Best Kept Secrets (14 page)

"Why not me? Because I'm a suspect?"

"Yes!" she cried. "Discussing this case with you is highly unethical."

"I'm the sheriff, remember?"

"I never forget it. That's still no excuse for Judge Wallace to go behind my back. Why is he so nervous about having the body exhumed? Is he afraid a forensic investigation will reveal something he helped to cover up?"

"Your request presented him with a problem."

"I'll just bet it did! Who is he trying to protect by keeping that coffin sealed?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Celina's body can't be exhumed. She was cremated."

Twelve

Reede couldn't figure out why he had elected to go to the seediest tavern along the highway for a drink when he had a perfectly good bottle of whiskey at home. Maybe it was because his frame of mind matched the dark, murky atmosphere of the honky-tonk.

He felt like shit.

He signaled for the bartender to pour him another drink.

The Last Chance Bar was the kind of place that refilled glasses; customers didn't get a clean one with each round.

"Thanks," Reede said, watching the whiskey splash into his glass.

"You staking us out undercover, or what?" the bartender quipped.

Without moving anything but his eyes, Reede looked up at him. "I'm having a drink. Is that all right with you?"

The silly grin collapsed. "Sure, Sheriff, sure." The bartender backed away to the opposite end of the bar, where he'd been carrying on a conversation with two friendlier patrons.

Reede noticed that one booth across the room was occupied by women. Surrounding the pool table was a trio of guys whom he recognized as wild well controllers. They were usually a rowdy bunch who parried hard between each dangerous gig. For the time being, they were peaceable enough.

Pasty Hickam and Ruby Faye Turner were cuddled in another booth. Reede had heard in the B & B that morning that Angus had canned the old ranch hand. Pasty had made a damn stupid mistake, but Reede thought the punishment was severe. Apparently, Pasty was being consoled by his latest flame. Reede had doffed his hat in their general direction when he had come in. They gave every appearance of wanting to be ignored as much as he wanted to ignore them.

It was a slow night at the Last Chance, which suited the sheriff just fine for professional as well as personal reasons.

He had gulped his first drink, barely tasting it. This one he sipped because he needed it to last longer. Nursing it delayed going home. Being alone didn't hold much appeal for Reede. Neither did passing time in the Last Chance, but it was better than the first option. At least, tonight it was.

The whiskey had started a slow fire in his belly. It had made the twinkling Christmas lights, strung year-'round over the bar, seem brighter and prettier. The dinginess of the place wasn't so obvious when viewed through whiskey fumes.

Since he was beginning to mellow, he decided this would be his last drink of the night, another reason to savor it. Reede never drank to the point of intoxication. Never. He'd had to clean up after his old man had puked up everything but his toenails too many times for him to think that getting shit-faced was fun.

When he was just a kid, he remembered thinking that he might grow up to be a jailbird or a monk, an astronaut or a post-hole digger, a zookeeper or a big game hunter, but one thing he was not going to be was a drunk. They already had one of those in the family, and that was one too many.

"Hiya, Reede."

The sound of the breathy, feminine voice interrupted his contemplation of the amber contents of his glass. He raised

his head and immediately saw a plump set of tits.

She was wearing a skin tight black T-shirt with born bad spelled out in glittering red letters. Her jeans were so tight she had difficulty climbing onto the bar stool. She managed, but not without jiggling her breasts and pressing Reede's thigh in the process. Her smile was as brilliant as a zirconium ring, and not nearly as genuine. Her name was Gloria, Reede remembered, just in time to be courteous.

"Hi, Gloria."

"Buy me a beer?"

"Sure." He called out the order to the bartender. Glancing pointedly over his shoulder, Reede called her attention to the group of friends she'd left sitting in the booth across the dim tavern.

"Don't mind them," she said, flirtatiously tapping his arm where it rested on the bar. "It's every girl for herself after ten o'clock."

"Ladies' night out?"

"Hmm." She tipped the long-neck to her glossy lips and drank. "We were headed for Abilene to see the new Richard Gere movie, but the weather turned so bad, we said what the hell, and decided to stay in town. Wha'chu been up to tonight?

You on duty?"

"For a while. I'm off now." Reluctant to be drawn into conversation, he returned to his drink.

Gloria wasn't going to be dismissed that easily. She scooted as close to him as the barstool would allow and threw her arm across his shoulders. "Poor Reede. It must get awful lonesome riding around by yourself all the time."

"I'm working when I'm riding around."

"I know, but still ..." Her breath fanned his ear. It smelled like beer. "It's no wonder you frown so much." A sharp fingernail plowed the deep furrow between his eyebrows.

He jerked his head back, away from her touch. She snatched her hand back and uttered a soft, wounded sound.

"Look, I'm sorry," he muttered. "My mood's as bad as the weather. It's been a long day. Guess I'm just tired."

Rather than putting her off, that encouraged her. "Maybe I could cheer you up, Reede," she said with a timorous smile.

"Anyway, I'd sure like to try." Again she moved close, sandwiching his upper arm between her cushiony breasts.

"I've had the wildest crush on you since I was in seventh grade. Don't make out like you didn't know," she said with a scolding pout.

"No, I didn't know that."

"Well, I did. But you were taken then. What was that girl's name? The one that loony killed in the stable?"

"Celina."

"Yeah. You were real gone on her, weren't you? By the time I got to high school, you were at Texas Tech. Then I got married and started having kids." She didn't notice that he wasn't interested in her chatter. " 'Course, the husband's long gone, and the kids are old enough now to take care of themselves. I guess there never was much chance for you to know I had a crush on you, was there?"

"I guess not."

She leaned so far forward, her perch on the stool became precarious. "Maybe it's time you did, Reede."

He glanced down at her breasts, which were making teasing, brushing contact with his arm. As a result, her nipples made hard, distinct impressions against her T-shirt. Somehow, the blatancy wasn't as enticing as Alex's innocent, bare toes peeking out from beneath her white terry-cloth bathrobe.

Knowing that there was nothing but Gloria under the black T-shirt didn't excite him as much as wondering what, if anything, was under Alex's white robe.

He wasn't aroused, not even a little. He wondered why.

Gloria was pretty enough. Black hair curled around her face and emphasized dark eyes that were now lambent with invitation and promise. Her lips were parted and wet, but he wasn't sure he could kiss them without sliding off. They were coated with cherry-red lipstick. Involuntarily, he compared them to lips free of makeup, but still pink and moist, kissable and sexy, without making any attempt to be.

"I gotta be going," he said suddenly. He unhooked his boot heels from the rungs of the stool and came to his feet, fishing in the pocket of his jeans for enough bills to cover the price of his drinks and her beer.

"But, I thought--"

"Better get back to your group, or you're liable to miss the party."

The wild well control boys had ventured toward the women, who were making no secret of being on the prowl and out for a good time. The merging of the two groups had been as inevitable as a hard freeze by morning. The delay had been calculated to build the anticipation. Now, however, sexual innuendos were being swapped at a rate to match the stock exchange on a busy day.

"Nice seeing you, Gloria."

Reede pulled his hat down low over his brows and left, but not before catching her wounded expression. Alex's face had held that same devastated, disbelieving expression when he had told her that her mother's body had been cremated.

Seconds after he had uttered the words, she recoiled against the wall, clutching the lapels of her robe to her throat as if she was warding off something evil. "Cremated?"

"That's right." He watched her face turn pale, and her eyes turn glassy.

"I didn't know. Grandma never said. I never thought. . ."

Her voice dwindled into nothingness. He remained silent and unmoving, figuring that she needed time to digest that sobering piece of information.

He had mentally cursed Joe Wallace for dumping such a rotten task on him. The goddamn coward had called him, fit to be tied, whining and carrying on, asking what he should tell her. When Reede suggested that Alex be told the truth, the judge had interpreted it as volunteering and had been all too willing to abdicate the responsibility.

Alex's numbness hadn't lasted long. Her senses returned abruptly, as though she'd been jarred into consciousness by a thought. "Did Judge Wallace know?"

Reede remembered shrugging with feigned indifference.

"Look, all I know is that he called me and said that what you wanted to do was impossible, even if he had handed down a court order, which he would have been reluctant to do."

"If he knew mother's body had been cremated, why didn't he tell me himself this afternoon?"

"My guess would be that he didn't want a scene on his hands."

"Yes," she murmured distractedly, "he doesn't like messes. He told me so." She looked at him without expression.

"He sent you to do his dirty work. Messes don't bother you."

Reede, declining to comment, pulled on his gloves and replaced his hat. "You've had a jolt. Are you going to be okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

Her blue eyes were filled with tears and her mouth trembled slightly. She clasped her hands at her waist, as though forcibly holding herself together. That's when he had wanted to put his arms around her and hold her close, wet hair, damp towel, bathrobe, bare toes, and all.

That's when he had moved forward and, before he even realized what he was doing, forcibly pulled her arms out to her sides. She had resisted, as though wanting to cover a bleeding wound.

Before she reconstructed that barrier, he slid his arms around her and pulled her against him. She was dewy and warm and fragrant, fragile in her grief. She seemed to wilt against him. Her arms dangled listlessly at her sides.

"Oh, God, please don't make me go through this," she had whispered, and he had felt her breasts tremble. She rolled her head toward him, until her face was making an impression on his chest and he could feel her tears through his clothes.

He had angled his head to secure hers against him. The towel wrapping her hair unwound and fell to the floor. Her hair was damp and fragrant against his face.

He told himself now that he hadn't kissed it, but he knew his lips had brushed her hair and then her temple, and rested there.

At that point, a severe case of lust had seized him, and it had been so powerful it was a wonder to him now that he hadn't acted on it.

Instead he had left, feeling like crap for having to tell her something like that and then slinking out like a snake. Staying with her had been out of the question. His desire to hold her hadn't been nobly inspired, and he didn't try to kid himself into believing it was. He'd wanted gratification. He had wanted to cover that hurting, courageous smile with hot, hard kisses.

He swore to his dashboard now as he drove the Blazer down the highway, heading in the opposite direction from home. Sleet froze on the windshield before the wipers could whisk it off. He was driving too fast for the weather conditions--the pavement was like an ice rink--but he kept going.

He was too old for this. What the hell was he doing entertaining sexual fantasies? He hadn't consciously done that since he and Junior had jerked off while drooling over centerfolds. Yet, at no time in recent memory had his fantasies

been so vivid.

Completely forgetting who Alex was, he had envisioned his hands parting that white bathrobe and finding underneath it smooth, ivory flesh; hard, pink nipples; soft, auburn hair.

Her thighs would be soft, and between them she would be creamy.

Cursing, he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. She wasn't just any woman who happened to be eighteen years younger than himself. She was Celina's daughter, and he was old enough to be her daddy, for crissake. He wasn't, but he could have been. He very well could have been. Knowing that made his stomach feel a little queasy, but it did nothing to decrease the thick hard-on now testing the durability of his fly.

He wheeled the truck into the deserted parking lot, cut the engine, and bounded up the steps to the door. He tried it, and when he discovered it was locked, pounded on it with his gloved fists.

Eventually, the door was opened by a woman as broad-breasted as a pigeon. She was wearing a long, white satin peignoir that might have looked bridal had there not been a black cigarette anchored in the corner of her lips. In her arms she was holding an apricot-colored cat. She was stroking his luxurious fur with an idle hand. Woman and cat glared at Reede.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Why do most men come here, Nora Gail?" Rudely, he brushed past her and went inside. If he'd been anybody else, he would have been shot right between the eyes with the pistol she kept hidden in the gaiter belt she always wore.

"Obviously, you haven't noticed. Business was so slow tonight, we closed early."

"Since when has that mattered to you and me?"

"Since you started taking advantage. Like now."

"Don't give me any lip tonight." He was already at the top of the stairs, heading toward her private room. "I don't want conversation. I don't want to be entertained. I just want to be screwed, okay?"