Killer Cowboy. Carla Cassidy
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you stopping by, but I’m not interested in any offer you might make me on this place.” She glanced pointedly at the door.
Raymond laughed once again as he rose from the sofa. “Sooner or later you’ll be interested. I’m the only person around these parts who has the kind of money you’ll want to rid yourself of this one-horse town and get back to New York City, where those fancy jeans of yours belong.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied.
She breathed a sigh of relief when he walked out the door. He was probably pleased that another murder had taken place on her property. He probably thought this newest tragedy would make her desperate to sell out to him and leave Bitterroot.
She had to admit there was a part of her that would like to cut and run. However, selling out to Raymond Humes would be such a betrayal to Aunt Cass, who had left her the ranch.
More important, it would be a huge betrayal to the men who worked here, men who embraced her as their own the minute she’d stepped into her aunt’s very large shoes.
And one of them might be a killer.
The words jumped unbidden into her head. No, there was no way Dillon or anyone else could ever make her believe that. She refused to believe that for the last six months she’d been living here with a vicious killer. Her cowboys were good, kind and hardworking men.
Still, a faint chill accompanied her as she locked the front door and then returned to the kitchen.
* * *
It was just after four when Dillon finished interviewing for the day. He’d spent most of the morning inside the barn with a couple of his best men, seeking anything that might be a clue. It had been a fruitless search.
Finally, after noon he pulled in three of the last six cowboys to talk to. He’d hoped to get something, at least a little nugget of information that might move the case forward, but that hadn’t happened.
Over and over again he heard that Sam had fit in with them all just fine, that nobody had seen anything at the party indicating a problem between the dead man and anyone else other than Butch.
There were still many avenues to explore, but Dillon felt in his gut that the answers not only to Sam’s murder, but also to the murders that had taken place years ago, lay right here on the Holiday ranch.
As he headed to the house a weariness weighed heavily on his shoulders. It was the same disillusionment that had been with him since the day the seven bodies had been unearthed.
Dillon considered himself a good lawman, but the seven unsolved mysteries had left him feeling inadequate. It was an emotion that brought up old, bad memories. He shoved them aside as he reached the back door.
He’d been kicking himself all day for sharing with Cassie the information about the ring that had been found in the grave. He should have never confided in her. While he trusted that she would keep the information to herself, it had been unprofessional of him to tell her.
But he’d wanted to give her just a small nugget of hope that he would get to the bottom of things. He’d wanted to do something to alleviate the shadowed darkness in her eyes.
He knocked on the back door and Cassie answered. “Come on in,” she said, gesturing him into the kitchen that smelled of spicy meat cooking.
“Something smells good,” he said.
“Taco pie. Halena Redwing taught me how to make it. Why don’t you have some with me? I’ve already made a salad, and the pie will be ready in minutes.”
“Oh, I don’t want to impose...” he began.
“Dillon, please. It’s no imposition at all. Besides, I absolutely hate to eat alone.”
There was something slightly desperate in the depths of her lovely eyes. It probably wasn’t a good idea for him to spend any time with her, especially alone. “I skipped lunch and taco pie sounds delicious,” he heard himself say despite his internal dialogue.
She flashed him a grateful smile. “Then sit and relax and I’ll just get the dishes on the table.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Don’t talk about murder or my men while we eat.” She pointed to a chair.
“I can do that,” he agreed and sat. He’d talked and thought about murder enough for the day. The taco pie smelled delicious and Cassie looked charming in a pair of fancy jeans that hugged her slender legs and a pink sweatshirt that made her eyes appear even more blue than usual.
He remained silent while she placed plates and silverware on the table. As she bent over to get the taco bake out of the oven, he couldn’t help but notice her figure. She was a petite woman, but perfectly proportioned.
Cassie Peterson could definitely be a threat to his mental well-being if he allowed it. She was the first woman to tempt him since Stacy had walked out on him almost five years ago.
It’s just a quick dinner, he told himself. No threat there. It would be nice not to talk about murder or potential suspects for the duration of the meal. He just wasn’t sure what they might talk about. In the past every time he’d spoken to Cassie it had been because something bad had happened on her ranch.
Something bad had happened now, but he was almost grateful she didn’t want to chew on it over dinner.
Minutes later she had the meal on the table and gestured for him to help himself. “Why did you skip lunch? You know you would have been welcome to eat with the men. Cookie always makes plenty of food.”
He didn’t want to tell her that he wasn’t at all sure he’d be welcome in the dining room. Between yesterday and that afternoon he’d grilled most of her men pretty hard. “I was busy in the barn and lost track of time,” he replied. He ladled a portion of the pie from the dish onto his plate.
“The weather was certainly nice today,” she said.
“Autumn is my favorite season,” he replied.
“Mine, too.” She smiled, as if pleased they’d found some common ground.
He focused on his plate and tried to ignore the small burst of heat her smile had sparked in the pit of his stomach. He took a bite of the taco pie and then gazed at her once again. “This is delicious. You’re obviously a good cook.”
She laughed, the sound musical and pleasant. “Not really, but I’m trying. Halena has given me a ton of her recipes, and she’s a good cook. There are a lot of Aunt Cass’s recipes here, too. I’ve realized in the last couple of weeks that cooking and baking might be a great stress reliever if I learn how to do it right.”
“Maybe I should take it up,” Dillon said drily.
“You don’t cook?”
“Most of my meals are eaten at the café. I work so much that it’s just easier to eat out.”
“All work and no play?” She took a bite of her salad and held his gaze.
Oh, he’d like to play right now. He’d like to capture her cupid lips with his and... Crap, the stress of these cases was definitely getting to him.
“No play,” he replied more curtly than he intended. She looked down at her plate and he instantly felt guilty for his sharp tone. “I heard through the grapevine that you’re an artist.”
She looked at him once again. “I like to paint.”
“Watercolor or oil?”
Her eyes lit up. “Right now I’m doing oil paintings with Western themes. I have an arrangement with Mary Redwing. She’s got a couple of them up on her website for sale.”
“From everything I’ve heard Mary has a solid business.” The Native American woman sold handmade baskets, pots and other items inherent to her Choctaw culture while her grandmother, Halena, sewed traditional