LITMIR.BIZ

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for the McCammons. There’s one who looks like a young Rowdy Yates, lean and muscular and filled with that peculiar cowboy grace. He’s staring at Stephanie as if he’d never seen a woman, but she’s too busy controlling her emotions to notice him.

      Beside the cowboys are a little cluster of city folk who don’t fit in at all. I look around and watch the mourners watching Stephanie. A few of the older attendees really seem upset at the deaths. There are some here, though, who arouse my suspicions. The way the McCammons died is one thing we’re looking into. The other is this new will that suddenly turned up. Stephanie has been completely disinherited. There is no mention of the McCammons’s plan to turn the ranch into a trust, something they’d often discussed with Stephanie.

      Damn! Stephanie is crying. She isn’t making a sound, but huge tears are running down her flawless cheeks. Behind her sunglasses, her hazel eyes are filled with pain. Let me give her a little kitty nuzzle and a love bite. There, that made her smile. She’s pulling herself together, and just in time, too.

      The minister is closing his service. So far, no one has spoken to Stephanie or offered a word of sympathy. The mourners are breaking up, and Stephanie is signaling me to join her at the Jeep we rented in Dallas. We’re not going to escape unscathed, though; here comes a blond woman with a determined stride.

      THE SUN BROILED the back of Hank Dalton’s neck, and as soon as the prayer was over, he put his straw cowboy hat back on his dark curls, eager for the moment when he could remove the confining suit coat. Only his respect for Albert McCammon would have forced him into a black coat on a hot May day. Albert McCammon had been a genius with a herd of cows and some parched dirt. He’d spend many a hot day teaching Hank how to settle an injured cow or train a horse. And on those days, Albert had talked often of his niece, Stephanie Chisholm, a woman so beautiful the angels smiled in her presence and so smart she could accomplish anything she set her mind to.

      Now, Hank found himself staring at the young woman, and she was even lovelier than Albert had described. He guessed her to be about thirty-five, a willowy five foot seven inches, with dark hair that looked like it was made for sensual moments spread across white sheets. For all of her beauty, she was struggling to hold back her tears. He liked the way she held herself straight, even though she had to know that everyone in town was talking about her, and the talk wasn’t pleasant.

      He shifted so that he could get a better view of her and noticed the black cat that seemed to lurk around her legs. What kind of woman traveled with a cat? He had a dog, Biscuit, a blue heeler that was indispensable working the cattle. But a cat? He wondered what Albert’s heeler, Banjo, would think about a cat. What would become of Banjo? If Stephanie didn’t want the dog, Hank would take him. In fact, Hank would be perfectly willing to take the entire McCammon Ranch. That was heavy on his mind as he stood among the mourners and listened to the service that concluded Albert and Emily’s days on earth.

      “I wouldn’t be mooning after Stephanie Chisholm,” Jackie Benton whispered in his ear.

      Taken aback, Hank glanced at Jackie. The blonde was normally easygoing. Hank suddenly remembered the old gossip about how her husband, Johnny, had been dumped by Stephanie.

      “What? Stephanie is a man eater?”

      Jackie shook her head, her eyes dancing with amusement. “No, she’s just a city girl. She doesn’t have any use for the ranch life.”

      “Is that so?” Hank felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe Stephanie would sell the McCammon Ranch to him. If she wasn’t interested in ranching, she’d have to do something with it. A ranch couldn’t just look after itself.

      “Her life is martini lunches, cocktail galas and art gallery openings. She’d die here.”

      “But she has a link to the land. This was where she grew up,” Hank said, thinking about the thirty thousand acres that comprised the ranch. The big benefit to the McCammon land was Twisty Creek. Last year, Hank had an abundant water supply in the form of Charity Branch. But land developers had put in a subdivision north of his place and diverted the branch so that now, he was having to pump water in for irrigation and his cattle.

      “From what Johnny told me, Stephanie always wanted to live in a city. Even as a teenager she was mooning and dreaming about the excitement of New York. She has her own advertising agency in New York now, along with her Fifth Avenue penthouse. She makes a ton of money—look at her. Those are designer clothes, and I should know. Look how they fit her. She’s a dress designer’s delight.”

      Hank couldn’t tell if Jackie was envious of Stephanie or admiring. He cleared his throat and turned his attention to the minister, who was getting ready to say the last prayer before Albert and Emily were returned to the earth.

      “I will say Stephanie has spunk,” Jackie allowed. “Folks around town feel that she abandoned Albert and Emily. There was a betting pool going down at the café that she wouldn’t even show up for the funeral. I guess she proved them wrong.”

      “I didn’t live here when she was still in town, but I spent a lot of time with Albert. All I ever heard from him about her was a lot of praise. She made him proud.”

      “That’s right,” Jackie said. “I think I’ll go over and invite her to the house for the meal.”

      STEPHANIE FOCUSED on the Jeep only twenty yards in front of her. If she could just make it, then she could close the door, drive away, and give in to the grief that threatened to overwhelm her. Uncle Albert and Aunt Emily were dead. She’d never see them again. She’d been away in New York when they needed her. The guilt and grief were so heavy Stephanie stumbled.

      “Ms. Chisholm!”

      She turned to face the blond woman barreling toward her. Stephanie took in her expensive black suit, the Italian heels and the hat with a veil which settled perfectly on short blond curls.

      “Yes?” she said, knowing that she’d have to talk to people to find out what had really happened. But she’d never seen this woman before.

      “Ms. Chisholm, I’m Jackie Benton, Johnny’s wife.”

      Stephanie took an involuntary step back. She’d scanned the crowd and hadn’t seen Johnny Benton, the man she’d been engaged to marry more than a dozen years before. The man she’d all but left at the altar when she’d run away to New York.

      “Thank you for coming to the funeral,” Stephanie said. “Did you know my aunt and uncle?”

      “Oh, yes, very well. They were delightful people. They came over to the house quite often on the weekends. They both adored Johnny. They looked at him like a son, and I think Emily was worn-out with cooking for the hands by the weekend. She enjoyed a break where I could pamper her a little.”

      Shame struck hard at Stephanie. This woman was a stranger, but she’d looked after Albert and Emily. “You were good to my aunt, thank you.”

      “Johnny felt like the McCammons were his second parents. And they were easy to be good to. They were some fine folks. Everyone in town is still in shock about their passing.”

      Stephanie started to say something about how they’d been murdered, but she felt the sharp claws of the cat digging into the top of her foot. Familiar was right. Now was the time for discretion, not bravado.

      “Where is Johnny?” she asked.

      “He’s in Austin on a business trip. He just couldn’t help it, otherwise he would have been here. Why don’t you come out to the house? Some of the church people brought food there…” She hesitated. “They didn’t know where else to bring the food. No one knew if you’d be home or not.”

      As much as it hurt, Stephanie realized Jackie was right. She hadn’t kept in touch with a single person in town. Often not even her aunt and uncle. She’d been busy, focused on her career, forgetting that her relatives wouldn’t always be around for her convenience.

      “Thanks, but I want to go out to the ranch.”

      Jackie looked down at the ground. “That

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