Twenty

“Claire, Claire,” Maude called to her, and Claire turned around. “The doctor will be down in a minute to give you a full report. Alex is going to be all right.”

Claire embraced the older woman, relief surging through her, and Maude bear-hugged her. A trace of guilt accompanied the knee-weakening sensation of relief. She’d been out here, mooning over Zach Coulter when she should have been inside waiting for word on her father.

“Claire,” Maude said as they walked inside, “I don’t like to say anything, but your father would be so upset if he had seen you dancing with the Sheriff. I have to admit I was stunned to see how close he was holding you.” Maude slowed her pace. “You looked as if you were enjoying every second of it.”

What could Claire say? She had been dancing—if you could call it that—with Zach. She knew better, yet she’d done it. Even now she experienced a flutter of excitement recalling that erotic dance.

“It’s none of my business, Claire. I wouldn’t mention it except I don’t want your father to be upset.”

Something in Maude’s tone brought a flash of insight. “You love him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she admitted, her warm eyes mirroring heartfelt emotion. “I had hoped one day, Alex might …”

“Marry you?” Claire blurted out, realizing too late she sounded shocked.

Maude turned a dull red, and Claire realized she’d embarrassed her. “I know I’m not much to look at. I’m nothing like your mother, but I really care about your father.”

Claire cursed her too quick tongue as she put a hand on Maude’s shoulder. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to him in years. So what if you’re not like my mother? She brought him nothing but grief.”

“You saw his reaction to that painting. Alex still loves your mother. He always will.”

Yes, Claire silently conceded as they began walking again. Her father refused to put the past behind him. He had a terrific woman who loved him, but he clung to a memory. He simply would not get on with his life.

“I’d be thrilled if you married my father,” Claire told Maude. “I think you’re wonderful.”

Inside, Dr. Nelson greeted them, looking very tired. “Alex was right. He ate something that didn’t agree with him. I’m letting him go home, but he’s to stay in bed until Monday.”

They asked a few questions about his diet, then Alexander Holt wheeled into the room. He smiled at her and seemed so grateful to see Claire, making her feel even guiltier about Zach.

“It was nothing to worry about, honey,” he said as she kissed his cheek. “Just Maude overreacting. I told her it was the tamale pie.”

“She did the right thing. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Don’t worry so much about me, Claire,” he said, but she could see that he was happy she was concerned.

They walked down the corridor, her father beside them, and Claire stole a glance at Maude. Claire had often wondered why Maude didn’t quit the way the others had. She was upset with herself for not having guessed Maude had fallen in love with Alexander Holt. If only her father would permit himself to be happy, to let another woman take Amy Holt’s place.

What would it be like to be so hopelessly in love with someone, she wondered, looking at Maude. She was a good woman who deserved to have a man love her. But Alexander Holt was as blind to her love as he was to many things.

“Claire’s showing was a tremendous success,” Maude informed Alex. “I went by the gallery to find her and saw red dots on everything but the dogs.”

“Dogs? Did you get another dog?” he asked Claire.

“No. I just have Lucy. I was taking care of a friend’s dog.”

“Good. You don’t need another dog.”

She held the door open for them, noticing her father hadn’t asked who her friend was. He hadn’t congratulated her on The Rising Sun’s success either. Without missing a boat, he rambled on about how he hated to miss the Fosters’ champagne reception, but he promised the doctor he’d stay in bed. The party was held on the last Sunday evening of the Taos Rodeo and Arts Festival. The snobbish Fosters included only the wealthy locals and visiting celebrities like Vanessa Trent with a few artists thrown in for “color.”

What did her father see in those people? Sometimes she didn’t understand him at all.

Angela snuggled in Paul’s arms, her head against his chest. They’d made love three times—always in the missionary position—but Angela hadn’t minded. There was something so endearing about the way Paul made love. He put everything he had into each kiss, each caress. The more he made love to her, the more he seemed to need to make love to her.

“What would you like to do tomorrow?” she asked, hoping he’d suggest a trip into Santa Fe to buy art supplies.

“I’d like to go up in the mountains and ride on those trails.”

Don’t push him, she reminded herself. “We can rent llamas at the trekking station. That’ll be fun.”

Even in the dim light, she saw the surprise on his face. “Llamas? I meant a horse. A nice mare that likes the wind in her mane.”

“Of course, but mares are so ordinary. The llamas have been quite a hit. Wouldn’t you rather try something new and exciting?”

“No.” His fingertips coasted across the rise of her breast, and she knew he was going to make love to her again. It was almost as if he’d spent a lifetime on a deserted island. “I’m a simple man. I want to ride a horse, not some newfangled animal.”

One of his hands stole between her legs and gently stroked her. Angela closed her eyes, thinking she’d get rid of Carleton Cole when she returned to her home. Paul could move in, then she’d be in a better position to encourage him to paint.

Oh, she had to admit that an added plus was his insatiable sexual appetite. He wasn’t young, and he wasn’t buff, but she didn’t mind. His talent and the earnest way he made love more than offset those liabilities.

In one smooth stroke he was deep inside her. He paused, levered himself up on his forearms and gazed into her eyes. “Take care of me, Angela. Take care of me.”

Claire unlocked the plank door of the hacienda she was leasing, telling herself not to be so skittish. Since leaving her father and Maude, she’d been looking over her shoulder. Expecting what?

She didn’t know, but the incident with the rattler and the fact that someone seemed to be trying to frame her for murder made her anxious. Well, more than anxious. She was jumpy probably because she was alone. For the last year, Lucy had been at her side, but Zach had both dogs.

She should have spent the night at her father’s the way Zach expected her to. She would have, but she didn’t want to be around her father. Usually, his attempts to dominate her made Claire keep her distance. Tonight was different. Until now she hadn’t realized how truly selfish and insensitive her father was.

A wonderful woman loved him, yet he couldn’t accept her love. No, he’d rather wear his love for her mother like a thorny crown. He reveled in his unhappiness, rejoicing in suffering, Claire decided.

Claire loved him, but she didn’t know how to help him. His uncharacteristically emotional outburst tonight signaled a deep-seated psychological problem. He needed counseling, but she could just imagine what he’d do if she suggested it.

She wandered through the rambling hacienda, trying not to check for someone lurking in the shadows. After all, the alarm system said no door or window had been opened. When she had turned on a light in every room, she went into her bedroom.

She undressed and climbed into bed, but sleep was impossible. Not only were the lights on—a problem, for sure—but she was too keyed up. She was uncomfortable without Lucy. She looked up the number of the sheriff’s station.

She asked for Zach, and he came on the line with a gruff, “Hello.”

“You said to call.” Claire cursed herself for giving in to such a stupid impulse.

“How’s your father?” he asked, his voice much friendlier now.

She wanted to say: he’s a mess and I don’t know what to do. “It was a false alarm. He had severe indigestion.”

“That’s a relief. You’re spending the night at his house, right?”

She made a noise that she hoped would pass for a positive response, hating to tell an outright lie. “I’m in bed.”

“That sounds like more fun than I’m having. I’m sitting here watching a bunch of drunks puke up their guts.”

“You have a way with words.” He was so crude, she thought. Why was she the least bit attracted to him?

He chuckled, a low, husky sound that was somehow provocative. “Okay, babe. I should have said that these dudes we arrested for fighting are now getting sober and they’re upchucking all over the place. That’s a drunk tank for you.”

“Poor Lucy. I’d better come get her.” She was positive she could sleep if Lucy was in the house.

“Nah. She’s busy right now licking Lobo’s”—he muttered something she couldn’t quite hear—“Now she’s licking harder. Her tongue’s right on his—”

“Private parts.” Lordy, the man was so crude.

“Actually, Claire, she’s licking his paw. Her tongue’s right between his toes. It looks like a shard of glass from the bottle some drunk busted over my head cut Lobo. It must have been in my hair and fell out.”

“Someone broke a bottle over your head,” she mumbled, embarrassed.

“Yeah, so leave Lobo’s ‘privates’ out of this.” He laughed and she had to laugh, too.

“I think I should come get Lucy.”

“You’re safe right where you are. I don’t want you driving at this hour,” he said, and she heard noise in the background. “Hold on a minute.”

Before she could tell him good-bye, he put her on hold. It was a full minute or more before he came back on the line. “I’m in my office now. Both dogs are with me, and you’re staying put. What I want you to do is think about where Duncan Morrell hid the laser scanner and equipment to produce those phony lithographs.”

“It wasn’t at his house?”

“Nope, and it wasn’t at his gallery either. His wife claims she never saw the equipment.”

“How big do you think the setup would be?” she asked, excited he was discussing the case with her again.

“Laser scanners are much smaller than they used to be. Storing the prints after they’re produced is the problem. They’d have to be rolled and placed in special cylinders for shipping, right?”

“Right.” She had no idea why he was consulting her, but she was glad to be included. No one wanted this case solved more than she did. If the bearded man wasn’t going to give her an alibi, then she had to let Zach help her.

“You could probably have the setup in a space the size of a garage,” he said.

“What makes you think it’s around here?”

“A check of Morrell’s credit card activity for the past year shows one trip to Los Angeles a month ago.”

“He visited Vanessa Trent and sold her a number of lithographs. She told me so.”

“Okay, but that’s the only trip he took. It only stands to reason that the prints are being produced here, but where?”

“In the last place anyone would look,” Claire said automatically. “Out at the pueblo or in one of the churches.”

“You’re joking.”

“Of course, but it’s someplace where you wouldn’t normally look.”

He was silent, obviously searching for the answer, she decided, imagining him at his desk. His long legs were up on the desk, his booted feet crossed at the ankles. No doubt, he’d wiped his boots, but dust still splotched his black jeans.

“The last place anyone would look,” he repeated thoughtfully.

There was an intimacy to their conversation that hadn’t been there until tonight at the hospital when Zach had dosed the distance she usually kept between herself and most men. Now they were—what? Friends? Lovers?

Well, not lovers yet, but Zach had to believe they soon would be. After that dance tonight, what else could he think? She shuddered, experiencing equal parts anticipation and dread. On one level the thought excited her, yet it frightened her, too.

Her father’s health and psychological state were fragile. The last thing he needed was to discover his daughter was involved with Zach Coulter. Yet she needed Zach’s help. She had the uneasy feeling that she was being drawn deeper and deeper into the Morrell case.

“Claire, do you have any idea who Duncan was in love with? His wife tolerated his affairs for years, but he was leaving her for someone.”

“No. He came on to anything in a skirt, and he got plenty of action. It was always a mystery to me what women saw in him. Even Vanessa Trent went out with him, and she was terribly upset by his death.” An odd thought occurred to her. “If Duncan was in love with someone special enough to divorce his wife after all this time, then what was he doing in a sleazy room at The Hideaway?”