Texas Gun Smoke

“Do they ever?”

“I guess some must, considering the divorce rate in this country. Have you talked to the senator?”

“Of course. I got nowhere. He denied even knowing Margo. He’s behind her disappearance—I know it. Now I just have to prove it.” The fury was so strong that talking about him burned her throat.

“What’s his name?” Bart asked.

“Pat Hebert.”

“Patrick Lewis Hebert?”

Her nerves knotted like twisted twine at the recognition in Bart’s tone. “Don’t tell me he’s a friend of yours.”

“No, but I’ve met him. He and some other guys from Louisiana co-own Paradise Pastures—a small ranch about a half hour west of here—and they frequent the local bars and cafés when they’re around. He seems friendly enough, especially with the women. I never got the idea that he was married.”

“Not surprising since he seemed to forget that fact himself,” Jaclyn said. “But if he’s familiar with this area, then that proves he’s the one who lured me to Colts Run Cross in the first place. He’d planned to ambush me all along.”

Bart planted his feet and stopped the gentle sway of the swing. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Exactly how were you lured to this area?”

“I received a phone call two days ago from someone speaking in an obviously disguised voice telling me to meet him in Cutter’s Bar in Colts Run Cross last night if I wanted to find out what had happened to Margo. I showed up at the appointed time, but no one else did. I waited for two hours before I left. Apparently I was set up. He called back when I was sitting in your truck and said that if I didn’t stop looking for Margo, I’d end up dead.”

“You really are convinced that Hebert is behind all of this?”

“Wouldn’t you be under the circumstances?”

“I’d be suspicious, but it’s a big jump from suspicious to accusing a state senator of abducting a lover—or worse.”

And there was no reason for him to stick his neck into that kind of noose.

“If you want out, just say so,” she said, trying for flippant to cover her desperation.

“I didn’t say I wanted out. I just like to have all the facts before I go accusing a politician of wrongdoing, especially of something as serious as foul play involving a mistress. Isn’t it possible that they had an argument or that he broke up with her and she just took off?”

“If he had nothing to do with her disappearance, why deny they were having an affair?”

“Maybe to keep his wife from divorcing him—or to avoid a career-ending scandal.” He fingered his Stetson and tugged it a little lower on his forehead. “I’m still willing to help, but I have one condition.”

She squared her shoulders. “Surprise, surprise.”

“Make that two conditions. Quell the sarcasm and we do this my way, which means I call the shots.”

“Why should I agree to anything?”

“Because you need my help. You were almost killed last night, and from what you’ve said, you haven’t made much headway in finding out what’s happened to your friend on your own.”

“What’s in this for you?”

“Did it ever occur to you that I might be doing this because it’s the right thing to do?”

It had occurred to her, but she still had difficulty buying it. “So does this mean you’re going to drive me back to New Orleans?” she asked.

“Are you staying in New Orleans now?”

“Yes. I talked Margo’s landlady into letting me keep her apartment until the end of the month. She agreed—for a price.”

Bart frowned. “And your husband went along with that?”

“He doesn’t know,” she said, the familiar lie surprisingly sticking in her throat. “His National Guard unit was called into action in the Middle East. He has enough to worry about without laying this on him.”

“I have to take care of some things here at the ranch before I take off. The earliest I can leave is tomorrow morning. I only have one bed here at my place, but you can stay at the big house.”

“With your mom?”

“And the rest of the family. There’s plenty of room. And if you think you have questions about why I’m jumping into the missing-person’s game, you can bet my family will have a hundred more. But don’t worry—I’ll give them some kind of explanation and insist they not give you the third degree.”

The thought of facing the rest of the Collingsworths unsettled her to the point of nausea. She was never comfortable in family situations. They elicited too many memories, all of them bad.

“Don’t worry,” Bart said, no doubt reading her mind from her furrowed brow. “They’ll love you.”

“Sure, cowboy. About the way they’d love a copperhead curled up in the middle of their bed.”

“Just don’t make rattling noises,” he quipped, “and they’ll never know you’re venomous.”

BART’S PICKUP TRUCK rattled and bounced along what loosely passed for a road. Jaclyn’s nerves grew more rattled with each jolt. “So exactly who will be at dinner?” she asked as the jutted roofline of what she assumed to be the big house came into view.

“Tonight it will be my mother, all three of my brothers, my two sisters, my two nephews and possibly my grandfather. He had a stroke a few months ago and he’s been slow to recover. He doesn’t always show up for dinner these days. And, of course, Juanita will be on the scene. She’s the cook.”

“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here.”

“Not quite. My brother Langston’s wife Trish and their daughter Gina won’t be there. They live in Houston, and Gina’s usually buried in homework or busy with extracurricular activities on school nights.”

“How will I ever tell the players without a scorecard?”

“It’ll be easy. Langston’s the oldest brother, the businessman of the family. He’s president of Collingsworth Oil and he’ll probably come right from work, which means he’ll be the only brother not wearing jeans.”

“Don’t tell me he drives out here from Houston every night just to eat dinner.”

“No, we have some business to discuss.”

Probably concerning her. This was getting worse by the second. “What about the other brothers?”

“Matt’s the second oldest. If you look close, you can see a scar on the left temple where he got kicked by a bull during his brief fling in the rodeo world. He’s four years older than I am.”

“Which would make him?”

“Thirty-three.”

“So you haven’t yet reached the moldy age of thirty?”