Texas Tough (19 page)

“Stop right there.” Lauren had gone cold. He was up to his old tricks again, peddling her like a pimp to men whose money and influence could help his cause. “Whatever you need, I don't want any part of it—especially if it involves Josh Hardesty.”

“Lauren, I need his help or I'm finished in politics! If you'd only listen to reason—”

“No, you listen.” Lauren rose. “The first—and last—time I went out with that man, he made it clear what he expected in return for the check he wrote you. Sorry, but I'm not for sale. I'm not that kind of girl.”

“Aren't you?” His voice dripped contempt. “You'll spread your legs for a half-breed bastard who'll only drag you down. Why not for a man with enough money and prestige to save your father from ruin? Where's your family loyalty?”

Lauren felt the blood drain from her face. She braced a steadying hand against the table while she found her voice. “You're drunk. If you weren't I'd never forgive you for what you just said.”

He studied her with slitted eyes. “I may be drunk, but I know when I'm right. Why him, Lauren? Why a fatherless, half-Comanche piece of trash who stinks of horses and couldn't afford to keep you in a tin shack?”

The words burst out, catching Lauren by surprise. But as soon as she spoke them, she knew they were true. She loved Sky Fletcher. She would follow him anywhere—and if getting him back meant crawling to him on her hands and knees, she would do it in a heartbeat.

“You're a fool,” he said. “Just like your mother.”

Lauren's chin went up, her spine stiffened. “My mother left you,” she said. “And as soon as I can find a place of my own, I plan to do the same thing.”

“I'll disown you!” he screamed as she walked out of the kitchen. “I'll sell this house to the syndicate and you won't get a penny!”

Lauren glanced back over her shoulder. “Go ahead. I don't want your money.”

Striding out into the hall, she headed upstairs to call Tori. Maybe it was time she took a serious look at the Axelrod house. The thought of staying here much longer was more than she could stand.

 

Stella waited until the afternoon of the next day. When Prescott hadn't called her by 3:15, she carried out her ultimatum.

Once she'd made up her mind, the rest was easy. All it took was three anonymous phone calls—one to an investigative reporter at the local TV station, one to the campaign headquarters of the opposing party, and one to the state attorney general's office. Stella had laid a careful money trail that could be followed by anyone with the interest and know-how. She'd also made sure that none of the cash she'd given Prescott was traceable to her.

In a way, she knew, she was killing the golden goose. But Garn Prescott could no longer be trusted. Besides, he wasn't the only influential man Stella had on a string. The rest would be put on notice that nobody crossed Stella Rawlins. The only trouble was, none of them were in a position to help her brother.

She wasn't through with the congressman. He would have to be silenced before his shame turned to fury. That was why, as she was leaving the diner, she'd placed a tracking signal device under the chassis of his big white Cadillac. It paid to think ahead.

She was still working out the details of Prescott's end—mainly finding somebody to do the job now that good old Hoyt was gone. But right now her most urgent concern was saving Nick.

She'd called a lawyer friend in Lubbock who'd promised to drive down first thing tomorrow. But when she'd described the evidence against Nick, he hadn't given her much hope. Her poor, innocent brother was being held without bail, and she was running out of options.

Now it was almost midnight, and the last customers had cleared out of the Blue Coyote. With Nick in jail, Stella and the waitress had been running nonstop. It was time to go home and try to get some rest. But Stella had a pounding headache and her feet, in their red high-heeled boots, were screaming. Needing a few minutes of peace and quiet, she sank onto a chair, popped the tab on a can of Dos Equis, and lit a Marlboro from the pack she'd laid on the table.

Her clenched nerves were just beginning to unwind when a tall shape blocked the overhead light. The waitress pulled out a chair, sat down across from her, and slid a cigarette from the pack. “D'you mind?” she asked, pulling a pink plastic lighter out of her bra.

Stella shook her head. She didn't especially like the woman, but she'd worked hard tonight and done a decent job. Marie, that was her name.

Marie lit the cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke. “I need to talk to you,” she said. “Promise you'll hear me out. I think I've figured out a way to save your brother.”

Marie took a long draw on the cigarette. This was it, time for the biggest gamble of her life. Facing Stella was like staring down a hungry tigress, but this was no time for a show of nerves. Her life would depend on playing it cool.

“First, I have a confession,” she said. “I've been working under my married name. My maiden name is Marie Fletcher.”

Stella's penciled eyebrows shot up. “You're—”

“I said hear me out. Yes, I'm Lute's sister—and the sister of Coy Fletcher, the man who was shot on the Tylers' ranch. That's why I'm the one person who can help you.”

“Do you know who killed that man?” Stella asked.

“That doesn't matter. All that really matters is that Nick didn't do it. That's what we have to prove.”

“Go on.” Stella leaned back in her chair and blew a smoke ring.

“Let me tell you a story. Then you can decide if you want me to tell it to the sheriff.” Marie dragged on the cigarette. “I'm not saying it's all true. But if it does the job, that doesn't matter, does it?

“To start with, Coy was a mean, low-down s.o.b. Back in Oklahoma he was in a lot of trouble, with the law and with lots of other people. Lute had told me this was a good place to make money, so I decided to come here to Blanco Springs. Coy wasn't invited along, but he came anyway and set up a little weed farm on some land that belonged to our cousin Sky.”

“That hot, black-haired cowboy who works for the Tylers, right?”

“Right. But Sky's not part of this. He's straight arrow all the way.”

“So what happened with Coy?”

“Back in Oklahoma Coy hung out with a biker gang—bad news, all of them. When we left there I was hoping those scumbags wouldn't know where we'd gone, but I was wrong. One night, after the place was closed, they came pounding on my door. They said Coy owed them money and threatened to cut me and worse if I didn't tell them where he was. I knew they'd do it, so I told them where his camp was—figured he deserved whatever they meant to do to him.”

Stella leaned forward, her green eyes burning like lasers. “Good story so far, but what about the gun?”

“I'm getting to that,” Marie said. “They made me let them into the bar. I was too scared not to do it. They took a case of beer from the back, and one of them—he was wearing gloves—checked the cash register for money. When he didn't find any, he opened the drawer, found the Glock, and took it. After that, they finally left.”

“I see.” Stella's eyes had narrowed to catlike slits. “And you didn't speak out sooner because—?”

“Because I was scared. If you knew I'd let those bikers in the bar, I was afraid you'd fire me, or even have me arrested.”

The ash on Stella's cigarette had grown to a smoldering inch. It fell in a shower of sparks to scatter unnoticed on the tabletop. Stella's gaze was sharp and knowing, as if she'd already seen through the lie and was weighing the truth behind it. Marie was just beginning to realize how smart the woman was, and how ruthless. A surge of fear almost took her breath away.

“You know that perjury is a crime, don't you?” Stella said after a long moment's silence.

“Only under oath. I'm hoping it won't go that far.”

“The sheriff will have you sign a sworn statement. Are you prepared to do that?”

“Under the right conditions.”

“Of course.” Stella leaned back in her chair and took a long drag on the stub of her cigarette. “How much?”

Marie forced herself to breathe. “That's the wrong question. I don't want to be paid. I want a chance to earn what I'm worth. Lute told me you had a lot of . . . uh . . . business connections.”

“Lute was a little turd. He got what he deserved.”

“Maybe so. But I'm older than Lute and a helluva lot smarter. I want to be part of your organization. I want a piece of the action.”

Stella dropped her cigarette butt on the floor and stubbed it out with her boot. “Are you smart enough not to double-cross me like Lute did?”

“I'd have to be crazy to do something like that.”

Stella rose with a weary sigh. “All right, I'll think about it. But before I take you on, you'll need to prove yourself. My lawyer will be here tomorrow morning. We'll go to the jail and Abner will take your statement. Something tells me he'll choose to believe you. Arresting my brother was . . . let's say, awkward for him. After Nicky's out of jail, I may have another job for you. One question—can you drive a semi truck?”

“I don't have a license, but my ex-husband was a trucker,” Marie said. “He taught me how. I used to ride along and spell him when he was too drunk to drive.”

“Good.” Stella walked partway down the hall toward the office where she kept her purse, then glanced back at Marie. “Clean up that cigarette mess. Then get some sleep. I'll want you down here to meet with the lawyer at nine.”

Marie got a wet paper towel from the restroom. “Bitch,
”
she muttered as she scooped up the cigarette butt and wiped away the ash. Stella was still treating her like a slave. But that was about to change. Play her cards right and before long she'd have Stella Rawlins on her knees!

CHAPTER 14

S
ky was headed to his quarters for a quick lunch break when Beau hailed him from the back door of the house. “Come on inside. Bernice made sandwiches, and I've got some news you'll want to hear.”

After pausing to stomp the dust off his boots, Sky followed Beau into the kitchen, washed his hands at the sink, and sat down at the table. Beau passed him a plate with two beef and tomato sandwiches and then got him a cold beer from the fridge. Sky had been running on coffee since before dawn. He was ravenous, and there was nothing better than Bernice's homemade sourdough bread. He wolfed down the first sandwich before he asked, “Now, what about that news?”

Beau pulled out a chair and sat down across the table. He'd been working on the firebreak and, like Sky, was grimy with sweat and dust. “Actually I've got two stories for you,” he said. “They're both pretty juicy. Which one would you like to hear first?”

“How the hell should I know?” Sky took a swig of beer. “Just tell me so I can get back to work.”

“Getting prickly, are you?” Beau grinned. “All right, here goes. I got a call from my new best friend Abner an hour ago. Our tattooed bartender has been cleared of all charges and turned loose.”

“I had a gut feeling he didn't do it,” Sky said. It had been more than a gut feeling, but this wasn't the time to go there. “So why did they let him off?”

“A witness signed a sworn statement that a biker gang from Oklahoma broke into the bar looking for Coy Fletcher. One of them, who just happened to be wearing gloves, stole the gun and evidently used it.”

“A witness, you say?”

“Abner didn't give me a name, but it's not like he needed to. Lord, Sky, how'd you survive growing up in that family?”

“Almost didn't. That's why I left.” Sky didn't like where his thoughts were taking him. Marie's story was believable except for a few questions. Why hadn't the bikers just shot Coy and left him at his camp? Why toss the Glock near the bog when they could keep it or sell it? And why hadn't they taken Coy's rifle and Jasper's shotgun? Maybe he should ask Marie those questions. But what would he do if he didn't like her answers?

“So what's your other story?” he asked.

“This one's a shocker,” Beau said. “I just heard it on the radio driving in. It seems our neighbor, Congressman Prescott, has been financing his campaign with drug cartel money. Somebody phoned in an anonymous tip, and it played out. The funds were traced back to an offshore account under a fake name.”

“You're sure it's Prescott they were talking about?” Sky's thoughts flashed to Lauren. Did she know? Was she all right?

“It's all over the news,” Beau said. “The opposition is doing a happy dance and calling for him to resign. He could even face criminal charges.”

“What's Prescott got to say about it?” Sky spoke calmly, but his worry for Lauren was mounting. Was she safe from any drug dealers involved? Was she being hounded by the press?

“According to his campaign manager, Prescott's unavailable for comment,” Beau said.

“And Lauren?”

“I haven't heard anything about her.”

Sky cursed himself in silence. When he'd cut Lauren loose, hoping she could resolve her personal issues, he'd told her to call if she needed him. She was going to need him now. But given her pride and how much he'd hurt her, he was probably the last person on earth she'd reach out to.

Whipping his cell phone out of his pocket, he rose and strode out the kitchen door. Beau watched him go, saying nothing. Beau knew what it was like to love a woman. He would understand.

On the back porch, Sky punched in Lauren's number. He heard her phone ring once, then again and again before the recording came on. This time Sky left a message.

“Lauren, I'm here. Call me.”

 

“So what do you think, Lauren?” Tori asked as they drove away from Hoyt Axelrod's former home. “If you didn't know about its history, would it work for you?”

“It's not bad, especially for the price,” Lauren conceded. It had taken a couple of days for Tori to reach Axelrod's son and make sure they'd be willing to rent the place with an option to buy. The small three-bedroom house was clean, well maintained, and very affordable. But could she make it her home without being haunted by the thought of the murderer who'd lived here?

“Were you able to check on the apartments?” she asked Tori.

“I called the manager, but they're full. If you want a place anytime soon, this could be your only option.”

Lauren sighed. She had to get away from her father. And her need to work things out with Sky was becoming more and more urgent. Maybe if she got rid of the rugs and furniture and painted the walls, the house would be livable. “Can I sleep on it and give you an answer tomorrow?” she asked.

“Take as long as you like. Unless somebody else comes along and wants the place, it'll be here.” Tori swung her station wagon onto Main Street. “Are you hungry? The Burger Shack makes great milkshakes. Besides, I need to talk to you about something else.”

“Sure,” Lauren said. “Make mine strawberry.”

Over tall, cold milkshakes, Tori brought up her next order of business. “You said you needed more work, so I did some checking for you. My friend Natalie, who's engaged to Beau, could use some part-time help with her billing and accounts. She could give you a few hours a week, and so could I. You could do most of the work on your home computer. The woman who manages the apartment complex was interested, too. When word gets around, you shouldn't have trouble finding enough clients to keep you busy.”

“That's wonderful!” Lauren reached across the table and squeezed her new friend's wrist. “I feel like I've found a fairy godmother!”

Tori laughed. “I may have unlocked a few doors, but walking through them will be up to you. It won't always be easy, but if you really want to, you can make a new life here.”

 

Lauren drove home with the top down, the hot wind raking her hair. She was in high spirits. She'd spent most of her life under somebody else's thumb—first her mother, then her grandparents and the trust fund they'd controlled, and finally her father. Even with Michael, she realized, she'd been looking for somebody to take charge. The idea of making her own way, answerable only to herself, was as thrilling as lifting off the ground in a hot-air balloon.

Maybe she should just take the house and make it hers. Surely a few weeks of scrubbing, painting, arranging, and refurbishing would help her forget that an evil man had lived there. She would paint the living room in cool shades of blue and gray and put a zinc-framed mirror on the wall above the fireplace. With luck there might even be hardwood flooring under that hideous green shag carpet....

Still musing, she switched on the radio. Johnny Cash's rumbling baritone blared out of the speakers. Lauren remembered then that she hadn't checked her cell phone. Never mind, she'd do it when she got home. Any messages would likely be from her father, trying to catch her with Sky.

For an aching moment she was tempted to call Sky and tell him she'd looked at the house. Just hearing his voice would be worth the humiliation. But no, he was apt to think she wanted his advice, or that she was angling for a reunion. Taking charge of her life meant just that—doing it all on her own.

She was halfway home when the four o'clock news came on the radio. Lauren was about to switch to a different music station when she caught her father's name.

Lauren's pulse slammed. Too shaken to trust herself on the road, she pulled the Corvette onto the gravel shoulder. What she'd heard was just an ugly rumor, she told herself. Her father was far from perfect, but he wasn't a crook.

Where was her father now? The gears snarled as Lauren swung the Corvette back onto the asphalt. If he was home, he'd be drinking, hiding from the reporters who would be waiting outside to rip him apart like a pack of yelping, snapping coyotes. Phoning him would be wasted effort. He'd probably turned off his cell and taken the landline off the hook.

Her boot stomped the gas pedal. Garn Prescott might be an abrasive, manipulating tyrant, but he was her father and he was in trouble. Wherever he was, she needed to be there for him.

 

Garn Prescott sat at the massive walnut desk in his study, gazing at the portrait on the far wall—a portrait of his father wearing a Stetson and holding a coiled bullwhip in one hand. Ferguson Prescott had been a brick of a man—tough, stubborn, and cunning. As his parents' only surviving child, Prescott had never felt he was man enough to win his father's approval. If that portrait could talk, he could just imagine what Old Ferg might say.

Prescott poured another three fingers of bourbon in his glass and emptied it down his throat. He was as drunk as he'd ever been in his life, but an ocean of liquor couldn't drown his disgrace. He should've known what Stella was the first time she'd walked up to him and held out an envelope full of cash. Now it was too late. He was ruined.

Glancing outside between the narrow slats of the closed blinds, he could see the news vans and gangs of reporters that crowded the front lawn. Like vultures in the afternoon heat, they were waiting to pounce on him as soon as he showed his face. Too bad. They could damn well wait all day before they'd get any satisfaction from him.

He poured the last trickle of bourbon out of the bottle, emptied the glass, and set it on the desk. That desk had been his father's, as had the vintage Colt .45 Peacemaker that lay next to his hand. The gun was a classic. At least Ferg would approve of that.

One shot would end it all—the humiliation, the scandal, the misery of growing old and weak. Lauren would get all he had, which wasn't a lot by Texas standards but enough to get by. His daughter wouldn't mourn, at least not for long. Why should she? What kind of father had he ever been to the girl?

And Stella? Hell, he'd strangle her with his bare hands if he could. But that wasn't going to happen. She would go on as always, weaving her webs like a spider to catch more hapless flies like him.

His father's stolid features glared down at him from the gilded frame. Ferguson Prescott could forgive sin. But he couldn't forgive stupidity.
Do it!
His expression seemed to say.
For once in your worthless life, be a man. . . .

 

Lauren came speeding up the gravel lane to find an army of reporters waiting in the front yard. For an instant she was tempted to turn the car around and drive away. But her father had to be in the house. She couldn't leave him alone. Slowing down and leaning on the horn, she headed the car straight for the front porch. Legs leaped and arms grabbed equipment as members of the press scrambled out of the way. But as soon as she braked at the foot of the steps, they were on her again, thrusting cameras and microphones into her face.

“Miss Prescott, how much did you know about your father's campaign funding?”

“Have you spoken with your father, Miss Prescott? Do you believe he's guilty?”

Fighting panic, she took the keys in her fist, set her jaw in determined silence, and pushed out of the car. It was as if she were drowning in a sea of people, shoving and jostling each other, shouting their questions to get her attention.

“Is your father in the house, Miss Prescott? What has he told you?”

Knowing it was better to say nothing than to open her mouth and lose her composure, Lauren clutched her purse and fought her way onto the porch. Her shaking hand thrust the key into the lock. The door swung open. Stumbling over the threshold, she locked it behind her.

For a moment she allowed herself to lean against the closed door and breathe until her heart stopped pounding. The house was dim and quiet.

Too quiet, even with the cook gone at this hour.

Where was her father?

“Dad?” She moved through the entry, listening for a voice, a footstep, the sound of running water or the opening of a door. All she could hear was the low rasp of her own breathing.

He had to be here. Where else could he go?

“Dad?” She made her way down the hall to his den, the most likely place to find him. The door, usually left ajar, was closed. As her hand touched the knob, a cold dread crept from the pit of her stomach into her throat. Willing herself to move, she opened the door.

She could smell the bourbon from where she stood. Red-eyed and rumpled, his tie askew, her father sat behind the desk. His left hand clutched the empty bottle. His right hand held Ferg Prescott's heavy Colt revolver. The muzzle was pressed against his temple.

“Please don't do this, Dad.” She took a step toward him, speaking softly. “Put the gun down. We can talk.”