The Bluest Eyes in Texas. Marilyn Pappano
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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.”
“Get your gear or stay behind,” he warned.
“Fine. Let me drive.”
The look that crossed his face fell just short of horror. “Nobody drives my car.”
“Make an exception.”
“Why? You afraid I’m gonna leave you by the road first time we make a bathroom stop?”
That was exactly what she was afraid of. She hadn’t told him much, but it was enough to send him in the right direction, and he seemed just the type to leave her stranded in the middle of nowhere.
Her jaw set grimly, she went to the car, retrieved her backup pistol from the glove compartment and slid it into her purse, then returned. “My ‘gear’ is at the motel in town. We’ll have to stop there.”
The entire car literally rumbled with power when he started the engine. She settled into the passenger seat, purse in her lap, Logan just inches away, and wondered just how big a mistake she was making.
A short while later she got at least part of an answer to that when he almost stopped at a stop sign, then turned west onto the main street. She twisted in the seat to face him. “The motel’s the other way.”
He didn’t respond.
“Damn it, Marshall—”
That made him glance her way. “Hey, don’t blame me because you weren’t prepared.”
“It wouldn’t take me five minutes to pack!”
“You can buy new clothes.”
“I don’t want new clothes!”
When his only response was a shrug, she folded her arms across her chest and coldly said, “I want to pick up my clothes. If you don’t turn this car around right now, I’m not telling you one more damn thing about Pete MacGregor.”
The tires squealed as he jammed the brake to the floor and steered to the side of the street. “Then get out. I’ll find this Escobar on my own.”
“I’ll call him. I’ll warn him about you.”
His demeanor turned icy again. “You wouldn’t.”
Of course she wouldn’t. People should suffer the consequences of their actions, which meant Pete MacGregor should spend the rest of his life in prison…or die. She would never help a killer escape justice.
But while Logan might suspect that, he didn’t know it.
“Are you sure of that?” she asked. “Sure enough to put me out here? Sure enough to risk blowing your best chance at finding MacGregor?”
It took every bit of strength she possessed not to squirm under the intensity of his stare. Just as she’d been earlier, he was about ninety-nine percent certain she was bluffing, but that one percent worried him. He wasn’t going to call her bluff. Not this time.
An instant after she reached that conclusion, he glanced in the rearview mirror, then peeled out in a tight turn that left skid marks on the road and drove back through town to the motel. Pulling up in front of the room she pointed out, he scowled at her. “Five minutes.”
Smiling sweetly, she reached across, cut off the engine and snagged the keys before he began to guess what she was doing. She hopped out of the car, slid them into her jeans pocket, then headed toward the room.
She was hastily stuffing clothes into the suitcase open on the bed when he appeared in the open door. She’d come for four days this trip and had brought enough clothes for seven. What could she say? She liked being prepared.
He