Hissing another curse in Russian, she waved him off and turned to the window. “As long as I get my time with her.”
“You will.” He thought of the cop in Chicago and smiled. “He gave her up readily enough, didn’t he?”
“It took some doing.” She nodded, her expression revealing an odd sense of respect. “He was tough. A warrior.”
“It will be interesting to see just how tough the bitch is.”
“No matter. I will break her. I always do.”
Radimir headed out of town, toward the tiny place he’d rented before leaving Chicago. He knew it was going to be a dump. Probably worse than the place Hogan lived. He knew Katja would complain. But in the long run, there had been no other way. Two Russians in a small Texas Panhandle town would stand out too much for them to remain anonymous long enough to get the job done. People would remember their accents, their faces. And when they left Marty Hogan dead and cut to pieces, the police would eventually figure things out. He couldn’t let that happen.
According to the bubba real estate agent, the house they’d rented was located on the south side of the Canadian River basin on the edge of Deaf Smith County.
“In the middle of fucking nowhere,” Radimir muttered as headlights played over mesquite and prickly pear frosted with a coating of dust. The Lexus handled the dirt road without a problem, but he wouldn’t want to be caught out here after a rain without a four-wheel-drive vehicle.
The road banked right, and the house loomed into view. It was a stucco structure the color of mud with a tin roof and a hundred years of grime clinging to opaque windows. A windmill and a skeletal tree stood in the front yard like a couple of long dead sentinels. Fifty yards beyond the house, two crumbling outbuildings melted into the landscape. The remnants of a decades-old wire fence lay in tangles among tumbleweed and hip-high prairie grass.
Radimir parked in front of the house, and they got out of the car. Katja looked around, a space traveler from some hokey television show who’d just landed on a planet in another solar system. “I will kill her good for this.”
“In that case, I’ll unload the equipment and we will figure out exactly how to do it.”
Marty had never been to a rodeo. Not because she’d de
prived herself of the pleasure or entertainment, but because she’d never had the slightest inclination to go. She’d never been a fan of cowboys or horses or anything Western for that matter. Even as a child, while most young girls were riding bikes or pining for a horse, all Marty wanted was to ride shotgun with her dad, the cop. She was urban all the way. Give her a forest of tall buildings, a pot of bad coffee and a crime to solve, and she was a happy camper.
The Caprock Canyon Sheriff’s Posse arena was as far removed from cosmopolitan as it got. Pickup trucks of every shape and size jammed the gravel parking lot. Most of the trucks hauled horse trailers, some carrying as many as six animals. Men in cowboy hats, tight jeans and belt buckles half the size of Texas milled about with the purposeful determination of a broker walking North Michigan Avenue. Little boys with gun belts and girls in pink cowboy hats played tag between the parked vehicles and RVs where their mothers sat with watchful eyes beneath the awnings. Then there were the dogs. Corgis, Australian shepherds and border collies waited patiently for their owners from the beds of pickup trucks. Marty had never seen anything like it in her life.
If it hadn’t been for Clay’s invitation, she never would have ventured into the dust and chaos, especially after their encounter at her place the night Rosetti had died. But she was on her dinner break with half an hour to kill. She could please her boss, and when she needed to escape she had the excuse of work. He couldn’t argue with that.
Four days had passed since she’d found out about Rosetti’s murder. The grief was still a giant, squeezing fist in her chest. Rosetti had been her hero. Marty’s dad had taught her a lot about law enforcement when she was growing up. But Rosetti had taught her how to be a street cop. How horribly ironic that his own murder remained unsolved.
The ME’s report hadn’t been released yet, but from what little information she’d gathered, Rosetti had been accosted outside a diner, somehow subdued or knocked unconscious, and taken to an unknown location where the perpetrators had tortured him for several hours before killing him. His nude body had been found miles away on the outskirts of Palatine. As of this morning, the cops had no suspects and no motive.
She’d wanted desperately to jump on a jet and find the sons of bitches who were responsible. When she did, she wanted to lay down her badge and take them apart with her bare hands. But Marty knew it was the last thing she could do. At the very least she wanted to go to the funeral. She’d gone so far as to make reservations. But a call to Rosetti’s widow had changed her mind. Eileen asked her not to come. The request hurt, but Marty understood. She knew that if she showed up at the funeral, the media would descend and the focus would be shifted away from paying final respects to a fallen officer and onto her. She wouldn’t do that to Rosetti. She sure as hell wouldn’t give the media the satisfaction of turning the event into a circus.
She walked through the parking lot, sidestepping the occasional manure pile, pausing to let horses and riders sweep past. She felt out of place in uniform. Regardless, almost every person she passed smiled, tilted a hat and said hello. She didn’t think she’d ever met a friendlier group of people. What the hell were they so happy about?
“Hogan.”
She turned to find Clay standing a few yards away, next to a white horse trailer that was hooked up to a blue pickup. “Hey, Chief.”
Her eyes took in the length of him before she could stop herself. He wore a sky blue work shirt rolled up at the sleeves and wet beneath his arms. Faded jeans hugged lean hips and long, muscular legs. Boots that looked to be at least a hundred years old covered his feet. The hat he wore shaded his eyes, but she could still feel the intent sweep of his gaze as she crossed to him.
“Nice belt buckle,” she said.
He glanced down at the buckle and smiled. “Thanks.”
A brown horse with a saddle on its back and white spots on its rump stood tied to the trailer. A little girl in a purple Western shirt and matching hat stood next to the horse, looking expectantly at Clay.
“Come on, Dad. It’s almost time. I gotta get him warmed up.”
Only then did Marty recognize the girl as Clay’s daughter. She’d met her during her Rufus stint at the elementary school. Marty had since noticed her gap-toothed photo on the corner of his desk. Still, an odd sense of surprise rippled through her. She hadn’t expected this little slip of a girl to have a wild-eyed, snorting horse the size of a tank. She had to hand it to her; the kid had balls.
The girl cast an uninterested glance in Marty’s direction. Marty stared back, and found herself thinking about Clay’s marital status. Not that she was interested one way or another, she told herself. She just liked to stay on top of things.
Clay turned back to his daughter. “Erica, this is Marty Hogan.”
The girl yanked a strap through the saddle girth before turning. She stared at Marty for a moment, as if sizing her up, trying to decide if she was friend or foe. Marty stared back, feeling more than a little out of her league. What the hell was it about kids? They were so frickin’ weird.
“Hey, Rufus,” Erica said.
Marty gave a very unladylike snort. She thought about giving a couple of woofs just for the entertainment value, but she didn’t want to scare the horse.
Erica giggled and stuck out her hand. “I mean, Marty.”
Surprised by the girl’s good manners, Marty shook her hand. “Hey, cowgirl. Nice horse.”
“Thanks.”
“You going to win today?”
“Hope so.” She looked at her father. “Dad says we got what it takes.” Erica turned back to her horse and spoke over her shoulder. “Dad, can you get the bridle?”
Casting an apologetic look in Marty’s direction, Clay crossed to the horse and quickly unfastened the halter. He slipped a bit into the animal’s mouth and the bridle over its poll. Checking the strap that ran beneath the animal’s belly, he led the horse a few steps from the trailer. “Don’t forget to keep your eyes on the next barrel,” he said.
“I know.”
“Don’t look down. Use your legs.”
“Okay, okay.” With the confidence of a bronc rider, she put her foot in the stirrup and swung onto the horse’s back.
“Go warm him up.” Clay pointed. “I’ll be over by the stands.”
“ ’Kay.” Giving Marty a final look, Erica swung the horse around and they were off at a fast trot.
Clay watched her go, then looked at Marty. “She’s nervous,” he said.
“So is her dad.”
“That obvious, huh?”
Marty had sworn she wouldn’t think about the kiss, but looking into his eyes, she suddenly couldn’t get it out of her head. Feeling a small rise of embarrassment, she looked around. “I’ve never been to a rodeo before.”
He arched a brow. “Are you sure you’re not from another planet?”
“Not that I know of, but my mom was kind of wild.”
He laughed. “Well, you’re in for a treat.” His eyes skimmed over her uniform, then quickly away. “On your dinner break?”
“I thought I might educate myself on some of the local culture.”
“Dugan, Smitty and Jett are over there.” He motioned toward the small grandstand. “Dugan brought his wife and kid if you want to meet them.”
Marty knew mingling with her fellow officers outside of work was the right thing to do, especially after such a rocky start. But she’d never been good at doing the right thing, particularly when it entailed phony smiles and a let’s-just-get-along attitude she didn’t feel. “Uh, well, I wasn’t planning on staying that long. Maybe next time?”
Clay frowned, but to his credit, he let it go. “In that case, let’s get over to the arena. They run them through pretty quickly.”
Marty didn’t know what that meant, but she didn’t ask for clarification. He seemed a little frazzled. Maybe even more nervous than his daughter. When they reached the arena, she figured out why.
“So what’s this event called?” she asked.
“Barrel racing.” He pointed to three barrels positioned in a triangular pattern, each about sixty feet apart. “It’s a timed event. Rider takes a horse around the barrels as fast as he can and hopes he gets the best time.”
“My kind of event.”
He shot her a sideways look. “I bet.”
The arena was open air and huge—probably a hundred feet wide by two hundred feet long. It was enclosed on all four sides by a white pipe fence. Bleachers bracketed two sides and were jam-packed with cowboy-hat-clad parents, sunburned moms fanning themselves and children eating hot dogs and French fries.
The announcer called a number. An instant later the gate swung open. A girl not much older than Erica blasted through on a wild-eyed white horse. Hooves kicking up dirt, horse and rider rode the pattern at a death-defying speed. It was enough to give even a seasoned cop a heart attack.
“Now I understand why you’re nervous,” Marty said.
“I swear, seeing her ride like that does me in every time.”
“I don’t blame you.”
He pointed. “There she is, in the warm-up pen.”
Marty wasn’t easily impressed, but these kids impressed her and then some.
Clay cupped his hands on either side of his mouth. “Drive him forward! Keep a nice big pocket between you and the barrel!”
As if homed in to her father’s voice, Erica nodded, never seeming to lose her focus on the animal beneath her.
“You’re doing great, honey!”
Marty shot him a furtive glance. Cool-headed Clay Settlemeyer was a bundle of nerves. His hands gripped the pipe rail in front of him with such force that his knuckles were white.
“How long until it’s her turn?” Marty asked.
“A minute or two. She’s number eighty-four.”
Marty leaned against the pipe fence and watched in awe as children as young as five years old whipped horses around the barrels at a mind-boggling speed. “They’re practically babies,” she said.
Clay grinned at her, and for a moment, Marty couldn’t look away. The brim of his hat shaded his eyes, but she could see pinlights of excitement veiled by layers of nerves. A father’s pride. “Most of them have been riding horses since they could walk. It’s kind of a way of life out here.” He chuckled. “They beat the pants off the adults half the time.”
Marty laughed, truly amused by the thought.
“She’s next. Here we go.”
The gate swung open and Erica’s spotted horse pranced into the arena, snorting, its head held high. The girl looked totally relaxed, focused and in control. The horse spun once, then lunged into a wild sprint for the first barrel.
“Go, honey!” Clay shouted. “Use your legs! Give him his head!”
Marty’s breath caught in her throat as girl and horse streaked around the first barrel and shot toward the second. Before she could stop herself, she began shouting right along with Clay. “Get on it! Go, kid! Go!
Go!
”
The horse spun around the second barrel, leaning in, as low as a motorcycle racer around a hairpin curve, and sprinted toward the third. Erica clung to his back like a little monkey, hands forward and urging him faster, her legs rocking in time with every breathtaking stride. They rounded the third barrel and headed back toward the gate.
“Come on, honey! Go!”
Marty jumped up and down a couple of times as the horse barreled down the arena toward home. “You go, girl!
Go!
”
Next to her, Clay laughed. His eyes went to the electronic scoreboard where a time of 15.53 popped up. “She’s got it!”
“That was amazing!” Marty was breathless just from watching.
He grinned at her, his eyes alight with excitement. Marty found herself staring back, unable to look away. For a crazy moment, she thought he might lean forward and kiss her. The memory of the intimate moments they’d shared four days ago at her house flashed in her mind’s eye and a little trill of excitement rippled through her.
