Her Lone Star Protector

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, due to your status as a CIA agent, but I’d appreciate any assistance or advice you have to offer.”

Jason tightened his lips and nodded. “You know I’ll do everything I can.”

Seb turned to Rob Cole. “The police, of course, are conducting their own investigation, but I want you on the case. I’ve already informed the police that they are to coordinate their efforts with yours.”

Rob nodded, his mind moving automatically into investigative mode. “Brief me on what you know about the murder.”

Seb dragged a weary hand down his face, but didn’t come close to smoothing away the deep lines of tension that creased it. “Not much.”

“Who found the body?”

“Rebecca Todman. New in town. A neighbor of Eric’s. She owns a floral shop and, according to her, was hired by him to tend his plants.”

Rob frowned as he studied Seb. “You don’t believe her story?”

Seb shot to his feet, tossing up a hand. “Hell, I don’t know who or what to believe!” He paced away a few steps, then stopped and rammed his hands into his pockets. He heaved a breath, then glanced back at Rob. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I haven’t had more than three straight hours of sleep in the past week, and when I arrived back at the office this morning, I had this dumped on me. The only thing I know for sure is that Eric is dead. And I want his murderer found.”

“Okay,” Rob agreed, aware of the responsibility Seb assumed for all his employees. “Let’s start at the beginning and review the facts.”

Seb sat back down, more in control now, but a far cry from calm. “According to the police reports, the Todman woman found Eric this morning around eight o’clock when she went to water his plants. He’d been strangled with his own necktie.”

Rob leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Any sign of a break-in?”

“No.”

“Robbery?”

“Not that the police have been able to determine.”

“Any known enemies?”

“None that I’m aware of.”

“How about women? Any disgruntled girlfriends in his past? A jealous husband maybe looking to get even?”

Seb lifted a brow. “Eric?” At Rob’s nod, he snorted. “Hardly. I don’t think Eric’s ever had a girlfriend. Lived with his mother until she died a couple of years ago. The only woman in Eric’s life is—was,” he clarified, frowning, “a cat. Sadie. Treated her like she was human. Rushed home from work at lunch every day, just to check on her.” He shook his head. “No. Eric didn’t have any jealous husbands gunning for him, and he didn’t have any girlfriends, either. Just old Sadie.”

“What about this Todman woman?” Rob pressed. “Do you think she and Eric could have been involved?”

Seb lifted a shoulder. “Maybe. Though I doubt it. Eric was…well, he was a bit on the strange side. A loner who kept to himself. Very protective of his personal life. No,” he said, his frown deepening as he considered. “More like secretive. Forget it,” he said, waving away Rob’s suggestion of a possible relationship. “There was nothing between them. He was a lot older than her. And he was fussy, if you get what I mean. About the way he dressed. The way he kept his house and car. Lived his whole life on a time schedule, never deviating a minute or two one way or the other. Hell, a woman would have messed up his life too much for him to ever want one around. The guy was a confirmed bachelor.”

“Sounds like about 90 percent of the members of the Texas Cattleman’s Club.”

Seb cut Rob a curious glance, then leaned back in his chair, chuckling. “Yeah, it does. Though that number’s dwindling fast. I’m beginning to wonder how we’re going to decide how to fund the profits from the Texas Cattleman’s Ball.”

Jason leaned forward, interjecting himself into the conversation. “I thought the terms of the bet were that the last bachelor standing prior to the Ball got to choose which charity would receive the money?”

“True,” Seb conceded. “But since Will here is married now and out of the running, that only leaves four of us. Just makes me wonder how many more will fall before time for the Ball.”

Rob rose, preparing to leave. “You can quit your worrying, because there’ll be at least one.” At Seb’s questioning look, he tapped a finger against his chest. “Me.”

After leaving Seb, Rob dropped by the police department and read the report the investigating officers had filed, requested a copy for his own files, then drove to the florist shop to question its owner, Rebecca Todman. He parked his sports car across the street from the shop, unfolded his long legs from the cramped interior and climbed out, slamming the door behind him. With his gaze on the shop, mentally assessing the place, he pressed a thumb against the security device attached to his key ring, activating the car alarm, then slipped the keys into his pocket and strode across the street.

A bell chimed musically above his head as he stepped inside. The heavy floral scent of fresh-cut flowers immediately sent his sensory nerves into overload. He wrinkled his nose and sniffed once to clear his sinuses before beginning a slow inspection of the shop and its occupants.

He pegged the owner immediately. A slim woman, about five foot six, short, dark blond hair, wearing a bright yellow bib-style apron with In Bloom embroidered in a colorful garland of flowers across its front. Though serviceable, the apron didn’t stand a prayer of hiding the feminine curves beneath it. Small, firm breasts, slender waist, delicately shaped rear, long, shapely legs. On another occasion, Rob might have taken the time to weave a few erotic fantasies of having those legs wrapped around his waist.