Killer Cowboy. Carla CassidyЧитать онлайн книгу.
Heading back to the house, she wondered why Sam’s death had hit her so hard. She hadn’t known him that well. Certainly it was always a tragedy when a person was murdered, but that didn’t explain the utter devastation she felt.
An arctic chill swirled around inside her as she entered the house. She climbed the stairs and went down the hallway to her bedroom. What she really wanted to do was crawl back into bed.
Like a small child she wanted to fall into bed and pull the covers over her head and hide from all the evil she feared was coming her way. But she couldn’t go back to bed. Instead she reached up to the shelf in the closet and tugged on the edge of a purple fuzzy throw blanket she’d put there when she’d first arrived at the ranch.
It came down along with several shoe boxes, framed photos and a handful of her aunt’s clothes that Cassie had thrown on the shelf months ago.
“Damn, damn!” She rubbed her head where one of the picture frames had struck. She’d been telling herself she needed to clean out the closet shelf for months, but it wasn’t going to happen right now.
She threw everything back on the shelf and then wrapped the throw around her shoulders and headed back downstairs. Instead of going to the kitchen table to start the list for Dillon, she collapsed on the sofa and pulled the throw more closely around her as the sobs she’d been holding back all morning released from her.
She cried for Sam Kelly, who had only been twenty-nine years old, and she cried because she didn’t know what the future held. The only thing she knew for sure was that she was afraid.
* * *
The cowboy dining room was large. It not only held tables and chairs where the men ate their meals, but it also had an area with a television, sofa and several easy chairs where they relaxed on their time off in the evenings.
Dillon sat at one of the tables, waiting for another one of Cassie’s cowboys to come in and be interviewed. His men were processing the barn and he’d already spoken to Sawyer Quincy and Mac McBride. Neither man had been able to shed any light on Sam’s murder.
He didn’t expect any of the men to give him something concrete, but he was hoping that if one of them lied to him then he’d pick up on the subtle signs.
He picked up his pen and tapped the end of it on the table as his head filled with thoughts of Cassie. She’d appeared so achingly fragile. She’d had nothing but drama since she’d taken over the ranch. As if unearthing the seven skeletons wasn’t enough, her place had become a haven for people in trouble. Just last month a band of drug dealers had roared onto her land and shot up the place.
And now this.
He’d heard through the grapevine that she was considering selling out and heading back to New York City. How could anyone really blame her? The big city would probably feel like a safe haven after everything that had happened here.
He looked up as Brody Booth walked in. The dark-haired, dark-eyed man wore an obvious chip on his shoulder as he threw himself into the chair opposite Dillon.
Bitterroot, Oklahoma, was a typical small town where everyone seemed to know everyone else’s business, and gossip was as common as horseflies. But Dillon had never heard any gossip concerning the tall, well-built man facing him. Even the other cowboys who had grown up with Brody would admit that he was something of a dark enigma.
“I stayed at the party last night until around midnight and then I went to my room. I liked Sam okay, although I didn’t really know him very well. He was a hard worker and I don’t have any idea who might have killed him.”
It was more words than Dillon had ever heard Brody speak. “Do you know if any of the other men had some sort of issue with Sam?” he asked.
“Not that I’m aware of, but I keep to myself mostly. Are you going to interview Zeke Osmond, Ace Sanders and Lloyd Green? They weren’t even invited to the barn dance, yet they showed up anyway.”
“I’ll be talking to everyone who was at the party last night,” Dillon replied. “I didn’t see Humes’s men starting any trouble while they were here.”
Brody narrowed his eyes slightly. “Nobody ever seems to actually see them doing anything wrong, but we both know they’ve been causing trouble for years, especially here on the Holiday ranch.”
Dillon didn’t reply. He knew Brody was right. “So, there’s nothing you can add to help me solve Sam’s murder.”
“Nothing.”
It was the same story with the six men he spoke to. Nobody knew of a reason anyone would want to kill Sam Kelly. The last time any of them had seen him was around midnight when he and Amanda Wright had bobbed for apples.
By the time Dillon finished with the interviews the dining room smelled of fried hamburger and onions. A glance at his watch let him know it was probably past time for the men to come in for their evening meal.
He got up from the table and walked around the wall that separated the kitchen from the dining room. Cord Cully, aka Cookie, frowned at his appearance.
The stocky man stood in front of the huge stovetop with a pancake turner in his hand. “I didn’t go to the shindig last night so I got nothing to say to you.” He flipped a burger over.
“If you weren’t at the party, then where were you?”
He flipped another patty and then turned to gaze at Dillon. “I was in my house alone. I don’t like parties. I prefer my own company to anyone else’s. Is that it? I have a meal to get to the table and you’ve already made it run late by almost an hour.”
Cookie lived in a small cottage on the property. It was far enough away from the barn that nobody would have been able to tell if he’d been home last night or not.
“That’s it for now,” Dillon replied. Frustration burned in his belly as he left the dining room and headed back to the house.
Cookie was another dark horse that Dillon knew little about. He’d investigated the man when the skeletons had first been found. He knew that Cass had hired the man around the same time she’d taken in her runaway boys to work for her.
All Dillon knew for sure was the cook was originally from Texas and had no criminal background.
Dillon hadn’t thought he’d solve the crime this afternoon, but he’d hoped for a smoking gun or at least a lead to follow up on, but so far he had nothing.
If he hadn’t spent most of his time last night watching Cassie maybe he would have seen or heard something that might have led to a clue.
But he’d been captivated by the sight of the tight-jean-clad woman in the royal blue blouse that exactly matched her sparkling eyes.
She’d been the perfect hostess, making everyone feel welcome and checking to make sure the food table remained filled. Big Cass Holiday would have been proud of the niece who had inherited her ranch.
He knocked on the back door and Cassie’s faint voice drifted out to him. He opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. It was a cheerful room with sunshine-yellow curtains at the window and a bright red and yellow rooster sitting in the center of the round oak table.
“In here, Dillon.” Her voice came from the great room.
She was curled up in the corner of the large, overstuffed sofa and wrapped in a purple blanket. Her eyes appeared to take on the hue of the blanket and instead of their normal sparkling bright blue they were the color of shadowed twilight.
A piece of paper and a pen rested on the coffee table, along with what appeared to be the last of a cup of hot tea.
She sat up and motioned for him to take a seat at the opposite end of the sofa.
“Did you solve everything?” She offered him a tired, sad smile that sliced directly through his heart.
“I wish,” he replied. He