CHAPTER 21

I was purposely ten minutes late. I didn’t want to give her the impression I was sitting around watching the clock, counting off the minutes until I saw her again. The games Claire and I played with one another’s hearts and minds were sometimes beyond comprehension. I didn’t understand why we did them, and I didn’t think she did, either. I loved her more than life and I know she loved me the same, but we didn’t trust each other further than we could see one another. And sometimes, even when she was within sight, in full view, I trusted her even less. That’s when she was the most dangerous. At least when she wasn’t within arm’s reach, I could push her out of my mind.

I drove through the wrought iron gate welcoming me to the K-Bar Ranch. The main house was about two hundred yards past the entrance. It was an eight-thousand-square-foot, two-story colonial with a front porch and a manicured lawn. Claire’s bedroom had been upstairs, the last room on the right. The bedroom window faced the side lawn and there used to be a massive tree close enough I could climb and sneak in. Kinley got wise and had every tree within a hundred feet of the house cut down.

I followed the driveway like Claire had said and finally, a mile and a half later, pulled up to a cedar-sided log house not quite as large as the main house. I couldn’t help but grin—that was my Claire. She’d always dreamed of a log cabin. How could two people who were such polar opposites be so in tune with one another?

She bounded out onto the front porch, grinning like a giddy teenager, and motioned for me to park near the steps. I did as she wanted and parked about ten feet from the steps leading to the porch. I got out, turned and stared at the van parked haphazardly in the yard, then turned back to Claire. “Is that the handicap spot?”

She smiled. “I figured it would be easier for you. The swelling really has gone down, hasn’t it?” She looked at my foot and nodded approvingly.

I spread my arms and laughed. “Look, ma, no crutch.” I had no idea how I was going to make it up the stairs without it but I was going to give it my best effort. Heaven was waiting for me at the top.

I was able to put a little weight on my toes and probably looked like a creatively challenged dancer clumsily prancing about. It took a minute or two but I made it up all seven steps. I wrapped my arms around Claire’s waist and locked her in a tight embrace. Partly for support, and partly because she just looked so damn good standing there.

She pulled back slightly then kissed me hard on the mouth.

“Hello to you, too,” I said.

She wiped a transferred smudge of lipstick from the corner of my lips with the tip of her index finger. She sighed contentedly, then took my hand and led me into the house, adjusting her usually fast-paced steps to my gimping gait.

The house was large, but not a ridiculous show of wealth. It was open and airy and decorated in standard west-Texas flair, complete with bleached cattle skulls and Navajo-inspired blankets. The furniture was worn brown leather, purposely distressed and softer than a cloud.

“You want a beer or a drink?” She headed toward a wet bar in the corner of the family room.

“Whatcha got?” I’m a picky drinker.

She ducked behind the bar, then popped back up a minute later with a smile and a full bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. “That’ll work just fine,” I said, my mouth watering with anticipation.

She fixed us each a drink, then brought them, and the bottle, over to the sofa. She sat close to me, tucking one leg under her perfect ass so she could face me. She was so close her warm breath lightly tickled my neck. Despite every nerve ending in my body on pleasure high alert, I reminded myself this really needed to be a business call. It was easier to be objective if our clothes stayed on. Besides, I reminded myself, she was married. And I don’t make it a habit of doing married women. Not even if that woman was Claire Kinley.

“Claire,” I said after a stout swig of my drink. “We really need to finish the conversation we started in the hospital.”

She ran her finger lightly around the collar of my shirt, gently tickling my neck. “About me and you, or you and that Mexican reporter?” she said, her voice a breathy whisper.

I gently clasped her playful finger and moved her hand to her lap. “I was talking about the investigation and the ranch.”

She frowned. “You said you weren’t investigating the ranch.”

“Not directly. But some things have come up that I was hoping you could explain.”

She sighed heavily, then finished her drink in one long swallow. She refilled both our glasses, then sat the bottle on the coffee table. “I’ve already explained the illegal workers. I’m not sure what else there is to talk about.”

“Tell me about Mark Peterson.”

For a second, I thought I was going to have to smack her and force her to breathe. Her gaze darted all around the room, focusing on everything and nothing, avoiding looking at me altogether.

“I know he’s your brother-in-law. But I want to know about the business deal you have with him.”

She still wouldn’t look at me. She took a sip of her drink, then sat the glass on the table. “I thought this was going to be a picnic. I wasn’t expecting an inquisition.”

“Claire,” I said with a sigh. “It’s not an inquisition. Mark Peterson may be involved in things that would not be good for you to be involved in. I’m trying to find out where you fit into this picture.”

She finally looked at me. Her eyes were blue as ice and just as cold. “What kind of things?”

I swallowed the rest of my drink, then poured myself another. “I can’t really say yet.”

She guffawed. “Oh. Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You come in here and tell me my brother-in-law is involved in some kind of criminal activity, but you can’t tell me what, and oh, yeah, it may involve me. Is that about the gist of it?” Her voice was rising in pitch, which meant her temper wasn’t far behind.

“Claire … I’m trying to protect you. I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Seems like you do know what’s going on. Why don’t you tell me, then we’ll both know.” She sprang up from the couch and paced back and forth in front of the picture window. I imagined if I could hear the thoughts running through her head at that moment, it would sound like crashing ocean waves.

“Claire, I know you have business dealings with him—”

“How would you know that unless you’ve…” She stopped pacing and glared at me so hard I caught a chill. “You’ve pulled my financial records? Oh … my … God. You sonofabitch!”

“Claire, wait a minute. It’s not like that.” I hobbled over to her, keeping an arm’s-length distance between us just in case.

“You knew about the illegals, you knew about Steven when you fucked me. What else do you know about me, Gypsy? Is there something else you want to know? Ask me, I’ll tell you. You don’t have to dig it up.”

“It’s not you I’m investigating. But damn if you don’t have a lot of connections to Mark Peterson. I know money’s changed hands between you and Peterson, Claire. If he’s got something on you, you’ve got to tell me.”

Her icy stare bore a hole straight through to my soul. Finally, after a long moment, she sighed and pushed her hand through her hair. “Gypsy—he’s my brother-in-law. He’s married to Steven’s sister. He doesn’t manage their money very well. We’re always having to bail them out of one financial crisis after another.” She turned away and stared out the window. “What are you investigating him for?” Her voice was low, somber.

I closed the distance between us. “I can’t tell you that, Claire. You know that.”

“How involved is he?” She continued to look out the window, her back to me.

“He’s involved. That’s all I can say right now.”

I watched her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, then she turned around and looked me in the eyes. “And I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know if he’s gambling it away, or if he’s using drugs … I don’t know what he’s using the money for.”

It wasn’t adding up. There were too many dollars changing hands. Claire was too shrewd to be her brother-in-law’s personal bank. “How much is he into you for?” I knew the exact amount that had been exchanged. But I wanted to hear what she had to say.

She pushed her hand through her hair again, then slowly moved back to the sofa. She poured herself another drink then sat down. “Couple thousand, maybe.”

Closer to a quarter of a million but who was counting? “You said that y’all were always having to bail them out—does that mean Steven knows about it?”

She glanced at me, then took a sip of her drink. She swallowed slowly, then slowly shook her head. “I meant we, as in me and the ranch. I gave him the money from the ranch account.”

“And Steven doesn’t know?”

She shook her head again. “He doesn’t have a clue what goes on at the ranch and he wouldn’t know how to read a ledger sheet if it came with instructions.”

That was worthy of a little concern considering the man was involved with the state’s budget. “Why’d you keep paying Peterson? Why not just cut him off?” I sat back down beside her on the sofa.

“He’s married to Steven’s sister.”

“But Steven doesn’t know anything about it.”

She stared at me, her eyes searching mine. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

Was she protecting her husband … or herself? I fixed myself another drink and took a slow sip, steeling my nerves. “Claire … the undocumented workers you have working for you … how’d you find them?”

She looked confused, like she didn’t understand the question. “What do mean, how’d I find them? I needed help. They applied for the job. I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“How’d they know to come here?”

She thought about it a moment, then shrugged. “Word of mouth, I suppose. I don’t understand why you’re asking these questions.” The hurt in her eyes was real.

I wasn’t sure how much to tell her, how much I could trust her with. Or not trust her was more like it. “The men that work for you … do you know anything about them?”

She shook her head. “Not really. I mean, I know they’re hard workers. It may sound cold, but I try not to get real involved with the employees’ lives outside the ranch. I figure what they do after hours is their own business.” Her eyes then narrowed and she turned a sharp gaze at me. “Why? Has one of them done something?”

I shook my head. “Other than come here illegally? No. They haven’t done anything wrong, Claire. They’re the victims.”

She was taken aback. “Victims? What do you mean?”

“You have at least three illegals working for you whose teenage kids have gone missing.”

Her face twisted with concern. “When? Recently?”

“Pretty recent, yes.”

She got up again and slowly moved around the room, her face etched with concentration. “Do you think they’re connected?”

“I don’t know yet.” I didn’t trust her enough to play all my cards.

“Do you think maybe they ran away?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

She stopped in front of the window and gazed out at the ranch she loved more than life itself. “That’s terrible. Your daughter disappears and you never know what happened to her. And you can’t report it to the police because you run the risk of being deported.”

How did she know they didn’t file police reports? How did she know the missing kids were daughters? My heart felt like it had been coiled in a cable and tossed overboard with a cast-iron anchor. No matter how much I tried to convince myself she wasn’t involved, this boat was going down and it was taking Claire with it.