Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas) (5 page)

“That makes sense.” Kirby’s hopes began to sink. The boy was telling the truth—no eye shifting or twitching. No stuttering. He’d spent every day out here for the past two weeks and seen nothing. She tried one more question. “I’m worried about my momma. I wondered if you saw anything, uh, out of place last week.”

“Not really,” he said again.

Kirby had been so intent on Manny, she nearly jumped out of her skin when Miss Bea began to screech. “Mr. Maguire!” Her voice shook windows and nearly shattered eardrums.

Kirby spun around.

Miss Bea stood in the barnyard. Her bony talons gripped her hips. Her narrow mouth gaped in horror. Her eyes smoldered like bits of coal.

Frozen between Miss Bea and Kirby, holding a mug of steaming coffee, was Maguire. He was gaping at Kirby as if he’d just watched her commit murder.

Chapter Four

The coffee trickled into the carafe, drip by drip by drip by drip by…

“Come on, dammit. Hurry.”

By the time the drips turned to a drizzle, Seth was jumping out of his skin. He strode to the window. His eyes searched the driveway.

Frankie had vanished.

“Crap!” He shouted the word at Mr. Coffee. The stream quickened, but he couldn’t wait. He grabbed the carafe. Hot liquid gushed from the basket, over the counter and across the floor. He splashed coffee into a dirty mug beside the sink and raced down the stairs.

A lump of fear lodged in his throat when he saw Frankie with Manny. He gulped in some dusty air.
Play it cool.

Too late. Behind him, Miss Bea screeched. “Mr. Maguire!” His nerves—what was left of them—seemed to shred.

Hot coffee sloshed over his hand. Frankie swung around. Her eyes were wide, startled, and it hit him again that something was off. Why would Frankie be surprised that Miss Bea was having a meltdown? Frankie—bold, brash Frankie—had been told to leave Manny alone. By Shaw himself, no less.

Miss Bea’s tight voice whistled through his ears. “Mr. Maguire. A word. Now.”

He wanted to tell Miss Bea to calm down. He wanted to tell Frankie to take life seriously. Hell, what he
really
wanted was to jump in his Jeep and get the hell out of Shaw Valley. But gigs were few and far between up here, and if he was going to buy his own spread, he needed steady work.

He turned and faced Miss Bea. “Everything is under control.”

Her mouth puckered. She marched across the gravel and got up in his grill. “You left her with Manny. Mr. Shaw will not be happy about this.”

She was always very free with pronouncements of what would make Shaw happy. Just once, Seth wanted to hear from Shaw himself. In fact, he’d pay a day’s wages for the pleasure. “I can handle Frankie.” He narrowed his eyes into Miss Bea’s, daring her to argue.

A gray, unkempt eyebrow rose. “
Miss Frances
is not to be left alone. You know that.”

“Exactly. So let me get back to my job.”

A derisive snort blew from her thin nostrils. “Just make sure you do. I’ve got to run down to Austin. I’ll be back after lunch.”

She stomped away, arms folded, the top half of her body craning forward, her big bottom dragging behind. When she reached the Escalade, she hoisted herself in, ass first. That woman had ballast. Balls, too, the way she put herself in charge of everything. But when it came to Frankie, Miss Bea was right. She had to be watched.

He strode across the barnyard and thrust the coffee at Frankie. “Here.”

“Thanks.” With one hand, she slid her fingers through the handle of the mug. She looked up at him, and that same soft light was in her eyes. The one he’d noticed yesterday when she’d asked about her momma. “Did you burn your hand?” she asked.

Desire scraped at his body, and he experienced an insane desire to touch her. Instead, he shook his head. “I’m fine.”

She sipped her coffee and studied him. The deep concern in her eyes shook him more than Frankie’s crazy stunts. He tore his eyes away and zeroed in on Manny. “You having trouble keeping up with the chores?” He could feel Frankie’s interest as if it were alive and breathing on its own. By now Frankie should be complaining of boredom.

“No, boss. I just…I mean, she just asked if she could help. I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to say.” Manny’s face reddened.

Since when did Frankie start offering to help around the ranch?

“This is all my fault,” Frankie said. “I didn’t mean to interfere.” But she looked more curious than contrite.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second and tried to get his bearings. Had he landed in a parallel universe where Frankie was
nice
? “Miss Frances isn’t used to working with horses. She might get bitten. Please remember that in the future,” he said to Manny.

Manny shrugged. “She said she worked at a stable.”

He hated Frankie’s lies. He spun on her. “You told me you grew up in downtown Houston. In a fancy condo, wasn’t it?” More like rubbed it in his face.

He expected a gotcha laugh or a snotty comeback, but instead he got nervousness.

“I—I meant on my summer vacations. My granddaddy worked at a stable, and I would help him. Sorry.” She raised her mug and gulped at the coffee. “Great coffee. You saved my life. Honest.”

Sorry? Honest?
Either Frankie Swallow was giving an Oscar-worthy performance as the girl next door or… Or what? He studied her. Same hair, same eyes, same nose, same voice. But something was off. He pushed a Frankie hot button. “The horses need exercise. Care to ride with me?” He raised an eyebrow. “I mean, since you have all that stable experience.”

Frankie tilted her head and studied him. “What are you up to, Seth?”

“Just asking a civil question. It’s a nice day for a ride.” He struggled to keep his face neutral. Behind him, Manny shuffled, and it occurred to Seth that Manny’s face might be giving away the subterfuge. Seth twisted his head toward the boy, who looked confused. “Right, Manny?”

The boy’s confusion turned to fear. He backed away from Seth. “I—I don’t know, boss.”

Frankie’s expression sobered. She looked from Manny to Seth. Her eyes narrowed. “I think I’ll take a walk up to the ridge.”

Seth felt his neutral expression slip away. Frankie didn’t walk. “Suit yourself. Of course, it’s a nice ride to the ridge. Beats walking in this heat.”

“Does it?” When he didn’t respond, she added, “Besides, I don’t have boots.”

He pushed his face into a jovial expression, an effort that made his face ache. “No problem. You can borrow Miss Bea’s boots. Come on. I thought you liked riding with me.”

Manny let out a soft breath. It was a lie. Frankie hated the horses, and she refused to ride. As for wearing Miss Bea’s boots, no points for guessing how snotty little Frankie would feel about doing that. So if this was the same Frankie who’d taken off a few days ago, he was about to get a shit storm of indignation.
OMG! I would never touch anything of hers.

Instead he got a rueful grin. “Miss Bea might mind. She doesn’t like me much.”

Hot damn.

His hand shook as he patted Manny’s shoulder. “Can you get those old boots out of Miss Bea’s tack box? And saddle the horses.” He’d do it himself, but he was not leaving Frankie’s side. At least not until he figured out what she was up to.

When the horses were saddled, Seth eyed Frankie. “Feeling up to riding Old Tom? He’s a little headstrong this morning. Might be too much for you.” He was flying close to the sun on this, but Frankie was up to something.

Frankie patted Old Tom’s withers. “What do you say?” The bay snorted and pawed the dirt. Then, sliding a boot into the stirrup, she mounted him in one graceful move, her slender leg flying over Old Tom’s back and her trim bottom slipping into the saddle before Seth’s disbelieving eyes.

Amazing. Apparently Manny thought so, too. Behind his thick glasses, he was round eyed and startled.

Seth swung onto Darby. “You want to head to the ridge?”

Frankie eyed him. “If you don’t have an objection.”

“None at all.”

He guided Darcy into the wide path of grass and clover between the lavender fields. Frankie fell into step beside him, and a deeply irrational sense of well-being washed over him. Miss Bea had skinned him alive twice in one morning. A new record. A new low.

So why the hell was he feeling so mellow?

The scent of lavender floated in the warm air. The grayish-purple wands dipped and rolled like waves. Frankie took a deep, noisy sniff. “Hmm. Smells good.”

“Sure.”

“Must have been hard for you when my cousin sold the cattle and took up farming.”

He glanced at her, expecting to see mocking, catlike eyes, but instead he was met with curiosity. Or was it interest? “I guess. Not exactly what I expected when I came here.”

“What did you expect?”

He shrugged. What did she think he’d expected? “A working ranch. A herd of steers from here to the horizon. Beefsteak for dinner. Whiskey for dessert.”

She burst out laughing, and he almost laughed, too.

A comfortable silence settled over them, and he slipped back a pace so he could study the new Frankie. Her cat eyes didn’t seem so damned spooky this morning. His gaze lingered on strong cheekbones, golden skin, the gentle puff of pink lips. A breeze lifted. Long, black hair unfurled, gleaming like jet.

This girl couldn’t be Frankie. It wasn’t just the horse business. It was the way she acted, asking questions all the time and looking startled when Miss Bea went off on her. Sure, she knew a lot about the house and him and the workings of the ranch. And sometimes she’d tilt her head just like Frankie and do Frankie’s Beyoncé strut, but not all the time.

So if she looked like Frankie and talked like Frankie and knew about Frankie’s life, but wasn’t Frankie, who the hell was she? Besides Frankie’s doppelgänger. He should be alarmed, wary even. But instead he felt as if he’d finally turned a corner.

They reached the last row of lavender. Ahead was the narrow trail up the ridge.

Doppel-Frankie stirred. “Manny said someone drowned up there.” She was studying him again.

“A year ago last spring.”

“How did you find him?”

He tried to recall when it had happened. Whether Frankie and Charleen had descended on the ranch by then. He couldn’t recall. “The kid’s family came to the house. Claimed their son had gone hiking on the ridge and didn’t come back. Mr. Shaw sent me up to take a look around. He’d floated to the surface by then, so that was that.”

“Did you call the police?”

He’d have fallen off his horse with surprise if he hadn’t already decided this girl was not Frankie. Frankie wouldn’t have asked him if he called the police. She’d want to know what the body looked like or, more likely, if it was naked. “Miss Bea called the cops.”

She nodded and turned away, and he let his gaze roam over her. Why had she come? What did she want? Had she done something to Frankie? He’d never been a big trust-your-gut sort of guy, but he didn’t think Frankie was in danger. Actually, as he considered this whole switcheroo scenario, the more it struck him as something Frankie might dream up. The question was why.

Old Tom snorted and bucked. Doppel-Frankie pulled him back. “He wants to run.”

Whoever she was, he didn’t need any girls with broken necks to deal with. “Let’s switch.”

“I can manage.” She leaned forward, loosened Old Tom’s reins, clicked her tongue. “I’ll meet you at the quarry.”

Old Tom took off, his hooves spinning into a gallop. Seth half expected doppel-Frankie to fly from the horse, but she didn’t. She and Old Tom were like a single creature. Their muscles, bones, sinews flexing in perfect harmony. Long, graceful necks straining forward. Hair and tail trailing like billowing flames from a wildfire.

Interest and desire stirred inside him. He urged Darby into a gallop. She acquiesced reluctantly, working her way up to a canter and only breaking into a gallop after he dug his boots into her.

Doppel-Frankie and Old Tom were barely fifty yards from the trees at the top of the ridge.

Crack! Whistle.
A gunshot exploded on the ridge.

Old Tom reared up. Frankie grabbed at his neck, pressing her weight down on his head. The horse’s forelegs returned to earth, and Frankie jerked the reins back and forced him to turn. She’d gotten him under control like a pro.

Crack!

This bullet whistled past Seth.

“Frankie,” he shouted. “Get away from there.” But Old Tom reared up again. Seth urged Darby forward. “Come on, girl.” The mare didn’t resist, although “gallop” would be too strong a word for her gait.

Frankie was nearly out of her saddle when he reached her, pressing her small body against Old Tom’s neck, her knees into his withers, her boots into his side.

“You okay?” he asked.

“No. He’s spooked.” She turned her head, and he was surprised to see her eyes flash with anger. “What kind of jerk shoots at a horse? Old Tom could’ve broken a leg.”

“I don’t know.”

Seth studied the ridge. He wasn’t armed, and he’d be a perfect target if he charged up there. Of course, retreat presented even more exposure. Not that he had any intention of turning tail. “Stay here.”

“Are you going up?” She looked horrified.

He nodded at Old Tom. “Just keep him under control. Okay?”

“Be careful.” That was a very un-Frankie-like thing to say, and she seemed to realize it. “I, uh, I’m not dragging your lifeless body home.”

Yeah, right.
He urged Darby forward, zigzagging up the ridge, varying his gait, keeping his head low until he reached the top.

Deep in the woods, a car minus its muffler rattled to life. He jumped off Darby, pushed aside tree branches, skirted rocks, following the path as it widened into a rutted, unpaved road. A layer of fine dust floated above it.
Vroom, vroom, vroom.
The low rumble of the car grew faint. He ran through the dust for a half mile or so, but it was gone.

“Shit.” Just his luck. Frankie turns friendly, and a stranger shows up with a gun and a grudge.

He turned back, kicking at the brush for bullet casings. His boot hit a rifle flung beneath a clump of catclaw. The sharp, sweet smell of gunpowder clung to its thorns and puny leaves. He knew that gun as well as he knew his own Colt. Two fifty-seven Roberts, lightweight, polished silver barrel, carved walnut stock. He stooped and traced the initials floating inside the swirls:
BV
. Bea Vine. Cracking it open, he checked the chamber. Two bullets missing.

He didn’t like Miss Bea. She was a harridan. A screeching, clawed, judgmental harridan. Maybe worse. But he didn’t see her shooting at a horse. Or a person. Not because she wasn’t mean enough, but because she’d never do anything that might separate her from her beloved Shaw. Like committing a crime that could land her in jail.

He glanced around the silent woods. So who had shot at him and Frankie? How did they get Miss Bea’s rifle? There were no bullets on the ranch unless you counted the ones in his gun. He ticked off the suspects in his head. It couldn’t be Manny or doppel-Frankie or him. That left Miss Bea and Shaw. Or someone who had not yet revealed himself…