Stranger in My House
by Mari Manning
Copyright © 2016 by Mari Manning. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
Kirby Swallow wanted to kick herself. No, 10-22 that—surveying her heavy makeup and green contacts in the rearview mirror, she admitted the truth to herself. She wanted to turn the car around and drive home as fast as the speed limit allowed.
Her mouth curled into a rueful smile. At least she felt alive again. Since her half sister, Frankie, came back into her life two days ago, the numbness smothering Kirby after her grandfather’s death had lifted. So had her loneliness. That Frankie had shown up distraught, bruised, and begging for help took some of the pleasure out of the reunion. But at least she’d turned to Kirby for help. It was a start.
As for Frankie’s mess of troubles, not to mention the wild scheme she’d concocted, that was another matter. Just driving down here with the intent to conceal her identity and conduct a warrantless search could cost Kirby her badge and end her career as a Tulsa cop. If anyone but Frankie had asked, Kirby would never have broken her oath of honor. But Frankie was family. The only family Kirby had left. So she’d agreed to masquerade as her nearly identical half sister.
Just to take a look around. If she found anything, she’d turn it over to the local cops. Then Frankie could go home again and not feel the shadow of a killer at her back. A killer who appeared to eliminating heirs to the fifty-thousand-acre Shaw Valley Ranch.
A half mile ahead, the gates to the ranch rose above the Texas brush. Kirby steered the car beneath a wrought-iron arch entwined with the initials SV and bumped along a coarse gravel road that snaked between hillocks and small groves of honey locust and black cherry. The early-summer sun had begun to slip behind the rolling Texas hills, throwing long shadows across the narrow lane. At least she’d timed her arrival well. She might need the cloak of dusk to get past the front door.
The Mercedes—Frankie’s, of course—purred as it took a sharp bend, skirting a patch of trees and underbrush. As Kirby cleared the last grove, a monstrous Victorian mansion rose up before her. The heart-stopping moment of uncertainty that slammed into her caught her by surprise. Just a few minutes ago she’d been mostly okay. A little nervous about the charade, but ready to take a chance for her sister. But searching this behemoth without backup? Was she ready for that?
The main part of the house—three stories, square roofed and covered with fussy fretwork—thrust boldly forward. Two wings angled back, giving the impression of a bird in the midst of flight. From the roof at the center of the sprawl, a cupola rose as if in a grandiose, futile attempt to touch the flat Texas sky. It was both more and less than Frankie had described. More imposing and more intimidating, to be sure. But faded and in disrepair, too. As if its best days were long past.
Through the dead bugs littering her windshield, Kirby caught a movement on the far side of the yard. A man strode purposefully and angrily in her direction. He was tall, broad shouldered, and wore the rancher’s uniform—jeans, boots, long-sleeve shirt, and on his head a white Stetson.
Kirby stepped out of the car, shimmying Frankie’s tight dress down her thighs. Then she slipped her hand into the Hermès bag Frankie had lent her and released the safety on her Glock pistol.
Not because this was her first go at being Frankie, and if she was caught…well, folks could get ugly if they thought you were messing with them. But because someone on this ranch, or at least someone with access to the house, had abducted Frankie’s momma Charleen, a week back, then two nights ago come for Frankie, too. Frankie had fought off the attempt, but now she was running scared.
As the man came up on her, the pungent scent of horse and hay filled Kirby’s nostrils. His full lower lip curved sensually, and his long nose was slightly off-kilter. Probably broken. Beneath the brim of his sweat-stained hat, hair black as midnight curled at his neck. A spark of intelligence gleamed in his blue eyes.
She’d seen a fuzzy photo of him on Frankie’s cell. Seth Maguire. The local Casanova. The housemaid, a bevy of gals in town, and even Frankie herself were hot for him. Kirby could see why, although he was definitely not her type. His gaze met hers a bit too speculatively, and his body pushed into her personal space. A man too sure of his own attraction for her taste.
“What the hell, Frankie?”
His aggression took her by surprise. She reared back.
He moved closer. “I—we spent the past two days looking for you.”
“You shouldn’t have bothered, since, as you can see, I’m fine.” She released the pistol and took her hand out of her purse. He wasn’t carrying, and she could handle him if he got physical.
He gritted his teeth and growled. “Is this because of what happened?”
Because of what happened? “You mean with my momma and me?”
“I mean with you and me.”
What was he talking about? Frankie hadn’t said anything about Maguire except to go on about how hot he was. Of course with Frankie, encouraging male attention was second nature. But not to Kirby. “I appreciate your concern. I was visiting friends.” Hopefully that hit a note somewhere between “come and get me, big guy” and “I’m a cop investigating a crime, so stay back.”
He relaxed. “I hope you’ve cooled down.”
His voice was soft and his tone intimate. He bent his neck and studied her face closely. A smudge of dirt outlined the ridge of his cheekbone. The shadow of beard revealed itself as dark stubble. Sweat-scented heat rose off his body and pressed against her. For a moment she thought he might try to kiss her, and she wondered what she’d do. Her heart began to pound. Then he pulled back.
“Answer me, Frankie,” he said.
What was his question? Suddenly she couldn’t remember. “Pardon me?”
“You heard me. Have you cooled down?”
“Sort of.” Beads of sweat gathered above her lips. She tried batting her eyelids Frankie-style but managed only a nervous flutter.
“Look…” He paused and glanced over his shoulder at the house. “I’m trying to get on here. I told you that. I can’t afford to get thrown off this ranch because…because of this damn nonsense. Please, Frankie. Just say yes, and mean it. That’s all I’m asking here.” The cords of his neck strained.
“Can I think about it?” Whatever it was. She’d call Frankie as soon as she got in the house. If she made it that far.
“Think about it? Think about what?”
Above her head, the first bat of the evening squeaked and circled. She backed farther away from him. “Sun’s setting. I best be getting inside before the mosquitoes ring the dinner bell.”
“No. Not until this is settled.” His hand shot out and gripped her upper arm. Not hard, but his fingers were solid against her muscle.
For a moment she couldn’t think. The gesture felt casual and ordinary, as if he’d touched Frankie a thousand times before. And maybe he had. But he wasn’t touching Frankie, and if this was where Kirby was supposed to issue a Frankie-like invitation for more, the charade was over. She jerked her arm from his grasp and backed away.
He frowned. “What the hell’s going on?”
“T-tonight’s not a good night. I’m a little out of sorts.”
“Out of sorts?”
Change the fricking subject. “My momma is missing. Remember?”
Maguire had the temerity to guffaw. “Your momma goes off all the time, and it’s never bothered you before.”
Clearly he didn’t know about the note left in Frankie’s room. Still, it irritated her. His lack of compassion. “Does it bother you? When she goes off, I mean?”
“Me?”
He laughed again, then turned away and surveyed the splash of crimson above a distant ridge. When he looked at her again, his brows were knitted, his forehead creased by thought. He leaned into her and met her eyes. The intelligence was back, and Kirby felt her measure being taken.
She dropped her gaze to avoid his scrutiny. Frankie’s red stilettos glittered up at her, a reminder of where she was and what she was supposed to be doing. You are confident with men. You are an heiress to a Texas ranch. You are Frankie Swallow.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “You seem different.”
It was impossible to argue his point, since he was right. She raised her head and tried a spoonful of truth on him. “Maybe I’m upset. Seems like someone might be trying to get rid of me, too.”
He nodded, not the least bit surprised. “I suppose it’s possible, although I don’t know why that’s suddenly news.”
“You don’t thinking that’s just a bit alarming?” She tried to rein in her outrage.
He met outrage for outrage. “Sure thing, Miss Frankie. I do find it just a little alarming. But you know what I find a lot alarming? That a bunch of people…” He broke off and waved an arm at the house. “That a bunch of people around here wouldn’t shed a tear if you disappeared for good.”
His words were sympathetic, but his tone was not. So did he like Frankie or didn’t he? Would he shed a tear if she was gone? Kirby narrowed her gaze, trying to read his expression, but the deepening gloom obscured it.
“You know what I mean, right?” He made it sound more like a plea for understanding than a question.
Was he talking about the ranch? Charleen, then Frankie would inherit it someday. But who would the childless and elderly Charles Ender Shaw III—Frankie’s cousin Eenie—leave his estate to if they were gone? Probably someone nearby. Maybe someone in that behemoth of a house. Maybe even Maguire himself.
“I know exactly what you mean,” she said, gritting her teeth and thrusting the words at him as if they were written on a criminal citation.
His jaw dropped.
Was it him? Had he taken Charleen, and when Frankie fought him off, did he slip the note into her room? Got Charleen. You’re next. But why? Had Maguire somehow insinuated himself with Shaw?
The heavy squeal of rusted hinges vibrated over the yard. Kirby twisted her head. The front door had opened, and a shaft of light cut through the yard, framing a plump young woman with pale braids hanging over her shoulders. The housemaid, Brittany.
“Who’s here, Seth?”
He grimaced. “It’s Miss Frankie. You go on and finish your chores. I’ll get her inside.”
Kirby felt her malevolent gaze. Then the door swung shut with a deep thud, casting the yard back into semidarkness.
“I’ll see myself into the house. I wager you have lots of important stuff to do,” she said, turning away from Maguire and swinging open the Mercedes’s back door. She hoisted Frankie’s Louis Vuitton bag from the seat.
He held out his hand. “Give me that.”
She didn’t trust him. But Frankie did. And for now, she was Frankie. She handed him the bag.
He jiggled it speculatively, testing its weight. “What’re you toting in here? Rocks?”
Just a few to balance the weight of a big-ass flashlight, a Taser, handcuffs, ID, and badge all wrapped up in bedsheets to keep the rattling down. She thrust her arm out and tried to snatch the bag back. “I can manage.”
He did a neat sidestep. “Lead the way.”
The path, steep and uneven, was as welcoming as the house. The front porch as wide and empty as the Texas plain stretching to the horizon. The heavy door thick and weather-beaten. Maguire, still hauling her weapons, stayed right behind Kirby all the way to the front door. She’d hoped to go into the house alone. Get past any surprises flighty Frankie might have forgotten to mention.
“Thanks. I can take it from here.” She held out a hand for the bag.
“Wouldn’t hear of it. ’Course, if you could see your way to opening the door, I’d be much obliged.”
The tarnished brass handle resisted the twist of her wrist.
“Come on, Frankie. In you go.”
She gave it some muscle. The latch snapped back. The door creaked open.
Her heels clicked on pink marble, a pale sea between front parlor and dining room. Dust covered massive pieces of Victorian furniture, its upholstery faded to watery claret. Paneled walls and a carved oak ceiling enclosed the room in casket-like darkness. A forest of ferns sprouted from tarnished brass pots. A portrait hung over the deep fireplace—a pale man with even paler eyes watched her with a glint of menace.
Straddling the hall and living room, a carved oak stand held a golden birdcage. Behind gilded wires, a red and blue macaw with a curved beak tilted its head at her. “She’s here, she’s here,” it screeched. “Hurry, he’s this way.”
“Hell’s bells!” The words rolled off Kirby’s tongue before she could bite them back. Frankie hadn’t mentioned a bird. She hoped it was the only thing Frankie forgot.
“Something wrong?” Maguire stepped into the house.
A shadow with a bushy tail leaped over Kirby’s head. She ducked and dug her hand in her purse for her pistol before she remembered—Mr. Shaw had a penchant for critters. Still, it was one thing to hear about a pet squirrel wandering the house. It was another when it flew over you.
Maguire lifted his elbow. “Come here, Bobby. Don’t be pestering Frankie.” A black squirrel with a gold chain circling its neck jumped to Maguire’s raised arm.
Kirby straightened and pulled her hand out of her purse. The macaw cackled again. “She’s here.” The high, inhuman voice vibrated through Kirby like a warning. She shuddered.
“Are you okay?” Maguire asked.
“I suppose.”
He eyed her cautiously. “Guess he hears that a lot around here.”
Apparently “she’s here” referred to Frankie, and just as apparent was the fact that Frankie would know what it meant and why Maguire seemed almost embarrassed. “Guess so,” she said, but narrowed her eyes and gave him the once-over, because it’s what Frankie did when she was displeased.
Bobby studied her from Maguire’s well-defined bicep, white teeth worrying his paws, black eyes glittering, the tiny bell on a silver collar dinging.
Maguire dug into his pocket. “Here you go.” He handed the squirrel a peanut.
Bobby pushed the peanut into his cheeks and jumped from Maguire’s arm to Kirby’s shoulder. Tiny claws tickled her bare skin. You could say it nice as pie or you could sling it like mud, but the truth was the truth. Frankie wasn’t the wild kingdom type. If a squirrel jumped on her shoulder, even a tame one, she’d have a little meltdown.
“Get him off me,” Kirby said. She could have flicked the critter away with a jerk of her hand, but she didn’t want to hurt him and she didn’t want to lift him off, because in the way of horses and dogs, Bobby might know she was a fake by her touch.
Maguire frowned. “Weird.”
“What?”
“He’s never gone to you before.”
“It’s dark in here. He probably thought I was, uh, Cousin Eenie.”
“Probably.” But it was clear from the way Maguire said it that he didn’t believe Bobby had mistaken her for Mr. Shaw.
A woman appeared at the top of the wide staircase that rose from the far end of the hall. “What areyou doing with Bobby?”
The macaw fluttered and screeched against the bars of its cage. Bobby leaped to a nearby ficus and skittered away. The rawboned woman charged down the stairs, aiming for Kirby. Her loose, gray flannel slacks hung over ample hips, and a high-collared blouse flapped against narrow shoulders and long, bony arms. Gray hair secured into a tight bun framed her gaunt face and a thin, high-bridged nose not unlike the macaw’s beak. Deep black eyes brimmed with hatred. Miss Bea Vine, the housekeeper. Frankie’s nickname for her—the she-hawk—seemed fitting.
Up close, the woman reeked of disinfectant and fear. She stretched her hands toward Kirby, gnarled fingers curled into claws. But she stopped short of touching her. “You have no business with Bobby.”
Kirby ran an assessing eye over the woman. A few inches taller, but at least twenty years older. According to Frankie, Miss Bea had been at the ranch forever. An obvious exaggeration. But she’d been here for a while, and she’d devoted herself to taking care of Mr. Shaw. Had she been jealous when Mr. Shaw’s lawyers identified Charleen and Frankie as next of kin? Had Mr. Shaw already promised her the ranch or a large sum of money when he died? Kirby glanced down at Miss Bea’s fingernails. Neat and trimmed short, but long enough to make the nasty scratch on Frankie’s forearm.
“I didn’t touch Bobby. He jumped on my shoulder.”
Miss Bea’s eyes narrowed. “Why would he do that when he’s afraid of you?”
Good question, and there was a good answer. Because she wasn’t Frankie. Weariness washed over Kirby, so strong her eyelids felt heavy. She’d come here to help, to recapture the sense of purpose she’d lost when Grandy passed a year ago. She’d come here seeking herself every bit as much as Charleen’s abductor. Only now that she’d arrived, it seemed like a bad idea. Charleen’s best chance of survival was getting the police involved. As for Kirby, how could she expect to find herself in the midst of Frankie’s life?
Maguire chose this moment to step between her and Miss Bea. “Come on, ladies. No reason to get your dander up. Miss Frankie has returned, and Bobby is just fine. Everything is under control.” His eyes narrowed into Miss Bea’s when he mentioned Frankie’s return, and an unspoken message passed between them.
Miss Bea dropped her arms to her sides. “You know what would happen if Eenie saw Bobby…” But her words trailed off, limp and defeated. The fight had left her.
Watching the silent communication pass between Maguire and Miss Bea, a finger of ice touched the back of Kirby’s neck. Could they be working together to get rid of Charleen and Frankie? Frankie had talked like Charleen was tied up somewhere. But what was the point of tying up an heiress if you wanted to get to her money? She’d have to be dead, wouldn’t she?
Kirby’s gaze leaped to her suitcase. It leaned against Maguire’s leg, and occasionally he’d reach down and steady it. Had he made an educated guess as to what was inside? It weighed a ton, and when he’d snatched it from her, there had been a metallic thunk.
Maguire’s gaze followed Kirby’s to the case. He shoved the bag at her. “I guess you can manage to get this up to your room, can’t you?”
“Sure thing,” Kirby said. Relief had never felt so sweet, nor so short-lived.
He hefted the bag. “Seems like you got a king’s ransom in jewels, or a case of whiskey in here.”
Miss Bea gasped.
“Of course not,” Kirby said. Although a more reasonable explanation escaped her.
She dropped a shoulder and nudged Maguire’s arm away from the bag. “I got it.” The touch of the leather-bound handle brought with it a sense of relief. She strode across the hall as fast as a sexy Frankie-style walk would allow. She needed Frankie’s room. She needed to regroup.
She half-climbed, half-stumbled up the stairs in Frankie’s ridiculous shoes. Dead silence followed in her wake, along with the hostile interest of Maguire and Miss Bea. Those two were definitely not to be trusted. She hit the landing with relief, dragging with her aching feet, raw nerves, and sore shoulder muscles, as well as a suitcase that got heavier by the second.
Kirby pressed herself into a dark corner of the landing as Maguire’s and Miss Bea’s voices rose in angry whispers. “Tie a bell around…the police…damn babysitter…your priority…”
The “tie a bell around” and “damn babysitter” no doubt referred to Frankie’s escape the other night, which had earlier bothered Maguire and, it appeared from the current conversation, Miss Bea, too. Had they attacked Frankie? Mention of the police was interesting. Folks with guilty consciences were always keeping an eye out for the police, and Frankie had reported Charleen’s disappearance. If Kirby could find some evidence of a crime, maybe the local cops would assign Charleen’s case to a detective. Or at least show up at the ranch and ask the residents some hard questions about Charleen’s whereabouts.
The argument between Maguire and Miss Bea wound down. The front door opened. “Good night,” Maguire said. The door shut behind him.
Miss Bea’s footsteps echoed against the marble floor then disappeared into a room below. Kirby stepped out of the shadows and surveyed the steps on each side of the landing. One led to the mansion’s east wing and one led to its west wing. The question was, which side was east and which side was west?
Frankie had been clear—very clear—on getting this right. Charles Ender Shaw III, Frankie’s cousin Eenie and patriarch of the ranch, lived in the west wing. And the west wing was forbidden to everyone except Miss Bea. She cleaned, carted up food trays, made beds, and even slept in one of the rooms. The east wing belonged to Frankie, Charleen, and Brittany, the maid. Maguire slept in the coach house above the garage.
Both wings looked murky and endless with barrel-shaped ceilings, worn burgundy runners, longhorns carved into lintels, and flocked wallpaper in bordello red. Thick doors with brass locks stood open before each wing. Nothing stirred up here. It felt like a tomb, dark and still and dusty. Hell, the whole damn house felt like a tomb. Kirby thought about Charleen. Maybe it was.
A door slammed. Miss Bea pounded up the staircase and came at Kirby. She jerked her chin to the left. “Go on now, Miss Frances. You know better than to poke around.”
Poke around? “Now why would I do a thing like that?”
A flicker of surprise flashed across Miss Bea’s face. “You won’t succeed. Not while I have anything to do with it.”
This is interesting. “How are you going to stop me?” She delivered the line Frankie-style, with a flip of her hair and a thrust of her shoulder.
“How?” Miss Bea looked blank, as if she hadn’t considered the details of ridding Shaw Valley Ranch of Frankie.
“The same way you stopped my mother?”
A deep flush rose from the high collar of Miss Bea’s blouse. “How dare you.” The color deepened. Her beady eyes narrowed. “Don’t play your little girl games with me. Maybe that works on Mr. Maguire, but it doesn’t fool me.” Miss Bea thrust her face into Kirby’s. Her sour breath smelled of fear and garlic. “The day of reckoning is at hand, Miss Frances.”
“Are you threatening me?” Kirby wanted to throw open her bag, grab her badge and handcuffs, and arrest this woman on the spot. Of course, evidence of a crime was still in short supply.
Miss Bea backed up a pace. “I’m not threatening, I’m telling.”
“Telling what?”
Miss Bea’s face, red as a beet, looked like it was about to explode. A suspect with a temper. “Go on, now. Get to your room. Brittany will bring along your dinner tray.” Pushing past Kirby, she marched up the right staircase and into the gaping west corridor. The heavy door thundered shut behind her.
The landing grew silent and dark. The warmth fell out of the air. Kirby shivered.
Hoisting her bag, she climbed the short flight of stairs from the landing and stepped into her wing. The old floorboards creaked and moaned beneath her feet. As she walked, she reached out and tested doorknobs. All locked. The third on the right was Frankie’s room. Mercifully, that door swung open with a light push.
She flipped on the light switch by the door and gasped. “Lord Almighty.” Behind door number three was a suite so luxurious, Kim Kardashian would be jealous.
How had Frankie created this beautiful space in the midst of so much decrepitude? In the sitting room, plush chairs covered in cream-colored silk, contemporary teak tables, and cut-crystal lamps shimmered against a thick champagne carpet and sleek, pistachio-green walls. The sophisticated effect was scarred only by a poster-size painting of Frankie lying half naked across a chaise longue. Frankie, the narcissist. A Venus de Milo with arms.
Kirby shook her head. How could two women who looked so much alike and shared the same daddy be so different? It was truly a mystery.
The adjoining bedroom held a king-size bed with leather headboard and a teak dresser. A colossal gilt mirror leaned against the wall beside the bed. Creamy silk curtains hung at tall windows. With a deep sigh of relief and a sense she’d just run a gauntlet, Kirby dropped the suitcase and flopped on the bed.
She’d made it past Maguire and Miss Bea and Bobby. And that noisy bird. Tomorrow she’d try to meet Mr. Shaw, Brittany, and the ranch hand, Manny. In the next day or so, she’d have to drive to the police station in nearby El Royo to follow up on Frankie’s missing-person report. But first, she needed to call Frankie. Kirby pulled her cell phone out and hit Frankie’s number.
Frankie answered on the first ring. “What happened? Did you make it?”
“I’m sitting on your bed staring at my reflection in the biggest mirror in Texas.”
Frankie laughed. Full and throaty. “I knew you could do it, sis. Did you get shit from any of them?”
“Maguire and Miss Bea. Neither seemed happy to see me. I mean, you. Maguire kept asking me to promise him something, but I couldn’t exactly tell what.”
For a few moments, Frankie was quiet. “Do you think it’s him?”
“Maybe. What does he want from you?”
“I don’t know.” She sounded like she knew exactly what Maguire wanted.
“Come on, Frankie. The guy grabbed me. I even thought he was going to kiss me. He got right in my face, and—and, I don’t know. Was he?”
“For crissake, Kirby. What are you? Sixteen? Are you so naive you can’t tell if a guy’s trying to kiss you?” Now she sounded pissed.
Kirby’s face felt warm. “Of course not. I’m trying to find out what’s going on between you and Maguire.”
“Nothing. He tried to hook up with me.”
“Hook up as in have sex?”
Another throaty laugh. “I told him I would, but I can’t decide if I want to. He’s cute but a little crazy.”
“You might have mentioned this fact before I got down here. What if he expects me to sleep with him?”
“Stay away from him. I think he’s stalking me.”
“Stalking you how?”
“Making me do things with him on the ranch, trying to keep me out of town. He wants me for himself.”
Maguire’s angry face and half mocking, half pleading voice swam through her memory. He seemed too sane, too smart to be a stalker. Too bent out of shape about something to be following Frankie around like a lovesick puppy. “That wasn’t the impression I got. There’s something else going on, Frankie.”
Frankie sniffed. “After Momma disappeared, he said he wanted to…to marry me. For the ranch.”
“He said that he wanted to marry you for the ranch?”
“You can be as dumb as a brick sometimes. Of course, he didn’t say it in so many words.”
“What did he say exactly?”
“The usual. Haven’t you ever been proposed to?” Frankie asked.
No. “He didn’t say so, but you got the impression he’s after the ranch, and that he might have gotten rid of Charleen with the expectation of marrying you and inheriting the ranch?”
“It’s a possibility.”
And it made sense. Hadn’t Maguire said something about saying yes because he couldn’t afford to get thrown off the ranch? “What about Miss Bea?” Kirby asked. “She hates you.”
“The she-hawk? She’s a frustrated old woman who’s devoted her whole life to Cousin Eenie, and he won’t give her the time of day. She’s as much as told me she’d have the ranch if Cousin Eenie’s lawyers hadn’t found me. And Momma, of course.”
“Her behavior went beyond jealousy. She was genuinely angry, especially when that squirrel jumped on me.”
“Bobby jumped on you? She must have gone nuts. No pun intended.”
Kirby smiled anyway. “Did you have a run-in with Bobby?”
Frankie laughed. “Yes. I was winning until the she-hawk came in on Bobby’s side.”
“Winning?”
“It wandered into my sitting room,” Frankie said. “I might have been trying to smash it with a tennis racket when the she-hawk caught me.”
“That’s what she’s mad about?”
“She’s a frustrated old maid. She’s always threatening to fire Seth, and whenever things don’t go her way, she blames him. Hell, if she knew that we’d switched places, she’d probably blame him for that, too.”
“Ah. That makes sense.” So Maguire thought if he could get Frankie to marry him, he’d no longer be under Miss Bea’s thumb or in danger of being fired.
A muted horn blared on Frankie’s end of line.
“Where are you?” Kirby asked.
“Driving around. I took your car. You don’t mind, do you?”
She didn’t. It felt nice to have family to share with. “Of course not.”
“Hey, I’m at the mall. One last thing I forgot to mention,” Frankie said. “Keep your gun out of sight. Cousin Eenie’s a hippie or something. No weapons allowed.”
Kirby glanced around the room. “I guess I could put them in the closet.”
“Leave everything in the suitcase and leave the suitcase in the closet. I’ve got to go.” The phone went dead.
…
From the coach house window, Seth watched the last rays of the sun drop behind the western ridge. Shadows piled up in the valley. At least darkness hid the broken fences and weedy garden, the unpainted barn, the rutted lanes.
If he owned this spread, it would be kick-ass. He’d bring in fifteen thousand head like they had before Shaw took over from his daddy. Then he’d hire on some cowboys. Open up the bunkhouses year-round. As for plowing under the lavender and damn fruit trees, he’d do that himself and savor every minute of it.
Shaw thought he could run a fifty-thousand-acre ranch like a crazy hippie commune—treat the animals as friends and the insects as dinner guests. He was farming all of fifty acres at best. And the other 49,950? Awaiting the second coming of Buddha.
What Seth wouldn’t do to buy a little piece right out from under Shaw. He grimaced. Getting his own spread was going to take a lot more money than he had in the bank.
So much for dreams.
His gaze swept across the run-down ranch one last time before night settled. The work was endless, but since Shaw’s lawyers brought Frankie and her momma to the ranch, time had become his enemy. Time and the Swallow women. They’d swooped down on Shaw Valley like a plague of pampered, perfumed locusts, threatening the ranch’s precarious existence with incessant demands for money and attention. It left little time for the business of ranching.
But Shaw was stuck with them. He was old and sick and childless, and they were his heirs. His daddy—damn him—had fixed his will to favor Shaw blood. Made it ironclad. Unbreakable. Even unbendable.
A light blinked on in the east wing. Frankie’s room. The curtains were drawn back, which wasn’t like Frankie. Something about her didn’t feel right this evening. He couldn’t exactly put his finger on it, but she was different. Where was the cloud of eye-watering perfume she liked to wear? And the ass-wiggling strut that drove the boys in town crazy? That afternoon she’d wobbled up the path like she’d never worn heels in her life. And the way she’d acted. Approachable…almost normal. He grimaced again. Yeah, right.
“What are you up to, Frankie?” He meant to keep her close until he figured it out.
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