Texas Tough (18 page)

Abner gave a subtle nod in Nick's direction. The taller of the two men stepped around Nick, jerked his wrists behind his back, and whipped out a set of handcuffs. Nick was shaking, his eyes bulging like a frightened animal's.

“Nikolas Tomescu,” the shorter man snapped, “you're under arrest for the murder of Coy Fletcher. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

“No!” Nick found his voice. “I didn't do anything! Tell them, Sis! Tell them I'm innocent!”

They shoved him out the door and propelled him to the waiting police vehicle. Stella sagged against the bar. She'd always protected her brother, but right now there was nothing she could do. She'd never felt more helpless in her life.

Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw the waitress standing at the end of the bar. The woman's features quickly assumed a look of concern. But Stella had been quick enough to see the earlier expression on her face.

The skinny bitch had been smiling like a satisfied cat.

CHAPTER 13

B
y the time they shoved him in the police cruiser, Nick was blubbering like a child. Heartsick, Stella watched the vehicle pull out of the parking lot. She could have argued with the officers but she knew it wouldn't have done any good. The iron-jawed deputies had ignored her. Abner had refused to look her way.

She would deal with Abner later. But not while there was a chance she'd still need him.

Nick was innocent. Stella knew it to the depths of her heart. He looked tough and mean, but he didn't have it in him to shoot a dog, let alone a man. And even if he'd done it, he wouldn't lie to her. He wasn't clever enough for a big lie like that.

Whatever happened, she couldn't let him go to prison. Nick would become a victim in prison, abused and tormented. Prison would destroy him. But she couldn't dwell on that now. She had to focus on how to save him.

He was going to need a lawyer—and not that blond Tyler woman. Tori Tyler knew too much and there was too much bad blood between them. But Stella had connections. She would use them to get Nick the best lawyer in Texas.

But first it was time to pull some strings. She would make a list of the people who owed her favors and call anyone who might be in a position to help.

At the top of her list would be a certain
U.S.
congressman.

The waitress was still standing at the far end of the bar. Stella turned on her. “What are you gawking at? Get your lazy butt moving! This bar opens in an hour and you're going to have to run the place by yourself!”

 

Garn Prescott was driving back from Lubbock, where he'd addressed a women's luncheon. He was congratulating himself on the speech and looking forward to the bourbon waiting for him at home when the jangling ringtone on his cell—the opening notes of “Deep in the Heart of Texas”—broke into his thoughts.

With a sigh, he fumbled the phone out of his pocket. Eyes on a passing hay truck, he pushed the answer button without looking at the name of the caller.

“Hello?”

“Garn, baby, it's me.”

At the sound of that smoky voice, his mood tanked. He'd been wary of Stella ever since he'd figured out where those big campaign contributions of hers were coming from. The two of them were still hooking up, and so far she hadn't made any demands or threats, but Prescott knew she'd backed him into a corner. One word to the right people and he'd be finished in politics, maybe even on his way to jail.

He'd been a fool to accept money from her without checking out the source. But desperation had led to denial, and her generous sexual favors had sealed the deal. He didn't have any solid evidence against the woman—getting it would involve other people and put him at risk. But he'd finally forced himself to face cold reality. There was no legal way she could've gotten so much spare cash—and she'd had no reason to give it to him except to bait her trap.

The anxiety was making him physically sick. He'd sold his soul to a very clever, very sexy devil, who had a grip on him where it hurt the most. Short of murder, there wasn't a damned thing he could do.

“Hi,” he muttered. “What's up?”

“We need to talk,” she said. “It's an emergency. Where are you?”

“On my way home, about fifteen minutes out of Lubbock.”

“I can meet you halfway, at that truck stop with the diner.”

“The one with the motel out back, right?” At least he deserved some enjoyment out of this.

“Right, but sorry, honey, it's not that kind of emergency. I'll meet you in the diner. Get us a quiet booth. It'll be too hot outside to talk in your car.”

“Sure. See you there.” Prescott ended the call, worry gnawing at his gut. Was this the showdown? Was the devil about to demand her due?

The truck stop was ten minutes down the highway. Maybe he should just go on past it and keep driving, or safer yet, turn his big white Cadillac around and go back to Lubbock. But he'd pay a price for that later, Prescott reminded himself. Better to face the music now. At least he'd know where he stood.

By the time he pulled up to the diner, he'd broken out in a cold sweat. As he walked in the door, the window-mounted AC raised goose bumps on his skin. Glancing around, he found an inside corner booth and settled in to wait.

Not wanting to be recognized, he'd left his jacket and bolo tie in the car, kept his sunglasses on, and used a baseball cap to cover his hair. Still, the middle-aged waitress who took his order for coffee was giving him funny looks. Maybe she'd recognized his car out front.

By the time Stella pulled up in her black Buick, Prescott was ready to bolt. He was going to chide her for making him wait, but then, as she sat down across from him, he changed his mind. Her eyes were bloodshot, her makeup creased. She looked as if she'd aged ten years.

When the waitress came with her order pad and her curious eyes, Stella shook her head. “Nothing for me, thanks,” she murmured.

“What is it? Is something wrong?” Prescott asked as the waitress left. His instincts told him Stella was about to ask for a big favor. Even before he knew what it was, he found himself groping for a way out.

She stared down at her hands. Then her fierce tiger-green eyes met his. “That body they found on the Tyler place,” she said. “Did you hear about it?”

“I believe so.” Prescott spoke calmly. Anything bad that happened to the Tylers gave him pleasure. “Some transient growing a patch of weed. At least that's what I heard on the news. Why? Did you know him?”

She raked a hand through her hair, giving Prescott a glimpse of graying roots. “My brother Nick's been arrested for the murder,” she said. “The cops found a gun with his prints on it at the scene. But he didn't do it. So help me God, I'd bet my life on that. Nicky was framed.”

“I'm sorry.” Prescott could sound sincere when he had to. He reached for her hand across the table. “What makes you so sure he's innocent?”

“I've known him all his life. Pretty much raised him while our mother was off with her boyfriends. Nicky's no angel, but he's not a killer. Besides, he'd never even met the man. Why the hell would he go all the way out to the Tylers' and shoot him?”

Prescott listened as the story spilled out of her—the Glock, registered to her name, missing from the drawer; the finding of the weapon at the murder scene, and her brother's arrest. He knew, of course, what was coming next. She'd want him to intervene. But he couldn't do that—especially not with an election coming up. He braced himself as Stella made her pitch.

“I've done plenty for you, Garn. Those TV ads my money paid for have brought in enough backing to put you out front in the polls. I never meant to ask for anything in return. But now I need your help.”

“I'll do what I can,” he said, knowing what she wanted. “But—”

“No buts!” Her eyes blazed into his. “You're a powerful man. You know people—the district attorney, the judges, the state attorney general, even the governor. Half of them are your damned drinking buddies. They'll listen to you.”

A couple of truck drivers had turned on the barstools to look at them. Prescott was beginning to squirm.

“Stella, it's not that simple.”

“I don't care! It's not like I'm asking you to lie. My brother was framed by somebody who stole the gun. He's innocent!”

“If that's true, get yourself a good lawyer and put your faith in the American judicial system. Trust the jury to—”

“The jury will take one look at those tattoos and vote guilty. What's it going to take? More money? I've got that.”

“Stella—”

She rose, leaning over the table. “You owe me, Garn! Whatever advantage I gave you, I can take back. You've got twenty-four hours before your magic coach turns into a pumpkin. That's it. I can hurt you. Don't make me do it.”

Squeezing out of the booth, she spun away and stalked out of the diner. Seconds later, tires spitting gravel, the Buick roared out of the parking lot.

The two truckers at the bar had turned their backs, making a show of minding their own business. But they'd no doubt gotten an earful. The waitress had probably been listening, too.

Prescott sat still for a moment, feeling the effects of his rocketing blood pressure as his world threatened to implode. Stella had given him twenty-four hours, and he knew she meant business. There had to be somebody he could call—if nothing else, just to show he was trying.

Acting Sheriff Sweeney would be taking credit for the arrest to boost his run for office. He wouldn't want anybody to know he might have jailed the wrong man. Clay Drummond, the county prosecutor, was a hard-nosed s.o.b. who'd rather lose a finger than lose a case. Prescott could cross both of them off his mental list right now. Prescott had played golf and shared drinks with a couple of the judges, but he didn't know who would be on the case. And even if he did, how could he explain his asking a favor on behalf of a woman like Stella? As for the governor or the state attorney general, one word to either of them would be political suicide.

Prescott stood, fished a five-dollar bill out of his wallet, and laid it under his half-empty coffee cup. His skin crawled as he walked out of the diner, feeling as if every eye in the place was fixed on his back. By the time he made it into his car, his knees were threatening to collapse. The Cadillac was sweltering inside, the steering wheel hot enough to burn his hands. Sweating rivulets, he switched the AC on high and pulled out of the parking lot.

He was approaching the turnoff to Blanco Springs when he thought of Josh Hardesty. The man might not have enough influence to save Stella's brother. But if the governor's stepson had a reason to come around, Stella might see it as a sign that Prescott was doing something to help her. Who knew? Maybe Hardesty would be interested enough to look into the case and actually do something.

It was his best chance. Maybe his only chance. But reeling in Hardesty would depend on using Lauren as bait. And so far she'd refused to go out with the man again.

He had twenty-four hours—a little less by now—before Stella brought down his world. No doubt she could do it. All it would take was a whisper in the right person's ear.

His foot stomped the gas pedal. The white Cadillac shot down the road toward home. He could only pray that Lauren would be there and that she would listen to him.

 

Lauren lifted the saddle off Storm Cloud's back and hung the bridle next to the stall. She took a towel and rubbed down the big gelding, lingering on the spots that made him quiver with pleasure. Following Sky's advice, she'd made it a habit to work with the horse every day, riding him, grooming him, or just stopping by the stable to give him a treat. With time and patience, Storm Cloud had begun to trust her. On this afternoon's short ride, he'd performed beautifully.

“Good boy,” she murmured, stroking the satiny neck. “You were broken. So was I. But we're both getting better.”

What would she do about him when she moved to town? If she could find a place to keep him, she might be able to buy him from the syndicate. Meanwhile she could at least visit him and ride him as often as possible.

But the horse wasn't Lauren's only concern. She had spent the morning and the early part of the afternoon updating the books in the syndicate office. The talk there, among the manager and the hands who wandered in and out, had been about the fire danger.

As she made the fifteen-minute trek from the stable to the house, Lauren remembered the conversation she'd overheard between the sharp, young ranch manager and an old cowboy who'd worked for the Prescott family most of his life.

“I wouldn't worry if I were you,” the manager had said. “The ground is cleared around the buildings, the water tanks are full, and the air drop service is just a phone call away. Being prepared can make all the difference.”

“I can tell you ain't never been in a range fire,” the old man had drawled. “When them flames come at you, hot enough to turn your bones to cinders, it's like you stumbled into hell, an' you're starin' right down the devil's throat.”

Right down the devil's throat.
The words echoed in Lauren's head as she entered the house through the kitchen door. The ninety-year-old Prescott family home was made of wood and isolated by distance from the newer buildings and pens used by the syndicate. If a fire came close enough, it would go up like a torch, along with the nearby sheds and the garage that housed her grandfather's priceless collection of antique cars. Would the ranch employees even bother protecting the old home? Why should they?

She was hungry after working most of the day, and the cook wouldn't be in till dinnertime. Finding some leftover chicken in the fridge, she made a sandwich, poured some iced tea, and sat down at the table. She was just finishing her late lunch when her father walked in from the front of the house. The glass in his hand was half-filled with bourbon.

When had Garn Prescott begun to look so old and tired? Was it just that she hadn't noticed, or had some new disaster struck him?

“Are you hungry, Dad?” she asked, trying to be kind. “Can I fix you something?”

“No to both. I had lunch with the League of Women Voters.” He sank onto a chair with a weary sigh. “But I do need a favor from my little girl.”

She was hardly his little girl. But he looked so downtrodden that Lauren couldn't help feeling sorry for him. “Tell me,” she said.

He raised the glass and drained the bourbon in two gulps. His pale eyes were bloodshot. “The details don't matter,” he said. “All you need to know is, I've gotten myself into a tight spot and I'm going to need some help getting out of it. One person who might put in a word for me is Josh Hardesty. But he's going to need some persuasion. If you'd care to—”