Beyond Reason by Kat Martin (4)

Chapter Four

From the sheriff’s department, Carly went home. She’d been at work earlier, planned to go back a little later, but she could use some lunch before she returned. And there was plenty to do at the house.

Little by little, she was cleaning out Joe’s stuff, a difficult job even without all the memories and sorrow that went along with a lot of hard work.

She drove Joe’s F-150 into the garage and went into the kitchen of the little beige two-bedroom, two-bath ranch-style house. She’d already cleaned everything out in here, arranged the dishes and pans the way she liked. After so many years, the walls had turned a dull robin’s egg blue, but she’d painted them a nice pale yellow.

The whole house needed painting, but once she’d started working at the yard, she hadn’t had time. She planned to fix the place up: new carpet and drapes, new furniture. She’d get around to it, but the company had to come first. Once Drake was making money again, she’d be able to afford it.

Carly sighed. If she didn’t get things back on track at Drake, she wouldn’t have enough to pay the property taxes. Hell, the way she was going through her savings, she wouldn’t have enough to buy groceries.

She fixed herself a bologna sandwich with real mayonnaise, a treat, and carried it and a glass of milk toward the living room.

The moment she stepped through the opening from the kitchen, a prickle of unease slipped down her spine. Something was out of place; she could feel it. She glanced at the worn beige sofa and chairs, at the brass lamps on the maple end tables that had been in the house since Grandpa Joe had brought her to live with him when she was ten years old.

Nothing seemed out of order, no sign that anything had been moved. Still, the feeling persisted.

Setting the sandwich and milk down on an end table, she walked quietly down the hallway and turned into the bedroom. When a noise sounded, her pulse leaped and she whirled toward the sound, sure someone was going to jump out at her. She relaxed when she realized the air conditioner had just kicked in.

Nothing to worry about. She just hadn’t been living in the house long enough to get used to the everyday creaks and moans.

There was no one in the bedroom, nothing out of place. She returned to the living room, glanced down at the maple coffee table in front of the sofa. The latest copy of Overdrive, a trucker’s magazine Joe had subscribed to, sat next to the Iron Springs Gazette.

Her unease returned, stronger now, making her palms go damp. She could have sworn she’d left the magazine on the other end of the table.

Her breath caught when she spotted the note, hand-written on half a sheet of yellow lined paper torn out of a legal pad. Her pulse accelerated. Her hand shook as she reached for it, started to read the message.

Carly started trembling. She needed to call the sheriff, but her cell was in her purse, which was in the kitchen, and after her encounter with Howler that morning, she didn’t want another confrontation.

Telling herself not to panic, that she was fairly certain whoever had been in the house was gone, she hurried back to the bedroom, went over to the nightstand, and punched in the digital code that unlocked the metal gun safe sitting on top of it.

Lifting the lid, she took out Joe’s semiautomatic pistol, a Glock nine millimeter he’d carried on long-haul runs. She’d fired the gun when she’d been in high school, gotten to be a pretty good shot. Joe had insisted she learn how to handle a pistol so that she could defend herself, but that had been years ago.

She studied the weapon, found the release button and dropped the clip, saw the magazine was full, and shoved it back in. The heavy metal click felt comforting as it vibrated up her arm.

She racked the slide, sending a cartridge into the chamber and cocking the weapon, then, just to be safe, carried it in to check the bathroom off the master bedroom. Finding it empty, she checked the closets and under the bed.

In the spare bedroom, she found the point of entry. One of the windows overlooking the backyard had been broken. She checked the room, then the bathroom at the end of the hall, reminding herself to call the glass company and have the broken window replaced.

In a small community like Iron Springs, there wasn’t much crime. Joe had never considered installing a security system, hadn’t really needed one, and though that had clearly changed, at the moment she couldn’t afford to have it done.

She thought again of the note, ridiculously thought of calling Lincoln Cain.

Since she wasn’t selling to Cain or anyone else, she shouldn’t need to worry.

But what did the note mean? Why had someone gone to so much trouble to deliver it? What did Miguel Hernandez’s murder have to do with Cain? What did it have to do with Drake Trucking?

She went back to the master bedroom, found the clip holster for the pistol in one of the drawers in the nightstand, and shoved in the Glock. From now on, she was taking the pistol to work with her.

In the end, she called the sheriff ’s office, stayed till a deputy named Rollins arrived. The deputy bagged the note, dusted for fingerprints around the bedroom window, and took her statement.

“It’s probably just some kid’s idea of a joke,” he said. “Everyone knows about the murder.”

“A joke,” Carly said darkly.

“Well, it’s not very funny, but these days that’s how some kids think.”

“Why did the note mention Cain?”

The deputy just shrugged. In dark brown pants and a beige uniform shirt with a Texas state badge on the sleeve, he was beanpole thin, his ears sticking out beneath a tan felt cowboy hat.

“Cain’s the richest guy around,” he said. “Maybe the kids just figured, Cain being in the trucking business and a friend of Joe’s, he’d be making you an offer.”

“That’s crazy. No way would a kid think something like that.”

The deputy just gave another shrug. “We might get prints. That could give us some answers. We’ll let you know if anything turns up.” The deputy helped her board up the window, then drove off in his white county sheriff’s pickup as if nothing of any importance had occurred.

It seemed so anticlimactic, Carly wished she hadn’t called.

By two o’clock she was back at the office. She told Donna about the break-in but asked her not to tell anyone else. The company was hanging on by a thread. She didn’t want to give the employees anything more to worry about.

By seven-thirty, everyone had gone home and Carly was completely wrung-out. She’d made a few more marketing calls, but Saturdays weren’t the best day to try to drum up business.

She was just packing up to leave when her cell phone rang.

“Hey, Carly, it’s Row. How you doin’, girl?” Rowena Drummond was another high school friend. They had reconnected since Carly’s return and were rapidly rebuilding their relationship.

Carly sighed into her cell phone. “I’ve had better days if you want the truth. I feel as beat as a pounded steak.”

Row laughed. “I’ve got a cure for that. My shift at the roadhouse ends in twenty minutes. Meet me there and I’ll buy your first beer.”

Besides her part-time job as a bookkeeper—the only work in the area Rowena had been able to find—she bartended at Jubal’s Roadhouse, a local joint a few miles out of town.

“I really shouldn’t,” Carly said. “I have to work tomorrow and I still haven’t got the house sorted out.” Which made her think of the break-in and the window that wouldn’t be fixed until Monday. She ignored a little chill.

“Come on, Carly. You can’t work all the time.”

She took a deep breath, slowly released it. God, a night to relax sounded so good. “You’re right. It’s Saturday night. Make it a shot of tequila and you’re on.”

Rowena chuckled. “You sure about that? As I recall, tequila makes your clothes fall off.”

Carly laughed. “It only happened once and it was a long time ago. I’ll see you in twenty.”

Jubal’s Roadhouse was one of Joe’s favorite hangouts. A lot of truckers went there after work for good cheap food and pitchers of beer.

She thought of the threatening note. The roadhouse could be a little rough sometimes and it was a ways out of town. But the Glock was under the driver’s seat of the pickup. If she was really worried, she could take the required courses and get a concealed carry permit.

She slung her purse over her shoulder. Was she really thinking about it? What had happened to the first-class flight attendant who spent too much on clothes, wouldn’t be caught dead without makeup, and had a standing appointment at the spa?

A lot had changed since she had come home, none of it good. Joe was gone. Miguel Hernandez was dead, her house had been broken into, and she was receiving threatening messages.

None of that mattered. She was back in Texas and she wasn’t leaving. Carly took a deep breath, thought of the gun in the truck, and walked out the door.

* * *

The buzz of raucous laughter and conversation was revving up by the time Carly got to the roadhouse. She settled herself on the bar stool next to Rowena, a shapely, outspoken redhead just the opposite of shy, willowy Brittany, though all three of them were good friends.

After she’d left the yard, Carly had worked up her courage and stopped by the house to change. No intruder lurked inside as she pulled on a pair of dark blue skinny jeans with rhinestones on the back pockets, a red tank top that showed a little cleavage, then slid her feet into a pair of red cowboy boots.

Hey, it was Saturday night at the roadhouse. She might not have lived in Texas for the last few years, but nothing ever really changed.

She glanced at the bartender, a guy named Ricardo, a good-looking Latino with thick black hair and a sexy smile. He set the shot of Patrón that Row had ordered for her down on the bar, set a Jack and Coke down in front of Row.

“Salud,” he said with a grin, the Spanish version of cheers. He had to be at least five years younger than Carly, but the black eyes that measured the shape of her breasts said he didn’t care.

Carly smiled and lifted the glass. “Salud,” she said, determined to enjoy her night off. She took a drink, not the whole shot—she didn’t have a death wish—followed it with a lick of salt off the back of her hand, and bit into the lime he’d set on a napkin next to the glass.

Always up for a good time, Rowena laughed at something the tall cowboy next to her said and took a sip of her drink.

The bar was about half full, with more people arriving all the time. Carly glanced around, enjoying the peanut-shells-on-the-floor atmosphere, the clack of pool balls, and the Willie Nelson song playing on the digital jukebox in the corner. She recognized her foreman, Gordy Mitchell, and another driver laughing in the corner with a couple of other truckers.

A lot of the regulars drove pickups and wore cowboy hats. There’d been a bunch of flashy motorcycles parked out in front, flames on the gas tank of one, a dragon on another, one glossy jet black with a black leather seat trimmed with silver conchos.

The roadhouse was the kind of place where cowboys and bikers mixed with the locals and everyone got along.

Mostly.

Carly had been back a few times over the years when she’d come home for a visit. One of those times she’d gotten a little drunk on tequila and started dancing on the table. The next thing she remembered was swimming naked in the pool at some guy’s apartment. Fortunately Rowena had been with her, and even drunk they’d been smart enough to leave before they got in way over their heads.

She barely remembered the cab ride home, but she remembered how sick she’d been in the morning. She smiled as she took another sip of Patrón. Never again.

Laughter erupted from a table along the wall. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of black leather, guys in chaps and vests. The bikers. Four men, one with gleaming black hair, one dark-haired, tall, and brawny, one black with a shaved head, a blond guy with a horseshoe mustache and hair a little too long, all in great physical condition and sporting tattoos in various shapes and sizes.

Her gaze returned to the big guy, though she could only see his profile. Beneath a snug black T-shirt, a massive chest, and shoulders bulging with muscle. The tat of a single strand of barbed wire circled a huge left bicep. Two of the other men had colorful tattoo sleeves.

The big man laughed at something one of the others had said, a deep, husky sound. He turned a little and she caught a flash of white teeth in an amazingly handsome face. Carly blinked.

“What is it?” Row asked.

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “For an instant I thought that big guy over there was Lincoln Cain. Crazy, huh?”

Row started nodding. “That’s Cain. God, that man is gorgeous. A body like solid steel and a face that breaks hearts all over the country. And here he is, sitting in Jubal’s Roadhouse just like your everyday Hell’s Angel.”

“No way.”

“Well, not really. Those guys are all reformed. They used to ride with the Asphalt Demons, but one’s a dental surgeon now and the other two are lawyers. They live in the area. They still get together to ride.”

She couldn’t stop shaking her head. “That . . . that can’t be Cain.” Her gaze slid back across the room. Just then he looked over at the bar, and before she could look away, he spotted her.

Brilliant green eyes locked on her face and she couldn’t stop staring. With supreme effort, she forced her attention back to Rowena.

“No man should look that good, right?” Row said.

Carly’s face felt hot. Beneath her tank top, her nipples were hard. Dear God, Cain, the wealthy, expensively dressed entrepreneur, was one thing. Cain, the sexy tattooed biker, was completely amazing. She watched him shove up from his chair and start striding toward her and her pulse went through the roof.

Row smiled and waved. “Oh, good, he’s coming over.”

Her nerves rocketed skyward. Not good, not good, not good.

“Do you know him?” Row asked.

“We’ve . . . umm . . . met a couple of times. He was a friend of Grandpa Joe’s.”

“Yeah, I knew that.” Row turned around on the bar stool, beamed as Cain walked up, the ultimate beefcake in black chaps over a pair of black jeans. The chaps outlined the bulge beneath his zipper, and suddenly she felt dizzy.

Row smiled. “Hey, Linc. Been a while. Good to see you.”

“You, too, Row.”

With her impressive cleavage and curvy figure, Rowena was a total man magnet, but Cain’s gaze slid past her, moved over Carly’s body as if he wanted to explore every inch. She forced herself to breathe.

“Can I buy you two a drink?” He looked up at the bartender. “Get the girls another round, Ricardo.”

“Will do, Mr. C.”

He didn’t order anything for himself, just stood patiently waiting for them to be served. Several women were casting him glances, clearly liking what they saw. Carly had to admit, black leather suited him.

“So I guess one of those Harleys out front is yours,” she said, working to make conversation.

“That’s right. I like to ride. Gives me a chance to breathe.”

She studied his face. “The black one, right? That one’s yours.”

The sexy way his mouth curved made the bottom drop out of her stomach. Soo not good.

“That’s right. How’d you know?”

“That bike’s all about power and control. That would be you.”

His gaze remained on her face. “Or maybe I just like black.” He turned to look at the three other men in his group, who were watching them as if they were performers on stage. “Old friends,” he said. “Come on, I’ll introduce you. Row already knows them.”

Carly slipped off the bar stool, felt Cain’s big hand at her waist as he walked her across the room. She tried not to notice the heat spreading out through her body.

He stopped in front of the battered wooden table. “The blond guy with the ’stache, that’s Rick Dugan. You need your wisdom teeth pulled, he’s your man.” Dugan saluted, flashing a white grin that was a walking ad for his work.

“The black guy with the shaved head—that’s Delroy Aimes. We call him Del.” The black guy winked. “He’s a criminal attorney. If you get in trouble, he’s a good man to know.”

Del chuckled.

“The guy with the pretty face and goofy grin is Johnnie Banducci.”

“Hello, sweet thing,” Johnnie said, clearly the ladies’ man of the group, though he wasn’t much competition to Cain; at least Carly didn’t think so.

“Guys, this is Carly Drake, Joe Drake’s granddaughter.”

Carly smiled. “Nice to meet you all. I live in Iron Springs now so I’m sure we’ll be running into each other once in a while.”

“Oh, I hope so, darlin’,” Johnnie said.

Carly wished Cain would step back out of her space but instead he moved a little closer. The smile fell off Johnnie’s face.

Carly looked up at Cain. “I need to get back to Row. I’ll leave you to your friends. Thanks for the drink.”

“My pleasure,” he said.

Carly considered telling him about the note, but now wasn’t a good time. Maybe she’d call him tomorrow. Or maybe not.

He walked her back to her seat at the bar, then sat back down with his friends.

“Wow,” Row said as Carly climbed up on the bar stool. “That was interesting.”

“What was interesting? You mean because he came over to say hello? He’s helping the sheriff with the Hernandez case. We both wound up at the department this morning at the same time.”

Row shook her head, shifting the dark red curls across her shoulders. “What was interesting was the way he was looking at you. Cain has a standing rule—no messing with the women in Howler County—or anywhere else around here. Blackland Ranch is his personal refuge. That’s what he calls it. He doesn’t want any hassles, and a pissed-off former bedmate can be a very big pain in the ass. Cain dates women in Dallas or pretty much anywhere he wants, but not here.”

“Probably smart,” she said, ignoring a stupid little pang.

“Yeah, that’s his rule. But the way he was looking at you? Kind of seemed like he was thinking of breaking the rule.”

Carly ignored a little jolt of something she refused to name. Cain had his choice of women. Even if he were interested in her, no way was she lining up in that queue. She reached for her tequila and finished the shot, took a sip from the fresh shot Cain had bought.

“We better order some food or we aren’t going to be able to drive home,” Row said. “Burgers sound good?”

She hadn’t eaten much that day, and suddenly realized she was starving. “A burger sounds great.” Then she was going home before the tequila kicked in, before the drink made her think of Cain and what might happen if her clothes fell off.