Roped (Gail McCarthy Mysteries) (19 page)

"Earl's wife turned a good one for him; too bad Earl missed it." A laugh. "Yep, old Earl's going to be washing dishes tonight."

The talk went on as the bar got more and more crowded. The dance floor was full of couples. I ordered another beer and saw Charles and Pat Domini come in the door. Charles looked angry; Pat looked bored. I felt more than saw Glen's body straighten. But Charles and Pat walked to the other end of the bar.

The band started "Rockytop" and Tim pulled Lisa out on the dance floor. I watched them dance while Glen told Lonny about a black gelding somebody had for sale as a heel horse. "He's all right," Glen said, "but he's at least twelve, and probably fourteen. How many years can you expect to get out of him?"

Lisa and Tim had danced together a lot. They moved smoothly in the in-and-out step of Western swing, twisting and turning without effort in the slick, complicated moves. Tim clowned, putting in extra flourishes, his eyes alight with fun. Tim had no inhibitions.

Most of the room was watching them dance. When the song ended, they got a round of applause. Lisa walked back toward us, looking half-embarrassed. Tim sauntered, happy and amused, turning to holler, "Stand on it!" to the guitar player, who had started another song. I laughed.

We all had a beer. I watched people dance, listened to a lot of bullshit about rope horses, felt the party going on around me. The band started "The Auctioneer's Song."

"Do you want to dance?" Lonny asked me.

I smiled and took his hand, and we walked out on the dance floor. Started the smooth in-and-out step, moving with the music. Lonny twirled me and spun me and swung me. I had glimpses of his face, flashes of his eyes laughing with pleasure. Back and forth, in and out, always in time. The lights and faces of the barroom blended with the music, and there was only the pure fun of this one thing and Lonny's eyes, as alive and whole-hearted as any eyes in the world.

The band finished "The Auctioneer's Song" in the classic sped-up whirl, and Lonny and I danced it out, swinging and stepping at top speed. When it ended with the final "Sold that hog for a twenty-dollar bill," he bent me back over his leg and I gave myself to the move, my body arching, my hair almost brushing the floor. Lonny lifted me up with the last chord and looked into my face, smiling, his hands around my waist, then hugged me.

It was the most natural thing in the world, a friendly hug, but it hit me like a sledgehammer. His body fit mine intimately, automatically, my arms wrapped easily around his shoulders, my breasts pressed against his chest. A rush of desire crashed through me like a wave.

Lonny looked me in the eyes. I could smell his scent, as individual as personality. Our eyes stayed steady. I couldn't hide the hunger in mine. Lonny's expression was unreadable.

He took his hands off my waist. Put one arm casually around my shoulders. Walked me off the floor. I stopped him before we reached the bar. "Lonny," I said.

He didn't need telling twice. I said good-bye to Lisa and told her I'd be back in the morning, and Lonny and I were out the door. Less than an hour later we were in his bed.

It felt great, better than I could have imagined. My body flared with longing and pleasure; each touch, from the first kiss to the last surge, seemed electrically charged. When at last we lay next to each other, naked and wet, exhausted and complete, Lonny said gently, "I love you."

NINETEEN

The rigs started pulling into Glen's parking lot at eight the next morning. Everyone looked a little more sullen and a lot less awake than they had yesterday.

"I think these guys are victims of overparty." Lisa smiled at me as she said it. We were saddling our horses out at the barn, and she, at least, looked wide awake.

"Where's Tim?" I asked.

"Who knows. I left the bar when Dad did. Tim stayed." Lisa looked over my shoulder and laughed. "There he is now. I wonder who he went home with."

Tim drove Sixball up to the barn and parked right in front of us. We both watched him get out. He looked a little crumpled and a lot worse for wear, but he ambled toward us unhurriedly, grinning his lazy grin. "Huh?" he said.

I scanned the arriving crowd, noting that Charles Domini was, once again, accompanying Pat, though he wasn't roping. No sign of Sonny Santos anywhere, unless he was hiding in some camper.

"The same folks as yesterday, it looks like?" I said inquiringly at Lisa.

"Except ..." She pointed.

Sitting at one of the picnic tables under the big oak were Susan Slater and her companion. A closer inspection revealed their protest signs lying at their feet.

"They weren't here yesterday," I commented.

"And everything went just fine," Lisa said significantly. "Keep an eye on them, Gail."

I shook my head at her. "You keep a good eye on Glen. That's what counts. I'm a long way from convinced that Susan's responsible for your accidents."

Lisa didn't say a word, just swung on Chester and rode off. I climbed on Gunner and followed her.

The roping continued as planned. The two brothers from Watsonville missed their first steer, as I'd half-suspected they would. Sitting second was too much pressure at their level of experience. Then Lonny missed the second steer for Wes Goodwin and put the two of them out. Lonny was pretty unhappy about it, which I more than understood. He had drawn a difficult steer, but still ... Wes was probably the best heeler in the whole arena. It seemed criminal to miss for him.

Tim and Billy Walsh kept roping cleanly and went to the lead, while Lisa and I managed to catch everything we drew and maintained our position on the average, despite the fact that we both had one eye on Glen the whole time. We were sitting third at two o'clock, when the show moved up the road to eat barbecue at Glen's. Afterward we'd rope the last steer, with the top teams competing for trophy saddles and all the money.

Sitting in a chair on Glen's patio, I asked Lisa, "So do you get nervous when you have to make a high team run?"

She shook her head. "No, I don't get scared anymore. The only way I can enjoy going roping is not to care if I win or lose and just go out there and do the best I can. I take the pressure off myself."

I nodded. My own adjustment to competitive team roping was similar. I was not inclined to the sort of mental torture some ropers put themselves through; I had once told a particularly uptight partner, "It's not that big of a deal for God's sake. It's just a roping, not a religion." Judging by his expression, he thought that particular heresy ought to be punished by burning at the stake, at the very least.

Lisa smiled. "Tim's the one who's intense."

We both watched Tim, who was flirting with a blond girl I'd never seen before. Tim had always been an intense competitor, in odd contrast to his lazy, relaxed attitude about life in general. He wanted to win, and pressure seemed to act on him like a tonic; it only added to his focused intensity. Being high team out wouldn't bother Tim at all.

I remembered Bret had once told me that Tim's childhood dream was to become a professional horse trainer. I thought it too bad he'd never pursued it. Tim might have been a great showman.

I leaned back in my chair a little and looked out across Glen's wide green lawn. The oak trees on the other side threw dark shadows on the smooth grass. There was a barbecue pit in the middle, with Glen tending the steaks. The lawn and patio were dotted with people, standing, sitting, all talking. I took a long swallow of chilled chardonnay-a nice change from the inevitable beer-and thought that the dusty, rough-looking ropers seemed a little out of place on the brick patio, the big lawn. A crowd of martini-drinking golfers wearing slacks or shorts would have looked more appropriate.

I watched Joyce setting out bowls of salad on a picnic table. She was dressed in black, which was striking with the silver-ash hair, but which made her face look older, coarser. Her eyes drifted around the crowd, and I wondered if she was picturing golfers, stockbrokers, suntanned men in white linen, men who owned yachts, or, if they had to have horses, polo ponies. You couldn't tell. Her flat, glassy blue eyes rested on me for a second and then moved on. She was looking at Pat Domini.

Pat stood next to Charles, who was talking loudly to a group of men. She seemed poised and confident in her dusty jeans-at home with the ropers around her. Charles looked like an arrogant bore, at least to me. I wondered, as I had before, what Pat had ever seen in him.

Lisa broke into my thoughts. "Do you have any more of an idea who's trying to get at Dad?"

She asked the question casually, but I wasn't fooled. I knew that she, like me, remained intensely aware of the unknown threat that hung over Glen.

Lisa and I sat more or less by ourselves in one corner of the patio, up against the wall of the house. No one was around us; Lonny had gone over to talk to Wes Goodwin, apologizing once again for the missed steer, no doubt. I watched Lisa's face. "Who do you think is doing it?" I asked her.

"Sonny," she said slowly. "I guess. If it isn't that damn Susan. Did you see her?"

"I saw her."

Susan and her friend had waved their signs all morning and attempted to distribute flyers to the crowd. They were hindered by the fact that virtually everyone there was either a roper or related to one; there were few spectators open to the stated mission of the flyer: "Stop Rodeo Cruelty!"

I had taken one from Susan's friend and read it. It seemed basically uninformed and inflammatory to me; I thought that Susan and company were lucky that the ropers were inclined to avoid them, rather than argue with them.

"Susan's not doing anything wrong," I said slowly. "She's just standing up for her beliefs. I may not agree with her entirely, but I suspect she's honest enough."

"What else is there to do?" I demanded. "What we need is some kind of definite proof-some evidence that will connect a person to the 'accidents.' Then we can either take it to the cops or convince Glen to do something."

Lisa's lips tightened. "I think Dad's in real danger."

"I'm afraid so. But I'm not sure what we can usefully do besides warn him, which we've done, and watch him. We could tell the police right now, but I don't think they'd do anything at this point, and Glen would probably shoot us."

Lisa gave a faint smile. "Agreed. But I wish you'd tell me what you're thinking."

"I will." We looked at each other. "As soon as I have one single scrap of evidence."

Tim chose that moment to walk up and sit down. "I've come to put some pressure on Lisa so she'll miss your steer," he said cheerfully.

Lisa wrenched herself away from our conversation with an obvious effort. She gave me a warning glance, then said, "Not likely, buddy. You're high team out, remember? All the pressure's on you."

It was clear that Lisa was as reluctant to discuss the threat to Glen in front of Tim as I was. They were talking about roping now. I didn't listen. I was watching people. Watching Charles Domini talking loudly and aggressively to Wes Goodwin. Watching Al Borba standing silently in a group of men, drink in hand. Watching eyes.

Janey Borba walked across the lawn in another skintight T-shirt and jeans. I saw Tim's eyes lock onto her. Janey was headed for the makeshift bar on the other end of the patio. Tim got up quickly. "Think I'll go fix Janey a drink," he drawled, and went off in her direction.

I watched Joyce pass a tray of crackers and cheese to a group of ropers a little way away from us. The thought that had been in my mind surfaced, and I turned back to Lisa. "Does Tim ever talk about getting a job or moving out or anything?"

Lisa looked startled. "You mean leaving the ranch?"

"Yeah," I agreed. "Leaving the ranch."

Lisa thought about it. "Not in a long time. He used to talk about going to work for Will George or one of the other big-time cowhorse trainers. Tim could do it, too. He's really talented with a horse."

"Why doesn't he?"

"He's lazy, I guess. He'd rather lie around all day and watch TV. Dad doesn't make him work. Tim pretty much does whatever he wants to do. It's an easy life."