Her Lone Star Protector. Peggy Moreland

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СКАЧАТЬ filled with her supplies and headed for the back door. Though he had given her a key to his home when he’d hired her to care for his plants, she opted to knock, rather than let herself in as she normally did. She didn’t want to catch him unawares…or worse, in his underwear. She choked a laugh as she waited, imagining the expression on the face of the very prim and proper Eric Chambers if she were to catch him dressed in only his B.V.D.’s.

      Her smile faded when her knock produced no response. With a harried glance at her wristwatch, she rapped her knuckles on the door again, louder this time, then pressed her ear to the wood, listening, but she didn’t hear a sound from inside. Convinced that Eric was indeed ill and possibly too sick to get out of bed, she tried the doorknob. To her surprise, it turned in her hand.

      She hesitated a moment, unsure whether she should just barge in. With another glance at her watch, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. Though the kitchen was immaculate as always and flooded with cheerful morning sunshine that streamed through the breakfast-room windows, goose flesh popped up on her arms. The house was quiet. Almost too quiet.

      “Eric?” she called uneasily. She tiptoed toward the doorway that led to the hallway and his bedroom beyond. “Eric?” she called again, raising her voice.

      When she didn’t hear a reply, she waited uncertainly, wondering if she should go to his bedroom and check on him or just tend his plants and leave.

      “He’s your neighbor,” she scolded herself under her breath, “and he lives alone. The least you can do is see if he needs anything, especially since he’s been so kind to send customers your way.”

      Silently berating herself for her selfish ingratitude, she marched toward the bedroom door. She paused at the open doorway, sent up a silent prayer that he was decently covered, then peeked inside. The room was empty, the bed neatly made. A suit coat was draped with meticulous care over a valet stand near the closet. Certain that she would have found Eric in bed, delirious from a raging fever, she glanced toward the partially open bathroom door.

      He had car trouble, she told herself, and turned back for the hall. Probably caught a ride with someone from his office. Promising herself that she would call Wescott Oil and check on him the minute she arrived at her shop, she filled her watering can at the kitchen sink and hurried through the house, watering the potted plants and checking for signs of disease as she nipped off the occasional dead bloom and withering leaf. When she had completed her duties, she returned to the kitchen and rinsed out her watering can, anxious to be on her way.

      But he could have had a heart attack, her conscience scolded as she tucked the watering can back into its slot in her tote. Or a stroke! You can’t leave without first making certain he isn’t home. You’d never forgive yourself, if you find out later that he was lying on the bathroom floor, praying someone would find him.

      Rebecca groaned, wishing her conscience—as well as her overactive imagination—would, just this once, take a holiday. She was running late enough, as it was. She headed for the back door.

      But you can’t leave! Not until you make sure he isn’t here!

      She stopped at her conscience’s frantic urging, her hand on the knob. But I’ve been in every room of his house, she argued silently. He’s not home!

      You didn’t look in the bathroom, the stubborn little voice reminded her.

      Rebecca glanced over her shoulder at the hallway and the bedroom beyond. Knowing her conscience was right, that she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if Eric was indeed lying unconscious on the bathroom floor, she dropped her tote onto the counter and trudged down the hall. She passed through his bedroom, the deeply piled carpet muffling her steps, and nudged open the partially closed bathroom door. “Eric?” she called as she stepped inside.

      Rebecca stumbled back, her eyes widening in horror, her hand flying to her mouth to smother the scream that clawed its way up her throat. Eric was slumped on the closed toilet seat, dressed in crisply pleated black slacks and a starched white shirt, his hands, bound by a black belt, lying slack between his knees. A dark silk tie with a burgundy paisley print was tied nooselike around his neck and secured to the towel rack above the commode. His eyes were open, staring, his mouth slack, his skin a deathly chalk-white, his features distorted by an unnatural swelling.

      Numbed by the sight, Rebecca stared, knowing without moving any closer that Eric was dead. She knew what death looked like. She had seen it firsthand on her husband’s face, even applauded it, knowing that with his death, she was at last free of him. She gulped, staring, as memories flashed through her mind, blurring Eric’s features, until it was her husband’s face she stared at. Blood had spurted from the gash on his forehead when the impact of the automobile crash had thrust him forward, his chest hitting the steering wheel and his head slamming against the windshield. The gurgling sounds of his last breaths screamed through her mind.

      She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the anger that had twisted her husband’s handsome features prior to the crash, the fear for her own life that had gripped her when he’d forced her into the car with him.

      The scream that had risen to her throat when she’d first entered Eric’s bathroom burned higher and higher, pushing against her tightly pressed fingers. Wheeling, she ran blindly for the kitchen. She yanked the phone from its base and frantically punched in 9-1-1. One ring buzzed in her ear before her knees gave way beneath her and she sank weakly to the floor, her fingers trembling as she clutched the phone to her ear.

      “This is the 9-1-1 operator. May I help you?”

      “Yes,” Rebecca sobbed, the single word scraping like a razor over her raw throat. She pressed her hand over her mouth to hold the emotion back. “He—he’s dead,” she managed to choke out.

      “Who’s dead?”

      “Er-Eric.” She gulped and turned her head to stare at the hallway, picturing again Eric’s face. His unseeing eyes. “Eric Chambers,” she murmured, the image slowly changing, the face becoming that of her husband’s, the unseeing eyes the eyes of the man who had made her years as his wife a holy hell. She banded her fingers around her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to remember…and knowing she would never forget.

      Mornings were usually quiet at the Texas Cattleman’s Club. But on this particular morning, there was a different quality to the silence. A heaviness. A somberness. Yet the air seemed to hold an electrical charge, as well. A sense of expectancy crackled through the club. One of impatience. A need for action.

      A murder had been committed in Royal, the victim an employee of a member of the Texas Cattleman’s Club, and what affected one club member affected them all.

      Though usually empty at that time of day, the club’s cigar lounge was almost filled to capacity, with members having dragged the heavy leather chairs into huddled groups of four and eight. The members’ conversations were low, hushed, as they reviewed the facts of the case and speculated on the identity of the murderer.

      In a far corner of the room Sebastian Wescott sat with a group of his closest and most trusted friends. William Bradford, CFO and partner in Wescott Oil Enterprises. Keith Owens, owner of a computer software firm. Dorian Brady, Sebastian’s half brother and an employee of Wescott Oil. CIA agent Jason Windover. And Rob Cole, private investigator.

      Though all the men were included in the conversation, it was Rob and Jason whose expertise Sebastian sought in finding Eric Chambers’s murderer.

      Sebastian glanced at Jason. “I know that your participation in this case will have to remain unofficial, СКАЧАТЬ