Best Kept Secrets (18 page)

Her resolve vanished when a feminine contralto voice answered his telephone.

"It's a woman, asking for you." Nora Gail extended the telephone receiver to Reede. Her pencil-perfect eyebrows formed an inquisitive arch. He had been adding logs to the fireplace across the room. He brushed his hands on the seat of his jeans and pretended not to see the inquiry in her expression as he took the receiver from her.

"Yeah? This is Lambert."

"This is Alex."

He turned his back on his guest. "What do you want?"

"I want to know why you were following me tonight."

"How do you know I was?"

"I ... I saw you."

"No, you didn't. What the hell were you doing in that honky-tonk?"

"Having a drink."

"And you picked the Last Chance?" he asked scoffingly.

"Baby, you hardly look like its typical barfly. That place is reserved for shit kickers and roughnecks looking for fun with dissatisfied housewives. So either you went there to get laid, or to keep a secret appointment. Which was it?"

"I was there on official business."

"So, it was to meet somebody. Who? You'd be wise to tell me, Alex, because whoever it was got scared off when he saw me."

"You admit that you were trailing me?" Reede remained stubbornly silent. "That's just one of many topics we'll address first thing in the morning."

"Sorry. Tomorrow's my day off."

"It's important."

"That's your opinion."

"Where will you be?"

"I said no, Counselor."

"You don't have a choice."

"The hell I don't. I'm off duty tomorrow."

"Well, I'm not."

He cursed and blew out an exasperated breath, making certain she heard both. "If the ground's thawed out, I'll be at the Minions' practice track."

"I'll find you."

Without another word, he dropped the receiver back into the cradle. He'd trapped her and he knew it. He'd heard her breathing falter when he'd asked how she'd known he had followed her. Whoever she had planned on meeting had chickened out. Who? Junior? It was disturbing how much he disliked that idea.

"Who was that?" Nora Gail asked, adjusting the lush white mink coat around her shoulders. Her beaded sweater had a low neckline. She amply filled it ... and then some. In the cleft of her breasts nestled an opal as big around as a silver dollar. The gold chain suspending it in that magnificent setting was half an inch wide and studded with small, brilliant diamonds.

She took a black cigarette out of an eighteen-carat gold box. Reede picked up her matching lighter and held it to the tip of the cigarette. She curved her hand around his. The rings on her plump, pampered hand glittered. "Thank you, sugar."

"Don't mention it." He tossed the lighter back onto the kitchen table and returned to his chair across from her.

"That was Celina's girl, wasn't it?"

"What if it was?"

"Ah." She pulled her lips into a ruby pucker and blew a stream of smoke toward his ceiling. "Her ears must have been burning." Tilting her hand downward, she pointed with her cigarette at the letter lying on the table. "What do you think about it?"

Reede picked up the letter and reread it, though its message had been crystal clear the first time. It urged Alexandra Gaither to cease and desist in her investigation. The letter strongly suggested that she suspend all efforts to prosecute Angus Minton, Junior Minton, and Reede Lambert on any criminal charges.

The character of each man mentioned was given a glowing review by the undersigned, who were a group of

concerned citizens--among them, his guest. They were concerned not only for their esteemed colleagues who found themselves in this unfortunate circumstance, but also for themselves and their business interests, should the racetrack license be revoked in light of Ms. Gaither's unfounded investigation.

In summation, the letter admonished her to retreat immediately and let them get down to the business of profiting well off the increased revenue a racetrack would mean to their community.

After reading the letter a second time, Reede refolded it and stuffed it into the unsealed envelope. It had been addressed to Alex in care of the Westerner Motel.

He didn't comment on the contents. Instead, he asked,

"Did you instigate it?"

"I bounced the idea off a few of the others."

"It sounds like one of your brainstorms."

"I'm a careful businesswoman. You know that. The others thought it was a good idea and took it from there. We all approved the final draft. I suggested that we get your input before we mail it to her."

"Why's that?"

"You've spent more time with her than anybody else in town. We thought you might guess what her reaction will be."

He studied her impassive features for a long moment. She was as sly as a fox. She hadn't gotten as rich as she was by being dumb or careless. Reede liked her, always had. He slept with her on a regular basis to their mutual satisfaction.

But he didn't trust her.

Feeding someone like her too much information would not only be unethical, it would be just plain stupid. He had enough street smarts to know better, and it would take more than an extended viewing of her spectacular cleavage to loosen his tongue.

"Your guess is as good as mine how she'll react," he said noncommittally. "She probably won't react at all."

"Meaning?"

' 'Meaning, I doubt she'll pack her bags and head for Austin the minute she reads this."

"Courageous, is she?"

Reede shrugged.

"Stubborn?"

He gave a sardonic smile. "You could said that, yeah.

She's damned stubborn."

"I'm curious about this girl."

"Why?"

"Because you frown every time her name comes up." She sent another stream of acrid smoke ceilingward as she regarded him closely. "You're frowning now, sugar."

"Habit."

"Does she look like her mother?"

"Not much," he said shortly. "There's a resemblance, that's all."

Her smile was slow, feline, crafty. "She bothers you, doesn't she?"

"Hell, yes, she bothers me," he shouted. "She's trying to send me to prison. Wouldn't that bother you?"

"Only if I was guilty."

Reede clenched his teeth. "All right, I've read your letter and given you my opinion. Why don't you haul your ass out

of my house?"

Unperturbed by his anger, she leisurely ground out her cigarette in his tin ashtray and pulled her fur coat around her as she stood up. She gathered up her cigarettes, lighter, and the envelope addressed to Alex, and replaced them in her handbag. "I know from experience, Mr. Reede Lambert, that you think my ass is quite something."

Reede's temper abated. Laughing with chagrin, he squeezed a handful of fanny through her clothing and snarled,

"You're right. It is."

"Friends?"

"Friends."

As they stood facing each other, she smoothed her hand down his belly and cupped his sex. It was full and firm, but unaroused. "It's a cold night, Reede," she said in a sultry voice. "Want me to stay?"

He shook his head. "We agreed a long time ago that in order to remain friends, I'd come to you to get laid."

She drew a pretty frown. "Why'd we agree to that?"

"Because I'm the sheriff and you run a whorehouse."

Her laugh was guttural and sexy. "Goddamn right, I do.

The best and most profitable one in the state. Anyway, I see I took good care of you the other night." She'd been massaging him through his jeans, with no results.

"Yeah, thanks."

Smiling, the madam dropped her hand and moved toward the door. She addressed him over her shoulder. "What was the urgency? I don't recall seeing you in such a dither since you heard about a certain soldier boy in El Paso, name of Gaither."

Reede's eyes turned a darker, more menacing green. "No urgency. Just horny."

She smiled her knowing smile and patted his stubbled cheek. "You'll have to lie better than that, Reede, honey, to put one over on me. I've known you too long and too well." Her voice drifted back to him as she stepped into the darkness beyond his door. "Don't be a stranger, sugar, you hear?"

Sixteen

It was no longer sleeting, but it was still very cold. Patches of thin ice crunched beneath Alex's boots as she carefully made her way from her parked car toward the practice track.

The brilliant sunshine, which had not deigned to appear for the last several days, now blinded her. The sky was a vivid blue. Jets, looking no larger than pinpoints, trailed puffy lines that sometimes crisscrossed, matching the miles of white fencing on the Minton ranch that divided the compound into separate pens and paddocks.

The ground between the gravel road and the practice track was uneven. Tire tracks had worn permanent ruts in it over the years. It was muddy in spots where ice had already surrendered to the sun's rays.

Alex had dressed appropriately in old boots and jeans. Even though her hands were gloved in kid leather, she raised her fists to her mouth and blew on them for additional warmth.

She took a pair of sunglasses out of her coat pocket and slid them on to combat the sunlight. From behind their tinted lenses, she watched Reede. He was standing at the rail clock-big the horses between the timing poles placed every sixteenth of a mile.

She held back a moment to study him unobserved. Instead of the leather bomber jacket, he had on a long, light-colored duster. One boot was propped on the lowest rail of the fence, a stance that drew attention to his narrow buttocks and long thighs.

The boot she could see was scuffed and well worn. His jeans were clean, but the hems were frayed, their denim threads bleached white. It occurred to her that the flies of all his jeans were similarly worn, and she was shocked to realize that she knew that.

His wrists were propped on the top fence rail, his hands dangling over the other side. He was wearing leather gloves, the same ones he'd had on when he'd pulled her against him the other night and held her while she cried. It was odd, and deliciously disturbing, to reflect on how his hands had moved over her back with nothing except a terry-cloth robe separating them from her nakedness. A stopwatch lay in the palm of the hand that had cupped her head and pressed it against his chest.

He had on the cowboy hat she'd first seen him in, pulled down low over his brows. Dark blond hair brushed the collar of his coat. When he turned his head, she noticed that the angles of his profile were sharp and clear. There were no indecisive shapes, no subtle contours. When he breathed, a vapor formed around the lips that had kissed her damp hair after he'd told her about Celina's body.

"Let 'em go," he shouted to the practice riders. His voice was as masculine as all his features. Whether he was shouting orders or making innuendos, it never failed to elicit a response low in her body.

As the horses came around--four, in all--then-hooves pounded and raised clumps of turf that a track conditioner

had loosened earlier that morning. Flaring nostrils sent up billows of steam.

When the riders slowed them to a walk, they were directed back toward the stables. Reede called out to one. "Ginger, how's he doing?"

"I've been holding him back. He's bouncy."

"Give him his head. He wants to run. Walk him around once, then let him go again."

"Okay."

The diminutive rider, who Alex hadn't initially realized was a young woman, tipped the bill of her cap with her quirt and nudged her splendid mount back onto the track.

"What's his name?"

Reede's head came around. He speared Alex with eyes shaded against the sun only by the brim of his hat and a natural squint that had left him with appealing crow's-feet at the outer corners of his eyes. "She's a girl."

"The horse?"

"Oh. The horse's name is Double Time."

Alex moved up beside him at the rail and rested her forearms on it. "Is he yours?"

"Yes."

"A winner?"

"He keeps me in pocket change."

Alex watched the rider crouched over the saddle. "She seems to know just what to do," she remarked. "That's a lot of horse for such a tiny person to handle."

"Ginger's one of the Mintons' best gallop boys--that's what they're called." He returned his attention to the horse and rider as they came around the track at a full-out gallop.

"Atta boy, atta boy," he whispered. "Comin' through like a pro." He whooped when Double Time streaked past them, a blur of well-coordinated muscle, agility, and immense strength.

"Good work," Reede told the rider when she brought the horse around.

"Better?"

"Several seconds better."

Reede had more encouraging words for the horse. He patted him affectionately and spoke in a language the animal seemed to understand. The stallion pranced off friskily, tail fanning, knowing that a rewarding breakfast was awaiting him in the stable for having performed so well for his owner.

"You seem to have a real rapport with him," Alex observed.

"I was there the day his sire covered the mare. I was there when he was foaled. They thought he was a dummy, and

'wanted to put him down."

"A what?"

"A dummy's a foal that was deprived of oxygen during the birthing." He shook his head as he watched the horse enter the stable. "I didn't think so. I was right. His lineage indicated he had every chance to be good, and he has been.

Never a disappointment. Always runs his heart out, even when he's outclassed."

"You've got good reason to be proud of him."

"I guess."

Alex wasn't fooled by his pretended indifference. "Do they always run the horses full out like that?"

"No, they're breezing them today, seeing how they run against each other. Four days a week, they're galloped once or twice around the track. Comparable to a jog. Two days after breezing them, they're just walked."

He turned and headed toward a saddled horse that was tied to a fence post. "Where are you going?"

"Home." He mounted with the loose-limbed grace of a range cowboy.

"I need to talk to you," Alex cried in consternation.

He bent down and extended his hand. "Get on." From beneath the brim of his hat, green eyes challenged her.