Renegade Moon (CupidKey) (18 page)

“Destiny Winston. And this is Eric’s brother, Martin.”

“Pleased to meet you both. Well, I guess—”

The dogs came running up barking. “Be quiet and lie down,” Martin commanded. “Eric won’t be far behind. Yep, here he comes now.”

Eric and Domingo rode up. Eric dismounted and Domingo took Pinto’s reins and continued around back.

“Howdy, Glen,” Eric said. “What’s up?”

“I got your message.”

“Come on.” They started toward the cottonwood. “Y’all excuse us,” Eric called over his shoulder as they walked off.

Silently, Destiny slipped through the screen door and darted to her room. She grabbed her digital recorder and headed for the kitchen window. Pressing the ‘record’ button, she placed it upon the deep windowsill.

Estrella was in the washhouse doing laundry and had the generator running for the washer and dryer. Destiny could hear the men’s voices, but the dull roar of the generator effectively blurred their words. She knew the sensitive recorder would pick up the conversation. They weren’t being very discrete, lulled by the generator’s noise. Somehow it made her feel cheap and sneaky doing this, but she couldn’t resist. She kept a guilty watch out the back door to make sure Estrella or Domingo didn’t come in, and checked over her shoulder for Martin, but her spying remained undisturbed.

Eric stood beneath the slim cottonwood that played leafy shadows across his face. “You shouldn’t have come here.” He tucked a thumb over his belt buckle, clenching and unclenching his other hand in agitation. The heel of his left boot scuffed back and forth, making a trench in the rocky ground. He wished it were deep enough to crawl into. Or better yet, to dump a few others into it.
Yeah. Much better.

“Hey, that message you left me didn’t mince words. I thought I’d better see what’s going on.” For a moment, Glen watched the trenching.

“I want out.”

“That’s impossible. You’ll get yourself killed. Get me killed, too. I’m sorry I involved you, but you have to go through with it now.”

Eric stared at the dusty toes of his boots. “No.”

“I’m telling you, there’s no way out.” Glen’s voice dropped and he scanned the area as if they might be ambushed at any moment.

“I’m concerned about Destiny,” Eric said.

“The best way to protect her is to get her away from here until we score.”

“What do you suggest I do? Kick her out? Run her out of New Mexico?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Get real, Glen. How much longer?”

“The first goes down day after tomorrow. The goods are at the shack by the strip, even as we speak.”

“Then it’ll be over.”

“Negative. That’s just the beginning of the end. Hang in there, buddy. It won’t be long.”

“It’d better not be. Things are getting complicated.”

Just then Pinto, sans his saddle and bridle, came around the side of the house and nudged Eric.

“What’re you doing here?” Eric patted the horse. “Domingo’s got your supper. You’d better hurry before Diablo eats it.”

Pinto snuffled and shook his head, as though he understood every word, and trotted back to the barn, tossing his mane.

Glen chuckled. “Tonto and his wonder horse.”

Eric shrugged his broad shoulders. “Too bad you’re not the Lone Ranger, friend.” Tension eased for a moment and his eyes crinkled with a smile at his old army buddy. “I could scalp you, Glen.”

“I deserve it for involving you in this mess.”

Destiny could tell by their movements and tone of voice that they were concluding the conversation, so she dashed back to her room and put away the recorder. She was back on the porch by the time they walked up. Her heart pounded so hard she was sure they could see her blouse flutter. She felt as if she wore a sign around her neck proclaiming,
Spy!

All evening she felt jumpy and guilty, like Eric could read her mind and would know what she’d done. The impulse had driven her to act quickly, almost instinctively. Why had she done it? Because she knew she must hear what they’d said. All her ugly suspicions rose up again. Why did things have to be so complicated? The idea that Eric would have anything to do with a smuggling operation was ridiculous. Or was it? Just what
did
she know about Eric George Montoya? His smile, his handsome face, his wonderful build? That rich deep voice, those powerful hands, all these things sent her senses reeling, but none of them canceled the possibility that he might do something illegal.

Just like nothing made it impossible for what Iris had said to be true. Maybe things were exactly as she claimed. Once they’d been important to each other, then for whatever reasons they parted which had hurt Eric, and now he was punishing Iris but still loved her.

Everything inside Destiny screamed denial at that. She sensed a caring in him that she didn’t think was faked. She studied him, sitting on the couch reading a ranch journal by the light of a kerosene lamp. His long legs stretched out so he could rest his booted feet on the corner of the coffee table.

Martin sat on the opposite couch, also reading by the light of a lamp. He’d kicked his boots off and had his legs jack-knifed to prop his magazine.

She was curled at the other end of the couch from Eric, doodling in her notebook, trying to outline an article she’d promised, not wanting to deplete the battery in her laptop without a nearby way to charge it.

She kept sneaking glances at Eric. It was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms and beg him to tell her that none of the horrible things clogging her mind were true. There were no smugglers, he did not love Iris—

“Hey, little brother,” Martin said without glancing up from his magazine. “What’s with this Glen King fellow who came around this afternoon?”

Eric stopped reading and his black eyes fastened on Martin. “I knew him in the army. Why?”

Martin shrugged. “Just wondering. I saw him that night at the Wagon Wheel hanging with a couple of ex-convict types.”

“I have no control over Glen’s associates.” Eric’s voice frosted over and that remote, carved stone expression cloaked his face.

Martin held up a placating hand. “Cool it, don’t get mad. Forget I mentioned it. Forget I’m here. Forget it all.”

Destiny closed her notebook, said goodnight, and retreated to her room. She’d either have to get away from the ranch or wait until the men left to play that recording. The sound of his own voice would bring Eric on the run, and she couldn’t find her ear bud. Somehow she felt it had to be very important for Glen King to come out here to see Eric for only a few minutes.

And Glen King’s innocent pretense when he’d arrived that he didn’t know who she was. What games were they playing? She pounded her pillow in frustration, unsure if she really wanted to know.

Glen King stood impassively before Miles Jard’s massive desk in his adobe house that overlooked the canyon, while Jard tapped a pencil thoughtfully on the desk. Stoker sat, arms folded, in a nearby chair.

“King, the local yokels are getting on my nerves,” Jard said in that dead voice of his. “One wants out and the other wants more money. I’ll take care of my charge. But you must make yours understand that nothing will change in the immediate future. The first in that series is scheduled to go, and I want it to do so without a hitch. I also want each of the following operations to go smoothly. A lot depends on the success of this. Such as, our future finances and our future state of health. Tell your little helper that if all goes well, there will be a bonus. If things go wrong, Stoker will deliver the bonus. Do I make myself clear?”

“I understand,” Glen replied. “I’ll pass along the message.” With that, he turned and went out, got into his Jeep, and drove down the hill toward the highway. He wished he’d never approached Eric. The other one didn’t matter. That recruitment had been Jard’s. But, he, Glen, had involved Eric. It seemed the logical thing to do at first, to get his old army buddy in on the action. But personal matters complicated Eric’s life right now and he’d made it plain that he wanted to end his participation. Glen wasn’t sure how much longer he could stall his friend, and at the moment there was no way out.

Another complication affecting the entire operation, not just Eric, was a certain pretty photojournalist with an uncanny knack of seeing things she shouldn’t, and pushing to see more.

Destiny arrived at the breakfast table the next morning just as Eric announced, “I’ve had some welding done on my horse trailer and it’s ready. Want to go with me to pick it up,
hermano
?”

“Yeah, I’ll go with you, little brother.”

Eric grinned at Destiny. “Want to go? It’s real excitement to pick up a horse trailer.”

“I’m sure the expression ‘pick up’ means ‘to hitch onto and pull home,’ right?” She gave him a smile.

“You translate well. You’ll be speaking New Mexican yet.”

“Well, I think I’ll forego the excitement. I might ride Muffin a bit.”

“Sure. Domingo will saddle her for you. Right,
amigo
?”

“
Sí
. You betcha.” Domingo grinned at Destiny.

After what seemed like endless fooling around, Eric and Martin finally left in the pickup to go get the trailer. Destiny rushed to her recorder. She had to sit there a few moments with it ready to play before she could summon the courage to click the button, scared of what she might hear. Shaken as she listened, she wanted to cry when the recording finished. This conversation between Eric and Glen King cinched Eric’s involvement. How could he allow himself to get mixed up in something illegal? Oh sure, they were good friends. Few could tease Eric that way, calling him Tonto, without a sharp set-down. Could she do something before Eric got in deeper?

The only shack by the airstrip belonged to old Will. What was stashed there? She recalled the Rampton Foundation crates from her airstrip photos. Were they smuggling artifacts? That didn’t make sense, as Eric had notified both the university and the historical society when he first discovered the site. Well, they were smuggling something. And she intended to find out what.

Her thoughts ran in circles so she forced herself to settle down, put away the recorder, and get organized. She needed to help Eric and she needed to get proof for her article.
Okay, get the proof first.
Later she could call her editor and the authorities. At the moment, she couldn’t risk confiding in anyone. She really didn’t know Joe Baker, the local deputy. If Eric was involved, why not the local authorities, too? Half of the state could be tangled up in this!
Get proof,
then
go to the Feds.

She gathered up her camera and canvas shoulder bag, and realized she couldn’t zoom out to Will’s in her very visible blue Mustang, especially since they’d spotted it that time from the airplane. Why, all they’d need is a glimpse of it and they’d be all over her. So she’d take Muffin. Domingo was expecting her to ride, and if she didn’t return before Eric and Martin, they wouldn’t be surprised that she’d gone riding, either.

Dressing in jeans and boots, she hurried out to the corral. She declined Domingo’s offer for a boost and led Muffin around to the front of the house where she’d parked her Mustang. After her initial encounter with Will, she’d bought a bottle of bourbon just in case she ran across him again. She withdrew the bottle from its hiding place in the trunk, and, with a sigh of relief that she actually had bought it, slid the whiskey into her shoulder bag. Slinging her camera case and shoulder bag straps over the saddlehorn, she led Muffin over to the porch, walked up onto it, stuck her boot in the stirrup, and swung aboard.

Glancing back, she saw Domingo watching. She waved gaily. He responded in turn. Soon she left the house behind and followed the road to the turnoff that led to Will’s shack.

The trip took much longer on horseback than in a car. She didn’t intend to gallop pell-mell and run up on somebody she didn’t want to see. Nearing the shack, she left the road and paralleled it, bringing her to the rear and out of sight. Much to her delight, she discovered a stock tank in a protected little hollow. She knew it contained water, because if was overgrown with bushes and grass, and even a couple of twisted mesquite trees and a desert willow. Probably Will’s water source. No need to urge the thirsty Muffin. She trotted right for it.
How handy having it out of sight of the shack.

Destiny slid off Muffin’s back and let the horse drink, then tied her where she could reach water and forage. Taking her camera and bag, Destiny set out for the shack.

“Hello,” she called out, her knees practically knocking. “Is anyone home?”

The tumbled-down shack simmered in the sun. Destiny continued calling out as she approached, with no results. She walked up to the doorway and peeked inside. The contrast with the bright sunlight turned the interior into a black hole, and she had to allow her eyes to adjust before she could see. Things began coming into focus.

A small area, perhaps eight-by-ten feet, apparently served as Will’s living quarters. An old bedstead stood in one corner covered with filthy rags. A woodstove occupied the other corner. The place reeked. Her nose protested and she was tempted to run back out. An unpainted bench, holding a chipped enameled wash pan piled with dirty utensils and dishes, flanked by empty whisky bottles, stood against the wall. A rickety table and three chairs sat in the middle of the room. Destiny took a cautious step inside.

Crates filled the rest of the structure, some bearing the Rampton Corporation logo. She walked over to investigate. If she could just get one open . . .

The unmistakable sound of a vehicle drew her immediate attention. Jard’s black and silver Escalade! Her heart racing like a trip hammer, she wove between the stacked crates as far back as she could go and crouched down in a corner. With great physical effort she forced herself to breathe quietly and to stay perfectly still. Surely they could hear the thundering of her heart echoing in her own ears like drums of doom!

Peeking through a crack, she saw Jard and Stoker come inside. Will was with them. She heard his gravelly voice. She recognized Jard’s odd flat tone, too. Though she’d never heard Stoker speak before, she knew the third voice must be his.