THE BADDEST BRIDE IN TEXAS Read online

She nodded. Garrett stepped up. "I'm the sheriff here, Ranger. I wasn't aware you'd been called."

  "Well, we were. So as long as we're here—"

  "It's my town, Ranger."

  "It's a capital crime, Sheriff."

  Garrett didn't back down. "Looks like a suicide to me. But time will tell. Who called you?"

  The ranger shrugged. "Call came from this number. Caller hung up without giving a name."

  Kirsten's blood went cold. "I didn't call you," she muttered. "And no one else was here … except the killer."

  Garrett looked at her. The rangers looked at her. She would have clarified the statement, but she had a feeling her voice would come out weak and shaky if she tried.

  Then Adam came to the rescue. "It was no suicide," he said. "Kirsten saw the killer."

  One of the rangers came forward with a plastic bag and picked up the gun, dropping it in. Kirsten was all too aware that her fingerprints were all over it. Closing her eyes, she called the killer's image to mind. Had he been wearing gloves? Black gloves that matched the rest of his clothes? She thought so.

  "We're going to want you to come back to the El Paso station with us, Mrs. Cowan. Answer some questions."

  "Garrett…" Adam began.

  Garrett met his brother's eyes and nodded. "Ranger, Ms. Cowan is in no state to be answering questions right now. What do you say we let her get changed, give her some time—"

  The ranger eyed Kirsten. "No showers. And we'll want the clothes you're wearing." He glanced at Garrett. "If you can assure me you'll see to that, then I have no objections."

  Garrett nodded. "You could question her right here in town. My office is just—"

  "I want her at the station."

  "Okay," Garrett said. "Okay. I'll bring her in myself."

  The ranger nodded, then sent a pointed glance at Adam. "Who're you?"

  Kirsten could almost hear the man's assumptions. That Adam was the "other man." That this was all the result of some sordid love triangle. It would have been funny if the situation hadn't been so dire. She almost laughed, and brought her hands to her mouth to prevent it … then the would-be laugh became a gag when she glimpsed the drying blood that coated her hands as they hovered in midair near her face.

  Her knees gave, just a little, before she snapped them rigid again. Adam's arm went around her waist.

  "Get her out of here, Adam. I'll field the rangers' questions," Garrett said.

  Adam nodded, kept his arm where it was and guided her out of the room.

  His hand on her was gentle but firm. Supportive. As if he thought she might need his strength to keep her upright and mobile. She didn't.

  She took a step away to let him know that. And instantly felt weakness set in. Her pace slowed. Her knees quivered. His hand returned, but to her arm this time. A less intimate embrace, but every bit as strong and supportive.

  "Hold on," he muttered.

  He guided her to the stairs and up them. He didn't let go again. She didn't ask him to. She didn't want him to. And she hated her own lack of strength and resolve.

  "Where's your bedroom?"

  She licked paper-dry lips, but the effect was minimal. "This way." Like a bullfrog's croak, her voice. She turned down the hallway, but paused to look at the stains her feet were making in the carpet. Glancing backward down the stairs, she saw that she'd left a trail of them, each one a little darker, all the way to the bottom.

  "It'll clean," Adam said.

  "I don't care. I really don't. In fact, I hope it's ruined. I hope they have to tear it up. Hell, I hope they burn this place to the ground."

  He looked at her, eyes soft and blue and puzzled. "That's an odd thing to say."

  "Is it?"

  He searched her face. "What the hell happened here this morning, Kirsten?"

  She shrugged. "The king is dead," she whispered, not even sure why. But slowly, slowly, a weight seemed to be lifting from her shoulders. The yoke of slavery. Of bondage. Of imprisonment. That was what her two years with Joseph Cowan had been. Was she free of him now? Was it even possible?

  "Long live the freaking queen." She muttered the phrase in a whisper and turned toward her room. And she mashed her bloody footprints into the carpet as she walked.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  She didn't say another word, but then again, maybe she didn't need to. She'd said too much already, and Adam found himself absurdly glad he was the only one who'd heard the sarcasm in her voice. She hardly seemed to fit the role of the grieving widow just now. And what the hell was he supposed to make of that?

  She walked with purpose along the palatial corridor with the thick carpet that had, by now, wiped her feet clean. Finally she paused just outside the huge hardwood bedroom door. An ornate bench sat against the wall alongside it. Cherry, he thought. Probably an antique. Straight backed, thin cushioned and claw footed, it looked about as comfortable for sitting as a half-starved, swaybacked nag, but he guessed that was what she wanted him to do. She caught his eye, nodded at the bench, then ducked her hoity-toity hiney right through the bedroom door without missing a beat. And she closed it behind her. Not hard, but not gently. Just firmly enough to send the message. Stay out.

  Sure. Okay, he could handle that.

  Adam sat. He could hear the distant, muffled voices of the men downstairs, and the vehicles coming and going outside. The place was going to be a circus for the rest of the day. Forensics teams would be in and out. He'd thought Cowan's death was pretty obviously a suicide … until Kirsten said she'd fired at a masked intruder.

  Adam's throat went dry. For a second down there he'd thought he'd seen the old Kirsten peering out from behind her ice-coated eyes. The real Kirsten. The girl she used to be back when she'd loved him more than she'd loved an old man's money.

  Or maybe that Kirsten hadn't been real after all. Maybe this was the real Kirsten, complete with ice water running in her veins and a face so glasslike and emotionless it would crack if she smiled.

  The bench was every bit as inhospitable as it looked. When his back started aching in protest, he got up and paced. Studied the framed print of a fairy trying to enchant some poor fool of a knight. "Big mistake, pal," Adam warned, but from the stunned expression on the knight's face, it looked as if he was already too late. "Big mistake." There was no sound from beyond the bedroom door. And the longer Kirsten took, the more antsy Adam got. A half hour ticked by. He was halfway to thinking maybe she'd climbed out a window and was even now headed for the border. It had gone quiet downstairs. Sounded as if the rangers had packed up and gone, for the moment. But their forensics crews would be back soon enough. Still, if she had slipped out, maybe no one would have seen…

  But that was stupid. She wouldn't run. She had no reason to. Not unless…

  The photo clicked into place in his head, that scene he'd walked in on a short while ago appearing in freeze-frame in his mind. Kirsten standing over her husband's dead body, blood on her clothes, a gun clutched in her hand. In her eyes a killing frost, and maybe … just may be … a hint of relief.

  But she couldn't have done it.

  Wrong, a little voice inside him muttered. The old Kirsten couldn't have done it. Kirsten Armstrong. The girl with the barely suppressed wild side and the zest for living that got her into trouble more often than not. The girl who'd loved him.

  That wasn't who she was anymore.

  Adam hadn't seen her often in the years since she'd run off with old man Cowan. Not often. But often enough to know she was a different woman now. And the change was so thorough, it was as if the old Kirsten had been put to rest—dead and buried.

  Now she dressed like a woman out to impress, and she wore her clothes like armor. Cold, carefully chosen conservative designer suits in harsh primary colors. And everything matching, all the time. The skirts matched the blouses matched the jackets matched the nylons, shoes, bag… She was too put together now. As if maybe she were hiding something. Hair, always perf
ect. Makeup, always complete. Nails, always polished to a glossy shine. She never smiled anymore.

  This Kirsten was not the woman he'd known. Maybe this Kirsten was entirely capable of murder. No way to tell for sure.

  Adam got more uneasy as those thoughts assailed him. He heaved a sigh, expelling the last of his patience along with his breath, marched to the door and rapped three times.

  No answer.

  He tried the knob.

  It turned, and he stepped hesitantly inside.

  His first thought was that this was more like an apartment than a bedroom. It was a freaking suite. Complete with all the amenities.

  Kirsten sat at a dressing table with a tube of lipstick in one hand. She met his gaze in the mirror. "Are they gone yet?"

  Her hair was dry now and freshly styled. Sprayed to within an inch of its life, he thought. Her eyes were lined and shadowed, and every trace of shock or trauma her face might reveal was buried under makeup. She wore Armani. White. Spotless, sterile white. Leg-hugging skintight pants with little slits at the ankles, and strappy white sandals on her feet. White sleeveless blouse, tucked in. Nice and neat. White bolero jacket on the back of her chair, ready to don. White opals in her ears, pearls at her throat. Even the damned wristband on her damned diamond-studded Bulova was white.

  Adam tore his gaze away from her and took a quick glance around the room, saw the open door to the adjoining bathroom, the wet footprints, the damp towels, the steamed-up mirrors. "You showered?" he asked her in disbelief. "Kirsten, they told you—"

  "I don't give a damn what they told me." Her words were measured, level. She capped the lipstick tube, set it down with a precise click. It tipped over. She reached to right it and knocked it off the stand. Then she went still and clasped her hands around each other to hide the fact that they were so unsteady she could barely hold them still. Her face was a mask, both literally and figuratively. But her tension showed in those pale, shaking hands.

  "I had Joseph's blood all over me, Adam. They couldn't expect me to just leave it." She returned her gaze to her own reflection, met her own eyes and looked away so fast it made Adam wonder why. "So are they gone?"

  "Yeah," Adam said, staring at her back and wondering what the hell had happened to the Kirsten he'd known. "For now. They'll be back."

  "Why am I not surprised?"

  He stepped farther into the room. There were a lot of things unsaid between the two of them. He supposed it ought to seem strange to be here and not say them. Not ask her why … and yet it was for the best. It didn't matter why. He was over her. And this was neither the time nor the place for questions about their past. For quite a while he'd been going along as if it had never happened, and he thought he'd pretty well got the hang of it by now. A little game of make-believe. Making believe he'd never felt a thing for her. Forgetting every night he'd spent with her body wrapped around him. Pretending none of it had ever happened.

  He met her eyes in the mirror. For just an instant he thought he saw those same memories flash and vanish. As if she were pretending, too.

  "Do you have any idea who did this, Kirsten?"

  She turned around to face him this time. "Why don't you say what you mean, Adam? You're asking if I did it, aren't you?"

  "No, he's not."

  Kirsten looked up fast. Adam turned to see his brother in the doorway. Garrett stepped inside, noted the evidence of her recent shower, thinned his lips, but didn't comment. "But those rangers are gonna be asking you just that, and soon. They'll find your prints on that weapon. And if you fired it, powder burn traces on your hands. Traces that are going to show up whether you showered or not."

  "They don't need to check for that," she told Garrett. "I freely admit I fired the gun. Once. At the killer. What was I supposed to do, let him murder me, too?"

  "You say once. They'll say twice. Once at a make-believe intruder, to validate your alibi, and once at your husband. Now, maybe if they find another set of prints on that gun—a set that doesn't belong to you or to Joseph—then they'll believe your story."

  Kirsten bit her lip, averting her eyes abruptly. Adam found his gaze focused on her hands again. Her expressionless face told him nothing. It was all in the hands. They clenched into fists in her lap, perfectly painted nails digging into her palms.

  "I think the killer was wearing gloves, Garrett."

  "Great," Adam said, rolling his eyes and expelling all the air in his lungs at once. "That's just great."

  "You say that as if it's my fault. I didn't dress the man, Adam."

  Adam looked at her. God, she sounded so cold. So unmoved. Didn't she even care that the guy she'd been married to for two years had just been zipped into a body bag?

  "All they'll be lacking is motive, Kirsten," Garrett said slowly. "I think you probably ought to contact a lawyer."

  She closed her eyes, opened them again. "I didn't kill him." She folded her hands together as if to hold them still.

  "Hell, Kirsten, I know that." Garrett sounded sincere, and that surprised Adam. How could his brother be so sure of her when even he had his doubts? "You'd still best get yourself a lawyer," Garrett went on. "Once they confirm that Joseph left everything to you in his will, it's gonna be—"

  Kirsten exhaled in a burst, a sarcastic kind of sound. "He didn't leave me a nickel, Garrett. He'd rather burn in hell than see me with his precious money. Trust me, I won't be named in my husband's will."

  Garrett frowned and sent Adam a questioning look.

  Adam shrugged and tried not to let his shock show on his face. He didn't like the way her declaration had made his stomach clench up tight. The way his brain had whispered what his foolish heart hadn't wanted to believe two years ago. That Kirsten would never marry for money. That if she married old Joseph Cowan it had to be because she loved him.

  Maybe that love had gone bad, but if the cash hadn't been her motive … then what else was there?

  And why the hell did it feel as if she'd just stabbed him in the back all over again, only with a blade made of ice this time, instead of the red-hot steel she'd skewered him with before?

  "Why wouldn't your husband name you as his heir?" Garrett was asking. "You were his wife. He had no children."

  "Not for lack of trying," she said, a slight curl marring the perfection of her tinted upper lip for just an instant. A brief lapse. Then she wore the glass face again. The one that told Adam nothing. He glanced down. Her fingers were claws now, nails gripping her thighs like talons gripping meat. She was holding on as if for dear life.

  Tough to care when her words hit Adam like a two-by-four in the softest part of his belly. One more blow to the midsection and he would be reeling.

  She's been married to the man for over two years. Did I really think they never had sex? That the old geezer never laid his cold, arthritic hands on her?

  Kirsten pressed her lips tight, as if to keep herself from saying any more. Her gaze slid to Adam's; then she turned away.

  "It doesn't matter why. I won't inherit a thing, and therefore…" her head came up slowly. "Therefore … I had no motive. They aren't going to arrest me without a motive, are they, Garrett?"

  Garrett didn't answer. "You ready to go to El Paso now? They want you to make a statement, maybe answer a few questions."

  She looked scared for just a second. A slight widening in those eyes that had, until now, been like sheets of brown ice. Her hands unfolded, trembled visibly against the leggings, their skin nearly as pale as the white they lay upon. But a second later she pressed her palms together and stilled her features. "I suppose now is as good a time as any."

  She wanted to know why Adam was coming along to El Paso. But she didn't ask. Kirsten didn't see Lash Monroe anywhere, so she assumed the deputy was unavailable and Adam was filling in. But in that case, Adam should be back at the office, manning the phones and holding down the fort, shouldn't he?

  Right. As if any calls were likely to come in. In a town as small as Quinn, a sheriff could work once
a week and keep up with the load. Most of the time.

  No one spoke in the giant-sized pickup. Garrett drove, his ten-gallon hat shading his eyes from the brilliant sun. She'd been relegated to the center spot, and Adam was wedged in beside her, his smaller, sexier Stetson hat shadowing his face so she couldn't see his eyes. Couldn't tell what he might be thinking or feeling. He was touching her. Not liking it, she imagined, but touching her. His thigh pressed up against hers, and she could feel the warmth seeping from the flesh under his black trousers to the flesh under her white leggings.

  She'd missed that kind of warmth for a long time. Then she'd stopped missing it. It was something she'd learned to do without. Which, she supposed, would come in real handy should she wind up spending the rest of her life in some prison cell.

  That wouldn't happen, though. She would be okay. Garrett had called Joseph's lawyer, Stephen Hawkins, and the old man had agreed to meet them at the El Paso rangers' station. Nobody was going to arrest her, she thought. Not yet, anyway. Because once they saw the will, they would realize she had no motive.

  None that they would know of. Kirsten did have motive, though. Her husband had blackmailed her into marrying him, had held her deepest secret, her most private nightmare, over her head for all this time. She'd been more prisoner than wife. And she'd wished Joseph Cowan dead a thousand times. But they wouldn't know that.

  Not if she didn't tell.

  She glanced at Adam and swallowed her regret. He'd lived without knowing the truth for this long. Maybe he didn't need to know. Maybe no one would ever need to know. It was a huge relief to realize that the one person who could expose her for what she'd done long ago was dead. And no one else knew. No one else ever would.

  Adam's thigh moved slightly against hers. Heat and friction. Desire slammed her in the belly so hard she lost her breath.

  No! Not now. Not anymore. That part of her was dead and buried. Especially where Adam was concerned.

  She peered up at him. He was looking back at her. Her lips were dry, her face hot.

  "It's gonna be okay," he said, and damned if he didn't sound like the same sweet cowboy she'd been in love with a hundred years ago, instead of the bitter, urban businessman he'd become.