Smokin' Six-Shooter Page 9

  “That woman is impossible,” he muttered as he poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe behind the bar.

  Kate was smiling at him. “How was supper at Northern Lights?”

  “Fine.” He didn’t want to talk about his date. “She’s going back over to the house today. If she doesn’t break her fool neck, maybe I’ll go over and try to talk some sense into her.”

  “You might just want to keep it strictly business,” Grayson suggested.

  “Or you might want to ask her out again,” Kate said.

  Russell shook his head. “I doubt either will do me any good. Maybe I should just leave it to you,” he said to his father. “You might have better luck with her.”

  Grayson shook his head. “Kate’s probably right. A woman likes to be courted—even in business.”

  “Flowers are always a nice gesture,” Kate suggested.

  Russell scoffed inwardly at that. He’d already done too much courtin’ of Dulcie Hughes when he’d kissed her last night in front of her motel room.

  No wonder she’d gotten angry this morning at breakfast. She thought that kiss was about getting her land when her property had been the last thing on his mind.

  “I’ve got work to do,” Russell said. “I’ll go over later and see what I can do to rectify things.”

  “It’s no big deal if we don’t get the property,” Grayson said. “I understand if you want to forget it.”

  What he wanted to forget was Dulcie Hughes.

  “Any word from that rainmaker?” his father asked.

  “No. He said he’d come on up here or he’d call. He hasn’t called. I’ll get back to him.”

  Russell tried the rainmaker and got his voice mail. He left a message. As he was driving past the Atkinson place, he swung in. John Atkinson owned that property behind Laura Beaumont’s place at the time of the murder. If Russell could find out something for Dulcie, he might be able to help her solve this mystery so she could get back to Chicago and he could get back to work and get her off his mind.

  It had nothing to do with getting back into her good graces. She’d just think it was about buying her land and get mad again anyhow.

  DULCIE DUCKED INTO THE newspaper office since she was walking past it anyway. It didn’t take long to find out what year Jolene Stevens had been looking at and deduce which murder the schoolteacher had made copies of. Why would a schoolteacher be interested in Laura Beaumont’s murder?

  As Dulcie went through the same stories Jolene had, she noticed something odd. There was no mention of Laura Beaumont’s past. No mention of Angel’s father. No obit with Laura’s maiden name or any background.

  Leaving the newspaper, she drove out of town more convinced than before that something was very odd about all of this. Leaves scuttled across the dusty street, propelled by the blistering, dried-out wind. It was early in the morning and yet the temperature was already in the seventies.

  She had stopped for gas at Packys on the way out of town, all unpleasant thoughts of Russell Corbett disappearing as she felt the tension growing in the community. It was as if a spark could set off the locals, just as it could ignite the tinder-dry grasses outside.

  The talk everywhere was of the need for rain.

  Dulcie found herself caught up in it, anxious and nervous and expectant. She watched the sky for any sign of relief and silently prayed for the heavens to open up and douse them all in reviving moisture that would save not only the crops, but also the peace.

  The feeling that she was perched on a powder keg about to blow grew stronger as she pulled past her cut barbed-wire gate lying in the dry grass and parked in front of the old farmhouse.

  This empathy she felt for the ranch and farm people surprised her. Growing up in Chicago, she couldn’t have been farther from the land and her food source. Here though, she felt as if she were a part of it. Or possibly had been.

  You aren’t Angel Beaumont.

  Wasn’t she? she thought as she looked up at the second-floor window and saw the yellow curtains. What felt like a memory nudged her, but refused to come into focus. She was a part of something here and damned if she wasn’t going to find out what.

  Opening the car door, she stepped out and moved through the tall weeds toward the house—ever vigilant of rattlesnakes.

  Hurriedly she climbed the steps, glad to be where she could see what might be next to her. When she reached the front door, though, she paused.

  Yesterday she’d locked the front door as they’d left. She remembered testing it, standing on the porch with Russell. It had been locked.

  But now as she reached for her key, she saw that the door was slightly ajar. Goose bumps spread over her flesh even in the breathless heat. Her blood pounded in her ears and yet past it she could hear the annoying weather vane moving restlessly in the searing wind.

  A new sound set her teeth on edge. The rhythmic clinking of metal on metal coming from behind the house.

  Dulcie stepped to the edge of the porch and looked toward the creek and the property beyond her own. Through the branches of the cottonwoods, she could see a man with a sledgehammer, pounding what looked like pipe into the ground on the other side of the creek.

  He stopped as if sensing her watching him and looked in her direction. She couldn’t see his face under the dark hat he wore, but she could feel his hard, staring eyes on her, his gaze hotter than the spring day.

  She stepped back quickly, feeling strangely violated. How was it possible she could feel both hatred and lust, fear and shock and pain in a look?

  She knew what Renada would say. This place was making her imagination run wild. Dulcie shook her head at her own foolishness but was thankful when the man resumed his banging.

  Just the thought of Renada made her too aware that she hadn’t called her friend. Nor had she answered the messages Renada had left. She promised herself she would call her tonight, if only to let her know she was all right.

  She knew why she hadn’t called and told her about what had been going on. Renada would be on the next plane out and Dulcie would have loved nothing better. But it would mean taking Renada away from her design classes and something she’d wanted for far too long.

  Walking to the front of the house again, Dulcie took a breath and, holding it, flung open the door. It was impossible to tell if there were any new tracks in the dust.

  She stepped in, leaving the door open, and moved cautiously toward the kitchen in the back. She hadn’t taken two steps when the front door slammed with a loud bang.

  She jumped, heart leaping to her throat. Something stirred the air around her. Wind like a blast furnace. Moving toward the source, she found the back door wide open. Hadn’t it been boarded up like the front door? She’d never checked.

  Dulcie closed and locked it, using the dead bolt. Then she stood, listening. No sound came from upstairs. But she couldn’t convince herself that she wasn’t alone in the house until she went upstairs and checked.

  She listened again, thankful when she heard the man she’d seen driving pile still working. When she listened really hard, she could hear the creak and groan of the weather vane, but no sound coming from inside the house.

  What was she doing here? What more did she hope to find? She wished she knew as she cautiously climbed the stairs, drawn to the front bedroom.

  At the doorway, she watched the wind breathing the yellow curtains in and out. She caught a scent on the air, faint but so seductive, it drew her into the room. Yesterday, she’d seen the assortment of bottles thick with dust atop of the vanity.

  Now she saw that someone had moved them, leaving tracks in the dust. Avoiding looking in the cloudy mirror, she spotted a perfume bottle, the dust smudged.

  Carefully she picked it up, that faint scent she’d caught earlier tempting her. Opening the bottle, she took a whiff. Her throat closed, eyes brimming with tears as she dropped the perfume onto the vanity and stumbled back, her hand clamped over her mouth to keep from crying out.

 
In the mirror, she saw herself again, saw her terror, and fled the room to stand in the hallway. While the yellow curtains and the sound of the weather vane in the wind had jarred some memory, the scent of Laura Beaumont’s perfume had struck a chord so deep in her that it felt as if the very foundation she stood on was crumbling beneath her.

  Dulcie slid down the wall to the dusty floor and dropped her face into her hands as her heart thudded wildly and she tried to catch her breath. The scent of Laura Beaumont’s perfume was inextricably linked in her mind with that of a crying, terrified little girl—and blood, lots and lots of blood.

  Chapter Eight

  Arctic cold air-conditioning blasted Russell as John Atkinson opened the door of the ranch house.

  “Russell?” John said, seeming surprised to see him. John Atkinson was a contemporary of Russell’s father, a large man in his early sixties with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair and a weathered face.

  “Sorry to drop in without calling, John.”

  “No, come in. Midge just made a fresh pot.” This was rural Montana where a pot of coffee was always on and drop-in visitors were always welcome.

  The house had recently been remodeled with all new furnishings that Russell suspected had to do more with Midge’s tastes than John’s, including the hand-painted flowery borders in every room.

  Russell led him into the large ranch kitchen and offered him a chair at the table. While John filled two mugs with coffee, Russell glanced out the window at the view of the Larb Hills etched against the skyline.

  John and Midge still had several ranches to the south, but had moved closer to town in the past couple of years. Unlike other ranchers who turned the place over to their grown sons or daughters and son-in-laws, John and Midge had never had children, so his ranches were leased.

  “I heard you called in a rainmaker,” John said, handing Russell one of the mugs filled with coffee before joining him at the table.

  “Finnegan Amherst.”

  John’s head came up with a jerk. He let out a curse, something unusual for John.

  “He’s the same one that was used some twenty years before. He did make rain the last time, didn’t he?”

  John waved a hand through the air. “I’m just surprised he’s still alive.”

  An odd thing to say, given that the rainmaker was supposedly younger than John himself.

  “Was he in ill health?” Russell had to ask when John didn’t say more.

  “No, no, I just thought someone would have shot him by now. Or strung him up.”

  Russell was confused and said as much.

  John took a sip of his coffee as if he’d said too much already. “It’s his way with women, other men’s women.”

  “Finnegan is a lady’s man?” Russell said with a laugh, remembering the man’s deep, raspy voice. “I doubt he is anymore. He sounded on the phone as if he was ninety.”

  “Really? He’s closer to fifty now, I’d say. Making rain must have aged the man.”

  John’s sarcasm and obvious dislike of the rainmaker confused Russell. Was it possible Finnegan Amherst had gone after Midge?

  The idea made him scoff. Midge Atkinson wasn’t the type of woman that attracted men. There was something too brittle about her. Ah, hell, the woman was a bitch, plain and simple.

  “So when is he coming?” John asked.

  “Good question. I’m waiting to hear from him.” Russell glanced at his watch and remembered why he’d stopped by.

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the owner of the old Beaumont place is in town. She’s interested in finding out more about the murder.”

  All the blood drained from John’s face. His coffee mug clattered to the table, coffee spilling everywhere.

  John shoved back his chair and hurried into the kitchen to grab some paper towels.

  Russell righted the coffee mug. “I take it you remember the murder. I guessed you would, since you had the ranch behind the place,” he said as John sopped up the coffee. “You knew Laura Beaumont then?”

  Russell hadn’t heard Midge Atkinson enter the kitchen until he heard her sharp, low cry behind him. He turned to see her ashen face and the way she looked at her husband.

  “I spilt a little coffee. No big deal,” John said as she rushed over to snatch the sodden paper towels from him, clearly furious. But was it over spilled coffee or what she’d heard when she’d entered the room?

  “I was just asking about Laura Beaumont,” Russell said.

  “I heard,” Midge snapped. “Don’t you men have some work to do?”

  Russell finished his coffee quickly as she reached for his mug. Taking it from him, she returned to the kitchen and turned on the water in the sink.

  He glanced over at John, who shook his head as if to say, “Let it go.” As she started to wash out the mugs, he saw her grip the edge of the sink as if hanging on for dear life.

  “I’ve got some things to pick up in town,” John called to his wife and motioned for Russell to follow him outside.

  “She doesn’t like talking about Laura’s death,” John said once they were out by their trucks. “So I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t mention it again.”

  “Sure,” Russell said, wondering if that was all there was to it. But before he could ask why, John ended the conversation by heading to his pickup.

  DULCIE SLOWLY BECAME aware of her surroundings. As she lifted her head from her hands, her whole body tensed. Listening, she heard…nothing. The banging on the other side of the creek had stopped. Had the wind died down as well? She couldn’t hear the weather vane.

  Her gaze shot down the hall toward the window and the slack, unmoving yellow curtains. No wind. No sound. It was as if she’d suddenly gone deaf.

  Get out of the house! Now!

  Irrational panic filled her. She shot to her feet, teetering for a moment at the top of the stairs as she looked down into the dim darkness below her. Her feet faltered, but only for a moment as she rushed down the steps.

  She only had two steps to go. She’d already taken them in her mind, had already seen herself grasp the doorknob, turn it and fling the door wide, bolting out into the heat and sunlight.

  The man appeared at the bottom of the stairs as if materializing out of nothing.

  Her scream was bloodcurdling as she grabbed for the stair railing in an attempt to keep from crashing into him. Her fingers slipped on the dusty rail, and finding no purchase, she fell the last two steps, slamming into him.

  He looked so fragile, she’d thought the two of them would fall to the floor. Tall and thin, dressed all in black, including his felt hat, it surprised her at how solid he felt, how strong.

  His fingers bit into her shoulders as he grabbed her. She fought to free herself and heard him swear as he righted her, holding her away from him, staring into her face.

  Dulcie stared back, flinching at what she saw under the soft brim of his beat-up hat—a gaunt face stretched over hard angles and startling dark eyes that shone with something so black it was like falling into a bottomless pit.

  She jerked back, repelled by the man, and found her voice. “What are you doing in my house?”

  “Your house?” The sound of him surprised her as much as the sight of him. A rasp of a voice, well-deep and just as cold.

  “My house,” she repeated, screwing up her courage. “You’re trespassing and you know what they do to trespassers up here.”

  His laugh was hollow, the shine in his eyes hypnotic.

  “Get out!” she ordered, her voice spiraling with her fear. “Get out or I’m going to call the police.”

  His smile showed shockingly uniform white teeth and for a moment she glimpsed what he must have looked like when he was younger.

  Her breath caught. As she staggered backward, she threw her hand up as if to ward him off. His hand shot out, brushed her sleeve. Her scream was a shrill cry of raw terror.

  “Dulcie? Dulcie!” Russell burst through the front door, stopping short as she shoved
past a tall, thin man dressed all in black and ran into his arms.

  Russell held her to him and demanded of the man, “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m afraid I frightened her,” the man said in a raspy, deep voice that Russell recognized at once. The man turned to face him, giving a slight courtly bow without removing his hat. “Finnegan Amherst, at your service. And you are…?”

  “Russell Corbett.”

  “Ah, the rancher who called requesting my talents. I have already begun my work.”

  So he had shown up. “I hope you aren’t planning to make rain inside this ranch house,” Russell snapped.

  The rainmaker chuckled, a sound like dead, rustling leaves.

  He could still feel Dulcie trembling and knew how much it took to scare this woman. What had this man done to her?

  “Again, I am sorry if I frightened you, miss.” He tipped his hat to Dulcie. “I’ve set up across the creek. The same place I did last time with much success.” His gaze raked over Dulcie, making her shiver again before he left them, closing the door behind him.

  “Are you all right?” Russell asked, looking into Dulcie’s brown eyes. His fingers brushed back her hair.

  She nodded, her eyes locking with his as she held tight to him. Her eyes filled, her full lower lip trembling.

  “You’re all right,” he whispered as he traced a thumb over her lower lip. Her lips parted, the tip of her tongue brushing his rough skin.

  DULCIE HEARD HIS GROAN and pressed her body to his. His arm dragged her to him. His mouth came down hard on hers. She gasped as she felt the tip of his tongue tease the inside of her lower lip.

  Her breasts, crushed against his hard chest, ached and as her arms encircled his neck, she felt him lift her from the floor.

  She hung on, his mouth never leaving hers, as he backed her up against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, holding her there with his body as his fingers opened her shirt, slipping inside to cup her full, round breast in his warm palm.