The Bluest Eyes in Texas

Chapter 2

Bailey followed him downstairs. He stopped in the hallway, looking to the kitchen at the back of the house, where her purse was visible on the table through the open door, then at the living room to the side. She wasn’t surprised when he turned into the living room. According to the newspaper stories, Pete MacGregor had killed Ella Jensen in her own kitchen, leaving her frail body crumpled in a pool of blood. There were no signs of violence visible in the room—she’d looked for them—but there was a feeling there… And if she’d felt it, how much worse was it for Logan, who’d walked in on the scene with all its horror?

She went into the living room, homey and welcoming in an old-fashioned way. Lace doilies decorated the tables, a lap quilt was folded over the back of the couch and an oval braided rug covered much of the wood floor. When she’d first arrived, she’d studied the knickknacks that filled the flat surfaces, as well as the framed photographs that decorated the walls, focusing on one picture in particular. It was the same one Logan was looking at now—taken in the yard out front one sunny afternoon, him in his Army uniform; a tall, thin man with white hair and thick glasses on one side; a petite, delicate woman in a long skirt and apron on the other. Ella’s hand was resting on Logan’s arm, Sam’s on his shoulder, and they looked proud, all three of them.

Any idiot could guess that Logan blamed himself for their deaths and that he wanted justice. He had resources the local sheriff’s department lacked—notably time and money. Where the Jensen murders were only a small part of the sheriff’s investigative responsibilities, Logan could dedicate himself to nothing else and had ever since leaving the Army six months ago.

She sat down in a worn wooden rocker, sinking into the ruffled cushions that lined the seat and the back and set it rocking. Each backward glide caused a floorboard to creak. It wasn’t annoying, though, but rather comforting, like a soft snore or a tuneless whistle.

Finally he turned from the photo, looked around, then moved to the nearest window. There he brushed the lace curtains aside to lean against the sill, his hands resting on the wood on either side of him. “What do you know about Mac’s brother?”

“His name is Escobar. He lives near the border and he owns a ranch there.”

“What’s his first name? Where near the border?”

She smiled. “I’ll tell you that once we’re on our way.”

His corresponding smile was everything a smile should never be. “Aw, you don’t trust me?”

“Not as far as I could throw you.”

The smile came again. “Remember that,” he said—warned—before he pushed away from the windowsill. “Let’s go.”

He was halfway to the door before she made it out of the chair. She hustled to the kitchen to grab her purse, then reached the porch about the time he hit the sidewalk.

“Hey,” she called. “I can pick a lock to open a door, but I don’t have a clue how to pick one to lock it.”

He didn’t break his stride. “Just press the button in. It’ll lock when you close it.”

She found the button he referred to on the inside knob, pulled the door up, then checked it. It was locked, though without the promise of much security. But even the most impregnable dead bolt in the world wouldn’t have protected the Jensens—not when their killer had been a guest in their home.

Logan was impatiently waiting next to his car, a pair of dark glasses hiding his eyes, when she walked out. “Get your gear.”

“I can drive—”

“You want to take two cars? Fine. Tell me where we’re going in case we get separated on the way.”

It was a perfectly reasonable request under normal circumstances, which these most certainly weren’t. No doubt if she gave him an honest answer, he would slash her tires or take her keys, then drive off and leave her in his dust. She would be lucky if she ever caught up to him again.

“I was suggesting that we leave your car here and take mine,” she said politely.

He looked at her car, and the disdain returned to his expression. “No, thanks.”

“It’s a perfectly good car,” she protested.

“Uh-huh. I bet it gets good mileage, has a half-assed stereo system and tops out at about eighty miles an hour. No way.”

She treated his car to the same disdainful look. “And I bet this guzzles gas like water, has a stereo that can blow out your eardrums at fifty paces and doesn’t even have air-conditioning.”

“Get your gear or stay behind,” he warned.

“Fine. Let me drive.”

The look that crossed his face fell just short of horror. “Nobody drives my car.”

“Make an exception.”

“Why? You afraid I’m gonna leave you by the road first time we make a bathroom stop?”

That was exactly what she was afraid of. She hadn’t told him much, but it was enough to send him in the right direction, and he seemed just the type to leave her stranded in the middle of nowhere.

Her jaw set grimly, she went to the car, retrieved her backup pistol from the glove compartment and slid it into her purse, then returned. “My ‘gear’ is at the motel in town. We’ll have to stop there.”

The entire car literally rumbled with power when he started the engine. She settled into the passenger seat, purse in her lap, Logan just inches away, and wondered just how big a mistake she was making.

A short while later she got at least part of an answer to that when he almost stopped at a stop sign, then turned west onto the main street. She twisted in the seat to face him. “The motel’s the other way.”

He didn’t respond.

“Damn it, Marshall—”

That made him glance her way. “Hey, don’t blame me because you weren’t prepared.”

“It wouldn’t take me five minutes to pack!”

“You can buy new clothes.”

“I don’t want new clothes!”

When his only response was a shrug, she folded her arms across her chest and coldly said, “I want to pick up my clothes. If you don’t turn this car around right now, I’m not telling you one more damn thing about Pete MacGregor.”

The tires squealed as he jammed the brake to the floor and steered to the side of the street. “Then get out. I’ll find this Escobar on my own.”

“I’ll call him. I’ll warn him about you.”

His demeanor turned icy again. “You wouldn’t.”

Of course she wouldn’t. People should suffer the consequences of their actions, which meant Pete MacGregor should spend the rest of his life in prison…or die. She would never help a killer escape justice.

But while Logan might suspect that, he didn’t know it.

“Are you sure of that?” she asked. “Sure enough to put me out here? Sure enough to risk blowing your best chance at finding MacGregor?”

It took every bit of strength she possessed not to squirm under the intensity of his stare. Just as she’d been earlier, he was about ninety-nine percent certain she was bluffing, but that one percent worried him. He wasn’t going to call her bluff. Not this time.

An instant after she reached that conclusion, he glanced in the rearview mirror, then peeled out in a tight turn that left skid marks on the road and drove back through town to the motel. Pulling up in front of the room she pointed out, he scowled at her. “Five minutes.”

Smiling sweetly, she reached across, cut off the engine and snagged the keys before he began to guess what she was doing. She hopped out of the car, slid them into her jeans pocket, then headed toward the room.

She was hastily stuffing clothes into the suitcase open on the bed when he appeared in the open door. She’d come for four days this trip and had brought enough clothes for seven. What could she say? She liked being prepared.

He didn’t cross the threshold but stood smack center in the doorway and watched silently. No doubt he had some mental clock counting down and he would smugly let her know when five minutes had passed. She fully intended to be done before then.

After cramming everything into the suitcase that had come out of it, she zipped it, then grabbed a tote and went into the cramped bathroom, scooping makeup and toiletries inside. With that bag over one shoulder, she retrieved her laptop from the bottom dresser drawer and slung the strap over the other shoulder, then hefted the suitcase from the bed. A glance at the bedside clock showed she had seconds to spare.

“I’m ready,” she announced.

Finally Logan moved out of the doorway, but not to head for his car, as she expected. Instead he approached the bed, nudged the rumpled covers back with one booted toe, then bent to retrieve something from the floor. Bailey looked at the scrap of coral lace dangling from his finger and told herself she wouldn’t be embarrassed. Lingerie was a fact of life. He’d probably seen as much of it as she had. She wouldn’t snatch the tiny filmy panties away from him and hide them as if doing so could erase them from existence.

She took the garment from him in a calm, controlled manner, stuffed them in an outside pocket of the suitcase, then pushed past him with her load to head for the door.

“And here I would have figured you for white cotton,” he murmured behind her.

She pretended not to hear.

She strode to the rear of the car, fished out the keys and unlocked the trunk, then blinked. It was quite possibly the neatest car trunk she’d ever seen—spare tire out of the way, tool kit snugged into a corner, duffle bag tucked into another corner and gun cases neatly side by—

Gun cases. Two obviously held pistols; the other two were for longer guns. He didn’t intend to take any chances with MacGregor. And why should he? The man was a murderer. If he could kill that sweet old couple for nothing, he wouldn’t think twice about killing someone like Logan, who presented far more of a threat to him.

But logic aside, the weapons made her uncomfortable. Sure, she carried a gun—two of them at the moment—but strictly for self-defense. She’d never shot anyone and never would unless there was absolutely no other choice. But going looking for someone armed to the teeth—that was more like hunting, tracking prey, making the kill.

A dark hand suddenly appeared in her line of sight as Logan lifted her suitcase into the trunk, settling it next to the gun cases. He slid the tote bag from her shoulder and fitted it into the space next to it, then made room for the laptop case. Finally he closed the trunk, then held out his hand for the keys.

She started to hand them over, then hesitated. “You are planning to turn MacGregor over to the authorities when you find him, aren’t you?”

For a long time he gazed at her, but thanks to those damn glasses, she couldn’t see anything but a dim reflection of herself. Not that it mattered—even if she’d been looking directly into his eyes, she still wouldn’t have seen anything he didn’t want her to see. Finally his mouth relaxed from its grim set long enough to form an answer. “I’m not a cold-blooded murderer.”

Relief eased over her. She dropped the key ring in his palm, then opened the passenger door, sliding inside. The sun-warmed leather of the seat went a long way toward easing the chill the guns had created inside her. He’d served honorably in the Army and received commendations for his heroic actions in the war. Heavens, he was Brady’s brother. Of course he wasn’t a murderer.

But he also blamed himself for the deaths of two people he’d loved dearly. He wanted justice, needed vengeance. Even she, with no emotional involvement in the case, could make the argument that killing Pete MacGregor where he stood was indeed justice.

But it was pointless to worry about his intentions now. Before he could even be faced with the choice, they had to find MacGregor. She had to keep him from ditching her or from disappearing before he’d kept his end of the bargain. Those were her worries.

MacGregor was his.

Wind rushed through the car, keeping the temperature comfortable even though they were driving directly into the setting sun. Logan’s skin felt raw, as if the slightest touch might send sensations skittering all the way to his brain, and his throat was parched. If he was alone, he would have music blasting from the CD player, adding its own vibrations to those already supplied by the engine and the road, but with Bailey sitting there all prim and pissy, he figured adding music would only get him more complaints.

She hadn’t spoken since that question as they’d stood at the back of the car. You are planning to turn MacGregor over to the authorities when you find him, aren’t you? Fair question. A lie for an answer. He intended to kill Mac—maybe painfully, maybe slowly or maybe he would just put a bullet in his brain and be done with it. Whatever his choice, the bastard would never hurt anyone again when Logan was finished with him.

And then…then he had no clue what he’d do. The past year had turned his life upside down. He’d lost the only two people who mattered, had given up his career to track down their killer, had turned his life over to that obsession. Once it was over, what reason would he have to live? What would he do? Where would he go?

Not to Oklahoma. Not to Brady and his kids.

He’d never imagined his brother having kids. Whenever he thought of Brady, it was always in the past, as if he’d never aged beyond the seventeen he was when Logan left home. His parents had frozen at the point in his memories, as well. As if they had all died and only Logan had survived.

He couldn’t have been so lucky.

They’d reached Dallas in time for evening rush hour. Now, with the major part of the city behind them, he exited the freeway and pulled into the parking lot of a motel that advertised clean rooms and low rates. There was a gas station on one side, a burger place on the other. What more could they ask for?

“We’re stopping?” Bailey asked when he cut the engine under the awning that shaded the motel entrance.

“I’m tired.”

“But I can dr—” She broke off, no doubt remembering their earlier discussion. “Get one room.”

He opened his mouth to make a smart-ass remark, but she cut him off. “With two beds.”

“Aw, damn. And here I was hoping…”

She didn’t even grace that with a scowl.

Inside the lobby the cute clerk came on to him even though she had a good view of Bailey waiting in the car. He was accustomed to that, though it had been a long time since he’d taken anyone up on her offer. He would get interested in sex again sometime. He just didn’t care about it now.

She gave them a first-floor room at the back, away from the highway noise. After getting only a few hours’ sleep the night before, then dealing with Bailey today, he was so damn tired that even the Texas Motor Speedway couldn’t keep him awake.

They left their bags in the room—all three of hers plus his duffle—then at his suggestion, walked next door to the burger restaurant. After standing in line to place their order, they found a table away from the plate glass windows that radiated heat from the sun and sat down to wait for the pimply kid behind the counter to call their number.

On the drive it had been easy not to talk—too much noise through the open windows. Here in the relative peace of a restaurant where business was slow, he could have just as easily remained silent. When he chose, he was good at it. This time he didn’t choose.

“You don’t sound like you’re from Memphis.”

Bailey was playing with the paper wrapper she’d stripped from her drinking straw, flattening it between her fingers, then folding it into neat patterns. At his comment, she glanced up, then crumpled the paper and tossed it onto the table. “I’m not. I grew up in Kansas.”

“The great flat state.” He didn’t wait for agreement or argument. “How’d you end up in Tennessee?”

“I had just graduated from college and spent the summer before law school working for a law firm. I liked the P.I.s they contracted with and thought their job seemed a lot more interesting than the lawyers’. So I forgot about law school, put in some applications and got hired in Memphis.”

“That must have thrilled Mom and Dad.”

“Actually Mom didn’t care either way. She just wanted me to be happy. And my father…was dead. He just would have wanted me to be happy, too.”

He’d heard some parents were like that. If pressed, he would have said that Jim and Rita had just wanted him for their own entertainment. Neither of them had had a paternal bone in their bodies, or if they had, it had long since been broken, the way they’d broken more than a few of his bones. Truthfully, though, Brady had gotten most of the fractures. It had taken them a while to realize that there were plenty of ways to inflict pain without risking the kind of injury that attracted the attention of the authorities.

He wondered idly who they’d taken their rage out on once Brady had left home. It was probably too much to hope that it had been each other.