Sinister (27 page)

His erection dwindled and he slammed his palm against the steering wheel. Maybe he was going to have to kill him, too. Wouldn’t be the same as the Dillinger females, but there might be some pleasure to it.

Hunter Kincaid . . . well, fuck yeah.

Delilah awoke on the couch in the family room in the middle of the night. She’d given up her bed to Ricki, who had argued with her, but Delilah wasn’t listening. Ricki might want to go to Sam’s, and that was fine with Delilah, but she found herself too keyed up and tense and full of thoughts of Hunter to toss and turn in the bed next to Brook’s. Ricki didn’t realize that it was as much an excuse for Delilah to be with her own thoughts as it was a graciousness on her part.

She was annoyed at herself at waking up, especially since she’d just fallen asleep. Too many thoughts were rattling around in her head. Nameless fears that were rooted in the fires and terrible deaths and maybe even an uncertainty about her future and definitely about Hunter.

What rumor had Abby meant? she asked herself for the millionth time. What rumor? And who had set the fire at the foreman’s cottage? Someone intent on hurting the Dillingers? Some firebug drifter, like the one who’d cruised through Prairie Creek that summer long ago, the one convicted of burning up the old homestead though he’d never admitted to the crime? Were they really dealing with two different arsonists? Hunter seemed to think so, but what did that mean? Was one of them the man Ricki had said she and Sam were zeroing in on, the man who’d been at the Buffalo Lounge the same time as Amber Barstow was kidnapped?

Then, who was the other one?

She woke up again suddenly, her eyes flying open, unaware she’d even fallen asleep. Gray fingers of light were sneaking in around the lowered blinds. She’d slept in her clothes and now she climbed a bit stiffly off the couch. She’d brought her bag downstairs last night and now she grabbed up some clean clothes and tiptoed back upstairs to the bathroom.

She was just letting herself inside when she heard the key turn in the front door. Someone was letting themselves in.

Carefully, she tiptoed to the top of the stairs, her skin rising with gooseflesh. Her sister’s red hair glowed in the flash of sunlight that followed her in as Ricki stealthily tiptoed inside and placed her hand on the newel post, turning for the stairs.

“Sam, huh,” Delilah whispered down to her, causing a gasp from her sister, who glared up at her.

“You scared me,” Ricki accused.

“A lot of that going around.”

 

 

Hunter watched the sun rise from the front window of his rented ranch-style house at the far end of town—about as far a distance from the Kincaid ranch as was possible while still maintaining a Prairie Creek address. He hadn’t planned the divide, but he wasn’t sorry, either. He didn’t want to be embroiled in all the Kincaid messiness, no matter how determined the Major was at keeping him involved.

He hadn’t slept much. He’d gone looking for Crowley when Hal, a bartender at the Prairie Dog and a friend for some time, had called and told him Whit Crowley was sniffing around some of the Dillinger women. Though Hunter had not confided in Hal about Crowley’s money game, Hal just didn’t think much of Whit, either. The bartender had overheard Whit throwing out negative comments about Hunter from time to time and had taken a dislike to the lieutenant. He’d told Hunter he didn’t know how he worked with such a piece of scum even though Hunter had kept his mouth shut on his own feelings about the man. Tonight, though, because of the Dillinger fire, he’d called Hunter and told him what was going down.

Hunter had barreled down to the Prairie Dog, ready to take on Crowley bare-fisted if he had to. As he’d told Whit earlier, he was ready for a fight. Almost looked forward to it.

Which was kind of crazy as Hunter rarely felt this way. But when he thought of Crowley trying to weasel his way close to Delilah, it made him see red. He didn’t know exactly what that meant, was pretty sure he didn’t want to know, but there it was.

Now, he ran through a quick shower then dressed in his usual jeans, boots and a gray corduroy shirt, smashing his Stetson on his head before striding out to the truck. He’d told Sam Featherstone he’d stay out of the police investigation, but that apparently was a lie, because he planned on talking to as many of the Dillingers as he could find.

Somebody knew something . . . something that they might not realize they knew.

Climbing into the cab of the gray Chevy, he backed out of his drive and onto the main street that ran through Prairie Creek, cruising the gut before heading down the access road that would take him by the Kincaid ranch and onto the Rocking D. He had a few misgivings showing up so early and unexpectedly. He didn’t know what he was going to ask and who to talk to first. It was a half-assed idea all around, but he was determined to keep at it.

He passed the long drive that led to his parents’ house and kept on going. The winding, rutted lane to the old Dillinger homestead passed by next and he had a moment of remembrance about those long-ago summer days with Delilah, the notes she’d left him in the pine tree.

With an effort, he pushed them aside. Past history. Long over.

As he neared the Dillinger ranch, his gaze caught on the stables. With a sense of relief, he drove there first. It was too early to start with the main lodge, but Davis might be around. Sam’s brother was a man of few words but keen insight. He would start with him.

Parking outside, a sharp wind blew his hair back from his face. It was getting too long and he needed to cut it, but he’d been damn preoccupied with all the fires and Whit Crowley and the killings. He strode quickly up the ramp and inside, smelling the scents of horseflesh and hay. The Kincaid ranch had once had twenty horses, but now they were down to a couple of aging geldings. They’d had more sheep than he wanted to count once, too. Now, there were a few hundred, he would guess. The whole place had been falling into disrepair at about the same rate as his father’s decline, though now the Major was ahead in that grim race. Maybe Georgina was right in working with Ira Dillinger and Century Petroleum. Something needed to be done.

The first person he ran into was Kit Dillinger. She glanced up at him and he saw a lot of Dillinger in her: the red hair, the lean, whip-tough build, the suspicious gaze. “Hi, Kit. Davis around?” he asked.

“We’re going to check the herd.”

He saw that she was saddling up. At that moment Davis appeared and said, “Something I can do for you?”

“I wanted to talk about the fire here,” Hunter said.

“Can’t help you. Kit and I weren’t here. We were over at Mia’s place to get a few things.”

Hunter glanced at Kit who was tightening the girth on the saddle. “You’re spending a lot of time together?” Hunter asked.

“Yes,” Davis answered cautiously, his eyes narrowing as he assessed Hunter’s meaning.

“Good. Until we catch whoever’s doing this, better to be around other people.”

Davis nodded and relaxed a bit.

Hunter was glad Davis was looking out for her. He imagined it was difficult for Kit to go back to the house where her mother had been killed. By all accounts she and Mia hadn’t had the best relationship, but when you lost a parent ... your only parent ...

“Day of the fire the Dillingers were all on a sleigh ride, except for Brook and Ira,” Davis said.

Hunter nodded. “Pilar hadn’t returned from Jackson yet.” He thought about what folly he might be embarking on in interviewing the Dillingers. He wasn’t the sheriff’s office, and he was a Kincaid.

Davis said, “Ira was meeting your mother and those two Century Petroleum men. Maybe they know something.”

“I’ll check with them.”

Hunter waited while Davis and Kit led the horses down the ramp, climbed onto their saddles and headed out slowly, swaying side by side. He had a sudden vision of doing something similar with Delilah once upon a time. They’d just been kids and he’d tried to discourage her, in the beginning. She was several years younger and he’d tried to ignore the way she tagged after him. But she’d been persistent. He’d told himself he hated all Dillingers. Really tried to adopt his mother’s attitude, but Delilah had wormed her way into his thoughts, and before he knew it she was circling inside his head like a melody that he couldn’t forget and writing him breathless notes of love, and they were meeting secretly every chance they could.

The first time they’d made love had been in the spring with rain hammering on the roof of the old homestead, mere months before Judd and Mia were caught there in the fire. But the homestead was just one of the places they met. They were too eager for each other, and reckless. Once he remembered they’d squeezed into the backseat of his sister Mariah’s compact car and had just finished making love when she came barreling out to the garage and glared at him as if she knew. Naked, Delilah had just managed to wedge herself into a storage closet that was stuffed to the gills with leftover equipment rusting from disuse. When he pulled her out, she was covered in cobwebs, but it hadn’t stopped them from making love again right then.

And there had been other times, other places. Out in the open field mostly as the summer waxed on. He could still see the shine of her eyes under moonlight, the warm glow of her tanned skin in daylight.

Damn.

He was standing outside the stables, wondering if it was still too early to approach the house, when his breath caught. Delilah was heading his way, her blond-red hair tucked into the collar of her coat, her head bent to a brisk breeze. She didn’t see him until she was almost at the stables, and when she did, she stopped short and narrowed her eyes at him. Dillinger, through and through.

“You following me?” she demanded.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“You’re on Dillinger land,” she reminded him.

“Still looking to talk to Ira.”

“Ah.” She moved forward again and went around him and inside. “I came to see Firestarter.”

“Who?”

“The new colt.”

Hunter followed her back up the ramp, sliding the door shut behind them. It was surprisingly warm inside, or was that just him? His thoughts had been traveling down a path that had started out as merely nostalgic but had quickly become damn near X-rated. And now, as he saw her unbutton her jacket, revealing her flat stomach and soft breasts, he felt a response that was way out of line to the moment.

“Thought you were going to the house,” she said, not looking at him, sensing, apparently, that he was uncomfortable.

He dragged his thoughts back with an effort. “Still a little early.”

“Ira’s up,” she said shortly. “Probably having breakfast.”

“I’ll wait a bit.” He followed her down the line of stalls. “Ira was meeting with my mother and the Century Petroleum men.”

“That’s why he wasn’t on the sleigh ride.” She glanced back at him. “You ask her about the oil deal?”

“More like I accused her of going behind my father’s back.”

“How’d that go?”

“About like you’d expect.”

“Are you working with the sheriff’s department?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he said diffidently.

“What’s that mean?”

“I want to know who set fire to the foreman’s cottage and I don’t want to wait.”

“Ahh . . .”

Delilah turned a corner and then stopped at a large box on the second aisle. Leaning over the rail, she waved him closer and he moved next to her. Inside the stall was a bright-eyed colt swishing his tail, looking at them from under his mother’s belly.

“I come out here every day,” she said.

“I see why.” There was something so wonderful about new birth on the ranch. A sense of positive changes. The little colt was a heartbreaker already.

His thoughts turned to his own family’s financial failings when Delilah turned and bumped into him, losing her footing briefly. Automatically, he reached out his arms to steady her and for a flashing instant he thought about kissing her.

As if she felt the same, she froze, staring at him through startled eyes. Then she blinked, breaking the spell. “Sorry. I just always want a better look.”

“It’s all right.”

“I’d better . . .”

“Yeah.”

They both moved the same way, trying to avoid each other, but the opposite happened and this time, when they inadvertently pressed against each other, neither of them moved. Or breathed. Hunter could hear his own heartbeats. Or were they hers?

His gaze dropped to her lips. Plump. Light pink. Half parted, as if she were about to whisper. Ignoring every sane thought, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers, his arms sliding inside her coat and around her slim back to rest in the hollow at the base of her spine.

He didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t know what to expect. He’d reacted on instinct, going for something he wanted. When she didn’t rear away from him, he deepened the kiss, a bit desperately, aware that at any millisecond she might shove him away, or slap him, or scream bloody murder like she had outside the Prairie Dog.

She did none of those things. For a moment or two, a lifetime, she didn’t react at all. Then her lips quivered a bit beneath his and her hands slid up his arms.

“Delilah? You here?” Colton’s voice called from the other side of the stables.

Hunter and Delilah broke from each other as if cleaved apart. Without a word to him, Delilah stumbled away, toward Colton. “Right here,” she called back.

“Ricki said to come and get you. We’re making breakfast for the kids. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, but she—”

“No, no. I’m ready,” she said hurriedly, and then their voices faded away.

 

 

Oh. My.
God.

It was hours later but Delilah couldn’t get the thought of that kiss out of her head. Her mind kept reviewing it and reviewing it and reviewing it. His urgent mouth. Strong hands. Wide, muscular chest. The sense that if they kept going she would lie down on the hay and drag him with her.