some reason?”
“We’re just...too much alike. We have too much on our minds. I like to have fun. Lighten up. You know?”
“I can have fun,” he said defensively, knowing it was a lie. Yeah, okay; sure he enjoyed himself sometimes. But fun? The way she meant? Probably not. He didn’t drink, hated loud music and detested parties. “We don’t have to talk about work,” he added.
“Dinner.” She sounded cautious. Wheels were turning in her head; he could damn near hear the clatter.
“How about tonight?” Ben asked.
“I’m going to Renee’s tonight. We’re having a war council. So to speak.” She paused. “If you want to come...”
What did this mean? She went from telling him he might not be fun enough to taking him home to meet her family?
“I don’t want to intrude...”
“No, you might have something useful to offer. Daniel’s the one who wants to talk this out.” She sounded mildly impatient. “He’d be glad to have you.”
“What about you?” Ben asked. “Would you be glad to have me?”
“To dinner?” She paused just long enough to be sure he got the point—no innuendos allowed. “Why not?”
He knew where the Triple B was. She suggested they meet there, which he accepted without argument. Most women liked to drive themselves on first dates. She wouldn’t be stuck with fending him off on the doorstep if she came to the conclusion that this had been a mistake.
Hanging up the phone, Ben wasn’t sure how to feel about this evening. Hell, he didn’t know whether it was a working dinner or a date.
He did know he wasn’t used to being rejected. I don’t usually date cops, she’d said, as if he’d crawled out from under a rock.
He wouldn’t take it personally, Ben decided. Maybe she got hit on all the time down at the station. Given her looks, she probably did.
Funny, when he thought about it, because it wasn’t her glorious legs or lush mouth or tangle of honey-blond hair that had gotten to him—although he’d noticed them, he couldn’t deny it. But he didn’t ask out every beautiful woman he met, either. And normally her princess act would have turned him off. A man couldn’t warm his hands on a chilly woman.
But he’d seen something in Abby Patton’s eyes. Something defensive, even scared. Her defiance was a cover-up, he thought, for a woman who didn’t want to admit she was lonely.
And if he was wrong—well, maybe he, too, would be glad they were going their separate ways tonight.
TIRES CRUNCHING on the red cinder lane, Ben drove past the turnoff to the handsome new home that crowned the ridge above the Triple B barns and the pastures, improbably green from irrigation in the midst of brown, high mountain desert country at midsummer. Fences enclosing pastures, paddocks and two outdoor arenas sparkled with fresh white paint. The place was prosperous, the horses and cattle he could see at a distance glossy.
Someone was working a cutting horse in the nearer arena. More like going along for the ride. The horse seemed to be doing the thinking. He was separating one steer from a clump of six or eight, anticipating the poor dumb cow’s every dodge, moving so surely, so quickly and fluidly, it was pure poetry.
Ben had never been out here, but he’d heard stories about the ranch: the senile old man—Daniel’s grandfather—wandering out into the wintry night, his body never found; Daniel’s father dying when he got thrown into a fence post; and finally the human skull brought home by a dog.
Now this.
On the way to the Patton family war council, Ben had decided on a minor detour. He wanted to see for himself how hard it would have been for a thief to slip into Shirley Barnard’s garage to steal the license plates from her car.
The guy sure as hell couldn’t have driven right by in broad daylight. Before Ben reached the first barn, two men stepped out, looking toward him.
He pulled to a stop, set the brake and turned off the engine. Between barns, he saw a young cowboy walking a horse with sweat-soaked flanks. In the aisle of the barn, another horse—this one a fiery red—was cross-tied and being shod, from the sound of metal ringing out.
Ben got out of his car and nodded at the two men waiting. “Good day.”
“Can we help you?” one asked.
“I’m with the sheriff’s department. Detective Ben Shea.” Ben showed his badge. “And you are?”
“Lee LaRoche.” The taller and older of the two tipped back his Stetson. “I’m a trainer.”
“Jim Cronin.” The younger guy couldn’t be much over twenty-five. Stocky and strong, he wore the ranch uniform: dusty denim, worn cowboy boots, white T-shirt and buff-brown Stetson. “I just work here.”
Ben nodded. “You two fellows know about the break-in at Mrs. Barnard’s?”
“You mean, her garage?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hell of a thing.” The trainer shook his head. “Shirley wouldn’t hurt a fly. Why would someone go picking on her like that?”
“Maybe just to show he could.” Ben watched the two carefully; saw nothing but perplexity and mild curiosity about why a Butte County detective was out here questioning them about such a minor crime. “I just thought I’d find out whether someone could go right on down there without being noticed.”
“Not in a car.” LaRoche sounded sure. “We don’t get much traffic out here. Someone’s coming right now.” He nodded past Ben toward the main road leading from Butte Road and the Triple B gates onto the ranch.
Ben turned. A plume of lava red dust rose like the spray behind a hydroplane. That nice shiny 4x4 was going to need a bath.
Like his own car, he realized ruefully.
LaRoche continued. “Especially at this time of year, we have plenty of warning. Somebody always pokes a head out to see who’s come calling.”
“What about at night? With Mrs. Barnard away?”
“I live there.” The lanky older man pointed to a small white-painted cottage in the cottonwoods beside the creek. “Some of the hands have places in town, but a couple room in the bunkhouse. Cronin here’s one of ‘em.”
The young ranch hand scratched his chin. “Well, I won’t say if we’d heard a car we would have fallen over our feet rushing out to see who was here. But we’d have most likely glanced out. Mrs. Barnard don’t get that many folks coming by, and Lee’s place is the only other one on down the road.”
“But he could have parked a ways back and walked.”
Lee LaRoche slowly took off his hat and ran a hand through sweat-streaked hair. “Well, now. Sure. I suppose so. ’Course, if someone had come along he wouldn’t
