Out of the Dark Page 7

  “Look—”

  “Are you married, Mr. Bannister?”

  He blinked. Under other circumstances, he might have welcomed that inquiry. “No. What’s that got to do—”

  “Too bad. You’ve missed out on the chance to dump her for the newer, better, younger, prettier trophy wife, or maybe simply a mistress, if you like to really twist the knife.”

  “Apparently I’ve missed the entire point of this.”

  “Of course you have,” she growled.

  Before he could answer—not that he had a clue about what he was going to say—she had stalked out of the tack room. In two long strides he was at the door, but shut his mouth on what he’d been about to say when he saw her already talking to the two high school boys Hobie had introduced him to earlier. The boys were helping out temporarily—for a respectable wage, yet another reason they were strapped, Cole guessed—while Hobie was recuperating. He backed up until he was out of their sight, and watched.

  Kurt, tall, thin and gangly, with blond hair that was shaved on the sides and longer on top, was tugging on the gold cross that hung from his left ear, while Eric, the shorter, more muscular boy, with brown hair that constantly fell in front of his eyes, talked to Tory about their chores for tomorrow. He’d thought this afternoon the boys were unusually quiet and respectful for their ages—they didn’t look more than sixteen—and now was no exception. They listened quietly, nodding, accepting. And not once meeting Tory’s eyes.

  They looked uneasy, Cole thought. Almost wary. Which made him uneasy. Here was a possibility that hadn’t been mentioned, yet.

  When the boys had gone, driving off at a surprisingly sedate pace in an old, battered gray compact that seemed held together by the countless decals and stickers on it, he stepped outside.

  “What do you know about them?” he asked, still watching as the gray car hit the main road and took off westbound at a much faster pace. After a moment, as if it were an afterthought, the headlights came on in the gathering dusk.

  “Kurt and Eric?” she asked, looking at him in surprise, for the moment, apparently forgetting her earlier anger. “They go to the local high school. They’re both sixteen, sophomores. I put a request in at the school office, where they post part-time work for the kids. They were the most willing to do what we needed. And they do help, a lot.”

  The gray car was out of sight now, and he turned back to look at her. “When did they start working here?”

  “A couple of months ago. At the beginning of summer. They—” She broke off, eyes widening as she stared at him. “You don’t think they had anything to do with this?”

  “Let’s just say I find the timing interesting.”

  “But they’re just kids!”

  “You want a list of the sixteen year olds that have killed a whole string of people, let alone horses?”

  For a long, silent moment, she just looked at him. Then, so softly he could barely hear it, she said, “God, what an awful way to live. Suspecting everyone of everything.”

  After the way she’d just been chewing on him, he was startled by the genuine distress in her tone. “It...has it’s moments.”

  “Is that why you quit?”

  He drew back, as if she’d threatened him somehow. Stupid, he muttered to himself, fighting to keep his expression even.

  “No,” he said flatly.

  She looked about to say more, then, as his brows lowered in warning, took the hint and stayed silent. He quickly changed the subject.

  “I’ll want to look around some more tomorrow. But I’ll need to look like I’m working, unless you want the world to know why I’m here. Any suggestions?”

  She looked at him wryly. “A million. But they all involve really working.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t figure I was here for a free ride.”

  She lifted one arched brow, but said only, “What do you want to look at?”

  “Where you saw that guy up in the hills, for starters.”

  “Oh.” She thought for a minute. “Well, some of the stock is up in that area. I wasn’t planning on bringing them down until Friday, but I suppose we could do it tomorrow. On the way we could ride up to where I saw him.”

  “Ride?”

  She gave him a sideways look. “There’s still no better way to move cattle over short distances on rough ground, you know. And you can’t get to where I saw that man in a car, not even in the Jeep.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t tell me the cowboy doesn’t ride.”

  Cole winced inwardly at her tone. “He does. It’s just been awhile.”

  “We’ll find you a nice, gentle horse.”

  “And shove a burr under his saddle?” He leaned against the side of the barn, crossing his arms across his chest. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

  She colored, but held his gaze. Nerve, he thought again. “I don’t trust you much,” she corrected.

  He knew she was right not to, he’d even warned her never to trust him, but somehow it stung, hearing it like this. “You haven’t accepted much else I’ve said. Why that?”

  Her chin came up. “I don’t trust you,” she said, “because I know your type. That Texas charm is as thick and sweet as honey, and you turn it on and off like it came from a faucet. And you’re too darn pretty for anybody’s good.”

  Cole blinked. He’d been called charming before. And, on occasion, usually by a man irritated by the way his wife or girlfriend had been looking at him, he’d been called pretty. But never had there been so much fervency in the words. And never had he been so sure that the emotion beneath the words was pain.

  “Why do I get the feeling we’re not talking about me anymore?” he asked softly.

  The color abruptly fled her face, leaving her looking pale and making the weary circles beneath her eyes stand out.

  “I’m sorry.” She let out a tiny breath. “I keep having to say that, don’t I? I don’t know why I—” She broke off, then went on. “You’re Hobie’s friend, and I had no business saying those things. Now or...before.”

  “But I hit a nerve, didn’t I?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You’re also very observant, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. “Comes with the territory.”

  “I guess...I’m tired,” she admitted at last, lifting her hands to rub at her eyes. “Trying to keep this place going, and Hobie not getting well and then...then the horses.”

  “You’re allowed, Tory.”

  He’d meant it merely as a kindness, but it came out something closer to a caress. Especially her name. He never would have guessed it would feel so good, just to say it.

  She was staring at him as if it had felt that way to her, too. Instinctively he moved to back up a step, as if distance would ease the feeling, but came up against the barn wall. At almost the same instant, Tory did back up a step.

  “I... If you want to ride up there, we’ll need to leave early, or we’ll end up eating dust during the hottest part of the day.”

  He nodded.

  “There’s no alarm in your room—”

  “I’ll be up.”

  She nodded in turn, edging away as if she were afraid of him. Cole stifled a sigh as he watched her go. Sometimes he wished that Stomper had caved in his face instead of his ribs. Maybe then women—the real ones, at least, the ones with depth and more facets than just their own looks—would quit reacting like this, thinking that because of the way he was put together, he was automatically someone to be wary of.

  Kyra had been that way, too, at first. He’d finally understood, once he’d learned about the way her too-perfect husband had treated her. It had taken a great deal of time and patience to get Kyra to trust him—and then she’d fallen for Cash Riordan, a man who, despite his spectacular screen success, was not what the world considered drop-dead handsome. Not, he thought sourly, like Cole Bannister.

  But weren’t they right, he thought, those women who didn’t trust him? Hadn’t he proved it? He had no right even
thinking about a woman who was involved in a case, not with his grimly dismal record. Any woman who would trust him was a fool. And hadn’t he told Tory exactly that? So what right did he have to complain because she believed him?

  And what the hell was he worried about it for, anyway? She was Hobie’s niece, and he should be treating her that way. Like the precious niece of a dear friend. Someone to be protected, not...not whatever it was he was feeling like doing—not kissed to within an inch of her life, not tasted from head to toe, not—

  “Damn!”

  His fist hit the side of the barn, and he heard a startled snort from the next stall. A dark chestnut head popped out, and a pair of wise, liquid eyes looked at him. Under their gaze, he felt amazingly like a kid who’d lost control of his hormones.

  “Temporarily,” he muttered. He’d have it back under control soon. Mac whickered softly, and Cole’s mouth twisted up at one corner. “She’s all yours, Mac, ol’ buddy. She’s crazy about you, you know.”

  The horse bobbed his head as if in agreement. Cole chuckled wryly. He reached over and patted the sleek, muscled neck. This truly was a beautiful animal.

  “She’s right, you’ve got the look. And you’ll never let her down, will you?”

  At least he never would if the jinx doesn’t extend to horses, Cole amended silently. If I can manage to keep him alive.

  Chapter 6

  The first pink streaks of dawn were just beginning to appear when Cole finally gave up. Twice he’d actually gone to sleep, lulled, no doubt, by the quiet peace of this place, so unlike the constant hum of background noise he was used to in the city. But the peace hadn’t extended to his sleeping mind, and the dreams had come as usual to churn up his night.

  What hadn’t been usual were the dreams themselves. He was, as much as he could be, used to the other images, to the dying eyes, the accusing faces. But in his mind this time the dying eyes were Hobie’s, and the look of accusation, of blame, came from Tory. He’d awakened in a sweat, feeling her stare as palpably as if she were in the room.

  And, hours later, when he’d surrendered reluctantly to sleep the second time, a new dream slipped in to haunt him. An impossible, tempting dream that was both searingly sweet and hotly erotic at the same time. And at the center of it, enticing him with her shy unawareness of her own beauty, with her innate and unstudied goodness, her quick, fierce loyalty and passion—that he could too easily imagine translating into passion of a different sort—was Tory. The sweat he woke up in that time was of an entirely different sort.

  He sat up now, fighting a shiver of reaction to the memory of that sensuous dream as he swung his feet over the edge of the double bed he’d wound up sleeping on diagonally, since it was too short for him to be comfortable.

  Tory had apologized for the small room, but Hobie had temporarily moved into the downstairs guest room, since the stairs had been a little difficult for him while he’d been ill, and Hobie’s own room upstairs had only a narrow bunk that would be even more cramped for someone Cole’s size.

  Cole had told her it was fine, but he’d been thinking if she was going to apologize for something, it should be for putting him right across the hall from her own room. Because Tory Flynn unsettled him in a way he wasn’t at all sure he knew how to deal with. And repeatedly telling himself she was Hobie’s niece didn’t seem to be helping much.

  He stood up, stretched wearily, pondering what he’d let himself in for today, wondering how much of the plan was really for the job at hand, and how much was just to feel like he was doing something. Anything. So far, all he’d done was call in the list of names Tory and Hobie had given him, and the map coordinates of the ranch. The office was already fielding the results of the inquiries he’d made among the horse people he still knew before he’d left. And that had turned up the depressing news that word of the Flynn’s troubles was spreading. He kept that to himself.

  It could be days before the Research department had a set of files compiled. At least going up to the spot Tory had seen this guy would feel like doing something. Even if he didn’t really think it had anything to do with the attacks.

  He let out a long breath, rubbing at the chronically stiff spot on his back. The scars were a familiar pattern beneath his fingers, snaking ridges of hardened tissue that were the only reminder of the day that had taken him one step closer to the end of his career.

  Well, not the only reminder. There were the dreams.

  And you’re feeling damn sorry for yourself this morning, aren’t you? he thought caustically.

  With short, sharp movements, he grabbed his jeans from across the foot of the bed and yanked them on, then headed down the hall to the bathroom and a shower. A cold shower, he amended as he pulled the door shut behind him. A very cold shower.

  Just to wake himself up, he told himself firmly, nothing else. He didn’t need it for anything else; the taut heaviness of his body would abate. And it wouldn’t come back, because he was going to put that completely inappropriate—and utterly arousing—dream out of his head. For good. If for no other reason than that she was Hobie’s beloved niece, and Hobie was one of the few people left in the world who thought, for now at least, that Cole Bannister was worth the powder it would take to blow him to Hades.

  * * *

  Tory heard the sound of running water, and decided to give up her fruitless pursuit of sleep. She rubbed at gritty eyes, knowing it was going to be a long, hard day, and for more reasons than just because she hadn’t had enough rest.

  And she could only blame part of it on Hobie. Yes, she’d gone down several times to linger in the doorway of the guest room and listened to her uncle’s improved but still slightly raspy breathing, but she’d been awake anyway. Awake and thinking, her mind seeming to run in restless circles. And at the center of those circles was the man who was right now in the shower a bare twenty feet away.

  That realization gave rise to some thoughts that made heat flood through her. To images of that tall, broad body, naked and powerful, with streams of water tracing their lucky way over swells and hollows of muscle. To visions of the sinewy strength and rough-hewn grace that had once let him conquer over a ton of powerhouse horse or bull bent solely on bucking him loose, bared to her gaze.

  “Stop it!”

  She instantly felt silly at issuing orders to herself out loud, but she was afraid nothing else would have worked to erase the vivid pictures her mind kept tantalizing her with. And it was silly, really, she told herself firmly. Her experience was so limited, she had no idea what a man built like Cole would look like...like that.

  But her imagination was more than up to the task of filling in the blanks, she thought as she slipped out of bed and pulled a pair of jeans and a pale yellow T-shirt out of a drawer.

  A good blast of cold water in the face is what you need. And a way to stop these ridiculous thoughts of yours.

  It wasn’t until she was out of her own shower, dried and dressed, her still damp hair pulled into a loose, haphazard knot atop her head, that she thought of the guaranteed cure.

  She went back to the dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer. She reached inside, far to the back, probing until her searching fingers found the long-hidden but still familiar oblong shape. She pulled it out, cradling the heavy silver frame in her hands, face down. She drew in a long, deep breath, and turned it over.

  Her father looked back at her from the photo in the sterling frame. A strikingly handsome man, with perfect features, golden hair, twinkling brown eyes, straight, chiseled nose, dimpled cheeks and a sensuous mouth that seemed on the verge of laughter even in the stillness of the frozen image. The touches of gray at his temples only added to his overall attractiveness.

  Remember what he taught you.

  The old refrain, the words she hadn’t had to summon up in years, came back to her as if she’d been chanting them every day of every one of those years.

  It hadn’t all been bad. She’d spent her childhood loving him with the pure intensity o
f a daddy’s girl. He’d said she was beautiful, and she’d believed him. He’d taught her to ride. He’d taught her to dance. He’d taught her to sing.

  And in the end, he’d taught her to cry.

  But she wasn’t crying now. She had let slip her last tear over this man long ago. She felt nothing but anger, looking down at the perfect image he’d used so well, so effectively, to charm anyone and everyone to his way of thinking and doing.

  She hugged her anger to her like a protective cloak as she shoved the photograph back in the drawer and slammed it shut. She was armed now, she told herself. Immune to whatever charm the equally handsome Cole Bannister chose to exert.

  She pulled on her socks and trotted down the stairs to pull on her boots and check on Hobie.

  * * *

  He’d forgotten, Cole thought.

  He’d forgotten how good it felt to be out like this. He was away from the bustle of the city, breathing fresh air scented with sage and the heat of the rising summer sun, riding across land dotted here and there with the last of the season’s golden poppies, atop a smooth-moving horse who was so finely attuned to his rider that it seemed all he had to do was think about turning and the animal was already doing it. Yes, Hobie’s buckskin was quite a horse.

  “You look...contented.”

  He looked at Tory in surprise. She’d said so little this morning, he thought she’d sworn off talking to him at all, as if that moment of unexpected intensity last night had scared her. Lord knew it had rattled him. And he hadn’t even touched her. That fact rattled him even more.

  So he had almost welcomed her silence. Their only communication had involved Hobie—who had still, to her relief, been sleeping quietly when they’d left—the tack for the buckskin, and the fact that Rocky, in between frenetic hunts for more mice and wreaking havoc in the tack room as he learned to walk across the racks, had taken to sunning himself lazily on the porch railing.

  “Hell of a life,” Cole had said as he looked at the dozing cat. He felt a little irritated at himself for sneaking down to the kitchen late last night for a plate for one of the cans of cat food he had stuck in the truck at the last minute, when he’d realized the stubborn cat was not going to be left behind.