Her Heart-Stealing Cowboys [Hellfire Ranch 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (6 page)

Tag dug into his pocket then withdrew a large key ring. “My car is right over there.” He pressed a button on the fob and the lights on a low-slung, yellow Charger flashed. He set her bags down then unlocked the trunk. Inside she caught a glimpse of an oblong, gray box secured to the left side.

“What’s that?”

He shoved her big suitcase as far into the trunk as it would go. “Gun safe.”

She nodded. That made sense, him being the sheriff and all.

He put the small bag in the trunk. “I don’t think the rest are going to fit.” He stared at the other two suitcases. “Just how long do you think this is going to take?”

She shrugged. “That depends.”

He sighed and picked one up then opened the passenger door. He bent over and half-disappeared into the car. She couldn’t help but study his long legs and well-shaped butt. His jeans were light and cupped him with an old familiarity. Like he’d worn them for years.

They looked good on him.

“If you’re done ogling me, can I have your last bag?”

Rebecca silently handed it over and wondered if they had earthquakes in Texas.
Preferably one large enough to split the ground and swallow me whole.

She really should just climb back into Liam’s plane and return to Boston.

Tag straightened up and draped his arm on the roof of the car. “Thinking about running?”

Her eyes widened. “No,” she snapped. “I don’t run. From anything.”

He didn’t offer any snappy comeback but raked her with an intense stare. She lifted her chin and met his scrutiny with every bit of poise instilled in her body. Finally he gave a tight, single nod.

“Good. Get in.”

She clambered into the car and slammed the door shut. All the air leached from her lungs at the stark heat.

Tag folded himself into the car. She noted how his blond head nearly grazed the metal jamb but didn’t. He was obviously used to fitting his tall length to the car.

“Open your door,” he said and twisted the key in the ignition.

Hot air blew into her face and she gasped again.
How do they stand this inferno?

Tag reached across her lap and shoved the door open. The relief was immediate but her thighs tingled from his brief touch.

“Good rule of thumb in the middle of Texas summer—keep your doors open when you first start the car. It helps circulate the air. Course we’re just in May so this is pretty mild.”

“I’ll keep that in mind in the unlikely event I ever return during summer.”

“Depends on what?”

Rebecca blinked at the sudden turn in conversation. His expression had gone from teasing to serious with no warning.

She reached for the seatbelt and winced as the metal tab burned her palm. “How long it takes will depend on several things. Mostly, whether or not you’re actually charged in the crime. The prisoner was just killed last night, but Boone said the circumstantial evidence pointing toward you was pretty hefty.”

Boone’s nine a.m. phone call had been terse and filled with anger. He’d asked her to come and see what she could do in the event Tag was charged with the murder of his prisoner. After she called Deidre and explained the situation, she’d showered and hopped a ten-a.m. plane bound for Texas. Six hours later and she was melting in the sun and squirming under the intense gaze of Sheriff Taggart Cain. She hadn’t expected him to be so damn handsome.

Not that it matters. If he’s guilty, I won’t defend him.

Tag shut his door and she followed suit. The thrum of the idling engine competed with the rush of the air conditioner. He reached out to turn down the A/C and the noise level lowered.

Rebecca studied him. Fine lines furrowed his mouth and his skin held a slight gray pallor. Smudges of purple-black pooled beneath his eyes.

“Sheriff Cain, have you been charged?”

“No.”

His clipped answer didn’t fill her with a whole lot of optimism. “Are you on administrative leave? Desk duty? Removed from your job in any capacity?”

He pulled a pair of aviator sunglasses from his shirt pocket and slipped them on. He belted himself in and grabbed the stick shift. “No, counselor. I’m still the sheriff of Edwards County.”

The car nosed out of the parking space and away from the one-runway airport with the smoothness of hundred-year-old Scotch.

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

She twisted in her seat. “I mean it’s good because you have access to all sorts of investigative materials. The kind of stuff that will help your defense should it come to that.”

His jaw tightened. “I sure as hell hope it doesn’t.”

Rebecca waited for his proclamation of innocence. She frowned when he didn’t offer it. He had her so off balance she hadn’t had a chance to really tap into her vibe of him. Usually when she met with a potential client she could easily pinpoint their innocence or guilt, regardless of what they claimed.

Taggart Cain was proving to be a puzzle. A ripple of excitement hit her and she tamped it back with ruthless precision. Challenges were all good and fine, but she suspected the sheriff would be uncrackable.

She didn’t like going up against anything she couldn’t win.

“Boone says you’re the best there is.”

Rebecca twined a lock of hair around her finger. “He’s prone to exaggeration.”

“Old Stoneface?” He sounded shocked.

“Stoneface? Why on earth do you call him that?”

“Because the man is as unreadable as his proverbial stoic ancestors. You’ve heard the expression you can’t get blood from a turnip?”

“Of course.”

“Well, you can’t get shit out of Boone.”

Rebecca laughed and Tag’s answering smile helped ease some of her tension. She wanted to ask him about the crime and evidence collected so far but preferred a more controlled setting. She wanted to be someplace quiet and organized. Someplace where she was in charge.

“Where are we going?”

He checked the rearview mirror before his gaze flicked to her. “Boone said you have a room at the Calico Queen.”

“Yes, that sounds right.”

He nodded. “That’s where we’re headed then. You hungry?”

She checked her slim gold watch and adjusted the time back an hour. “It’s after four. I had an English muffin for breakfast.”

“Nothing since then?”

She shook her head. “I hate eating when I fly. Turbulence is not good for the stomach.” She shuddered delicately. “I’m glad, too. Flying into Austin was pretty uneventful, but that tiny plane of Liam’s…”

His smile was brief. “Fine. After we get you checked in, we can go over to the Tin Star. I need to give blood anyway.”

Her stomach rumbled and gurgled. She flattened a palm over her tummy. “Sorry. I guess talking about eating made it wake up. Tin Star is a strange name for a medical facility.”

His chuckle was as deep and inviting as his voice. “The Tin Star is the finest restaurant in Freedom, Miss Lyons. There’s a blood drive going on right now and I promised Wade Merritt I would donate.”

“Oh. That makes sense. I think.” Immediate visions of all sorts of health code violations hit her. Queasiness reared its head. “Are they, uh, doing the donations
in
the restaurant?”

Even behind his mirrored glasses his look was disbelieving. “We’re not backwoods idiots, ma’am.” His tone turned chilly. “We do know about protocol, sterility, and viable donations.”

Rebecca cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to offend you. I just had a sudden vision of the chef flipping burgers with one hand and getting a needle jabbed in the other.”

She infused as much jocularity into her tone as possible in hopes of lightening the mood.

Instead Tag’s face went ashen.

“Uh, Sheriff? You all right?”

“Fine,” he rasped. “Just dandy.”

She didn’t believe him for a second. “Right. If you clench your jaw any tighter, I’m pretty sure you’re going to bust a tooth.”

His muscles relaxed. “So I’ve heard.” He shuddered lightly. “I just don’t like needles.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened and she rubbed at her nose to hide her sudden smile. “I see.”

“Uh-huh.”

She cast around for a different subject. “What kind of food do they have at the Tin Star?”

“All sorts. Maljib has a great menu.”

“Maljib? That’s an interesting name.”

“Yep. He’s from Boston, too. The Queen is just a little bit up this road. It’s set back a good ways from anything else except the highway.”

Tag downshifted and pulled off the road into the parking lot of a majestic white building that looked more like a scattered set of mini Southern Plantations than a hotel. Blue tarp covered the far side of one of the buildings. “Welcome to the Calico Queen.”

She studied the tarp. “What happened over there?”

“Bomb.”

Her nerves rattled. “Uh, did you say bomb?”

Tag parked in front of a low-slung, rambling structure that seemed out of sync with the rest of the place. It looked like an old antebellum mansion that hadn’t seen a decent coat of paint since the original was slathered on. A neon red vacancy sign flashed in a large picture window. A blue and white placard proclaimed the hotel open.

“It really was just a grenade. Don’t worry, the doer got caught.” He opened his door then half turned and gave her a devilish grin. “In fact, the doer is the vic.” He unfolded himself from the car before she could respond. He loped around the hood and opened her door with a gallant bow.

The door next to the picture window opened and a slight man wearing a black suit, stiff bow tie, and shiny dress shoes appeared. His white hair had been slicked back to show a prominent forehead dotted with age spots and furrowed with wrinkles. His pencil-thin mustache was a darker shade of gray.

Behind his wire spectacles, he regarded her with surprisingly sharp blue eyes.

“Miss Lyons, I presume?”

She smiled at the clipped British accent. “Mr. Whitcombe. I’m delighted to meet you. Thank you for putting me up in your lovely establishment.”

Whitcombe blinked a few times and the grooves around his mouth melted into a wide smile. He stepped forward and took her elbow. He patted her forearm as he steered her into the office.

“Oh, my dear. I am delighted to host you. I do fear it’s been a while since I’ve had anyone quite as refined and important as yourself.”

She stilled. “I’m not so important, Mr. Whitcombe. Merely a visitor.”

“Oh, but you are!” he exclaimed. “You’re going to ensure our sheriff here is vindicated in this ridiculous charge. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“For God’s sake, Whitty,” Tag muttered.

Rebecca couldn’t disguise her disbelief. The sheriff gave off waves of power and control. She knew he would not hesitate to use those traits should the need arise. Besides, she figured a sheriff afraid to hurt someone would be an ineffective crime deterrent.

Whitcombe looked from one to the other. “Okay, so you would. And you have. But I know you didn’t kill that Fischer man. Miss Lyons, I’ll need your driver’s license and a credit card for incidentals.”

It took her a moment to hear his last sentence. She was too bemused by his ardent and vocal support of the sheriff. Why? Was the hotel manager just blindly supportive? Or did he know something that would help Tag’s case?

She slanted a look at the man in question and decided to talk to Whitcombe privately later. She pulled out her wallet and slid the required cards across the wooden counter top.

“Did you know Mr. Fischer?” she asked.

“No,” Whitcombe said. “Never saw him before.”

“He didn’t stay here?”

Whitcombe sniffed. “Certainly not. I do not allow riffraff to stay in this establishment. We have very high standards here, Miss Lyons. You shan’t need to worry over any kind of shenanigans.”

She bit her lip to smother a smile even as she wanted to point out the blue tarp, evidence of past “shenanigans.” Rebecca successfully squashed the urge. Good breeding and manners helped her win over temptation.

For once.

While Whitcombe typed her information in, she took a good look around. The office had obviously been built long before the buildings behind it, but the charm had been remodeled right out of it. She could have been standing in any hotel lobby across the country. A nondescript orange-and-brown couch rested beneath the picture window with matching armchairs flanking it. A small table with magazines featuring Texas attractions stood in the corner and next to it teetered a wire rack stuffed with dozens of sightseeing brochures. Pictures of steamboats, cowboys, saloons, and dancehall girls covered the walls.

A large sepia print hung behind the counter and she leaned forward to study it closer.

“That’s Miss Apple Binswain. She was Minerva’s great-great-grandmother. She owned the Queen back in 1873 just as the town formed. It used to be a brothel but we’re past that now.”

Rebecca blinked a couple of times. “A brothel? As in a…”

Whitcombe waved his hands. “Yes, yes, a house of ill repute. I dare say it’s ancient history and truth be told it wasn’t all that bad back then.” Whitcombe beamed up at the picture. “Quite a woman was Miss Binswain. Miss Apple, that is. Miss Minerva would roll over in her grave if you confused the two of them.” He smiled and handed her cards back. “Miss Apple’s view on life and morals was quite a bit less rigid than Miss Minerva’s.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Truth be told, Miss Minerva was more frigid than a Popsicle. Do you know she tried to have the Alfons Huber memorial torn down because she found out he’d been married twice?”

Rebecca looked at Tag with slightly wild eyes. He just shook his head.

“Why no, I didn’t know that. May I have my key?”

“Of course.” He turned back to his computer. “Mr. Reynolds—he’s a distant ancestor of Huber’s—is in town to research his famous kinsman. Well, I was just telling him about Minerva and her odd notions. I mean, I know we British can be cold fish, but she was practically arctic.” Whitcombe pressed a button and the printer next to him churned and beeped. He plucked a yellow sheet of paper off and handed it to her along with a pen. “Sign here, please. You’re in room 230. That’s on the opposite side of the bombed room. Unfortunately, I did have to situate you rather close to the wedding party.” A pained look crossed Whitcombe’s face. “The sheriff can tell you he has been to various locations more than once to settle them down. They’re good kids, just a bit noisy. If they get loud, please give me a call.”