like his father. It felt like those words were the last step in his long fight for redemption. He felt like a swimmer surfacing after a long dive, or an animal being released from a cramped and dirty cage.

He was finally free to live the life he'd always wanted.