Stranger in My House (A Murder In Texas) (10 page)

“With?”

“Grandy. Uh, my granddaddy. He died last year.”

“So you weren’t friends?”

“She’s the only family I have.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, I would not say we’re friends. She used to come and stay with us in the summer, but after my daddy died—that happened eight years ago—we never saw her again. Except for Grandy’s funeral. We had a little falling-out after that.”

“Why?”

Because Frankie was furious about being left out of Grandy’s will. But that was none of Maguire’s business. “We’re from different worlds. She grew up rich with everything my daddy could give her. He made a lot of money on the rodeo circuit. I was raised by Grandy. He worked at a riding stable outside Tulsa.”

“You grew up poor.”

“I prefer blue collar. We were happy, just not rolling in dough.”

“At least you had your granddaddy. Seems like he was trying.” Pain flickered across his face. A cell phone rang in the other room. He swung away, and Kirby limped after him. He picked up the phone and read the number on the screen. “It’s Miss Bea. She’s probably discovered you’re missing.”

“Don’t tell her about me.”

“Why not?”

“I need more time.”

The ringing stopped. “For what?”

“Come on, Maguire. Something’s going on. I don’t believe Charleen is off on a fling.”

“Yeah?”

“Her makeup is still in her room. Does that sound like Charleen? Ever known her to go off without her stuff?”

“Can’t say I know.”

“Someone shot at us, or more likely at Frankie. How do you know Charleen wasn’t kidnapped and whoever has her is after my sister?”

He considered her, head tilted, mouth drawn into a tight line. He raised an eyebrow at her. Then he pressed redial.

Kirby held her breath.

“It’s me,” he muttered, then put the call on speaker.

Miss Bea’s voice tore into the room. “What have you done? Where is she?”

“She’s here.”

“Explain yourself, Mr. Maguire.” Though it seemed like she’d already made up her mind.

“I found her in the barnyard last night. She was sleepwalking. You gave her too much of that medication.” He paused for just a second. “We can discuss this later. You’re lucky she didn’t hurt herself—I assume that wasn’t your intention.”

“Are you sending her back?”

“Right now.”

Kirby shook her head frantically and pointed to her bare legs.

“She’ll need her jeans. Manny is already here.”

She jerked her head at her feet.

“And shoes.”

No way was she getting her feet into ballet flats, much less Frankie’s more exotic footwear. Kirby mouthed, “Boots,” at him.

“Something flat and comfortable. Boots or runners. She tore up her feet.”

“She may have to borrow a pair of mine,” Miss Bea snapped. “Stupid girl doesn’t own any decent shoes. Someone might ask her to do something if she did.”

Seth glanced at Kirby and shrugged. “Don’t send Brittany. Come yourself. We don’t need the whole town gossiping,” he said before hanging up.

“Thanks,” Kirby said.

“I didn’t do it for you.”

Of course he’d say that. He was not the surrendering type. But neither was she. “Yeah? Then why did you?”

He set the phone down. His gaze raked her body, and the corner of his mouth twitched up. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m trying to get to the bottom of things.” The words exhaled through her.

He was close to her again. The distance between them could be counted in motes of dust or the thickness of a dragonfly’s wing. His voice turned to a rasp. “That so?”

The scents of coffee and man swirled in her head. She couldn’t breathe. “Uh-huh.”

“Me, too.” He cupped the sides of her jaw and tilted her face up. His hands were warm and firm and molded to her bones like a second skin. Curiosity and impatience glistened in his eyes. “Always wanted to kiss a lady cop.”

She shoved his hands away. “What about Frankie?”

He met her eyes straight on. “Never touched her.”

“Why? You seem like a man who takes whatever comes his way.”

“I have standards,” he said softly.

His voice touched her deep inside. Her heart fluttered like the wings of a caged bird. If she’d been dressed, she might have run. “I don’t believe you, Maguire.”

His mouth tightened with displeasure. He might have rejected Frankie, but apparently he was not a man who took it well. “I stay away from the ballbusters. Maybe you’re one, too.”

“Maybe I am. Seems like you should be keeping your distance if you’re interested in holding onto the family jewels.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “I’m not worried, Officer…what did you say your name was? Kirby? Officer Kirby.”

“It’s Officer Swallow.”

“Right. Frankie and Officer Swallow. Identical troublemakers.” He reached out a hand and drew his finger along her jaw. “Almost.”

Her body warmed again. His puffy lower lip was close enough to touch. What would it feel like to press her finger against it? Soft? Rough like the man himself? She blinked away her dangerous thoughts and twisted away from him. The room, a combination of sitting room, dining room, and kitchen, was shabby and as unkempt as the bedroom. The scents of burned coffee and soap hung in the air. What a sad place to live.

What kind of man was Seth Maguire? What made him tick? He was not a happy man. That much was apparent from his frequent bursts of anger. But so what? Lots of people weren’t happy. Hell, she wasn’t happy.

His anger must cover other hurts, although she couldn’t say what. Loneliness? No. That was her problem. She couldn’t be going off, hanging that particular rap on everyone she met.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.
From a million miles away, the she-hawk’s annoyed footsteps ground into the gravel drive. “I swear I never touched Frankie,” he said. She hadn’t heard his steps, but he’d closed in on her again.

She stared at a wide stain on the carpet so she wouldn’t have to look at him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Sure it does.”

Was he inviting her up to his room tonight to warm his fricking bed? “I can’t believe this! This ranch is in crisis, and you’re propositioning the cop who’s trying to bring down the bad guys?”

“We both have to sleep. Why not sleep together?”

“You really expect me to jump into bed with you because it’s convenient, Maguire?”

With a raspy sigh, he turned her to face him. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, he said. “First of all, my name is Seth.”

He waited for her to repeat his name, but when she tightened her lips stubbornly, he went on.

“I’m not a cold-blooded jerk. I’m attracted to you, and you’re attracted to me. What’s wrong with enjoying those feelings together?”

“No.”

“Your choice, of course. If you change your mind…” He shrugged. “Well, you know where to find me.”

“I won’t.” The scent of his skin drifted past her nose. She backed away until she banged into the door.

An eyebrow rose. “If you’re going to be Frankie, we’ll have to spend time together. Are you sure you still want to play this game?”

“I’ll manage. Just worry about yourself.”

He nodded. “Go back to the house. Rest a little. After lunch, I want to head out to the orchard. We’re starting the apricot harvest tomorrow. You can ride along with me if you’re feeling up to it.”

“Lunch?” She was not eating any more of Miss Bea’s food.

“Come back around noon. I smuggled a mess of turkey and ham past the vegan police. I’ll fix you up a Texas-style sandwich.”

“What’s a Texas-style sandwich?”

He lowered his lashes. “Lots of meat.”

Chapter Nine

Push, pull, push, pull.

Manny worked his hoe across a fallow vegetable bed. Sweat rolled down his forehead and into his eyes. His glasses fogged up. That was okay. He didn’t need to see. He was standing on dirt, and it needed hoeing.

Push, pull, push, pull.
In two, maybe three years, he’d have his degree in ranch management. Mr. Shaw had promised him a promotion. Assistant ranch manager. Then someone else would do the hoeing and the weeding and the sweeping and the horse feeding and the picking and the gazillion other jobs it fell on him to do.

Of course, that’s if Mr. Shaw were still alive. Ever since slutty Miss Frances and her slutty momma showed up, Mr. Shaw seemed like he was slowing down. The boss thought they’d both be out of a job if Mr. Shaw died. Manny’s gaze slid to the thick shoe on his left foot. The boss would make out okay. But he wouldn’t. Who’d hire a cripple ranch hand?

“Hi.”

Through his misty glasses, the hazy outline of Brittany appeared, filled in with denim and pink clothes and yellow for her hair. He stuck his fingers under his lenses and wiped them clean.

Brittany held out a thermos. “It’s hot out here today. Thought you might like some water.”

Something was going on. She’d never even said hi to him. But he was thirsty.

“Thanks.”

He pulled off the top and raised the thermos to his mouth. When he finished drinking, his eyes met hers. Displeasure swam in their gray depths. He handed the thermos back. “Sorry. I should have used the cup.”

“That’s okay.” She took the thermos but didn’t move.

“Thanks,” he said.

“No problem.”

“I sure appreciate you thinking of me.” She stayed put, studying him like she’d never seen a cripple before. “Well, I better get back to work,” he said. “Don’t want the boss to catch me visiting.”

“Are you from California or something?”

No one knew about him, except Mr. Shaw. A vein in his neck throbbed. “Who told you that?”

“Just heard it is all.”

“I never told anyone where I came from.”

She shifted her weight but didn’t appear to be in a hurry to move. “Do you have to wear those glasses?”

“Pretty much.”

“Can I see what you look like without them?”

When he was a kid, he used to pretend his glasses made him invisible. Then when he got old, he realized it was true. He liked things that way. “I don’t think so.”

“Please?”

“Then you have to go.” He pulled away his glasses and blinked. She was a blur.

“You look different without them.”

“Like how?”

“Well, I can see you have long eyelashes. That’s a popular thing, even for guys.”

“Yeah?” Was she saying he looked good?

“Sure. Seth has long eyelashes, and girls really like him. Plus Keith Urban has long eyelashes.”

Manny slid his glasses back on. “That’s a load of bull. I don’t look like Keith Urban.” He picked up the hoe.

“Didn’t say you did.”

Why wouldn’t she just go? He was minding his own business, and he didn’t need a girl coming out here to make fun of him. “I have to get back to work.” He bent over the hoe and pushed at the sunbaked ground.

Her voice pleaded with him. “I just meant your eyelashes.”

“Just go.” He should never have taken the water.

She sniffed. “You hate me, don’t you?”

His hoe stopped in midpush. She was crying. “Don’t cry. Please.” He’d never made anyone cry before. Not ever. It made him feel guilty. Like he wasn’t the victim anymore.

Her nose had turned red, and her lips were quivering. “Just say it. You hate me.”

“Why would I hate you? I barely know you.” He glanced over at the barn. Maybe the boss would see him slacking and yell at him, or Miss Bea. But he was alone…with a bawling girl.

“You hate me because I’m fat. Everyone does.” She was sobbing now.

His eyebrows rose. It had never occurred to him that other people might hate their bodies as much as he hated his. If fact, he’d always assumed he was pretty much alone in this respect. With his eyes, he traced the curve of her shoulder, the pinched waistline beneath her pink shirt and the balloon of denim over her hips. “It’s those pants.”

She sniffed again. “What?”

“You’re pretty, but it’s hard to tell with those overalls.”

Her eyes dropped, and she surveyed the expanse of blue running from her chest to her flip-flops.

Her tears had stopped—thank the Lord Jesus. He reached for a less emotional topic. “Do you like Keith Urban?”

“He’s super cute, and so is his wife.”

“I mean his music.”

“He’s really good. What’s your favorite song?”

“‘Start a Band.’ Always wished it were that easy to be famous. But Keith is really good, so he deserves to be famous.”

“Are you in a band?”

He shook his head. “I like to play the guitar when I’m alone, but I’m not very good.”

“Can you play ‘Sweet Thing’?” Her nose didn’t look so red. Her eyes had cleared.

He was relieved. “Sure can.”

“Maybe you’d play for me sometime. I stay in town with my momma on the weekends.”

She wanted to be his friend? He’d never had friends, and long ago he’d decided he was better off alone. She was watching him, waiting for an answer. He let his gaze slide over her short nose and small mouth and white neck. He was borrowing trouble. “Maybe. I’d have to see. Look, uh, Brittany, I need to get back to my chores.”

“Fine. Didn’t mean to bother you.” She squared her shoulders and attempted to look down her nose at him even though she was nearly a head shorter. “Just came to deliver a message.”

Maybe Mr. Shaw wanted him. “Why didn’t you say so? What is it?”

“Miss Frances wants to meet you in town at the Limestone. She wants to ask you some questions.”

“Ask me some questions?”

Miss Frances had freaked him out back in March, rubbing herself all over him, saying she didn’t have underwear on. He got a boner right there. Middle of the barnyard in broad daylight for everyone to see. Then Miss Bea screamed, and Mr. Maguire came running and pulled Miss Frances away. Lord almighty. He’d never forget that day.

But yesterday Miss France had been nice. Not crazy at all.

“Yes or no. That’s all I need.” She put her hands on her hips and tapped her foot against the dirt.

“Does Mr. Maguire know?”

“How should I know? She said she’d give me some money to come out here and ask you. That’s all. If you’re scared of her, then just say no. I get paid anyway.”

He pulled himself straight. “I’m not afraid of her.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.” For the first time in his life, Manny felt strong. Like a man should feel when he’s being brave in front of a cute girl.