Man on a Mission. Carla Cassidy
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was nothing but barrenness. A land suffering sunstroke. Scrub grass struggled to survive in the blistered red earth, where cacti seemed to be the only vegetation that flourished.
Inferno, Arizona. The tiny town southwest of Tucson, near the Mexican border, was to have been the place for her to start fresh, begin to build something good.
She was in the middle of hell, with no job, no money and an eleven-year-old boy who’d been angry at the world for the past two months.
Behind the big house was another group of out-buildings, these less attractive and smaller than the guest bungalows. “Number three,” Mark said, breaking the silence between them. He stepped up on the small porch and thumped the black numeral nailed to the door. “See, number three.”
Again Brian looked at April, as if sensing something not quite right with the tall, handsome cowboy. “Thank you, Mark,” she said.
A pleasant smile curved his lips. “Welcome,” he returned, then clapped Brian on the back. “Come on, let’s get your stuff from the car.”
“You don’t have to do that,” April protested. He’d already done enough by convincing his brother to allow them to stay for the night.
“I can do it,” Mark replied. “I’m strong.”
Oh, there was no doubt he was strong. His broad chest and thick biceps attested to that fact. He was strong but seemed gentle at the same time.
“Let us guys do it, Mom,” Brian said.
A lump rose in her throat and she nodded. She watched as Mark and Brian went back to her parked car.
Brian matched his stride to that of Mark’s, looking achingly youthful as he struggled to keep up. He’d been so excited about living on a real dude ranch with horses and cows and wide-open spaces.
How was she going to tell him that they were only here for the night? She’d made so many promises to him, certain that finally things were going to go their way for a change.
With a weary sigh she stepped into the small bungalow. It was a cheerless place, furnished with bland, utilitarian furniture. Next to the kitchenette was a narrow, drop-leaf table and two chairs. The living room contained a wall of shelves, a sofa bed and an Early-American coffee table, whose base was shaped like a wagon wheel. In each of the two bedrooms was a double bed and a small chest of drawers.
At least there’s a shower, she thought as she went into the bathroom. At the moment a shower sounded divine.
When she heard the sound of footsteps on the porch, she left the bathroom. Mark entered first, carrying two suitcases. Brian followed just behind him with the ice chest that contained the last of the fruit and cheese they’d nibbled on the ride.
“We have to make another trip to get the rest of it,” Brian said.
“That’s enough for now,” April replied. No sense unloading everything from the car when they would only be packing it again tomorrow.
Mark set the suitcases just inside the door, then walked over and turned on the window air conditioner. “You’ll fry like bacon if you don’t use this.”
Brian looked around, then called to his mother, “Which bedroom is going to be mine?”
“You can have the bigger of the two,” she replied, dreading the moment she had to tell him it was only for one night.
She smiled once more at Mark. “Thank you again for your help. We’ll be fine now.”
He reached out and took her hand in his. Instantly warmth seeped up her arm. She held his hand for a moment too long, wanting to convey to him how grateful she was for the reprieve he’d granted them.
When she finally dropped his hand, she was startled to see a flash of…something in his eyes. It was there only a moment, then gone.
“You’ll be fine,” he agreed. Again he smiled a sweet, uncomplicated smile. “I’ll be back later.” With this promise he turned and left them alone.
“He’s nice, but something isn’t working right,” Brian said as he tapped the side of his head.
He’d been more than nice, April thought, and his smile had reached inside her and touched her like none had in a very long time.
Perhaps because it had been such a nonthreatening, gentle smile. No cunning, no shrewdness, nothing but innocent pleasure. The smile of innocence and yet it had warmed her like that of a man’s.
She shook her head, dismissing all thoughts of Mark Delaney. She had more important things to think about—like the fact that come morning, they’d be back on the road to nowhere.
As Mark walked toward the stables, he wondered what had prompted him to come to April Cartwright’s rescue. Had it been because her hair was the rich-gold of a daisy, or because her dewy, green eyes had radiated the promise of spring—something Inferno, Arizona, didn’t normally enjoy?
Or had it simply been because he’d felt her desperation, sensed a disturbing resignation? She’d looked so small, so defenseless when Matthew had told her there was no position available.
Adam had promised her a job, and now Adam was gone. A shaft of pain pierced through Mark as he thought of his father.
He grieved not so much for the man who had died, but for the fact that now he and his father would never be anything more than what they’d been to each other—virtual strangers.
Shoving aside these thoughts, he entered the stable. As always the scent of oiled leather, fresh hay and horseflesh filled him with pleasure and a sense of homecoming.
The horses had always been his family, the stable his home. As he walked down the center of the building, the horses in their stalls on either side greeted him with soft whinnies and welcoming nickers.
He whispered soft words to each animal he passed, pausing to stroke a mane or scratch behind an ear. There was no sound of another human being, and Mark knew the men who worked for the ranch would be on their lunch break.
What had happened to April and Brian Cartwright? No money and no place to go. What kicks had life delivered to them that had landed them here, broke and hopeless?
He couldn’t very well ask such questions. He wasn’t supposed to be bright enough to understand such things.
Frowning, he reached up and touched the back of his head. In the past three weeks, the wound had nearly healed, although he’d led everyone to believe the assault had left behind inexplicable brain damage.
Although the physical wounds were mending, he was still suffering from a disturbing rage. He was racked by the need to discover who had attacked him with a shovel and who had killed Marietta Lopez.
A vision of Marietta exploded in his mind. Dancing dark eyes and a generous smile, the attractive young woman had been a favorite among both guests and the other workers at the ranch.
But the last time Mark had seen her, she hadn’t been smiling and the light in her eyes hadn’t danced. Her eyes had shone with the darkness of secrets. She’d been afraid.
How he wished he had a clue as to her murderer and what secrets she hadn’t had the opportunity to share with him. How he wished she’d been as hardheaded as he was, then perhaps the blow from the shovel wouldn’t have killed her.
Was it possible he’d seen something in April’s eyes that had reminded him of Marietta’s that night? The same kind of fear, the same expression of anxiety?
April. Her eyes had been the brightest green he’d ever seen and something in their depths had stirred him—a slight wariness, a vulnerability. The look of a dog that desperately wanted a soft touch, but anticipated a swift kick.
She’d said she’d been hired by his father as social director. The position had opened up when Marietta had been murdered.
If, at the family meeting at dinnertime, his brothers,