Must Love Cowboys (19 page)

“That's what I thought, but I suppose it's better than nothing.”

He nodded. “Hiring a private investigator would've made more sense, but I can see where this could actually work. That is, if he ever got wind of her death. I mean, he did see it eventually.”

Not having considered the private detective angle before, another possibility occurred to me. “I wonder… Do you think the guy asking about Calvin at the hospital could've been a detective? He might've only pretended to be a friend of the family in order to gain access to him.”

“Seems odd for it to take a detective this long to find him. I mean, his sister died nearly five months ago.”

“What if they only hired the guy recently, hoping that notice would work?”

“That makes sense, but why would a detective pretend to be a family friend?” He shook his head, frowning. “Seems like he would've gotten more attention if he'd told them who he really was.”

“I doubt it. I got the impression that hospital was really strict about limiting visitors in the critical care units. I'm a little surprised they let Angela see him, although as his employer, she's probably the closest thing to family he has around here.”

“That's why Bull and I followed the ambulance to Rock Springs and then drove on to Salt Lake. We told them Angela would be coming to stay with Calvin. Trust me, he wouldn't be the first cowboy to be dragged into the ER by a couple of his buddies.” Wyatt paused, cocking his head to one side, his gaze aimed toward the computer screen. “What if the reason they've made so little effort is because someone
doesn't
want him to be found?”

“A secondary beneficiary, you mean?” I'd had similar thoughts myself. Hearing Wyatt say it made my own suspicions seem less preposterous.

“Yeah. Think about it. If Jeannine had named Calvin as her heir with the provision that her estate would go to someone else after a certain length of time, that person would have plenty of reasons to hope he was never found.” He paused again, his frown becoming more ominous by the second. “Or to
make sure
he was never found.”

His tone of voice made the implication clear. “I thought you didn't put much stock in Bull's murder theory.”

“I didn't.” He tapped the bold red lettering at the top of the guestbook page. “
That
changed my mind.”

“Motive was the main thing missing from Bull's murder theory,” Wyatt went on. “We have that now. Unfortunately, what we
don't
have is a method or a suspect.” His frustration was as plain as the furrows his fingers left in his hair. “It'd be different if he'd been shot. It's pretty hard to prove attempted murder when the victim had a heart attack.”

“What about that empty nitro bottle?” I said. “What if someone emptied it knowing he might die without them?”

“It's possible,” he conceded. “Incredibly hard to prove, though. A murderer would've worn gloves, but our fingerprints are all over that bottle.” He blew out a breath. “We're still jumping to conclusions, and I sure as hell don't want to worry Calvin with our suspicions. Might be enough to bring on another attack.”

After seeing the way he'd reacted to Jeannine's passing, I suspected Calvin was tougher than that, but Wyatt knew him better than I did. “Calvin didn't seem too interested in finding out more. Said he'd think about it.”

“Could be he knows something he isn't telling us. We only know one of the reasons he cut himself off from his sister. Maybe there's something more sinister going on.”

I couldn't help chuckling. “With imaginations like ours, we should be writing crime novels instead of working on a ranch.”

“Oh yeah? I can think of several other ways to use my imagination, all of which are a helluva lot more fun than sleuthing.” His choice of terms accompanied by a Groucho Marx–style eyebrow waggle sent me over the edge into all-out laughter.

“Sleuthing?” I echoed when I had enough breath to speak. “I haven't heard that word since I outgrew Nancy Drew mysteries.”

“Ah, so you
do
have a background in sleuthing.”

“Not sure I'd call it that, although I've read my share of whodunits. The trouble is, we not only don't have a suspect, we're not even sure we have a crime.”

“You're forgetting the fence-cutting episodes.”

“Hmm…so I am. Speaking of which, I was talking to Dean about that this morning. Did he say anything to you?”

“Just that you were thinking it might have been a means of keeping us out of the way long enough for someone to search the bunkhouse.”

I nodded. “And that person could've done enough searching to know how badly Calvin might need those nitro tablets.”

“The fences haven't been cut since Calvin had his heart attack…” His expression grew thoughtful. “Wonder if that'll start happening again now that he's home.”

My eyes widened to the point of discomfort. “You think the murderer will try a more direct approach this time?”

“Like actually taking a shot at Calvin? Maybe. Depends on how desperate he is.”

I stared at the link to the law office, wishing Calvin had shown a little more interest. For me to contact them without his consent felt wrong—far worse than reading his letters. “I sure hope Calvin decides to contact those lawyers. They could probably answer a lot of our questions.”

“Or stir up a hornet's nest full of trouble. Like I said, Calvin knows those people better than we do, and rich folks can be pretty ruthless when it comes to hanging on to their assets. Did you tell Angela about this?”

“No. I thought I'd wait until Calvin made a decision. You're the only one I've told.” Calvin hadn't sworn me to secrecy, so I wasn't exactly betraying a confidence. Nevertheless, having Wyatt to swap ideas with made keeping quiet that much easier.

“I'm glad you did,” he said. “Calvin may not want to admit it, but he needs protection.”

With a nod, I closed the computer and got to my feet, wondering just how far Wyatt would go to keep the old man safe.

To protect and serve…

Memories of that awful night returned with a vengeance. At the time, Wyatt's own life hadn't been at risk, but if even half of what we suspected was true, that could change in a heartbeat. “I guess that's all we can do for now,” I said, failing to suppress a shudder.

His eyes narrowed in concern. “You aren't scared, are you?”

“I dunno. Maybe a little.” As if to prove it, my body gave another involuntary quiver.

Wyatt eased me into his embrace. He felt so solid and warm. So capable and strong.

But even a strong man could be brought down by a bullet. Grandpa had once been a healthy young soldier. Near the end when he could no longer even bathe himself, I'd been the one to do it. I'd seen and touched the scars from the bullets that nearly killed him.

“No one's gonna hurt you,” he whispered. “I won't let that happen. I
can't
let that happen.” He tightened his hold on me as though the shelter of his arms would somehow be all the protection I would ever need.

“It's not me I'm worried about.” I'd been nervous enough when he and Nick had gone out in the middle of the night in search of a prowler. The possibility that someone wanted Calvin dead boosted my anxiety to a substantially higher level. “I'm worried about Calvin, you, and all the guys. When someone is bent on murder, other people—innocent people—sometimes get in the way.”

The words had scarcely left my lips when I felt Wyatt stiffen around me. The warmth was still there, but he seemed…frozen.

I drew back in surprise. One glimpse of his stricken expression confirmed my suspicion that there was something else going on. Something that had nothing to do with Calvin. “What's wrong?”

Wyatt had once been a firefighter, and now he was a cowboy.

To protect and serve…

Of course.
Somehow, somewhere, there'd been at least one person he couldn't protect. Someone whose memory haunted him like a ghost.

“I thought coming here would make a difference.” Although he was speaking to me—at least I thought he was—his gaze was focused on some distant, indefinable point. “And most of the time it does. I ride horses. Round up strays. Feed cattle. Fix fences.” A frown creased his forehead. “It follows me, though. Wherever I go, whatever I do, there's always someone I can't protect. Someone I can't save. Something beyond my control.”

I touched his cheek. “What happened, Wyatt? Can you tell me?”

As if my touch had flipped the switch that brought him back to the present, he blinked. His eyes were once again focused on me, but they were filled with enough anguish to make anything I'd ever endured seem trivial.

“I'm not sure.” His short bark of laughter contained no amusement whatsoever. “Does it change anything for you to know I was once so helpless, I could only watch? I couldn't do anything to stop what was happening. I couldn't even yell for help.”

“Stop what?” Despite his intense, penetrating gaze—one that should've had me shaking in my shoes—my knees held firm, although my voice sounded soft and breathy.

“My father,” he snapped. “Does it help you to know I could only crouch in a corner and watch while he beat my mother to death?”

I stared back at him for the space of as many heartbeats as it took me to realize my mouth was hanging open. “Oh, Wyatt…”

What else was there to say? To be honest, I was surprised I was able to say what little I had. Then it dawned on me that in all the years since then—no doubt he'd been a child at the time—he'd probably never said those words to anyone.

Except
me
.

I tried to lick my lips with a tongue that had gone bone dry. “Yes, it does help. Because it helps me to know who you are.” My tremulous smile lasted less than a second. “I want to know everything about you, Wyatt. Everything. Can you do that? Can you tell me everything?”

He stared at me with eyes now devoid of expression. My heart slid to my toes as he lowered his head, obviously preferring to face the floor instead of me.

With a slow exhale, he glanced up. “I think I just did.”

I watched as tension flowed from him like a receding flood. My own anxiety, on the other hand, didn't abate one iota. Even my teeth were chattering.

With a shrug, he continued, “Everything that matters, anyway. The rest is only what came afterward—police, counselors, foster homes. My last foster father was a firefighter, and he was everything my real father wasn't. Someone to look up to and emulate. I followed in his footsteps the best I could, but there were still fires I couldn't put out fast enough, still people I couldn't save.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand that appeared to be shaking as much as I was. “After that last big fire—all those people we couldn't rescue—I knew I had to quit. I got in my truck and started driving until I wound up here.” He smiled. “I'd never been on a horse in my life, but I learned. It felt right, like this was where I belonged.”

“I know at least one person you saved.”

He shrugged again. “That was only basic life support training. Anyone could've done it.”

“True, but
you
were the one who saved Calvin's life, and you aren't just anyone. Not by a long shot. You're a good man, Wyatt McCabe,” I said with absolute conviction. “No matter where you go or what you do, that part of you still shines through.”

“I'm glad you think so. If you didn't—” He squeezed his eyes shut, whether in a wince or to blink back tears, I couldn't tell. “I don't know what I would've done. From that first moment, there was something about you, Tina. Something that shook me up like nothing else ever has, which is why I was acting like such an asshole. I'm sorry about that.”

“No worries,” I said. “I was kinda shook up myself. Guys like you usually have me shaking in my shoes.” Wyatt had made me tremble before he even opened his mouth. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm a little on the shy side.”

Finally, he smiled. “You think?”

“Yeah. I didn't realize you were different until I saw you feeding cornbread to Ophelia. Although the fact that she didn't growl at you should've been my first clue.” I glanced at my trusty dog, who was currently asleep on my bed. “She's a pretty good judge of character.” Turning back toward Wyatt, I studied him for a moment. “You okay?”

He nodded. “For now. I never know when the flashbacks will hit me or what will trigger them.”

If memory served, I was pretty sure I'd witnessed a few of those episodes already, and I'd been the inadvertent cause of at least two of them, including the most recent. “If you ever need to talk, I'm a pretty good listener.”

“I've noticed that too.”

The smiles we exchanged were evolving into a kiss when I heard footsteps coming down the hall.

Nick stuck his head through the doorway. “Sorry to break up the party, but those dishes aren't gonna wash themselves, and I'm sure as hell not tackling that mess alone.”

“Be right there,” Wyatt said. “Tina had something she wanted to show me.”

“
Sure
she did,” Nick scoffed. “Listen, you two can play show-and-tell later. Right now, I want to get my chores done before I conk out from eating that huge dinner.” He aimed a grin at me. “Which, by the way, was fabulous.”

“Glad you enjoyed it,” I said. “Any requests for tomorrow?”

“I dunno… The stuff you come up with on your own is damn good. Surprise me.”

“You're a big help,” I grumbled. “Guess I'll just ask Calvin what he usually does on Mondays.”

Wyatt cleared his throat. “I can tell you that—any of us could. The usual weekday breakfast, sandwiches for lunch, and pork chops for dinner.”

I was almost afraid to ask. “How many pork chops apiece?”

Nick licked his lips.

Oh, here it comes…

“I can eat three,” he said. “Unless they're the big thick ones. And then I usually only eat two.”

“And what would you like with your pork chops?” After the day I'd had and as tired as I was, no telling what weird combinations I might come up with if left to my own devices.

“Anything,” he replied. “Use your imagination.”

“You might be sorry you said that when I serve Swiss chard ice cream for dessert.”

For a moment there, I thought Nick might actually gag. He put up a placating hand. “Okay, okay. Green beans and mashed potatoes.” The resignation in his voice and posture suggested that those two dishes comprised the remainder of their standard Monday night fare.

“Not terribly imaginative,” I said. “But doable.”

“Baked sweet potatoes instead of mashed?” Wyatt suggested.

I nodded. “That's better. What about a salad?”

Wyatt arched a wicked brow. “Caesar?”

“You got it.”

“Wait a minute,” Nick said. “What about dessert?”

I grinned. “Sugar-free Jigglers.”

Nick stared at me, unblinking. I could've sworn there were tears in his eyes. “You're kidding me, right?”

“For now,” I replied. “Although I'm pretty sure it'll come to that eventually.”

“I'll give up a pork chop if it means having pie,” he declared.

“What kind?” I prompted.

“Doesn't matter,” he said. “Just as long as you don't make it with Swiss chard.”

* * *

After the guys left to wash the dishes, I took Ophelia out for a short walk. A surreptitious glance at the hillside where I'd seen a light the night before revealed nothing, although it wasn't yet fully dark.

I came back inside to find Calvin waiting for me. “I hate to put more of a burden on you,” he began. “But I could really use your help making sure I'm taking my pills right—at least 'til I get the hang of it.”

Among those people currently residing in the bunkhouse, no doubt he envisioned me as the closest thing to a nurse. While I couldn't claim to be an RN, I could read and understand a prescription label. If I had any doubts or questions about his medications, I had a computer and I knew how to use it. “No problem. Do you need help tonight?”