Colton Family Rescue Page 9

She knew what he meant. Even when she’d worked there he’d occasionally vanished for a while now and then, usually after some big bit of drama brought on by his mother, or even more often, Fowler’s conniving girlfriend, Tiffany Ankler. The flashy blonde never missed a chance to cause chaos. Even then Jolie had known the woman’s goal was to get Fowler to propose, but she wasn’t quite sure how Tiffany thought the constant upheaval was going to accomplish that. Then again, she’d likely get a better welcome from Whitney Colton than she had.

  Or maybe not, maybe they were too alike, and not just in looks.

  Jolie yanked her mind out of that morass and looked around. The cabin surprised her on many levels. It was bigger than it seemed from outside, although still just one big room except for the small bathroom T.C. showed them back in one corner. It was, as he’d said, completely modern, and even had a small shower. She fought off a sudden flash of memory, of the time they’d taken the three-hundred-mile drive down to San Antonio for a long weekend, the first time they’d gone off alone together. T.C. was out of context there, and not as immediately recognizable as he was in Dallas, which in turn made her feel so much freer.

  Free enough to join him in the shower of the elegant hotel, and the memories of what had happened next made her pulse speed up even now.

  She turned away so he couldn’t see the color she was afraid had risen in her face, because she was sure he would see. And he’d know, somehow he’d guess what she’d been thinking of; he’d already shown he still read her far too easily.

  Her avoidance move didn’t work so well, because in the opposite corner was a double bed up against the wood-paneled wall and covered with a Texas Star quilt. She slammed a mental door on the thoughts that engendered; if she went down that road, she’d be jumping him right here and now. And she knew how well that would go over. She made herself continue to look around as if inspecting the place was the only thing that mattered to her.

  At the foot of the bed was a storage chest. Another sat outside the bathroom. To the left of the doorway was a small cooking setup—it was too small to be called an actual kitchen—consisting of a two-burner stove and a cabinet whose top served as a counter. On it sat an old-fashioned coffeepot, a saucepan, a cast-iron skillet and a large bowl. Above that was an old-fashioned pump-handle-style faucet that looked so genuine she wondered if you actually had to pump it to get water. The cabinet doors were fastened with a latch held with a small carabiner, she supposed against foraging critters of all sorts.

  A couple of feet away was a small table, with a single wooden chair. No company, ever? Jolie wondered. Somehow that made her feel both better and worse.

  The bookcase that covered the one free wall didn’t surprise her, nor did the fact that it was full; T.C. had always been a reader. She’d seen him reading everything from ranching magazines and copious breeding records to Shakespeare and Homer to the latest bestsellers. A large, comfortable chair sat next to the window on the other side of the front door, with an upended crate beside it that was serving as a table. Obviously, from the stack of a half dozen books there, this served as a reading spot.

  No e-reader out here, she thought. And then she realized the only light fixtures there appeared to be were a couple of oil or kerosene lanterns, one of which sat on the crate next to the books. All reasons he’d chosen this place, she guessed. He’d wanted isolation and peace, and he’d apparently gotten it.

  “This one fell down,” Emma chirped as she picked up a book that was on the uneven wooden floor a yard or so from the chair. Jolie recognized the cover. It was a novel that had been the rage in certain parts of the country this summer.

  To Jolie’s surprise, T.C. grimaced. “I’m afraid I threw it.”

  Emma’s eyes widened. “Mommy says you should r’spect books.”

  “And she’s right,” he said, taking the book from her and putting it on an upper shelf.

  “Why’d you throw it?”

  “Because I couldn’t find anybody I liked in the story,” he said. “Sometimes you have to deal with mean or nasty people in real life, so I didn’t want to read about them, too.”

  Jolie’s eyes stung at the way he was explaining, in words the child could understand, carrying on a conversation with a four-year-old, as if it were the most important thing in his day.

  “I like stories with ponies. And fairies,” Emma announced.

  “Much better,” T.C. agreed, his voice solemn. “Sorry I don’t have any here.”

  “S’okay. Mommy will tell me one.”

  Jolie half expected a snide comment about her making up stories. But it didn’t come, so she looked around the place once more. She noticed some smaller touches this time. A photograph on one of the shelves, and she smiled inwardly to see it was of the five Coltons she’d always mentally labeled “the nice ones.” T.C. and his half siblings Zane and Alanna, his adopted sister Piper and his brother Reid. Apparently she wasn’t alone in her assessment.

  A set of longhorns was mounted over the doorway, with a well-used rope looped whimsically over one horn. She wondered if it was from his calf-roping days. A pair of ornate silver spurs sat on the window sill, the spurs that had been his father’s, and his grandfather’s before him, and that she knew Eldridge Colton had presented him the day he’d taken over the ranch operations. On a rack near the door was an almost equally ornately engraved rifle, and she guessed it was the one that had been presented to him by the statewide rancher’s association last year. That some stories about the Coltons couldn’t be avoided no matter how hard she tried was something she’d learned well in the last four years.

  And some people would, she knew, be amazed that a Colton would choose to live like this, in this tiny—relative to the expansive mansion they referred to euphemistically as “the ranch house”—shack with no power and minimal convenience. She wasn’t. But again noting the lanterns did make her ask, “You could have a power generator out here that runs on the propane, couldn’t you?”

  “I could. Thought about it. But I decided I liked it this way. It reminds me of what it was like, for the ones who came before.” His mouth quirked. “Minus the plumbing, of course. Which I suppose makes me a bit of a hypocrite.”

  “You’re too honest to be a hypocrite.”

  He looked as if he was about to say something, then glanced at Emma and stopped. Jolie guessed it would have been about her, and not too flattering.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  And then she saw something that made her breath jam up in her throat.

  The bracelet. The woven grass bracelet she’d made for him that long ago day, from the grass beneath the tree where they—

  She cut off her own thoughts, focusing on the narrow braided band, now dried and probably fragile.

  He’d kept that? Why?

  Her gaze shot to his face. And as he had before, he read her easily. “It’s a reminder,” he said, his voice harsh as he didn’t hold back the words this time, “about trusting people I shouldn’t. I don’t ever want to have to learn that again.”

  Emma turned away from the window, where she’d been looking at the ornately engraved spurs, clearly reacting to his tone.

  “Are you mad?” she asked.

  “No more than usual,” he muttered, then managed a smile for the child. “And certainly not at you.”

  Emma looked at Jolie as she tried to decide if that meant he was mad at her. If you only knew, she thought, and was immensely grateful T.C. had too much class to air their dirty laundry in front of a little girl.

  “I was just thinking about something that happened years ago,” T.C. said, his voice gentler now. “Nothing you need to worry about. It’s over and done.”

  “Oh. ’Kay.”

  That simply, the child took his word for it and continued her explorations. As if he’d just thought of it, he walked over and took a rather la
rge book off one of the higher shelves.

  “I do have this, however,” he said, holding it out to the girl.

  “Horses!” she exclaimed, and took it. It was awkward for her, the book large, but she clambered into the reading chair and settled in happily with what Jolie now saw was a history of the quarter horse, full of pictures of the famous lines of the breed.

  T.C. watched her for a moment, and the wistful expression that came over his face stabbed at the raw spot within her that never seemed to heal. He had loved Emma. She had lost him, true, but he had lost both of them. No wonder he was bitter about it. He had every right.

  She had to stop thinking about it. She couldn’t change the past, and when she looked at him and thought about it she could barely function. And she had to function, for Emma. She had to treat him as if he were just someone who was helping them, as if there were no other connection to him.

  Good luck with that, she told herself.

  He turned to her then.

  “I need to run over to the house. There’s not much here in the way of food, probably nothing she would like. Just canned stuff like tuna and soup. Oh, and there’s chili.”

  She started to say he didn’t need to do that, that they would get by on what was here and be thankful, but somehow it shifted to teasing. “Canned chili? But it might have beans in it. The horror!”

  “That’s why it’s in a jar, not a can. And homemade.”

  Her eyes widened much as Emma’s had earlier. “Bettina’s homemade Texas chili?”

  “Three home-canned jars of it.”

  “Heaven,” she said.

  “But probably not for a four-year-old.”

  Jolie was so relieved at this almost amiable exchange that she risked some more teasing. “My daughter is a Texan through and through. She loves chili.”

  T.C. glanced at the girl, who was cooing over a photograph of a palomino horse.

  “Although at her age, she does go for the pretty colors,” Jolie explained.

  “He’s not just pretty, he’s Cutter Bill,” he said. “He was a fine cutting horse. Hall of Fame level. She’s got good taste.” He flashed her a grin. “We won’t talk about his owners.”

  She lifted an eyebrow at him.

  “Cowboy Mafia,” he said.

  She blinked at the mention of the infamous marijuana smuggling ring. It was before she was born, but it was legendary in Texas history. And T.C. had talked about it once, ruefully explaining the term was occasionally applied to the Coltons, thanks to Fowler’s less than ethical dealings.

  “Didn’t you once think that your father—”

  “Yeah, I wondered if he was involved. Seems right up what was his alley at the time.”

  Eldridge Colton made no bones about how he’d come up; he’d been a petty thief who’d graduated to bank robber before he’d amassed enough to start building the ranch and go legit. In fact, he was proud of it. And Jolie had often thought those who said Fowler was a chip off the old block weren’t far wrong.

  She heard a musical tone—“Deep in the Heart of Texas”—and T.C. pulled out his cell phone.

  “At least you get a signal here.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t. But we have a ranch-wide system in the vehicles. It’ll notify me of calls, or relay voice mails and texts. Excuse me.”

  He left, apparently to go to the vehicle. A moment later she heard the SUV start. A sudden flash of fear shot through her, the thought that he was abandoning them here looming in her mind.

  She recognized the old, familiar pattern and talked herself down, forcing herself to think logically. He was only heading up the rise where he’d said the signal was better, that was all.

  She sat on the arm of the chair by Emma, looking at the photos of famous quarter horses with her. They’d gone through several before T.C. was back, phone silent now but still in his hand. And he was staring at her.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She drew back slightly at his tone. She bent to Emma, who was watching them curiously, and kept her tone quiet and encouraging when she said, “Keep going with the book, honey. Pick me out your favorite.”

  The child complied happily enough, and she straightened and turned to face T.C. Silently she walked over to where he was standing just inside the door; whatever he was edgy about, she didn’t want Emma to hear it.

  “What are you talking about? I told you everything I could think of.”

  “Except one little detail.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What?”

  He stared at her. And when he answered she wasn’t sure what the emotion was that echoed in his voice.

  “You didn’t think I should know the woman who was murdered looked just like you?”

  Chapter 13

  She was honestly surprised. T.C. couldn’t deny that; it was all over her face. That lovely, expressive face.

  Did she really think that detail was minor, unimportant?

  “I don’t know. I didn’t think—”

  He cut her off. “Well, that’s an understatement.”

  She drew herself up, as if she were preparing to face him down. There had always been a line with Jolie. She would take a lot, and back then she had to because he was in a way her employer, but when it was personal she stood up for herself. She’d told him once it was a lesson hard-learned, and she wasn’t about to forget it.

  “I did think about it. It bothered me, at first. Gave me a chill. But I decided it had to be a coincidence. Lots of women resemble me. It’s not like I’m... I’m Tiffany.”

  And just like that she disarmed him. For she was right. No one could be further from his flashy, not-too-bright but shrewd would be sister-in-law than Jolie Peters. Tiffany’s expensive taste and over-the-top style had all the subtlety of a tank. And somehow he knew even if she’d ever had the means, Jolie would never go for that kind of blatant exhibitionism.

  In his view, she’d been a million times more attractive because of it.

  And judging by his roiled emotions and the knot in his gut, he still felt that way.

  He only realized how long he’d been standing there, staring at her, when she spoke in that uncomfortable tone people got when the silence had gone on for too long.

  “That was your police friend?”

  “Yes.” He glanced at Emma, who seemed engrossed in the AQHA history book, or at least the many photographs. He turned back to Jolie. “He wanted to be sure you were somewhere safe. Apparently someone’s been asking about you.”

  He heard her suck in a breath. “Asking who?”

  “Neighbors. If they’d seen you, where you were. So far Manny says most people they talked to said they told her to mind her own business, but there could be someone who didn’t.”

  “Her?”

  He nodded.

  “Was it...?”

  “He can’t be sure, but the general description matches.”

  “You think someone might have told her...what?”

  “Maybe nothing. Or maybe she found someone who saw my car.” He grimaced inwardly as he acknowledged one of the facts of who he was. “Or recognized me.”

  Her mouth twisted slightly at one corner.

  “Rethinking who you came to?” he asked.

  “You told me once the Colton name was both shield and magnet.”

  In that instant he was transported back to that day, when he’d arrived home late, in a foul mood because he’d been followed to the gates by a reporter of the worst sort, the salacious, social gossipmongering type. He’d been at a fund-raiser and been seen speaking to a woman he didn’t know or recognize who had turned out to be some reality show personality. But she had known him, and had zeroed in on him from across the crowded room.

  He’d only talked to her as long as he had beca
use he’d been boggled by her sense of self-importance, and that she and his brother’s girlfriend apparently shopped at the same places. The woman had explained with great pride that she had a stylist who took care of that, and T.C. had come away thinking rather bemusedly that at least Tiffany’s style was her own concoction.

  Of course the gossip reporter was determined to turn it into some kind of sordid romance. He had been so uninterested it had been laughable.

  But that had been before he’d admitted to himself that the only woman he was interested in was at home, working in the family kitchen. The woman who had, the next morning, set a plate of credible New Orleans–style beignets in front of him, one of his favorite indulgences. The woman everyone else dismissed as a mere kitchen assistant had troubled to ask Bettina what might cheer him up, and then proceeded to do it. The fact that she had gone to all that effort, that she had even noticed his mood and thought to try and brighten his morning, had touched him in a way nothing had in a long time. Thinking back, he realized that was probably the moment he’d begun to truly fall for her.

  He could just imagine what the reporter would do with that.

  He shook off the reverie and tried to focus, ruefully aware he ran the entire Colton Valley Ranch operation with less effort than that took.

  He asked, in his most brusque, businesslike tone, “Are you clear now it was not some coincidence?”

  She still looked doubtful. “But—”

  “Jolie, you need to realize there’s not just—” he glanced again at Emma “—one person in danger here.”

  He understood her reluctance; it was quite enough to think Emma was a target. And besides that, he guessed it didn’t matter as much to her that she could be, as well.

  “You may have been the original target all along,” he said. “How can I protect you if you don’t tell me everything about what we’re dealing with?”

  “Don’t worry about me. It’s Emma’s safety that’s paramount.”

  Her answer didn’t surprise him. He’d always known what kind of mother she was. It was another of the things that had drawn him to her. Probably because his own mother wasn’t anything like that, and would be incapable of the kinds of sacrifices Jolie had made for her daughter.