Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas) (13 page)

“Me? You’re blaming me for this? You were out of control.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“First of all, I’d appreciate it if you would calm down and stop swearing. Second of all, didn’t you see her reaction when she saw Bobby? She didn’t do it.”

“Then who did, Kirby?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think it was her.”

Seth’s anger fell away. He gazed miserably at the field of lavender. “It’s out of my hands now.”

His hurt was palpable, a live thing eating at her. She pressed her palm into his arm.

His eyes dropped to her hand. “I don’t need your sympathy. I can take care of myself. If I were you, I’d watch my back after tomorrow. Miss Bea’s set her sights on getting rid you. Do me one favor, Kirby. Tell Shaw and Miss Bea who you are before someone else gets their neck broken around here. Like you.”

He was drowning in his own troubles and worried about her.

A sturdy spirit beneath sinew. God’s recipe for a good man, Kirby-nee.
And he was. She’d liked working beside him today. She liked talking with him. She’d even liked his ridiculous attempts at seduction. She realized she wanted to know what was inside him, and she wanted to tell him about the things inside her, like loneliness and love. She liked him, and he seemed to like her.

She studied the west wing. Sightless windows, silent rooms, shades drawn against the sun. But Mr. Shaw was there. The only person who could save Seth’s job.

“You’re not leaving until tomorrow, right?”

He looked away from her. His voice shook when he answered. “I need to brief Manny on a few things so he can handle the harvest crew. He’ll have to take over.”

“I’m going to talk to Mr. Shaw. Maybe I can get your job back.”

“You’re wasting your breath. You won’t get past Miss Bea. He’s practically a prisoner here.” The words were tinged with despair.

She liked him better fighting mad than drowning in defeat. “You are not the only person who can fix problems.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I’m not crazy, and I am going to prove it to you.” She met his eyes. “And when I do, you are going to say something I bet you’ve never said in your life.”

“What’s that?”

“‘I was wrong.’”

“Mr. Shaw?” Kirby dipped a toe into the west wing. “Mr. Shaw? Are you in here?” Silence. Dead silence. She thought about Seth and pressed on. “Mr. Shaw? Are—”

A door squeaked open. A shadowy figure appeared.

“Mr. Shaw?”

“Who’s there?”

Shoot.
She was supposed to be Frankie, and he was supposed to be Cousin Eenie. “Cousin Eenie. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

A pale hand lifted and beckoned. “Come into my sitting room.”

She hustled past closed doors, wrinkling her nose at the cloud of disinfectant and minty muscle liniment hanging in the air.

Mr. Shaw’s sitting room was identical to Frankie’s and Charleen’s, but it held such a profusion of books and plants, knickknacks, old newspapers, old photographs, and old record albums, that it felt smaller.

Another mountain of books and plants and photos crowded the adjoining room, as well as a vintage desk that was as long and wide as Frankie’s bed. Mahogany bookcases lined the walls.

A record spun on a turntable. Classical music floated from tall speakers.
Li-li-le-lo, li-li-le-lo.
The dazzling voices of violins rolled across the room in waves.

She almost said, “Wow,” but caught herself in time. Frankie had probably been here.

Mr. Shaw gestured at a faded velvet chair. “Please sit. What are you doing here?”

She sat, rested her elbows on her knees and leaned forward. “Have you been here all afternoon?”

He frowned. “Where else would I be?”

“Of course. I was just wondering if anything out of the ordinary happened today?”

“Well, no, I don’t think so.” His gaze trailed around the room, suspicion still wrinkling his brow.

“What about your pets?”

“I assume you’re referring to my dear friends. Sarah Slade is in her cage. She insists upon an afternoon nap.”

She studied Mr. Shaw. “What about Bobby? Did you see him after this morning?”

“Come to think of it, I haven’t.” Mr. Shaw rose and made his way to the window. “Why? Have you seen him?”

Kirby stood, too. “Mister—uh, Cousin Eenie, please come and sit down.” She felt a stab of regret for the old man. He was a gentle soul. She could see it in his eyes and feel it in the warm way he spoke to her.

He turned slowly from the window. “Why?”

“Please. Come and sit.”

He studied her, his gaze speculative, his mouth sad. “I see.” He returned to his chair.

“We found Bobby in the woods about a half hour ago.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I’m sorry.” Her throat burned.

He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and swiped at his nose. “What happened?”

Right after Kirby joined the force, she’d had to tell a woman with two children her husband was dead. It was the second worst moment of her life after watching Grandy die. This ranked up there at third. “His neck was broken.”

He pressed his hand to his mouth, turned away from her, choked on a sob.

She suppressed the urge to touch him.

“Did you do this?” He spoke softly.

Indignation on behalf of Frankie rose in her. Why did everyone assume Frankie would hurt Bobby? She remembered what Frankie had said before Kirby left for the ranch.
They hate me. Everything is my fault. I bet if a cloud of locusts descended on the ranch, they’d say I trained them.
“Of course not.”

“Then who?”

“I don’t know, but Miss Bea’s reading glasses were next to the body.”

“Bea?” Tears blurred his pale eyes, turning them milky and blind. “That’s nonsense. Bea didn’t hurt Bobby.”

“I tried to tell you earlier. Before we were interrupted. The other day, someone shot at Seth and me. We—uh, Seth—found Miss Bea’s rifle on the ridge.”

“Then someone’s setting her up.” His gaze narrowed. “Quite frankly, young lady, if you hadn’t turned over a new leaf, I’d accuse you. But my inner eye can see you came to me as a friend and an innocent and in peace. I don’t believe you harmed Bobby.”

A friend and an innocent.
She was a fraud and a liar. “I’m sorry. About Bobby.”

A tear slid down his face. “Hurry back, Bobby,” he whispered.

“He must have been a good friend—”

“He was more than a friend. He was my rock.”

“You’re talking about the real, uh, first Bobby.”

“I’ve lost him twice in one lifetime. After he died the first time, my center fell away. The emptiness I felt. Like being sucked into a mile-wide hole. Nothing to grab onto. About a year after his death, a package came from his son. My letters to Bobby.”

A flash of anger crossed Mr. Shaw’s face. “Well, you know, since you snooped.”

Snooped?

He tilted his head and studied her closely. “You look confused.”

“No. Not at all.”

“Getting the letters back was a relief, of course. Getting Bobby back was salvation.”

She cringed a little. Took a stab at conjecture. “He came with the letters.”

“Sitting on the box when I opened the door.”

“Uh, yes. Of course. I must have forgotten.” Meeting his eyes was impossible. She examined her fingernails.

“He was my spiritual guide even after death.”

“I’m truly sorry.” When he looked skeptical, she said, “I lost my granddaddy last year. He was my best friend. He taught me to respect the spirit.”

“Buddhist?”

“Baptist and Cherokee.”

“I didn’t know. You’ve had a tough year.”

“He loved animals, especially horses. He loved anything that grew, really. Plants, trees, weeds, children, dogs, cats.”

“And horses.”

“And horses,” Kirby repeated. Frankie wouldn’t talk this way about Grandy. She was still in a state about the will. But not many people wanted to hear her rattle on about Grandy. Not even Scott.

“He sounds like a special man,” Mr. Shaw said.

She nodded. “His voice plays inside my head. Little wisps of advice, mostly. He feels so close.”
Shut up. He’s going to know if you don’t stop talking like Kirby.
“I’m going on. Sorry.”

Mr. Shaw rose and shuffled to the shelves. He held out a bright photograph in a gilded frame. “This is Bobby.”

She took it. Studied a white robe hanging from thin shoulders, white sunshine bouncing off a shiny head, white hair streaking through a luxuriant beard. Eyes dark, solemn, serene.

“That was taken just before his life as Bobby ended. He’d changed so much by then. We all had, except for Susannah.” Mr. Shaw turned away. “We thought we owned the world. Nothing could touch us. We thought we were indestructible.” A sob choked him. “Such hubris must be punished.”

Kirby set the photo down. Who was Susannah? Since Frankie obviously knew the answer, she couldn’t ask the question.

Mr. Shaw’s face melted into grief. He sank into his chair. His head dropped into his hands.

She felt his misery like an ache in the pit of her stomach.

Am I an orphan, Grandy?

No one is an orphan, Kirby-nee. Our father is the sky. Our mother is the earth.

Do they love me?

Take off your shoes and walk on the green grass and feel your mother’s love.

“The universe doesn’t punish human frailty, Cousin Eenie.”

He raised his head.

“God walks with us every second of our lives. Sometimes his plan seems harsh, but it’s because we don’t understand.”

Somewhere in the house, a door banged and Miss Bea scolded Brittany and pots clattered. She’d be coming soon.

“Cousin Eenie?”

“Is there more, Frances?”

“Seth got a little ahead of himself and accused Miss Bea of—of killing Bobby, and Miss Bea fired him. She said it was his fault Bobby is dead.”

“She fired Mr. Maguire? And that’s why you risked Bea’s wrath to come over here. You want me to restore Mr. Maguire to ranch manager.”

“It was one reason. I wanted to tell you about Bobby, too.”

He nodded. “You are going to be a worthy heir to this ranch someday. Tell Mr. Maguire to unpack his bags. I will talk to Bea.”

“Talk to Bea about what?”

Kirby whipped her head around.

Miss Bea stood in the door, glaring at her, and if looks were bullets, Kirby would be a corpse.

Chapter Fourteen

Kirby tapped on the coach house door.

“What do you want?” Seth’s annoyance blew through the wood like a high wind.

“It’s me. Kirby.”

The rattle of locks loosening and bolts shot back, then Seth. He wore gray sweatpants and nothing else. A fragrant mist of soap and musky aftershave clung to his skin. His long torso, tanned and firm, hard muscled, sent a shiver through her.

He frowned. “What do you want?”

“I have some good news.”

“What?”

“Can I come in?”

He turned from the door and strode away. “Suit yourself.”

“Seth. Wait. Listen to me.”

He disappeared into the bedroom. She followed.

Empty drawers hung open. Hangers littered the floor. A canvas bag stuffed with clothes lay on the bed. Kirby’s gaze drifted to the wastepaper basket. Inside
The Rancher’s Handbook
, ripped in half, sprawled across the bottom like a wounded soldier.

Seth crammed a stack of T-shirts in his bag. “So what’s the good news?”

“You don’t have to pack your stuff.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because you’re not fired.”

His head fell forward. “Fuck.” The shirts dropped from his hands.

“Are you okay?”

“Why did you do it?”

She wanted to tell him it was nothing. She’d have done it for anyone, but it wasn’t true. She bent, pulled the two halves of
The Rancher’s Handbook
from the trash. The photo of the girl was gone. She pressed the remnants of the book together and set them on the bedside table.

“It wasn’t fair. Miss Bea was worked up. The ranch needs you.”
And you need the ranch.

“I see.”

“I-I-I’ve watched how you tend the ranch and how much you care about everything and everyone, even Manny. But no one has your back.”

His mouth tightened. “Maybe I don’t need anyone.”

So much for gratitude. Underneath his skin and muscle and midnight hair, behind the intelligent eyes, was a man who relied on himself. An independent, unpredictable man who’d been backed into a corner today. But a good man just the same.
A sturdy spirit beneath sinew.

“Maybe you do.”

His back muscles tensed, released…tensed. He wasn’t pleased with this new status quo. The one where
she
helped him. “I don’t.”

…

Seth had always gotten along just fine. Alone. That’s the way he liked it. No one to screw with his head, no one to demand shit he didn’t want to give, no one to worry about, no one. It was his way, and it worked…until today. One woman—Miss Bea—pulled his life out from under him. And another—Kirby—stretched out her arms and caught him before he fell.

Talk about humiliation.

But what choice did he have? Ranching was the only thing he wanted to do. He hated city crowds and noise, desks, the nine-to-five rut, neckties. The hearty handshake of commerce. The stealthy subjugation of spirit. Ranching, open spaces, cattle, horses, hill country, bluebonnets in the spring, honest labor, honest sweat. Those were the things he loved.

Eating crow in front of Kirby? He hated that, too. Almost as much as a desk job. But not quite.

He turned to her.

She watched him from the doorway, eyes clouded, forehead creased, lips pursed. The planes of her face were softer, her body curvier than Frankie’s. She was definitely taller, although the top of her head barely reached his nose. Her golden skin glowed in the light. He itched to pull her close. He’d wipe the sympathy off her face with a kiss she’d never forget. Because she’d feel the strength of him and know he’d have survived without her.

He moved in on her. “Is fairness the only reason you helped me?” he whispered.

She jumped back. Motherly compassion melted from her face. Her cheeks reddened. “What else?” She dropped her eyes. “I better get back.”

He was coming on too strong. She’d hightail it back to the house if he didn’t take things slower. “Thank you for coming to my rescue. I owe you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He shot her his lopsided, lady-killer grin. “Will you stay and celebrate my reinstatement?”

“It’s not necessary.” She backed out of the bedroom.

Not so fast.
One long stride landed him in her personal space. “You’ll hurt my feelings.” He spoke softly, tilting his chin so his breath would wash against her face.

Behind the green contacts, her pupils dilated, but his lady cop stood her ground. “I really need to go. I want to make some notes on what we found today and call Frankie. There must be a clue or a pattern or—or something I’m not seeing.”

“Our squirrel killer can wait another day, can’t she?”

“What about Charleen? What if she’s in danger?”

He leaned into her. “Will you stay for one beer?”

Her long, golden neck arched. She gulped. “Make it a Coke, and I’ll stay for a bit.”

She eyed the sofa and sat at the table and watched him pull two Cokes from the fridge. He rummaged for a bowl, flexing his muscles when he shook pretzels into the dish, giving her a chance to view the goods, so to speak. Her cheeks grew rosy.

A satisfied smile tugged at his mouth. He hadn’t lost his touch.

She watched him carry everything to the table but wouldn’t meet his eyes. Under the harsh kitchen light, strands of coppery red shimmered in her dark hair. He wanted to comb his fingers through it. Let the copper heat his skin.

He sat across from her—better view of his abs—and pushed a can across the table. “Care for a glass?”

She shook her head.

He lifted his Coke. “What shall we toast to?” He waited for a giggle or a tiny smile.

“I’m sorry Frankie got Angie fired, but I am not going to be your next playmate.”

Ouch.
“Am I that obvious?”

“My stepmother has disappeared, and a few hours ago an unknown assailant broke the neck of a household pet. Someone on this ranch is responsible. Someone who is also a threat to Mr. Shaw and others. Sex is not going resolve any of those issues.”

He almost burst out laughing but held onto his cool. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you want me as much as I want you, but you’re afraid to admit it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And why would that be?”

“Because you don’t know how to let go and enjoy yourself.”

“And I suppose you are just the man to help me with that.”

Why play games? They were both consenting adults. “I might be.”

“Your ego is unbelievable. Do you always talk to women this way when you get horny?”

“Don’t usually have to.”

She jumped up from the table, and her chair clattered against the floor. “Maybe Angie and—and Frankie and Brittany find your obnoxious behavior attractive, but I don’t. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Shit.
He’d pushed too hard. “Wait. I’m sorry. Please stay.”

“Why? Your mind is clearly in your pants, where it is of no use to me, and I need time to study the information I uncovered today.”

“I’ll help you. We can go over things together. I was there, too.”

She considered him.

“Look, I’m sorry, Kirby. I misread the situation.”
Like hell.

She nodded. “Okay. But no more funny stuff.”

Funny stuff.
His arousal was nearly instantaneous. He dropped into his chair before she could see. “Fine.”

She picked her chair off the floor and sat.

Seth gulped his Coke and poked around in his head for a deflating thought. “Where should we start?”

“Let’s start with why. Who stands to benefit if Charleen disappears forever?”

“Frankie.”

She frowned. “Frankie?”

“I don’t know the details, but I thought Frankie would be next in line if Charleen dies.”

“But Frankie’s the one who sent me here to find Charleen. Why would she do that if she wanted her momma dead?”

“What about Miss Bea? You said Frankie was attacked. Charleen’s disappeared. If there are no family heirs, everything will go to Miss Bea.”

“Are you sure?”

He shrugged. “Miss Bea told me the Shaw family lawyers found an heir. That was about fifteen months ago. Next thing I know, Charleen and Frankie show up. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Shaw would have to rewrite the will if there were no living blood heirs. Miss Bea seems like the likely recipient.”

“What about Bobby?”

When had cops gotten so freaking hot?
He grinned. “Bobby isn’t a family member.”

Her brows knitted together with displeasure. “I mean, why would Miss Bea make waves by killing him when she is one step closer to getting what she wants with Charleen out of the way? Assuming Shaw Valley Ranch is what she wants.”

“To paint Frankie as a nutcase?” He dropped in a little more humor. “Bad pun. Sorry.” This time she smiled, and he hardened again.
Damn.

“Still, if Miss Bea somehow got her hands on Charleen, what did she do with her?”

As far as he was concerned, Charleen was off doing what she did best—and what he wished he was doing right now with Kirby. And Miss Bea? She was a nasty old bat who reveled in making life difficult for him and everyone else on the ranch.

“Well?” Kirby asked.

He liked her serious. He liked how she got all caught up in her big investigation. It turned him on faster than a bar full of flirty cowgirls. But how was he going to get her mind off Charleen, Frankie, and Miss fucking Bea and focused on his burgeoning need for her? “For my money, Charleen is off having a great time with some lucky bastard, and if you asked her, I’ll bet you find out Frankie is, too.”

Her jaw dropped.

He jumped in before she could scold him. “And don’t bother telling me to get my head out of my pants. I am being realistic here. Those two women have one thing and one thing only on their minds.”

She stood and looked down her nose at him. “Yes, Frankie has a problem. Charleen, too. But your lack of respect is hurtful. Obviously you don’t have a sister, or you’d understand that.”

Whack.
Pain, hot and sharp, split him open. He’d forgotten how much the wrong words could hurt. Because he did have a sister. Or he’d had a sister. He didn’t even know for sure which it was.

Alarm, a flash of surprise, then realization crossed Kirby’s face. The anger drained from her. She sank to her chair.

“That was rude of me. I’m sorry.”

Him, too. Eight years since he’d seen Hannah.
Damn her.
But the wound still bled. Just not as often these days. Weeks and months passed by, then something would happen—like tonight.

“Just get out,” he said.

“No.”

He felt exposed and vulnerable. “I mean it.”

“What’s your sister’s name?”

He met her eyes and saw concern and hated her for that. “I said, get the fuck out of my house. Now. Or I’ll carry you out.”

“I’m your friend.”

Desperation exploded inside him. “What good does talking do? It doesn’t get the horses fed or the fruit picked, does it?” He was shouting at her, trying to put a scare in her so she’d run away and leave him the hell alone so he could pull himself together. “It doesn’t bring people back. It doesn’t
change
anything.”

“What’s your sister’s name?” A slender hand slid across the table and covered his, wicking away some of the hurt inside him.

“Hannah.” He flipped his wrist so he could grip her hand.

“Something happened to her.”

He nodded but couldn’t find the words to explain.

“You can tell me.”

“It’s a long story. And not very interesting.” He released her hand. “You better go.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Are you always like this?”

All he wanted was one night of fucking…well, maybe a few nights of it. Instead, his guts were lying all over the floor, and he was sitting there bleeding like a motherfucker. “Like what?”

“Every time the conversation turns personal, you get all huffy. Or sexy. What are you hiding?”

He was a shoot-from-the-hip guy with a few things he didn’t want to talk about. So what? “You got some balls accusing me of being secretive.” He poked his finger at her. “When it comes to sneaking, you’re the expert. How do you think Shaw and the rest of the ranch would feel if they knew who you really were?”

Her eyes widened. “I think they’d thank me for taking an interest in Charleen’s welfare. Even if she isn’t the most popular person on the ranch. So go ahead and rant and rave all you want. Go tell Mr. Shaw. It won’t change the truth sitting right here between us.”

“Which is?”

“The only kind of intimacy you’re capable of is the kind where you turn off the lights, take off your clothes, and screw someone you barely know.”

He struggled to hold on to his insolent grin while she shredded his insides. “I was hoping you and me might do exactly that tonight.”

“Really, Seth? That’s your defense?” She sniffed. “This is a waste of time.” Her hair swung like a glossy veil as she flung out of her chair and stomped to the door.

The pain inside him deepened. He winced. “Fine. I’ll tell you. But I don’t see what difference it will make.”

Unless the evening ends with a little sympathy sex.