"It sounds like one of your brainstorms."
"I'm a careful businesswoman. You know that. The others
thought it was a good idea and took it from there. We all
approved the final draft. I suggested that we get your input
before we mail it to her."
"Why's that?"
"You've spent more time with her than anybody else in
town. We thought you might guess what her reaction will
be."
He studied her impassive features for a long moment. She
was as sly as a fox. She hadn't gotten as rich as she was by
being dumb or careless. Reede liked her, always had. He
slept with her on a regular basis to their mutual satisfaction.
But he didn't trust her.
Feeding someone like her too much information would not
only be unethical, it would be just plain stupid. He had enough
street smarts to know better, and it would take more than an
extended viewing of her spectacular cleavage to loosen his
tongue.
"Your guess is as good as mine how she'll react," he said
noncommittally. "She probably won't react at all."
"Meaning?"
' 'Meaning, I doubt she'll pack her bags and head for Austin
the minute she reads this."
"Courageous, is she?"
Reede shrugged.
"Stubborn?"
He gave a sardonic smile. "You could said that, yeah.
She's damned stubborn."
"I'm curious about this girl."
"Why?"
"Because you frown every time her name comes up." She
sent another stream of acrid smoke ceilingward as she regarded
him closely. "You're frowning now, sugar."
"Habit."
"Does she look like her mother?"
"Not much," he said shortly. "There's a resemblance,
that's all."
Her smile was slow, feline, crafty. "She bothers you,
doesn't she?"
"Hell, yes, she bothers me," he shouted. "She's trying
to send me to prison. Wouldn't that bother you?"
"Only if I was guilty."
Reede clenched his teeth. "All right, I've read your letter and given you my opinion. Why don't you haul your ass out
of my house?"
Unperturbed by his anger, she leisurely ground out her
cigarette in his tin ashtray and pulled her fur coat around her
as she stood up. She gathered up her cigarettes, lighter, and
the envelope addressed to Alex, and replaced them in her
handbag. "I know from experience, Mr. Reede Lambert, that
you think my ass is quite something."
Reede's temper abated. Laughing with chagrin, he
squeezed a handful of fanny through her clothing and snarled,
"You're right. It is."
"Friends?"
"Friends."
As they stood facing each other, she smoothed her hand
down his belly and cupped his sex. It was full and firm, but
unaroused. "It's a cold night, Reede," she said in a sultry
voice. "Want me to stay?"
He shook his head. "We agreed a long time ago that in
order to remain friends, I'd come to you to get laid."
She drew a pretty frown. "Why'd we agree to that?"
"Because I'm the sheriff and you run a whorehouse."
Her laugh was guttural and sexy. "Goddamn right, I do.
The best and most profitable one in the state. Anyway, I see
I took good care of you the other night." She'd been massaging
him through his jeans, with no results.
"Yeah, thanks."
Smiling, the madam dropped her hand and moved toward
the door. She addressed him over her shoulder. "What was
the urgency? I don't recall seeing you in such a dither since
you heard about a certain soldier boy in El Paso, name of
Gaither."
Reede's eyes turned a darker, more menacing green. "No
urgency. Just horny."
She smiled her knowing smile and patted his stubbled
cheek. "You'll have to lie better than that, Reede, honey,
to put one over on me. I've known you too long and too
well." Her voice drifted back to him as she stepped into the
darkness beyond his door. "Don't be a stranger, sugar, you
hear?"
Sixteen
It was no longer sleeting, but it was still very cold. Patches
of thin ice crunched beneath Alex's boots as she carefully
made her way from her parked car toward the practice track.
The brilliant sunshine, which had not deigned to appear for
the last several days, now blinded her. The sky was a vivid
blue. Jets, looking no larger than pinpoints, trailed puffy lines
that sometimes crisscrossed, matching the miles of white
fencing on the Minton ranch that divided the compound into
separate pens and paddocks.
The ground between the gravel road and the practice track
was uneven. Tire tracks had worn permanent ruts in it over
the years. It was muddy in spots where ice had already surrendered
to the sun's rays.
Alex had dressed appropriately in old boots and jeans. Even
though her hands were gloved in kid leather, she raised her
fists to her mouth and blew on them for additional warmth.
She took a pair of sunglasses out of her coat pocket and slid
them on to combat the sunlight. From behind their tinted
lenses, she watched Reede. He was standing at the rail clock-big
the horses between the timing poles placed every sixteenth
of a mile.
She held back a moment to study him unobserved. Instead
of the leather bomber jacket, he had on a long, light-colored
duster. One boot was propped on the lowest rail of the fence,
a stance that drew attention to his narrow buttocks and long
thighs.
The boot she could see was scuffed and well worn. His
jeans were clean, but the hems were frayed, their denim
threads bleached white. It occurred to her that the flies of all
his jeans were similarly worn, and she was shocked to realize
that she knew that.
His wrists were propped on the top fence rail, his hands
dangling over the other side. He was wearing leather gloves,
the same ones he'd had on when he'd pulled her against him
the other night and held her while she cried. It was odd, and
deliciously disturbing, to reflect on how his hands had moved
over her back with nothing except a terry-cloth robe separating
them from her nakedness. A stopwatch lay in the palm
of the hand that had cupped her head and pressed it against
his chest.
He had on the cowboy hat she'd first seen him in, pulled
down low over his brows. Dark blond hair brushed the collar
of his coat. When he turned his head, she noticed that the
angles of his profile were sharp and clear. There were no
indecisive shapes, no subtle contours. When he breathed, a
vapor formed around the lips that had kissed her damp hair
after he'd told her about Celina's body.
"Let 'em go," he shouted to the practice riders. His voice
was as masculine as all his features. Whether he was shouting
orders or making innuendos, it never failed to elicit a response
low in her body.
As the horses came around--four, in all--then-hooves pounded and raised clumps of turf that a track conditioner
had loosened earlier that morning. Flaring nostrils sent up
billows of steam.
When the riders slowed them to a walk, they were directed
back toward the stables. Reede called out to one. "Ginger,
how's he doing?"
"I've been holding him back. He's bouncy."
"Give him his head. He wants to run. Walk him around
once, then let him go again."
"Okay."
The diminutive rider, who Alex hadn't initially realized
was a young woman, tipped the bill of her cap with her quirt
and nudged her splendid mount back onto the track.
"What's his name?"
Reede's head came around. He speared Alex with eyes
shaded against the sun only by the brim of his hat and a
natural squint that had left him with appealing crow's-feet at
the outer corners of his eyes. "She's a girl."
"The horse?"
"Oh. The horse's name is Double Time."
Alex moved up beside him at the rail and rested her forearms
on it. "Is he yours?"
"Yes."
"A winner?"
"He keeps me in pocket change."
Alex watched the rider crouched over the saddle. "She
seems to know just what to do," she remarked. "That's a
lot of horse for such a tiny person to handle."
"Ginger's one of the Mintons' best gallop boys--that's
what they're called." He returned his attention to the horse
and rider as they came around the track at a full-out gallop.
"Atta boy, atta boy," he whispered. "Comin' through like
a pro." He whooped when Double Time streaked past them,
a blur of well-coordinated muscle, agility, and immense
strength.
"Good work," Reede told the rider when she brought the
horse around.
"Better?"
"Several seconds better."
Reede had more encouraging words for the horse. He patted
him affectionately and spoke in a language the animal seemed
to understand. The stallion pranced off friskily, tail fanning,
knowing that a rewarding breakfast was awaiting him in the
stable for having performed so well for his owner.
"You seem to have a real rapport with him," Alex observed.
"I was there the day his sire covered the mare. I was there