Читать книгу: «Texas Midnight»

Chapter One

Jeremy Masterson leaned back in his chair and made eye contact with the pretty little brunette who was smiling at him from the back of the audience. She looked to be about thirty and ripe for the picking. And she was hanging on every word he spoke. Yes indeed, life was good.

He closed the book he’d read a brief passage from and noticed Ellie Clark, the bookstore owner, giving him a look that signaled a large dose of warning. Ellie was no dummy, and she’d picked up on the little flirtation he’d started with the brunette. Ah, Ellie. She was his best friend and his conscience, but he was ready for a celebration. And he didn’t want to party alone.

Ellie came to stand beside him. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Jeremy will sign books over at the table. Please help yourself to some wine and refreshments,” she said, putting an official end to the reading.

“I want to thank all of you for coming,” Jeremy added, taking Ellie’s cue. It was time to quit flirting and start signing. There were about a hundred people in the audience, and it would take some time to meet, greet and sign for each one. He couldn’t help a grin of self-satisfaction. Blood on the Moon, his novel about the settling of his home state of Texas, had finally put him on the way to fame and fortune. It had been a long, hard road.

Ellie leaned down. “Henry called from your ranch. He’s having some problems with the new book.”

Jeremy forgot about the book signing and the brunette as he looked up into Ellie’s worried blue eyes. “He said not to worry you. He was rechecking some of the facts about the Indian raids after 1875. Since Blood on the Moon has gotten so much notice, he said it was vital that there weren’t any mistakes in the sequel.”

“Did he want me to call him?” Jeremy rose. “I checked those facts six times each. You know that, Ellie. You helped me.” Ellie was his biggest fan and strongest supporter. When he’d sold his first three novels—for a pittance—she’d encouraged him to keep writing, to hone his talent. When he was about to starve to death, she’d bought him lunches and showed up at his door with casseroles. All because she believed in his writing. Now, here he was, in her store, signing his fourth book—and finally gaining national recognition. Blood on the Moon was a bestseller. And his editor, Henry Mills, had never had a problem with a single word of it. Jeremy knew the sequel was even better. So what was going on?

“Henry doesn’t want you to call. He said he’s going to continue working. He also said he wasn’t coming to the party tonight.” She shrugged her shoulders. “You told me he hated that kind of thing.”

“He deserves the party as much as I do,” Jeremy pointed out. “He’s a great editor.”

“Nonetheless, he isn’t coming. He said he was so involved in the book he wanted to continue with it. And—” she gave him a stern look “—he told me to tell you to leave the ladies alone.”

“These aren’t ladies,” Jeremy said, lowering his voice so that only Ellie could hear. “These are fans.”

“I’ve heard about your fan club,” Ellie said. “Be careful, Jeremy. There are a lot of desperate women out there, and some of them can read. I’ve been in the book business a long time, and I’ve seen it happen more than once. Handsome author stalked by fan. There was even a book about it. I remember something about a mallet.”

Jeremy winked at her. “I think I can handle a woman so taken with my writing that she wants me.”

“Don’t let that Texas-size ego overwhelm that Rhode Island-size brain,” Ellie warned him. “Now sign books. The crowd is about to stampede.”

Jeremy laughed and turned his attention to the first woman who stood in the queue at his table. As he scanned the crowd, he noticed that about seventy percent were of the female persuasion. And one of them was that very attractive brunette.

She caught his eye again, and he felt his body tingle. Yes indeed, it was going to be nice to ride the wave of stardom that his book had created.

After twenty years of barely being able to afford beans, he was getting the payoff for dedication and hard work. And he intended to enjoy it.

The line moved slowly, and Jeremy talked a moment with each person. His novel about the Texas territory that had once been part of Mexico and a lure for all types of renegades desperate to start a new life had touched his readers in a way he had yet to fully understand. The book had been taken, in part, from some of the stories that had been handed down in his family about his great-grandfather, the legendary Bat Masterson.

To Jeremy, it was a miracle that he’d connected so solidly with his readers. A miracle and one helluva grand experience— He looked up to find the beautiful brunette next in line.

“Mr. Masterson,” she said. “I loved your book. My great-great-grandmother was one of the original settlers of Texas. It brought back a lot of the stories my family told. But the book was better—it was almost like living the stories.”

“Thank you, Mrs.—” He waited.

“Ms. Gabriel Wexit, fifth-generation Texan.”

Jeremy liked the way she laughed. And he liked her brown eyes, and her body. Since his breakup with his last girlfriend, he’d focused completely on his writing—just as he’d vowed to do. But tonight, he had a party to attend and he wanted some female companionship.

“Ms. Wexit, would you like to go to a party tonight?”

“A party?” She gave him a quizzical look.

“At a friend’s home. Sort of a celebration for the book. You can meet me there if that’s more comfortable for you.”

She hesitated half a second. “That sounds lovely.”

Jeremy wrote down the time and address on one of his cards and handed it to her. “I’ll look forward to seeing you there.”

She took the card and let her fingers briefly touch his. “Me, too.” Then she took the book he signed for her and left the store.

Jeremy saw Ellie staring at him, and knew he’d earned her disapproval. She was a tyrant when it came to his writing. And though her obsessiveness could be a little irritating, she was the best friend a man could have. He turned his attention back to the line. It was going to be a long afternoon.

The bell jangled as another customer entered. Jeremy didn’t bother to look up. He only did so when the woman in front of his table drew in a sharp breath and stepped away from him. The sight that met his eyes made him put down his pen and close the book he had been autographing.

“You sign your name to that book of lies as if you’re proud of it,” the woman said. She had a long knife hung at her side. He recognized the bone handle design as Apache. It was a ceremonial knife, one used to send an enemy’s spirit into the land of his ancestors. His gaze moved from the knife to the rapid movement of her chest as she breathed and a long, dark braid that fell across one shoulder.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” Jeremy asked slowly, staring directly into her angry chocolate-brown eyes. It was a writer’s worst nightmare—a fan who was disappointed in a book—and armed. It would require kid gloves to get her placated and out of the store.

“Yes, you can,” she said, stepping to the table and leaning down. “Withdraw that book and write history like it really happened.” She swept her arm around the room. Everyone who’d been in line backed away from the table. “All of these people believe what you write. They don’t understand that fiction is a place where a writer can lie, distort the truth and change history.”

Jeremy took another moment to better observe his accuser. She was a beautiful woman, with a willowy grace belying the steel strength he could see beneath her jeans and shirt. Shining black hair, neatly parted, hung in two long braids as thick as ropes. Her complexion was flawless, a burnished tan that spoke of her heritage as well as her love of the outdoors. Had it not been for the fury on her features, she might have been mistaken for a fashion model on a shoot.

“Let me finish this signing, and we can talk about this,” he said. The accusation that he’d distorted history stung him more than a little. He’d worked hard, done months of research, to be sure he got his historical facts correct. First Henry, now this woman!

“I have nothing to say to you, except that you’re a liar and an impostor. You pretend to write the story of Texas. You pretend to capture the past. What you do is spread old, tired lies about my grandfather.” She drew the knife and brought it down in a sharp, clean movement. The blade pierced the wooden table and stuck.

The knife quivered between them, a symbol of her heritage and a statement that she’d come to make a point, not commit an act of violence.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ellie picked up the telephone. He turned his head toward her, meeting her gaze. He knew she was going to call 9-1-1, and he shook his head, signaling Ellie to hold off. If at all possible, he wanted to handle this quietly. He touched the knife handle to show he wasn’t afraid. “You’re not helping your case, coming here with a weapon,” he said.

“If my grandfather was the kind of man you portrayed him as, I wouldn’t hesitate to follow in his footsteps and cut out your heart.”

The bookstore audience quickly began to move to the exit, but Jeremy didn’t care. He stared at the woman who was both a figure of history and incredibly real. He knew instantly who she was talking about. He knew it and he felt a chill. “Thunder Horse,” he said softly. He’d never expected to meet a living relative of the great Apache chief.

“My grandfather,” she answered, standing so straight and tall that he recognized it was pride, not anger, that had driven her to make this public display.

“Is there a problem?” Ellie took her cue from Jeremy and came out from behind the counter. “Put the knife away and come in my office. Have a cup of coffee. I’m sure Jeremy can straighten this out when he finishes with the signing. Some of these people have been waiting better than an hour. I know you understand.”

Ellie’s cool attempts to move the woman away from Jeremy failed miserably. She held her ground, never even acknowledging Ellie’s presence. Her dark eyes held Jeremy’s blue ones.

“Tell these people that the man you portray in your book as Thunder Horse is someone you made up. He bears no relationship to the real man, my grandfather.”

Jeremy put his hands on the table and cleared his throat. “I can’t do that, ma’am. I did my research for this book. What I put in it are the facts as recorded in the Texas Historical Archives.” He felt his own anger begin to build. “I was very careful. Even though this is a novel, I made sure I had everything right.”

“Lies!” she cried. “I am Anna Red Shoes, daughter of Painted Horse, granddaughter of Thunder Horse. My grandfather was not a savage who killed for pleasure. He killed only after he was forced to do so to protect his people.”

Jeremy knew that refuting her version of history would get them nowhere. “I can only offer to talk with you,” he said. “I’ll be glad to listen to—”

“So that you can steal more stories, and twist and distort them to suit your purposes?” She leaned forward. “There is no talking. I’m camping out with my horses under the sky that was once my grandfather’s roof. You have until tomorrow. Either you make a public statement that your portrayal of Thunder Horse is wrong, or—” she was only inches from his face “— I will make sure that you pay the price.”

“Young woman,” Ellie said in the sharpest tone Jeremy had ever heard her use. “I hope you’re not making a threat.”

Anna Red Shoes did not seem to be in the least intimidated. She never shifted her gaze from Jeremy as she spoke. “A threat both legal and physical.” Her hand clenched only inches above the knife handle. “I make this solemn vow. If you don’t correct the lies you’ve printed, you will suffer. You will suffer greatly, and at my hands.”

In a whirl of braids, she was gone.

ANNA FOUND THAT building a fire soothed her nerves. As soon as the flames were leaping in the gathering twilight, she felt her body begin to calm, and then her mind. She’d allowed her emotions to get the better of her. She’d been so angry in the bookstore that she’d lost control. That was unacceptable.

She’d also stormed off and left her knife. She’d called the bookstore, and the woman who answered had frostily told her she’d track it down, and Anna could pick it up in the morning. Well, that was better treatment than she deserved, Anna knew, after her emotional display in the store. But at least she’d get her grandfather’s knife back. Unless Jeremy Masterson had it…

She poured a cup of the camp coffee that she loved and settled back against the old cedar stump she’d chosen for that purpose. It was a comfortable place to sit. And the early spring dusk was beautiful.

To the west the sky was a vibrant fuchsia, and from the east where it was already darkening to inky-blue, the first star twinkled down at her. Remembering her father’s words, she asked the star to give her light on her journey.

Sighing, she stood up and checked the horses that were hobbled near the campsite. The truth was, she’d need more than guidance. She’d come to the Texas Hill Country in a fit of passion, and she’d let that passion drive her, up until now. She’d confronted Jeremy Masterson, her former favorite writer. And what good had it done? None. She didn’t feel a bit better, and his wretched book, which painted a vivid picture of her beloved grandfather as a murdering savage, was still selling off the shelves like hotcakes.

Worse than that was the bitter disappointment that was beginning to spoil even the taste of her camp coffee. She returned to the fire and made herself comfortable, allowing the erratic rhythm of the flames to soothe her.

What had she expected? That was the question that she had to ask—and finally answer. Had she really thought that Jeremy Masterson would stand up in public and say, “Oh, my, I may have made a mistake. Maybe my book is wrong”?

She bit her lip and realized that was exactly how she’d hoped events would turn out. She also knew how silly and naive such an expectation was.

But Jeremy Masterson had been the author she’d loved. His writing about Texas and the vast wilderness that had challenged white and Native American alike, had seduced her. In many ways, he was like a member of her family, but so much more. She’d read all of his books and every one of his stories. She’d hunted down his essays and even the articles he wrote for various Texas newspapers. In his work, he’d shown such a love for the land, for the place called Texas that was as much a part of her as her own skin. And she had fallen in love with him because she felt as if she knew him better than anyone she’d ever known.

And then he’d published Blood on the Moon. And shown her that he was like all the others. History didn’t matter. Accuracy was out the window. Just throw together a good tale about a savage Indian and a noble white man who saved Texas from a bloodbath, and watch the dollars roll in. Jeremy Masterson had sold out, and even if he never recanted a word, Anna had known that she had to tell him. To his face. In public.

Well, he was told. And now it was time to pack up her horses and go home.

“We’ll head back tomorrow,” she said aloud, taking comfort in the sound of her own voice and the nearness of the two horses. She’d brought Calamity and Allegro along because she’d intended to spend a few days riding through the Hill Country. Now, though, she only wanted to load up and go back to El Paso where she belonged. It was time for her to get back to her job at the shelter. She groaned as she thought of the probability that someone at the home for abused women would hear of her threatening an author with a knife. In public. It had been a very emotional display, and could carry a hefty price.

Calamity nickered softly, as if to say that going home was a good idea. Anna went to the horse and stroked her neck. It was early April, but the setting sun had taken all of the spring warmth. She’d need her bedroll tonight.

She heated a can of stew on the fire and tossed dry sticks in the low flames. No matter what she did to keep busy, her mind kept going back to Jeremy Masterson. He was more handsome in person than his photo on his book jacket. She could still hear his voice, a real Texas drawl with the prerequisite “ma’am” when he addressed her.

If only he hadn’t written those things about her grandfather. Since he was writing fiction, why hadn’t he made up a name for the Apache in the book? Everyone else did it. And most didn’t bother to do a bit of research about how things really were. No, it was easier to accept the Hollywood version of the past than to struggle with the issues of right and wrong that were on both sides of the Native American question.

In the distance a coyote howled, and Anna listened to the mournful song. Soon there would be so many people living in Texas that there would be no room for the coyote. Like the bear and panther and wolf, he would disappear. Like the red man.

“The past is over and the future can’t be counted on,” she told herself. She tossed the remains of the coffee in the fire and pulled her blankets over her as she settled on the ground, using her saddle for a pillow.

As a little girl she’d often camped with her grandfather. He’d survived the trial in which he was accused of killing a dozen white settlers. He was a very old man, and Anna had loved to sleep under the stars and listen to his stories. He’d told her about the wiles of the coyote and the bravery of the wolf. And the wisdom of the buffalo that had once roamed free through vast stretches of long grass.

Thunder Horse had been over one hundred when he died on a reservation. But he was not buried there. His ashes were scattered in the very hills where she now camped. Tomorrow, before she went home, she would visit the sacred place where she’d set him free.

The coyote seemed to cry agreement with her plan, and Anna closed her eyes, determined to sleep. But no matter how she tried to relax, she could not. She wasn’t satisfied with her meeting with Jeremy Masterson. He hadn’t believed her. She’d come all this way to straighten him out—and all she’d done was amuse him.

She sat up. She knew where he lived. She’d made it a point to find out. It wouldn’t take long to drive there. And he had offered to talk with her. Maybe if she didn’t create a public scene, he might actually listen to what she had to say. And she might get her knife back.

She knew she was fooling herself. There hadn’t been an inch of bend in the man in the bookstore. Not an inch. But she’d driven a long way, and she wasn’t going home until she tried again.

Throwing off the blankets, she kicked the fire out and checked the hobbles on the horses. They would be fine for a while.

“I must be crazy,” she said aloud.

Even as she talked, she unhitched the horse trailer, got in her truck and slowly headed down the rock-strewn path toward the main road. Jeremy lived out near a small community called Hunt. It was only a twenty-minute drive. She could get there, have her say and get back to her horses in an hour.

The clock on the dash showed midnight when she pulled off the main road and down the narrow lane that led to Jeremy’s home. The grounds, or what she could see of them in the beams of her truck lights, were well tended. The house, when she finally got to it, was modest and cheerful. There were even flowers blooming in the beds. She wondered if he was a secret gardener or if he paid to have the work done.

As she neared the door, which was well lighted, she noticed an herb patch. She didn’t try to stop her smile. This was how she’d imagined Jeremy would live. Bending down, she pinched a few plants and identified basil, lemon dill and mint. She put the herbs in her pocket for luck.

Her knock was bold, and yet it brought no response. She knocked again. The radio was playing inside, and when she waited several minutes and no one came to the door, she moved around to look in an open window. She wasn’t a Peeping Tom, but she couldn’t resist. It would be a thrill to catch a glimpse of him at work—even if he was no longer her favorite author.

A light burned in what appeared to be a study. A big desk chair faced a computer station against the far wall, where a screen of text glowed brightly. Otherwise, the room looked empty.

As her eyes better adjusted to the dim light of the room, she made out a dark shape on the floor. Even as her eyes registered the outline of a body, her brain tried to resist it. Jeremy Masterson wouldn’t sleep on the bare floor. Her impulse was to run—fast. But she couldn’t. What if Jeremy was injured? Had suffered a heart attack?

“Hey!” Anna called louder. “Mr. Masterson!” She beat on the window frame, hard.

Jeremy didn’t budge.

Anna reached into her pocket, pulled out her pocketknife and cut the screen. The sharp knife zipped through it, and in a matter of seconds there was a hole wide enough for her to slip through.

She jumped to the window ledge and slid through to the floor. Hurrying, she rushed to the body, unaware of the blood until she stepped in it. She knew then she’d made a terrible mistake.

Gently turning the body, she saw first the multiple stab wounds to the chest— Suddenly she realized that the dead man was a stranger. It was not Jeremy Masterson, but someone she’d never seen. There was no help for him. His body was already stiffening with rigor mortis.

The horror of what she saw numbed her. Anna forced herself to remain still, to breathe, to think. Her grandfather had been a man of rigid control. He’d taught her the danger of emotionalism and fear, and Anna reached deep inside herself, seeking that discipline.

Body trembling, she slowly stood and tried to determine what had happened. A stack of manuscript pages sat on the desk, and by them, the computer screen glowed a vivid blue. The full danger and brutality of the scene hit her hard. She couldn’t save the dead man, and the worst thing that could happen would be for her to be found with the body.

She ran to the window and climbed back out, then sprinted across the lawn to her truck. As she drove away and pulled onto the main road, she looked around to make sure no one witnessed her exit from the murder scene.