drunken woman he held up. Jeremy searched the room with his eyes until he finally saw Ellie. She hurried to his side, her face clearly showing her concern. “Please call Blane,” Jeremy said.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Ellie asked.
“No choice. He needs to collect Lucinda before she does more damage to herself.”
“Or you,” Ellie said archly. “Your personal life is going to catch up with you, Jeremy.”
“I don’t need a lecture, I need some help.” Jeremy didn’t mean to snap but his patience was gone. He slid Lucinda onto a sofa.
“Do you really think Blane wants her back? Again?”
Jeremy heard the hardness in Ellie’s tone. She’d never said anything about his rash affair with Lucinda. She didn’t have to. Everyone in Texas knew it had ruined his lifelong friendship with Blane Griffin.
“Just call him. He can make up his mind if he wants her or not.”
“And you?” Ellie asked.
“I’m going home.”
Jeremy didn’t have a chance to take more than one step before he felt the hand on his shoulder. “Running away again?”
He turned toward the angry face of Blane Griffin. “I’m not running, I’m withdrawing. Let’s don’t do this, Blane. Lucinda’s drunk, and you and I have both had more than a couple. This isn’t the time to try to settle our differences.”
“I turn my back, and she’s over here, tracking after you like a dog in—” He broke off and turned away.
Jeremy looked around the room at his friends who’d come to celebrate the success of his book. He and Blane had started out in the writing business together. His career had taken a sudden swing up, but Blane was still toiling in the trenches. “Can I get a couple of drinks here?” he said to one of his friends.
In a moment he had two bourbons in his hand. He offered one to Blane. “Let’s have a toast. To the future. I’m sure your bestseller is just around the corner.”
His old friend’s gaze held his for a moment. “You’re one helluva hypocrite,” Blane said, putting the drink down without tasting it. He grabbed Lucinda’s arm, hauled her off the sofa and stalked toward the door. Then he turned back abruptly, his lean face hard. “My star is rising, Jeremy. It’s you who needs a toast, not me. I’ve just spoken with your editor, and he’s buying my book. He thinks it’s better than your sequel. So when you decide to pour liquor and offer up a toast of hope, maybe you should drink it to yourself.”
With Lucinda firmly in his grasp, Blane walked out.
Jeremy felt like a fool. He’d intended to mend fences with Blane, but what he’d done was widen the breach. The toast had probably been an idiotic idea, but it had been sincere.
A hush had fallen over the party. He turned to see Ellie staring at the doorway through which Blane had just departed. Picking up one of the drinks, he said, “To cowboys, literature and a bit of moon madness. We all suffer from it now and again.” He downed the bourbon and was relieved to see the tension break and the party pick up again.
“What book did Blane sell Henry?” Ellie asked, suddenly appearing at his shoulder.
“I’m not certain. Henry said something about something set around—”
“The Alamo?”
Jeremy arched his eyebrows. “That was it.”
“Back when Blane was in a slump over Lucinda, I talked with him some about his book.” Ellie laughed. “Who would have thought Henry would buy it?”
“I’m glad for him,” Jeremy said. “Though I wish he’d been a little more gracious.”
“And shown better taste in women,” Ellie added. “Let’s have another drink.”
IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT when Jeremy finally turned down the long, secluded drive to his house. He felt a little guilty about having left Henry alone all evening—but only a little. Henry had obviously been a very busy man. Not only had he bought Blane’s book, but he’d talked to Ellie about how the editing was going. Sure, Ellie was his best friend, but Jeremy’s writing was a very personal thing. On top of that, Henry had chosen not to attend the party. Well, it was his loss.
The house was dark, and Jeremy entered as quietly as he could. He was glad that Henry had decided to go to bed. He didn’t want to talk about work—his or Blane’s.
Easing down the darkened hallway toward his bedroom, Jeremy caught the glow of the computer screen reflecting off the panes of the window. He stopped. Henry was like an old maid about some things—especially computers. He’d never go to bed with text on the screen.
Jeremy entered his study and stopped, stunned, as he saw the outline of the body on the floor. He moved forward automatically, then knelt beside the body.
“Henry.” He shook him gently. It wasn’t until Henry didn’t respond that he allowed the terrible thought to come. “Oh, no.” He rolled the body over and saw the dark blood, the stab wounds. “My God.” It came out as a croak through the knot of horror in his throat. “What in the hell happened here?”
He crossed the room and snapped on the overhead light. The scene was out of a nightmare. Blood had pooled beside the editor. Two sets of bloody tracks were distinct—his own, and another pair leading toward the window.
Jeremy forced his body not to move. He carefully took in the scene. The desk was a jumble, as if a struggle had taken place. From the position of the body, the bloody tracks, the open window where the cut screen flapped in the night breeze, it seemed clear that someone had come in through the window.
Henry Mills had been murdered. Someone had slipped into the house and killed him. But why? It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that whomever had done it very likely had killed the wrong man. Jeremy was certain that he had been the intended target.
“Henry,” he said softly. The reality of his editor’s death was like a kick in the gut. Henry had been a kind man. And now he was dead because he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Jeremy’s first impulse was to call the sheriff. He even reached for the phone. But his fingers never picked up the receiver. He turned instead to study the tracks. He didn’t write about the West for nothing. He was a skilled rancher, and a man who’d grown up in the outdoors. He could read a set of tracks as well as—or better than—most. He studied the small footprints and determined they belonged to a small man or a woman. His best guess was a woman. The foot was slender, delicate, and wearing western boots.
The scene in the bookstore came back to him. Anna Red Shoes. She’d had on jeans and boots. And she’d vowed to make him suffer. She’d threatened to harm him—legally and physically. Those were her words. And a knife had been her chosen weapon.
He stood up and looked around the room. He almost didn’t see the knife. It had been dropped at the window and had fallen behind the draperies. Even before he walked over to more closely examine it, he recognized the bone-carved handle as a ceremonial blade used by Apache Indians. He’d done enough research to recognize the knife, which was used specifically
