Texas Midnight

Chapter Two

In the full light of the Texas moon, the field of bluebells seemed dusted with silver. Jeremy put his arm around Gabriel. She’d been an enchanting date—she’d read all of his novels and had, twice, actually quoted from Blood on the Moon. Jeremy couldn’t help but be flattered by such attention from a lovely woman.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Gabriel said, as if she knew he was thinking about her.

“It’s so beautiful.” He pointed out across the meadow. His friends, Mike and Rachel Kettering, had turned an old homestead into a showplace. But then, Texas in the spring was hard to ugly up, he thought with a grin.

“It is lovely. And in your books, you describe it just this way. I’ll bet you have a million fans writing you.” She gave him a teasing look. “And most of them women.”

“Hardly that many,” Jeremy said, enjoying Gabriel’s undivided attention. Earlier, he’d left the book signing, Ellie’s demands that he head straight to the Kettering’s ranch still ringing in his ears. He’d made one personal detour, and had arrived in plenty of time to help, but as he’d suspected, the hosts had everything under control. He and Mike had spent the time before the party sipping bourbon and swapping yarns. Now he was feeling expansive and relaxed.

“Do you have any really dedicated fans? I’ve often wondered what it would be like to get mail from absolute strangers.”

“Some are stranger than others,” Jeremy said, his tone light, but his thoughts heavy. He wouldn’t exactly call Anna Red Shoes a fan, but she stayed in his mind. He was glad he’d dissuaded Ellie from reporting the incident to the police. Anna’s accusation had stung, and the less attention she got at this point, the better. He preferred to deal with her himself.

He turned his attention to Gabriel’s lovely eyes. “You’re very beautiful. But then, you already know that.”

“Want to go for a walk in the moonlight?” she asked, pressing a little closer to him.

Jeremy felt his body’s sudden desire to do exactly that. He and Gabriel, alone beneath the moon in a field of bluebells. It was the stuff of fantasies. But he hesitated. His last breakup had been unpleasant, and he’d vowed not to get involved with a woman until he completed the sequel to his novel. In his opinion, women and writing didn’t mix well. Both of them were jealous mistresses.

“I was actually thinking of going home,” he said.

“It’s only midnight,” Gabrielle whispered. “Come on, Jeremy.” Her voice was almost a purr. “Let’s have a little privacy.”

He briefly tightened his hold on her shoulders. “Ah, you’re a tempting woman,” he said. He bent to brush his lips across her neck. “But I’ve taken a vow to finish my next book before I allow myself the luxury of a woman’s company.”

She laughed. “A vow. How monastic! Do you write in a robe?”

He joined in her laughter. “You have a definite way of painting a picture,” he said. “Maybe you should write.”

She turned away from him. “There are too many writers in Texas already. By the way, I was sort of expecting Blane Griffin to be here. I read somewhere that you two were best friends.”

Jeremy tried not to react. His friendship with Blane was over, and all because of a woman. It was one more reminder not to allow the very tempting Gabriel to lead him off the path toward his next novel. Besides, he needed to talk with Henry.

“Blane and I grew up together,” he said. “And I do have to go home. My editor isn’t happy with my latest book. We need to have a conversation.”

“At midnight? What am I, a pumpkin?”

There was frustration in her voice, and he put his hands on her shoulders and held her gently. “I’d like to get to know you better, Gabriel, but I’ve worked for twenty years for this opportunity. I can’t afford to mess it up because I meet a woman who makes writing a second choice.”

She turned in his arms. “Do I do that?”

“I’m afraid you could,” he said, brushing a strand of her dark hair from her face. “I’m known to be a man who likes a gamble, but I’m walking away from this one. I’d like to call you, later, when I’m free to…pursue this.”

She stared into his eyes. “That’s your decision.” Her lips curved into a forced smile. “Not mine. I don’t put my life on hold for any man. Not even Jeremy Masterson, famous author.”

“You are a spunky little thing,” he said, leading her toward the doorway and the party that was in full swing. “I’ll call you when I come up for air. I promise.”

Jeremy never saw the hand that came out of nowhere and slapped Gabriel across the face. He did, however, recognize the sultry voice of Lucinda Estar.

“You conniving little witch.” Lucinda made a grab for Gabriel’s hair, but Jeremy caught her wrist. It had been a long, emotional day, and Lucinda was the finishing touch.

“Lucinda, you’re drunk,” he said in a monotone. “Straighten up before you humiliate yourself.”

“I don’t have to work at that. You’ve done a thorough job of it. Every time I turn my back, you’re with some cheap little tramp,” she said, her voice slurring a little. She was unsteady on her feet, and Jeremy found himself in the uncomfortable position of supporting her so she didn’t fall.

Gabriel gave him a long, pitying look. “I didn’t realize you had a full plate.” She walked away without looking back.

“You told me you had to finish your book,” Lucinda said, her voice growing louder. “What was she? Research? You dumped me for her?”

The entire party had ground to a halt, and everyone was staring at him and the drunken woman he held up. Jeremy searched the room with his eyes until he finally saw Ellie. She hurried to his side, her face clearly showing her concern. “Please call Blane,” Jeremy said.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Ellie asked.

“No choice. He needs to collect Lucinda before she does more damage to herself.”

“Or you,” Ellie said archly. “Your personal life is going to catch up with you, Jeremy.”

“I don’t need a lecture, I need some help.” Jeremy didn’t mean to snap but his patience was gone. He slid Lucinda onto a sofa.

“Do you really think Blane wants her back? Again?”

Jeremy heard the hardness in Ellie’s tone. She’d never said anything about his rash affair with Lucinda. She didn’t have to. Everyone in Texas knew it had ruined his lifelong friendship with Blane Griffin.

“Just call him. He can make up his mind if he wants her or not.”

“And you?” Ellie asked.

“I’m going home.”

Jeremy didn’t have a chance to take more than one step before he felt the hand on his shoulder. “Running away again?”

He turned toward the angry face of Blane Griffin. “I’m not running, I’m withdrawing. Let’s don’t do this, Blane. Lucinda’s drunk, and you and I have both had more than a couple. This isn’t the time to try to settle our differences.”

“I turn my back, and she’s over here, tracking after you like a dog in—” He broke off and turned away.

Jeremy looked around the room at his friends who’d come to celebrate the success of his book. He and Blane had started out in the writing business together. His career had taken a sudden swing up, but Blane was still toiling in the trenches. “Can I get a couple of drinks here?” he said to one of his friends.

In a moment he had two bourbons in his hand. He offered one to Blane. “Let’s have a toast. To the future. I’m sure your bestseller is just around the corner.”

His old friend’s gaze held his for a moment. “You’re one helluva hypocrite,” Blane said, putting the drink down without tasting it. He grabbed Lucinda’s arm, hauled her off the sofa and stalked toward the door. Then he turned back abruptly, his lean face hard. “My star is rising, Jeremy. It’s you who needs a toast, not me. I’ve just spoken with your editor, and he’s buying my book. He thinks it’s better than your sequel. So when you decide to pour liquor and offer up a toast of hope, maybe you should drink it to yourself.”

With Lucinda firmly in his grasp, Blane walked out.

Jeremy felt like a fool. He’d intended to mend fences with Blane, but what he’d done was widen the breach. The toast had probably been an idiotic idea, but it had been sincere.

A hush had fallen over the party. He turned to see Ellie staring at the doorway through which Blane had just departed. Picking up one of the drinks, he said, “To cowboys, literature and a bit of moon madness. We all suffer from it now and again.” He downed the bourbon and was relieved to see the tension break and the party pick up again.

“What book did Blane sell Henry?” Ellie asked, suddenly appearing at his shoulder.

“I’m not certain. Henry said something about something set around—”

“The Alamo?”

Jeremy arched his eyebrows. “That was it.”

“Back when Blane was in a slump over Lucinda, I talked with him some about his book.” Ellie laughed. “Who would have thought Henry would buy it?”

“I’m glad for him,” Jeremy said. “Though I wish he’d been a little more gracious.”

“And shown better taste in women,” Ellie added. “Let’s have another drink.”

IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT when Jeremy finally turned down the long, secluded drive to his house. He felt a little guilty about having left Henry alone all evening—but only a little. Henry had obviously been a very busy man. Not only had he bought Blane’s book, but he’d talked to Ellie about how the editing was going. Sure, Ellie was his best friend, but Jeremy’s writing was a very personal thing. On top of that, Henry had chosen not to attend the party. Well, it was his loss.

The house was dark, and Jeremy entered as quietly as he could. He was glad that Henry had decided to go to bed. He didn’t want to talk about work—his or Blane’s.

Easing down the darkened hallway toward his bedroom, Jeremy caught the glow of the computer screen reflecting off the panes of the window. He stopped. Henry was like an old maid about some things—especially computers. He’d never go to bed with text on the screen.

Jeremy entered his study and stopped, stunned, as he saw the outline of the body on the floor. He moved forward automatically, then knelt beside the body.

“Henry.” He shook him gently. It wasn’t until Henry didn’t respond that he allowed the terrible thought to come. “Oh, no.” He rolled the body over and saw the dark blood, the stab wounds. “My God.” It came out as a croak through the knot of horror in his throat. “What in the hell happened here?”

He crossed the room and snapped on the overhead light. The scene was out of a nightmare. Blood had pooled beside the editor. Two sets of bloody tracks were distinct—his own, and another pair leading toward the window.

Jeremy forced his body not to move. He carefully took in the scene. The desk was a jumble, as if a struggle had taken place. From the position of the body, the bloody tracks, the open window where the cut screen flapped in the night breeze, it seemed clear that someone had come in through the window.

Henry Mills had been murdered. Someone had slipped into the house and killed him. But why? It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that whomever had done it very likely had killed the wrong man. Jeremy was certain that he had been the intended target.

“Henry,” he said softly. The reality of his editor’s death was like a kick in the gut. Henry had been a kind man. And now he was dead because he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Jeremy’s first impulse was to call the sheriff. He even reached for the phone. But his fingers never picked up the receiver. He turned instead to study the tracks. He didn’t write about the West for nothing. He was a skilled rancher, and a man who’d grown up in the outdoors. He could read a set of tracks as well as—or better than—most. He studied the small footprints and determined they belonged to a small man or a woman. His best guess was a woman. The foot was slender, delicate, and wearing western boots.

The scene in the bookstore came back to him. Anna Red Shoes. She’d had on jeans and boots. And she’d vowed to make him suffer. She’d threatened to harm him—legally and physically. Those were her words. And a knife had been her chosen weapon.

He stood up and looked around the room. He almost didn’t see the knife. It had been dropped at the window and had fallen behind the draperies. Even before he walked over to more closely examine it, he recognized the bone-carved handle as a ceremonial blade used by Apache Indians. He’d done enough research to recognize the knife, which was used specifically for ceremonial kills.

He’d also seen a similar knife very recently. In the hand of Anna Red Shoes. Her name was all but written in Henry’s blood. He knelt and felt the bloody tracks in the carpet. He wasn’t that far behind her, and there was no time to waste. He went to his closet and pulled out his hunting gear, including his Marlin 30-30. The problem with calling the sheriff was that Lem Polluck was sheriff in name only. He was a popular man who meant well, but he wasn’t a tracker or a hunter. And he didn’t have a brilliant record of crime solving.

Lem was no match for a cold-blooded killer who was the granddaughter of Thunder Horse. He’d only muddy up the trail, confuse things.

Jeremy made a quick decision. He’d track Anna and as soon as he captured her, he’d call the sheriff to make the arrest.

Jeremy checked the gun, grabbed ammunition and went to his truck. One good thing about research was that he knew enough about the history of Anna’s fore-bearers to start his search for her. He’d bet dollars to doughnuts that he knew exactly where she was. There was a place on the west side of town that had been sacred to Thunder Horse. And Anna had mentioned something about camping. That was the place to hunt for her.

He made sure his cell phone was in his pack so he could call Lem as soon as he found her.

ANNA SHIFTED TO HER left side on the hard earth. Not thirty feet away, Calamity and Allegro grazed peacefully. The sound of the horses’ strong teeth pulling at the rough grass was soothing. When dawn broke, she’d saddle up and ride to the place where she’d scattered her grandfather’s ashes, the place that had once been sacred to her people—before it was stolen from them. Once she paid her respects, she’d pack up and head for home. The entire trip had been a fool’s errand.

She drifted into a light sleep, deviled by nightmares of bodies, and a tall, broad-shouldered man who taunted her. He held a book and seemed to be laughing at her.

Anna wasn’t certain exactly what brought her to full wakefulness, but she opened her eyes and saw that her fire was still high. She realized that the horses had stopped grazing. One of them blew out a loud snort.

Anna listened.

The sound of a truck engine suddenly stopped. Instead of sitting up, she forced herself to remain perfectly still in her bedroll, but her fingers found the small knife that she always kept beside her. Her rifle was only a foot away. She wasn’t a hunter—had never killed for food or fear. But she knew how to do it.

But this wasn’t a coyote or panther searching for dinner. This was a creature far more deadly.

Whomever it was came up the hillside with great care. Only the slip of a piece of shale, the rustle of winter grass not yet green and springy, gave away the progress of the stalker. Anna’s grip tightened on the knife, and she kept her breathing regular and easy as she waited.

She rethought her steps. The hillside she’d chosen for her campsite was a place where her people had once camped. Below her the Guadeloupe River gurgled over flat, smooth rocks. To her knowledge, the land was not used by anyone, so she hadn’t bothered to seek permission. The person creeping up to her campsite might only be the landowner checking to see who was on his property. If that was the case, she didn’t want to act rashly. After all, she was the trespasser. Under the circumstances it would be better to remain calm and then explain her reasons for being there.

But as she listened to the stranger’s approach, she knew better. The person headed her way was sneaking, taking great care to hide his arrival. That meant that he hoped to surprise her—and that, in turn, meant only one thing. Trouble.

She didn’t move, though she could feel her heart thumping hard in her chest.

She heard him, now only ten yards away as he came up on the level with the campsite. Though her back was to him, she could feel him staring at her. She imagined what he saw: a lone camper turned on her side, face to the cheerful fire.

One of the horses stomped the ground and blew hard, a wheezing sound that spoke of distrust and fear. She wanted to speak to the horse, to calm her, but she kept silent. She wanted the stalker to get closer—close enough that she could jump him.

She felt his approach. He made no sound, but she didn’t need her ears to tell her what was happening. Every one of her senses was attuned. She held the knife tightly, ready for her chance. It was as if her grandfather were beside her, whispering into her ear, telling her to be calm, to be brave, to wait for the exact moment.

That moment arrived.

Anna whipped out of the blankets, rolling low and fast and with enough momentum that when she caught the stalker in his lower legs with the full thrust of her body, she knocked him off balance. Before he could recover, she was on her feet and in a headlong tackle.

She brought him down with a satisfactory thud. To make certain that his lungs were empty, she threw herself across him and allowed her full body weight to land on his chest and ribs. She heard a whoosh of air, then rolled off him, stood and brought her boot-clad foot squarely into his chest area, connecting soundly with his sternum.

“Auuugh!”

It was the sound she wanted to hear. She pressed the point of her knife into his throat. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re one breath away from dying,” she said as she allowed the blade to prick the skin.

Chapter Three

“Who are you and what do you want?”

Jeremy didn’t try to answer. He was too busy trying to breathe. But he wasn’t too badly winded to understand that he’d made a serious miscalculation. One that could have an expensive price tag. He felt the trickle of blood on his neck where the point of Anna’s knife barely broke his skin.

“You’re in enough trouble,” he said. “Don’t make it worse.” Of course, that was ridiculous. She’d already killed one man. They couldn’t hang her twice.

There was a sudden intake of breath, and Jeremy knew that she’d recognized him. His body tensed, but he didn’t move. To do so would have invited bloodshed. His own.

“I knew you were a liar when I read your book,” Anna said, her voice low and deadly. “I didn’t know you were a coward. What did you intend to do, sneak up here and bushwhack me?”

Jeremy pondered her question. She was darn good at turning a situation to her advantage. It was almost as if she weren’t aware of her own actions. He had read enough psychology to know that a sociopath never had regret for anything she did. Anna Red Shoes was displaying classic symptoms.

“We can work this out,” he said calmly. “There’s no reason for anyone else to get hurt.”

“Anyone else?”

He had to give it to her. She was smart. And alert. And she could playact with the best of them. Or else she was crazier than he’d thought—a scary possibility—because she sounded completely innocent.

“What happened to Henry was a mistake, okay?” He felt a twinge of betrayal of his friend. What had happened wasn’t a mistake—it was cold-blooded. But he had to talk himself out of a tight situation. And if Anna was as crazy as she acted, then maybe—

“What happened to Henry—and who is he?”

“My editor.” He took a breath, glad at last that his lungs were working normally. “He was stabbed to death.”

He’d expected some reaction, but he got nothing. In the darkness he couldn’t see her features, but he could feel her slender body tense beside him as she kept the pressure on the knife steady. Not even a flinch.

“You think I killed him?” Her voice was cold, emotionless.

“I don’t think you meant to kill Henry. You intended to kill me.”

He expected the blade of the knife to punish him for those words. Anna never even breathed.