Best Kept Secrets(37)

likely to get hurt."

"Namely?"

"You."

"How?"

He didn't actually move; he just inclined his body closer

to hers. "There are any number of ways."

It was a threat, only subtly veiled. He was physically capable

of killing a woman, but what about emotionally?

He seemed to have a low opinion of women in general,

but according to Junior, he had loved Celina Graham. At one

time, she had wanted to marry Reede. Maybe everyone, including

Reede, had taken for granted that they would marry

until Celina had married Al Gaither and gotten pregnant with

Alex.

Alex didn't want to believe that Reede could have killed

Celina under any circumstances, but she certainly didn't want

to believe he had killed Celina because of her.

He was chauvinistic, arrogant, and as testy as a rattler.

But a killer? He didn't look like one. Or was it just that

she'd always had a weakness for dark blond hair and green



eyes; for tight, faded jeans and worn leather coats with fur

collars; for men who could wear cowboy boots without looking

silly; for men who walked and talked and smelled and

sounded and felt consummately male?

Reede Lambert was all of that.

Disturbed more by his effect on her senses than by his

cautionary words, she pulled her arm free and backed toward

the door.

"I have no intention of dropping this investigation until I

know who killed my mother and why. I've waited all my life

to find out. I won't be dissuaded now."



Ten



Reede let loose a string of curses the minute Alex left the

stable. Pasty Hickam had overheard them from his hiding

place in a nearby stall.

He hadn't planned to eavesdrop on their conversation.

When he had come into the barn earlier, he'd only been

looking for a place where it was dark and warm and solitary,

where he'd have some privacy to nurse his damaged pride,

cultivate his resentment of his former employer, and suck on

his bottle of cheap rye as if it was mother's milk.

Now, however, his ennui had vanished and his mind was concocting a nefarious plan. Sober, Pasty was merely crotchety.

Drunk, he was mean.

He'd barely been able to contain himself as he listened to

what that gal from Austin had to say to the sheriff, and vice

versa. Lordy be, she was Celina Gaither's daughter, here to

investigate her mama's killing.

Thanks to her, and a benevolent God he didn't even believe



in, he had been given a golden opportunity to get revenge

on Angus and that useless son of his.

He'd busted his ass on this place, worked for miserly

wages, and gone without completely when Angus was so

broke he couldn't pay him, but he'd stuck it out. He had gone

through thick and thin with the bastard, and what thanks did

he get? Fired and booted out of the bunkhouse that had been

home for almost thirty years.

Well, fortune had finally smiled on Pasty Hickam. If he

played his cards right, he could finally have some money for

his "retirement fund." Ruby Faye, his current lover, was

always after him about never having any money to spend on

her. "What's the fun of having an affair if I don't get something

out of it besides the thrill of cheating on my husband?"

she was fond of saying.

Monetary compensation, however, would be icing on the

cake. Revenge would be sweet enough. It was past time that

somebody kicked Angus where it hurt.

His impatience was at a near-frantic pitch by the time Reede

finished examining his mare and left the stable. Pasty waited

several moments to make sure he was alone before leaving

the empty stall where he'd been curled up in the fresh hay.

He moved down the shadowed corridor toward the wall telephone.

He cursed a horse that nickered, spooking him. For

all his meanness, courage had never been his strong suit.

He called Information first, then quickly punched out the

digits of the number before he could forget them. Maybe she

hadn't had time to get there, he thought anxiously after he'd

asked the clerk to ring her room. But she answered on the

fifth ring, a trifle breathlessly, like she might have come in

while the phone was ringing.

"Miz Gaither?"

"Yes, who's this?"

"You don't need to know. I know you, and that's enough.''

"Who is this?" she demanded, with what Pasty thought

was false bravado.

"I know all about your mama's murder."



Pasty cackled to himself, enjoying the sudden silence. He

couldn't have got her attention any sooner or any better if

he'd walked up and bit her on her tittie.

"I'm listening."

"I cain't talk now."

"Why not?"