Yesterday’s hope fled. In its wake followed yesterday’s moment of giddiness. Because Angel’s future was this new day … this dew-dampened early morning. A pink and red sky filled the vast blue canvas above, overshadowing the sun rising beyond it. Angel lowered her gaze from the sky, stared again at Mr. Daltry’s still form next to the cold, ashy remains of last night’s campfire. She swallowed, the motion more mechanical than voluntary.
Behind her, the precariously poised jumble of boulders she’d stumbled back against, only moments ago, pressed against her spine. Their impersonal coldness seeped through her clothing, cooled her fevered emotions. But her knees, she knew, could give at any moment. So could her stomach, were it not already empty. Her palms scraped across the rough, cold rocks behind her, as if she sought their solidness, as if she needed to feel their bulk. And still, she pushed against them, wanting to force herself through them.
This was madness, her hammering heart warned with each tripping beat. Angel knew the truth of that. She willed herself to breathe … in and out … in and out. Then, she blinked. Listened to her blood rush through her veins. Tried to deny that she’d awakened to the sight of Mr. Daltry lying there … in his blood-soaked bedroll … with a bone-handled knife protruding from his chest. But she knew—somewhere in a tiny corner of her mind—that it was true. Because here she stood … still staring at him, unable to look away.
Then, as if possessed of a will of its own, Angel’s right hand crept its way up her clothing, up her neck, until it found her mouth and cupped itself tightly over her lips. A fresh surge of panic shivered through her, had her breathing hard through her nostrils. She hadn’t heard a thing. And the horses … they hadn’t raised so much as a nicker of a fuss all night. Angel pictured herself sleeping across the campfire from Mr. Daltry. That close, she’d been. And yet, she hadn’t heard a thing. How was that possible?
Who could have done such a thing … and so quietly? Indians? Certainly. Outlaws? Maybe. The prairie was lousy with them. But this killing … done like this, with all their belongings still here, and her left alive? She shook her head. It just didn’t figure with what she knew of outlaws and Indians. But what about those Henton drovers from Red River Station? Could they have followed her and Mr. Daltry and picked their moment? Immediately she discounted that notion. No, they’d have killed her, too—if not instead.
Angel pursed her lips. She knew enough of the world to realize that she—a lone, unarmed woman—would not be alive right now to tell about this cold-booded murder, if it’d been Indians or outlaws or even the Henton drovers. But Mr. Daltry’s murder wasn’t the result of a cold-blooded, random act. No, it was personal. And something that had nothing to do with her. Which was why she’d been left alive. Was it so she could tell about it? But tell who? And why. Mr. Daltry’d said he was a rich rancher. But since he had no family left, who would care?
Angel found herself focusing on the unknown murderer. She frowned, tried to figure out what type of person would just sneak in and kill a man in his sleep. A cowardly type, she reckoned, lowering her hand from her mouth. This murder spoke of a grudge. A wrong that had needed righting.
She stared at the body that had been Mr. Daltry’s, at the blood that no longer flowed from his chest but stained his blankets. Now she’d never have her answers from him. Yes, it was a cold thought, she knew, and one that decent folks would have gasped at. But then again, no one had ever accused her of being decent, now had they? But what about Mr. Daltry? Was he decent? What could that old man have done to someone to bring this on himself? It had to be something awful.
What had he been capable of? And what, after all, did she really know about him? Nothing. Except what she’d seen with her own eyes. She couldn’t speak for how he treated other folks. Or could she? He had faced down that lynch mob and saved her life when he didn’t have to. That said something for the man. So did the respect with which those drovers had treated him. Angel weighed all this, decided that, yes, Mr. Daltry was a somebody. That much had been evident.
All those facts added together, she knew, were why she’d placed her trust in him … for the first time in her life. And now look what had happened. He’d saved her life four days ago, only to lose his now. And once again—twice in one week—her life had been spared. It had to mean something. And she couldn’t say why or even how she felt about that. So, what was she supposed to do now? Because before this—meaning Mr. Daltry’s murder—she’d looked to him for direction.
But he was no more forthcoming in death than he had been in life. Angel cocked her head. Had he been a good man? she asked herself. Or had he deserved to die like this? She closed her eyes against her own thoughts … and called herself a fool for not thinking this through before now. Although he had prevented her from being hanged, she had no firsthand proof that anything he’d said to her was the truth. Did he even deserve this awful feeling of loss that had settled rocklike in her belly?
That thought forced her to consider new and frightening possibilities. That ranch of his might exist only in his head. Those legal papers awaiting her signature could be nonexistent. Angel’s heart pounded with sudden fear for herself, for her immediate future. Her tongue flicked out to moisten suddenly dry lips. What would she do if had lied to her? Where would she go? She had nothing but the roan she was riding. No money. No help. No direction.
Just like your mother.
A surge of anger squelched that comparison. She was not like her mother. Never would be, either. Never. She’d take charge of her life, would live it clean. She’d show Virginia Devlin. For long seconds, Angel breathed hard and glared at … nothing—until her anger finally subsided, leaving her, surprisingly, feeling better about herself. She could do this. Do what? she asked herself. Find that ranch, came her answer. Yes, that was good. Finding the ranch was doing something. It wasn’t standing here being scared and doubting everything she knew to be true.
Angel pushed away from the boulders, looked westward. A half-day’s ride west, he’d said yesterday. She turned to Mr. Daltry’s body, and grimaced. She knew what she had to do. Take him along. It was the only decent thing to do. Bury him on his own land. Well, it was her land now, she supposed. If it existed. If she believed him. And then, she realized that she did believe him, she knew the ranch existed, and when she got there, those papers—and a new and a good life—would be waiting for her. Just as Mr. Daltry had promised.
* * *
Straddling his big brown horse with the ease of one born to the saddle, Jack Daltry directed his gelding’s steps across the fenced-off stretch of north Texas prairie that fronted the ranch house he called home. He didn’t like the look of things as he rode in and surveyed the yard. Too deserted. Too quiet for a sunny afternoon. Where was Pa? And Lou and Boots? Those two old hands always stayed behind when the drovers took the herd north to Abilene.
That wasn’t to say he’d expected a welcoming committee. After all, no one even knew he was coming home. And might not even be glad he had. But, hell, somebody should have been here. Somebody besides the few disinterested chickens roaming free and scratching at the barren ground. Jack’s eyes narrowed as he became certain that the place was deserted. He reined Buffalo in, started to dismount …
Then … he saw it. The front door of the house, as if in confirmation of his fear, hung open.
His heart skipped a beat. He resettled himself in the saddle, patted his gelding’s shoulder when it sidestepped at his mixed signals. “Whoa. Easy there,” he crooned absently, all the while trying to deny the sudden, skin-crawling certainty that he was being watched. By hostile eyes. As casually as possible, he made a visual sweep of the yard, looking for a furtive movement, or sunlight glinting off gunmetal. But he saw nothing. All remained calm and quiet.
Emboldened, Jack pivoted this way and that in the saddle, putting a cautionary hand to the six-shooter holstered at his right hip. But he didn’t draw his weapon. Not yet. Didn’t want to provoke someone into firing. Damn, he cursed himself, he shouldn’t have stayed away so long. Never should’ve said the things he had four months ago. Never should have told the old man he was through with him, that he could just run the spread however he saw fit. Leave me out of it. I don’t want any part of it.
Jack could still hear himself yelling that over his shoulder as he made for the door last January, the same door that stood open … and—whoa!—now had the business end of a rifle poking out of its darkened gap of a frame. The long rifle was aimed right at his heart.
Son of a—Jack’s fist tightened reflexively around his horse’s reins. Under cover of his stiff-brimmed hat, he watched the doorway, tried to size up his situation. From what he could gather, there was only one person inside. And it sure as hell wasn’t Pa. They’d left off badly together, but not this badly. But whoever it was, one was enough. Because, sitting out in the open like he was, Jack knew he was a ready target.
So, with no choice, not if he wished to see the sun set, he remained still, didn’t test the mettle of the stranger in his home. The bastard had just better hope he isn’t pointing Pa’s Winchester at me, Jack fumed. As galling as that notion was, Jack had lived most of his twenty-eight years knowing that the man with the bigger gun—and the drop on you—made the rules. So, he might as well make his peace now and find out later what was going on, where Pa was.
“Hello, in the house,” he called out. “I don’t mean you any harm. Show yourself.”
The words were no more out of his mouth than a metallic crackling sound split the air and echoed against the windless sky, heralding the bullet that scudded into the ground mere inches from where Jack sat his horse. The startled gelding shied, tried to rear, bellowed his displeasure. Cussing through gritted teeth, losing his hat, Jack tensed and hunched over Buffalo, fought to keep his seat in the saddle, fought to haul down on the reins. A dusty battle ensued, but finally he bested his mount, bringing the prancing, circling horse under strict control.
Again he faced the house—his house, dammit—ready this time to return the favor to the son of a bitch who’d shot at him in his own front yard and had nearly gotten him thrown. He reached for his pistol—but then … he saw her. Jack stilled, smoothed his hand away from his tooled-leather holster, and stared openly at the woman standing in the sun-dappled shadows cast across the covered verandah.
He frowned. There was something naggingly familiar about her. He couldn’t say exactly what, though. Who was she? And more importantly, what was she doing here? Then, it hit him—the only explanation there could be. Jack relaxed, even chuckled, shook his head. Well, I’ll be. Pa got himself a woman.
The realization had him turning a critical eye on her. She appeared to be a young woman, too. He surveyed her again, and frowned at what he saw. A mighty young woman. And given the wild look of her and the reception she’d given him, a spirited one. Her long black hair tumbled past her shoulders, brushed against her narrow waist. There wasn’t much else, at this distance, that he could see … except that she was slender and tall. And again raising what Jack could now clearly see was his father’s Winchester.
“Whoa, ma’am,” Jack called out, gesturing to match his words. “You can put that rifle down. I don’t mean you any harm.”
She didn’t relax her hold on the weapon, but she did call out, “You’ve got ten seconds to state your business, stranger.”
Her voice, low and husky, was enough of a warning. But it was her challenge that went right through Jack, had him yelling back, “My business? I don’t have to state anything, lady. I live here.”
The woman stiffened, the Winchester dipped, but was instantly refitted to her shoulder. She called out, “It seems to me … being the one who stepped outside onto the porch just now … that if you lived here, I’d have run into you inside this house. So you’ll have to do better than that, mister. Because I’m the one who lives here. Alone.”
Jack didn’t like one thing she’d just said. Especially alone. That gnawed at his stomach and had him calling back, “Where’s Wallace Daltry?”
Again, she didn’t say anything right off. That had Jack’s pulse hammering. Was bad news what lay behind her slience? He wasn’t sure she’d answer at all, or even that he’d want to hear what she had to say. But when she did speak, it wasn’t to answer his question. It was to pose a question of her own. “Who wants to know?”
“I do,” was all he felt like divulging. Up until now, he’d been thinking that, most likely, Pa’d accompanied the men and the herd up to the Abilene railhead and had left her here to look after the place. And a damned fine job she’s doing of it, too, he thought sourly. But now, he wasn’t so sure. About anything. Obviously a lot had happened since he’d left four months ago on that cold January day.
And still, Jack realized, she hadn’t answered him. “Well?” he called out.
“Well what?” was her questioning response.
This was about the last thing he needed, Jack decided as his eyebrows descended down over his nose. He’d been a long time on the trail home from New Mexico. A long time. He was tired, hot, dirty, thirsty—and more than a little concerned about his father. All things considered, he wasn’t someone she wanted to mess with right now. “You always answer questions with another question, ma’am?”
She shrugged. Or at least, the Winchester wavered momentarily before again finding the bull’s-eye she obviously saw painted over his heart. “Depends on the question,” was her only comment.
Jack’s gut clenched. He scrubbed a hand over his growth of bristly beard. But a calmer part of his brain reminded him that he’d never killed a woman before. And she probably wasn’t a good one to start with, since this contrary creature could be his father’s wife. And his stepmother. Now that got a mirthless chuckle out of him.
“Something funny, mister?”
Jack sobered, stared pointedly at her. “Not a thing from where I’m sitting, ma’am. Pardon my lingo, but just who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Who the hell are you?” came her mimicking retort.
Jack huffed out his breath, looking away while he searched for control. Finally, he returned his gaze to her standing there on the verandah, and decided she was about as forthcoming as a tree stump when it came to giving out information. Still, he complied with her question. “I’m Jack Daltry, that’s who the hell I am.”
He expected she would lower the gun. And apologize. And welcome him. He should have known better. Because she tensed even more and told him, “I haven’t heard any mention of a Jack Daltry.”
Jack sat up straighter in his saddle. Pa hadn’t even mentioned him? Whew. He’d left things worse off than he thought. But he wasn’t about to tell her that. “That may be,” he drawled. “And yet … here I sit.”
“Says you.”
Damned contrary woman. “Maybe we ought to start with who you are.”
She didn’t say anything. Jack waited her out. Finally, she said, “The name’s Angel.”
“Angel?” Humor laced his voice. “Pardon me, ma’am, but you don’t look like any angel to me.”
“Yeah? How many you seen, cowboy?”
Caught off guard, Jack chuckled. “Well, you got me there. Angel what?”
“Devlin.”
Her full name hit him with the force of a fist to the gut. The humor fled from his face. Angel Devlin? The wild-child daughter of Virginia Devlin? The man-talk around Red River Station had it that this girl—an untouched, untamed beauty—was someone no man in his right mind would dare approach … at risk of his own life, as the stories went. He’d heard that she’d used a knife on more than one man who’d tried. Somber as a hanging judge, Jack cocked his head, considered her, wondered what she was doing here.
“I see you’ve heard the name.”
Her words had him smoothing his expression and saying, “Yep. I’ve heard the name.” If she was still calling herself Devlin, then she wasn’t hitched to Pa. Just warming his bed, most likely. Jack shot her a look hardened by what he knew of her, by what he thought of her.
It was that lack of respect, and his resulting disregard for the threat she posed—rifle or no—that had him nudging his horse forward. She was only Angel Devlin, after all. And this was his land, no matter that she claimed to live on the Circle D. Not if I have anything to say about it, Jack thought. With each step of Buffalo’s hooves, with each sway of his horse’s gait toward the hitching rail that outlined the verandah, Jack’s mood darkened. What a day this was turning out to be. He had hoped, in coming home, to mend fences with Pa. But now?
He kept his gaze on Angel Devlin. And realized he harbored a growing certainty that the long-awaited fence-mending was unlikely. He also believed without proof—it was only a gut feeling—that somehow she was partly responsible. And yet, he continued to approach, knew he was daring her to shoot him. But no rifle fire rang out to stop him. He told himself that was just as he’d figured. And then willed his heart to stop thudding.
But he never let his apprehension show on his face. Not when he reined in his horse. Not when he dismounted and tied Buffalo to the rail. Not when he turned his back on Angel Devlin and ambled over to fetch his black felt Stetson. Not when he scooped it up and hit it against his thigh to dust it off. And not when he settled his hat on his head, his back still presented to her as a broad target, as a way of showing her he considered her no threat.
Only then, his hands to his waist, did he turn to face her. She hadn’t moved or given an inch. Still had the rifle aimed at him. Jack shook his head, not knowing which outweighed the other—his growing respect for her grit, or his exasperation with her obvious mule-headedness. “Well? What’s it going to be, Miss Devlin? Why don’t you just put down that Winchester of my father’s, and we’ll talk?”
He paused, giving her a chance to comply. She didn’t. Obviously, she wanted no part of his peace offering. Jack looked down to study his boots as he collected himself, and then raised his head, sighting on her. “All right. It’s your call, ma’am. But one thing you should know … if you shoot at me again, I’ll shoot back. Woman or no.”
She snorted. “Mister, I ain’t shot at you yet. That bullet hit the ground because that’s where I aimed it. But if I do shoot at you … well, you won’t be in any shape to shoot back at anyone.” She raised the rifle a fraction, and added, “Woman or no.”
She dared fling his own words back at him. With long, angry strides, Jack crossed the distance between them, walked up the two steps that led to the raised porch, advanced on her. He expected her to retreat a step or two, to yield the rifle to him. But his momentum was such that he was upon her and grabbing the rifle she still clutched before he realized she’d stood her ground, had no intention of giving up her weapon. Still, he snapped, “Give me that damned thing before you hurt someone.”
But still she didn’t. She continued to resist, to hold on. Jack’s gaze locked with hers. Logic told him he was much bigger than her, told him he could free the weapon with one good twist. Yet, for some reason he couldn’t name … he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, joined to her as they both gripped the loaded gun, and watched her features harden, her black eyes narrow. Then, he saw something in their depths, something ancient, something beyond them both. A shock of fear coursed through him when he realized what it was.
He’d seen that look before … on a she-wolf stalking her prey. Surprised, he was ready to let go of the rifle first. But then, inexplicably, she relaxed, complied. Gave over the gun. And silently stared at him, never blinking.
Jack couldn’t look away. He didn’t know what to think, what to do. She’d shut him down with one look. He swallowed, hunted inside himself for the anger that had carried him up here to her … thought of his father … and found it. Then, just to show her he wasn’t afraid of her, he gripped her arm, turning her to face the open front door. As he marched her across the threshhold, he gritted out, “Inside, Angel Devlin. I want some answers from you. And I want them now.”
* * *
The front door slammed closed behind them as the man calling himself Jack Daltry kicked it with his booted foot. Angel refused to struggle against his one-handed grip on her arm. She’d not give him the satisfaction of dragging her across the room. No, she’d go with him … but on her own terms. So, matching her stride to his as best she could, but still falling short, she accompanied him over to the gun case that stood sentrylike against the same wall as the door.
Once there, he opened the case door without releasing his hold on her, jammed the rifle into a notched space, closed it, and tugged her over to a cowhide sofa. There he let her go, but with a shove that had her sprawling across the cushions.
Angel landed in a heap, but quickly pulled herself upright, fishing her tangled hair out of her eyes. She meant to jump up and make him pay for his rough treatment of her. But she saw she was too late.
He sat leaning forward on the low polished split-wood table that fronted the sofa, his long and muscular legs straddling hers, his hands folded in the breach between his thighs. She looked him up and down. He really was a big man, she was forced to admit. One she had no chance of besting. Which was why she’d finally handed the Winchester over to him … once she’d seen him up close and had gauged for herself his resemblance to Wallace Daltry.
Not that she felt better about him because he looked like his father. No, him being kin—if he truly was—only made her situation worse. But when he’d ridden up, she had thought he must be Mr. Daltry’s murderer. She feared that the murderer had had second thoughts about leaving her alive, and had come to finish the job. But this man, unlike the cowardly killer, had ridden right up to the front door in broad daylight and had asked questions. Which told her he wasn’t the killer. Because if he was, he wouldn’t be sitting here wanting answers. He’d want blood.
And so, deciding she was safe enough for the moment, Angel melted back against the cushions, her hands folded together in her lap. And waited. After all, if he was Daltry kin, as he said he was, then she held the last ace in the deck. If it was answers he wanted, let him dig for them. Let him ask the right questions.
He looked her up and down, his gaze finally settling on her neck. Angel’s pulse raced. She knew he’d see: the healing rope burns. The last thing she wanted to talk about. Sure enough, he asked, “What happened to your neck?”
But Angel knew how to deflect such questions. She cocked her head, asking, “You got nose trouble, mister?”
He stiffened, sat up straighter. “Meaning?”
“Keep yours out of my business.”
His eyes narrowed. “All right. We can talk about my business. Where is everyone?”
Angel shrugged, looking him squarely in his blue eyes … eyes she again had to admit were the same color and shape as Mr. Daltry’s. “Who’s ‘everyone’?”
A muscle jumped in the man’s jaw, telling her he didn’t like her answer at all. “My father … Wallace Daltry. And two of the hands—two old men—Boots Cornwell and Lou Montana. Are they here?”
Angel shook her head, didn’t bother to brush a strand of hair obscuring her face. “I’ve been here a week, mister, and you’re the first living soul I’ve seen.”
His eyebrows rose a fraction as he studied her face. Clearly he thought she was lying. But Angel knew the truth of her words. She’d been here a week. Mr. Daltry hadn’t been alive when she got here with him. And the place had been deserted otherwise. No live folks. No dead bodies littering the place. No one but her and a couple of horses and some chickens. And there were now fewer chickens than there’d been a week ago.
“A week?” he finally asked, breaking his reflective silence and frowning. When he went on, he sounded to Angel as if he didn’t realize he still spoke out loud. “But they had to leave with the herd for Abilene longer than a week ago. Or they’d never make it in time for the sale and the shipment. Which means they—you…” He stared at her. “A week? Then you can’t be my father’s—” He bit back whatever he’d been about to say.
Angel sat up, leaned forward. “Your father’s what?”
He leaned into her, his nose almost touching hers. “That’s what I don’t know, Miss Devlin. Why don’t you tell me?”
Forced, at this close range, to look deep into the man’s blazing-with-suspicion blue eyes, Angel found she couldn’t look away, realized her heart was thumping with the intensity of his scrutiny. The tense seconds ticked away until she gave in first and sat back, staring at him.
“Don’t make me ask you again where my father is. But you take your time, get your story straight,” he drawled. “I can wait.” To prove it, he shifted his weight and propped his hands against his denim-covered thighs.
Angel blinked, hating him. His questions were a trap. She hadn’t been absolutely certain, until he rode in, that she was even squatting on the right piece of land. But now, thanks to this man, she knew. And the knowledge only increased her desire to hold on to the only decent home she’d ever known. Under the folds of her skirt, her hands fisted in response to her inner turmoil. If only she’d been able to find those legal papers she was supposed to sign. But there were none here. Not any, of any sort. Nothing to say who had ownership of this land. And that was strange, she knew.
But worse, until she did find the documents, sign them, and then file them in the county seat at Wichita Falls, she had no real claim to the place. But the man sitting in front of her did … if he was who he said he was. Her spirits sagged as she had to admit to herself that she believed he was Mr. Daltry’s son. Not only did he look like a younger version of his father, but he knew too much, and cared too much, not to be related. And given all that, he had every right to toss her out.
So once she answered his question, and thereby acknowledged Mr. Daltry as his father, this Jack Daltry would have her where he wanted her. But knowing all this didn’t stop Angel from stalling. “Who’d you say your father was? And how am I supposed to know if you’re lying or not?”
Jack Daltry reared back in surprise and then his expression hardened. “Goddamn you!” he snarled. He jerked forward, catching her off guard as he grabbed her by her arms, pulling her roughly to him. His beard-circled slash of a mouth only inches away, the man’s hot breath blasted Angel’s face.
But she refused to yield, even though his grip hurt her. All her life, when faced with terror and helplessness, she willed away the slightest show of pain, of vulnerability. And in its stead, she drew on a hardness of the soul that could break rocks. A hardness no one could penetrate, not with fists, not with words, not with threats.
“I’ve never hurt a woman before in my life,” Jack Daltry was telling her. “But I’ll break every goddamned bone in your body if you don’t start answering my questions right now.” His threats hissed through clenched teeth. “I know who you are. And what you are. So don’t play coy with me, Miss Devlin.” He made the title of respect a slur. “Where is my father? And you know just who in the hell I’m talking about, too. What’d you do to him? That’s all I want to know.”
Angel swallowed, certain the lump in her throat was her fear-frozen heart. This time her fading away into herself wasn’t working. She remained aware of her blood rushing through her veins, of the weakness of her limbs. She still felt the pain of his grip. Able only to breathe shallowly, her words limped out on short gasps. “I didn’t … do anything … to your father … I swear it.” She stopped to suck in a series of shortened breaths.
Jack Daltry’s blue eyes darkened, his grip tightened, almost forcing a scream from Angel, one she would have died before emitting. “Keep talking. You know more. And I’m listening,” he assured her with deadly calm.
“You’re not…” she began, but couldn’t finish. The pain … it glazed her consciousness. Then he shook her. A cry was wrung from Angel. And a confession. “He’s dead,” she yelled into his shocked face. “He’s dead. But I didn’t do it. I swear it.”
With his mouth open, his eyes unseeing, he loosened his grip some, as if he weren’t aware he still held her. Only then did tears spring to Angel’s eyes. And she hated him all the more for making her feel something, anything … even if it was pain. “You stupid bastard,” she gulped out, crying and shaking now in earnest. “Your father’s dead. I buried him out back. Go look for yourself.”
He didn’t move. She wasn’t sure he’d heard her, or understood her words. Because he just sat there, staring at her. Angel’s tear-watered gaze clashed with his for long moments. And then … it was all too much. All of it—beginning with the morning her mother died and ending right here, right now. Too much. Against her will, against her nature, Angel wilted in his grip. Her forehead slumped against his shoulder.
And he held her like that … close to him but still apart from him. Through her tears, Angel could see his chest rising and falling in heaving breaths, breaths that were coming faster, that foretold the building of further reaction. She braced herself for whatever it would be.
She didn’t have long to wait. Jack Daltry suddenly pushed back, his motion shoving her away from him. On her back, she hit the soft cushions behind her, fought for a grip on them and wrenched herself up on her elbows. Through the shadowed curtain of her hair, she stared up at the man standing over her and pointing down at her.
“I don’t believe you—that you had nothing to do with—” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, again looked down at her, and started over. “But if what you say is true … and my father’s … dead—” Again he paused, took several deep breaths. “I’m going to go out back and see for myself. If I find what you say I will—” His blue eyes blazed black “When I come back inside—trust me—you’ll want to be gone, Angel Devlin. Because if you’re not, I’ll kill you.”