by the local authorities for murder—both crimes punishable by death. The longer he manages to hide, the harder it’s going to be to find him, and he’s already got one hell of a head start. I can’t screw around and make nice with some kid I didn’t even know existed before today because that’s what you want. Get your priorities straight or stay the hell out of my way.”
Outwardly she appeared unaffected by his anger. She was cool, calm, serene as she studied him. Finally she stood up. “All right. We’ll find MacGregor first. But as soon as we’ve turned him over to the authorities, then we go to Buffalo Plains. Deal?”
“What’s with this ‘we’? You’ll tell me everything you know, and I’ll find Mac.”
She smiled faintly. “That wasn’t my offer. I said I would help you find him, not leave you to do it on your own. If I do that, who knows where you’ll go when it’s all over? Probably anywhere but Buffalo Plains.”
Logan ignored the insult to his integrity, especially since, at the moment, he didn’t have any. “I don’t need a partner.”
“I’d say you do. I’ve learned more about Peter MacGregor in a few weeks than you have in six months. Of course, if you really don’t want me tagging along for the next few weeks, there’s a simple solution—meet Lexy this weekend. Then I’ll go back to Memphis and you can do whatever you want.”
His scowl made it clear what he thought of her suggestion. He had enough anger and guilt in his life right now without adding Brady to it. Maybe someday he’d be ready to forgive. But he was no closer to that day now than he’d been nineteen years ago.
She closed the distance between them with a few steps and offered her hand once again. “What do you say, Logan? Do we have a deal?”
He looked at her hand—narrow, uncallused, the fingers long and slender, the nails neatly rounded and painted white on the tips. Hostilely he raised his gaze to hers but didn’t take her hand. “I’d rather deal with the devil.”
“And here I thought you were the devil,” she murmured.
She refused to lower her hand, so grudgingly he took it, processing warmth, softness, in the seconds before he released it again. “We have a deal,” he agreed. As he turned away, he muttered, “One you’ll live to regret.”
He was walking through the door, his right hand clenched in a fist as if he could erase the memory of the contact, when she softly answered, “More likely you will.”
He smiled bleakly. No doubt she was right. If he lived, he would definitely regret it.
Chapter 2
Bailey followed him downstairs. He stopped in the hallway, looking to the kitchen at the back of the house, where her purse was visible on the table through the open door, then at the living room to the side. She wasn’t surprised when he turned into the living room. According to the newspaper stories, Pete MacGregor had killed Ella Jensen in her own kitchen, leaving her frail body crumpled in a pool of blood. There were no signs of violence visible in the room—she’d looked for them—but there was a feeling there… And if she’d felt it, how much worse was it for Logan, who’d walked in on the scene with all its horror?
She went into the living room, homey and welcoming in an old-fashioned way. Lace doilies decorated the tables, a lap quilt was folded over the back of the couch and an oval braided rug covered much of the wood floor. When she’d first arrived, she’d studied the knickknacks that filled the flat surfaces, as well as the framed photographs that decorated the walls, focusing on one picture in particular. It was the same one Logan was looking at now—taken in the yard out front one sunny afternoon, him in his Army uniform; a tall, thin man with white hair and thick glasses on one side; a petite, delicate woman in a long skirt and apron on the other. Ella’s hand was resting on Logan’s arm, Sam’s on his shoulder, and they looked proud, all three of them.
Any idiot could guess that Logan blamed himself for their deaths and that he wanted justice. He had resources the local sheriff’s department lacked—notably time and money. Where the Jensen murders were only a small part of the sheriff’s investigative responsibilities, Logan could dedicate himself to nothing else and had ever since leaving the Army six months ago.
She sat down in a worn wooden rocker, sinking into the ruffled cushions that lined the seat and the back and set it rocking. Each backward glide caused a floorboard to creak. It wasn’t annoying, though, but rather comforting, like a soft snore or a tuneless whistle.
Finally he turned from the photo, looked around, then moved to the nearest window. There he brushed the lace curtains aside to lean against the sill, his hands resting on the wood on either side of him. “What do you know about Mac’s brother?”
“His name is Escobar. He lives near the border and he owns a ranch there.”
“What’s his first name? Where near the border?”
She smiled. “I’ll tell you that once we’re on our way.”
His corresponding smile was everything a smile should never be. “Aw, you don’t trust me?”
“Not as far as I could throw you.”
The smile came again. “Remember that,” he said—warned—before he pushed away from the windowsill. “Let’s go.”
He was halfway to the door before she made it out of the chair. She hustled to the kitchen to grab her purse, then reached the porch about the time he hit the sidewalk.
“Hey,” she called. “I can pick a lock to open a door, but I don’t have a clue how to pick one to lock it.”
He didn’t break his stride. “Just press the button in. It’ll lock when you close it.”
She found the button he referred to on the inside knob, pulled the door up, then checked it. It was locked, though without the promise of much security. But even the most impregnable dead bolt in the world wouldn’t have protected the Jensens—not when their killer had been a guest in their home.
Logan was impatiently waiting next to his car, a pair of dark glasses hiding his eyes, when she walked out. “Get your gear.”
“I can drive—”
“You want to take two cars? Fine. Tell me where we’re going in case we get separated on the way.”
It was a perfectly reasonable request under normal circumstances, which these most certainly weren’t. No doubt if she gave him an honest answer, he would slash her tires or take her keys, then drive off and leave her in his dust. She would be lucky if she ever caught up to him again.
“I was suggesting that we leave your car here and take mine,” she said politely.
He looked at her car, and the disdain returned to his expression. “No, thanks.”
“It’s a perfectly good car,” she protested.
“Uh-huh. I bet it gets good mileage, has a half-assed stereo system and tops out at about eighty miles an hour. No way.”
She treated his car to the same disdainful look. “And I bet this guzzles gas like water, has a stereo that can blow out your eardrums at fifty paces and doesn’t even have air-conditioning.”
