Against the Wind (17 page)

“She said you should call her, Jimmy. She says she'll listen to what you have to say.”

He just nodded, his expression solemn. “Thank you,” was all he said.

Then Gran called, wanting to know how Sarah would feel about letting Holly spend a few days with her in Sheep River.

“I'm not getting any younger, you know,” Gran said. “And the two of us…well, we've never really had a chance to get to know each other.”

Sarah adjusted the phone against her ear, the idea gaining momentum as it rolled around in her head. The threat from Kozak was past and she could certainly use a little time to herself. Raising a daughter was a full-time job. Except for the few hours she spent in town writing articles for the newspaper, she rarely had time alone.

And she could go to Jackson, accept his blatant if
unspoken invitation. Sarah ignored a little tremor of heat and concentrated on her phone call.

“Are you sure you're feeling well enough, Gran? A child can be a heckuva lot of work.”

“I'm not so old I don't remember what it's like to raise a child. And I feel just fine. So what do you say?”

Sarah smiled into the phone. “I know she'd love to come for a visit. I'll bring her over in the morning.”

And she had been right. When she mentioned the idea to Holly, it was clear her daughter wanted very badly to go.

“Can I, Mom? Please?” Holly jumped up and down, her blond ponytail bobbing. “I never had a real grandma before.”

“She's actually your great-grandmother—my mother's mother.”

“Cool! I promise I won't be any trouble.”

“I'm sure you'll be a good girl and do exactly what your gran tells you.”

“I will, I promise.”

They packed that night. Early the next morning as Holly finished dressing, Sarah summoned her courage and stepped out into the warm July morning. Jackson stood in front of the barn talking to Jimmy. The moment he saw her walking toward him, he turned and started her way. His worn jeans clung to those long sinewy legs and gently cupped the impressive bulge of his sex. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and she could see the powerful muscles in his forearms.

A little sliver of desire snaked through her, giving her the courage she needed to do what she had come for.

“Good morning,” he said as he reached her, shoving his hat back on his head.

“Yes, it is.” She smiled up at him. “It's beautiful.” She flicked a glance toward the house. “I'm driving Holly over to my grandmother's place this morning. She's going to stay for a couple of days. I was wondering…hoping you might come over for dinner tonight. I mean…I owe you at least that much.”

She couldn't miss the hunger that burned in those dark eyes. “I'd love to come. What time?”

“I know you start work early. How about six o'clock?”

“Perfect,” he said, his eyes still on her face.

“All right, then.” For a couple of seconds neither of them moved. Sarah felt a blush creeping into her cheeks, turned and started walking briskly back to the cottage. Already her heart was pounding and all he had done was agree to her supper invitation.

The man could make her body feel hot just by looking at her.

She should have been worried. And she would be—later. For the next few days, she was simply going to enjoy being a woman. An image of Andrew flashed into her head, but Sarah firmly pushed it away. Andrew was dead. Her life was her own now.

A
fter a drive through the glorious Wyoming countryside, Sarah left Holly at her grandmother's house.

“If you need anything,” she said to the slightly bent, silver-haired woman, “just call me. You've got my numbers.”

“Stop worrying,” Gran said. “Holly and I will be just fine. Besides, you deserve a little time to yourself.”

Which she truly believed, but of course, now that it was time to actually leave Holly behind, she worried.

Still, her decision was made, and she wanted to give the two people she loved most in the world this special time together.

On the way back to town, she stopped at the market to pick up the groceries she would need for tonight's supper, along with a bottle of Chianti to go with the Parmesan chicken she planned to serve. As she climbed back into the truck, a jolt of excitement went through
her. She was seeing Jackson tonight! They would make love and it would be wonderful!

From the store, she drove to her office, which was empty with Mike out on a story and Myra taking her afternoon break.

Sitting behind her desk, Sarah grinned as she opened the word file on her computer and reread the humorous article she had been working on—the mostly true story of Homer the Rebellious Squirrel, the bane of the Wind Canyon Fire Department.

Homer had been stashing pinecones in the tailpipe of a big RV near his tree. When the owner started the engine, the cones caught on fire. The exhaust spit flaming pinecones into the dry grass and set small fires all over the area.

Fortunately, the fire trucks arrived in time to put out the burning grass and keep the fire from spreading. No harm was done and Homer escaped to the safety of his tree.

Sarah leaned back, smiling, pleased with the finished article. She printed it and put it on Smiley's desk, then glanced up at the sound of the bell ringing above the door. A man walked in and her chest squeezed so hard no air could get into her lungs. For a minute she thought she might faint. The only sound she could hear was the ringing in her ears.

She knew the man with the straight brown hair, bad complexion, and nose that spread out as if it might have been broken. Still, if it weren't for his hard-as-nails, I-hate-the-world attitude, Detective Ed Mercer might have been in a strange way attractive.

Today he was dressed in khaki pants and a yellow Izod shirt. Usually he wore cheap suits and faux leather
loafers. After Andrew's murder, Detective Mercer of the Los Angeles Police Department had given her nothing but trouble.

He sauntered past the counter wearing the same smug expression he had worn the last time she had seen him, walked over to her desk and propped his hip against the edge.

“Hello, Sarah.”

Her mouth went paper dry. She swallowed, managed to make her voice work. “Detective Mercer. You're…you're a long way from home. What are you doing in Wind Canyon?”

She had never liked Mercer and suspected the feeling was mutual. During the murder investigation, one of the other detectives had told her Mercer was recently divorced and on a hate-all-women jag that seemed to have no end.

“I came here to talk to you. I think we have some unfinished business.”

She glanced around, heard Myra on her way back from lunch coming in through the back door and quickly stood up from her desk. “We can talk in the conference room.” Which was about the size of a large broom closet but was a place they wouldn't be overheard.

He followed her down the hall, walked in behind her and firmly closed the door.

Summoning every ounce of her composure, Sarah turned to face him. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

“I think you know why I'm here. I told you when you left L.A. you hadn't seen the last of me.”

He'd said he wouldn't be done with her until the de
tails of the case had been tied up. She had tried not to worry about what that meant.

“So you're here because of Andrew?”

“That's right.”

“I thought the investigation was over.”

“It won't be over until we find the person who murdered your husband.”

“But I thought…” She swallowed, clamped down on an urge to run out of the room and just keep going. “Lieutenant Delaney said he was sure it was someone Andrew was in business with or someone he owed money.”

She didn't mention Kozak. She didn't know how much the police knew about her husband's blackmail schemes, and she didn't want to be connected in any way to Martin Kozak's arrest.

“Come on, Sarah. We both know the truth. Why don't you make it easy on all of us and admit you were the one who shot him.”

Her stomach contracted so sharply she thought she was going to be sick. No longer sure her legs would hold her up, she sat down in one of the chairs around the small Formica-topped table in the middle of the room.

“What…what are you talking about?” But Mercer had made a similar accusation before.

“The spouse is always the most likely suspect,”
he had said.
“In your case, Sarah, you had more motive than most.”

He might have officially accused her, but his boss, Lieutenant Tom Delaney, had been sure Mercer was looking in the wrong direction.

“Hollister had a dozen enemies. His shady business
dealings alone were enough to get him killed—to say nothing of the big boys he owed money to in Vegas. In Hollister's case, his wife would have had to stand in line to get a shot at him.”

Mercer's voice drew her out of the past. “Let's take a look at the facts,” he said as he pulled out a chair, spun it around and straddled it backward. “You were there the night he was murdered. You said that when you left he was still alive, that someone came in and shot him after you were gone, but who's to say you didn't shoot him and
then
leave?”

Sarah said nothing. Her insides were shaking. She had been so sure the police were satisfied the murder had nothing to do with her.

“Then there's your motive,” he went on. “You found out Andrew had a girlfriend and was buying her expensive gifts. You knew he was seeing Mitzy Bender and you didn't like it.”

She stared at him in amazement. “You think I was jealous of Andrew?”

He studied her face, saw the revulsion she didn't bother to hide. “So maybe the girl wasn't the reason. Maybe it was the money.”

“What money? Andrew left me buried in debt.”

“True enough. And that's what our investigation discovered. But since you left, I dug up a little tidbit we missed.”

She frowned. “I told you—there wasn't any money.”

“No, there wasn't. But at the time, you didn't know that. Hollister had a big fat life insurance policy—two million, to be exact—and you were the beneficiary. You
didn't find out he hadn't paid the premiums until he was already dead. By then it was too late.”

Beneath the table, her legs shook. “You're wrong.”

“Am I?”

“If…if you really believed I was the one who killed him, why did you wait until now?”

“I always figured you were the one who did it. I tried to tell myself I was wrong, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. And the idea of you getting away with murder…well, that just doesn't set well with me.”

Sarah said nothing.

“And then just the other day, I ran across this other little loose end…”

She swallowed, hoped her face wasn't as pale as it felt. “What…what loose end?”

“Your daughter's ballet class. It wasn't over till eight o'clock that night. I guess somehow that information got overlooked. You were there to pick her up when the class finished, just like you said. But where were you between six—when you said you left the house—and eight, when you picked her up?”

“Holly's ballet class is in Westwood. I had to drive there. I—I got stuck in traffic. I told the police that at the time.”

“Yes, you did. So the fact is you don't really have an alibi for the time of the shooting, which the coroner figures was somewhere between six and eight.”

If she could have made her voice work, she might have said something. As it was, she didn't dare.

“There's only one thing missing,” he said.

She worked up a shot of courage. “What's that, Detective?”

“The gun. I still haven't figured out how you got hold of a thirty-eight caliber revolver, or how you got rid of it.”

“I don't own a gun. I never have.”

“But you know how to shoot one, don't you, Sarah? A Wyoming girl? Raised out here in the Wild, Wild West?”

Sarah made no reply. She knew how to shoot. Her dad had taught her. They'd had fun target practicing and she had become a very good shot.

Mercer got up from his chair. “Don't worry, though. In time, I'll figure it out. Once I do, you can bet you'll be seeing me again.”

Sarah felt sick to her stomach. “I didn't shoot my husband.”

Mercer just smiled. “I guess we'll just have to wait and see.” He turned and started for the door. “In the meantime, I'm here on vacation. I've never been to Yellowstone Park. Think I'll drive on up and take a look.”

Sarah didn't stand up as Mercer opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Her legs were shaking too badly. She wasn't sure how long she stayed in the room, but she didn't make an effort to move out of her chair until Mike Stevens knocked, then opened the door.

“Sarah. I thought you'd gone home.”

She summoned a little fortitude and forced herself to her feet. “I was just on my way out.”

“Are you all right? You look a little pale.”

She managed a shaky nod. “I'm fine.” Moving past him out the door, she made her way along the hallway to her desk, picked up her purse and started to leave.

“Will you be in tomorrow?” Mike asked.

She nodded. “I—I think so. I'll see you then.” Hurriedly she pulled open the door. All she could think of was reaching the safety of her home, the safety of Raintree Ranch.

She stepped out onto the boardwalk and a wave of nausea hit her. She wasn't safe at the ranch. She wasn't safe anywhere.

From the moment a bullet had pierced Andrew's heart, she had never been truly safe.

 

Jackson knocked on the door to Sarah's cottage at exactly 6:00 p.m. As he stood there waiting, a bottle of good red Napa Valley wine in his hand, he rubbed the toes of his boots on the back of each leg to bring up the shine and straightened the collar of his white Western shirt.

He was really looking forward to the evening, looking forward to a supper Sarah cooked especially for him, looking forward to making love to her for most of the night.

His mouth edged up. He wasn't a fool. Sarah might keep him at arm's length but she wanted him. He could see it in those clear blue eyes whenever she looked at him.

And, by damn, he wanted her.

The door swung open and Sarah's eyes widened. “Jackson! Oh, my God, is it six o'clock already? I sat down for a couple of minutes. I guess I must have fallen asleep. I—I meant to call you. Something's come up and—”

He walked into the house, over to the round oak dining table, and set down the bottle of wine. He turned to face her. “What's going on, Sarah?”

She swallowed, glanced away. “Nothing. I just…I fell asleep and I didn't get supper ready, that's all.”

“Fine. I'll do the cooking.” He turned and started into the kitchen. Sarah caught up with him and grabbed hold of his arm. She looked as though she wanted to say something but didn't quite know how.

“You…you can cook?”

“I didn't always have a housekeeper. In Houston, I had to take care of myself. And I like good food.”

He opened the refrigerator door and looked inside, spotted the package of chicken breasts she had apparently meant to cook, took it out and set it on the counter.

“I just…I guess I'm not used to Holly being gone. It would be better if we made supper another night.”

He opened the package. “I'm hungry. You promised to feed me. Since I sent Livvy home early and we both have to eat, we might as well eat together.” He washed the chicken then started digging around, pulling out pots and pans. He knew the little kitchen, since he had furnished the place himself.

“You're staying—is that it?”

He looked at her. “Yup.”

“You're not leaving me any choice?”

“Nope.”

She blew out a breath and some of the tension in her shoulders seemed to ease. “Well, okay, then.” Stepping up beside him, she opened the fridge and took out a head of lettuce, along with tomatoes and the rest of the fixings for a salad. “I thought Parmesan chicken breasts and a salad with balsamic vinaigrette and blue cheese crumbles.”

He smiled. “Perfect.” The lady was definitely gun-
shy. After her no-good husband, she still had a deep distrust of men, and yet he sensed a need in her. He thought that secretly she was glad he was staying.

Not nearly as glad as he was.

Sarah held up a bottle of Chianti. “I bought this at the market. Shall I open it?”

“I brought a bottle, too. I guess we won't run out.”

Sarah retrieved the bottle he had brought and set it on the counter, then opened the Chianti and poured each of them a glass. They made supper together, working jointly at the task surprisingly well. He talked about his trip up to the top of the mountain that morning to check on the loggers, and she told him about the article she had written about the squirrel. Both of them laughed at that.

Jackson ignored the little cloud that seemed to settle over her when she finished. Something was wrong but he wasn't about to press her. At least not yet.

The aroma of tomato sauce, oregano, garlic and vinegar filled the kitchen. Sarah tossed the salad and set the table, and they filled their plates and carried them into the dining area at the end of the living room.