the city.”
Gina walked to the window and stared out. The view looked directly over the garden that they’d built around the rosebush Randolph had given Lenora for their first anniversary. Beyond that was a stretch of pines that gave away quickly to open pasture.
It was almost six, but the sun was still high enough in the sky for the roses to show off their beautiful collage of colors. Dark came late in July.
“Mom never mentioned any of you,” Gina said. “I don’t know why she sent me here.”
“I couldn’t say,” Lenora said, “but delightful young ladies are always welcome at Jack’s Bluff.”
“Thanks.”
“The bathroom is down the hall, the second door to your left. Normally you’d have to share it with the twins, my seven-year-old grandsons who have the room across the hall from you, but David and Derrick are with their father for two more weeks.”
“I won’t be here two weeks. I’ll be leaving as soon as my mom’s okay.” She walked back to the bed and unzipped her bag. “How many people live in this house?”
“Currently six, seven counting you.”
“Does Langston live here?”
“No, he lives in Houston. And Matt and Bart have their own houses here on the ranch. Zach, Jaime and Becky—the twins’ mother—all live here in the big house.”
“You have a large family.”
“Yes, I do. You met all of them except the twins. How about you, Gina? Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“No. It’s just me and my mom.” Gina started to unpack, but stopped and collapsed on the bed.
“There’s plenty of time to shower and take a nap before dinner,” Lenora said. “We won’t eat until seven-thirty. Juanita’s making a chicken enchilada casserole, at least that’s my name for it. It’s spicy, but superb.”
“Who’s Juanita?”
“Our cook. Bart hired her last year, because he and the boys wanted me to take it a little easier. Actually, I miss my kitchen and I’m a little jealous sometimes that she gets the compliments instead of me.”
“Then why don’t you fire her?”
“I can’t. She makes tamales to die for. Besides, it gives me more time for my charity work and spending time with my grandsons.” And now time to exert some influence into the operations of Collingsworth Enterprises—or at least into the development of her sons and even her daughters.
Gina kicked out of her shoes. “I’d like a shower, but I can’t really dress for dinner. All I have with me are shorts and T-shirts.”
“They’ll do fine. I tried the policy of dressing for dinner for awhile. I gave it up after I got tired of sitting at the table by myself. Now we’re back to South Texas rules. Come as you are, but the horse and spurs stay outside.”
Gina finally smiled.
Lenora did, too, though a sudden horrifying thought crept into her mind. Suppose Trish wasn’t all right. Suppose Langston was too late and something had gone terribly wrong.
Maybe she should call Billy Mack. He had a friend that had been a Texas Ranger before he retired. Langston might not appreciate her calling their neighbor in on this, but Billy was older and had a level head on him. And he’d been a friend of the Collingsworth family all his life.
If Langston didn’t call back with good news by morning, she might just give Billy a call. Lenora forced a smile and left the room quickly before Gina saw her fear. The girl had more than enough of her own.
LANGSTON HIT THE ACCELERATOR of his sleek black Porsche as he pulled out of the gate of Jack’s Bluff and headed north. No matter what Matt said, this wasn’t about his old relationship with Trish. Those feelings were dead, had been for years. He might have thought he’d loved Trish once, but what had he known of love at nineteen?
Yet the old memories began to haunt his mind. Slow dancing with Trish in Cutter’s Bar. Watching her float along the surface of the water when they’d gone skinny-dipping in the moonlight. Holding Trish in his arms. Tasting her lips.
His muscles grew taut as a new wave of adrenaline rushed through his veins. Trish was in danger and she needed him. That’s all he’d deal with now.
Chapter Three
It was ten-thirty by the time Langston pulled up in front of Trish’s home in a fashionable section of west Dallas. There were lights in most of the houses, but Trish’s was dark except for the landscaping lamps dotted about the flowerbeds and shrubbery. The house was two-story with lots of angles and gables on a corner lot. Langston parked in the driveway and killed the engine. He’d made a few phone calls on his way north. One had been to Aidan Jefferies, a detective friend in Houston who’d learned that Trish had been involved in a carjacking/kidnapping incident eight days ago.
Luckily she’d escaped unhurt after being rescued by a local detective, a man who’d become suspicious when he spotted the car speeding down an Interstate exit ramp and recognized the abductor as a suspect he’d questioned months earlier. The detective had followed until Trish had run the car off the road and wrecked the car. A shootout had followed, and the carjacker had been shot and killed by the cop. It had made the local newspaper but not the front page. An explosion at a local plant had been the hot topic of the day.
An open-and-shut case according to police records, but Langston had a strong suspicion that it was somehow tied to the strange phone call she’d made to Gina.
He retrieved his emergency flashlight from his glove compartment and stuck it in the front pocket of his jeans. He also took the Glock, just to be on the safe side. He rang the bell and waited. As expected, there was no answer and no signs of life.
Breaking in houses wasn’t his specialty, though this wouldn’t officially be breaking and entering since Gina had given him her key. He put his face to the door and shot a beam of light into the foyer.
He couldn’t see much of the living area beyond the entranceway, but he did see an overturned table and a shattered vase, its bouquet of flowers scattered about the floor. His worry about alarms vanished.
He unlocked the door hurriedly and stepped inside. “Trish.” He called her name but didn’t wait for an answer before racing to the living room and then reeling at the destruction. Cushions and pillows were ripped and cotton and feathers were scattered everywhere.
Adrenaline rush and apprehension had his heart pounding as he made his way through the house. “Trish, it’s Langston. Are you here? If you’re hiding, you can come out.” There was no response.
The rest of the house matched the kitchen. Drawers were open, their contents scattered. Even the closets had been ransacked. Not your typical random vandalism. Whoever had come in was more likely looking for something in particular. He tried the kitchen door that led to the garage. It was unlocked and the garage was empty.
He stepped over broken glass and walked to the door that led from the kitchen to the backyard, flicking on the outside light and stepping outside. There was a small pool and some yard chairs. The area was enclosed by
