Smoketree (8 page)

I shook my head slowly. “Oh Brandon, you don’t understand the modeling business at all.”

He spread his hands. “So tell me.”

“For every successful model there are hundreds waiting to take her place. There is no job security in this business. The minute a void appears it’s filled.” I spread my hands helplessly. “What company is going to hire me when they can get twenty or so other girls who
don’t
have scars?”

“What about Jazzmine?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Drew’s talking to them. Things are kind of sticky right now; my contract was up with Jazzmine a couple of months ago and they’re hedging about making another offer. Drew’s doing his usual subtle arm-twisting, along with saying all the right things, so I don’t know.” I shrugged. “He’ll probably know in a week or so if they’ve decided to get another girl.”

“Drew Stanford?” Brandon nodded. “You’ve got the best with him—that much I know. I dated a model once; she told me how she envied your position and manager.” He sighed and leaned against the pen. “Jazzmine would be stupid to let you go. Look what you’ve done for them.”

“And vice versa.” I shook my head. “Maybe now is just as good a time as any to quit. I might not even have any choice.”

“Don’t bet on it.” He looked past me to the shell of the barn. “You don’t bear the slightest resemblance to
that
, Kelly. Remember that.”

I knew what he meant, and I appreciated it. But I couldn’t help smiling. “At least with me it wasn’t intended. The fire was purposely set.”

He looked at me sharply, furrows appearing between his brows. “What the hell are you talking about? Are you mixed up in some sort of trouble?”

I laughed at him and put out my hands as the horse came up to the rails. He—or she—set his nose against my hand and blew softly. “Not me, of course not. There just seems to be some skullduggery going on around here. Evil’s afoot at Smoketree.” For a moment I gave my imagination free rein, eager for something different to talk about. Who cared if it was all a tall tale?

“Kelly—”

“No, really. Just listen.” I mulled it over a minute. “It’s like this. Smoketree’s a very valuable piece of property—it’s an ideal place for land developers to come in and build condominiums.” I shrugged. “After all, the ranch is practically surrounded by government land, and there’s a ski area just over the hill. So some big outfit comes in here and makes Nathan, the owner, an offer. But he says no, because he loves this land.” I was warming to my subject. “Right about then, the wrangler buys half the ranch. And then, these odd incidents begin occurring.”

“Kelly—”

“And, if these incidents go on long enough”—I paused for dramatic effect—“and cause Nathan enough losses, he’ll
have
to sell. ”

Brandon sighed. “Have you figured out who’s behind it?”

“No.” I frowned into the darkness, thinking about it. “Unless, of course, it was the butler.”

“
What?
” It was a gust of air from his lungs.

I grinned. “It’s always the butler in whodunits. Well, Smoketree doesn’t have a butler, but it does have the loyal retainer—sort of. Harper Young. Head wrangler… and half-owner.” I laughed. “You see?”

He didn’t. “I think you’re out of your mind. Still, I’ll admit I’d sooner see you out of it than in it.” He grinned back, “Come on, Kelly, you don’t really mean to tell me—”

“Why not?” I demanded. “The land developers are paying Harper to make Nathan sell his portion. Then Harper sells his half—and Smoketree is no more. ”

“It’s too simple,” he retorted.

“Simple things work best,” I proclaimed. “Don’t you see? All these accidents. A man on the inside would be invaluable. As a matter of fact, I’d be willing to bet these incidents started happening right after Harper bought into Smoketree.”

“No, they didn’t,” said Harper from the far side of the pens. “They started right before.”

I jerked my head around and stared at him, stunned. He climbed the pen bars like rungs of a ladder, stepped over the top one and dropped down. The horse left off investigating me and wandered over to inspect Harper; he patted the dark neck and approached. His face was expressionless.

“You heard,” I said lamely.

“It was hard not to, seeing as how I was so close.”

“Were you listening?”

He grinned and paused at our end of the pen. “I came down to finish my evening chores. I overheard my name. Wouldn’t you have listened?”

I swallowed. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough.” The grin faded, but the amusement remained in his eyes. “You tell a mighty tall tale, ma’am. But I got to admit you do it well.”

I opened my mouth to explain it had been nothing more than a moment’s diversion, but Harper was extending a hand to Brandon and introducing himself. So I had to content myself with making a mental note to explain things later.

Harper did not stick around. Once he and Brandon had exchanged amenities he was gone, intent on finishing his chores. I considered beating a hasty retreat to my cabin, but Brandon’s hand settled on my shoulder and stopped me. “He’s your villain?”

“Well, he seemed like the type,” I muttered.

Brandon grinned. “He wears a white hat—or almost. I think he’s a good guy. ”

I shot him a scowl. “Never mind. I’m already embarrassed enough; can we forget the whole thing?”

“Sure. Why don’t you come with me to get a nightcap while I settle my things in my cabin?”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass. You go on.”

We parted at the porch. Brandon wished me a good night’s sleep, kissed me briefly and chastely on the forehead near the scar, and went into the Lodge. Surprised, yet also gratified for his understanding, I headed toward my cabin.

As I walked, smiling to myself over Brandon’s welcome arrival, I heard the roar of a powerful engine. It approached rapidly, inexorably, and as I turned I was struck full across the face by a set of blinding headlights.

Suddenly I was taken back six months, frozen behind the steering wheel of Tucker’s sleek European sports car as the approaching vehicle veered into our lane. I recalled shouting something to Tucker, but he was slumped, asleep, against the door I had carefully locked.

I did not shout this time. My throat locked up and all I could do was stand very, very still, one hand thrust out against the headlights, the other wadding the fabric of my sweater into a twisted lump against my flesh.

The car stopped. The headlights were shut off. The engine died. I saw a burgundy Porsche 924 parked before me. Illumination from the Lodge lent a muted glow to the area, encompassing the car, but I was still half-blinded by the headlights. As the door swung open I saw a middle-aged, rotund, balding man wearing glasses climb out.

“Is this Smoketree?” he asked.

I felt ill. My muscles ached with the sudden release of tension. Automatically I tugged my sweater back into shape and tried to recover my composure. My hands were shaking.

“Yes—yes, it’s Smoketree.”

He didn’t seem to notice the quiver in my voice. “Oh good! I was afraid I’d taken the wrong turning.” He grinned impishly, adding to the overall impression of a slightly over-the-hill cherub. “I’m not terribly good at remembering directions, and I’m afraid the map got left behind at the restaurant. ” He paused, losing a little of his ebullience as I said nothing. “Do you work here?”

“No. I’m a guest.” I approached, not particularly offended by his mistake. “That’s the Lodge”—a wave of my hand—“someone up there can check you in.”

Before he could say anything further his passenger swung open her door and stepped out. My mind registered vague surprise as she uncoiled herself from the Porsche. She wasn’t even remotely the type of woman I’d associate with the man.

She was a black-haired, black-eyed beauty, perhaps in her early thirties. She moved with exquisite grace as she paused by the sleek dark hood of the Porsche, and I saw the calm confidence associated with affluence and influence reflected in her eyes as she observed me. I smiled at her, totally aware of what she was doing as she made a smooth, professional assessment of me. The time-honored female ritual had been played out.

“If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll fetch Harper.” I could just as easily excuse myself, but I was curious as to how the cowboy would react when he set eyes on her.

I went back toward the pens where I had last seen him, and found him doling out coffee-can portions of grain to each horse feeder. I leaned against the rails of one pen, waiting as he finished, and finally he came over.

“You down here to accuse me of all sorts of things again?” In the dark, thank God, he couldn’t see the instantaneous blush. But I had no doubts he could hear the defensiveness in my tone. “That
was
a joke, you know. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

I scowled at his irritatingly serene face. “You have guests. Up there, by the Lodge.”

“You could have sent them in to Nathan.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “But maybe I just wanted to see if you were sabotaging anything else.”

It wiped the amusement out of his eyes. “So much for your joke. Well, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not your villain.”

He was serious. I stared at him, astonished by the note in his voice and the expression in his eyes. I had been kidding when I painted my picture for Brandon, but suddenly I wondered if I had unwittingly stumbled onto something. Why else would Harper treat it all so deadly seriously?

“I just—I just came down to tell you about the new guests,” I said lamely, turning to make a quick exit. But he slipped through the rails and fell into step with me.

“Why are you so intent on finding me out?” he asked.

That jerked my head around. “You mean—you’re
admitting
it?”

The moustache quivered. “No. But why would you care one way or another?”

I shook my head in exasperation. “Just idle curiosity.”

“Something like that, as I recall, killed the cat.”

“You can’t be serious—” I began, laughing, and then said nothing more.

Harper stopped as I did, turning to face me squarely. His posture was without aggression of any sort, but a coiled readiness was evident. His face was mostly shadowed, but I sensed the cool perusal in his too-direct eyes.

Finally I found my voice. “You
can’t
be serious! Was that a threat?”

I felt rather than heard his silent laughter. "A warning, merely. ”

I shivered suddenly. “Should I be afraid of you?”

His face tightened. “Be whatever you like.”

I watched him walk up to the Porsche and greet the new guests. Then, shivering again and wondering if I should be amused or frightened, I went on to my cabin.

Everyone was present at breakfast save the dark beauty. Her companion was as cherubic in daylight as he had been the night before, and he smiled in recognition and hurried over as I came in.

“Thank you for your assistance last night. I’m Elliott Fitch, New York City. ” He extended a pudgy hand, gray eyes alight behind the steel-framed glasses.

I took his hand and introduced myself. “Also New York City. ”

He beamed at me. “Have you ever heard of
Richelieu?
”

I stared at him in surprise. “The finest French restaurant in New York? Of course!”

He nodded, very pleased. “Then be my guest there sometime. The Count will see to it you are seated at the best table. ” I was startled at his casual mention of
Richelieu
maitre d’, one of the most exquisitely polite of the breed and elegantly fierce. “You know the Count?”

His eyes twinkled. “I’m his
employer
. I’m Richelieu.” He paused, enjoying my embarrassed confusion. “Actually, Richelieu is just the name I chose because it sounded so French.
Fitch's Place
just wouldn’t have struck the proper tone, I’m afraid.”

There was something warmly likeable about the pudgy little man, and I revised my initial reaction to the incongruity he and his lovely lady-friend presented. He was immensely pleased when I told him I patronized his restaurant frequently.

“Is this your first visit to a dude ranch?” he asked, then went on before I could answer. “It is for me. I’ve really been looking forward to this trip. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for forty years, ever since I was a boy.” He smiled ruefully, shaking his head with its short fringe of brown hair. “Francesca thinks all of this is very silly, and I suppose she’s right, but I decided to treat myself. And Francesca, of course.” His round, shiny face took on a decidedly puckish expression. “My wife and children are on vacation in Europe, you see-and now, have I offended you completely?”

“No,” I said truthfully, although I did think them an odd pair. I’m sure he knew it.

He sighed and glanced around, soaking up the ambience. “Well, I’m hoping to get some riding in today. That’s the main reason I came out here, you know—I wanted to see what a dude ranch was like, and spend most of my days riding.”

“I’m sure Harper will fix you up with a good mount.” As good as Sunny, I wondered, or did he reserve the sorrel’s rump for helpless-seeming models?

Elliot Fitch patted his rounded belly. “Well, I must go stoke up the engine. Don’t want to miss my first genuine Western meal.” He grinned at me, eyes bright behind his glasses. “And no, I’m not quite expecting cornbread, beans and coffee. Not yet.”

I laughed with him and turned to seek out my own seat, and Brandon was suddenly beside me. “Morning,” he said, leaning down to kiss me briefly on the forehead. “Hungry?”

“Let’s eat,” I affirmed, and we adjoined to a private table just as the others arrived.

Nathan appeared tired when he came in with Cass and Harper. At our first meeting I’d put him in his late fifties, even with the gray hair; now I added at least ten years to my estimate. He didn’t look less healthy, just not as vitally active. Cass also appeared concerned about something, but Harper’s face, with its masking moustache, was calm as ever.

Lenore Oliver, seated at another table with her husband, challenged Brandon to a tennis match after breakfast, even suggesting they make it worth money. Brandon declined, pleading a poor game, but gave in when Lenore prodded him to accept the challenge. Having seen him on the courts before, however briefly, I knew there was no such thing as a poor game in his repertoire.