Gambling on a Secret (22 page)

“I haven’t lost anything because of Dylan.”

“Now that surprises me.” Brenda waved at an older woman–probably her mother–as she entered the diner. “Dylan cares only for himself.”

She speared the woman with a glare. “You’re wrong.”

“Excuse me.”

Charli placed her napkin beside her mostly empty plate and slid out of the booth. Brenda stiffened when Charli went toe-to-toe with her, and towered over her by a good four inches. “A man doesn’t fight for his country voluntarily and struggle with the type of guilt Dylan does because he doesn’t care. If you ask me, he cares too damned much about a lot of things.”

After picking up the check from the edge of the table, she looked at Tracy, who regarded her with something akin to stunned admiration as she stood. “Are you ready? I better get back.”

“Yeah.” Tracy adjusted the strap of her big canvas purse. “The clientele of this place just hit an all-time low.”

They left, leaving Dylan’s ex staring after them with her mouth hanging open.

* * * *

Dylan stopped the tractor and lifted a bottle of water to his lips. Damn, he didn’t mind grunt work, but he hadn’t expected to be the one mowing hay when he signed on as Charli’s manager. He needed to do something besides sitting around waiting for her animals to die or her to fire him.

He also had to clear his head. Something about the whole poisoning had been eating at him since he’d found those poor critters lying in the field. The more he thought about it all, the more he suspected something more malicious than bad hay.

His gut told him not to trust Kyle McPherson.

However, his gut had been wrong before.

Four good soldiers were dead and five more wounded because he’d trusted his instincts.

He put the water bottle away and shifted the tractor into gear as he looked over the neat rows of mowed grass, and snorted a chuckle. How fickle were the wishes of a farmer? After several terrible drought years, the recent storms were more than welcome. But now, he hoped the weatherman was right and the rain held off for a few days until he got the hay baled and stowed in the barn.

On the way back to the equipment shed, he looked out over the pasture bordering Oak Springs Ranch on the right. Two old derricks sat rusting away in the center of the field. On the other side of the fencerow, another loomed in what had been a jointly run oilfield for fifty years. Most of the modern Ferguson and Blackwell wealth had come from that field.

The Fergusons had invested wisely. The Blackwells hadn’t. Bad blood between the clans resulted, which only escalated when the drilling abruptly stopped forty-two years ago. The rumor from the time claimed Jock Blackwell put a stop to the drilling when Dylan’s grandfather, Jason Ferguson, married his second wife, Maddie. Jason had insisted the drilling stopped because the oil ran out.

Dylan looked back to the rutted path leading to the barn when a slight movement in the brush around one of the capped oil wells caught his attention. He swung his gaze over to the old oilrig just in time to glimpse a telltale flash of sunlight reflecting off a rifle barrel.

Instinct kicked in. He ducked down just as the whirl of a bullet passed through the cab of the tractor, displacing the air where his head should have been.

He stopped the tractor as another bullet whizzed by, scrunching his eyes closed against visions of fire, flying dirt and shredded metal. Of men’s screams of pain as they were blown to bits. He gasped at his own pain–some imagined, some real–in his bad hip. Forcing his eyes open, he focused on the instrument panel of the tractor to stay grounded in the present and not back on the mountain road outside Kandahar.

He crouched as low as he could get in the cab between the seat and the controls, reached under the seat and pulled out the .357 he’d stashed there that morning. Having lived in Texas long enough, he knew to pack heat when riding the range. In the past, it would have been for situations such as he found himself in now, but mostly, he carried the gun to kill rattlesnakes and scare off an occasional coyote.

He removed his hat and peeked over the edge of the door. Despite not seeing anything, he aimed the pistol and fired in the spot he’d first seen the flash. If nothing else, whoever was out there would know he was armed and had sharpshooter aim.

The low rumble of the tractor engine became deafening in those moments of waiting. After a few minutes, he determined the shooter had slunk back to whatever hole he’d crawled out of.

Dylan eased the tractor into gear and moved forward several yards before sitting in the seat and heading in as fast as the Monroe Special 1025 could move.

* * * *

After Dylan parked the tractor and mower in the equipment shed, he headed for the house.

Sure enough, a black Porsche parked in the drive. Upon hearing Charli’s laugh, he headed toward it. She and Leon stood in the yard by one of the flowerbeds. A pile of weeds and lopped-off overgrowth lay next to it. She held her gloves in one hand, which rested on her hip in a relaxed manor. She motioned with the other, laughing at something Leon must have said. Who would’ve thought the bastard could be so funny?

Hidden in the shadow of the house, he stared at Charli. A big straw hat cast her face in shadow, but he could hear her just fine.

“Thanks again for stopping by, Leon. Honestly, we’re fine. Dr. Evans believes my animals are on the mend.”

Leon took her free hand. “Let me know if you need anything, anything at all.”

Her bright smile hit him as hard as a kick in the balls. “I will, I promise.”

With the tenacity of a pit bull, he headed in to break up the happy couple. “Charli, you need to go inside now.”

Her brow puckered, and she pulled her hand from Leon’s. “What on Earth for?”

He peered at Leon before answering. “Someone just took a couple of pot shots at me out by the old derricks.”

“
What?
” Her face lost color. “Someone
shot
at you?”

“Yeah.” He glanced at Leon, who was dressed casually in jeans, a Western shirt and that white Stetson–like some spaghetti Western good guy. “None of your cowhands would be
poaching
, would they?”

Leon slipped his arm around her waist. She didn’t move away. “I highly doubt it. Are you sure they aimed for you?”

“If I hadn’t seen the sun reflect off the barrel, someone would be planning a funeral right about now.”

Charli looked a little woozy. She stepped out of Leon’s embrace, hugged herself and moved closer to Dylan. “We have to call the sheriff.”

He fought the urge to wrap his arms around her by clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. “I already did. But I really would like if you went inside.”

She nodded and looked at Leon.

He rested his hand on her shoulder and she leaned into it. “You should go in and stay in until Sheriff Cartwright gets to the bottom of this. I’m sure it’s just a hunter poaching on either your land or mine, but one can never be too cautious. I’ll stay if you want.”

“No, I’ll be okay.”

“All right.” The sight of Leon placing a kiss on her forehead about sent Dylan into the stratosphere. Leon drawled, “Call me.”

She smiled and nodded. “I will.”

After they went inside the kitchen and she brewed a pot of coffee, he paced while waiting for Zack. He couldn’t take the silence. “What’s going on between you and Ferguson?”

She poured two mugs of coffee. “He’s one of my few friends.”

“He looked damned
friendly
out there a few moments ago.” He hated coming off as a jealous idiot, but damn it, she could be pregnant with his baby. Besides, being shot at was enough to make anyone prickly as a cactus.

“Maybe we were. What’s it to you?” She jutted her chin. “You already think I’ve slept with him, so maybe I should. He’s more than a little interested in me.”

“Yeah, he is. When are you going to see through his lies?”

“Leon is not lying to me. He’s nice to me, which I could say your idea of
nice
needs reevaluating.”

The front doorbell sounded before he could respond, and she stomped down the hall to answer it. Zack Cartwright and his lieutenant, Dawn Madison, entered the foyer.

Zack pulled out a notebook from his pocket. “Tell me what happened.”

* * * *

“That bastard would’ve killed me!” Kyle McPherson paced the teak flooring of his boss’s office later that evening.

The SOB leaned back in his chair and stared out the window behind his desk. “You should have had better aim.”

“If you want Quinn dead, you fuckin’ do it. Sombitch is as crazy as a three-legged armadillo. He couldn’t’ve seen me, but if I hadn’t moved, I would be the one dead.”

The boss snorted and stood. “Now, that would have been a damned shame.”
 

Kyle jumped when the boss grabbed him by the front of his shirt, shook him for good measure, and gritted out between clamped teeth, “You will do exactly what I order you to do.”

“Why don’t I just finish off the calves? Or those mares? A little more jimson or some other weed will do it. Hell, I could even set it up to look like Quinn’s doing the poisonin’.”

“Why not? Because you’re being watched, you fool.” He let go of his shirt with a shove and stepped away. “Get the hell out of here. I’ll be in touch. You still owe me.”

He beat his hat on his thigh before plopping it on his head and leaving.

Chapter 11

Charli entered the diner and made her way to a booth. The place was empty. She’d timed her visit just after the breakfast rush and before the lunch crowd’s arrival. A moment later, a blonde woman, who appeared to be in her early forties, approached her table. “Hi, honey, what can I getcha?”

She returned her smile. “Sweet tea, please.”

“Comin’ right up.”

When the woman returned with the beverage, Charli asked, “Would it be possible to speak with Ella Larson for a few moments?”

The women shrugged and folded her arms over her red apron. “Sure. That’s me. What can I do for ya?”

“Can you have a seat?”

“Sure.” She slid into the booth across from her. “I’m not busy at the moment.”

Charli swallowed hard and mentally plunged. “I’d like to talk to you about your daughter, Annie.”

Her eyes widened. Annie had obviously learned how to apply makeup from her mother. “What about Annie? Are you from the Department of Family and Protective Services? I swear if that son-of-a-bitch is trying–”

“No,” she broke in, “I’m not from DFPS. My name is Charli Monroe. I’m the new owner of Blackwell Ranch.”

Ella narrowed her brown eyes at her. “What do you know about Annie?”

She took a much-needed deep breath and gulped a sip of tea to settle her nerves. It didn’t work, but she trudged on. In spite of everything going on in her own messed up life over the past week, she couldn’t stop thinking about Annie since seeing her again on Monday. “I know she’s recently been arrested for drugs.”

Ella laughed, but it was bitter sounding and raspy, as if she’d smoked one too many cigarettes. “Hell, everybody knows that. What do you want?”

“I made the call. I saw Annie buying drugs in the mall parking lot.”

Ella scowled and shifted forward. “My daughter could go to jail because of you.”

She wouldn’t let Ella intimidate her. “Yes, she could, but I’m hoping it was an intervention. If it was her first offense, she’ll most likely get off with a fine and probation. And if she’s lucky, it will turn her life around.”

“So, you think because you were a runaway and ended up in Vegas, you’re an expert.”

She took a deep breath. It would be so easy to let this all go, to turn away and never think about Annie Greenberg again. Her past would remain where it needed to be–in the past. But she couldn’t let Annie continue down the path she was on. She had to do everything she could to stop Annie from making the same horrible mistakes she had made. She’d promised herself when she got out of prison she’d do everything possible to make sure another misunderstood teenage girl
never
lived the horrors she had.

“Yes, I lived on the streets of Las Vegas.” A lump lodged in her throat, but she forced it down and the quiet words out. “I’ve seen what addiction can do to a person, Ella. I had friends who died there. Most times no one even knew their real names. Their families never knew what happened to them.”

Although trepidation replaced Ella’s scowl, her voice remained indignant. “Who the hell do you think you are? You think you know what my daughter’s going through. You have no idea.”

As Ella got out of the booth, Charli fisted her hand under the table. “Has she been in any kind of treatment at least? Is she talking to someone? I heard the rumors about your husband. Does she know why her father doesn’t want anything to do with her?”

Ella looked back at her. “How do you know about that?” Her eyes narrowed again. “You’re seeing Leon Ferguson, aren’t you?”

What did Leon have to do with anything? “He’s my neighbor, that’s all. Ms. Larson, I understand Annie better than you can ever imagine.” She paused and her heart raced. “I–I never knew my father, and I hated him because I thought he abandoned me. My mother raised me until she died when I was fifteen. When I came home after running away, my grandfather found me help, and I was able to sort through the pain, grief and anger. Annie needs that–she’s hurting.”