The Texan (33 page)

“Let me help,” Owen said, dropping to his knees on the soft shag rug beside the ancient, claw-footed tub. “Let’s see. Why don’t you lean back over my arm.”

Bay did as he asked and a moment later Owen was cupping water from the tub with his other hand and pouring it over her soapy hair.

“Close your eyes,” he said, “so you don’t get any soap in them.”

It was going to take forever to rinse all the soap out of her hair if he did it a handful of water at a time, but Bay didn’t care. It felt wonderful to be supported by his arm and to feel the warm water running over her scalp.

“There,” he said at last. “No more soap. You can open your eyes now.”

When she did, she realized the bubbles had finally melted away, and she was completely exposed to his gaze. “Owen?”

His gaze was tender rather than lustful, and therefore all the more threatening to her peace of mind. She could be wooed with tenderness…

He kissed her on the nose and said, “Out. I need a bath. We can continue this later.”

Bay willingly stepped into the large, fluffy white towel Owen held out for her. She opened the bathroom door and felt a rush of cold air from the rest of the cabin.

“Brrr,” she said, closing it again.

“There’s a roaring fire in the fireplace in the living room where you can warm up and dry your hair. Do you suppose there’s any hot water left?” Owen asked hopefully as the last of her bathwater drained out.

Bay caressed his smooth cheek. “You shaved. It feels soft.”

He caught her hand and kissed her palm. “Go,” he said, opening the bathroom door again. “Before I change my mind and you end up making love to a man who smells like a bear.”

Bay realized what she’d done and pulled her hand back. That sort of intimacy had to stop. She inched past Owen and said, “Good luck with the hot water. I’ll see what I can do about making us a midnight snack.”

The six-room cabin was made of logs and had pegged wooden floors and a stone fireplace, where Owen had lit a crackling fire. Bay stood in front of the fire for a moment and let it warm her before she headed for the bedroom that had obviously been used by Paul Ridgeway’s
daughter Cindy. It was disturbing to find that the bedroom had been left exactly as it must have looked more than a year before, when Cindy Ridgeway had been murdered.

There were still tubes of lipstick on a dressing table, and a Tami Hoag novel beside the bed with a page marked where Cindy had stopped reading. The room was full of ribbons Cindy had won barrel racing in rodeo competitions as well as two college debate trophies. Apparently, Cindy had been both athletic and smart. Which only made sense, if she’d attracted a successful, intelligent man like Clay Blackthorne.

Bay felt like an intruder going through Cindy’s drawers, but she found underwear, a pair of jeans that fit almost to a T, and a sweatshirt that negated the need for a bra. She pulled on a pair of boot socks but didn’t bother putting on her boots. She’d seen a diary in the underwear drawer but resisted the urge to peek into the life of the woman whose room she occupied—though she was definitely curious.

Bay nosed around the room, picking up pieces of Cindy Ridgeway’s life and putting them back down. A tiny figurine of a quarter horse, mane and tail flowing. A Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders calendar with important dates marked leading up to her wedding. A framed picture of Cindy and Clay, both smiling, both looking extraordinarily happy. It shook Bay for a second, because Clay looked so much like Owen.

There were differences. In the eyes. Clay had seen a different world than Owen, she supposed. And in the smile. Clay’s smile looked more open and friendly than Owen’s. The couple looked happy together. She felt sorry the girl’s life had been cut short.

Bay picked up a book that featured Western artists, sculptors, and photographers, wondering whether Owen’s mother might be featured in it. According to the index, one of Eve Blackthorne’s oil paintings was included in the book.

Bay was searching for page 42 when Owen showed up in the doorway. She didn’t hear him coming; he was simply there. “Oh, you frightened me,” she said, clutching the book to her chest.

He was wearing a pair of jeans with a crease pressed into them, a ratty maroon Texas A&M sweatshirt, and a pair of white boot socks. “What do you have there?” he asked.

She laid the oversized book down across her forearms so he could see. “It’s a collection of Western artists. Your mother’s in here. I was going to look at her painting.”

“Later,” he said, closing the book. “Let’s eat first. I’m starving.”

Bay carried the book with her to the kitchen and laid it on the tile counter. “What are you in the mood for?”

“What’s in the fridge?” Owen asked, pulling open the door. “Uh. Not much in here. Guess Paul didn’t have a chance to stock it.”

Bay went through the cupboards. “There’s tomato soup. And crackers.”

“Guess that’ll have to do,” Owen said. “What I wouldn’t give for a juicy hamburger.”

“Tomorrow,” Bay said. “We’ll be out of here in twenty-four hours.”

Neither of them had much interest in the soup. It was too similar to the military rations they’d been eating. A half hour later they headed for the overstuffed corduroy couch in front of the fireplace. Bay had brought the book of paintings with her.

Owen took it away from her again and set it on the brown-and-white-spotted cowhide that served as a rug. “Later,” he said. “I want to sit here for a while and put my feet up.”

A couple of dark brown corduroy ottomans stood in front of the couch, and Owen plopped down and put his feet up. He patted the couch beside him. “Have a seat, Red.”

Bay plopped down beside him, putting her feet up on the same ottoman he was using. “This definitely beats those benches at the camp.”

Owen leaned over and sniffed her hair.

“What are you doing?” she said, leaning away and staring at him.

“Smelling your hair. It smells like coconut.”

“Compliments of Cindy Ridgeway. It must have been really sad for your brother to lose her like he did.”

“Yeah,” Owen said. “Clay took it pretty hard.”

“And Ridgeway? It must have been awful losing his only daughter like that.”

“He looked pretty stoic at the funeral,” Owen said. “But Clay said he was a mess for a while.”

Owen slid an arm around her shoulders, and she nestled her head against his chest as though it were the most natural thing in the world. As though they’d been a couple forever and always spent cold evenings cozied up together on the couch in front of a crackling fire. “Owen…”

“What is it, Red?”

“Nothing,” she said. Then, “This is nice.”

“Yeah. It is.”

She looked up. He looked down. Their eyes met and held. He leaned slowly toward her, giving her plenty of time to object. But she wanted that kiss. Needed it.

His mouth was utterly soft, yearning. He touched her lips briefly, then looked into her eyes again. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Bay leaned back abruptly. “What?” She felt the pressure of Owen’s hand at her shoulder, keeping her from bolting.

“I’m in love with you,” he repeated.

“You can’t be,” she said.

He laughed softly. “You wouldn’t think so, would you? I mean, I’ve known you, what, two weeks maybe? You must admit, though, I’ve had a pretty good look at who you are. We’ve been through experiences together that most couples never encounter. I’ve liked what I’ve seen, Red. You were right about being reliable in a crunch. And you’re smart and sexy and—”

“Whoa. Whoa,” Bay said, putting a hand over his mouth. “Where is all this coming from? Have you forgotten who you are? Who I am?”

He gently took her hand away from his mouth and kissed her palm, causing shivers to run up her arm. “I know exactly who you are. The woman I love.”

“How am I supposed to respond to that?” she said, feeling a spurt of panic.

He lifted a brow. “I know what I’d like you to say.”

“That I love you, too?” Bay’s heart was pounding. She was finding it hard to catch her breath.

“I’d prefer you made it a statement, rather than a question,” he teased gently.

She didn’t move when he leaned over to kiss her, but her heart squeezed at the tenderness of the gesture. She was used to men saying they loved her to get her into bed. It was a conventional male ploy. But Owen wasn’t aroused. His eyes gleamed with some emotion she refused to admit
might be love. She felt desire curl tightly inside her until she ached with wanting him. Needing him.

“Be practical,” she said in a quiet voice. “You’re feeling what you’re feeling precisely because we’ve been isolated together under some pretty unusual circumstances, and I’ve been the only female around.”

“I think I fell in love with you at your father’s funeral,” he said. “When you left Sam sitting there in his wheelchair and walked over and challenged me to find the man who murdered your father.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Bay said. But she was remembering how it had felt to look into Owen’s eyes that day, how she’d been so afraid of what she’d seen and felt.

He slid a finger under her chin and used it to tilt her mouth upward toward his. She stared into his eyes until it was uncomfortable to do so, then closed her eyes and let herself feel the gentleness of this powerful man, as his lips touched her own.

“Oh,” she murmured.

“Is that
Owe
as in
Owen
?” he teased. “Or,
oh
as in—”

“
Oh
as in
ohmigod
,” she whispered. She wanted this. She’d been waiting her whole life for this.

She simply didn’t believe it would last. The betrayal of her college boyfriend had hardened her heart. The betrayal of her married lover had shattered it. She’d glued the pieces back together, but it was so very fragile now. If Owen broke her heart again, the resulting shards would be impossible to repair.

She couldn’t take that risk. She wouldn’t take that risk.

She leaned back and looked into his eyes. “I don’t love you, Owe … n,” she said. “I won’t love you.”

She saw the pain flicker in his eyes before it was
hidden behind a gaze that had turned to ice. She knew the risk he’d taken, revealing his feelings to her. She had the urge to offer solace. But it was too dangerous to feel sympathy for him. She had to protect herself first.

She was expecting a scene. She was expecting protestations of undying affection. She was expecting him to fight for the right to love her.

Instead, she saw a muscle jerk in his cheek as he clenched his teeth, remaining silent.

She put a hand to his nape and brought his head down so she could kiss him good-bye.

He straightened, so her hand fell away, then removed his arm from around her shoulder as he reached down and picked up the book of Texas artists. He cleared his throat and said, “What page did you say my mother’s painting was on?”

She stared at him, feeling an ache so painful inside that she wasn’t sure she could bear it. So. That was it. He hadn’t really loved her. He’d only been saying the words. She’d been right not to trust him with her heart.

As the tears welled in her eyes, she realized she’d already offered him her heart without realizing it. And he’d broken the damned thing without even trying.

“Which page?” Owen asked brusquely, as he thumbed through the book of Texas artists.

“It’s called
A Perfect Lady
,” Bay said. “Page forty-two.”

Bay forced herself to stare at the painting when Owen set the book across their knees. She was surprised to see writing above a painting of a girl on a horse at a rodeo. “‘To my own Perfect Lady. All my love, Dad,’” Bay read aloud. “I can’t believe this,” she said as she turned
to look at Owen. “Your mother painted Cindy Ridge-way!”

Owen wasn’t looking back at her. He was staring at the painting. “Yeah. And made her even more beautiful than she was. That’s what my mother does, you know. She takes the imperfect world and makes it perfect.
A Perfect Lady
.”

Bay looked at the reproduction of the oil painting and saw the things she hadn’t noticed at first. In the photo of Cindy and Clay she’d found in the bedroom, Cindy’s right eyebrow arched higher than the left. In the painting, they were symmetrical. In the bedroom photo, her chin was too sharp, but that had been softened. And her eyes were a little too far apart, but they’d been moved closer together, so Cindy possessed startling beauty in the painting.

“The painting is beautiful,” Bay said. “But it’s not real. Nobody’s perfect. Nothing’s perfect. The more I look at it, the less I like it,” she said flatly. “If Paul Ridge-way really loved his daughter he would hate this painting. Because it doesn’t show her as she really is. But maybe that’s how Paul saw his daughter. Perfect.”

“Oh, shit,” Owen said.

“What’s the matter?”

He slammed the book closed and dropped it on the floor as he rose to his feet and headed down the hall. Bay followed after him.

She found him staring at the same painting, which was hanging on the wall. “This is the ‘perfect lady’ Hank was talking about,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Remember that clue I told you Hank left me in his hat? He told me to find the perfect lady, and I’d find the
thief. Here it is,
A Perfect Lady
, hanging in Paul Ridge-way’s house. I’m not sure how those VX mines are connected to Cindy Ridgeway’s death, but I’m willing to bet that somehow they are.”

“How?” Bay asked.

“Only Paul Ridgeway knows the answer to that. But now I have the motive I was missing for why Paul might be involved with those VX mines. It isn’t money. It has something to do with the death of his daughter. Maybe that vagrant who killed her was involved with those mines, or maybe Paul’s using the mines to exact some sort of revenge.

“Hank must have found out something that implicated Paul. Then we came along and killed his two Dobermans. You can bet Paul isn’t going to leave us alive to talk. We know too much that can incriminate him.”

“Maybe we better get out of here,” Bay said.

Owen swore under his breath.

“What’s wrong?”

“I told Paul where to find Clay and Luke. He’s had us sitting tight here while he goes after them.”