The Bluest Eyes in Texas. Marilyn Pappano
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were crossing the area a hundred and fifty years ago in the hottest July anyone could ever recall. After days of blistering heat, sand and wind, one of the travelers insisted he would go no más—no more—and it stuck, though somewhere along the way it became one word and the accent transferred to the first syllable. It’s about a half mile north of the border and has all the conveniences—motels, restaurants and bars. Mac’s brother has a ranch about five miles east of town that backs right up to the border. Whether he actually does any ranching is anyone’s guess.”
“Have you been there?”
“No. I checked it out on the Internet. Great little resource when you need information.” Of course, he didn’t look like a computer-friendly person. Come to think of it, he didn’t seem much of anything-friendly. He loved his car, but that was the only thing he showed any fondness for.
And Sam and Ella Jensen. He’d loved them, and blamed himself for their deaths. If nothing else, she could cut him some slack for that.
“Unless I find out that Mac’s not there, you’ll have to keep a low profile. That means staying out of sight at the motel. It also means—” she let her gaze drift out the plate glass window to the GTX parked out front before turning a big grin on him “—letting me drive your car.”
“When hell freezes over,” he muttered before taking the last bite of his burger. “Nobody drives that car but me.”
“I know.” And that would make it even sweeter when she slid behind the wheel. All that power…and all the satisfaction of knowing it was killing him…too sweet.
He stood and tossed a couple ones on the table, then picked up the check. “What’s going to be your excuse for asking questions about Mac? He’s not the sort of person who will take kindly to some nosy broad poking around.”
She stood, too, and studied her reflection in the window. “I haven’t decided yet.” Grabbing a handful of her shirt in back, she pulled it tight, then slid her free hand over her stomach. “Maybe I’ll be searching for the father of my baby.”
That brought a scowl that made the others look like mild grimaces, and he murmured something as he stalked off to the cash register near the door. Catching the words stupid and idiot, she decided not to ask him to repeat the rest.
It was hot and sunny, with a dry breeze out of the west. Bailey would have appreciated just a drop or two of humidity, even if it did make the heat more uncomfortable. Too much time in this environment, and she feared she might shrivel up and blow away in that wind.
“Seriously,” Logan said after putting a few miles between them and the diner. “You need a reason for asking about Mac. What is it going to be?”
“Seriously I don’t intend to ask about Mac to start. I intend to look around, meet some people and go from there. Who knows?” she added as she kicked off her sandals, then propped one bare foot out the window. “Maybe I’ll romance the information out of Hector.”
She expected some sort of response from Logan—Pete MacGregor’s brother’s name is Hector Escobar?—but he remained silent so long that she finally looked his way. His jaw was clenched tighter than usual, and he had the steering wheel in a grip better suited, she imagined, to her throat.
He shifted his gaze to her for only an instant before turning back to the road. “This isn’t a game,” he said, grinding out the words. “If you can’t get that through your head, you need to get the hell back to Memphis where you belong. Pete MacGregor is a cold-blooded killer, and I doubt his brother is much better.”
“I don’t know,” she said more carelessly than she felt. “You and Brady are brothers, but you’re nothing alike. Mac and Hector are only half brothers, and they didn’t grow up together. For all we know, Hector could be a God-fearing, churchgoing, law-abiding man.”
“Providing refuge for his fugitive brother? I doubt it.”
She didn’t have to doubt it—she had proof otherwise. Hector Escobar had an arrest record going back to his teen years and had spent time in prison on drug and assault convictions. In the pictures she’d seen of him—booking photos and prison shots—he was one scary-looking man. Big, tattooed, with wild hair, a wild beard and wild-eyed. But he hadn’t been arrested even once in five years. Maybe he’d grown up and gotten his temper under control. Or maybe he’d just gotten better at what he was doing.
But Logan didn’t need to know any of that. He might actually show concern for her safety, though he’d be more likely to use it as an excuse. He would ditch her, take care of Mac on his own, then disappear again without a thought for his promise to meet Lexy. Because she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, she was sticking to him until the day she delivered him to his family in Buffalo Plains.
“It’s not a game,” he repeated, still looking and sounding as if he might grind his molars down.
“I know that. You know, I’ve dealt with people like Hector before.” Another lie, unless via the computer counted as dealing with. “Don’t worry about it. I can take care of myself. Remember?”
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